Meanwhile the vast mob of London's workers was steadily pressing north.
There were hundreds of carts without wheels, which necessarily hampered
the rate of progression, but would save time in the long run, for there
were any number up to a dozen with each conveyance, seeing that various
neighbours were working upon the co-operation system.
Gradually the force began to break and turn in certain directions. It
became like an army marching upon given points by a score or more of
avenues. It was pretty well known that there were a couple of hundred
men amongst the multitude who knew exactly where to go and who had
instructions as to certain grimy goals.
They were breaking away in all directions now, quiet, steady, and
determined, covering a wide area from Caledonian Road to Euston, and
from Finsbury Park to King's Cross. They were so quiet and orderly that
only the crunch of the snow and the sound of heavy breathing could be
heard.
Near Euston Station the first sign of resistance was encountered. A
force of eighty police barred the way. The mob closed in. There was
no hot blood, no more than grim determination with a dash of sardonic
humour in it. A head or two was broken by the thrashing staves, but
the odds were too great. In five minutes the whole posse of constables
was disarmed, made secure by their own handcuffs and taken along as
honoured prisoners of war. Perhaps their sympathies were with the mob,
for they made nothing like so fine a fight of it as is usually the case.
Up by King's Cross Station a still larger force of police had massed,
and here there was some considerable amount of bloodshed. But there
were thousands of men within easy distance of the fray, and the white
silence of the place became black with swaying figures and the noise of
turmoil carried far. Finally the police were beaten back, squeezed in
between two vastly superior forces and surrendered at discretion.
The victory was easier than it seemed, for obviously the constables had
no heart for the work before them. Not a few of them were thinking of
their own firesides, and that they would be better off in the ranks of
their antagonists.
Meanwhile, many of the local municipalities were being urged to call
out the military. With one accord they declined to do anything of the
kind. It was the psychological moment when one touch of nature makes
the whole world akin. In the House of Commons, to the agonised appeal
of Hayes and his partner, the Secretary for War coldly preferred to be
unable to interfere unless the Mayor of this or that borough applied
for assistance after reading the Riot Act. The matter was in the hands
of the police, who would know how to act upon an emergency.
Hustled and bustled and pushed good-naturedly, Fisher and his colleague
found themselves at length beyond a pair of huge gates that opened
into a yard just beyond Euston Station. There was a large square area
and beyond three small mountains of coal, all carefully stacked in the
usual way. Before the welcome sight the stolid demeanour of the two
thousand men who had raided the yard fairly broke down. They threw up
their hands and laughed and cheered. They stormed the office of the big
coal company, who were ostensible owners of all that black wealth, and
dragged the clerks into the yard. From behind came the crash and rattle
of the wheel-less carts as they were dragged forward.
"No cause to be frightened," the man in command explained. "We're
here to buy that coal, one or two or three hundredweight each, as the
case may be, and you can have your money in cash or vouchers, as you
please. But we're going to have the stuff and don't you forget it. You
just stand by the gates and check us out. You'll have to guess a bit,
but that won't be any loss to you. And the price is eighteen pence a
hundredweight."
The three clerks grinned uneasily. At the same moment the same strange
scene was being enacted in over a hundred other coal-yards. Three or
four hundred men were already swarming over the big mound, there was a
crash and a rattle as the huge blocks fell, the air was filled with a
grimy, gritty black powder, every face was soon black with it.
Very soon there was a steady stream away from the radius of the coal
stacks. A big stream of coal carts went crunching over the hard, frozen
snow pulled by one or two or three men according to the load, or how
many had co-operated, and as they went along they sang and shouted
in their victory. It was disorderly, it was wrong, it was a direct
violation of the law, but man makes laws for man.
Gough and Fisher, passing down parallel with Euston Road, presently
found themselves suddenly in the thick of an excited mob. The doors
of a wharf had been smashed in, but in the centre of the yard stood a
resolute knot of men who had affixed a hose pipe to one of the water
mains and defied the marauders with vigorous invective. Just for a
moment there was a pause. The idea of being drenched from head to foot
with a thermometer verging upon zero was appalling. These men would
have faced fire, but the other death, for death it would mean, was
terrible.
[Illustration: In the centre of the yard stood a resolute knot of men
who had affixed a hose pipe to one of the water mains and defied the
marauders with vigorous invective.]
"Does that chap want to get murdered?" Fisher exclaimed. "If he does
that, they will tear him to pieces. I say, sir, are you mad?"
He pressed forward impulsively. Mistaking his intention, the man with
the hosepipe turned on the cock vigorously. A howl of rage followed.
But the dramatic touch was absent, not one spot of water came. A sudden
yell of laughter arose in time to save the life of the amateur fireman.
"The water is frozen in the mains," a voice cried.
It was even as the voice said. In a flash everything became commonplace
again. Fisher was very grave as he walked away.
"This is a calamity in itself," he said. "The water frozen in the
mains! By this time to-morrow there won't be a single drop available."