THE STORM BREAKS
The meeting to which the rector of Christ Church went from his interview
with Ruth Tracy was a meeting of the Malleson Manufacturing Company’s
striking workmen. It had been called by the strike committee for the
purpose of submitting to the men the question of the advisability of
calling off the strike. Many of the workers were in favor of an
immediate and unconditional surrender. They felt that the limit of
suffering had been reached, and that the only hope of relief lay in a
complete abandonment of the fight, now, before new men should be taken
into the works, and the bad blood aroused thereby should lead to
disorder, and the permanent disbarment of the old men from the company’s
employ. For, notwithstanding Richard Malleson’s declaration that he
would not take any of them back no matter how they came, each one of
them felt that the president might listen to his individual appeal.
On the other hand there were those who believed that the threatened
opening of the plant with imported strike-breakers was but a bluff put
forth to break their ranks and to force them into submission, and that,
if they could hold out for ten days more, the strike would be won. As
for imported labor, if it came it would be given short shrift. Scabs
were always cowards, and a proper show of determination on the part of
the men would soon send the rats scurrying to their holes. Besides,
Richard Malleson needed the old men as much as they needed him. He was
on the point of financial disaster, and his only salvation was to take
back all of his employees on their own terms.
The differences between the two wings of the strikers were sharp and
serious. The clash of ideas was grave and threatening. At the head of
those who were in favor of yielding was Lamar. Indeed it was he who had
skilfully worked up so powerful a sentiment for surrender. Leading the
opposition was Bricky Hoover, the one hero of the strike, who, by crude
logic and individual appeal, was still holding the minority in line.
All day the battle of opinion had raged. Bad blood had been aroused.
Quarrels were frequent. In some cases blows had been exchanged.
It was, therefore, an excited and an impatient crowd that gathered that
afternoon in front of Carpenters’ Hall as the hour for the meeting drew
near. Wild rumors filled the air. Mr. Malleson had agreed to take them
all back. Mr. Malleson had sworn that not one of them would ever again
be permitted to enter his mills. Evictions were to begin at once. Their
leaders had sold them out. Three hundred strike-breakers were already
inside the plant; more were on the way. If any force was used on the
new men the guards and deputies had been instructed to shoot to kill.
These, and a hundred other stories, false and true, floated constantly
back and forth through the moving and gesticulating crowd.
It was well that the crowd kept moving, and gesticulating too for that
matter, for the late March day had brought keen winds and flurries
of snow, and comfort was not to be had by standing motionless in the
street.
It was past the hour for the meeting, and the doors of the hall had
not yet been opened. That was inexcusable. The men demanded that they
be permitted to enter in order that they might at least keep warm.
They struggled with each other for places near the steps. Then word
came that the proprietor of the hall had refused them entrance.
One said that it was because the rent had not been paid in advance.
Another said that the owners of the property were afraid there would
be violence in the meeting, and the destruction of furniture. Still
another called attention to the fact that the building was owned by
Mr. Hughes and Colonel Boston, both of whom were directors of the
Malleson Manufacturing Company. At this a few of the hot-headed ones
were for smashing in the doors and taking possession anyway. It was a
crime, they said, for any one to keep them standing in the street on
a day like this. What unwise counsels might have prevailed will never
be known, for, suddenly, a strong and penetrating voice rang out above
the tumult. It was the voice of the rector of Christ Church. He was
standing on the steps leading to the entrance door, and was inviting
them to hold their meeting in the parish hall of his church, only five
blocks away. He had learned of their predicament, had taken pity on
them, and, moved by a generous impulse, was offering them shelter under
a roof which truly had never covered such an audience as this. He bade
them follow him. Some of them did so gladly, applauding his generosity
as they went. Others fell into line sullenly and hesitatingly, seeing
in the invitation only a bid, on the part of the Church, for the favor
of the laboring masses. A few refused to go at all; declaring that they
would perish rather than hold their meeting under the auspices or by
grace of a Church the very shadow of whose spire was hateful to them.
But, for the most part, they went along. A sense of decorum fell upon
them as they entered the doors of the parish hall. They removed their
caps, took their seats quietly, and awaited the presentation of the
issues which they were to decide.
