The Red Cow Anarchist Group no longer exists. Its leading spirit appears
no more among his devoted comrades, and without him they are
ineffectual.
He was but a young man, this leading spirit, (his name, by the bye, was
Sotcher,) but of his commanding influence among the older but unlettered
men about him, read and judge. For themselves, they had long been
plunged in a beery apathy, neither regarding nor caring for the fearful
iniquities of the social system that oppressed them. A Red Cow group
they had always been, before the coming of Sotcher to make Anarchists of
them: forgathering in a remote compartment of the Red Cow bar, reached
by a side door in an alley; a compartment uninvaded and almost
undiscovered by any but themselves, where night after night they drank
their beer and smoked their pipes, sunk in a stagnant ignorance of their
manifold wrongs. During the day Old Baker remained to garrison the
stronghold. He was a long-bankrupt tradesman, with invisible resources
and no occupation but this, and no known lodging but the Red Cow
snuggery. There he remained all day and every day, "holding the fort,"
as he put it: with his nose, a fiery signal of possession, never two
feet from the rim of his pot; while Jerry Shand was carrying heavy loads
in Columbia Market; while Gunno Polson was running for a book-maker in
Fleet Street; while Snorkey was wherever his instinct took him, doing
whatever paid best, and keeping out of trouble as long as he could; and
while the rest of the group--two or three--picked a living out of the
London heap in ways and places unspecified. But at evening they joined
Old Baker, and they filled their snuggery.
Their talk was rarely of politics, and never of "social problems":
present and immediate facts filled their whole field of contemplation.
Their accounts were kept, and their references to pecuniary matters were
always stated, in terms of liquid measure. Thus, fourpence was never
spoken of in the common way: it was a quart, and a quart was the
monetary standard of the community. Even as twopence was a pint, and
eightpence was half-a-gallon.
It was Snorkey who discovered Sotcher, and it was with Snorkey that that
revolutionary appeared before the Red Cow group with his message of
enlightenment. Snorkey (who was christened something else that nobody
knew or cared about) had a trick of getting into extraordinary and
unheard-of places in his daily quest of quarts, and he had met Sotcher
in a loft at the top of a house in Berners Street, Shadwell. It was a
loft where the elect of Anarchism congregated nightly, and where
everybody lectured all the others. Sotcher was a very young Anarchist,
restless by reason of not being sufficiently listened to, and glad to
find outsiders to instruct and to impress with a full sense of his
sombre, mystic dare-devilry. Therefore he came to the Red Cow with
Snorkey, to spread (as he said) the light.
He was not received with enthusiasm, perhaps because of a certain
unlaundered aspect of person remarkable even to them of the Red Cow
group. Grease was his chief exterior characteristic, and his thick hair,
turning up over his collar, seemed to have lain for long unharried of
brush or comb. His face was a sebaceous trickle of long features, and on
his hands there was a murky deposit that looked like scales. He wore, in
all weathers, a long black coat with a rectangular rent in the skirt,
and his throat he clipped in a brown neckerchief that on a time had been
of the right Anarchist red. But no want of welcome could abash him.
Here, indeed, he had an audience, an audience that did not lecture on
its own account, a crude audience that might take him at his own
valuation. So he gave it to that crude audience, hot and strong. They
(and he) were the salt of the earth, bullied, plundered and abused. Down
with everything that wasn't down already. And so forth and so on.
His lectures were continued. Every night it was the same as every other,
and each several chapter of his discourse was a repetition of the one
before. Slowly the Red Cow group came around. Plainly other people were
better off than they; and certainly each man found it hard to believe
that anybody else was more deserving than himself.
"Wy are we pore?" asked Sotcher, leaning forward and jerking his
extended palm from one to another, as though attempting a hasty
collection. "I ask you straight, wy are we pore? Why is it, my frien's,
that awften and awften you find you ain't got a penny in yer pocket, not
for to git a crust o' bread or 'alf a pint o' reasonable refreshment?
