Section 3
It was three days after this--on Wednesday, that is to say--thatthe first of those sinister outbreaks occurred that ended in thebloody affair of Peacock Grove and the flooding out of the entireline of the Swathinglea collieries. It was the only one of thesedisturbances I was destined to see, and at most a mere trivialpreliminary of that struggle.
The accounts that have been written of this affair vary very widely.To read them is to realize the extraordinary carelessness of truththat dishonored the press of those latter days. In my bureau Ihave several files of the daily papers of the old time--I collectedthem, as a matter of fact--and three or four of about that date Ihave just this moment taken out and looked through to refresh myimpression of what I saw. They lie before me--queer, shriveled,incredible things; the cheap paper has already become brittle andbrown and split along the creases, the ink faded or smeared, and Ihave to handle them with the utmost care when I glance among theirraging headlines. As I sit here in this serene place, their qualitythroughout, their arrangement, their tone, their arguments andexhortations, read as though they came from drugged and drunken men.They give one the effect of faded bawling, of screams and shoutsheard faintly in a little gramophone. . . . It is only on MondayI find, and buried deep below the war news, that these publicationscontain any intimation that unusual happenings were forward inClayton and Swathinglea.
What I saw was towards evening. I had been learning to shoot withmy new possession. I had walked out with it four or five milesacross a patch of moorland and down to a secluded little coppicefull of blue-bells, halfway along the high-road between Leet andStafford. Here I had spent the afternoon, experimenting and practisingwith careful deliberation and grim persistence. I had brought anold kite-frame of cane with me, that folded and unfolded, and eachshot-hole I made I marked and numbered to compare with my otherendeavors. At last I was satisfied that I could hit a playing-cardat thirty paces nine times out of ten; the light was getting toobad for me to see my penciled bull's-eye, and in that state ofquiet moodiness that sometimes comes with hunger to passionate men,I returned by the way of Swathinglea towards my home.
The road I followed came down between banks of wretched-lookingworking-men's houses, in close-packed rows on either side, and tookupon itself the role of Swathinglea High Street, where, at a lampand a pillar-box, the steam-trams began. So far that dirty hot wayhad been unusually quiet and empty, but beyond the corner, wherethe first group of beershops clustered, it became populous. It wasvery quiet still, even the children were a little inactive, butthere were a lot of people standing dispersedly in little groups,and with a general direction towards the gates of the Bantock Burdencoalpit.
The place was being picketed, although at that time the minerswere still nominally at work, and the conferences between mastersand men still in session at Clayton Town Hall. But one of the menemployed at the Bantock Burden pit, Jack Briscoe, was a socialist,and he had distinguished himself by a violent letter upon the crisisto the leading socialistic paper in England, The Clarion, in whichhe had adventured among the motives of Lord Redcar. The publicationof this had been followed by instant dismissal. As Lord Redcar wrotea day or so later to the Times--I have that Times, I have all theLondon papers of the last month before the Change--
"The man was paid off and kicked out. Any self-respecting employerwould do the same." The thing had happened overnight, and the mendid not at once take a clear line upon what was, after all, a veryintricate and debatable occasion. But they came out in a sort ofsemiofficial strike from all Lord Redcar's collieries beyond thecanal that besets Swathinglea. They did so without formal notice,committing a breach of contract by this sudden cessation. But inthe long labor struggles of the old days the workers were constantlyputting themselves in the wrong and committing illegalitiesthrough that overpowering craving for dramatic promptness naturalto uneducated minds.
All the men had not come out of the Bantock Burden pit. Somethingwas wrong there, an indecision if nothing else; the mine was stillworking, and there was a rumor that men from Durham had been heldin readiness by Lord Redcar, and were already in the mine. Now, itis absolutely impossible to ascertain certainly how things stood atthat time. The newspapers say this and that, but nothing trustworthyremains.
I believe I should have gone striding athwart the dark stage ofthat stagnant industrial drama without asking a question, if LordRedcar had not chanced to come upon the scene about the same timeas myself and incontinently end its stagnation.
