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 The strike pay had been withdrawn, he was saying, because the British Executive were indifferent to the sufferings of people in Dublin.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 of 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.