‘I don’t think he’ll turn up. Do you?’
‘I don’t see how he can,’ Hennessy agreed.
‘Even the Quality follow him around now,’ the stranger said. ‘There’s plenty of them about this morning.’ They surveyed the street together, noting the number of well-dressed citizens in the crowd. Cars and carriages passed up and down. Despite the efforts of the police, groups were gathering and swelling at various points in the street. There was an air of holiday.
‘What time is it?’ Hennessy enquired. The man produced his watch.
‘Wearing up to half past one.’
‘Time for a bit to eat,’ Hennessy said.
‘Have a look at his jills,’ the man said.
Hennessy looked. A stooped, frock-coated old man with a beard and a tall silk hat was being helped from a cab by the coachman and a young lady. He leaned on her arm and paused to look about the street.
‘Wouldn’t you think he’d have a bit of sense,’ the man remarked, ‘at his age.’
They watched as the old man, still leaning heavily on the arm of the girl, was led into the hotel.
‘The niece . . . would you say?’ Hennessy speculated.
‘I would. With an eye on the money, waiting for God to see fit to call the poor oul fella.’
‘He looks the sort that would have plenty of it.’
‘That’s what keeps them alive. No worries and plenty of money. Ah well.’
‘The good God made a queer division,’ Hennessy said. As they moved away people detached themselves from the crowd on the far side of the street and began to move towards them. Others joined in, until the whole street seemed on the move. Hennessy looked behind him. The figure of the frock-coated old man stood on the balcony above the street. Hennessy saw him straighten up and pull the beard aside. He flung out his arms in a gesture that by now was unmistakable.
‘It’s Larkin,’ the man beside Hennessy shouted. The crowd roared its recognition and surged forward. Larkin on the balcony shouted in triumph.
‘I promised you I’d speak to you in this street today. I’ve kept that promise. I’ll leave here only when they arrest me.’
Hennessy gazed upwards, thunderstruck, but in a moment the police had reached the balcony and Larkin was seized. He saw him being led out of the hotel and marched towards College Street Station. At the window of the cab in which Larkin had arrived, a woman screamed: ‘Three cheers for Jim Larkin.’
‘It’s the Countess Markiewicz,’ the man with Hennessy said. Police surrounded the carriage, ordering it to turn about. They began to manhandle the driver. The countess was forced back into her seat and the crowd surrounding the cab began to heckle.
‘Trouble,’ the man with Hennessy said, ‘let’s get out.’
But the pressure of the crowd tightened suddenly and lifted Hennessy off his feet. Over their heads he saw the first wave of police, their batons drawn, coming at the double towards the crowd. His heart jumped with horror. He thought of his bowler. A belt of a baton would ruin it for ever. He tried to raise his hands to take it off his head but they were pinioned to his sides. His ribs were caving in, every breath became an agonising struggle. He was almost unconscious when the impact of the baton charge turned the crowd and it began to break up. Hennessy dropped to the ground. He lay there for some moments, gasping, until the thought of his hat galvanised him once more. He felt his head. The bowler was gone. He searched about frantically on his hands and knees and found it again. Then, clasping it tightly to his chest, he stood up. He began to move down the street. There was no escape that way. Furious battles were being fought around O’Connell’s monument and across the length of the bridge. The victims of the first charge lay everywhere about him. He moved up the street cautiously, but only for a few yards. There was another charge in progress and hundreds of people, trying to escape, were running in his direction. As he set off diagonally towards Princes Street those in front of the fleeing crowd were already about him. He made Princes Street and slowed down, gasping for breath. For a moment the street seemed deserted and he thought he had found an escape route. He put the bowler back on his head, spat to clear the heavy phlegm from his gasping lungs, then suddenly snatched the bowler off again. Another section of police had appeared at the head of Princes Street and were preparing to charge. With police in the narrow street in front and police behind, there was now no escape. Police began to beat their way through from both ends. Hennessy dodged several blows before he was hit. He backed away from one policeman only to bump into another. The second struck him a blow on the shoulder which paralysed the right side of his body. The first raised his baton and, as Hennessy was falling, brought it down hard on the side of his head. Hennessy, the bowler still clutched firmly against his chest, went down like a log and lay still.
The ambulance men brought him round. They lifted him up and found the bowler under him. It was dusty, but intact.
‘Is this his?’ one of them asked.
‘Shove it in along with him,’ the other said. When Hennessy could speak he claimed the hat and thanked them from his heart.
‘It would have been better on your head,’ one of them said, examining the jagged wound.
Hennessy tried to smile. It wouldn’t. The head would mend, with the help of God. The man attending to him touched the right shoulder and Hennessy gave a gasp of pain.
‘Better bring him in,’ he advised.
The news was bad that night. Two workers had been killed, hundreds were hurt. The hospitals were thronged all day. At night the gas-lamps were extinguished and the side streets were loud with pitched battles. In one place the West Kent Regiment was called out to help to restore order. Hennessy was able to limp his way home around five in the evening. His shoulder was dislocated but the bowler still fitted. He was able to raise it with his left hand, exposing the bloodstained bandage, to salute Father O’Connor when they met near the corner of Chandlers Court. Father O’Connor raised his hat automatically in return.
The sight of a similar bandage on the priest’s head transfixed Hennessy.
Father O’Connor, flushing slightly, passed on. Hennessy remained rooted to the ground.
‘Holy God!’ he exclaimed. The world had turned upside down.
Yearling, making his way across town to a meeting of the Board, was held up by a procession. It was the funeral of a dead striker. It passed him slowly, with bands and torches and stewards with crêpe-covered staves who marshalled the thousands that followed into uneven ranks. At the front marched members of the British Trade Union Congress, including Keir Hardie, whom he recognised immediately. He would make the oration, Yearling surmised, in place of Larkin, who was now in gaol. At the very back a force of mounted police kept a watchful eye on the mourners. The music affected Yearling, as music always did, and the dense rabble marching in time to it looked to him like figures from the French Revolution. Most of them were ragged and many had bandaged heads and limbs. They were out in force once more, drawn from their lanes and warrens by a now uncontrollable discontent. He stayed to watch, even when the way was clear for him to continue with his journey. The thought that they were so many appalled him. He had a drink and read with particular care the newspaper reports of the disturbances. When he reached the foundry of Morgan & Co. the meeting was over. His brother-in-law invited him into his office.
‘I’m sorry you missed it,’ he said.
‘I was held up by a trade union demonstration,’ Yearling said.
‘More rioting?’
‘No. A funeral of one of the strikers. I’m sure it was the largest since Parnell.’
‘We’ve decided to move,’ Bullman said.