Читать книгу The Electric Gun - Harold Johnston - Страница 5

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The dream of the French communists had become a reality in Australia. For a short time it really seemed that the impossible had happened; that a whole people had been made prosperous and virtuous by Act of Parliament. It was only for a very short time. Then the factory hand, noticing that his fellow-workman was growing careless or indolent, took it upon himself to point out that "this kind of thing wouldn't do." The neighbour resented this, and told him to mind his own business.

Naturally, the diligent one soon came to the conclusion that he would be a fool to exert himself unduly when he could obtain precisely the same remuneration by taking it easy. The Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man—Bah! He was beginning to hate his fellow man. Lazy wretch!

He argued thus:—

"There are, in this particular State, about eight hundred thousand workers, of which I am but the eight hundred thousandth part. At present, the nominal rate of pay is eight shillings per day. If more wealth is produced that rate may be increased. But, in order that I may receive eight and sixpence a day, it is necessary that the total production be increased by one-sixteenth.

"I am willing to do a sixteenth more work than I do at present, provided that every other worker in the State will do the same. But, if I do a sixteenth more, my neighbour may do a sixteenth less, so that, together, we shall have accomplished only as much as before.

"Again, even if I could be sure that every worker in the State would continue at his present rate of production, I could only earn an extra sixpence a day for myself by doing sixpence worth of work for every other worker in the State. This would mean additional work, each day, to the value of twenty thousand pounds, which is absurd, as Euclid used to say."

It was in vain that the factory manager pointed out that the certain result of idleness must be reduction of pay. What did the factory hands care for such a threat? They knew that the amount of wealth produced in the State depended not upon their exertions but upon the labour of the men engaged in the primary industries—in wheat growing, dairying, wool and stock raising and mining; and what guarantee could they possibly have that, after all their work, the carelessness or slothfulness of the men on or under the land would not reduce the amount available for distribution to perhaps half what they had anticipated? Then there were famine, drought, flood, fire, disease, and accident to be taken into consideration.

In a very short, time, too, the man on the land, finding that, notwithstanding his strenuous toil and care, he got no more than a bare living, lost all interest in his work. The most expensive farming implements and machinery were destroyed, owing to the carelessness, ignorance or neglect of those in whose charge they were placed, and before the new system had been in force for five years almost the whole of the cultivation of the soil was being carried on with the most primitive appliances.

It was the same with the grazier. He had no longer any motive for exertion, nor did he take the slightest interest in the sheep or cattle which belonged to the State. In the old days, if a cow worth five pounds died, some individual was the loser of the five pounds, but, under the new order, the death of a cow, a State cow, might be laughed at. Five pounds! What was five pounds to the State? How much did the eight hundred thousandth part of five pounds amount to?

The river rises, and a thousand sheep are cut off. Sheep are stupid animals. They will stay there and get drowned unless the men shift them to higher ground. But this will mean hours of work on a wet, cold night for half a dozen men. Why should they work, when the other thousands of workers—joint owners—are sleeping in their comfortable beds? D—n the sheep!

The dairyman no longer took any trouble to improve the State herd placed in his care. The simplest plan was to allow the heifers to rear their calves, if they could. Why should he break young cows to the bail? There were too many to milk now. The cream was ripe for churning, but it was "knock-off time." He had already "put in his eight hours." The churning could wait until tomorrow.

The wheat was left unstripped till half the grain had fallen to the ground. What did the farmer care? He was getting nothing out of it; it was State wheat.

Owing to careless working, the output of coal fell to less than a third of what the sturdy miners in the old days had won. No man would work in wet or dangerous places. Why should he? He got exactly the same rate of pay for safe and dry ground.

Most of the gold and silver mines were closed down, and there were no new discoveries. At first a few prospectors were kept on by the State, but they found nothing, or, at least, they reported no new finds. If they discovered a mountain of gold it would do them no good. The State would grab it all.

While the rate of pay remained at a nominal and uniform eight shillings per day it had been found necessary, from time to time, to increase the price of commodities, and, at the end of five years, all payments in money to the workers were abolished, and they were furnished with food and clothing only, in return for their labour. At the same time where practicable the task system was introduced. The prescribed task was at first fairly easy, and the punishment for non-completion merely the publication of the offender's name in a "Black List."

