On Saturday the men took their well-earned pay, one by one, and
went out of the gates quietly, if sullenly. During the days that had
intervened between the meeting and the strike, neither side had made
advances to the other. If Sartwell had prepared for the struggle, these
preparations had been accomplished so secretly that Gibbons failed to
learn of them. The secretary of the Union issued a manifesto to the
press, setting forth the position of the men in temperate phrase that
had the effect of bringing public sympathy largely to the side of the
workers. It was an admirable document, and most of the papers
published it, some of them editorially regretting the fact that in this
enlightened country and this industrial age, some hundreds of men, the
bone and sinew of the land, willing to work, were forced to go into the
streets in protest against a tyranny that refused even to discuss their
alleged wrongs. The newspapers pointed out that whether their grievances
were just or not was beside the question; as the point was that the
manager had refused to see a deputation, and this high-handed conduct
the papers expressed themselves as forced to deplore.
Both members of the firm thought this manifesto should be answered. The
manager did not agree with them, so it was not answered.
Pickets were placed before the gates, and a few extra policemen
appeared, as if by accident, in the neighbourhood; but there was nothing
for either policemen or pickets to do. On Monday, some of the men
lounging around the place looked up at the tall chimneys, and saw them,
for the first time during their remembrance, smokeless. They had never
noticed the smoke before, but now its absence created an unexpected void
in the murky outlook. It was as if the finger of death had touched those
gaunt lofty stacks, and the unusual silence of the place the men had
always known to be so busy seemed to give the situation a lonely feeling
of solemnity they had not looked, for.
On Tuesday some dray-loads of new machinery arrived at the works, and
these the pickets attempted to stop, but without success. Gibbons was
consulted, but he took a sensible and liberal view of the matter.
“Let them put in all the new machinery they wish. That will mean
employment for more men when we go back. We will not interfere with
Sartwell until he tries to fill the works with other employees.”
For the remainder of the week the shops echoed with the clang of iron on
iron, but no smoke came out of the tall chimneys.
“Call this a fight?” said one of the men, over his mug of beer. “I call
it a bean-feast.”
On Saturday, strike pay was given out at headquarters, each man getting
his usual wage, for the Union was rich. It was indeed a bean-feast--all
pay and no work.
The first week had enabled Sartwell to make repairs and to add machinery
that had long been needed; but it had another effect which he considered
more important still. It allowed Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope to recover
their second wind, as it were. These good but timorous men had been
panic-stricken by the going out of their employees, and by the adverse
comments of the press. As nothing happened during the week they
gradually regained what they called their courage, and, although they
perhaps did not realize it, they were more and more committed to the
fight when it did come on. They could hardly with decency, after keeping
silence for a week during which there was peace, give way if afterwards
there should be violence.
The vigilance of the pickets perhaps relaxed a little as time went on
and there was nothing to do. But one morning they had a rude awakening.
When they arrived at the gates they saw smoke once more pouring from the
chimneys; there was a hum of machinery; the works were in full blast;
and the former workers were outside the gates.
The news spread quickly, and the men gathered around the gates from all
quarters. Gibbons was early on the ground, like an energetic general,
ready to lead his men to the fray. He saw that the fight was now on, and
he counselled moderation when he spoke to the excited men. It was all
right, he answered them; he had expected this, and was prepared for it.
The gates were closed, and when Gibbons asked admittance to speak with
the manager his request was curtly refused. This refusal did not tend to
allay the excitement, nor to improve the temper of the men. The police
kept the throng on the move as much as possible, but the task became
more and more difficult as the crowd increased.
At noon a wagon, evidently loaded with provisions, drove down the
street, and when the mob learned that its destination was the works, a
cry went up that the vehicle should be upset.
Again the pacifying influence of Gibbons made itself felt, and the
wagon, amidst the jeers of the bystanders, drove in, while the gates
were speedily closed after it.
Gibbons retired with his captains to headquarters, where a consultation
was held. There was a chance that Sartwell, during the first week, when
it was supposed he was putting in new machinery, had also been building
dormitories for his new men, and that he was going to keep them inside
the gates, free from the influence of the Union.
This plan had not been foreseen by Gibbons, and he was unprepared for
it.
“The men must come out sooner or later, and when they do we will have a
talk with them,” said the secretary. “My own opinion is that they
will come out to-night at the usual hour, and I propose to act on that
supposition. If I find I am wrong, we will meet again to-night, and I
will have some proposals to make. In a short time we shall be able to
learn whether the scabs are coming out or not. Meanwhile, get back among
our own men, and advise them not to make any hostile demonstration when
the blacklegs appear; and when the scabs come out, let each man of you
persuade as many as you can to come to the big hall, where we can have a
talk with them. Tell the men that if there is any violence they will be
merely playing into Sartwell’s hands. We don’t want the police down on
us, and, until there is a row, they will at least remain neutral.”
