by Mick Lowe
McAdoo, meanwhile, spun on his heels, and advanced once again towards the crowd. “Oh, yes!” he roared, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand. “The godless Commies think they’ve got us beat! But what do we say about that?” “No!” “Shame!” “Bullshit!” the mob sputtered back.
McAdoo leaned forward, cupped a hand to his ear.
“Fuck them!” a single voice could be heard, screaming above the roar, and then came the startling, soul-satisfying sound of shattering plate glass as someone threw a heavy object through the front door of the Hall.
Hoople held his breath then, and kept his eye on the police car. A blood-curdling roar greeted the sudden sound of the glass breaking. The intensity level ratcheted up a notch. Any minute Hoople expected to see a policeman emerge from the cruiser, moving against the miscreant who had heaved the brick. But no such intervention was forthcoming.
Jake, who had been sitting with his chair tilted casually but comfortably back against the wall, now sat down with the chair squarely on the floor, instantly alert. He redoubled his grip on the fire hose. Adrenalin flowing and heart pounding, Jake was now wide awake.
He was still sitting that way when the second rock came crashing through the door his father was guarding. Big Bill was unmoved, which Jake found reassuring, but not surprising.
After that the sound of breaking glass became almost commonplace, as the mob, venting its frustration, began the systematic trashing of the Mine Mill Hall.
As the cool, fresh evening air began to draft into the building through all the broken windows, Jake reflected that it was a good thing the siege hadn’t occurred a few months earlier—in winter the cold alone might well have forced them out of the building.
The noise of the mob—and even of McAdoo’s hectoring voice—could now be clearly heard by both Jake and his dad. The mob had by now long since forgotten their thirst for booze.
Now, they were thirsty for blood.
31
The Siege Is Lifted
Outside the Hall there had been a subtle shift in the mood of the mob, Hoople sensed. As McAdoo continued to berate them and as the windows were systematically smashed out one by one, the rabble began to forget the compelling urge to return to their watering holes back down in the Borgia. No, this was something more important, bigger than any one of them, a transcendent moment that might happen only once in a man’s lifetime. This was history, something more intoxicating even than booze. They were enlistees in some grand, sweeping—but real-life—drama, the likes of which Sudbury had never seen. McAdoo’s histrionics had succeeded beyond Henry Hoople’s fondest hopes, and Hoople himself joined in the shouts of approval and prolonged applause that greeted the union president as he finished his speech and hopped down on to the roof of the car that had brought him, retracing his steps back down on to the hood, the bumper, and, at last, back down on the ground, where he was quickly encircled by admiring, back-slapping well-wishers.
The crowd was now all for rushing the building, an impulse tempered by the assumption that Tommy Rafftery and his thugs still awaited, fire hoses at the ready, at the top of the entrance stairs. Jake and his father were, in fact, prepared to start blasting away with high-pressure jets of water at anyone foolhardy enough to come anywhere near the now windowless front doors. The force would have been sufficient to push any such would-be intruder back on his heels, but no one ventured close enough to test the McCools.
Instead, the mob turned its attention to a throwing contest, to see who could be the first to smash out the upstairs windows of the Union Hall. It wasn’t easy. At first missiles would smash harmlessly to the right, and then to the left, of the target window. They would crash loudly, but to little effect, against the stout yellow brick façade of the fortress-like building on Regent Street. Each such attempt would be greeted by enthusiastic cheers or collective sighs of dismay from the crowd of onlookers. The first successful projectile was sent sailing through Spike Sworski’s window by the most improbable of contestants, Shakey Akerley himself. His successful throw was greeted by a wild, joyous cheer that turned Shakey into an instant sidewalk celebrity, whose broad, toothless grin was captured for one rapturous moment in the glare of the police car floodlight as the crowd surged and swirled around him, slapping his back and hugging him warmly. It was, arguably, the highlight of Akerley’s life.
