SARTWELL prided himself on being a man who made few mistakes. He was
able to trace an event from cause to effect with reasonable certainty,
and this slight merit made him perhaps a trifle impatient with others
who could not be credited with similar foresight, as his own wife would
not have hesitated to bear witness. It would probably have filled that
just woman with subdued, if pardonable, gratification had she known how
wide of the mark her husband was in his estimate of the result on the
strikers of the news he had committed to the care of Marsten. Sart-well
imagined that the men, in their fury at being outwitted, would turn on
Gibbons and rend him. He believed that Gibbons would not dare tell his
dupes, as Sartwell persisted in calling them, how the Union had been
befooled into supporting for weeks the bogus workmen whom the manager
had flung into its credulous lap. After wreaking their vengeance on
Gibbons and deposing him, they must return to the works, reasoned the
manager. Their money was gone, interest in the strike had all but
died out, fresher events had compressed it into a two-line item in the
papers, subscriptions had practically ceased; what then was there left
but a return or starvation, that powerful ally of masters all the world
over?
But Sartwell forgot that the Englishman knows how to starve. No Indian
ever tightens his belt another notch with grimmer determination to
compress hunger than an Englishman sets his teeth and starves, if need
be. He has starved on the ice near the Pole, and under the burning sun
in the desert.
He has met famine face to face in beleaguered fort with no thought of
surrender, and has doled with scrupulous exactitude the insufficient
portions of food on a raft in mid-ocean. The poet has starved in his
garret, making no outcry, and the world has said, “If we had only
known.” In the forests and on the plains, in the jungle and on the
mountains, and--perhaps worst of all--in the great cities, amidst
plenty, the Englishman has shown he knows how to starve, saying with the
poet:
“I have not winced nor cried aloud.”
When Gibbons heard what Marsten had to tell, he promptly said, “It is
a lie”; but the committee looked one at the other with apprehension in
their faces, fearing it was the truth.
“The question is,” said Marsten, “are you going to let the men know
this?”
“Certainly, if I find it is true; but I don’t believe a word of it.
Perhaps you want the pleasure of being the bearer of bad news to the
men.”
“I intend to tell them, if you do not.”
“Of course. I’m sorry we can’t gratify you.”
The committee dismissed Marsten, and went into secret session; shortly
afterwards separating, to meet again in the evening just before the
large gathering in the Salvation Hall. In the interval, Gibbons and his
fellow-members made active search for the alleged fraudulent workmen,
but they found none; the birds had flown. It was evident the word had
been passed, and that, fearing the vengeance of the legitimate claimants
to the Union funds, the former “blacklegs” had taken themselves off, out
of the reach of possible harm.
When the committee met for the second time that day, the members were
divided among themselves as to the advisability of taking the men fully
into their confidence. Some thought it best to break the doleful news
gradually; others, that the worst should be known at once. Gibbons,
however, said there was in reality no choice; the men must be told the
whole truth, for if the committee tried any half measures, Marsten would
undoubtedly rise in his place and relate what Sartwell had told him. So
the whole truth and nothing but the truth was resolved upon.
When Gibbons faced his audience that night in the large hall, he saw
he had to deal with a body of men whose mood was totally different from
that of the crowd which light-heartedly voted, with a hurrah, to go on
strike. There was now little jocularity among the men; they sat in their
places in sullen silence. A feeling that something ominous was in the
air seemed to pervade the hall, and, as Gibbons stepped to the front of
the platform, he felt that the atmosphere of the place was against him;
that he had to proceed with great caution, or his hold on the men was
lost. He knew he was a good speaker, but he knew also that the men were
just a trifle impatient with much talk and such small result from it
all.
“Combination,” he began, “is the natural consequence of the modern
conditions of labour. A workingman of to-day may be likened to a single
pipe in a large organ. He can sound but one note. He spends his life
doing part of something. He does not begin any article of commerce, go
on with it, and finish it, as did the workmen of former days; he merely
takes it from a fellow-workman who has put a touch on it, puts his own
touch on it, and passes it on to another; and thus the article travels
from hand to hand until it reaches the finisher. The workman of to-day
is merely a small cog on a very large wheel, and so, if he does not
combine with his fellows, he is helpless. The workman of former times
was much more independent. He began his work and completed it. If he was
a cooper, he made the whole barrel, hooping it and heading it. If one
of us may be compared to a single pipe in an organ, the workman of
yesterday might be likeened to a flute, on which a whole tune could be
played. He----”
“Ah, chuck it!” cried a disgusted man in front. “We don’t want no
philosophy; we wants strike pay or master’s pay.”
“’Ear, ’ear!” rang through the hall; the interrupter quite evidently
voicing the sentiment of the meeting. Gibbons stood for a second or two
looking at them.
“Yes,” he cried, his voice like a trumpet call, “I _will_ chuck it. This
is not the time for philosophy, as our friend said; it is the time to
act. When a man strips to fight, what does he expect?”
