With which he sat down abruptly. There seemed to be a feeling among one section of the audience that they should applaud, but, all being too eager to hear what the organiser had to say, it came to nothing more than a tentative rustle. The big figure of Mr Crane loomed up through the smoke like a mountain peak, and the tense, anxious silence that fell was more of a tribute than any applause. In that silence the organiser took off his glasses, wiped them, and advanced to the edge of the platform.
‘Friends and fellow-workers,’ he boomed, ‘there’s been a lot of rumour going round about a strike. I’m here firstly to tell you that there’s not going to be a strike. What’s more, I don’t want to hear one of you use the word strike. That’s a word the bosses in the Orchardists’ Association have been using for their own ends, when they know very well that there isn’t any need, any possibility, any least chance of such a thing.’ He paused impressively. ‘I’m here tonight to outline the awards and conditions that have been legally won for you before the Arbitration Court, and which come into force in Orion as soon as the picking starts. It’s for you, fellow-workers, to see that those awards and conditions are maintained. We may have a bit of trouble with the cherry-cockies wanting to break down those awards and conditions’ — again he paused impressively — ‘but, as I’ve said before, we don’t need to strike to get them. We’ve got them already, and any farmer that doesn’t like to observe them is putting himself in the wrong.’
He launched into a long harangue that took in the general situation of the fruit industry, the circumstances leading up to the application for an award, the way in which the Court had acted, and finally he reviewed in detail the clauses of the award. The men leant forward, row after row of intent, brown faces, fastening him with hard eyes that had lost everything except judgment. They were weighing, not only their own chances of obtaining the conditions laid down in the document which the organiser flourished, but they were also weighing the organiser. Would he be strong enough to oppose the united strength of the orchardists? They knew what they were up against, and the organiser knew. His words were brisk enough, but how did he really feel about it? Not by a tremor, not by a shade of uncertainty, did he crack that confident face he was putting on the business.
His assistant, a slight, studious youth with a shrill voice, had the same certainty. From the platform it poured down on them in words, gestures, looks, references to the past history of the Union, their unbeatable strength if they stood together. ‘That’s the trouble, they won’t,’ from one interjector, and cries of ‘Order.’ Let them only unite against any move on the part of the orchardists to beat down, to undermine this award, and after this crucial first year the terms would be established and the employers would have no other course but to keep to them. It was by insisting on the letter of the award during this cherry-harvest that they could make all the difference in the years to come.
‘Of course, there’s always little men trying to wriggle out of paying their pickers their just dues, there’s always mean bosses ready to take advantage of their men; but I say, fellow-workers, that we’ve only got to stand firm [‘How long’s it since you did a day’s pickin’?’ from some malcontent] and let the cockies go against the law if they want to …’
There was a lot more of it, and the audience began to stir and hum. Finally, the organiser, wiping his brow where the perspiration was gleaming in a dew, retired, hung his coat over a chair, and prepared to answer questions. The meeting was settling down to business, and until the more voluble had talked themselves out and brought up every possible objection, the majority would sit solid and undecided. But there was a certain encouragement in that they still sat. Few had walked out; fewer still had interjected. It looked as if so far the organiser had the support of his audience.
‘Haven’t I seen that cove somewhere before?’ he murmured to his assistant, as he leant back and surveyed the first speaker.
‘Isn’t he the Scotch chap who was keen on starting a special union for professional hoboes?’
The light of recognition gleamed behind Mr Crane’s glasses. He nodded. ‘Just so, Brian, just so. I remember now.’ He eyed the figure of the Scotsman shrewdly. ‘I told him he’d Buckley’s chance.’
‘The Australian Workers’ Union,’ the speaker was declaring with a nasty rasp in his voice, ‘has got suckers on the sole of its feet. The whole Australian Labour Movement is lousy with big, fat parasites who make a good thing out of warming a seat in Parliament or driving round in a big sedan collectin’ the dues of a lot of mugs.’ There was an angry murmur. ‘We’re asked to stand firm and united, and quite right too, when it’s a matter of walking off a job and standing by the Union; but what I want to know is just how much the A.W.U. is going to stand by us when we do it?’ Burning Angus swung round on his audience. ‘You all know what’ll happen. It’s all very well to talk about the orchardists taking the responsibility if they don’t pay the award. But the orchardists aren’t going to be camped by the road without tucker or boots.’ He swung towards the organiser again. ‘I’m talking for the bagmen, men that have tramped hundreds of miles, jumped the rattler and risked a broken neck to get here. What’s the A.W.U. ever done or ever intended to do for those coves? They’re all right while they’ve got work. You’ll come along and collect their dues; but when they haven’t got a job they’re just tramps and hoboes, and no damn good to anyone. Does the Union that tells them not to take a job ever try to stop the police hounding them when they haven’t got one? My bloody oath it doesn’t. The weakness of the whole Labour Movement is that it only concerns itself with the man in a job. Oh yes, I know’ — the organiser had tried to get in a word — ‘You’re going to tell us about this conference and that conference that passed resolutions calling for better treatment for the unemployed. And a fat lot of good that’s been. What the men on the track want is not a lot of big bugs in Sydney spending their dues, but a real union that’ll get up and fight for them.’
