Kitabı oku: «Hope Mills: or, Between Friend and Sweetheart», sayfa 25
CHAPTER XXVI
The excitement ran very high not only in Yerbury, but all over the country. Strikes seemed the order of the day again, and for what reason, was not clearly made manifest, unless labor felt that it had capital a little by the throat, in that its services were again somewhat in demand. "Now," said the prophets. Surely, if they did not strike when there was employment, they could not when there was none.
It began in the shoe-shop. The next Monday morning the men made their demand in no gentle terms, and were refused. There was a large contract at stake, however, and by Tuesday night the matter was talked over in a better spirit. The employers were willing to accede to one-half of the demand, otherwise the order must be sent to another firm. Thursday morning they went to work with a rather ill grace, yet some elation. Then the hatters took their turn. The hands at Hope Mills were served with a notice that the mutual protectionists in all the towns around were to be out on the following Monday; and stirring appeals were made to those who had any feeling of honor in the cause.
It was exceedingly hard on the men. They gathered around in little knots on Sunday, wild with conflicting emotions. Their faith in Hope Mills and co-operation was undergoing a severe strain. The fear of secret frauds, of underhand dealing, of distrust in Winston and Darcy, had been dinned in their ears by outside influence, some of it very potent. Not one appeal had been made by the managers: Cameron and the others decided it was best.
Jack went over to the mill on Monday morning. The gatekeeper and the bell-boy were there. The engineer came in with a quiet, solemn "Good-morning." The Brotherhood of Engineers had warned him too, and he was a little troubled; but he had cast in his lot with the rest, and it might be as well to wait and see what they did. The main shaft was turned.
Jack from his office-window watched the streets filling up with men and women, many beside the regular operatives. They came to a halt.
"Ding-dong! ding-dong!" the bell rang out cheerily on the summer morning air. "Come to work, come to work! The birds build homes, and rear their young; the bee skims the fragrant air in search of flowers; the rivers run to the sea, turning wheels, driving ships: nothing in the great economy of nature is idle," sang out the clang of the bell.
The hands glanced at one another in doubt and dismay, and there was an awful silence for a few seconds.
Some one elbowed his way through the crowd. He had come from the bedside of his sick child, who might be dying even now, – a small, wiry, middle-aged man, with a set, resolute face. He glanced about, then he sprang up on a pile of packing-boxes. It was Jesse Gilman.
"My fellow-workmen," he began, "I don't know how you all feel about this matter; but Hope Mills took me in when I had tramped the country half over, and found nothing to do. I've tried the old system, and this can't be any worse; and, if I have to lose money by an employer, I'd rather it would be John Darcy of Yerbury, than any man I know. No man on the face of the earth has a right to say I shall not work in Hope Mills when I made my own bargain long ago to do it. That is all I have to say. I am going to work."
"Three cheers!" cried some one as Gilman jumped down.
There were cheers and groans.
Ben Hay followed him, and stood a moment in the gateway.
"Boys," said he in his rich, ringing voice, "Hope Mills was opened to receive a crowd of starving men. I'll take my oath to Jack Darcy's honesty. He's stuck by us, and we'll stick to him. That's the beauty of co-operation. You can't get away, and tramp off with the first fool that asks you! It isn't merely keeping company: it's a good, honest, up-and-down marriage. I'd as soon think of leaving my wife because some day she didn't give me two dinners instead of one!"
There was a shout of laughter. The ice was broken in good earnest. "Three cheers for Ben Hay! Three cheers and a tiger for Jack Darcy!" and amid all this hubbub the men and women, the boys and girls, rushed in pell-mell. A gladder crew one never saw. To decide when others doubt, to go forward boldly when others hesitate, to stand up for the principle of right when others have traduced and blackened it, to take the first step, is to be as heroic as the "six hundred" of deathless fame.
They went to work with a will, though some were a little sore and doubtful, but they were carried on by the enthusiasm of the others. The street below was still blocked up, and there were yells and groans. Presently there came a shower of superannuated eggs. Two landed in Darcy's office-window. After that, a stampede of the riotous crew.