He had promised that if the men wanted a struggle he would putup the best fight they had ever had, and he had been active allthat afternoon in meeting the quarrel half way, and preparing asconspicuously as possible for the scratch force of "blacklegs"--aswe called them--who were, he said and we believed, to replace thestrikers in his pits.
I was an eye-witness of the whole of the affair outside the BantockBurden pit, and--I do not know what happened.
Picture to yourself how the thing came to me.
I was descending a steep, cobbled, excavated road between banked-upfootways, perhaps six feet high, upon which, in a monotonousseries, opened the living room doors of rows of dark, low cottages.The perspective of squat blue slate roofs and clustering chimneysdrifted downward towards the irregular open space before thecolliery--a space covered with coaly, wheel-scarred mud, with apatch of weedy dump to the left and the colliery gates to the right.Beyond, the High Street with shops resumed again in good earnestand went on, and the lines of the steam-tramway that started outfrom before my feet, and were here shining and acutely visiblewith reflected skylight and here lost in a shadow, took up for oneacute moment the greasy yellow irradiation of a newly lit gaslampas they vanished round the bend. Beyond, spread a darkling marshof homes, an infinitude of little smoking hovels, and emergent,meager churches, public-houses, board schools, and other buildingsamidst the prevailing chimneys of Swathinglea. To the right, veryclear and relatively high, the Bantock Burden pit-mouth was markedby a gaunt lattice bearing a great black wheel, very sharp anddistinct in the twilight, and beyond, in an irregular perspective,were others following the lie of the seams. The general effect,as one came down the hill, was of a dark compressed life beneatha very high and wide and luminous evening sky, against which thesepit-wheels rose. And ruling the calm spaciousness of that heavenwas the great comet, now green-white, and wonderful for all whohad eyes to see.
The fading afterglow of the sunset threw up all the contours andskyline to the west, and the comet rose eastward out of the pouringtumult of smoke from Bladden's forges. The moon had still to rise.
By this time the comet had begun to assume the cloudlike form stillfamiliar through the medium of a thousand photographs and sketches.At first it had been an almost telescopic speck; it had brightenedto the dimensions of the greatest star in the heavens; it hadstill grown, hour by hour, in its incredibly swift, its noiselessand inevitable rush upon our earth, until it had equaled and surpassedthe moon. Now it was the most splendid thing this sky of earth hasever held. I have never seen a photograph that gave a proper ideaof it. Never at any time did it assume the conventional tailedoutline, comets are supposed to have. Astronomers talked of itsdouble tail, one preceding it and one trailing behind it, but thesewere foreshortened to nothing, so that it had rather the form of abellying puff of luminous smoke with an intenser, brighter heart.It rose a hot yellow color, and only began to show its distinctivegreenness when it was clear of the mists of the evening.
It compelled attention for a space. For all my earthly concentration ofmind, I could but stare at it for a moment with a vague anticipationthat, after all, in some way so strange and glorious an objectmust have significance, could not possibly be a matter of absoluteindifference to the scheme and values of my life.
But how?
I thought of Parload. I thought of the panic and uneasiness thatwas spreading in this very matter, and the assurances of scientificmen that the thing weighed so little--at the utmost a few hundredtons of thinly diffused gas
and dust--that even were it to smitethis earth fully, nothing could possibly ensue. And, after all,said I, what earthly significance has any one found in the stars?
Then, as one still descended, the houses and buildings rose up,the presence of those watching groups of people, the tension ofthe situation; and one forgot the sky.
Preoccupied with myself and with my dark dream about Nettie and myhonor, I threaded my course through the stagnating threat of thisgathering, and was caught unawares, when suddenly the wholescene flashed into drama. . . .
The attention of every one swung round with an irresistible magnetismtowards the High Street, and caught me as a rush of waters mightcatch a wisp of hay. Abruptly the whole crowd was sounding one note.It was not a word, it was a sound that mingled threat and protest,something between a prolonged "Ah!" and "Ugh!" Then with a hoarseintensity of anger came a low heavy booing, "Boo! boo--oo!" a notestupidly expressive of animal savagery. "Toot, toot!" said LordRedcar's automobile in ridiculous repartee. "Toot, toot!" One heardit whizzing and throbbing as the crowd obliged it to slow down.