“A d----d good thrashing,” was the unlooked-for reply.
It is never safe for an orator to depend on his audience for answers to
his questions; but the laugh that went up showed Gibbons that the crowd
was getting into better humour, which was what he most desired.
“When an Englishman takes off his coat to fight, he asks no favour from
his opponent; but he does expect fair play, and if Englishmen are the
onlookers he gets it, whether they like him or whether they don’t. He
doesn’t expect to be struck below the belt; he doesn’t expect to be
strangled on the ropes; he doesn’t expect to be hit when he is down. We
stripped for a square and fair fight with Manager Sartwell, and we
have fought as men should. We have broken no law; we have raised no
disturbance. The police, always eager enough to arrest a striker, have
laid hands on none of us. It has been a square, stand-up, honourable
fight. It has been a fair fight on our side, and I am proud to have been
connected with it. But in this struggle I have made one mistake. I made
the mistake of thinking we were fighting an honourable opponent--with a
man who would not break the rules of the ring. I was not on the outlook
for foul play--for trickery. Knowing what I do to-night, I say--and I
am ready to take the consequences of my words--that Sartwell is a thief,
and a cowardly thief in the estimation of any honest man. He knew that
the life of our fight was our money. He knew that starvation for the
helpless wives and families of our men was his most powerful ally. He
did not dare to break in and steal our money, because he was afraid of
the law, but he took a meaner and more cowardly way of accomplishing the
robbery. He appealed to the cupidity of men out of work--poor devils! I
don’t blame them; they were doubtless starving--and he told them that if
they masqueraded as employees of his, the Union would take them in, and
pay them wages, as long as there was no suspicion aroused--that is, if
these men kept their mouths shut they could draw strike pay. Much as I
have always despised Sartwell, I did not think he would stoop to a trick
like this. A man who robs a bank has some courage, but a man who tempts
poverty-stricken wretches to commit the crime, while he stands safely
aside and reaps the benefit--there is no decent word in the language to
characterize him. Now, men, you know what has been done, and the result
is that our treasury is as empty as if Sartwell had broken into it
with a jimmy. The manager is waiting expectantly for the reward of his
burglary. He will throw the gates of the works open to-morrow for you to
enter and complete his triumph. The question before the meeting to-night
is--Are you going in?”
A universal shout of, “Never! We’ll starve first!” rose to the rafters
of the building.
When he first confronted the meeting that night, Gibbons feared he could
not rouse the men from their evident coldness toward him; as the speech
went on, increasing murmurs among the men and at length savage outbursts
of rage showed him that he held them in the hollow of his hand; at the
end, a word from him, and all the police in that part of London could
not have saved the works from wreck and flames.
“To the works!” was the cry, and there was a general movement in
response to it.
“No, men!” shouted Gibbons, his stentorian voice dominating the uproar.
“Not to the works. Everyman home to-night, but be on the ground in
the morning. We must not play into the enemy’s hands by any attempt at
violence. To-morrow we will intercept Monkton and Hope, and demand our
rights from them in person. Let them refuse at their peril. We’ll have
no more dealings with Sartwell.”
There was a cheer at this, and the meeting disbanded quietly.
Next morning the men were out in force at the still closed gates, and
there were angry threats against the manager. It was all right
enough, they said, for Gibbons to counsel moderation, but the time for
moderation was past. There was an increased body of police, who kept the
crowd moving as much as was possible, having for the first time during
the strike a most difficult task to perform. The strikers were in ugly
temper, and did not obey orders or take pushes with the equanimity they
had formerly displayed; but the police showed great forbearance, and
evidently had instructions not to use their truncheons except as a last
resort.
Sartwell, knowing a crisis was at hand, had slept in his office, and the
ever-increasing mob hooted when he did not appear at his usual time.
Gibbons, by word and action, moving about everywhere, tried to keep his
men in hand and prevent a conflict. They cheered him, but paid little
attention to what he said.
Shortly after ten o’clock, a hansom drove to the outskirts of the mob,
and was received with a chorus of groans. Gibbons quickly stepped in
front of it and addressed the occupant.
“Mr. Hope----” he began.
“Stand back there!” cried the officer in charge.
“Mr. Hope,” cried Gibbons, “I want ten words with you.”
Little Mr. Hope shrank into a corner of the hansom, speechless, his face
as white as a sheet of paper.
“Stand back, I say!” The officer pushed Gibbons, striking him with some
force on the breast.
“Let him answer. Will you speak for one minute with your men--the men
who have made you rich?”
“Stand back!” reiterated the officer, pushing him a step further.
The hansom moved inch by inch nearer the gates. The crowd seethed like
an uneasy sea, but every man held his breath.
“Listen to me, Mr. Hope. Your men are starving. They ask only----”
The officer pushed the speaker back once more. Gibbons’s heel caught on
a cobble-stone, and he went down backwards.
