The second strike was as clean-cut as the first: that is to say, no
laggards remained behind in the works; there was apparent unanimity
among the men, and apparent determination on the part of the masters.
To all outward seeming it was to be a straightforward, brutal trial of
strength between Capital and the Union. Marsten cared little for public
sympathy, which Gibbons had considered of great importance; and Sartwell
cared for it nothing at all. The public took small interest either way.
It was known that the company had voluntarily advanced the wages of the
men a short time before, and employers generally said that this showed
the folly of sentimentality in business; that no master should advance
wages until he was forced to do so. There was no gratitude on the part
of the workingman, they averred, and some of the newspapers took the
same tone. But even those journals favourable to labour had qualms about
the wisdom of the strike under the circumstances, although they hoped it
would succeed.
Marsten, however, paid small heed to the comments of friend or foe; he
knew that success or failure did not lie in what the papers said, but in
perfect organization and in hitting hard. He knew that, if he won,
most of the praise would go to the determination of the men and the
opportuneness of the strike; while, if he lost, he would have to
shoulder all the censure that had to be bestowed. He picketed the works
in the usual way, choosing for that duty the staunchest of his friends
among the men. He asked the remainder of the employees to keep away from
the gates and leave the conduct of the fight entirely to him and those
he had chosen as his lieutenants.
Once the fight was on, Sartwell determined to give no quarter. He
resolved to fill up the works, if possible, with men from outside,
and to take back none of the old employees who did not sign a paper
promising to abandon the Union. In the former strike he had been anxious
to get his men back in a body, and had made no real attempt to fill
their places. He knew in the beginning of the second struggle that
he was fighting for his life, and that if he suffered defeat he would
resign, and the place that had known him for years would know him no
more. He had no fear that the company would discharge him if he lost the
battle,--in fact he knew they would use every effort to induce him to
remain; but it was his own stubborn pride, as his wife called it, that
he felt he could not overcome even if he had wished to do so. Sartwell,
like certain swords of finely-tempered steel, would break, but would not
bend. Years of unflinching determination in what he thought was right
had made him a man over whom he himself had but slight control; and he
sometimes recognized with grim humour that while he could persuade
all his _confrères_ to take a devious but safe course upon any given
problem, he could not induce himself to follow anything but the straight
line. He worked night and day at the task of filling the factory with
new men. He scoured the country for them, and his telegraph bills alone
were enormous; but men were scarce--good men are always scarce, and now
even indifferent workers were hard to find. Gibbons had once said that
the workingman of modern times suffers from the fact that he is merely a
cog in a big wheel, but this truism tells also against the employer who
is trying to fill his shops. If a cog is useless by itself it must not
be forgotten that the wheel is also useless until the cog is replaced.
It is easy for an employer to supply the place of a single cog; but
when the whole wheel is cogless, ninety-nine cogs are of no avail if the
hundredth necessary to complete the circle cannot be found.
It was here that Sartwell had the first touch of his opponent’s quality,
and his anger was lost in admiration for the young man’s shrewdness and
knowledge of the business. The fight had been conducted so quietly
that no one in the neighbourhood would have known, from any sign of
disturbance, that war was in progress. Marsten made no attempt to buy
off the new men, who came and went from the works unmolested by the
pickets. Marsten sometimes talked with the strangers, telling them of
the strike, and asking where they came from; advising them to get work
elsewhere, but never making any attempt either to coerce or to bribe
them. Sartwell wondered at this, and hoped Marsten would continue such
a mild and harmless warfare; nevertheless its very mildness made him
anxious, and he cautioned his new employees to give no information to
the strikers, though he was well aware of the uselessness of trying to
inculcate secrecy--for men will talk. In fact Marsten kept himself well
informed of what was going on inside the works, and saw that the manager
was quite shrewdly concentrating his attention to one branch of a
department, instead of trying to fill the whole factory at one time.
He was gradually collecting his hundred cogs from all points of the
compass, and by and by would have one big wheel and pinion, out of the
many wheels and pinions, revolving. One day at noon, when the men came
out, Marsten, rapidly running his eye over them, saw a new man, and at
once he recognized that here at last was the hundredth cog.
“You’re a new-comer?” he said, accosting him.
“Yes,” answered the man; “I came this morning.”
“I’d like to have a word with you,” said Marsten, keeping step with him.
“It’s no use. I know there’s a strike. I’m here to work, and I don’t
give a hang for the Union!”
“Well, it will do no harm to talk the matter over.”
“It’ll do no good. I didn’t come out to talk; I came out for my dinner.”
“Of course. I’m on the same lay myself; come with me. We can talk and
eat.”
“I can pay for my own dinner.”
“Certainly; I’m not offering to pay for it. I don’t suppose I get a
tenth part of the wages you do; I can see by the look of you that you
are a good workman. I’m secretary of the Union, and I get but a few
shillings a week. I would tell you how few, but you probably wouldn’t
believe me, for I could get much more at my trade.”
