by Tom Hourie
I was on the truck gang, the lowest level in the dockworkers’ pecking order. I spent twelve hours a day pushing wooden trolleys filled everything from untanned cowhides to hogsheads of tobacco over distances ranging from a few feet to hundreds of yards. I once calculated I travelled about thirty miles in a typical day.
My first day on the gang was as close as I ever hope to come to hell. I kept losing my footing on the slippery duckboards and the skin began peeling from my hands. Percy found me an old pair of leather gloves which I had to soak off at the end of the day because they were stuck in place by the fluid oozing from my blisters.
I was too tired to eat when I got back to The Cowans’. I lay down on the daybed in Schrödinger’s van and fell asleep with my clothes on.
The rest of the first week was much the same. Every shift was a battle for survival. I learned to treat each ship-to-warehouse trip as separate challenge, unconnected to the day as a whole.
Things got a little bit better by the second week. My hands had become callused and I was able to dispense with the gloves. My muscles still ached but I had started to learn some tricks to reduce the amount of physical energy needed to move the trolleys.
It took about five weeks for me to hit my stride. Muscle had replaced the flab on my upper body and thighs and the palms of my hands were like shoe leather. My personal graduation day came one blistering hot afternoon when we were running a load of molasses through the weigh station and onto a sloped wooden ramp leading to the loading dock. The foreman, a burly Glasewegian named Dalzeil, had been promised a bonus if we got the job done by the end of the day and was riding us mercilessly. I had just finished trolleying another barrel onto the scale when I heard the sound of someone cursing. I looked over and saw that one of the molasses barrels had fallen from the loading ramp and was now lying across Dalzeil’s right knee, pinning him to the floor.
“Well don’t just stand there, ye great gobshite,” Dalzeil roared. “Run and get Billy Preston before this hoor crushes me leg.”
Preston, the strongest man on our crew would have had no trouble shifting the barrel, but I had no idea where he was. In any case, I could see that the reason the barrel had come loose was that one of the ramp’s side rails had broken leaving a second barrel teetering dangerously over Dalzeil’s head. If the second barrel fell, a broken leg would be the least of the Scotchman’s problems. I ran over to the foreman and wiped the sweat from my eyes. Bending my knees, I wrapped my arms around the underside of the barrel and tried to straighten my legs. At first I couldn’t get a grip and my hands came loose. I wiped them on my pants and tried again. This time the barrel shifted and I managed to stand it on end.
Dalzeil rose unsteadily, clutching his bruised knee. I could see he was in extreme pain which made me treasure his next words all the more. He pulled himself erect, spat on the floor and looked me directly in the eye. “Ye’ll do,” he said. The sense of pride I felt was overwhelming. Better than the day I got my Masters.
Max the cat had no such problems settling in. He soon established himself as the neighborhood’s toughest feline brawler, no small feat in a place where a cat’s life had all the civility of the exercise yard in a Mexican prison. He would come back to the Cowan’s after a day’s combat and settle into Sarah’s lap, purring while she cleaned his wounds. Then he would eat his dinner of fish scraps and settle into a corner with the contented air of a cat who knows he has done his duty.
Sarah had also made a place for herself in the east end. Her defining moment came one evening courtesy of a fishmonger named Horace Malone. Percy and I were playing pitch penny on the street in front of the Cowan’s house when we heard a cry of “Bloody Hell!” from the fishmonger’s three doors down. We looked and saw Malone, the fishmonger clutching his left arm.
“Cut meself with a fillet knife,” he said when we went to help. I looked at the blood gushing from the six-inch wound and knew we had to do something fast. I seemed to remember that the first thing to do was apply pressure so I grabbed his arm with both hands and did my best to clamp the separated edges of the cut together. I had no idea what to do next. Then I remembered what Sarah had said about studying nursing at the Florence Nightingale Institute.
“Go fetch Sarah,” I told Percy, “And tell her to bring a needle and thread.”
“The first thing we need is boiling water,” Sarah said, when she arrived on the scene.
“Got some on the stove in back,” Malone said, through gritted teeth. “I was just about to make tea.”
“Have you any salt?” Sarah asked.
“I wouldn’t be much of a fishmonger if I didn’t,” Malone said. “Over there on the cutting board.”
Sarah dropped a large block of salt into the tea kettle and waited for the water to cool. She then poured the saline solution into the open wound causing Malone to cry out in pain.
“Do be quiet,” she said. “You’ve no one but yourself to blame. Hand me my sewing kit would you please, Percy?”
A large crowd of spectators had gathered to watch Sarah fasten the skin flaps together and their murmurs of approval gave way to a round of applause when she finished the last neat suture.
“Malone, you got more stitches than a football,” someone observed.
“And a pig’s bladder like a football,” said someone else.
“I won’t tell you lot what to do with yourselves because I don’t want to offend our Sarah,” Malone said.
“Good point,” said one of his tormentors. “Way you handle that fillet knife you never know when you might need her again.”