'Ow is it that 'appens? Agin I ask, 'ow?"
Snorkey, with a feeling that an answer was expected from somebody,
presently murmured, "No mugs," which encouraged Gunno Polson to suggest,
"Backers all stony-broke." Jerry Shand said nothing, but reflected on
the occasional result of a day on the loose. Old Baker neither spoke nor
thought.
"I'll tell you, me frien's. It's 'cos o' the rotten state o' s'ciety. Wy
d'you allow the lazy, idle, dirty, do-nothing upper classes, as they
call 'emselves, to reap all the benefits o' your toil wile you slave an'
slave to keep 'em in lukshry an' starve yerselves? Wy don't you go an'
take your shares o' the wealth lyin' round you?"
There was another pause. Gunno Polson looked at his friends one after
another, spat emphatically, and said, "Coppers."
"Becos o' the brute force as the privileged classes is 'edged
theirselves in with, that's all. Becos o' the paid myrmidons armed an'
kep' to make slaves o' the people. Becos o' the magistrates an' p'lice.
Then wy not git rid o' the magistrates an' p'lice? They're no good, are
they? 'Oo wants 'em, I ask? 'Oo?"
"They _are_ a noosance," admitted Snorkey, who had done a little time
himself. He was a mere groundling, and persisted in regarding the
proceedings as simple conversation, instead of as an oration with pauses
at the proper places.
"Nobody wants 'em--nobody as is any good. Then don't 'ave 'em, me
frien's--don't 'ave 'em! It all rests with you. Don't 'ave no
magistrates nor p'lice, nor gover'ment, nor parliament, nor monarchy,
nor county council, nor nothink. Make a clean sweep of 'em. Blow 'em up.
Then you'll 'ave yer rights. The time's comin', I tell you. It's comin',
take my word for it. Now you toil an' slave; then everybody'll 'ave to
work w'ether 'e likes it or not, and two hours work a day'll be all
you'll 'ave to do."
Old Baker looked a little alarmed, and for a moment paused in his
smoking.
"Two hours a day at most, that's all; an' all yer wants provided for,
free an' liberal." Some of the group gave a lickerish look across the
bar. "No a'thority, no gover'ment, no privilege, an' nothink to
interfere. Free contrack between man an' man, subjick to free revision
an' change."
"Wot's that?" demanded Jerry Shand, who was the slowest convert.
"Wy, that," Sotcher explained, "means that everybody can make wot
arrangements with 'is feller-men 'e likes for to carry on the business
of life, but nothink can't bind you. You chuck over the arrangement if
it suits best."
"Ah," said Gunno Polson musingly, rotating his pot horizontally before
him to stir the beer; "that 'ud be 'andy sometimes. They call it
welshin' now."
The light spread fast and free, and in a few nights the Red Cow group
was a very promising little bed of Anarchy. Sotcher was at pains to have
it reported at two places west of Tottenham Court Road and at another in
Dean Street, Soho, that at last a comrade had secured an excellent
footing with a party of the proletariat of East London, hitherto looked
on as hopeless material. More: that an early manifestation of activity
might be expected in that quarter. Such activity had been held advisable
of late, in view of certain extraditions.
And Sotcher's discourse at the Red Cow turned, lightly and easily,
toward the question of explosives. Anybody could make them, he
explained; nothing simpler, with care. And here he posed at large in the
character of mysterious desperado, the wonder and admiration of all the
Red Cow group. They should buy nitric acid, he said, of the strongest
sort, and twice as much sulphuric acid. The shops where they sold
photographic materials were best and cheapest for these things, and no
questions were asked. They should mix the acids, and then add gently,
drop by drop, the best glycerine, taking care to keep everything cool.
After which the whole lot must be poured into water, to stand for an
hour. Then a thick, yellowish, oily stuff would be found to have sunk to
the bottom, which must be passed through several pails of water to be
cleansed: and there it was, a terrible explosive. You handled it with
care and poured it on brick-dust or dry sand, or anything of that sort
that would soak it up, and then it could be used with safety to the
operator.