Everybody seemed in motion towards the colliery gates, I, too, withthe others.
I heard a shout. Through the dark figures about me I saw the motor-carstop and move forward again, and had a glimpse of something writhingon the ground.
It was alleged afterwards that Lord Redcar was driving, and thathe quite deliberately knocked down a little boy who would not getout of his way. It is asserted with equal confidence that the boywas a man who tried to pass across the front of the motor-car as itcame slowly through the crowd, who escaped by a hair's breadth, andthen slipped on the tram-rail and fell down. I have both accountsset forth, under screaming headlines, in two of these sere newspapersupon my desk. No one could ever ascertain the truth. Indeed, insuch a blind tumult of passion, could there be any truth?
There was a rush forward, the horn of the car sounded, everythingswayed violently to the right for perhaps ten yards or so, andthere was a report like a pistol-shot.
For a moment every one seemed running away. A woman, carrying ashawl-wrapped child, blundered into me, and sent me reeling back.Every one thought of firearms, but, as a matter of fact, somethinghad gone wrong with the motor, what in those old-fashioned contrivanceswas called a backfire. A thin puff of bluish smoke hung in the airbehind the thing. The majority of the people scattered back in adisorderly fashion, and left a clear space about the struggle thatcentered upon the motor-car.
The man or boy who had fallen was lying on the ground with no onenear him, a black lump, an extended arm and two sprawling feet.The motor-car had stopped, and its three occupants were standingup. Six or seven black figures surrounded the car, and appearedto be holding on to it as if to prevent it from starting again;one--it was Mitchell, a well-known labor leader--argued in fiercelow tones with Lord Redcar. I could not hear anything they said,I was not near enough. Behind me the colliery gates were open,and there was a sense of help coming to the motor-car from thatdirection. There was an unoccupied muddy space for fifty yards,perhaps, between car and gate, and then the wheels and head of thepit rose black against the sky. I was one of a rude semicircle ofpeople that hung as yet indeterminate in action about this dispute.
It was natural, I suppose, that my fingers should close upon therevolver in my pocket.
I advanced with the vaguest intentions in the world, and not soquickly but that several men hurried past me to join the littleknot holding up the car.
Lord Redcar, in his big furry overcoat, towered up over the groupabout him; his gestures were free and threatening, and his voiceloud. He made a fine figure there, I must admit; he was a big,fair, handsome young man with a fine tenor voice and an instinctfor gallant effect. My eyes were drawn to him at first wholly. Heseemed a symbol, a triumphant symbol, of all that the theory ofaristocracy claims, of all that filled my soul with resentment.His chauffeur sat crouched together, peering at the crowd underhis lordship's arm. But Mitchell showed as a sturdy figure also,and his voice was firm and loud.
"You've hurt that lad," said Mitchell, over and over again. "You'llwait here till you see if he's hurt."
"I'll wait here or not as I please," said Redcar; and to thechauffeur, "Here! get down and look at it!"
"You'd better not get down," said Mitchell; and the chauffeur stoodbent and hesitating on the step.
The man on the back seat stood up, leant forward, and spoke to LordRedcar, and for the first time my attention was drawn to him. Itwas young Verrall! His handsome face shone clear and fine in thegreen pallor of the comet.
I ceased to hear the quarrel that was raising the voice of Mitchelland Lord Redcar. This new fact sent them spinning into the background.Young Verrall!
It was my own purpose coming to meet me half way.
There was to be a fight here, it seemed certain to come to a scuffle,and here we were--
What was I to do? I thought very swiftly. Unless my memory cheatsme, I acted with swift decision. My hand tightened on my revolver,and then I remembered it was unloaded. I had thought my course outin an instant. I turned round and pushed my way out of the angrycrowd that was now surging back towards the motor-car.
It would be quiet and out of sight, I thought, among the dumpheaps across the road, and there I might load unobserved. . .
A big young man striding forward with his fists clenched, haltedfor one second at the sight of me.
"What!" said he. "Ain't afraid of them, are you?"
I glanced over my shoulder and back at him, was near showing him mypistol, and the expression changed in his eyes. He hung perplexedat me. Then with a grunt he went on.
