The Furys (35 page)

‘And all you have to do, my friends, is to stand fast, to be cool, to fold your arms. If you do that, the cause is won.'

Cheers! Mr John Williams wiped the sweat from his forehead. Now he stole a sly glance at the immaculately dressed Mr Power, and he chuckled inwardly. He had stolen his fire – his time – his thunder. With something amounting to pride, almost ecstasy, he stood erect and looked out at the gathered thousands. ‘Hands up, then, in favour of that resolution.' More cheers. A forest of hands rose into the air.

‘And now your duty lies at every dock-gate – at every railway station, yard, office, shed, factory, and foundry – at every quay, terminus, and depot.' The cheers were almost deafening.

Desmond Fury, carried away by this flow of oratory, clapped his hands, shouting, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!' The shout was taken up by the assembly. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for John Williams!'

‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!' Even Andrew Postlethwaite became infected. He knocked out his pipe, put it in his pocket, and joined in the clapping. He turned to Desmond.

‘Looks as though Power will speak in the Park now. Are you going with the procession?' he asked.

‘Yes. Why not?'

‘Oh! Well, I'm going home,' said Mr Postlethwaite. ‘I couldn't walk another five miles after this. Soon's this crowd has broke up, I'm off.' Desmond Fury was quite deaf to the remark. He was looking to the left of the assembly at a group of people wedged in between the stone lions. It seemed a policeman had had to push his way through this crowd. This he did without any by-your-leave. The people herded together resented it. It would not have been so bad had the officer in question said, ‘Make way, please.' He had just barged through. An enthusiastic member of the crowd had had no compunction about withdrawing a pin from his coat and roughly prodding this thirteen stone of authoritative flesh and blood in the rear. At once the officer, sensing the culprit, struck out with his fist. Confusion immediately. Open curses and threats. ‘Swine! Swine! For two pins they'd knock you flat, the bastards!' This ugly little interlude in the quiet, orderly meeting was most perturbing to Mr Williams. ‘Order! Order there!' shouted the delegates. ‘Order!'

Mr John Williams was speaking again. The incident closed. The policeman emerged with a very red face, and taking up his new position near the platform, scowled at Mr Williams, who politely ignored him. The crowd was all attention once more, though the atmosphere still seemed disturbed. That little tiff with the policeman had not been forgotten. It wasn't authority that was being questioned by the crowd, but the manners of authority.

Whilst Mr Williams was speaking, a new phenomenon had presented itself. This took the form of an elderly gentleman who, in full morning dress, came and stood at the open window of the Castle Hotel. He stood for a moment gazing indifferently down upon the sea of faces below him, then stepped out on to the veranda. As suddenly he withdrew. The gentleman gave the appearance of having dined well, even a little too well, for a hand shot out and grabbed him by the back of his coat. This sudden jerk seemed to have disarranged the pink bloom that he sported in the lapel of his coat. The waiter behind him smoothed down his ruffled coat and adjusted the flower. The sounds from below came through the open window. It may have been the voice of Mr John Williams, or the warm animal-like smell that rose from these packed bodies, or the whisperings in the various groups, but the gentleman, a little unsteadily, walked out to the veranda again, and again the ever-attentive waiter caught his coat: ‘Careful, sir! Careful, sir!'

The gentleman, deaf to these entreaties, now looked down at the assembly. ‘Profanum vulgus,' he said. ‘Canaille.' Then he spat upon the veranda floor. But it was not this sudden remark that turned the key in the whole situation. Nobody had heard the words, few indeed in that assembly would have understood them. It wasn't the words, but the action. And as though to finish off with the requisite verve and polish, he once more pulled out his pink flower and readjusted it. Having done this, he patted his person almost affectionately. The waiter pulled him in again. At the same time somebody at the back of the crowd shouted, ‘Look at 'im! Look at 'im!' and pointed with a hand that made wild aimless movements above the heads towards the window. Everybody looked. The man was obviously drunk.

‘Look at 'im! Bloody Cap'list! Bloody Cap'list!' Even Mr Williams turned and looked up at the window. The crowd had caught sight of the rather bibulous gentleman. He seemed quite unaware of the extraordinary interest he had so suddenly created. Perhaps he had simply meant to get the air, or perhaps, like Mr Williams, he was interested in crowds. They now looked at him from every possible angle. They looked at him frontally, in profile; they studied him from head to foot. Mr Williams was a back number. The Cause – Solidarity – paled before this phenomenon. To add to the sudden interest there came murmurs from the crowd, whilst the hand in the distance still waved aimlessly in the air and its owner in a thick guttural voice beseeched the assembly to – ‘Look at 'im!' ‘Flower in his blinkin'-co-coat too. Hic!'