The meeting was called to order by the president of their local union
who stated briefly the purpose of the gathering, and then called for
the report of the committee that had last visited the president of
the Malleson Manufacturing Company. There was little in the report
that was new to the men. Mr. Malleson had refused to open his mills
to his former employees, on any terms, whether they came singly or in
a body. He would not treat with them on any questions or under any
conditions. He had said that they were dupes and fools to listen to
the counsel of designing and self-seeking leaders who had nothing to
lose and everything to gain by prolonging the strike. Finally, he had
practically ordered the members of the committee from his room, and had
warned them not to intrude again upon his privacy with their childish
demands nor with their terms of surrender.
At the conclusion of the report there were mutterings and hisses, and
not a few bitter denunciations of the president and his policy, and
these denunciations were not entirely unaccompanied by threats.
A resolution was offered to the effect that the strike be declared
off, and that the union officials and the officers of the company be
notified at once of the action. The motion to adopt the resolution was
duly seconded, and then the contention began anew. There were strong
and passionate arguments both for and against the prolongation of the
strike. Men with haggard faces told of the suffering that they and
their families had endured, and begged that they might be permitted,
without infraction of the union rules, and without the ignominy of
being hailed and treated as scabs, to seek their old jobs. Others arose
and appealed to their fellow-workmen, declaring that while they too
had suffered, they were nevertheless ready to die in the last ditch in
order that the dignity of labor might be maintained, and their rights
as human beings upheld. It was crude oratory, but it had its effect.
The tide of sentiment swung away from those who would bring the strike
to a speedy end by surrender, and turned strongly toward those who
would prolong it for the general and ultimate good.
Stephen Lamar, walking delegate, sitting up in a far corner of the
hall, surrounded by his personal adherents, watching the proceedings
with anxious eyes, was quick to note the dangerous tendency that the
meeting was taking on. He knew that he must at once fling himself and
his personality into the controversy in order to stem the tide that
was setting so strongly toward complete disaster. He had not cared to
speak. He had not hitherto considered it necessary that he should do
so. The situation had seemed to be firmly enough in his grasp. But now
he felt that it was imperative that he should take the floor, else
everything would be lost; and how would he ever again face Mary Bradley?
When he arose there were hoarse shouts of welcome, and cries of “To the
platform, Steve!” So he mounted the platform and began to speak. He
reminded his hearers of the years of devoted service he had given to
the cause of labor.
Some one in the audience cried out:
“Ye’ve been well paid for it, too.”
He did not heed the interruption, but went on to tell of the superhuman
efforts he had put forth to make this strike a success.
“I have done all that mortal man could do,” he shouted, “to help you
win your fight, and to relieve your distress. I have suffered with you.”
“The hell you have!”
It was the same voice that had interrupted before, and again the
speaker disregarded it, and went vigorously on. He could not afford, in
this emergency, to get into a controversy with some obscure workman on
the floor.
“I know all there is to know about this strike,” he declared. “And I
know Richard Malleson and his board. Believe me, men, they are putting
up no bluff. They mean what they say. They are determined to crush
us. We are already beaten. The only thing left for us to do is to
acknowledge our defeat, call off the strike, and give these starving
men a chance to get honorably back to work.”
Then came a new interruption from another source. Some one, back among
the shadows, shouted in a shrill voice:
“How much do you get for sellin’ of us out?”
There were shouts and laughter, and then a roar of disapproval. Lamar
was angry. He could not brook that insult. It struck too near home. He
turned his face in the direction from which the voice had come.
“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “but I do know that you’re a
cowardly liar!”
In the dark corner confusion reigned. The man with the shrill voice
wanted to fight. Some of his fellows were willing to back him; others
sought to restrain him. An edifying spectacle, indeed, in a house
dedicated to the promotion of the gospel of the Prince of Peace. The
chairman of the meeting pounded for order so vigorously that quiet was
finally restored and Lamar went on with his speech.