The group listened with rapt attention, more than one pot stopping
half-way on its passage mouthwards. Then Jerry Shand wanted to know if
Sotcher had ever blown up anything or anybody himself.
The missionary admitted that that glory had not been his. "I'm one o'
the teachers, me frien's--one o' the pioneers that goes to show the way
for the active workers like you. I on'y come to explain the principles
an' set you in the right road to the social revolution, so as you may
get yer rights at last. It's for you to act."
Then he explained that action might be taken in two ways: either
individually or by mutual aid in the group. Individual work was much to
be preferred, being safer; but a particular undertaking often
necessitated co-operation. But that was for the workers to settle as the
occasion arose. However, one thing must be remembered. If the group
operated, each man must be watchful of the rest; there must be no half
measures, no timorousness; any comrade wavering, temporizing, or
behaving in any way suspiciously, must be straightway _suppressed_.
There must be no mistake about that. It was desperate and glorious work,
and there must be desperate and rapid methods both of striking and
guarding. These things he made clear in his best conspirator's manner:
with nods and scowls and a shaken forefinger, as of one accustomed to
oversetting empires.
The men of the Red Cow group looked at each other, and spat
thoughtfully. Then a comrade asked what had better be blown up first.
Sotcher's opinion was that there was most glory in blowing up people, in
a crowd or at a theatre. But a building was safer, as there was more
chance of getting away. Of buildings, a public office was probably to be
preferred--something in Whitehall, say. Or a bank--nobody seemed to have
tried a bank: he offered the suggestion now. Of course there were not
many public buildings in the East End, but possibly the group would like
to act in their own neighborhood: it would be a novelty, and would
attract notice; the question was one for their own decision, independent
freedom of judgment being the right thing in these matters. There were
churches, of course, and the factories of the bloated capitalist.
Particularly, he might suggest the gas-works close by. There was a large
gasometer abutting on the street, and probably an explosion there would
prove tremendously effective, putting the lights out everywhere, and
attracting great attention in the papers. That was glory.
Jerry Shand hazarded a remark about the lives of the men in the
gas-works; but Sotcher explained that that was a trivial matter.
Revolutions were never accomplished without bloodshed, and a few casual
lives were not to be weighed in the balance against the glorious
consummation of the social upheaval. He repeated his contention, when
some weaker comrade spoke of the chance of danger to the operator, and
repeated it with a proper scorn of the soft-handed pusillanimity that
shrank from danger to life and limb in the cause. Look at the glory, and
consider the hundred-fold vengeance on the enemy in the day to come! The
martyr's crown was his who should die at the post of duty.
His eloquence prevailed: there were murmurs no more. "'Ere, tell us the
name of the stuff agin," broke out Gunno Polson, resolutely, feeling for
a pencil and paper. "Blimy, I'll make some to-morrer."
He wrote down the name of the ingredients with much spelling. "Thick,
yuller, oily stuff, ain't it, wot you make?" he asked.
"Yus--an' keep it cool."
The group broke up, stern and resolute, and Sotcher strode to his home
exultant, a man of power.
For the next night or two the enthusiasm at the Red Cow was unbounded.
There was no longer any questioning of principles or action--every man
was an eager Anarchist--strong and devoted in the cause. The little
chemical experiment was going on well, Gunno Polson reported, with
confident nods and winks. Sotcher repeated his discourse, as a matter of
routine, to maintain the general ardor, which had, however, to endure a
temporary check as the result of a delicate inquiry of Snorkey's, as to
what funds might be expected from head-quarters. For there were no
funds, said Sotcher, somewhat surprised at the question.
"Wot?" demanded Jerry Shand, opening his mouth and putting down his
pipe: "ain't we goin' to get nothink for all this?"
They would get the glory, Sotcher assured him, and the consciousness of
striking a mighty blow at this, and that, and the other; but that was
all. And instantly the faces of the group grew long.