In a few months it was quite a common thing to find the names of more than half the employees of a factory in this list. This, at length, brought out a new regulation, under which idleness was punished by reduction of rations. A great improvement was noticeable at once, and this continued for a whole week. Then the hands grew lazier than ever. Fifty per cent. of the workers in one of the Balmain factories were put on reduced rations. Quite half of these promptly took to bed, pleading sickness as an excuse for absenting themselves from work. The matter was at once reported to the Director of Labour, who issued instructions that all malingerers were to be flogged forthwith.

Many years ago the statement was made that "Law was only right when it did not deviate from right and reason; otherwise it was not law, but only a species of violence."

The reign of violence had begun. But the spirit of the people had not yet been entirely broken.

The first man led out for punishment was a native of Armidale, named Michael Scanlon. In his youth he had learnt the trade of blacksmith, but leaving New South Wales, Scanlon had gone to South Africa, where he spent some years in gold mining. While he was in Johannesburg he volunteered for active service against the Germans, who landed in force in Natal and Cape Colony simultaneously with their invasion of England. The war ended within two months, as the reader is aware, by the capitulation of the defeated army in the Old Country and the practical annihilation of that in the Dominion.

Scanlon greatly distinguished himself during the campaign, and was decorated for personal bravery on the field of battle. A tall, strong, athletic fellow, he was utterly devoid of fear and superior to fatigue. At the conclusion of the war he returned to Sydney, and marrying a handsome girl from his native town, he settled in Balmain and commenced business as a general smith.

With the abolition of individualism Scanlon was drafted into one of the local iron foundries, while his wife was sent to the Botany Hat Works. There was no great hardship in this arrangement at first, as, in the early days of the system, the workers travelled free by tram or train, and Alice Scanlon returned to her home every night. Then the lodging houses were established, and, at the same time, the trams were taken off. For months Scanlon walked to Botany (a distance of seven miles) almost every afternoon, returning to Balmain before the closing hour. (At this time the regulation restricting workers to their own precincts had not been issued.) Then an unfortunate thing happened.

For some time past Alice had been annoyed by Williams, one of the foremen at the factory, but knowing her husband's violent temper, she had not thought it wise to mention the matter to him. One evening, just after Scanlon had bidden his wife good-bye and started on his long and lonely walk, he remembered some small matter about which he had intended asking her opinion. Tie turned back at once and hurried after her, but, as he came up, he noticed that she had stopped and was speaking to a man near the lodging-house gate. He drew back in an instant, his Irish blood on fire at the thought that Alice was playing him false. However, he had no reason for jealousy, as he soon discovered.

"Let me pass. How dare you attempt to stop me?" said Alice quietly,

The man laughed. "I like a bit of spirit," he observed, "but what's the hurry' It's a fine night. You don't want to go in for an hour yet."

"Please stand aside, or I shall report your conduct to the superintendent."

"Ho! ho! I like that," he chuckled. "Report me! ho! ho! All right, I'll let you pass if you give me a kiss. Come, that's a fair offer," and he attempted to take her hand.

"Help! Mick!" cried Alice. Not that she expected any assistance from him, but such is the way of a woman.

There was a rush, a blow, and Williams was down. He was a big, burly fellow, but the ex-blacksmith's blow would have felled a bullock. Scanlon was in a furious rage, and would have stamped all semblance of humanity from the fellow's prostrate form, but Alice, fearful of the consequences, threw her arms about him, and at last persuaded him that it would be well for him to slip away lest he should be recognized.

Williams was of duty for a week after the encounter. He suspected that Alice's husband was his assailant, but did not openly denounce the worker. About a mouth later the foreman was appointed manager of the Newcastle branch factory, and he arranged with the Botany superintendent that Alice Scanlon should be one of the half dozen women sent to start the new workshop.

The day after the transfer Scanlon walked out to Botany as usual, but was surprised to find that Alice was not at the usual rendezvous. Fearing that she might be ill, he hurried to the lodging-home, but the portress could give him no information as to his wife's whereabouts. She knew only that Alice Scanlon's name had been removed from the books of her establishment that day. No, she could not say why. Perhaps if he called at the Superintendent's office—

Scanlon was gone before she had finished speaking. He found the clerk just leaving the office. "Where is Alice Scanlon?" he demanded.