“If you vote down this resolution,” he said, “you will compel honest
men to become scabs. They can’t continue to face freezing wives and
starving children at your behest. They will seek their old jobs on the
best terms they can get, and I shall not blame them. I do not know
what will happen when the strike is declared off; I can promise you
nothing. But I do know that Richard Malleson cannot successfully run
his mills without the aid of his old men. If you prolong this strike
you will doubtless wreck the Malleson Company, but you yourselves will
be crushed at the bottom of the wreck. I beg of you to make the best
of a bad bargain, to use judgment, to take pity on your loved ones, to
behave yourselves like reasonable men, to cry quits, and go to work.”
There had been no more interruptions, but, mingled with the applause
that followed Lamar to his seat, there were shouts of disapproval,
and mutterings of anger. Some one, by way of excuse for him, declared
that Steve had broken down, and lost his nerve. No one had ever before
known him to acknowledge defeat. Persistence had been the secret of his
success. But, doubtless, this time he was right.
Bricky Hoover sat in the front row of seats, his body bent forward, his
head resting in his hands, his eyes fixed steadfastly on a certain spot
on the floor in front of him. No one had called on him for a speech,
for no one had conceived that he was capable of making one. He was a
worker, not an orator. But the shouting that followed Lamar’s address
had not yet died down when he rose to his feet and began to mount the
steps that led to the platform. He bobbed his head to the chairman,
and then turned and faced his audience. When his fellow-workers saw
him standing there, rubbing his hand awkwardly across his unkempt
shock of red hair, they burst into laughter. Apparently the strain
under which they were laboring was to be eased by a bit of comedy. He
stood there with his long legs wide apart, his shoulders hunched up,
his unsymmetrical face drawn into a queer, forced smile. Some one said
that he had been drinking, and had best sit down. But others hailed
him familiarly and shouted for a speech. He was there to speak, and he
began.
There were few who heard him at first; his voice was low, and he seemed
to have difficulty in articulating his words. But cries of: “Louder!”
“Louder!” brought more vigor to his throat and tongue, and soon the
only ones who failed to hear him were those who would not do so.
“I’ve been the goat,” he said, “for both sides in this thing. I’m
through bein’ the goat. I’m goin’ to fight, now, on me own account. The
Company picked me for the first victim because I’d been the loudest
gittin’ yer rights for ye. More was to follow. If ye hadn’t struck
they’d ’a’ been a hunderd o’ ye laid off by to-day. They was goin’ to
pick ye out like cullin’s, an’ toss ye to the scrap-heap.”
“Right you are, Bricky,” came a voice from the audience.
“Right I am it is. Ye didn’t strike for me when it comes to that; ye
struck for your own jobs. Ye could ’a’ counted me out any day. Ye knew
that. I told ye so. I wouldn’t stand in the way o’ one o’ ye. I’d ’a’
left the town; I’d ’a’ left the country; I’d ’a’ gone an’ hung meself
to ’a’ got one man’s job back for ’im.”
“Good boy, Bricky!”
“Ye knew that, didn’t ye? But ye stood out like men, an’ they’ve
starved ye like rats. They couldn’t ’a’ treated dogs no worse ’an
they’ve treated you. I went with the comity to see the old man. I
promised everything. I crawled on me belly to ’im, an’――ye heard the
report――he kicked us all out.”
“We’ll get him yet!” came a cry from the benches.
“Ye will if ye’ll listen to me. They say call the strike off an’
git out. Men, ye can’t git out that way. It’s death to ye if ye try
it. Maybe it’s death anyway, I don’t know; but if it is I’ll die
a-fightin’.”
“So will I!” “And I!” “And I!”
“That’s right! If ye fight, an’ fight like hell, ye’ll win. I know.
They can’t run their mills with scabs. You won’t let ’em run their
mills with scabs. I’ll smash the head o’ the first scab that takes my
job. It ain’t his job; it’s mine. I’ve got a right to it. Them jobs
down there are yours. Them machines down there are yours. You earned
the money that bought ’em. You’ve got a right to run ’em, an’ if ye do
what I tell ye, ye will run ’em. The man that lays down now an’ lets
Dick Malleson tread on ’is neck is a damned fool!”
“That’s right, Bricky! Go for ’em! Give ’em hell!”
The passions of the crowd, swayed by Bricky’s rude eloquence, were
being roused to the fighting pitch.
