Strumpet City

by James Plunkett

  ‘Is Fitzpatrick above?’ Hennessy asked.

  ‘He went out about twenty minutes ago,’ Rashers said.

  ‘That’s most unfortunate,’ Hennessy remarked. The cigarette packet intrigued him.

  ‘What’s the writing about?’

  ‘It’s a ballad about the strike.’

  Rashers handed him the packet. Hennessy, screwing up his eyes, read:

  ‘Come all ye gallant Dublin crew and listen to my song

  Of working men and women too who fight the cruel wrong.’

  ‘What comes after that?’

  ‘Damn the bit of me knows,’ Rashers confessed, ‘it has me puckered.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Sing it at meetings and outside public houses.’

  ‘In the hope of making a few coppers?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Not a chance now,’ Hennessy said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The tide has gone out, oul skin. That’s why Mulhall sent me looking for Fitzpatrick.’ Hennessy handed back the cigarette packet.

  ‘The Liverpool Executive stopped the strike pay this morning.’

  Fitz was already down at the committee rooms, where Mulhall had been waiting in the hope of seeing him. The doors were still closed and the crowd grew as they talked. Men who would not normally have come until later in the evening arrived early because the story of the stoppage of the relief money had spread from street to street. There were carters, shipping workers, a number of hands from factories that had become involved in the spread of the stoppages. The rumour went that there would be no money at all. Mulhall was more optimistic.

  ‘Larkin collected in Cork,’ he said, ‘and as well as that the committee built up a relief fund through the collection boxes. There’s bound to be something.’

  ‘It’ll want to be a lot,’ Fitz said, looking at the crowd, ‘to go anywhere among this mob.’

  Joe joined them and after an hour Pat came along.

  ‘Trouble in our native land,’ he said.

  ‘The strike pay has been stopped,’ Fitz confirmed. There was still no sign of the doors being opened, so they moved over to the river wall. Down towards the sea, on the South Wall, cranes swivelled above ships.

  ‘It’s at times like this I wish I was a docker,’ Fitz said.

  ‘Or a sailor,’ Pat said. ‘Plenty of money and a wife in every port.’

  Joe, who had been brooding about the matter on and off, saw his opportunity and said:

  ‘What about the four pounds you left with Lily Maxwell?’

  Mulhall looked mildly curious. Fitz, glancing quickly at Pat’s face, knew that Joe had gone too far. It was one of those things which should never have been said.

  ‘I haven’t been able to see her,’ Pat said. Joe began to explain to Mulhall.

  ‘Imagine giving four pounds to mind to a . . .’

  But Fitz, his tone sharp and violently angry, cut him short.

  ‘Give it a rest.’

  Pat, who had been leaning on the wall, straightened and faced the three of them.

  ‘I promised Fitz two pounds of it and he’ll have it. I’ll pick her up.’

  ‘The girl might need it,’ Fitz said, ‘don’t go trailing her.’

  He was sorry for Pat, whose face showed pain and humiliation.

  ‘There’s no question of trailing her,’ Pat said, ‘the girl never wronged me of a penny piece. You’ll have two pounds tonight.’

  He left them abruptly. Mulhall looked after him and then asked: ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘His sweetheart let him down,’ Joe said, beginning to laugh.

  ‘Give it over, I told you,’ Fitz said, rounding on him.

  They went back to the hall and found it open, but the crowd outside seemed as dense as before. Someone Mulhall knew said: ‘They’re paying out inside.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘It’s reduced to five bob.’

  ‘Better than nothing.’ Mulhall remarked. He began to elbow his way in. Fitz and Joe followed. Inside they produced their cards to the first man of three sitting at a table. With a shock Fitz realised that he was looking at Jim Larkin.

  He was bigger than Fitz had imagined him and was smoking a black cheroot. The thumb of his left hand was stuck into the docker’s belt which he wore loosely about his waist. The man next to him made a quick entry in a book, the third man counted out five single shillings and handed them to Fitz, together with a printed notice which said:

  ‘Meeting This Evening At Parnell Square 5 p.m. sharp.

  Jim Larkin Will Speak

  Scabs Arriving

  Muster For Action

  Unity Is Strength’

  They reached the sunlight again.

  ‘It was Jim Larkin,’ Fitz said. The encounter had excited him. It was as though he had just seen personalised all the slogans and half-conceived ideas that had been the common currency of the past two months. Mulhall, more experienced in such matters, found it less remarkable.

  ‘How’s the time?’

  ‘I’ve no notion.’

  They walked together towards the city centre to consult the public clocks. It was half past four. All three were more or less hungry, yet they passed the bread shops and walked across restaurant gratings and were unaware for the moment of their drifting odours.

  ‘What’s that about scabs arriving?’ Joe asked, looking again at the badly printed notice.

  ‘That’s more of their dirty play.’

  ‘They did it in Belfast, didn’t they?’ Mulhall reminded them.

  They went on towards the square, where they found a few men with banners building a temporary platform against the ornamental railings. Four or five hundred men were spread about in loose groups, waiting. From the windows of Vaughan’s Hotel guests were watching curiously.

  ‘Anyone a cigarette?’ Fitz asked.

