Wood and Stone

by John Cowper Powys

  He strode impatiently to the edge of the tumulus. Yes, there was certainly something unusual going forward. The crowd was swaying outwards, was scattering and wavering. Men were running to and fro, tossing their hats in the air and shouting. At last there really was a definite event. The whole mass of the crowd seemed to be seized simultaneously with a single impulse. It began to move. It began to move in the direction of his new quarries. The thrill of battle seized the heart of the master of Nevilton with an exultant glow. So they were really going to attempt something—the incapable sheep! This was the sort of situation he had long cried out for. To have an excuse to meet them, face to face, in a genuine insurrection, this was worthier of a man’s energy than quarrelling with wretched Social Meetings.

  He ran down the side of the tumulus and hastened to meet the approaching mob. By leaving the path and skirting the edge of several disused quarries he should, he thought, easily be able to reach his new works long before they did. The tall cranes served as a guide. To his astonishment he found, on approaching his objective, that the mob had swerved, and were now streaming forward in a long wavering line, between the Half Moon tavern and the lower slopes, towards the southern end of the hill.

  “Ah!” he muttered under his breath, “this is more serious! They are going to attack the offices.”

  By this time, the bulk of the crowd had got so far that it would have been impossible for him to intercept or anticipate them.

  Among the more cautious sight-seers who, mixed with women and children, were trailing slowly in the rear, he was quite certain he made out the figures of Wone and his fellow-politicians. “Just like him,” he thought. “He has stirred them up with his speeches and now he is hiding behind them! I expect he will be sneaking off home presently.” The figure he supposed to be that of the Christian Candidate did, as a matter of fact, shortly after this, detach himself from the rest of his group and retire quietly and discreetly towards the path leading to Nevilton.

  Romer retraced his steps as rapidly as he could. He repassed the tumulus, crossed a somewhat precipitous bank between two quarries, and emerged upon the road that skirts the western brow of the hill. This road he followed at an impetuous pace, listening, as he advanced, for any sound of destruction and violence. When he arrived at the open level between the two largest of his quarries he found himself at the edge of a surging and howling mob. He could see over their heads the low slate roofs of his works, and he could see that someone, mounted on a large slab of stone, was haranguing the people near him, but more than this it was impossible to make out and it was extremely difficult to get any closer. The persons on the outskirts of the crowd were evidently strangers, and with no interest in the affair at all beyond excited curiosity, for he heard them asking one another the most vague and confused questions.

  Presently he observed the figure of a policeman rise behind the man upon the stone and jerk him to the ground. This was followed by a bewildering uproar. Clenched hands were raised in the air, and wild cries were audible. He fancied he caught the sound of the syllable “fire.”

  Romer was seized with a mad lust of contest. He struggled desperately to force his way through to the front, but the entangled mass of agitated, perspiring people proved an impassable barrier.

  He began hastily summing up in his mind what kind of destruction they could achieve that would cause him any serious annoyance. He remembered with relief that all the more delicate pieces of carved work were down at Nevilton Station. They could do little damage to solid blocks of stone, which were all they would find inside those wooden sheds. They might injure the machinery and the more fragile of the tools, but they could hardly do even that, unless they were aided by some of his own men. He wondered if his own men—the men on strike—were among them, or if the rioters were only roughs from Yeoborough. Let them burn the sheds down! He did not value the sheds. They could be replaced tomorrow. Their utmost worth was hardly the price of a dozen bottles of champagne. It gave him a thrill of grim satisfaction to think of the ineffectualness of this horde of gesticulating two-legged creatures, making vain assaults upon slabs of impervious rock Man against Stone! It was a pleasant and symbolic struggle. And it could only have one issue.

  Finding it impossible to move forward, and not caring to be observed by anyone who knew him hemmed in in this ridiculous manner among staring females and jocose youths, Romer edged himself backwards, and, hot and breathless, got clear of the crowd.

  The physical exhaustion of this effort—for only a man of considerable strength could have advanced an inch through such a dense mass—had materially diminished his thirst for a personal encounter. He smiled to himself to think how humorous it would be if he could, even now, overtake the escaping Mr. Wone, and offer his rival restorative refreshment, in the cool shades of his garden! For the prime originals of this absurd riot to be drinking claret-cup upon a grassy lawn, while the misled and deluded populace were battering their heads against the stony heart of Leo’s Hill, struck Mr. Romer as a curiously suitable climax to the days’ entertainment. Hardly thinking of what he did, he clambered up the side of a steep bank, where a group of children were playing, and looked across the valley. Surely that solitary black figure retreating so furtively, so innocently, along the path towards the wood, could be no one but the Christian Candidate!

  Mr. Romer burst out laughing. The discreet fugitive looked so absurdly characteristic in his shuffling retirement, that he felt for the moment as if the whole incident were a colossal musical-comedy farce. A puff of smoke above the heads of the crowd, and a smell of burning, made him serious again. “Damn them!” he muttered. “They shall not get off without anything being done.”