The clerk was astounded. A common workman to address him in the street! He would show the fellow his place. Fortunately for himself he glanced again at Scanlon, and the fierce look in the eyes of the Irish-Australian caused him to change his mind.

"Alice Scanlon!" he repeated, civilly enough. "Alice Scanlon! I'll look the matter up in the morning. She has gone to Newcastle, I think. Be here at 9 o'clock in the morning."

"Look it up at once," said Scanlon, grimly. "I live at Balmain and can't come here in the morning."

"You fellows have no conscience," grumbled the clerk. "I've been working about two hours overtime already, and you—Oh! come along then, if you must."

He led the way into the office, and lifting up the flap of the counter, walked to a desk at the back of the room. He took up a book, and, placing it upon the counter, began to turn over the pages.

"Here, Jane Thomson, Mary Rush, Alice Scanlon. Yes, I was right. I thought so. Six of them were sent to Newcastle yesterday afternoon. Oh! I remember her now. I heard old Dobson laughing about it. He said that Williams was very anxious to have this Scanlon woman."

"Who is Williams?" asked Scanlon, in a tone that should have warned the clerk.

"Williams! Oh, he used to be one of the foremen here, but he has just gone to Newcastle as manager. I suppose this Agnes Scanlon or whatever her name is, was one of his fancy—Ouch!"

Scanlon had thrown out one of his great hands, and grasping the clerk by the arm, he dragged him headlong across the counter, scattering books, papers and ink pots in every direction.

"God's curse on you!" he roared. "Down on your knees, you miserable inkslinger! You dare to speak of Alice Scanlon in that way again, and I'll break every bone in your miserable carcase."

"I—I beg your pardon!" stuttered the astonished youth. "I didn't know. I only repeated what heard." Then, as a light broke on him: "Why, you must be the husband?"

"I am," said Scanlon. "Now, out with it—every word! What did you hear?"

"The—the—that is, I heard Williams telling Dobson that he'd get square with Scanlon in a better and safer way than by reporting him; he'd get his wife—I—Oh! don't!"

"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you," said Scanlon. "You're not worth hitting."

* * *

The next afternoon Scanlon presented himself at the Newcastle Hat Factory, and demanded his wife. He had walked the whole distance from Botany, but in his state of mind had felt neither hunger nor fatigue.

"Tell Alice Scanlon that I wish to speak to her," he said hoarsely to the man who came to the door in response to his knock.

"What name?"

"Michael Scanlon."

The officer went inside, but returned in a moment. "Mr. Williams says that you won't see your wife, and if you don't clear out he'll—"

With an oath Scanlon thrust the fellow roughly aside and strode into the workroom.

"Alice! Where are you?" he shouted.

There was a scuffle, a faint shriek, a cry of joy, and Alice was in his arms.

"Oh, Mick! Mick!" she sobbed. "Take me away! Take me away before I am driven mad!"

"Don't cry, little girl," said Scanlon tenderly, patting her shoulder gently with his great hand. "I'm not going to leave you. You're coming away with me."

"We '11 see about that," roared Williams, who had been at the other end of the workroom when Scanlon entered, but now came forward, accompanied by half-a-dozen officials. "Here, Jackson! ring up the police station! You others! throw this fellow out into the street; the police can pick him up."

Scanlon straightened himself as Williams spoke. Then, putting his wife gently aside, he faced the others.

"Alice," he said, "go out into the street and wait for me till I deal with these animals."

His wife turned and walked out without a word. Then the officers rushed at Scanlon.

"Stand back!" he roared in a terrible voice. "Stand back! Dare to lay a hand on me, and, by the God who made me, I'll destroy you!"

As the first official came forward the ex-blacksmith met him with a terrible blow in the face. The force of the impact was so great that the fellow was hurled half way across the room. The second man fared little better. Catching the officer's wrist with his left hand, Scanlon swung him round and struck him a half-arm blow with his right, under the ear, and the man dropped in a heap. Then, waiting no longer for their attack, he charged at the others. A roar of rage, a curse, a blow, and another of his assailants was down.

"Kill him! kill him!" shrieked Williams, who was keeping carefully in the background himself.