“Yes,” he went on, swinging his long arms, and opening and closing his
big fists; “an’ do ye know what’s happenin’ to-day? A car-load o’ scabs
has been switched into the mill-yard. I got the word when I come in. By
six o’clock one of ’em will have your machine, Bill Souder, and one of
’em will have yours, Abe Slinsky, and one of ’em will have yours, and
yours, and yours,” pointing his forefinger in rapid succession at the
men who sat in front of him. His voice rose to a piercing height:
“Will ye let ’em keep ’em?”
“No!” came the answer from two hundred throats. “No!” “We’ll club ’em
out! We’ll kill ’em!”
Men were on their feet, shouting, gesticulating, demanding, swearing.
Bricky’s voice rose again, high above the clamor.
“I don’t know what you’re goin’ to do about it, men; but I know what
I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ down, now, to see Dick Malleson. I ain’t
goin’ to beg ’im for my job; I’m goin’ to demand it, and if he don’t
give it to me, by God! I’ll take it! And if ye’ll go along ye’ll have
them millionaries on their knees in an hour’s time, a-beggin’ for
mercy. Who goes?”
“We all go! We’re fightin’ strong, an’ we’re fightin’ mad, an’ we’ll
have our rights. Come on!”
There was a rush for the hall doors. The sound of the chairman’s
gavel was lost in the din. The pending resolution and its fate were
forgotten. Men fought with each other in their eagerness to get to
the street and to take up the line of march to the mills. Chairs were
overturned. Doors were wrenched from their hinges. Prayer-books and
hymnals and lesson-leaves were scattered on the floor and trampled
under shuffling feet. Lamar, red-faced, shouting, gesticulating, tried
to stem the torrent, but he might as well have tried to hold back
Niagara. Some laughed at him, others cursed him, no one obeyed him.
The rector of Christ Church, standing in a niche by the organ, had
looked on and listened in horrified amazement. He saw that the hour for
riot and bloodshed had arrived, and he made one supreme effort to avert
the final catastrophe. He sprang to the platform and shouted to the
mob. Men turned to see who it was that was speaking, and then turned
away. They did not care to hear him. They paid no more attention to him
than if he had been a man of straw, except that some of them laughed
at him, some mocked him, some ridiculed him. His appeal for wisdom and
order fell on deaf ears. These men had no use, to-day, for sermons or
religion, or pious advice. What they wanted was action――and plenty of
it.
When he found that his effort was utterly useless, the rector stopped
speaking and came down from the platform. At the foot of the steps he
met Lamar, gazing, with frightened eyes, at the disappearing crowd.
“Lamar,” he cried, “stop them! They’re wild! They’re rushing to
destruction!”
“I can’t,” replied Lamar. “No man can stop them. God in heaven couldn’t
stop them now!”
From Lamar’s lips the ejaculation was impious, but the clergyman did
not stop to consider it.
“Then come with me,” he said. “Let’s follow on and do what we may to
prevent bloodshed and arson.”
Lamar made no reply, but he started on in obedience to the request. So
they went on their hopeless mission, servant of Christ and enemy of
God together, both rejected by those whom they had served, hissed and
hooted at as they made their way through crowded streets black with the
breaking storm.
The march of the workmen themselves was not without the semblance of
order. But idle men on every corner joined them, vicious men, whose
only occupation it was to prey upon society, fell into their ranks;
hoodlums and hotheads, shouting their enthusiasm, went joyously along;
the curious and sensation loving followed on behind in scores; even
women and children mingled with the crowd that was headed ominously
toward the mills.
Forerunners hurried back to say that a company of scabs had entered the
mill-yard, guarded by deputies armed to the teeth. The mob howled its
defiance and derision, and pushed on.
The entrance to the Malleson mills was at the foot of a narrow street.
In front of the works a broad plaza ran, blocked at both ends by
buildings of the company. Along this street and across this plaza the
army of employees, in working times, made their way to and from their
place of employment. It was down this street now that the crowd swept,
bent on presenting and enforcing their demand for work. But just above
where the way opens into the plaza, stretched from wall to wall, two
ranks of policemen stood, shoulder to shoulder, club in hand, ready
to repel any invasion of the property of the rich. The leaders of the
mob, scarcely able to resist the pressure from behind, halted when they
reached the line of blue.