Darcy sent Andrew, the bell-boy, to the police-station, and two men were detailed. The workmen were allowed to go home peaceably, except a little jeering at Keppler's. They heard then the trains had been stopped on the two roads leading out of Yerbury. The whole world seemed to be going crazy.
Darcy and Cameron remained in the mill that night until almost ten: then the latter went home, and Darcy thought he would go for Ben Hay. The streets of Yerbury had presented a very peculiar aspect that evening, something like a beleaguered town. Groups of men and boys collected on the corners, or wended their way through the streets with low, ominous mutterings. People barred their doors and locked their windows, though it was a hot summer night. Some women were abroad: but they were of the rougher sort, and now and then their shrill voices rose on the air in derision or vituperation. Still there were no overt acts of violence, and at ten everybody began to breathe more freely.
The coffee-house had been shut up that evening: it was deemed advisable. Darcy went round to the side-door, and was admitted. Hay and three other workmen were within. They had been figuring up possible and probable profits by the end of the five years, and looked very well satisfied.
"There's a sort of hope and expectation about it," said one of the men, "that kind of stirs and warms a body. And when you come to count lost time, and fluctuation in wages, it makes a pretty even thing, after all! In '73 I worked in a shoddy-mill that had been making money hand over fist, – eleven hours a day, – not a man of us made more than five dollars a week. Some poor fellows with families earned only three. You've never been as hard up as that! God only knows how they lived: it's beyond my guessing!"
"And if that was co-operation, how the system would be blamed!" exclaimed Ben Hay. "I declare, it makes me madder than a hen in a fence – I've caught that of Cameron," laughingly, – "to hear the things people have said about us. They're forever blathering about fair play – I wish they'd give a little, as well as take all. Wait till we've come to the end, say I, before they tell what we can do, or what we can't or sha'n't or won't!"
There was a tramp in the street. The startled eyes studied one another. Then a shuffling and muttering, and a knock at the door.
No one stirred but Mrs. Connelly, who threw up her hands, and cried, "The saints protect us!"
"Earthly saints, Mother Connelly, – this kind," said Ben Hay with gay re-assurance, doubling his fist, and baring his brawny arm.
The pounding increased. Rose ran down stairs wild with affright, followed by her sister. The boys fortunately were asleep in the back chambers.
"Let us in, Mother Connelly: we want some bread and butter!" shouted a voice.
"Cakes and yale!"
"Pretzel and zwei lager!"
"A sup of the craythur!"
"A dhrop of whiskey to warrum us this could night! Av yees the heart av a sthone, Kit Connelly?"
A roar of laughter succeeded this.
"Go away, it will be better for you," declared Ben Hay.
"Come out here, Hay, and fight like a man! Don't skulk behind a woman's petticoats!"
There was a terrific onslaught at the door. It creaked and groaned, and was succeeded by a volley of oaths and imprecations. Rose began to cry, and the youngest girl came screaming down the stairs.
Darcy had sent a man out of the back way for policemen. Hay and the two other men mounted guard. Again the door shivered and creaked: then it flew open, bolts, locks, and hinges having given way in a mass of splinters.
Like a flash the men were on their assailants. The mob had not expected this. Right and left valorous blows were dealt, and two or three burly fellows were laid low. Some nearer sober, and more cowardly, took to their heels. Two men fought like tigers; and once Ben Hay came near getting the worst; but, by the time the dilatory guards of peace arrived, there was only a pile of bruised and battered bodies lying on the door-step.
"A pretty tough scrimmage!" was the comment. "Weren't you a little hard on these fellows?"
"A man has a right to defend his own life and his own nose," said Ben Hay decisively. "His life may be useful, his nose is ornamental when it is a handsome one like mine."
What with drunkenness and the drubbing, two of the ruffians were unable to walk. Two others were marched off under the escort of the officers, the disabled sent for, and a guard detached to protect Mrs. Connelly's house. When everybody had been quieted, Jack took a tour down to the mills. Some poor object was huddled up in the corner of the main stoop.