“Hoople’s alarm clocks,” Jake muttered to his father as, one by one, the trashing of the building’s windows continued to punctuate the silence around them. Big Bill simply grunted in response. The sound of breaking glass had now become so commonplace that Jake was no longer startled by the racket or the loud cheers that came after it.
The wee small hours of the morning dragged slowly, as both sides settled in for an indefinite stand-off. Jake longed for daybreak as he fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, trying in vain to ease the numbness in his backside. He didn’t dare walk around, or even stand up for a moment, lest the bloodthirsty mob outside suddenly decide to rush the building. If he was this antsy, how much more difficult must this be for his old man? But the elder McCool sat stoically, his gaze fixed on the door in front of him, in a state of constant vigilance. Jake had to admire his father’s single-minded determination to see this through. He might be way over his fighting weight and he smoked too much, but his father was still a tough old bird, Jake thought with admiration. The older man’s stamina and determination helped maintain Jake’s own resolve, which flagged often enough as he glanced at his watch, only to discover that few minutes had passed since the last time he checked. Jake’s mind wandered aimlessly in the darkened boredom as the night dragged on. His thoughts strayed from one to another, scattershot.
“Dad, do you think we’ll ever get back to fighting the company?” Jake asked finally, at last giving voice to his inmost thoughts and doubts.
“Eh? What’s that, Son?” asked Big Bill, startled out of his own reveries.
“Well, you know, it’s been four years now since we’ve negotiated a new contract—no raises, and the contract language hasn’t changed …”
“Oh.” The same question had been front of mind and on the lips of many a Mine Mill veteran, and now here it was, out of the mouth of a babe. Big Bill swallowed. He found himself delivering the stock answer. “Well, son, if we can just get these friggin’ Steelworkers off our backs and get the Local turned back right side up, a’ course we’ll get back to bargaining for a new agreement, you’ll see …”
The small hours were difficult for Henry Hoople, too. His crowd had quietened considerably since McAdoo had ended his harangue, and now, Hoople knew, the hour of truth was fast approaching: last call down below, in the Borgia.
The members of his mob knew it, too. Hoople could feel the growing tension as the downtown recruits wavered between hurrying back down the hill in time for one last drink, or staying put to see what would happen next.
A few began to drift away as the critical hour approached, and Hoople could overhear the casual conversations that preceded the defections.
“Hey Shakey! You comin’ down?”
“Naw, reckon not. Think I’d rather stay here.” Akerley flashed a toothless, and somewhat rueful, grin. Hoople marked the old rubbie’s newfound fidelity to the cause, vowing to himself that it would not go unrewarded. Bill Akerley’s finest hour.
Meanwhile, Jake digested his father’s words. “Yeah, I guess so.” He tried to sound positive, but even he could sense the undertone of doubt in his response.
Silence descended as both of the McCools returned to their respective nocturnal reveries.
Meanwhile in front of the Hall, Hoople’s crowd continued to melt away. Not a serious concern—he still had enough troops to maintain the siege—but reinforcements were no longer arriving. Hoople’s thoughts turned, suddenly, to Hartley Hubbs. The radio newsman was no longer maintaining the promised hourly vigil. But of course! CKSO had signed off for the night at midnight, so there’d be no further support coming from that quarter until morning. No b
ig deal, Hoople rationalized. How many people would be listening to the radio at this hour, anyway? With no windows left intact in the building, even that form of sporting excitement had been exhausted.
Back inside the Hall the father-son dialogue continued. Jake contemplated his father’s words in silence for a time, formulating a response. “Yeah, but won’t McAdoo still be president when this is all over? I mean, come on, Dad, we can’t stay here forever. We can’t live here in the Mine Mill Hall!”
This time it was Big Bill’s turn to mull a response. “No, but McAdoo did swear a solemn oath to uphold and protect the Mine Mill Constitution, an oath he’s clearly violated now that he’s been exposed as nothing more than a Steelworker front man. Even the courts agreed with that …”
“Yeah, but Dad, he’s still the democratically elected president! He’s gonna sit in Spike’s chair some day, no matter what.”