  From his present position he was able to discern how he could get round to the sheds. On their remoter side he saw that the crowd had considerably thinned away. He made out the figures of some policemen there, bending, it appeared, over something upon the ground.

  It did not take him long to descend from his post, to skirt the western side of the quarries, and to reach the spot. He found that the object upon the ground was no other than his manager Lickwit, gasping and pallid, with a streak of blood running down his face. From the policemen he learnt that an entrance had been forced into the sheds, and the more violent of the rioters—the ones who had laid Mr. Lickwit low—were now regaling themselves in that shelter upon the contents of a barrel of cider, whose hiding-place someone had unearthed. The fire was already trampled upon and extinguished. He learnt further that a messenger had been sent to summon more police to the spot, and that it was to be hoped that the revellers within the shed would continue their opportune tippling until their arrival. This, however, was not what fate intended. Reeling and shouting, the half-a-dozen joyous Calibans emerged from their retreat and proceeded to address the people, all vociferating at the same time, and each interrupting the other. The more official and respectable among the politicians had either retired altogether from the scene or were cautiously watching it, from the safe obscurity of the general crowd, and the situation around the stone-works was completely in the hands of the rioters.

  Mr. Romer, having done what he could for the comfort of his manager, who was really more frightened than hurt, turned fiercely upon the aggressors. He commanded the two remaining policemen—the third was helping Lickwit from the scene—to arrest on the spot these turbulent ruffians, who were now engaged in laying level with the ground a tool-shed adjoining the one they had entered. They were striking at the corner-beams of this erection with picks and crow-bars. Others among the crowd, pushing their less courageous neighbours forward, began throwing stones at the policemen, uttering, as they did so, yells and threats and abusive insults.

  The mass of the people behind, hearing these yells, and yielding to a steady pressure from the rear, where more and more inquisitive persons kept arriving, began to sway ominously onward, crowding more and more thickly around the open space, where Mr. Romer stood, angrily regarding them.

  The policeme
n kept looking anxiously towards the Half Moon where the road across the hill terminated. They were evidently very nervous and extremely desirous of the arrival of re-enforcements. No re-enforcements coming, however, and the destruction of property continuing, they were forced to act; and drawing their staves, they made a determined rush upon the men attacking the shed. Had these persons not been already half-drunk, the emissaries of the law would have come off badly. As it was, they only succeeded in flinging the rioters back a few paces. The whole crowd moved forward and a volley of stones and sticks compelled the officials to retreat. In their retreat they endeavoured to carry Mr. Homer with them, assuring him, in hurried gasps, that his life itself was in danger. “They’ll knock your head off, sir—the scoundrels! Phil Wone has seen you.”

  The pale son of Mr. Wone had indeed pushed his way to the front. He at once began an impassioned oration.

  “There he is—the devil himself!” he shouted, panting with excitement. “Do for him, friends! Throw him into one of his own pits—the bloodsucker, the assassin, the murderer of the people!”

  Wild memories of historic passages rushed through the young anarchist’s brain. He waved his arms savagely, goading on his companions. His face was livid. Mr. Romer moved towards him, his head thrown back and a contemptuous smile upon his face.

  The drunken ring leaders, recognizing their hereditary terror—the local magistrate—reeled backwards in sudden panic. Others in the front line of the crowd, knowing Mr. Romer by sight, stood stock still and gaped foolishly or tried to shuffle off unobserved. A few strangers who were there, perceiving the presence of a formidable-looking gentleman, assumed at once that he was Lord Tintinhull or the Earl of Glastonbury and made frantic efforts to escape. The crowd at the back, conscious that a reverse movement had begun, became alarmed. Cries were raised that the “military” had come. “They are going to fire!” shouted one voice, and several women screamed.

  Philip Wone lifted up his voice again, pointing with outstretched arm at his enemy, and calling upon the crowd to advance.

  “The serpent!—the devil-fish!—the bread-stealer!—the money-eater!” he yelled. “Cast him into his own pit, bury him in his own quarries!”

  It was perhaps fortunate for Mr. Romer at that moment that his adversary was this honest youth in place of a more hypocritical leader. An English crowd, even though sprinkled with a leaven of angry strikers, only grows puzzled and bewildered when it hears its enemy referred to as “devil-fish” and “assassin.”

  The enemy at this moment took full advantage of their bewilderment. He deliberately drew out his cigarette-case and lighting a cigarette, made a gesture as if driving back a flock of sheep. The crowd showed further signs of panic. But the young anarchist was not to be silenced.

  “Look round you, friends,” he shouted. “Here is this man defying you on the very spot where you work for him day and night, where your descendants will work for his descendants day and night! What are you afraid of? This man did not make this hill bring forth stone, though it is stone, instead of bread, that he would willingly give your children!”

  Mr. Romer gave a sign to the policemen and approached a step nearer. The cider-drinkers had already moved off. The crowd began to melt away.

  “The very earth,” went on the young man, “cries aloud to you to put an end to this tyranny! Do you realize that this is the actual place where in one grand revolt the men of Mid Wessex rose against the—”

  He was interrupted by a man behind him—a poacher from an outlying hamlet. “Chuck it, Phil Wone! Us knows all about this ’ere job.”