"What are you doing here?" demanded Darcy.
"Oh, Mr. Darcy, don't strike me! I'm Bart Kane. I've had enough of this night, and I crawled here" —
The boy began to sob and talk brokenly. He lifted his face in the moonlight. It was ghastly; one eye swollen shut, and purple-black, and streaks of blood and dirt over it; the clothing torn, the throat bare.
"Were you down there at Connelly's?"
"I warn't nowhere. It was along o' father: he comed home drunk."
Barton Kane was a mill-boy, about nineteen now. Darcy's first feeling had been one of outrage and anger, but he cooled suddenly.
"Tell me, my lad," in a kindly tone, taking the shivering fingers in his.
"You see, Mr. Darcy, father'd been out along of the hatters all day, gettin' more and more rum in him. He said on Sunday, as how't I should strike; but they went to work here, and I worked with 'em. When I went home, mother, she gev me my supper, and ses she, 'Keep out o' sight, lad, happen thy dad's powerful mad wi' thee!' So I went to bed. But about nine he comed home, and tore up the house wi' his tantrums, and then lathered me. He called me a rat, and a sneak, and a turn-coat, and kicked me out o' the house, and threw my traps to me. Then afore I was fairly dressed he at me again, and said if ever I darkened the door, he'd murder me! I strayed round, afeared of everybody, and crawled up here. 'Pears like every bone in my body is broke, and my eye, he do hurt so!"
With that Barton Kane broke out sobbing again, and clung to Jack Darcy's knees.
"My poor lad!" the tone was infinitely tender. "Can you walk a little way, to Kit Connelly's? You can be nursed up there, and go to bed peaceably. Come, Barton, my boy, you are the hero of Hope Mills. When this is over, we shall have to give you a medal."
He put his strong arm around the shivering body, and led him back to a kindly shelter.
"Hay, Mrs. Connelly, and all of you: here's a lad that has been half-killed for standing by his colors to-day. Look here, Armstrong, would you mind going for Dr. Maverick? this poor chap needs some patching-up. And, Kit, give me some water and a napkin: we'll get his face a little cool and clean."
"Let me do it, Mr. Darcy. Sure, I've boys of my own, and am used to it. Oh, the poor, poor lad!"
Barton told his story over again. He was weak and hysterical now, and they made him a shake-down on the floor until the doctor came.
"Now I'll start on my inspection-tour again," said Darcy, turning away. "We are all likely to make a night of it."
He thought he would go around before he went in to see the watchmen: they had placed a force on guard quietly. He had just turned the second corner, when he saw a man jump from the high fence, and lie for an instant as if stunned. He hastened on, but the man sprang up and ran down the dark side of the street. His first impulse was to follow; then it struck him as strange that the dog gave no alarm. He had a gate-key in his pocket, and unlocked it at once.
"Bruno!" he called, "Bruno, good fellow, come here."
There was not a sound. The ominous silence thrilled Jack.
"Bruno!"
Hark! a curious crackling or sweep of wind, and smoky smell. He ran round to the rear. Close up against the back door, quite out of the moonlight, something was piled. Forked tongues of flame were shooting out of it everywhere. He seized the chain attached to the factory-bell, and rang it rapidly. There was a window thrown up, and a voice called.
"Fire! fire!" he shouted. "Turn on the hose, – the lower back door."
The flames streamed up fiercely now. It was plain that the mound had been saturated with kerosene.
Daly hurried down, and opened a door. "Hurd and Byrnes are at the buckets and hose," he cried. "Where is it? O Mr. Darcy!"
"Quick, quick!" shouted Jack, rushing by him.
The men had the hose ready. They put it out of the window, turned on the stream, and in a few moments a column of dense smoke rose amid the arrowy flashes of lurid splendor. The watchman ran down from Connelly's.
It was subdued in a few moments. They tore away the charred boxes and débris, smoking and smouldering. Underneath all they found the body of princely Bruno.