“Maybe so, Son, but first let’s just get through this night. Then we’ll see what tomorrow brings …”
“Okay, fair enough, Dad.” Jake resumed his vigil in silence, as did his father. The brief dialogue had helped Jake pass the time, but not nearly enough. Would morning ever come? he wondered anxiously as he searched in vain for the first telltale lightening of the sky outside. Thank God they were this far advanced in the early spring, when the days were growing noticeably longer!
Nights were absolutely interminable in the depths of the Sudbury winter, when there was barely eight hours of daylight. This night was long enough, Jake thought, as he squirmed in his chair impatiently.
But what wouldn’t Hoople’s troops have given to trade places with Jake! They had been on their feet now since the evening, shuffling uncomfortably to change position, even pacing a bit here and there, but now, to a man, their backs ached constantly from the strain of standing for hours on the hard sidewalk outside the Hall. Hoople admired their fortitude. But then, a lot of them were war vets, combat troops who had endured considerable hardship in their time. At least the intervening years of swapping endless, rye-soaked war stories in the city’s many Canadian Legion branches and Borgia dive bars hadn’t entirely rounded those rough edges off, Hoople reflected gratefully.
“Hear that?”
Jake hadn’t.
“Listen, Son.” Big Bill cocked his head toward the outdoors.
Jake listened intently, and then heard, over the steady noise of the shuffling, coughing, muttering multitude what his father was referring to—the first timorous trills of birdsong!
“The dawn chorus, Jake. Just starting. Daylight won’t be long now, you’ll see.”
Outside, it was Shakey Akerley who first noticed the change in the sky. He nudged the fellow next to him, “See that?” he nodded upward, toward the sky.
“Yeah! I do, by God! It’s just starting to get light!”
Soon enough the distinctive flat light of daybreak was all around them. For the first time they were able to see the detritus of their all-night vigil—the sidewalk was littered with countless cigarette butts, discarded empty cigarette packs and sundry other garbage.
And the next thing Henry Hoople knew, there was Hartley Hubbs, microphone in hand once again, broadcasting live from the scene of the dramatic stand-off outside the Mine Mill Hall. The city, Hoople sensed, was beginning to wake up.
The tandem of daybreak and Hubbs combined to bring further novelty to the party—for the first time onlookers began to gather on the sidewalks and streets outside the Union Hall, swelling the crowd still further and creating even more congestion.
These newcomers, who were merely curious, idle early risers with no allegiance to either side in the dispute were soon joined by another party with a very distinct interest, Sheriff Gaston Lemieux. His unmarked and very nondescript grey Chevy pulled up beside the Sudbury police cruiser whose occupants had yet to emerge despite the night’s riotous proceedings. Lemieux’s was a largely symbolic position, a coveted patronage sinecure that included a comfortable courthouse office, a full complement of clerical and administrative staff to do his bidding and the certain knowledge that he would rarely have to emerge from the comfort and quietude of the courthouse to actually enforce the peace—there was a squad of bailiffs and deputies at his command to attend to that. Evictions and the processing of court orders were their usual bailiwick.
However, on this morning, Sheriff Lemieux, bespectacled in horn-rimmed glasses and wearing a bowler-like Stetson, did climb out of his car and take an immediate look around. For some reason his gaze soon came to rest on Henry Hoople.
“Who’s in charge here?” he demanded evenly of Hoople, who merely shrugged and pointed in the direction of Bob McAdoo, who had just begun to puff contentedly on his freshly lit morning cigar.
Lemieux then approached McAdoo, repeating his question, only to have McAdoo, who struggled to suppress his irritation at this interruption of his peaceful morning smoke, point grudgingly back at Hoople. “I dunno, Sheriff Lemieux, I swear I don’t. Never seen most of these people before in my life. They were all out here when we got here. Hoople over there—Henry Hoople—he’s your man.” McAdoo appeared the very soul of wounded innocence.