And that’s how Sarah became the go-to girl for small, and not-so-small medical emergencies in the neighborhood. Not only did you get patched up, but you also got a free scolding with each repair.
“Do be more careful next time. Another inch and you would have lost the eye.”
“Serves you right. Dogs don’t like it when you tease them.”
“If you must take shortcuts, try to keep them within ten feet of the ground.”
The east end was hell on earth by the standards of the world I had left. The air was thick with smoke, dust and the smells of unregulated industry; the water around the docks was rainbowed with grease and filled with the carcasses of dead animals and rotting fish; non-existent sanitation standards resulted in frequent outbreaks of cholera and typhus.
Even so, I liked it there. The shared struggle for survival gave the place a sense of community that has been almost lost in 21st century America.
But not everyone shared my rosy view. The east-end seethed with political turbulence. Communists, Fabians, Anarchists and Laborites offered competing solutions to the afflictions of poverty, disease and squalor.
One of the activists, a red-haired Irishman named Willie Fitzgerald, seemed to take a particular interest in trying to convert me. “Brother Liddel,” he would say. “We’re holding a meeting tonight at the Bakers’ Hall. We’d love to see you there.”
“Thanks Willie,” I’d answer. “But tonight’s my night host the sewing circle.”
“Sew us up a new flag then. The old one’s getting stiff with the blood of our martyred dead.”
For every action, there is a reaction. The civil authorities saw the politicization of the east end as a threat to the rule of law and the vested interests sensed a danger to their way of life.
The most visible sign of upper-class unease took form as The British League of Fascists or BLF, led by Sir Osgood Wellesley, the sixth Baronet of Ancaster. Wellesley was outspoken in his condemnation of the new working-class politicians, stating they were ‘nothing more than a pack of rabble-rousers financed by Jews.’
These competing visions of Britain’s future amounted to no more than a war of words at first, since the rival groups never met face-to-face. The false peace ended one Sunday morning in a riot that was to become legend.
Chapter XXXIV:
A Proclamation – The Battle
The first sign of trouble came in the form of governmen
t notices posted on lampposts announcing that the British League of Fascists had received permission to conduct a march the following Sunday. They planned to start at the Tower of London and finish at Victoria Park where Sir Osgood Wellesley would address his followers. Instead of taking the most direct route, the BLF proposed to go through the heart of the East End along
Gable Street and up Grove Road. While it is understood that this event may offend some persons, Her Majesty’s Government has reached the decision that the principles of free speech override any such concerns. All persons should be advised that a suitable contingent of police officers will accompany the marchers to ensure that peace and good order are maintained.
“Bloody cheek,” Percy said, after reading one of the notices. “Like to see what they’d do if our lot wanted to march through Mayfair to Hyde Park. Wouldn’t be any free speech then.”
You could sense the tension growing in the East End as the week progressed. Everywhere you looked, the walls were painted with the whitewashed slogan ‘They Shall Not Pass.’ The air was electric on Sunday, as though a thunderstorm were about to break.
Percy had been looking forward to the march as though it were being staged for his personal entertainment. “Come on, Bob,” he said when he shook me awake that morning. “Let’s go down to
Gable Street and have a butchers.” “Who exactly are you planning to butcher?” I said, once again wishing Percy came with subtitles.
“A butcher’s hook. A look.”
There had to be at least thirty thousand people waiting on
Gable Street. I had never seen so many contrasting factions in one place. According to their hand-painted banners and flags, they represented everything from The Workers’ Revolutionary Party to The Hebrew Protection League. Percy and I found a vantage point next to a spike-tipped wrought iron fence surrounding the Jewish Cemetery. The waiting crowd was silent, apart from the occasional murmured comment or outburst of nervous laughter. I remember thinking this is what it must have been like at the center of the Union line while they waited for Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.
The military overtones became even more pronounced when the distant brrmp-brrmp of a snare drum echoed through the still air accompanied by the tramp of marching feet and a chorus of male voices.
Comrades, the voices of the dead battalions,
Of those who fell that Britain might be great,
Join in our song, for they still march within us,
And urge us on to gain the fascist state!
We're of their blood, and spirit of their spirit,
Sprung from that soil for whose dear sake they bled,
Against the vested powers, and masses of the Red Front,
We lead the fight for freedom and for bread!
Our first sight of the black-shirts took the form of a tall man in a black uniform riding a large chestnut gelding. Sir Osgood Wellesley stopped his horse when he saw us and leaned over to say something to the mounted police sergeant who was in charge of his escort. The riders parted and we heard the clanking tracks of two steam-powered armored vehicles equipped with water cannon.
“This works out nicely,” observed one of the waiting east-enders. “I missed me bath last month.”
A high pressure jet of water issued from the turret of the nearest armored car and traversed the line of protestors. People fell to the cobblestones and were swept aside like so much debris. But the line did not break. The crowd linked arms and formed a solid chain which was impervious to the violent flow of water.
I’ve always rooted for the underdog. If I’m watching a football game, I cheer for whichever team is behind. Maybe that accounts for what I did next.