"This is fiendish!" cried Jack, dragging the poor fellow away, his scorched coat smelling horribly. "Brave Bruno, you are the second hero of the night!"
"Whatever dastardly devil did this, knows as much about Hope Mills as you or I," shouted Hurd savagely. "Bruno was poisoned first; and he wouldn't have taken any thing from a strange hand. But the fellow was a fool to build the fire here."
"I don't know about that," said Darcy. "If it had burned the door down, it would have gone in the hall, and up the hatchway – if it was open."
"By thunder! so it would; and right to the stock-room. That place must never be left open again while Hope Mills stands, or co-operation waves her starry banner in the breeze."
"Loud applause!" said some one.
The fire was thoroughly extinguished; and the guardian of the night decided to remain here, being within call if another disturbance should occur at Mrs. Connelly's. The bells rang out for midnight. A few, who had gathered at the alarm, dispersed: and every thing became quiet again, – deadly, solemnly quiet.
Jack wanted to see Maverick, so he paced back to Mrs. Connelly's. He was trying to remember some distinctive mark of the man he had seen jump. He was too stout for Davy, and he could not believe such villany of the man. Then Price was a little lame from an old rheumatic affection, and would not have dared such a deed.
Barton Kane had been washed, patched, bandaged, put to bed, and given an opiate; so now he was in a sound but rather disturbed sleep. The men gathered in the lunch-room, and discussed the cowardly attempt upon the mill, the day's affairs generally.
"See how great a matter a little fire kindles," said Maverick. "But for McPherson's lecture here, I don't believe any of these things would have happened. It is a free country, of course, and a man has a right to air his ideas; but capital is not set firmly enough on its legs to stand a severe fire, and labor is in too great a superabundance. To seek to drain the ocean with a silver mug may be grand, but quite hopeless."
One! The witching hour, and a few sleepy men began to yawn.
"How odd it seems, not to hear trains in the night!" Maverick said presently. "A queer lock-out this."
One, again. One, two, three: this time the fire-alarm.
They rushed out toward the mill. Then they as suddenly wheeled around. In an instant the air seemed full of shouts and cries, and a broad sheet of flame flared up in the face of the tranquil heavens. A roar, like a mighty tramping of hosts, a crackling, snapping, sweeping sound.
"It's Keppler's. Boyd's block will surely go!"
The houses were frame, old and dry: Keppler's on the corner, the rest joined, like a row of sheds, and filled with the very poorest; a few apartments standing empty. The engines were out, but it was of little avail. The corner was just one brilliant sheet of lurid light. Shrieking women and children fled for their lives. The street swarmed again, and people trampled over one another in their wild terror. There was a crash, and the building fell in. The flames licked up the other fiery flood, and had a brave battle in the cellar. The engines played until the air was filled with smothering smoke, and there was nothing left but a long, blackened ruin.
"It may be ungenerous to rejoice in any man's misfortune," said Maverick, "but in a sanitary point of view I am thankful those old rookeries have come to an end. Boyd wouldn't do any thing to them, and they were unfit for pigs to live in. And, as for Keppler's, there will be but one verdict this end of the town."
Some one laid a hand on Jack Darcy's shoulder. He turned and saw Fred Lawrence.
"They are all worried to death about you, old chap," began Fred. "Your mother, Miss Morgan, Sylvie, – and Irene is walking the floor. I have not seen her so excited since – since she had the fever. What a horrible thing! Was any one lost, do you know?"
"They will not be able to tell that until morning, every thing is in such confusion. Pray God that the morning may dawn soon! I seem to have lived through years."
The dawn came up by and by; first in faint opaline splendors, then scarlet and gold. The moon paled, and the stars dropped out, and there was a chirp of birds to welcome the new-born day.
The shock of the fire cooled the temper of the raiders, for half the men were idle hangers-on, rather than absolute strikers. One frantic woman flew to the scene of devastation: her boy, four years old, was missing. They tried to comfort her with the thought that some neighbor had kindly taken him in, but she kept wildly imploring them to search.