“What do you want?” inquired the captain of police.
“We want to see Richard Malleson,” was the reply.
“You can’t see him.”
“We want our jobs.”
“You can’t go to the mills.”
“We want to drive out the scabs.”
“The first man that attempts to cross this line will go home with a
cracked skull.”
The mob howled with disappointment and rage. Who said the police were
not the paid and servient tools of capital? Whoever said so lied!
Struggling, pushing, shouldering their way through the hostile crowd,
the rector of Christ Church and Stephen Lamar got inch by inch toward
the front. On the way down they had agreed to make one final appeal to
Richard Malleson for peace. He alone could stay the red hand of riot.
It was not believable that he would refuse.
The captain of police recognized them, and when he knew what their
errand was he permitted them to pass the lines. They started across the
open plaza toward the front of the main building.
“You’re going where you belong!” came the cry from those in the mob
who saw them go. “You’ve sold us out, and you’re going for your pay!”
“Traitors!” “Blacklegs!”
All reason and judgment, all power to discriminate, seemed lost and
swallowed up in the overwhelming passion of revolt that had seized upon
the riotous crowd.
Two guards stood at the top of the steps, one at each side of the
office door.
“We want to see Mr. Malleson,” said the rector.
“You can’t see him,” was the reply. “No one is allowed to go in.”
“But we must talk with him at once; it’s a matter of life and death.”
The man looked at him for a moment, and then turned and entered the
building. He came back presently to say that Mr. Farrar might go in,
but that Lamar would not be admitted under any conditions. So the labor
leader went down the steps and stood by the railing outside, while the
rector passed in to the office of the company. Mr. Malleson was there
with his counsel, Philip Westgate, a half dozen anxious members of his
board of directors, and a few frightened clerks. He looked up as the
rector entered.
“Well,” he asked bluntly, “what is your errand to-day?”
“I have come,” said the rector, “to try to avert bloodshed.”
“And you have brought with you the club and torch with which you
threatened me.”
“Mr. Malleson, this is no time for caviling. Do you see the mob in that
street? It’s only a question of minutes when the police barrier will be
broken down, and these furious men will be at your door. There is but
one way to avoid riot and arson and bloodshed. You must face these men
and promise to open your mills to them. It is your last expedient.”
The president of the company brought his clenched hand down onto the
table with a bang.
“Is this your only errand?” he asked.
“It is.”
“Then go back and tell the thugs and hoodlums who sent you here that
Richard Malleson has never yet surrendered to a mob, and that he never
will. Tell them, moreover, that I have armed men behind my walls, and
that the first rioter who attempts to enter here will take his life in
his hands.”
“But, Mr. Malleson, that would be murder. These men have lost their
heads. They don’t know what they are doing. They are wild. One word
from you would restore their reason and prevent a tragedy.”
“I have said my last word.”
Some one, looking from the window, exclaimed in fright:
“They’ve broken the police lines! They’re swarming into the plaza!”
It was true. The pressure of the mob had broken down the police guard,
and enraged men by the hundreds were pouring into the open space
that faced the factory. They were rattling at the doors of the mill,
hammering against the gates, demanding to be let in. Hoodlums were
yelling; women were screaming; fists were beating the air.
“Break down the door!” was the cry. “Smash the gates!” “Burn the mill!”
“Kill the scabs!”
Richard Malleson, standing there with white face and set jaws, had seen
them come. So had the rector of Christ Church. Both of them had heard
the riotous and savage shouts. In the breast of the capitalist only
fierce wrath was roused; but in the breast of the minister anger was
mingled with pity.
“I can do nothing here,” he said. “I may still be able to do something
out there.”
He turned to go, but Westgate laid a hand on his arm.
“You had better stay here,” he said, “where you will be comparatively
safe. It’s a wild mess outside. Bricks and bullets are likely to fly
soon.”
“No matter! My place is with the men. They may listen to me yet.”
“They won’t listen to any one till they get their fill of blood.”
