marked indecision. O’Rane’s voice had a ring of authority; and the key
which he held was superficial evidence of good faith.
“Are you Mr. O’Rane, sir?,” asked the constable. “The inspector’s been
trying to get hold of you. Maybe . . . you haven’t heard, sir?”
“Haven’t heard what?”
“The place has been smashed about, sir. Them hunger-marchers . . .”
“Any one hurt?”
“None of your people, sir; but we had to take our truncheons to the
others. If you’ll see the inspector, sir . . .”
O’Rane bent his head and passed through the doorway, dragging me behind
him by the wrist. Our path lay through an overgrown clump of evergreens;
and, when we came into the open, on a strip of blighted lawn, it was my
turn to catch O’Rane’s wrist while I surveyed the damage. So far as I
could see in the uncertain light, there was not one whole pane of glass
in the place; a door, torn from its hinges, lay athwart one of the
trampled flower-beds; and under the boarding of the penthouse that did
duty for a waiting-room there trickled a thin stream of black water. The
lawn was carpeted with files and ledgers; the doorways were blocked with
broken chairs; and the air was heavy with the smell of wet ashes.
“The place is wrecked?,” O’Rane broke in on my description. “That’s
enough for the present. Find me the man in charge.”
In a corner of the main office we came upon a group of three constables,
one inspector and two unexplained men in plain-clothes. They were
talking in undertones round a table on which O’Rane’s secretary lay in a
dead faint. Another clerk, white-faced and tremulous, sat in another
corner with a telephone; a third wandered distractedly about the room,
tidying books into place and sobbing gently to herself.
“This is Mr. O’Rane,” I told the inspector. “We understand no one’s been
killed. That’s all we know.”
“It’s not the fault of those others that some one _wasn’t_ killed.
Excuse me, sir, she’s coming to,” he added in an undertone. “Don’t hurry
her! Stand back there and give her room.”
3
Five minutes later we began to build up a composite explanation from the
inspector’s report and the evidence of the three eye-witnesses. Shortly
after one o’clock a man had called to see Mr. O’Rane; he gave no name,
but said that he had been sent to the office from Westminster. On
hearing that Mr. O’Rane was not yet arrived, he explained that he was
spokesman of a deputation and would like to wait for an interview. The
one clerk who was on duty during the luncheon-hour then tried to make an
appointment for the next morning on the ground that Mr. O’Rane had said
he would not be at the office until late, if indeed he came at all that
day. The spokesman of the deputation replied that he had heard that
story before and enquired sarcastically if he should lead his men back
to Westminster.
“He said he’d come all the way from the north,” interposed O’Rane’s
secretary. “I guessed then he was one of the hunger-marchers; and I
. . . didn’t like the way he spoke. So, when he turned to call the
others, I gave him a push and slammed the door behind him. Then . . .
then . . . then . . .”
O’Rane patted the girl’s hand while the inspector resumed his narrative.
Barred from one entrance, the rioters attacked the other and succeeded
in wrenching the door down. Inside, their conduct at first was orderly:
some stretched themselves on the floor, others collected round the
fires; when the police arrived, however, one or two got out of hand:
tables were overturned, drawers ransacked and the safe bombarded,
ineffectually enough, with sticks and stones. Then two arrests were
made; and the crowd settled down to fight in earnest. Those who were
outside shattered the windows with every missile that came to hand;
those within overturned the furniture, flung the books from their
shelves and kicked burning coals into the midst of the wreckage. When
the truncheons came into place, the attack collapsed; but, with
half-a-dozen exceptions, the invaders had made good their escape.
“Which way did they go?,” asked O’Rane.
“Every way, sir, as far as we could see. They were lost in the fog
before they were out of the garden.”
“I understand. Well, they’re not likely to come back, but I suppose
you’ll leave some one to look after the place. I shall be here first
thing to-morrow morning, but I’ve rather a lot to do now. Can you
arrange for some one to take these ladies home? I don’t like them to
wander about unprotected. George, I want you.”
As I followed him into the ruins of his private office, he asked me if
Sonia had mentioned where she was going that afternoon.
“I imagine, to The Sanctuary,” I answered. “She had tickets for a
private view, but I heard her say it was too dark to do anything except
go to bed.”