  Mr. Romer raised his hand. The policemen seized the young man by the arms, one on either side. He seemed hardly to notice them, and went on in a loud resonant voice that rang across the valley.

  “It will end! It will end, this evil day! Already the new age is beginning. These robbers of the people had better make haste with their plundering, for the hour is approaching! Where is your priest?”—he struggled violently with his captors, turning towards the rapidly retreating crowd, “where is your vicar,—your curer of souls? He talks to you of submission, and love, and obedience, and duty. What does this man care for these things? It is under this talk of” love “that you are betrayed! It is under this talk of” duty, “that your children have the bread taken from their mouths! But the hour will come;—yes, you may smile,” he addressed himself directly to Mr. Romer now, “but you will not smile for long. Your fate is already written down! It is as sure as this rain,—as sure as this storm!”

  He was silent, and making no further resistance, let himself be carried off by the two officials.

  The rain he spoke of was indeed beginning. Heavy drops, precursors of what seemed likely to be a tropical deluge, fell upon the broken wood-work, upon the half-burnt bracken, upon the slabs of Leonian stone, and upon the trampled grass. They also fell upon Mr. Romer’s silver match-box as he selected another cigarette of his favourite brand, and walked slowly and smilingly away in the direction of Nevilton.

  CHAPTER XVI

  HULLAWAY

  ISEE,” said Luke Andersen to his brother, as they sat at breakfast in the station-master’s kitchen, about a fortnight after the riot on Leo’s Hill, “I see that Romer has withdrawn his charge against young Wone. It seems that the magistrates set him free yesterday, on Romer’s own responsibility. So the case will not come up at all. What do you make of that?”

  “He is a wiser man than I imagined,” said James.

  “And that’s not all!” cried his brother blowing the cigarette ashes from the open paper in front of him. “It appears the strike is in a good way of being settled by those damned delegates. We were idiots to trust them. I knew it. I told the men so. But they are all such hopeless fools. No doubt Romer has found some way of getting round them! The talk is now of arbitration, and a commissioner from the government. You mark my words, Daddy Jim, we shall be back working again by Monday.”

  “But we shall get the chief thing we wanted, after all—if Lickwit is removed,” said James, rising from the table and going to the window, “I know I shall be quite satisfied myself, if I don’t see that rascal’s face any more.”

  “The poor wretch has collapsed altogether, so they said down at the inn last night,” Luke put in. “My belief is that Romer has now staked everything on getting into Parliament and is ready to do anything to propitiate the neighbourhood. If that’s his line, he’ll succeed. He’ll out-manœuvre our friend Wone at every step. When a man of his type once tries the conciliatory game be becomes irresistible. That is what these stupid employers so rarely realize. No doubt that’s his policy in stopping the process against Philip. He’s a shrewd fellow this Romer—and I shouldn’t wonder if, when the strike is settled, he became the most popular landlord in the country. Wone did for himself by sneaking off home that day, when things looked threatening. They were talking about that in Yeoborough. I shouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t lose him the election.”

  “I hope not,” said James Andersen gazing out of the window at the gathering clouds. “I should be sorry to see that happen.”

  “I should be damned glad!” cried his brother, pushing back his chair and luxuriously sipping his final cup of tea. “My sympathies are all with Romer in this business. He has acted magnanimously. He has acted shrewdly. I would sooner, any day, be under the control of a man like him, than see a sentimental charlatan like Wone get into Parliament.”

  “You are unfair, my friend,” said the elder brother, opening the lower sash of the window and letting in such a draught of rainy wind that he was immediately compelled to re-close it, “you are thoroughly unfair. Wone is not in the least a charlatan. He believes every word he says, and he says a great many things that are profoundly true. I cannot see,” he went on, turning round and confronting his equable relative with a perturbed and troubled face, “why you have got your knife into Wone in this extreme manner. Of course he is conceited and long-winded, but the man is genuinely sincere. I call h
im rather a pathetic figure.”

  “He looked pathetic enough when he sneaked off after that riot, leaving Philip in the hands of the police.”

  “It annoys me the way you speak,” returned the elder brother, in growing irritation. “What right have you to call the one man’s discretion cowardice, and the other’s wise diplomacy? I don’t see that it was any more cowardice for Wone to protest against a riot, than for Romer to back down before public opinion as he seems now to have done. Besides, who can blame a fellow for wanting to avoid a scene like that? I know you wouldn’t have cared to encounter those Yeoborough roughs.”

  “Old Romer encountered them,” retorted Luke. “They say he smoked a cigarette in their faces, and just waved them away, as if they were a cloud of gnats. I love a man who can do that sort of thing!”

  “That’s right!” cried the elder brother growing thoroughly angry. “That’s the true Yellow Press attitude! Here we have one of your ‘still, strong men,’ afraid of no mob on earth! I know them—these strong men! Its easy enough to be calm and strong when you have a banking-account like Romer’s, and all the police in the county on your side?”