the cheering faltered, he flung back his head and bellowed the opening line of The Red Flag.
The entire hall came crashing to its feet, and stood at attention to sing the revolutionary song: Then raise the scarlet standard high, Within its shade we'll live or die.
Tho cowards flinch and traitors sneer, We'll keep the red flag flying here, Mark walked home with the MacDonalds in the frosty night, their breathing smoking like ostrich plumes in the lights of the street lamps. Helena walked between the men, a small dainty figure in her black overcoat with rabbit-fur collar and a knitted cap pulled down over her head.
She had slipped a hand into the crook of the elbows of each of them, a seemingly natural impartial gesture, but there was a disturbing pressure of fingers on the hard muscle of Mark's upper arm, and her hip touched his as she skipped occasionally to catch the longer stride of the men. Listen, Fergus, what you were saying there in the hall doesn't make sense, you know, Mark broke the silence, as they turned into the home street. You can't have it both ways, workers unite and keep it white. Fergus chuckled appreciatively. You're a bright lad, comrade Mark. But, I'm serious, Fergus, it's not the way Harry FisherOf course not, lad. Tonight I was shovelling up swill for the hogs. We need them fighting mad, we have things to tear down, bloody work to do. He stopped and turned to face Mark over the woman's head. We need cannon fodder, lad, and plenty of it. So it won't be like that? Mark asked. No, lad. It will be a beautiful brave new world. All men equal, all men happy, no bosses, a workers state.
Mark tried to control his pricking nagging doubts.
u keep talking of fighting, Fergus. Do you mean that, literally? I mean, will it be a shooting war? A shooting war, comrade, a bloody shooting war. just like the revolution in Russia, where comrade Lenin has shown us the way. We have to burn away the dross, we have to soak this earth with the blood of the rulers and the bosses, we have to flood it with the blood of their minions the petit bourgeois officer's class of the police and military. What will Mark almost said we but it would not come to his lips. He could not make that commitment. What will you fight with? Fergus chuckled again, and winked slyly. Mum's the word, lad, but it's time you knew a little more. He nodded.
Yes, tomorrow night, he decided.
On Saturday there was a bazaar being held in the Trades Hall, a Women's Union fund-raising drive for building the new church. Where the crazed mob had screamed murder and bloody revolution the previous night, now there were long trestle tables set out and the women hovered over their displays of baked and fancily iced cakes, trays of tarts, preserved fruit in jars and jams.
Mark bought a packet of tarts for a penny and he and Fergus munched them as they wandered idly down the hall, stopping at the piles of second-hand clothing while Fergus tried a maroon cardigan, and, after careful deliberation, purchased it for half a crown. They reached the top of the hall, and stood beneath the raised stage.
Fergus surveyed the room casually and then took Mark's arm and led him up the steps. They crossed the stage quietly, and went in through a door in the wings, into a maze of small union offices and storerooms, all deserted now on a Saturday afternoon.
Fergus used a key from his watch-chain to unlock a low iron door, and they stooped through it. Fergus relocked behind him, and they went down a narrow flight of steps that descended steeply. There was a smell of damp and earth, and Mark realized that they were descending to the cellars.
Fergus tapped on the door at the bottom of the stairs, and after a moment a single eye regarded them balefully through a peep hole. All right, comrade. Fergus MacDonald, a committee member. There was the rattle of chains and the door opened. A disgruntled, roughly dressed man stood aside for them. He was unshaven and sullen, and against the wall of the tiny room was a table and chair, still spread with the remains of a meal and the crumpled daily newspaper.
The man grunted, and Fergus led Mark across the room and through another door into the cellars.
The floor was earthen and the arched columns were in raw unplastered brick. There was the stench of dust and rats, stale dank air in confined space. A single bulb lit the centre starkly, but left the alcoves behind the arches in shadow. Here, lad, this is what we are going to use There were wooden cases stacked neatly to the height of a man's head in the alcoves, and the stacks were draped with heavy tarpaulin, obviously stolen from the railway yards for they were stencilled SAR and H.
Fergus lifted the edge of one tarpaulin, and grinned that thin humourless smile. Still in the grease, lad. The wooden cases were branded with the distinctive arrow-head and W. D. of the British War Department, and below that the inscription: 6 pieces.
Lee-Enfield Mark 1! (CNVD).
Mark was stunned. Good God, Fergus, there are hundreds of them. That's it, lad, and this is only one arsenal, There are others all along the Rand. He lifted another tarpaulin, walking on down the length of the cellar. The ammunition cases, with the quickrelease catches on the detachable lids that were painted 1000 rounds . 303. We have enough to do the job. Fergus squeezed Mark's arm, and led him on.
There were racks of rifles now, ready for instant use, blued steel glistening with gun oil in the electric light.
Fergus picked out a single rifle and handed it to Mark. This one has got your name on it. Mark took the weapon, and the feel of it in his hands was terribly familiar. It's the only one we've got, but the moment I saw it, I thought of you. When the time comes, you'll be using it. the P. 14 sniper's rifle had that special balance that felt just right in his hands but made Mark sick in the stomach.
He handed it back to Fergus without a word, but the older man winked at him before racking it again carefully.
Like a showman, Fergus had kept the best for last. With a flourish he whipped the canvas off the heavy weapon, with its thick, corrugated water-jacketed barrel, that squatted on its steel tripod. The Maxim machine gun, in its various forms, had the dubious distinction of having killed more human beings than any other single weapon that man destructive genius had been able to devise.
This was one of that deadly family, the Vickers-Maxim
. 303 Mark IV. B, and there were boxes stacked beside it.
Each containing a belt Of 250 rounds. The gun could throw those at 2440 feet per second and at a Cycle rate Of 750
rounds a minute. How about that, comrade? You asked what we are going to fight with, how will that do for a