“And the best place too. Will you get hold of the other telephone and
tell her to bar the door and put the shutters up in the library? All the
ground-floor rooms without shutters must be locked on the outside. She’s
not to go to the door on any pretext; and there must be no lights in any
window. If I want to get in, I’ll use the fire-escape; so she must leave
the nursery-window open. Tell her—without frightening her, if
possible—that I’m asking the police to draft some additional men into
the neighbourhood . . .”
“You think this gang has gone back?,” I interrupted.
This was the first time that I had engaged in any adventure with O’Rane;
and I began to appreciate some of his qualities of leadership. Always
knowing what he wanted, he made his followers want it with equal
intensity; fearless himself, he subdued fear in others. I felt that he
would stand back to back with me against an army corps; and it was only
natural that I should wish to stand back to back with him.
“It’s more than likely. They’re out for blood now . . . thanks to
Sonia’s damned folly in sending them here when I told her I shouldn’t be
near the place. I should want somebody’s blood myself if I’d had a trick
like that played on me.”
I sent O’Rane’s message in his own words, not caring greatly whether I
frightened Sonia so long as she obeyed to the letter. Then I telephoned
to Seymour Street to give a similar warning. I would not speak to
Barbara for fear she should try to argue; but I instructed Robson to put
the house in preparation for a siege. Griffiths had honoured me with one
call; in his mind I was intimately associated with O’Rane; I did not
want him to call a second time until I had prepared a suitable reception
for him.
“Tell her ladyship that there’s a certain amount of rioting,” I said,
“and it is my urgent wish that she shall not go out of doors. Mr.
O’Rane’s office has been damaged, though—fortunately—no one has been
injured. I’m going with him to his house in Westminster, just to see
that everything’s all right there. Then I shall come straight home.”
As I finished speaking, O’Rane came into the room and asked if I had
sent his message.
“Then I needn’t keep you, old man,” he added. “It was good of you to see
me through. One’s sometimes extraordinarily helpless without one’s
eyes.”
“I’m coming back with you,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because . . . one is sometimes extraordinarily helpless without one’s
eyes.”
“But this isn’t your show. Sonia set the match to the fire; and I must
put it out.”
“I may be able to lend a hand.”
O’Rane stood silent for a moment. Then he shook his head and turned to
the door:
“I’m not going to let you in for this. You have . . . other
responsibilities.”
“It’s as bad as that?”
“It may be. You’ve never seen a mob out of temper.” . . .
“If you’re right, I may see one to-day. I’m not going to let you go
alone, Raney.”
“It’s . . . good of you; but I think you’re a fool.”
“Well, that’s as may be,” I answered. “Come on.”
4
As we hurried to the station, I told O’Rane that the approaches to
Westminster had been barricaded earlier in the day and suggested that we
should make for The Sanctuary by way of Waterloo and Lambeth. He nodded
without speaking; and, after that, I left him undisturbed. I am not, I
never have been, anything that could be called “a man of action”; I did
not know whether we were hastening into the vortex of a revolution; and,
if I had known, I should have had no idea what to do.
“I’m simply waiting for your orders,” I reminded him, as we struggled
out of the lift.
“And I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s happening. How’s the fog?”
“I really believe it’s thicker than ever.”
“Good. Take my arm and come for all you’re worth. There’s no difference
to me between night and day or fog and sunshine; but there’s all the
difference in the world to these other fellows. I figure out that
Griffiths’ gang ought to be arriving just about now, if they’ve come on
foot. And if they’ve come at all. The police ought to be there before
them, with luck. We’ve no idea of numbers on either side; but one
policeman, attacking or defending, is a match for quite a few people who
haven’t made up their minds how far they want to go. And it’s a trained
against an untrained force. On the other hand, the police can’t go to
extremes until they’re driven.”
“And in pitch darkness,” I added, “numbers and training and the majesty
of the law don’t count for much.”
“I’m banking on that. This may be a one-man show. Me. The fog’s still
holding everywhere? Good again. We’re all blind for this evening, but
I’ve had more than seven years’ start of the others. I haven’t bumped
you once so far? I can _feel_ when people are near. And I’m coming to
know London like my own bedroom. There’s a crossing here, with rather a
high kerb. Left incline to the refuge! There’s a lorry feeling his way
along . . . and getting tied up with a south-bound tram. We can go on
now. People aren’t frightened of a fog nearly as much as I should have
expected. When I remember the agony of fear I went through when I was
blinded . . . The helplessness . . . Here’s Westminster Bridge, but I
don’t think it’s the least use trying that.”