But he went out. He pushed his way down the steps that led from the
office door to the sidewalk, down into the midst of pandemonium. A
wild-eyed man at his elbow yelled:
“Death to the scabs! Set fire to the buildings, an’ smoke ’em all out!”
Near by a single policeman was battling with a dozen frenzied rioters.
They had struck his cap from his head and were trying to wrest his club
from his hands.
“Don’t play with ’im!” shouted one; “choke ’im!”
The white face of the president of the company, distorted with anger,
appeared for a moment at an office window.
“There’s Dick Malleson!” was the cry. “He starves women an’ kills
babies! Get a rope an’ hang ’im!”
Each wild and murderous sentiment was received with roars of approval
by the bloodthirsty mob. The rector of Christ Church, amazed and
indignant at the spirit of brutal savagery displayed by the men whose
cause he had hitherto championed, determined to speak to them. He
fought his way back up the steps to the office door, threw his hat from
him, and faced the riotous multitude.
“Men,” he shouted, “listen to me!”
“Listen to the preacher!” yelled a man at his side.
“Damn the preacher!” cried another. “He’s a traitor and a blackleg!”
“You lie!” was the quick response; “and that proves it.”
The man who had cursed the preacher doubled up and sank to the pavement
under a blow from the other man’s fist. It was the swift and natural
result of the controversy, for the spirit of violence was abroad. In
the lull that followed the punishment the rector again lifted his voice.
“Men, you are crazy. You are taking a fool’s revenge. You are playing
into the hands of your enemies. Stop this ungodly riot and go to your
homes before blood is spilt!”
As if in defiance of his command, a brick went crashing through the
office window at his side, and a cry, either of pain or fear, came from
within the room. His heart grew hot with indignation.
“That was a coward’s deed!” he shouted. “Shame on the one who did it!”
Already other bricks, torn from a foundation newly laid, were flying
through the air. The sound of crashing glass was heard from every
quarter. Policemen, back to back, were battling furiously with the mob.
“Pull the preacher down!” yelled a man from the street. “He’s no
business here!”
“Aye! Pull him down!” came the answering cry from a dozen throats.
“He’s the tool of capital, and an enemy to labor!”
But the minister was not dismayed. His voice rang out like the wrathful
blare of a trumpet:
“I will speak, and you must listen. In God’s name, men, are you mad?
You’ll have blood on your heads――――”
“Aye! and if this brick-bat goes straight you’ll have blood on yours!”
The speaker, standing in the street, took rough aim and hurled his
missile. It found its mark. The rector of Christ Church tottered and
fell, and those who stood near to him saw blood gush from his temple
and go streaming down his face. A woman screamed, and fought her way to
him as he lay sprawled along the steps. It was Mary Bradley. She flung
herself down at his side. She lifted his shoulders into her lap, and
held his head against her breast, and strove to staunch the blood that
was pouring from his wound. She turned her blazing eyes on the crowd
below her, a crowd that had grown suddenly silent as it saw the result
of its first tragic blow.
“Villains!” she screamed. “Murderers! You have killed the only man on
earth who cared a pin for your black souls!――the only man whose love I
ever craved.”
Her cry ended in a wail. She laid her face against the pallid and
blood-streaked face that rested on her bosom, and sought to find in it
some sign of life. The guards unlocked the office door and carried the
limp body of the minister within, taking with them, perforce, the woman
who would not let go her hold. But, once inside, they tore her away,
and thrust her from them, like a thing unclean.
Hitherto the police, in obedience to orders, had endeavored to hold
the rioters in check without the shedding of blood. But now, shocked
and angered at the brutal assault on the rector, and taking advantage
of the temporary lull occasioned by it, they charged into the mob.
Firmly, furiously, with the strength of twice their number, they drove
the rabble back. There was savage resistance. There were broken heads.
There were bullets that went wild. Bleeding men lay prone on the
pavement. Then came a relief squad, hammering its way in; and from each
blind end of the plaza the rioters were forced to the center, and up
the narrow street toward the city. Enraged, sullen, bleeding, carrying
helpless comrades along, they were scattered and driven in helpless
confusion to their haunts and homes.