This advice commended itself to all who heard it, and, the details of
the programme having been ar ranged, they all departed for the scene of
conflict.
Promptly at six o’clock the gates were thrown open, and shortly after
the “blacklegs” began to pour forth into the street. There were no
hootings nor jeerings, but the strikers regarded the new-comers with
scowling looks, while the latter seemed rather uncomfortable, many of
them evidently apprehensive regarding their reception.
“Men,” cried Gibbons, “who is your leader? I want a word with him.”
The stream of humanity paused for a moment, in spite of the commands
of the police to move along. The men looked at one another, and Gibbons
quickly recognized the state of things--they were strangers to each
other, coming as they did from all parts of England. This surmise was
confirmed by one man, who spoke up:
“We’ve got no leader,” he said.
“Then you be the spokesman,” cried Gibbons. “Did you men know, when you
came here, that there was a strike on?”
“Something of that sort,” replied the spokesman, sullenly.
“Do you belong to a Union?”
“The Union never did nowt for us.”
“Do you know that you are taking bread from the mouths of other
workers?”
“We must put bread into our own mouths.”
At this point the police captain touched Gibbons on the shoulder.
“I can’t allow this obstruction,” he said.
“Give me two minutes,” pleaded Gibbons.
“No--nor one.”
Gibbons turned savagely upon him.
“Look here,” he said. “Have some tact and sense. Don’t you know that I
have merely to raise my hand and this crowd will sweep you and your men
off the face of the earth?”
“That won’t prevent me from sweeping you into prison.”
“Certainly not. But you can arrest me quietly, when you like, or I’ll
meet you at the police station any hour you name, but if you attempt to
interfere now, you’ll have a riot on your hands. I’m holding this crowd
in check--it is not their fear of you. There’s no traffic coming through
this street nor likely to come. We’re therefore obstructing nothing, and
I’m as anxious as you are to keep the men within the law. Good heavens!
you may have your hands full at any moment, so don’t push patient people
over the line. Remember, you are not in Sartwell’s employ. I only want a
few words with these men, then we’ll leave the street to you.”
The captain hesitated a moment. It was an ominous mob.
“Look sharp then,” he said, and stepped back.
“Come with us,” cried Gibbons. “We can’t talk here. Come to the big
hall, and, if, you don’t like what we say there will be no harm done.
This is a free country.”
The secretary turned as if he had no doubt the crowd would follow, and
the leaderless men walked after him. Gibbons’ assistants mixed among
them, and talked persuasively with the strangers. Before half an hour
all the “blacklegs,” were in the Salvation Army hall, signing the Union
roll and being put on the strike-pay list.
It was a notable triumph for Gibbons; first blood, as a sporting-man
would say.
Next morning, when the gates were opened, not a man entered, and
Sartwell once more found himself without an employee. After the gates
had remained invitingly open for half an hour, they were closed again,
and a great cheer went up as the two big iron-bolted leaves came
together.
Sartwell’s resources, however, were not yet exhausted, for two days
later the factory was thronged with workmen once more, and these also
Gibbons bought from under the manager.
Thus the game went on, and it convinced the men that their secretary
knew a thing or two, being more than a match for the manager. Gibbons
carried himself confidently, and talked with grand assurance that he
was perhaps far from feeling, for he became more and more haggard and
anxious as the fight continued. He alone knew the seriousness of the
increased drain on the resources of the Union, through the forced
support of the new hands he had lured away from Sartwell’s employ, and
which had upset all his previous calculations. An attempt had been made
to lighten the burden by trying to induce the new men to return to their
homes, and this had been partially successful with the first lot, but
the others obstinately insisted on getting their share of the strike
pay, and refused even to consider the advisability of returning. They
demanded what was promised them, or threatened to enter the works in
a body, which action would have speedily put and end to the contest.
Gibbons was well supported by that section of the press which gave more
than a few lines each day to the progress of the strike. One morning the
chief of these papers came out with an appeal to the public for aid.
The case of the strikers, battling, it might be, at first for their
own rights, but fighting in reality for all working humanity, was most
convincingly and tersely put in a double-leaded editorial, and the
journal itself headed the list with a handsome contribution. Would the
people of England hold aloof, reduce these workers into slaves, using
the weapon of grim starvation against them? The journal did not
believe such apathy existed, and its belief was amply justified, for
subscriptions poured rapidly in, together with indignant letters from
all parts of the country, which were duly printed in its columns.
The first pinch of the strike came on the men when it was suddenly
announced that strike pay would, the next Saturday, be cut down to
one-quarter the amount they were then receiving. There was a good deal
of grumbling and some inquiries as to what they were fighting for,
but, on the whole, the disastrous proclamation was received quietly, if
somewhat grimly.