We hurried along the south bank of the river and only crossed when we
were safely in the rear of all possible pickets.
“What happens if we get separated?,” I asked.
“Look after yourself as best you can, but don’t call me by name. D’you
know _Lilliburlero_? Well, pretend you’re Uncle Toby and whistle that
when you get a chance, just to shew me where you are. If you want help,
whistle _John Peel_. I’ll get to you if I can . . . Of course, we _may_
find everything as peaceful as the grave. If we do, I think I shall
still take the precaution of moving Sonia and the boys to some other
part of London.”
“Bring them to Seymour Street,” I suggested.
“I will, thankfully. If we find there’s a scrap in progress, we must
arrange a retreat. There’ll be nobody on the west side of the house,
because there are no windows for any one to break on the ground floor;
and there’s a fairly high wall round the stable-yard. If you’ll keep
_cavé_, I’ll slip in there and go up the fire-escape. I’ll give you the
first line of _The Campbells Are Coming_ to know if the coast’s clear;
if you’ll reply with _Over the Hills and Far Away_, I shall know I can
unlock the door. From there, the way is by Smith Square, Great College
Street and Dean’s Yard. The gates will be shut against us; but the
police will open them. . . . Are you feeling at all nervous?”
“A bit keyed-up. This damned fog . . .”
“You may live to bless it. If for any reason we don’t both get through,
we’ll say good-bye now. Slow down a bit; we can’t be more than fifty
yards from the corner.”
Though I fancied we were still half a mile away, I discovered—by the
abrupt change from stucco to brick—that we had indeed reached the south
side of the house. So far as I could see or hear, the neighbourhood was
deserted; but a single distant thud, followed by a sharp tinkle, told me
that some one on the other side of the house had broken a window and
that the missile had been stopped by a shutter. I heard hurried
footsteps and pulled up within an inch of colliding with a young
policeman. His truncheon was drawn; and he had lost his helmet.
“You gentlemen had best keep out of this,” he warned us.
“What’s happening?,” I asked. “Are these the hunger-marchers?”
“I reckon so. And they’re out for mischief. If you could see them, it
wouldn’t be so bad . . .”
He broke off as a fusillade of stones rattled against the house. A
hollow ‘plump’, like the sound of a weight dropped into water, indicated
another broken window; and in the moment’s silence that followed we
heard another tinkle of glass.
“The house will stand a good deal of that,” O’Rane murmured. “They’ve
had no luck with the door?”
“Two or three got in by the area window,” stated the constable. “Now
they can’t get out again. There are two men waiting for them.”
O’Rane broke into an unexpected laugh:
“I’m afraid they’ll have a long wait. That’s the cellar; and the door’s
sure to be locked. I hope they’ll find the wine to their taste.”
“Is this your house, sir?,” asked the policeman. “You’d best not let
them see you, then. They’re after you.”
“So it seems,” O’Rane answered, as a new volley of stones rattled on to
the pavement and a series of short scuffles gave place to the sound of
running feet.
The battle, we were told, had been raging for half-an-hour. At first the
assailants had concentrated on the front door; when that refused to
yield, they began to break every window within reach until the police
scattered them. Then the attack was transferred to a distance. On the
Embankment twenty yards away, where the road was under repair, lay
miscellaneous heaps of stones and granite blocks. By these the
hunger-marchers collected and bombarded both the house and the newly
formed cordon. It was a difficult attack to meet at any time, but the
fog made it impossible. When the police charged, the assailants slipped
between and round them, to reassemble in flank and to continue their
bombardment of the house at close-quarters; when the police charged
back, the hunger-marchers returned to their ammunition-dump and reopened
a long-range fire. The present lull in the fighting was due to a change
of tactics: half the police were stationed in open order round the
house, while the other half encircled the granite piles to cut off
supplies. Their numbers, however, were insufficient to hold either
position effectively; and, though further reinforcements were reported
to be on their way, there were enough stones lying loose about the house
for a long spell of irregular practice.
“Is that fellow Griffiths in charge?,” asked O’Rane.