The crowd broke like a wave, submerging the police for a moment,
flooding the street as if a dam had given way. The cabby on his lofty
seat, trying to control his frightened horse, looked like a castaway
perched on a buoy in an angry ocean. He made the tactical mistake of
lashing around him with his whip. In an instant the hansom was over and
down, with a crash of splintering glass. The police, edging together,
struck right and left with a fury that quite matched the less
disciplined rage of the mob. The officers fought their way until there
was a ring around the prostrate cab; two of them picked up Mr. Hope, who
was helpless with fear and horror, and these two, with the little man
between them, surrounded by a squad that stood shoulder to shoulder,
simply clove their way through the dense mass to the gates, where the
small door in the large gate was quickly opened and shut, with Mr. Hope
and one supporting policeman inside.
Gibbons, his hat gone, his coat in rags and his face smeared with blood,
a wild unkempt figure, rose above the struggling mob, and stood on the
top of the fallen cab.
“For God’s sake, men,” he screamed, “don’t resist the police! Fallback!
Fallback!”
He might as well have shouted to the winds. The police laid about them
like demons, and the crowd was rapidly falling back, but not because
Gibbons ordered them to. In an incredibly short space of time the police
in a body marched down the street, and there was none to oppose them.
The remnants of what a few minutes before seemed an irresistible force,
lay on the pavement and groaned, or leaned against the walls, the more
seriously wounded to be taken to the hospitals, the others to the police
station.
In spite of their defeat in the morning, the men gathered once more
about the works in the afternoon, and the threatening crowd was even
greater than before, because the evening papers had spread over London
startling accounts of the riot, as they called it, and the news had
attracted idlers from all parts of the metropolis. The wildest rumours
were afloat: the men were going to wreck the works; they were going to
loot the bread-shops in Light Street; they had armed themselves and
were about to march on Trafalgar Square. With a resolute and desperate
leader, there is no saying what they might have attempted; but Gibbons,
who had put another coat on his back, and much sticking-plaster on his
face, moved about counselling moderation and respect for the law.
They would forfeit public sympathy, he said, by resorting to violence;
although some of his hearers growled that “a bleedin’ lot o’ good”
public sympathy had done for them. “What we want, and what we mean to
have,” said Gibbons, “is a word with the owners. They are bound to come
out soon.”
They did come out ultimately together, and two more frightened men than
Monkton and Hope it would have been hard to find in all the land that
day. They were surrounded by a dozen policemen, whose resolute demeanour
showed they were not to be trifled with. The gates immediately closed
behind this formidable procession, and it quickly made its way up the
street, the crowd jeering and groaning as it passed through.
“We’ve got nothing against them,” shouted one. “Bring out Sartwell, and
we’ll show you wot for.”
Hatred for the manager rather than the owners was plainly the dominant
sentiment of the gathering. They cheered the remark, and gave three
groans for the unpopular manager.
When the protected men disappeared, the vigilance of the force relaxed,
and the crowd surged into the gap the police had cleared. With the
masters safe and out of reach, the critical moment of the day seemed
to have passed. The police could not be expected to know that the real
resentment of the mob was not directed against the man whose cab had
been overturned that morning.
“I hope Sartwell won’t venture out to-night,” said Marsten to Braunt.
“It will take more than twelve policemen to guard him if he does.”
“He has some sense,” replied Braunt, “and will stay where he is.”
Neither Braimt nor Marsten had been present during the morning’s
battle; but they, like many others with nothing to do, had come in the
afternoon.
As Braunt spoke the small door in the gate opened, and Sartwell,
entirely alone, stepped out. He had no more formidable weapon in his
hand than his customary slim and trim umbrella. His silk hat was as
glossy and his clothes as spick and span as if he were a tailor’s model.
He seemed to have aged a trifle since the strike began, but his wiry
well-knit body was as erect as ever, and in his eye was that stern look
of command before which, at one time or another, every man in his employ
had quailed.
An instantaneous hush fell upon the crowd. The cry of a hawker in a
distant street was heard. Every man knew that the flinging of a missile
or the upraising of an arm even, would be as a spark in a powder-mill.
Let but a stroke fall, and all the police in London could not have saved
the life of the man walking across the cleared space from the gates
towards the crowd. The mass of silent humanity had but to move forward,
and Sartwells life would be crushed out on the paving-stones.
Sartwell, without pause and without hurry, walked across the intervening
space with evident confidence that the men would make way for him. There
was no sign of fear in his manner, nor on the other hand was there any
trace of swaggering authority about him; but there was in the glance
of his steely eye and the poise of his head that indefinable something
which stamps a man master,--which commands obedience, instant and
unquestioned.
The crowd parted before him, and he cast no look over his shoulder.
Habit being strong, one or two raised hand to forelock as he passed,
getting in return the same curt nod that had always acknowledged such
salutation. The human ocean parted before him as did the Red Sea before
the Hebrew leader, and the manager passed through as unscathed.
“God!” cried Braunt, towering above his fellows and shaking his fist at
the unoffending sky, “I have seen in my life one brave man.”