"But," said Old Baker, "I thought all you blokes always got somethink
from the--the committee?"
There was no committee, and no funds: there was nothing but glory, and
victory, and triumph, and the social revolution, and things of that
kind. For a little, the comrades looked at each other awkwardly, but
they soon regained their cheerfulness, with zeal no whit abated. The
sitting closed with promises of an early gathering for the next night.
But when the next night came Sotcher was later than usual. "Ullo,"
shouted Gunno Polson, as he entered, "'ere you are at last. We've 'ad to
do important business without you. See," he added in a lower tone,
"'ere's the stuff!" And he produced an old physic-bottle nearly full of
a thick, yellowish fluid.
Sotcher started back half a pace, and slightly paled. "Don't shake it,"
he whispered hoarsely. "Don't shake it, for Gawd's sake!... Wot--wotjer
bring it 'ere for, like that? It's--it's awful stuff, blimy." He looked
uneasily about the group, and wiped his forehead with the back of his
hand. "I--I thought you'd git the job over soon as the stuff was
ready.... 'Ere, my Gawd!" he squeaked under his breath, "don't put it
down 'ard on the table like that. It's sich--sich awful stuff." He wiped
his forehead again, and, still standing, glanced once more
apprehensively round the circle of impassive faces. Then after a pause,
he asked, with an effort, "Wot--wotjer goin' to do now?"
"Blow up the bleed'n' gas-works, o' course," answered Gunno Polson
complacently. "'Ere's a penn'orth o' silver sand, an' a 'bacca canister,
an' some wire, an' a big cracker with a long touch-paper, so as to stick
out o' the canister-lid. That ought to set it auf, oughtn't it? 'Ere,
you pour the stuff over the sand, doncher?" And he pulled out the cork
and made ready to mix.
"'Old on--'old on--don't! Wait a bit, for Gawd's sake!" cried Sotcher,
in a sweat of terror. "You--you dunno wot awful stuff it is--s'elp me,
you don't! You--you'll blow us all up if you don't keep it still.
Y--you'll want some--other things. I'll go an'--"
But Jerry Shand stood grimly against the door. "This 'ere conspiracy'll
'ave to be gawn through proper," he said. "We can't 'ave no waverers nor
blokes wot want to clear out in the middle of it, and p'r'aps go an'
tell the p'lice. Them sort we 'as to _suppress_, see? There's all the
stuff there, me lad, an' you know it. Wot's more, it's you as is got to
put it up agin the gas-works an' set it auf."
The hapless Sotcher turned a yellower pallor and asked faintly, "Me? Wy
me?"
"All done reg'lar and proper," Jerry replied, "'fore you come. We voted
it--by ballot, all square. If you'd 'a' come earlier you'd 'a' 'ad a
vote yerself."
Sotcher pushed at Jerry's shoulder despairingly. "I won't, I won't!" he
gasped. "Lemme go--it ain't fair--I wasn't 'ere--lemme go!"
"None o' yer shovin', young man," said Jerry severely. "None o' yer
shovin', else I'll 'ave to punch you on the jore. You're a bleed'n' nice
conspirator, you are. It's pretty plain we can't depend on you, an' you
know wot that means,--eh? Doncher? You're one o' the sort as 'as to be
suppressed, that's wot it means. 'Ere, 'ave a drink o' this 'ere beer,
an' see if that can't put a little 'art in ye. You got to do it, so you
may as well do it cheerful. Snorkey, give 'im a drink."
But the wretched revolutionary would not drink. He sank in a corner--the
furthest from the table where Gunno Polson was packing his dreadful
canister--a picture of stupefied affright.
Presently he thought of the bar--a mere yard of counter in an angle of
the room, with a screen standing above it--and conceived a wild notion
of escape by scrambling over. But scarce had he risen ere the watchful
Jerry divined his purpose.
"'Old 'im, Snorkey," he said. "Keep 'im in the corner. An' if 'e won't
drink that beer, pour it over 'is 'ead."