  Men were still arriving and the scattered groups began to move forward into a mass. After a while Fitz found himself hemmed in on either side and then, quite suddenly it seemed, the pressure of people jammed his shoulder tight against Mulhall’s. He looked towards the platform and saw that Larkin had mounted it. He began to address them.

  At first the accent was strange. Part Liverpool, part Irish, it produced immediate silence. The voice, flung back again from the high housefronts on the other side of the road, was the strongest Fitz had ever heard. From time to time the hands moved with an eloquence of their own. The strike pay had been withdrawn, he was saying, because the British Executive were indifferent to the sufferings of people in Dublin. For two months they had given them half-hearted support and now, the fight was proving too big. The Executive were afraid. It was laughable, he said, that trade union leaders with the broad waters of the Irish Sea between them and the field of action should be afraid, while the Dublin trade unionists were still full of courage and fighting fit. If they intended to withhold strike pay why was it not done at the beginning, before men had sacrificed themselves and their families throughout two long and bitter months?

  They answered with a cheer. Fitz found himself joining in. He saw Larkin’s hand upheld for silence and stopped. They were going to carry on, Larkin continued, with or without money. A sum had been collected which would keep them going for a while. The weekly payment would be even less than in the past, but they must see themselves as soldiers in the field, holding a position against odds, surrounded and cut off and ready to continue on short rations. He had information that a shipload of free labourers would arrive at the South Wall that evening. The answer to that would be to call out the dockers. He intended to address meetings on the South and the North Wall and hoped to bring work there to a standstill. In that way they would close the port of Dublin. The Government might then take a hand in persuading the employers to see reason.

  The meeting lasted almost an hour. At the end of it Fitz found himself in a column of marching men, headed by Larkin. As they rounded the corner o
f Parnell Square he looked back. A few hundred men in ranks of four stretched behind. They passed the Rotunda and met the first heavy traffic. Horse-drawn cabs pulled in to one side, trams came to a standstill, people on the footpaths stood to stare. After two months of doubt and idleness to have control of a city street, however briefly, was an exhilarating experience. They strode out strongly, turning left before crossing O’Connell Bridge. They found the approach to the North Quays blocked by a cordon of police in plenty of time to swing confidently to the right and across Butt Bridge, then left again along the approach to the south bank of the river. As they passed the closed gates of the marshalling yards men who had worked in them before the strike cheered derisively. Mulhall pointed out Doggett & Co. to Fitz. The gate was red and the firm’s name stood out on it in white painted letters. About two hundred yards below that they came to a second cordon of police and halted. At a distance behind the police the first gang of dockers were unloading and behind that they could see the masts of ships that were lying to and crane arms swinging backwards and forwards against the skyline.

  The police inspector stepped forward and Larkin went over on his own to meet him. In the centre of the few yards of dockside dividing the police from the strikers they parleyed for some minutes. The police were about sixty strong and the strikers, Fitz knew, had drawn too close. Anything would spark off a clash.

  ‘They won’t let us through,’ Mulhall predicted, while they waited.

  ‘Not a hope,’ Fitz said.

  ‘We could burst our way through,’ Joe said.

  ‘I’m on.’ Mulhall agreed.

  ‘Better wait and see what Larkin wants to do,’ Fitz advised.

  The pressure of body against body in the crowd behind him generated an excitement of itself which was already reckless and dangerous. The police inspector rejoined his column and Larkin returned. For a while nothing happened. Then the police, turning about, withdrew some yards and about-faced again. This time they drew their batons. Larkin pushed through the ranks of the strikers, reached one of the quayside capstans and mounted it. He began to address them.

  The police, he said, had closed the quays. They said it was to avoid disturbances but that was not the truth. It was to aid and abet the employers in their plan to import free labour. The Government had made its police force the minions of the employers instead of the servants of all the citizens. The answer to that was to close the port, not for a day or two days, but until such time as the demands of the men on strike had been conceded. He was going to address the dockers, despite employers and governments and police, and he would do so within the hour. Meanwhile he appealed to them to have trust in him and to promise that in his absence their demonstration would continue to be orderly and disciplined. He was helped down from the capstan and struggled towards the back of the crowd.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Joe asked generally.

  ‘How is he supposed to talk to the dockers?’ Mulhall wondered, ‘both sides of the river are cordoned off.’

  ‘He might get through on his own over on the North Bank.’

  The men had broken rank and were gathered in a crowd. With Larkin gone there was no longer a focal point. Some of them lined up against the gates of the marshalling yards and shared cigarettes. The police, seeing the situation losing its tension, put away their batons.

  ‘Come on,’ Mulhall said. Fitz and Joe followed him over to the wall and they stood with their backs to Doggett & Co.’s gate.

  ‘If there’s a heave we don’t want to end up in the river,’ Mulhall explained, looking over at the unprotected quayside.

  There was no sign of any slackening of work along the river. The cranes continued to swing, the rattle of horse-drawn floats and distant shouts mingled and drifted; it was the familiar voice of the riverside. A man who knew Mulhall came across and said:

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We were instructed to wait,’ Mulhall said.