“The more fool you, then, for working for less.”
“Perhaps. I want to raise the wages of men all over the kingdom, so I’m
content to work for little if I can do that. Where do you come from?”
“I’m a Bolton man.”
“Is your family here?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“What’s that to you, I’d like to know?”
“It’s a good deal to all of us, because it shows that you are not sure
of your situation.”
“It shows nothing of the kind. I am guaranteed my situation.”
“Guaranteed! What does a master’s guarantee amount to? We’re going to
win this strike, and then where will you new-comers be? You know what
happens when the men go back. Not one of you will be left in the shops.
Suppose you do get good wages for a few weeks, what will be the benefit
in the end? A permanent situation at even lower wages would be better.”
“Who says it wouldn’t? But I haven’t the permanent situation, you see.”
“Now you are talking sense. Are you a member of the Union?”
“I was. I had a row with the foreman, and he gave me the sack.”
“In whose shop was that?”
“At Smighden’s.”
“I don’t know it. What wages were you getting there?”
“Thirty shillings a week.”
“Do you know Markham, Sarbury & Company, of Bolton?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be satisfied with thirty shillings a week there?”
“Yes; if I could be sure of getting it.”
“You can be sure of it. I will telegraph to the foreman this minute, and
we’ll have an answer before we finish eating. He has promised to find
me places for three men, and I haven’t sent him one yet. But don’t say a
word to any one here, for I want to keep the other two places for Bolton
men if they come.”
“I’ll not go back to this shop at all if I can be sure of a place in
Bolton.”
And so it came about that Sartwell lost his hundredth cog, and the cog
never thought it worth his while to give his late master even a word of
explanation. He left on the first train for Manchester.
This kind of thing happened several times before Sartwell fully realized
the method in Marsten’s action. He thought at first that Marsten had
been merely lucky in buying off a man at the very time when such a
purchase would block all progress. It was like pulling the linchpin from
one of the axles of a wagon. The manager wrote to his fellow-managers in
different parts of the country, and warned them that their foremen were
giving places to employees from the works of Monkton & Hope, and he
received answers saying they would do all they could to prevent such
transplanting; but, as it was difficult to trace where a man went,
when so few of them were deported, the warning came to nothing. If
a wholesale exodus had been attempted, Sartwell, with the aid of his
fellow-managers, might have done something to prevent its success; but
the very homoeopathic nature of Marsten’s remedy made it difficult to
cope with. By this time the feeling that he was a beaten man came over
Sartwell, and, although he said nothing and sought sympathy from no one,
it aged him more than years of toil had done. His daughter, now home
from school, saw with helpless grief the deep lines care was ploughing
in his rugged face.
Curiously enough, Marsten’s quiet but effective methods, which convinced
so far-seeing a man as Sartwell that they were ultimately to be
successful, had the very opposite effect on the strikers themselves.
They did not understand the game, and they saw with increasing
uneasiness that the works were apparently filling up while nothing
was being done to prevent it. Marsten did not call meetings and
enthusiastically show his hand with an outburst of eloquence, as had
been the habit with Gibbons. The men thought he was doing nothing merely
because he was saying nothing, and even Marsten’s own friends began to
feel dubious about the result. There was no sign of giving in on the
part of the masters, and they saw every day an increased number of men
come out of the gates. In spite of Marsten’s prohibition the strikers
began to gather about the gates, hooting the new employees when they
came out; for hoots and groans seemed to accomplish something, and were
at least a relief to the pent-up feelings of the idle men. Marsten saw
these signs of revolt with uneasiness; but he thought, as the men this
time were not starving, and as they all knew the Union was still in
ample funds, he could keep the strikers in hand until a decisive blow
would show Monkton & Hope the futility of further resistance. He had
quietly prepared such a blow, and he expected that when it fell the
strike would triumphantly end.
A deputation of the strikers, headed by Gibbons, waited on him, and
demanded that public meetings should be held--as had always been done
before--so that the men might be kept informed of the progress of a
struggle that vitally affected their interests. Gibbons spoke strongly
and feelingly on the subject, as one who speaks from the heart, and
the deputation was correspondingly impressed. It was not right, Gibbons
held, that they should grope longer in the dark; they wanted to know
where they were, and what measures were being taken to bring Sartwell to
terms.
“But, don’t you see,” protested Marsten, “that any information I give
publicly to my friends at once becomes known to the enemy? I never knew
anything to be accomplished by talk. There is generally too much of it
in a contest of this kind.”
“I quite agree with you,” said the glib Gibbons; “but in the absence of
talk we would like to have some evidence of action. This sort of thing
cannot be kept up for ever. Sartwell is gradually filling the factory,
and we are all getting a little restive. We must know what is going
on, for it will be no consolation to be told in a week--or two--or
three--that you find you have no chance of succeeding, and that we must
make the best terms we can. You must remember that, although you lose
no situation, we do. Will you call a meeting and explain to the men what
the chances of success are?”