“Percy,” I said. “Pick up a cobblestone and follow my lead. I’ll take the right car and you take the left.”
We ran down the street hugging the walls, leap frogging from one doorway to the next. When I reached the first armored car I jammed my paving stone between its tread and the lower idler wheel. The car veered sharply left and plunged forward into the wall of nearest building where the tread split and fell off onto the street.
Percy put the second car out of action soon afterwards and we ran back up the street to the cheers and safety of the waiting crowd.
Willie Fitzgerald, my would-be recruiter, was especially congratulatory. “I always knew you were a man of action Brother Liddel,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “I do wish you would join us. We need people like you.”
“Thanks Willie,” I said, “but the sewing circle does take up most of my time.”
“Well perhaps you could sew us up a few bayonets, ‘cause the buggers have brought in the cavalry.” He pointed down the street where a contingent of mounted policeman had formed up in line abreast and were coming toward us at the walk. Each blue-coated rider had a heavy truncheon resting across his saddle.
“No bayonets, but how about that fence over there?” I said, pointing toward the cemetery.
Willie looked over and saw what I was talking about. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled up a group of his mates who ran over to the fence, pulled it out and brought it back in one piece.
“Jam the base into the cobblestones and lean the spikes toward the horses,” I shouted.
The lines of policemen were now coming at the gallop. We no sooner had the fence in place when the first riders were upon us. Each man knelt down, bracing his section of the fence so that the high spikes protected him from the policemen’s swinging truncheons.
Some of the first riders tried to get their mounts to jump the fence but the terrified animals refused. The second line of attackers collided with the first and the air filled with the whinnying screams of horses and the curses of their riders, many of whom were thrown to the ground. The riderless horses turned tail and ran back down the street where they collided with the front ranks of the black-shirted marchers.
“Now’s our chance lads,” Willie Fitzgerald shouted, seeing the disarray in the ranks of the BLF. He grabbed a flagpole from one of his mates and unfurled a plain red flag. Waving it aloft, he charged toward the black-shirts followed by a howling crowd of east-enders.
For the first time in my life, I experienced the almost narcotic release that comes from surrendering to the will of a group. I was part of a surging tsunami of rage that bore inexorably down on the black-shirts. Wellesley’s followers stared at us in disbelief. They simply could not credit the possibility that their ‘inferiors’ would stand up to them.
Wellesley left the scene as soon as he saw us coming. He urged his horse down a side street and abandoned his followers to their fate.
What became known as The Battle of Gable Street started as a series of skirmishes between the front ranks of the two opposing crowds. Willie Fitzgerald and his Red Brigade set upon a group of club-wielding Fascists. A group of bearded Hasidim fought a pitched battle with a cluster of black-shirts holding a banner depicting a hook-nosed Jew with blood-covered vampire fangs.
The melee turned into a series of one-on-one struggles as the two groups became intermingled. The black-shirts favored a stylized, knuckles-high style of pugilism that was ill-equipped to deal with the east enders’ kicks and head-butts. Even so, they held their own at first, notwithstanding the chamber pots and bricks being pelted at them by screaming housewives leaning out of second-story windows overhead.
The tide turned in favor of the home team after a few minutes and the black-shirts started to retreat. I was about to join in the chase when I saw Percy being man-handled toward a police van by two beefy constables. I ran up behind them and kicked the larger of the two in the knee, causing him to fall to the cobblestones. His comrade turned on me and the last thing I remember was the words ‘bolshie bastard’ and a brass knuckle-duster arcing down at my head.
Chapter XXXV:
A Field Hospital – Stitches
I awoke to find myself in an improvised first-aid station set up in the Bakers’ Hall. Scores of wounded lay on the bare wooden floor, m
ost with minor injuries, but some with broken bones or deep cuts that stained their clothing red. For all their pain, the injured rioters were in a cheery mood.
“Did them buggers up a treat, didn’t we?” said a Scotsman with a broken arm. “Bet they’ll think twice before showing their ugly mugs around here again.”
Sarah was attending to the more serious injuries assisted by Edith Cowan and some of the other neighborhood women. Percy stood over her watching as she and his mother splinted the Scotsman’s arm.
“Shove off Percy, there’s a good lad,” his mother said. “Can’t you see we’re chock a block?”
“You might want to send Sarah over to our Bob next,” Percy said. “He’s in a bad way.”
“He will just have to wait his turn,” Sarah said. “Where is he anyway?”
Percy pointed at me and her expression changed. “Can you finish this one, Edith?” she asked.
If I had been expecting sympathy I had come to the wrong place. “How could you be so bloody stupid?” she asked, as she inspected the three-inch flap of skin hanging from my right cheek. “This isn’t even your country.”
“Maybe not, but he saved me going to the nick,” Percy said. “That makes him one of us in my book.”
“Well this is going to hurt and it serves him right,” Sarah said, unfastening the bag that held her sutures. I was interested to note that she had somehow come by a supply of catgut since the day she had repaired Malone’s arm.