Lemieux was an easy-going type, but he was becoming visibly irritated by the runaround as he returned to Hoople. “Now listen here, Hooper—”
“Hoople,” interjected Hoople.
“Okay, Hoople,” corrected Lemieux. “I want to know what’s going on here. These people just can’t be out here blocking the street like this.”
Hoople looked the lawman up and down. Even with the Stetson, Lemieux barely came up to Hoople’s chest. Hoople nodded agreeably, decided to play for time.
“Yessir, there Sheriff, I see your point all right. But the thing is, these people just showed up here last night, of their own accord, to engage in a free and democratic protest against the godless Communism that is threatening our free and democratic, God-fearing society.”
Lemieux frowned and nodded impatiently. “That may be, son, but you’ve made your point. I want these people cleared off the street in five minutes, or so help me I’ll read the Riot Act, swear to God I will!”
The confrontation between the sheriff and Hoople drew the interest of Hartley Hubbs, who, microphone in hand, was making his way through the crowd, pausing at intervals to interview random bystanders, drawing ever closer to Hoople and the bespectacled sheriff. Hubbs could sense that the real news was being made by whatever was transpiring between the lawman and the union man. But the tense dialogue was already drawing to a close by the time Hubbs reached the pair. “Five minutes, got that?” Hoople nodded reassuringly, and Lemieux spun on his heels and returned to his idling Chevy. “Troubles, Henry?” Hubbs inquired mildly of Hoople, shoving his mic in Hoople’s face.
“Naw, Hartley, nothing we can’t handle … Now listen here, you folks, we need you to step back a bit, over across the street …” Hoople turned to the crowd with his arms outstretched, attempting to herd them away from the front of the building. But he had earlier sown the seeds of discord, and now he was reaping the whirlwind. In the cold light of morning his troops were tired, disgruntled and thirsty—in no mood to follow orders, and even as one section of the crowd yielded dutifully before his outstretched arms, another, sullen and just as large, would surge in to take its place. It was, Hoople quickly realized, like herding cats, and he soon gave up the attempt.
Lemieux watched Hoople through the windshield of his patrol car with growing impatience. He climbed out of his vehicle a few minutes later and approached Hoople once again, this time clutching a sheaf of papers. At the same time Lemieux’s deputy walked to the back of the squad car and opened the trunk. He reached in and pulled out some kind of weapon—it looked like a shotgun with an oversized barrel to Hoople—and broke it open, inserting a cylindrical canister into the breach. The gesture was not lost on Hoople—the sheriff was prepared to loose tear gas on the unruly, milling crowd.
“Now see here, Hoople. We’ve got rush hour about to start out th
ere,” Lemieux gestured at the city that lay around them in the greying dawn, “and we’ve got to have this street re-opened! I gave you time, and fair warning, to move these folks along, but nothing much happened, so now I’m going to read the Riot Act.”
Lemieux began to read aloud from the papers in his hand, raising his voice in a vain attempt to make himself heard above the growling murmur of the tired, testy crowd.
“Our Sovereign Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the Second chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business, on the pains contained in the Act made in the first year of King George the First for preventing tumult and riotous assemblies.
“GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!” Lemieux concluded at the top of his lungs.
A few of the rabble within immediate earshot began to respond to the royal salute by rote, repeating the words in a raggedly cadenced chorus before the full meaning of the ancient message began to sink in. They had no habitations, to speak of, to depart to, and certainly no lawful business. “God save the—aw, fuck you!”
“Yeh, God bugger the Queen!”
“Better yet, why don’t you go bugger the Queen?”
General mirth bubbled up around these rejoinders, and Hoople foresaw nothing but trouble. He moved quickly over to McAdoo. “They’re gonna teargas us, Bob! We gotta move these people outta here right now!”
McAdoo yanked the half-smoked stogie from his mouth, threw it down in disgust, and ground it into the pavement with the sole of his shoe. Another perfectly good morning smoke wasted.
“All right, all right, Henry.” he growled. “I’ll take as many of ’em as I can fit in my car.”