“I will do nothing of the sort. A general does not call his army
together and explain to them what he intends to do next. I am leader of
this strike, and I am going to lead it my own way or not at all. You say
the factory is filling up, but I tell you that not a stroke of work has
been done since the strike began. All I will promise to do is to let you
know two weeks before we come to the end of our funds; then, if you do
not think we will succeed, you will have time to make what arrangements
you please, and depose me.”
“Oh, that kind of high-handed business does not do in this age. You are
not an autocrat, remember. The men have every right to demand an account
of what you are doing with them and their money.”
“When you were leader, Gibbons, they were at the end of their funds
before you let them know anything about it. There was talk enough
in those days, and precious little information went with it. I won’t
conduct a strike with my mouth, and I won’t stand any interference.”
“You are our servant, I beg you to remember, and it is no interference
when we simply ask to know what is being done and what you intend to do.
Now you will either call a meeting of the men at the Salvation Hall or
we will. Which is it to be?”
“I shall not call a meeting. If you call one, then you take the
responsibility of meddling in a matter you don’t understand. It is quite
possible that you may be able to embarrass, or perhaps defeat me; but
if you do, the time will come when the men will curse you for your
intervention. I tell you we are bound to win this strike if you keep
your hands off. Calling a meeting will merely show Sartwell that we are
getting anxious, and his whole hope is centered in a division among us.
He was frank enough to tell me so himself.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Before the strike began.”
Gibbons looked significantly at the deputation, and one or two of the
members nodded sadly, as much as to say they wouldn’t have believed it;
but it was now only too evident, from their secretary’s own admission,
that he had secret communications with the enemy.
“I think,” said Gibbons, solemnly, “that, after what you have said,
there is all the more reason why you should call the men together, and
explain to them how you came to be discussing with Sartwell the probable
failure of the strike even before it began. You knew that was a tender
point with us long since; and if Sartwell is your enemy, as you said he
was, I can’t see for the life of me why----”
“Oh, there is no need of any secrecy about it, Gibbons. In fact there is
little mystery about anything we do, and that is one reason I don’t
want to call a public meeting. Things are bad enough as they are. I have
found that Sartwell generally knows what we are about to do before many
of us know it ourselves. I went to Sartwell because he asked me to go.
He knew this strike was coming on, although I had imagined it had only
been discussed between myself and some of the others. He offered me
the assistant managership of the works if I would resign my position
as secretary. I refused, and he told me this strike was bound to fail
because the men would not be true to me. You can give the men the whole
particulars of my talk with Sartwell, but there is no need of calling a
meeting to discuss it.”
“That may all be true, but I confess it sounds rather fishy. I doubt if
Sartwell is so much afraid of you as that comes to. Anyhow, there is no
harm in finding out just where we stand. I will do my best to calm the
apprehensions of the men, but I give you warning that if nothing more
encouraging than we have had lately turns up within a week, there will
be trouble. The men will call a meeting themselves if you don’t.”
“If nothing happens within a week, I will call a meeting and give
them an account of what has been done so far; but I don’t approve of
meetings, and I shall call one practically under compulsion. You are
forcing my hand, Gibbons, and you promised me fair play.”
“It seems to me you have had a good run for your money, and I think we
are very patient in consenting to wait a week when we are being led we
don’t know where.”
The deputation then withdrew, and Marsten paced up and down the room,
wondering if the directors were giving Sartwell as uneasy a time as
the men were giving him. As was the case during the former strike, the
Salvation Hall had been placed at the disposal of the men. Marsten had
called no meetings except the one that had ushered in the strike. He
made his headquarters, however, in a room that opened upon the platform,
and which also communicated with a narrow lane that led along the
outside of the hall to the street. Here his pickets reported to him,
and here the work made necessary by the strike--the bookkeeping and the
correspondence--was done. Here also letters and telegrams were received.
It was a bare room with only two or three chairs and a rough table as
its furnishing. Several religious and moral mottoes were tacked on the
boards that formed the walls. “Love one another” was the sentence that
met Mars-ten’s eye whenever he looked up from his seat at the table. He
sometimes smiled sadly as he gazed at it. Marsten paused in his walk,
and sat down at the table on hearing a knock at the outside door. A
telegraph messenger entered and handed him an envelope. Marsten tore
it open, and read the single word “Stopped.” The word had come from the
other side of the earth, travelling from Sydney, New South Wales, to
London. A gleam of savage joy lit up the eyes of the young man, and, to
the amazement of the messenger, he brought his fist down heavily on the
deal table.
“There is no answer,” he said to the waiting boy, suddenly recollecting
that he was not alone; “and,” he added to himself, “there will be no
answer but one from Monkton & Hope.”
Once more he paced the room up and down, his frame quivering with the
delight of battle and the fore-knowledge of victory. The motto, “Love
one another,” shone peacefully, but unnoticed, on the wall.