SCENE III
SCENE--The stokehole. In the rear, the dimly-outlined bulks of
the furnaces and boilers. High overhead one hanging electric bulb
sheds just enough light through the murky air laden with coal dust
to pile up masses of shadows everywhere. A line of men, stripped
to the waist, is before the furnace doors. They bend over, looking
neither to right nor left, handling their shovels as if they were
part of their bodies, with a strange, awkward, swinging rhythm.
They use the shovels to throw open the furnace doors. Then from
these fiery round holes in the black a flood of terrific light and
heat pours full upon the men who are outlined in silhouette in the
crouching, inhuman attitudes of chained gorillas. The men shovel
with a rhythmic motion, swinging as on a pivot from the coal which
lies in heaps on the floor behind to hurl it into the flaming
mouths before them. There is a tumult of noise--the brazen clang
of the furnace doors as they are flung open or slammed shut, the
grating, teeth-gritting grind of steel against steel, of crunching
coal. This clash of sounds stuns one's ears with its rending
dissonance. But there is order in it, rhythm, a mechanical
regulated recurrence, a tempo. And rising above all, making the
air hum with the quiver of liberated energy, the roar of leaping
flames in the furnaces, the monotonous throbbing beat of the
engines.
As the curtain rises, the furnace doors are shut. The men are
taking a breathing spell. One or two are arranging the coal behind
them, pulling it into more accessible heaps. The others can be
dimly made out leaning on their shovels in relaxed attitudes of
exhaustion.
PADDY--[From somewhere in the line--plaintively.] Yerra, will this
divil's own watch nivir end? Me back is broke. I'm destroyed
entirely.
YANK--[From the center of the line--with exuberant scorn.] Aw, yuh
make me sick! Lie down and croak, why don't yuh? Always beefin',
dat's you! Say, dis is a cinch! Dis was made for me! It's my meat,
get me! [A whistle is blown--a thin, shrill note from somewhere
overhead in the darkness. Yank curses without resentment.] Dere's
de damn engineer crakin' de whip. He tinks we're loafin'. PADDY--
[Vindictively.] God stiffen him!
YANK--[In an exultant tone of command.] Come on, youse guys! Git
into de game! She's gittin' hungry! Pile some grub in her! Trow it
into her belly! Come on now, all of youse! Open her up! [At this
last all the men, who have followed his movements of getting into
position, throw open their furnace doors with a deafening clang.
The fiery light floods over their shoulders as they bend round for
the coal. Rivulets of sooty sweat have traced maps on their backs.
The enlarged muscles form bunches of high light and shadow.]
YANK--[Chanting a count as he shovels without seeming effort.]
One--two--tree--[His voice rising exultantly in the joy of
battle.] Dat's de stuff! Let her have it! All togedder now! Sling
it into her! Let her ride! Shoot de piece now! Call de toin on
her! Drive her into it! Feel her move! Watch her smoke! Speed,
dat's her middle name! Give her coal, youse guys! Coal, dat's her
booze! Drink it up, baby! Let's see yuh sprint! Dig in and gain a
lap! Dere she go-o-es [This last in the chanting formula of the
gallery gods at the six-day bike race. He slams his furnace door
shut. The others do likewise with as much unison as their wearied
bodies will permit. The effect is of one fiery eye after another
being blotted out with a series of accompanying bangs.]
PADDY--[Groaning.] Me back is broke. I'm bate out--bate--[There
is a pause. Then the inexorable whistle sounds again from the dim
regions above the electric light. There is a growl of cursing rage
from all sides.]
YANK--[Shaking his fist upward--contemptuously.] Take it easy
dere, you! Who d'yuh tinks runnin' dis game, me or you? When I git
ready, we move. Not before! When I git ready, get me!
VOICES--[Approvingly.] That's the stuff!
Yank tal him, py golly!
Yank ain't affeerd.
Goot poy, Yank!
Give him hell!
Tell 'im 'e's a bloody swine!
Bloody slave-driver!
YANK--[Contemptuously.] He ain't got no noive. He's yellow, get
me? All de engineers is yellow. Dey got streaks a mile wide. Aw,
to hell wit him! Let's move, youse guys. We had a rest. Come on,
she needs it! Give her pep! It ain't for him. Him and his whistle,
dey don't belong. But we belong, see! We gotter feed de baby! Come
on! [He turns and flings his furnace door open. They all follow
his lead. At this instant the Second and Fourth Engineers enter
from the darkness on the left with Mildred between them. She
starts, turns paler, her pose is crumbling, she shivers with
fright in spite of the blazing heat, but forces herself to leave
the Engineers and take a few steps nearer the men. She is right
behind Yank. All this happens quickly while the men have their
backs turned.]
YANK--Come on, youse guys! [He is turning to get coal when the
whistle sounds again in a peremptory, irritating note. This drives
Yank into a sudden fury. While the other men have turned full
around and stopped dumfounded by the spectacle of Mildred standing
there in her white dress, Yank does not turn far enough to see
her. Besides, his head is thrown back, he blinks upward through
the murk trying to find the owner of the whistle, he brandishes
his shovel murderously over his head in one hand, pounding on his
chest, gorilla-like, with the other, shouting:] Toin off dat
whistle! Come down outa dere, yuh yellow, brass-buttoned, Belfast
bum, yuh! Come down and I'll knock yer brains out! Yuh lousey,
stinkin', yellow mut of a Catholic-moiderin' bastard! Come down
and I'll moider yuh! Pullin' dat whistle on me, huh? I'll show
yuh! I'll crash yer skull in! I'll drive yer teet' down yer troat!
I'll slam yer nose trou de back of yer head! I'll cut yer guts out
for a nickel, yuh lousey boob, yuh dirty, crummy, muck-eatin' son
of a--
[Suddenly he becomes conscious of all the other men staring at
something directly behind his back. He whirls defensively with a
snarling, murderous growl, crouching to spring, his lips drawn
back o'ver his teeth, his small eyes gleaming ferociously. He sees
Mildred, like a white apparition in the full light from the open
furnace doors. He glares into her eyes, turned to stone. As for
her, during his speech she has listened, paralyzed with horror,
terror, her whole personality crushed, beaten in, collapsed, by
the terrific impact of this unknown, abysmal brutality, naked and
shameless. As she looks at his gorilla face, as his eyes bore into
hers, she utters a low, choking cry and shrinks away from him,
putting both hands up before her eyes to shut out the sight of his
face, to protect her own. This startles Yank to a reaction. His
mouth falls open, his eyes grow bewildered.]
MILDRED--[About to faint--to the Engineers, who now have her one
by each arm--whimperingly.] Take me away! Oh, the filthy beast!
[She faints. They carry her quickly back, disappearing in the
darkness at the left, rear. An iron door clangs shut. Rage and
bewildered fury rush back on Yank. He feels himself insulted in
some unknown fashion in the very heart of his pride. He roars:]
God damn yuh! [And hurls his shovel after them at the door which
has just closed. It hits the steel bulkhead with a clang and falls
clattering on the steel floor. From overhead the whistle sounds
again in a long, angry, insistent command.]
[Curtain]