I heard the voices growing loud and sharp behind me.
I hesitated, half turned towards the dispute, then set off runningtowards the heaps. Some instinct told me not to be detected loading.I was cool enough therefore to think of the aftermath of the thingI meant to do.
I looked back once again towards the swaying discussion--or wasit a fight now? and then I dropped into the hollow, knelt amongthe weeds, and loaded with eager trembling fingers. I loaded onechamber, got up and went back a dozen paces, thought of possibilities,vacillated, returned and loaded all the others. I did it slowlybecause I felt a little clumsy, and at the end came a moment ofinspection--had I forgotten any thing? And then for a few secondsI crouched before I rose, resisting the first gust of reactionagainst my impulse. I took thought, and for a moment that greatgreen-white meteor overhead swam back into my conscious mind. Forthe first time then I linked it clearly with all the fierce violencethat had crept into human life. I joined up that with what I meantto do. I was going to shoot young Verrall as it were under thebenediction of that green glare.
But about Nettie?
I found it impossible to think out that obvious complication.
I came up over the heap again, and walked slowly back towards thewrangle.
Of course I had to kill him. . . .
Now I would have you believe I did not want to murder young Verrallat all at that particular time. I had not pictured such circumstancesas these, I had never thought of him in connection with Lord Redcarand our black industrial world. He was in that distant other worldof Checkshill, the world of parks and gardens, the world of sunlitemotions and Nettie. His appearance here was disconcerting. I wastaken by surprise. I was too tired and hungry to think clearly, andthe hard implication of our antagonism prevailed with me. In thetumult of my passed emotions I had thought constantly of conflicts,confrontations, deeds of violence, and now the memory of these thingstook possession of me as though they were irrevocable resolutions.
There was a sharp exclamation, the shriek of a woman, and the crowdcame surging back. The fight had begun.
Lord Redcar, I believe, had jumped down from his car and felledMitchell, and men were already running out to his assistance fromthe colliery gates.
I had some difficulty in shoving through the crowd; I can stillremember very vividly being jammed at one time between two big menso that my arms wer
e pinned to my sides, but all the other detailsare gone out of my mind until I found myself almost violentlyprojected forward into the "scrap."
I blundered against the corner of the motor-car, and came round itface to face with young Verrall, who was descending from the backcompartment. His face was touched with orange from the automobile'sbig lamps, which conflicted with the shadows of the comet light,and distorted him oddly. That effect lasted but an instant, but itput me out. Then he came a step forward, and the ruddy lights andqueerness vanished.
I don't think he recognized me, but he perceived immediately Imeant attacking. He struck out at once at me a haphazard blow, andtouched me on the cheek.
Instinctively I let go of the pistol, snatched my right hand outof my pocket and brought it up in a belated parry, and then letout with my left full in his chest.
It sent him staggering, and as he went back I saw recognition minglewith astonishment in his face.
"You know me, you swine," I cried and hit again.
Then I was spinning sideways, half-stunned, with a huge lump of afist under my jaw. I had an impression of Lord Redcar as a greatfurry bulk, towering like some Homeric hero above the fray. I wentdown before him--it made him seem to rush up--and he ignored mefurther. His big flat voice counseled young Verrall--
"Cut, Teddy! It won't do. The picketa's got i'on bahs. . . ."
Feet swayed about me, and some hobnailed miner kicked my ankle andwent stumbling. There were shouts and curses, and then everythinghad swept past me. I rolled over on my face and beheld the chauffeur,young Verrall, and Lord Redcar--the latter holding up his longskirts of fur, and making a grotesque figure--one behind the other,in full bolt across a coldly comet-lit interval, towards the opengates of the colliery.
I raised myself up on my hands.
Young Verrall!
I had not even drawn my revolver--I had forgotten it. I was coveredwith coaly mud--knees, elbows, shoulders, back. I had noteven drawn my revolver! . . .
A feeling of ridiculous impotence overwhelmed me. I struggledpainfully to my feet.
I hesitated for a moment towards the gates of the colliery, and thenwent limping homeward, thwarted, painful, confused, and ashamed.I had not the heart nor desire to help in the wrecking and burningof Lord Redcar's motor.