Snorkey obeyed gravely and conscientiously, and the bedraggled Sotcher,
cowed from protest, whined and sobbed desolately.
When all was ready, Jerry Shand said: "I s'pose it's no good askin' you
to do it willin', like a man?"
"O, let me go, I--I ain't well--s'elp me, I ain't. I--I might do it
wrong--an'--an'--I'm a--a teacher--a speaker; not the active branch,
s'elp me. Put it auf--for to-night--wait till to-morrer. I ain't well
an'--an' you're very 'ard on me!"
"Desp'rit work, desp'rit ways," Jerry replied laconically. "You're
be'avin' very suspicious, an' you're rebellin' agin the orders o' the
group. There's only one physic for that, ain't there, in the rules?
You're got to be suppressed. Question is 'ow. We'll 'ave to kill 'im
quiet somehow," he proceeded, turning to the group. "Quiet an' quick.
It's my belief 'e's spyin' for the p'lice, an' wants to git out to split
on us. Question is 'ow to do for 'im?"
Sotcher rose, a staring spectre. He opened his mouth to call, but there
came forth from it only a dry murmur. Hands were across his mouth at
once, and he was forced back into the corner. One suggested a
clasp-knife at the throat, another a stick in his neckerchief, twisted
to throttling-point. But in the end it was settled that it would be
simpler, and would better destroy all traces, to despatch him in the
explosion--to tie him to the canister, in fact.
A convulsive movement under the men's hands decided them to throw more
beer on Sotcher's face, for he seemed to be fainting. Then his pockets
were invaded by Gunno Polson, who turned out each in succession. "You
won't 'ave no use for money where you're goin'," he observed callously;
"besides, it 'ud be blowed to bits an' no use to nobody. Look at the
bloke at Greenwich, 'ow 'is things was blowed away. 'Ullo! 'ere's two
'arf-crowns an' some tanners. Seven an' thrippence altogether, with the
browns. This is the bloke wot 'adn't got no funds. This'll be divided on
free an' equal principles to 'elp pay for that beer you've wasted. 'Old
up, ol' man! Think o' the glory. P'r'aps you're all right, but it's best
to be on the safe side, an' dead blokes can't split to the coppers. An'
you mustn't forget the glory. You 'ave to shed blood in a revolution,
an' a few odd lives more or less don't matter--not a single damn. Keep
your eye on the bleed'n' glory! They'll 'ave photos of you in the
papers, all the broken bits in a 'eap, fac-similiar as found on the
spot. Wot a comfort that'll be!"
But the doomed creature was oblivious--prostrate--a swooning heap. They
ran a piece of clothes-line under his elbows, and pulled them together
tight. They then hobbled his ankles, and took him among them through the
alley and down the quiet street, singing and shouting their loudest as
they went, in case he might sufficiently recover his powers to call for
help. But he did not, and there in the shadow, at the foot of the great
gasometer, they flung him down with a parting kick and a barbarous knock
on the head, to keep him quiet for those few necessary moments. Then the
murderous canister, bound with wire, was put in place; the extruding
touch-paper was set going with a match; and the Red Cow Anarchists
disappeared at a run, leaving their victim to his fate. Presently the
policeman on that beat heard a sudden report from the neighborhood of
the gas-works, and ran to see what it might mean.
The next morning Alfred Sotcher was charged at the Thames Police Court
as a drunk and incapable. He had been found in a helpless state near the
gas-works, and appeared to have been tied at the elbows and ankles by
mischievous boys, who had also, it seemed, ignited a cracker near by
where he lay. The divisional surgeon stated that he was called to the
prisoner, and found him tearful and incoherent, and smelling strongly of
drink. He complained of having been assaulted in a public-house, but
could give no intelligible account of himself. A canister found by his
side appeared to contain a mixture of sand and castor oil, but prisoner
could not explain how it came there. The magistrate fined him five
shillings, with the alternative of seven days, and as he had no money he
was removed to the cells.