As they backed away, two men – one local, one Irish – intervened between the two fighters, but immediately started hitting one another. More men joined in. Each began by trying to pull fighters apart, and each quickly got into a scrap of his own. Some of the women came to the rescue of their men and joined the fray. The shouting reached uproar level and drew people from inside the Slaughterhouse and the Mucky Duck. The man selling winkles tried to keep people away from his barrel but, since the technique he used was to punch them, he was soon himself embroiled and the barrel was knocked over. It rolled away, spilling winkles and seawater across the cobblestones.
To Hornbeam’s dismay there were soon at least fifty people fighting. He looked along the street but saw no sign of the militia. He cast about desperately for some way he could stop this, but anything he or Riddick did would only involve them in the fighting.
This was going to discredit the Irish strikebreakers and Hornbeam himself. It was a disaster, and – he saw now – it was spreading along adjacent streets, drawing people out of other taverns. He might even be forced to send the Irish home.
This will please the striking hands, he thought angrily.
At last Donaldson arrived with the militia. Some carried their muskets but others were unarmed. Donaldson ordered the armed men to stand well back from the crowd with their weapons ready, and told the others to arrest anyone who was fighting.
Hornbeam would have liked to see the militia open fire, but he realized this would do him even more harm.
The militia began pulling people out of the scrum and tying them up. This had some effect, Hornbeam saw: some brawlers disentangled themselves from their opponents and hurried away before they too were seized.
Hornbeam said to Riddick: ‘We have to blame this on the new union. Make sure you arrest any strikers you can see.’
‘I wouldn’t know them.’
‘Then look for the ringleaders – Jarge Box, Jack Camp, Sal Box, or that fellow Spade.’ Hornbeam knew he could find men to swear that the strike leaders had deliberately provoked the trouble.
‘Good plan,’ said Riddick, and gave orders to a corporal.
With luck they would pick up some of the strikers anyway, he thought.
Soon he could see that the battle was coming to an end. More people were running away than fighting. Many of those still in view were on the ground, nursing injuries. He guessed that those Irish who had escaped arrest had gone back over the bridge.
Now Hornbeam had to find a way to limit the damage.
‘How many have you arrested?’ he asked Riddick.
‘Twenty or thirty. They’re locked in the Slaughterhouse barn for the moment.’
‘Take them to Kingsbridge Jail. Get all the names and other details and come to my house. We’ll let the Irish go. I’ll hold petty sessions early tomorrow, even though it’s Sunday. I’ll hand out tough sentences on the strikers and their leaders and go easy on the rest. I want people in Kingsbridge to understand that this was caused by the union, not by the Irish.’
‘Good plan.’
Hornbeam took his leave and went home to await the next stage.
*
A small boy rushed into the Bell, ran up to Spade, and said: ‘The men are fighting the scabs down at the Slaughterhouse! The militia are arresting people!’
‘Right!’ said Jarge, standing up. ‘We better get down there damn quick.’
Spade said firmly: ‘Sit down, Jarge.’
‘What – are we going to sit here drinking ale while our neighbours are fighting the scabs? Not me!’
‘Just think for a minute, Jarge. If we go there, some of us will be arrested.’
‘Well, that’s not the worst thing in the world.’
‘And then we’ll be hauled up before the justices. And the justices will say the riot wasn’t the fault of the Irish, because it was started by the strikers.’
‘They’ll probably say that anyway, won’t they?’
‘They can’t, because we’re all here. Just about all of Hornbeam’s weavers have been with us all evening, drinking ale. And there’s a hundred people here who can swear to it, including the landlord, whose uncle is an alderman.’
‘So...so...’ It took Jarge a minute to figure this out. ‘So they’ll have to blame the scabs.’