Mr Williams faced the crowd. ‘Men! Men! Attention! Order! …' To the speaker the crowd appeared to sway, to swell, to move forward, tremble, break forces, then gather as one again.

‘I appeal … Stand fast where you are. I … I have seen this sort of thing before. I …' He turned round and looked questioningly at Mr Power, as though to get the confirmation and support of that silent individual. But that gentleman did not respond. Mr Power was no longer interested. John Williams had arranged to speak for ten minutes and then let Mr Power do the rest. Instead of which, he had held the board for nearly an hour. Mr Power was bored. He was also a little jealous.

Desmond Fury caught John Williams' glance, and shouted across, as he pointed to the hotel window from which the bibulous gentleman had made a retreat, ‘It's a trap. A police trap.' Mr Williams did not hear. It was too late to hear anything. The crowd had caught the words ‘trap – police'. The spade-workers, the veterans of the movement, said to themselves, ‘Spy!
Agent provocateur!'
The crowd's movements changed. As Mr Williams looked at the people in front they seemed to assume almost fantastic proportions. The gentleman who had so hurriedly disappeared from the window had not been entirely deaf to the sea of sounds that rose towards the window where he stood. Angry murmurs, obscene comments. It was indeed a whiff of the crowd's temper that came up to him this Sunday afternoon.

When John Williams first saw the man at the window he said to himself, ‘Has the fellow no common sense? No decency? Is he not alive to the very obvious fact that his own person threatened danger? Or is he merely a repetition of another gentleman, French by birth, who during the Paris riots stood at an hotel window in just the same way? Why doesn't the fellow go away?' Such were Mr Williams' thoughts. He had travelled Saturday night and part of Sunday to address this meeting. Was it to be a failure? Was it to end up in bloodshed? A peaceful meeting? If anything was more fickle than a woman, it was a crowd. A crowd was a curious thing. Mr Williams had his own ideas about it. It was a monster without any aim or sense of proportion – a headless monster. Mr Williams shouted to a near-by inspector, ‘If you don't want trouble, you will ask that gentleman up there to go away from the window.' The officer looked at Mr Williams. Then a loud crash of glass drowned his reply. Somebody had hurled a brick through the window. The cause of the commotion had tactfully made his exit from the rear of the hotel. This abutted on the railway station. The gentleman went into the toilet and carefully removed his flower, which he threw down the bowl. He then emerged on to the station platform; from there, after following various devious routes, he made his way to the street. A few minutes later he was lost in the crowd. The crash of glass was followed by yet another. Mr Williams now knew that the meeting was at an end. Any idea of controlling this angry mob seemed as remote as the moon. Well, he had been in such situations before. He knew his business too well. The crowd in front now began to shout, to yell. Mr Williams tried to drown them with his own voice. It was useless. He stood bewildered, powerless. His eyes wandered to the company of mounted men. The horses seemed more restless than ever. And what was the sudden movement at the back of the crowd? Mr Williams hammered on the table with his fists. ‘Order! Quiet! Quiet! Keep cool!' A veritable shower of stones was now hurled at the hotel window. There was a sudden concerted rush for the platforms. At the same time the mounted police drew rein. The people shouted, ‘Ah!'… From the open window of the Forester Hall came a stentorian voice, calling through the megaphone, ‘Clear the Square! Clear the Square!'

Mr Williams was almost in tears. He shouted himself red in the face. ‘Stand fast! Stand fast! Don't move an inch.' But already he could see the ranks of mounted police widening. In the rear some scuffles were taking place. These holes, corners, and cellars had not yielded up their occupants for nothing. What had happened? The leaders' eyes searched the crowd. A concourse of ten thousand people were ringed in the Square. From the platforms men shouted at the top of their voices, ‘Stand fast! Stand fast!' The police were already advancing. They intended to carry out their orders to clear the Square. Individuals appealed to individuals, banter was rife. The people stood fast. Why should they be cleared from the Square? Were they a herd of animals? Mr Williams was quite powerless now. This controllable crowd was beyond control. The people stood waiting. A volley of stones met the advancing police. Batons were drawn.

‘Look out! Look out!' Before the rush Mr Williams went down. The platform collapsed. A hundred hands tore it down. People armed themselves with wooden staves. Pockets were filled with stones. Iron railings were pulled out. Now the police came forward at a run. The crowd broke. Shouts, screams, curses, laughter, the crash of glass, the breaking of wood. The mass of people swayed, held for a moment, rushed forward, scattered, gathered
en masse
again, and made a rush from the Square. At that moment the mounted police came forward at a gentle trot. Batons, now drawn, made a strange humming noise as they sang through the air and landed on heads with a sickly thud. Confusion and fear joined forces.