“I’ve heard so,” answered the constable.
“I want to get hold of him. This must be stopped, but it’s no good
breaking heads and putting people under arrest. We must stop it before
the reinforcements come up and the whole thing starts again. There’s a
lot to be said for these fellows: they’re hungry, to begin with, and
they’ve been fooled by everybody, Griffiths most of all. The first thing
they need is a meal; and I’m going to promise them that, if they’ll stop
this stone-throwing business. And after that we must find ’em a place
for the night; but I must promise them there’ll be no arrests. Where’s
the inspector?”
“He’s guarding the area window, sir.”
“I hope to God I can make my voice heard,” O’Rane muttered, as he
vanished from my side to be swallowed up in the fog.
I waited with the constable because I had been given no orders. He had
been on duty for little more than half-an-hour and could tell me nothing
of the battle’s beginning. On the other hand, he told me much about the
rest of London: my premonition of a duel between Griffiths and the
O’Ranes had come true; in every other part, the hunger-marchers were
being peacefully conducted to makeshift kitchens and dormitories;
Hampstead was quiet again; and this brawl, between unknown numbers on
either side, was the nearest approach—as Philip Hornbeck might have
said—to barricade-fighting.
Only a brawl, but an unpleasant brawl. I do not remember feeling
unusually frightened, though I was more than usually helpless. From time
to time a stone hurtled over my head or skated along the pavement at my
feet; of all futile precautions, I pulled my hat over my eyes and turned
up my coat-collar; also, I heard a sustained cursing of this Egyptian
darkness and was surprised to recognize my own voice behind it. I could
not see my watch; I have no idea how long it was before the next
fusillade was followed by the now inevitable scuffling rush. Then came
the sound of O’Rane’s voice from the front of the house. He called
several times for Griffiths; and, when no answer came, he began to talk
to the crowd and at their leader in the same breath.
Only once before had I heard O’Rane address a mass-meeting: that was in
the early days of the war, when he came to gather recruits and wagered
light-heartedly that he would stampede the meeting in five minutes. He
won his bet; but then he had been able to see his audience, and his
audience yielded to the double hypnotism of his voice and eyes. Now he
was talking to a blind tent of darkness. I could not watch the effect; I
could not tell how many heard him nor how many were present to hear. It
was something that they listened in silence; but, until the speech was
over, neither he nor I could tell for certain whether any one was in
earshot.
There was little more in what he said now than in what he had rehearsed
to me. After telling the crowd his name—which was received in
silence—, he explained that, when the deputation called earlier in the
day and at the moment when it was marching on his office in Hampstead,
he had been taking steps to procure food for men whose only fault at
that time was that they had listened to promises which could not be
kept. If they did not know that, Griffiths did; the government had
stated a dozen times that it would not receive their leaders; and the
sympathy which the hunger-marchers had aroused on their way to London
would vanish in a moment if they destroyed houses and helped themselves
to private property. Though it was too late to undo the harm already
done, it could be overlooked. If the rioting stopped instantly, no steps
would be taken against the rioters, with the exception of Griffiths
himself, against whom the police already held a warrant for inciting to
crime. Further, immediate steps would be taken to provide shelter and
food; but the stone-throwing must stop. Those who came forward
empty-handed would be marshalled and led to Millbank Gardens, where
supplies had already been collected.
The speech was over in three minutes; but twice that time passed before
any answer came. I moved round to the front of the house, but the place
from which O’Rane’s voice had issued was occupied by a single policeman.
There was no more stone-throwing, but I could see nothing of the
besieging army. Once I whistled a few bars of _Lilliburlero_, but they
passed unacknowledged. Then I walked in a wider compass towards the
battlefield on the Embankment. Everything was silent, every one was
still; and each man suspected his neighbour. I could see neither
policemen nor rioters until I was within a yard of them; then a face
would leap at me out of the grey fog. Usually it was frightened,
sometimes it was angry; always it seemed thin, hopeless and bewildered.
The stench was oppressive; the sense of silent numbers suffocating.
As I turned back towards the house, I felt a slight tremor among the men
who surrounded me. Perhaps my own aimless movement had given them the
lead they were awaiting. Those ahead of us were pushed forward; those
behind hurried to catch up. Suspicion seemed to die down; and I heard a
hoarse murmur of conversation. Finding myself alone, I tried
_Lilliburlero_ again; and with an answering whistle O’Rane slipped like
a snake through the intervening ranks and stationed himself at my side.