  ‘Some of the lads at the back want to get on with it.’

  ‘That’s what I think too,’ Joe said.

  ‘We could easily break through. What do you say?’ He was speaking to Fitz, who said:

  ‘I say we should hold tight, but I’m willing to do what Mulhall thinks best.’

  Mulhall looked across at the police.

  ‘We’d break through all right,’ he said, ‘because they’d let us. But you’d find they’ve reserves up every side street. And when they got us between them they’d let us have it.’

  ‘I don’t think we should be afraid of the police,’ the man objected.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Fitz said, pointing towards the police. A second column had approached from behind and was spreading out in formation behind them.

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Mulhall said.

  A cheer began from behind. At first they thought the men were jeering at the reinforcements, but after a moment they realised that all heads were turning in the direction of the river. They could see nothing because of the crowd in front.

  ‘Up here,’ Mulhall said, turning to the wall. They climbed up after each other.

  Fitz, who reached the top first, shouted ‘Look’ and pointed.

  A rowing boat was moving downriver, manned by four oarsmen. Standing in the centre and waving to the men on shore was Larkin. The boat drew level with the police cordon, passed it and went on towards the unloading docks. A detachment of police left the main body and moved down the quayside, keeping pace with it.

  Mulhall, deflated, said: ‘They’ll get him when he tries to land.’

  But Larkin’s intention came suddenly to Fitz. He gripped Mulhall’s arm tightly and shouted:

  ‘He won’t land. He’ll speak to them from the boat.’

  A hush fell on the crowd and they heard, after what seemed an age, the distant but still recognisable tones. What he was saying was lost, but the effect soon became clear. The nearest crane arm completed its semicircle and remained still. So did the next. Then, at intervals that grew shorter as the word spread from gang to gang, crane after crane became immobilised. They watched in silence as the paralysis spread. Yard by yard and ship by ship, the port was closing down. The cordon of police opened to form a narrow laneway, and through this the first contingent of striking dockers filed to join the demonstrators. Their arrival started a movement in the crowd which spread through it rapidly.

  ‘Let’s get down,’ Fitz suggested.

  ‘Stay put,’ Mulhall warned.

  The cheering had grown wilder and the movement, reaching the rear, stopped for a moment and then began to surge forward. The front lines moved nearer to the police, hesitated, then surged forward once again. The police, deciding the moment of initiative, drew their batons and charged.

  The mass of bodies shuddered as it took the impact, gave ground a little, but held. Fitz, looking down on the swaying bodies, wondered at the foolishness of the police action. Caught on one side by the wall and threatened by the river on the other, the crowd tightened and became impenetrable. There was no room to scatter and therefore no option but to stand firm. Already a number of men had been forced over the quayside into the water. Some of the police, detached from their colleagues, went down and were left behind, while the main body, finding the pressure irresistible, retreated and tried to hold together. The struggle continued back along the quays until the first side street offered a channel of escape, through which men streamed thickly from the main body. Fitz saw the mass thinning, and the police, the pressure at last released, stopping to regroup. Up the road from where they sat were three or four casualties of the charge. He climbed down and walked towards them. One man, with a deep gash along the side of his head, needed help urgently. Fitz turned and called to Mulhall.

  ‘Have a look at this.’ The man was barely conscious. His shirt and the collar of his coat were stained heavily with blood.

  ‘Can we lift him?’ Mulhall asked, when he had reached them.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to.’

  �
�There’s a stretcher in the first-aid room back in Doggett’s,’ Mulhall remembered.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Joe offered.

  ‘Will there be someone there?’

  ‘There’s bound to be a watchman,’ Mulhall said. It seemed the best thing. Doggett’s was only a short distance away. Fitz agreed.

  ‘Does he know how to use the telephone?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Get him to call the ambulance while you’re there.’

  When they had gone he lifted the injured man gently so that his arm made a rest for his head. It helped to slow down the flow of blood. Beyond that there was little he could do. The area immediately around them was deserted, but further along the riverside men still hung around in groups. Fitz, wondering uneasily where the police had got to, wished that Joe and Mulhall would hurry. The man in his arms was unconscious and breathing heavily, the wound was open and ugly, about him the painted gateways and dusty cobbles wore an air of brooding menace. He looked behind him and there was no sign of help.

  ‘Mulhall,’ he shouted, hardly knowing why. There was no answer. The injured man began to moan. It seemed to Fitz that the others had been gone for an hour. His arm under the head began to ache unbearably, the evening light bathed the cobbles about him with an oppressive light that seemed to press on him physically. At last he caught sight of Mulhall and Joe. They moved towards him for a short distance and stopped. He waved his free arm at them to hurry, but they signalled wildly to him and shouted. He looked downriver again and froze. The isolated groups had formed into a crowd again and were racing towards him. It was another baton charge, this time with the police in control. He heard Mulhall shouting to him to run, but the head on his arm, helpless and bloody, held him fixed where he was. He hugged the injured man tighter, until the bedlam of legs and bodies milled about him on all sides, cutting out the light, tripping over him, throwing him to the ground with his broken burden now lying beneath him. A heavily booted foot caught him on the forehead as it passed and he lost consciousness.