There was no further molestation of the men at Hope Mills. They walked in the yard quietly at seven o'clock, their faces touched with surprise and terror when they heard the story of the night. Barton Kane lay disabled at Mrs. Connelly's, and poor Bruno was buried with honors, regretted by the whole force.
Jack called the men together, and addressed them briefly. He was very pale, and his usually bright, clear eyes were heavy.
"I want to thank you," he said, in a tone that was a little unsteady with exhaustion and emotion, "I want to thank you for standing so bravely by me, and by your principles. We are all partners together, and what is one man's interest is every man's. I feel sure that we shall never have another difficulty. We have gone through the worst, and in a little while every man will have his free choice again. Let us all keep the warmest of friends until then."
There was no cheering: they were not gay enough for that. Some of the men wrung his hand silently; then the women pressed forward, and invoked a blessing upon him.
"We know better nor any of 'em what it was to have no fire, and childers cryin' for bread," said one woman, wiping her eyes with the end of her faded shawl. "And, thank the Lord, I've had bite, and sup, and fire, ever since the day Hope Mills was opened."
The men outside were working at the ruins, – among them some of the strikers of yesterday. They found poor Mrs. Rooney's little Johnny, burned to a crisp; and in the house next to Keppler's they exhumed the body of Biddy Brady, a good-natured, efficient washerwoman, whose greatest fault was her intemperance. She and her son had gone to bed very drunk, after having a good time through the evening. The boy had been roused in season, but she had perished. It was as vivid and fervent a temperance-lecture as ever was given in Yerbury.
About ten in the morning Jack Darcy returned home dead tired, as much with the excitement as the fatigue, took a bath, and went to bed.
The Yerbury authorities looked sharply about them that day. The strikers were orderly and quiet, but they had lost ground. "The Evening Transcript" deprecated all this sort of business, and for once had no fling about the "Utopian theory of co-operation." But "The Leader" of the morning came out strongly in praise of the good order, forbearance, and esprit de corps of Hope Mills, and called Mr. Darcy "our young and enterprising citizen, whom, we doubt not, we shall hear of in higher positions in life, which he has proved himself eminently worthy to fill."
There was no great lament made about Boyd's Row or Keppler's saloon, except for the sad casualty it had caused; but the dastardly attack on Mrs. Connelly, and the fiendish attempt to burn Hope Mills, met with the severest condemnation.
Maverick came around to the Darcys that evening. "I fancy I have found your man, Jack," he began. "Mrs. Stixon called me in towards night, saying Jem had been on a spree, and was dreadfully beaten. I found one side of his face scratched and bruised, and bits of gravel still adhering to the flesh. The right arm, on the same side, has one bone broken, and his shoulder is dislocated. He said he fell off of a stoop, and is dreadfully sullen. I asked him what stoop, but he would not tell. Do you remember which way the man fell?"
Jack thought a moment. "On the right side, Maverick, away from me, or I should have seen his face. Just such a size man as Jem Stixon, too," with a satisfied nod.
"What will you do about it?"
Jack took two or three turns across the floor. "See here, Maverick, we will not do any thing. You cure the poor fellow, and I think he will never try to damage Hope Mills again. I can hardly forgive him Bruno, though."
"If I were Sylvie Barry," – he never called her Mrs. Lawrence when speaking of her, – "I should say, 'Jack, you are an angel.'"
Jack flushed. "Masculine angels!" he laughed.
"Well, wasn't there Gabriel and a host of them? Why, Jack, they were all masculine!"
There was no need for earthly justice to meddle with Jem Stixon. His arm inflamed: he had led a hard life late years, and his system was in bad order. He would not listen to amputation until it was too late, and in less than a month he was dead. It was better for his poor hard-working wife and family.
One other death grew out of the summer riots, though this was at a distance. Dennis Connelly had been working with a railroad-gang, and the strikers there had a desperate struggle with the civil authority. They were worsted in the end, and Connelly was one of the victims, or perhaps more truly speaking, a victim to bad whiskey, for when sober he was very peaceable. Kit sent for his body, and had him decently buried.