“We are bound to win,” said Gibbons, when he was reluctantly compelled
to tell the men of the reduction. “The firm is losing nearly a thousand
pounds a week by the factory remaining idle, and it is not likely they
will stand that long, even to oblige Sartwell.”
Gibbons had not the courage to add that even with this reduction
the Union could not hold out more than a week longer; that it was
practically at the end of its resources, and that future strike pay
would have to depend on the subscriptions received from the outside, a
most precarious source of revenue, for every one knows how short-lived
enthusiasm is, and how the collection of hard cash destroys it.
There is much in good generalship, and one of its axioms is that you
should endeavour to discover your enemy’s weakest point. Never once did
it dawn on Gibbons or any of his lieutenants, that the fortress they
were attacking had only to be approached in one direction, when the
walls would have crumbled like those of Jericho; never did it occur to
him that Sartwell was fighting at the same time two battles--one with
the men and one with the masters, and of the two contests he feared the
result of the latter most. Sartwell was between two fires; he had urged
both Monkton and Hope to quit England until the fight was over, and
leave the conducting of it to him. They vacillated; in the evening
Sartwell might have their promise, but in the morning they had changed
what they were pleased to call their minds. They always feared the
worst. They saw the factory in flames, and the mob shot down by troops.
They implored Sartwell to come to some agreement with the men. He had
said the strike would be over in three weeks, and here it was still
dragging on, the men as determined as ever. If he were wrong about the
duration of the fight, might he not be wrong also in his treatment of
the men? Was no compromise possible?
This sort of thing Sartwell had to contend with, and it wearied him more
than the strike itself. He opened the papers in daily fear that he would
find there some letter from the firm, in answer to the strictures of the
day before, which would show the public at once how the land lay.
Gibbons believed that the backbone of a fight was money, as in many
cases it is; but a moment’s reflection might have shown him that, if the
fight was to be conducted on a cash basis, the strikers had not a ghost
of a chance, because the firm of Monkton & Hope was much richer than the
Union. He believed in fighting the devil with fire. Adages are supposed
to represent the condensed wisdom of the ages, whereas they too often
represent condensed foolishness. If one has to meet an expert swordsman
on the field of honour, he should select a pistol if he has the choice
of weapons. Fight the devil if you like, but never with fire. When
Marsten had said to Gibbons, “Mr. Sart-well knows to a penny how much
you have in the bank,” the secretary had answered grandly that Sart-well
might see the books of the Union for all he cared, and much good might
it do him. The fact that a man like Sartwell thought it worth his while
to find out what the enemy was doing, did not suggest to Gibbons that
it might not be a bad plan to have a look over Sartwell’s shoulders,
and discover just how things were going in the privacy of the
manager’s office. When Marsten ferreted out various things as the fight
progressed, and brought his knowledge to Gibbons, the latter waved it
aside as of no consequence, treating Marsten throughout as an enemy in
the camp.
Timid little Mr. Hope passed through the gates each day to his office,
scarcely ever glancing at the crowd that hooted him and made remarks
not pleasant to hear. He dreaded the moment of arriving and leaving, but
thought it a courageous thing to do, imagining he would be neglecting
his duties as a freeborn Briton if he deserted his post at this time of
danger.
If Gibbons had been a shrewd man, he would have called upon Mr. Hope at
Surbiton, and ten minutes’ conversation there would have shown him
the true state of affairs, for the timid little manufacturer was as
transparent as crystal. If the secretary had lured one of the partners
to the strikers’ place of meeting, which might have been accomplished
as easily as with the “blacklegs” from the country, he would in all
probability have had a public statement which would have made Sartwell’s
resignation inevitable. Thus might Gibbons have led his army to
victory, and at the same time have placed his enemy where his army then
was--outside the gates.
And this was merely one of the methods by which a clever general would
have triumphed. If Gibbons had taken the trouble to inform himself about
the effect the few editorials had produced in the minds of the partners,
he would have endeavoured to make arrangements for the publication of a
series of articles on the well-known philanthropy of the firm, with
some moral reflections about charity beginning at home. This undoubtedly
would have caused the ground to crumble away beneath the feet of
Sartwell, for Monk-ton & Hope were proud of the good their benefactions
were supposed to do; and until this trouble had arisen, they had thought
themselves just employers, who treated their men with fairness, as
indeed they were, and as indeed they did.
Now they were in doubt about the matter, and had an uneasy feeling that
they had been, perhaps, remiss in their duties toward their employees.
Sartwell dominated them when he was in their presence, and they knew his
value too well to run the risk of losing him. They knew, also, if they
gave way to the men without his sanction, they would lose him, and they
had rivals in London who would be only too glad to take him into their
employ; yet in spite of this knowledge they wavered, and it required but
a little tact and diplomacy on the part of Gibbons to win a victory all
along the line.