“You all right?,” he whispered.
“Yes, thanks. It’s over, Raney. What d’you want me to do now?”
“Let’s be sure first that it _is_ over. . . . I don’t like the sound of
_that_.”
Taking my arm, he led me in the direction of a voice that seemed to be
answering his own speech. I could not hear the words; and, if I
suspected the voice to be Griffiths’, that was only because a curious
snarl, passed from lip to lip, was taken up as a cry.
“They’re saying it’s a trap,” I told O’Rane.
“Trap . . . Trap . . . Trap . . .” came the snarl; and those who were
nearest the house turned headlong till we were almost swept off our
feet.
“Trap be damned,” shouted a voice; and in place of the mutters and
snarls came the roar of two opposing armies.
5
It was very much as I had foreseen; very much as I had predicted to
Griffiths himself. His men were turning against him.
When hunger first became unbearable, they soothed their anger with a
dose of wholesale destruction. If Griffiths had not urged them to it, I
have never heard any one suggest that he tried to restrain them; I
should be sceptical if any one told me that he had marched them from
Hampstead to Westminster with another thought than to offer them a
further dose of the same sedative. By this time, however, the men were
realizing that broken windows brought satisfaction to no one but the
fortunate two or three who had dug themselves into the wine-cellar. I
hoped they would remain there. In a lull between two bursts of shouting
I heard a subterranean bellowing; one or two bottles were flung up and
promptly smashed by the inspector of police. I did not want our
complications to be increased by the madness that comes to starving men
who have inflamed their aching stomachs with strong liquor. O’Rane, if
he aimed at dividing the enemy, could not have chosen a happier moment
for exposing Griffiths to his followers. Their resentment of that day’s
leadership became lost in a greater resentment of the leadership that
had dragged them to London. Fear sharpened the antagonism of those who
had heard a moment before that they were being incited by Griffiths to
crime; the police were still very near; and O’Rane had promised an
amnesty to all who threw down their missiles and came forward
peacefully.
Amnesty and immediate food. The collective cry of hunger was less than
human; but, as I had predicted, the disappointed mob had vengeance to
wreak on the author of its misfortunes before it could eat in comfort of
mind. As though a barrier had fallen, there was a rush towards the
corner of the street where an excited voice could still be heard
haranguing of ‘traps’.
“That fellow will be lynched if we don’t get him away!,” O’Rane cried.
“You’ll be lynched yourself,” I answered, “if you get mixed up with his
gang.”
Even as I spoke, the tide hung and turned. As I might have foreseen, as
Griffiths himself had told me, he could look after himself. Again I
could not hear his words; for part of the time I fancy he was speaking
in Welsh; and he held his audience. The opposing clamour dwindled and
died away. The hoarse cheers of his supporters spread until they were
taken up all round us. There was a pause of perfect stillness, like the
moment when a gigantic wave gathers before breaking; then the mob turned
as one man upon the house.
Griffiths had won that round.
“I imagine this must be something like the storming of the Bastille,”
O’Rane murmured coolly.
“They’re absolutely out of hand. The police are using their truncheons,
too,” I added, as the sickening smack of hard wood on human flesh and
bone was followed by yelps of rage and whimpering moans.
“I haven’t heard anything of our precious reinforcement . . . There’s a
most awful reek of whisky.”
“They’re looting the cellar. Once _that_ begins . . .”
“If they’ll get drunk quietly, it will be the best thing in the world
for everybody. . . . D’you smell burning?”
I sniffed; but my duller senses told me nothing till I saw a distant
orange glow fainter than the reflection of a winter sunset.
“They’ve started a fire. I can’t see where.”
“Is it making any difference to the fog?”
“No, but I believe the fog’s lifting. I can see . . . oh, ten yards.
Come out of the way: I think the police are going to charge again.”
Though I dragged at his arm, O’Rane stayed motionless.
“If the fog’s lifting . . .,” he murmured slowly. Then, for the second
time that evening, he gripped my hand. “We must go while the going’s
good. The stable-door. And afterwards by Smith Square and Great College
Street.”