On number eleven stand Desmond Fury stood hemmed in by a group of men. Mr Andrew Postlethwaite was amongst this group. The difficulty with those on number eleven platform was that they could not move. The platform seemed to be encircled by a continuous procession of flying bodies. Mr Postlethwaite now realized that, like George, he should have stayed at home. Not so Desmond Fury. The situation was one in which he was quite capable of holding his own.Twice Mr Postlethwaite had watched for an opportunity of flinging himself into the Square. But now the slightest movement was fraught with disaster. A movement of any kind seemed a threat, an ultimatum. Already blood had been drawn.

Mr Postlethwaite was not deaf to the sickly thud of the batons. A section of the crowd had forced its way out of the Square. Whistles blew, bronze-like voices roared through megaphones, galloping hoofs struck fire from the stones. ‘Look out!' shouted Desmond. The mounted police were coming towards number eleven platform at a gallop. Mr Postlethwaite spat and shouted, ‘Bastards!' The horses came on. The man next to Mr Postlethwaite swayed, screamed, ‘Oh Christ!' and proceeded to vomit over Mr Andrew Postlethwaite's new check suit. The owner of the suit was quite unaware of this. His attention had been drawn to a woman, a rather stout woman, wearing a black shawl over her head. She had been knocked down in a sudden rush. The horses advanced. They were almost upon her, and Andrew Postlethwaite was certain they would trample upon her. ‘Bastards!' he screamed, and possessed of strength of which he never seemed aware until now, he broke free and flung himself, almost as if diving into water, over the platform to the Square. He fell in a heap. He was caught up into a group of men. All were struggling upon the ground, making frantic endeavours to get to their feet. In the midst of this lay the woman. As Mr Postlethwaite regained his breath he looked up and saw a long baton swinging downwards. ‘My God!' He covered his eyes with his hands. He saw the horses upon him. Frantically he dragged himself to his knees and waited, arms outstretched. As he stood there, hemmed in by a yelling mass of bodies, he put his hand in his pocket and drew out his clasp-knife. He would, he vowed, slit the first horse. ‘Ugh! Ugh!' he said, as the batons sang through the air.

‘Hey! For Christ's sake! You swine! That's a woman! Take his number! Take his number!'

‘Here's my bloody number!' roared the policeman, his horse's hot breath almost in Mr Postlethwaite's face, and crashed his baton down upon the man's head. As Mr Postlethwaite fell, a huge figure seemed to whirl into the air, landing upon horse and rider.

‘Ah!' Desmond Fury screamed as he pulled down the man from his horse.

Behind the Forester Hall there had been assembled a dozen wagonettes. These wagonettes were full of women and children. Their destination was Corlton, where a concert was being given. But this assembly of happy and excited children had now been drawn into the conflict. Their destination was no longer Corlton. Their destination was Safety. On the first mad rush of the crowd the children had screamed. The mothers accompanying them made every endeavour to pacify them. This trip to Corlton was an annual affair. The children were cripples from the various charitable homes scattered about. It had been advisable to warn them. They must get clear as soon as possible. Now the convoy was wedged in, their occupants the unwilling witnesses of the fracas. A section of the crowd had streamed into Corys Street, where the assembled wagonettes stood. It was obvious that the children could not get any further than there. In the excitement they had one by one made their way out of the wagonettes. The moment their feet touched the ground they were caught up in the madness and confusion. Some of them had been carried headlong to Powell Square itself. The parents made vain efforts to find their offspring. All were swallowed up in the mob. In a sortie near the Court, some of these women and children had gone down before a rush of both mounted and foot police. A baton was something more than a piece of weighted wood. It was the symbol of authority, it had no respect for neutrality. The very hand that wielded it succumbed to its power. Its sickening hum, as it swung to and fro in the air, had taken the place of the indistinct hum. Its song had assumed control. It had taken the place of hooter and whistle, of all the concourse of sounds that usually came from out the industrial ant-heap. Trains, trams, ships, docks, cars, machines, were silent. On this Sunday afternoon there was only the yelling mob, the red-faced and sweating police, and the stiff wooden interrogator that sang ceaselessly through the air. The authorities took counsel. This was no peaceful meeting. This was open revolt. This was the mob getting its head. The twelve wagonettes seemed outside their thoughts and deliberations. That assembly of derelict vehicles gave the impression of some fugitive column that, caught in the tidal flows of mob anger and authoritative fury, had flung out its occupants and consolidated itself with a calm determination down one side of Corys Street. It took the drivers all their time to keep control of the frightened animals, from whose hoofs there periodically beat a veritable tattoo upon the stones, whilst they sent showers of sparks flying right and left. The drivers, all thought of Corlton having vanished from their minds, settled themselves down to a game of waiting. This was really a siege; some time in the evening, they hoped before dark, the mob would drift away, and they could proceed back to their repository. They did not expect the sudden change of programme.