The way was now clear, but as Scanlon turned towards the door one of the officials leaped upon his back. Throwing up his arms suddenly, the furious worker grasped the man round the neck, and bending forward, hurled the unfortunate official like a stone from a catapult. The man's fall was partly broken by a heap of straw, but he lay where he had fallen, an inert, bleeding mass.

Then the end came. Scanlon staggered towards the door, but before he could win clear one of the officials sprang forward and struck him on the back of the head with a piece of timber (left behind by the carpenters), and the brave fellow went down right in the doorway.

When Scanlon regained consciousness it was to find himself in the gaol hospital. He was placed upon his trial on a charge of attempted murder but, owing to the intervention of a member of the Executive (himself a South African veteran), he escaped with the light sentence of four months' imprisonment.

A few days after Scanlon's sentence Williams renewed his persecution of Alice, with the result that, maddened by a sneering reference to her gaol-bird husband, she caught up a pair of shears from the work-table, and stabbed her tormentor to the heart.

At the expiration of his term of imprisonment Scanlon was sent back under escort to Balmain, and only then did he learn the fate of his wife. She had been sentenced to life imprisonment in the Long Bay Penitentiary. Nearly distracted, Scanlon made his way to Long Bay, but was informed that he could not see the prisoner without a permit from the Comptroller-General. After repeated applications he was granted permission to visit her once a month. He saw her twice only, as during the third month an outbreak of typhoid occurred at the prison and Alice Scanlon was one of the first victims claimed by the epidemic.

From that day Michael Scanlon was a man who lived only for revenge. His wife had been dead for nearly six years now, but time seemed only to increase Scanlon's bitterness against those whom he designated her murderers.

And this was the man whose name chanced to be drawn first, when the Inspector of Police, with the flogger and a dozen armed men, arrived. A triangle had been erected in the yard of the lodging-house, and the recalcitrant workers were brought out.

"Attention!" said the Inspector. The policemen brought their rifles sharply to their left sides, swung their right hands round in a half-circle, and looked important as they saluted the great man. The flogger stood beside the triangle, drawing his fingers icily through the tails of the "cat."

The Inspector took a paper from one of the men and, fixing his glass carefully on his nose, began: "Michael Scanlon!"

The ex-blacksmith looked up at hearing his name.

"Michael Scanlon, you have been guilty of insubordination and idleness, and you have been sentenced to twenty-five lashes—"

"Sentenced to what?" said Scanlon, stepping forward.

"To twenty-five lashes," replied the Inspector, looking over his glasses at the worker. "To be flogged—"

"Flogged! flogged!" roared Scanlon. "By the Almighty God! no man will flog me! Do you think I'm a Kaffir or a dog?"

"Tie him up!" said the Inspector.

A spade was standing beside the wall. One bound, and Scanlon had seized it, and springing forward, he struck the flogger a blow which almost severed his head from his body. An instant later, and the infuriated worker was among the officers, striking right and left, breaking a head or a limb at every blow, and shouting, as he struck, "Devil! devil! devil!"

"Shoot him! Shoot him! d—n you! shoot him!" spluttered the Inspector.

It was easy enough to say "Shoot," but difficult to carry out that order—at first. The officers had been standing together when Scanlon rushed upon them, and for a few minutes they were fully occupied in dodging that whirling spade. Then one of the officers got his rifle free and fired. Scanlon staggered as the bullet struck him in the breast, but recovered himself, and springing forward, he brought the spade down upon the Inspector's head, smashing that estimable gentleman's skull like an eggshell. At that moment another bullet struck him, and swinging round, he threw the spade, with one last, superhuman effort, at the nearest officer, and fell dead across the body of the Inspector.

He brought the spade down upon the Inspector's head

While this tragedy was being enacted the other workers stood trembling, white with excitement and terror. All but one, Harry Fisher, an Englishman, who had come to Australia just before the great change.

"By heaven! Scanlon was a man!" he shouted, "and he died like a man."

He picked up the rifle which had fallen from the hands of one of Scanlon's victims, and before the others realized his intention, he swung it round his head and brained the nearest officer. Then, he too, was shot down.

The flogging was postponed, and eventually abandoned, the rest of the workers begging for mercy and promising amendment.