round into the breech of the Lee-Enfield rifle which was propped on the windowsill.
The rifle bolt made a small metallic clash that lit a sparkle of memory and made the hair rise on Fergus neck.
It was all so familiar, the silence, the mist and the night fraught with the menace of coming violence. Only on my order, Fergus warned him softly. Easy now, lads. Let them come right in the front door before we slam it on their heads. He could see the leading horsemen now, half a mile away but coming on fast in the strengthening light. it wasn't shooting light yet, but the sky beyond the dark hills of the mine dumps was turning to that pale gull's-egg blue that promised shooting light within minutes.
Fergus looked back at the road. The mist was an added bonus. He had not counted on that, but often when you did not call for fortune, she came a-knocking. The mist would persist until the first rays of the morning sun warmed and dispersed it, another half hour at least. You all know, your orders. Fergus raised his voice and they glanced at him, distracted for only a moment from their weapons and the oncoming enemy.
I They were all good men, veterans, blooded, as the sanguine generals of France would have it. It flashed through Fergus'mind once again how ironical it was that men who had been trained to fight by the bosses were now about to tear down the structure which the bosses had trained them to defend. We will tear down and rebuild, he thought, with exultation tingling in his blood. We will destroy them with their own weapons, strangle them with their own dirty loot, he stopped himself, and pulled the dark grey cloth down over his eyes and turned up the collar of his coat. Good luck to all of us, brothers, he called softly, and slipped out through the front door. That old bugger has got guts, acknowledged one of the soldiers at the window. You're right, he ain't afraid of nothing, agreed another, as they watched him dodge under the cover of the hedge and run forward until he reached the ditch beside the road, and jumped down into it.
There were a dozen men lying there below the lip, and as he dropped beside them, one of them handed him a pickhandle.
rYou strung that wire good and tight? Fergus asked, and the man grunted. Tighter than a monkey's arsehole, the man grinned wolfishly at him, his teeth glinting in the first soft light of morning. And I checked the pegs meself, they'll hold against a charging elephant. Right, brothers, Fergus told them. With me when I give the word. And he lifted himself until he could see over the low blanket of mist. The troopers'helmets bobbed in the mist as they came on up the slope, and now he could make out the sparkle of brass cap badges and see the dark sticklike barrels of their carbines rising above each right shoulder.
Fergus had paced out the ranges himself and marked them with pieces of rag tied to the telephone posts on the verge.
As they came up to the one-fifty-yard mark Fergus stood up from the ditch, and stepped into the middle of the road.
He held his pick-handle above his head and shouted, Halt! Stay where you are!
His men rose out of the mist behind him and moved swiftly into position like a well-drilled team; dark, ominous figures standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking the road from verge to verge, holding their pick-handles ready across their hips, faces hidden by caps and collars.
The officer in the centre of the squadron of horsemen raised a hand to halt them and they bunched up and sat stolidly while the officer rose in his stirrups. Who are you? Strikers'Council, Fergus shouted back, and we'll have no scabs, black-legs or strike-breakers on this property! I am under orders from the Commissioner of Police, empowered by a warrant of the Supreme Court. The officer was a heavily built man, with a proud erect seat on his horse, and a dark waxed mustache with points that stuck out on each side of his face. You're strike-breakers! Fergus yelled. And you'll not set a foot on this property. Stand aside! warned the officer. The light was good enough now for Fergus to see that he wore the insignia of a Captain, and that his face was ruddy from sun and beer, his eyebrows thick and dark and beetling under the brim of his helmet. You are obstructing the police. We will charge if we have to. Charge and be damned, puppets of imperialism, running dogs of capitalism, Troop, extend order, called the Captain, and the ranks opened for the second file to come up into a solid line.
They sat on the restless horses, knee to knee. Strike-breakers! yelled Fergus. Your hands will be stained with the blood of innocent workers this day'Batons! called the Captain sternly, and the troopers drew the long oaken clubs from the scabbards at their knees and held them in the right hand, like cavalry sabres. History will remember this atrocity, screamed Fergus, the blood of the lamb, Walk, march! Forward! The line of dark horsemen waded forward through the mist as it swirled about their bootedlegs. Gallop, charge! sang out the Captain, and the riders swung forward in their saddles, the batons extended along the horses necks, and they plunged forward; now the hooves drummed low thunder as they came down upon the line of standing figures.
The Captain was leading by a length in the centre of the line, and he went on to the wires first.
Fergus men had driven the steel jumper bars deep into the verge, pounding them in with nine-pound hammers, until only two feet of their six-foot length protruded, and they had strung the barbed wire across the road, treble strands pulled up rigid with the fencing strainers.
It cut the forelegs out from under the leading charger, the bone broke with a brittle snap, startlingly loud in the dawn, and the horse dropped, going over on to its shoulder still at full gallop.
An instant later the following wave of horsemen went on to the wire, and were cut down as though by a scythe, only three of them managing to wheel away in time. The cries of the men, and the screaming of the horses, mingled with the exultant yells of Fergus' band as they ran forward, swinging their pick-handles, One of the horses was up, riderless, its stirrups flapping, but it was pinned on its haunches, the broken forelegs flapping and spinning as it pawed in anguish at the air, its squeals high and pitiful above the cries of fallen men.
Fergus pulled the revolver out of the waist -band of his trousers, dodged around the crazed screaming animals and pulled the police Captain to his knees.
He had hit the ground with his shoulder and the side of his face. The shoulder was smashed, sagging down at a grotesque angle and the arm hanging twisted and lifeless.
The flesh had been shaved from his face, ripped off by stone and gravel, so that the bone of his jaw was exposed in the mangled flesh. Get up, you bastard, snarled Fergus, thrusting the pistol into the officer's face, grinding the muzzle into the lacerated wound. Get up you bloody black-leg. We'll learn you a lesson. The three troopers who had escaped the wire had their mounts under control, and had circled to pick up their downed comrades, calling to them by name. Grab a stirrup, Heintjie! Come on, Paul. Get up! Horses and men, milling and shouting and screaming in the mist, a savage confused conflict, above which Fergus raised his voice. Stop them, don't let the bastards get away, and his men swung the pick-handles, dodging forward under the police batons to thrust and hack at the horsemen, but they were not quick enough.
With men hanging from each stirrup leather, the horsemen reared and wheeled away, leaving only the badly hurt officer and another inert body lying among the wires and the terribly mutilated animals, while the police escort
