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Mini Biographies of Scots and Scots Descendants (D)
Davidson, Alexander Stuart


 Alexander Stuart Davidson

Alexander Stuart Davidson
Clydesdale House, Mossend, Lanarkshire, Scotland,
Steel Engineer

This piece was written probably between 1916-1920. The author was writing of a mining accident
that occurred in his town.

Blood to Burn

A black cold winter morning, wind howling like a wild beast and loose shutters banging as though they would break the chains that hold them in bondage. What can that other strange noise be – sounds like mad rush of animals mingled with human cries rent the howl of the winds at their highest pitch. Hastily donning my clothes I went to the street and then only I knew the truth. Half naked women rushed past with little children clinging to their breasts wide eyed and terror stricken, men ran as they never ran before. Their loved ones who only that morning had left them to earn just sufficient food to keep body and soul together were trapped hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth.

What a sight when I reached the mine head, crowds everywhere, squelching in the black mud, children hanging to their mother’s hand not old enough to understand the stark tragedy that had befallen one who was want to plant a secret kiss upon their chubby little faces. No more would they run to meet him as darkness crept on or run ahead to announce his coming.

All day long the crowds hung around, no one thought of food or rest and the friends of the trapped men had been going down to their aid only to return to the surface baffled and begrimed seeking to hide from the women folks the truth that all hope had fled.

The sun slowly sinking in the west as if not wanting to miss the last cruel scene presaged the coming of another night and the going of that mighty arm of the poor, hope. At last a ripple runs through the crowd and each reads the thought of his neighbors eye, yet shrinks from saying it. Some of the dead have been brought to the surface on stretchers and lie in rows awaiting identification; they are long past any other needs.

March on you beloved dead, march through the gates of Heaven and cry for the justice you could not obtain from your fellow man, cry their shame to heights of the temple.

What a ghastly sight ye merry gentlemen, what a mockery you preachers of the gospel of Him who took the weary to his breast, what a crime you civilized world.

They died that you may have coal and may it burn with a lurid red flame for their blood is upon it.

Author, Stuart Alexander Davidson, written c1920, Copyright 2001, all rights reserved.

Visit Robert Davidson's Web Site here!

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