The organiser was on his feet as soon as he saw his opening. His whole style changed. ‘You talk about fighting! What is the Union doing now?’ he demanded. ‘Fighting for better wages and conditions. Here!’ He flourished the award at them. ‘Right here is your proof that the A.W.U.’s alive and fighting, and only asking your backing to get more. Our friend here has asked if the Union is going to stand by you.’ He drew himself up. ‘The Union will support any steps you take to secure the award’s working, and will see that you don’t go hungry. I can promise you that. And as for that car our friend here mentioned, with a big fat parasite in it’ (good-natured applause), ‘I’ve tramped the track and I’ve jumped the rattler, and the reason I’m not doing it still is that when on your Union business it’s a lot slower. The car helps me to cover more territory. I agree with the speaker that the men out of a job ought to have a stronger backing than they have at present. But I ask you to consider the difficulties when those out of a job are drifting up and down the country six hundred miles apart. We’ve got to do the best we can the best way we know how. And I’d like to remind the speaker that I’m not God Almighty.’
To himself the organiser was saying: ‘I must get hold of that Scotty. He swings a lot of weight with these chaps.’
Snow was aware that Thirty-Bob had been signalling to him, twisting his face in an alarming and ferocious fashion, that was meant as an enquiry if Snow was coming out. Dick Tyrell was already shouldering his way towards the door. Snow hesitated. He wanted to see Angus, but he also had a thirst.
They doubled round the corner and filed cautiously through the back entrance of a small hotel and so into the bar.
‘No use staying,’ Thirty-Bob explained, soulfully gazing into the depths of his beer. ‘You ought to know by now that it’ll be only Berghoffs this first week, and who the hell wants to pick Berghoffs anyway? Long, tough stalks and little, miserable cherries. Why, a packer’ll tell you that thirty-two cases of Berghoffs average sixty cases of Early Lyons. You don’t make tucker on Berghoff’s. Wait till the
good cherries begin to come in. Let’s have another. All that bloody talk made me dry.’ The Tyrell team had been working in Orange and had not yet dissipated all its earnings.
‘I dunno,’ Snow said slowly, thinking of Angus. ‘Sometimes I wish I could talk.’ He looked down at his big hands as though he expected them to speak for him — big knobbly fists, calloused and cracked. He sighed. ‘If I had a bit of an education like Angus.’ He smote his heavy fist on the table-top.
Angus had stayed behind to have a word with Crane. ‘This will end,’ he predicted gloomily, ‘in our chaps getting the thin end of the stick.’
‘Then I take it you’re willing to pick for less than the award?’
‘Me!’ The Scotsman drew himself up indignantly. ‘You’re talking to the secretary of the Bagmen’s Union with a membership of forty-three, and not one of them a scab. If you’re going to make a fight of it, we’re right behind ye.’
The organiser wrung his hand. ‘Good on you, Angus. I meant to ask about the Bagmen’s Union.’ Until that moment he had not known it existed. ‘You got it going, eh?’
‘Oh, aye, it’s going.’ Burning Angus could not keep a note of pride out of his voice. ‘And before we’re done it’s going to be the real militants’ union, a battling union.’
‘Well; there’s one thing,’ the organiser said hurriedly. He wanted to keep on the right side of Angus, but he knew the temper of Angus’s men. ‘Keep your chaps out of trouble with the police. We don’t want any unnecessary martyrs going to gaol for bashing coppers or setting sheds on fire. That’s the worst kind of publicity. The thing is to keep the men in their camps away from the town and the pubs.’
‘There’s no such thing as an unnecessary martyr,’ Angus contended. ‘But ye’re right about keeping the chaps away from the pubs. None of our bunch’ll start anything. I can promise ye that.’
‘Good.’ The organiser took a hasty farewell. ‘I’ll depend on you.’
Angus watched him go grimly. He was suspicious of this A.W.U. organiser, but he knew that Crane was right. Men would fight from sheer boredom, and there is nothing more boring than waiting for the other side to give in. Besides, in Orion there had always been a strong hostility between the ‘locals’ — men who lived and worked in the district, many of them related to the farmers — and the itinerant pickers who came to Orion merely to ‘make a cheque.’ Nothing much in the way of loyalty to a union could be expected from most of the ‘locals,’ who, if not related to their employers, were dependent on them for work all the year round. But the picking could only partly be done by local labour. If the bagmen refused to pick at less than the award wage, the growers must give in finally. At least, that was the accepted argument; but as Burning Angus and his mates made their way around the corner to the hotel, he pointed out bitterly how many surprises might crop up.
‘They’ll start bringing men over by the lorry from Orange,’ he said angrily, ‘if all else fails.’ He cast a stern, enquiring eye over his loyal adherents, Snake, Dogger, Uncle, Dark and Jim, who were forging forward, as by common consent, towards the hotel’s back entrance. ‘We ought to get straight back to camp,’ he announced.
‘But you wanted to see Snow Grimshaw. This is where he’ll be.’
Angus allowed the argument was valid. ‘I don’t suppose it matters just tonight,’ he said doubtfully, but his team had already pushed their way into the bar.
With all the doors and windows shut, so that no light might show that the liquor laws were being broken, the bar was stuffier than the hall they had just left. It reeked of stale beer and tobacco, sweaty flannel and unwashed socks. The barman was having a hard job to keep the noise down to a murmur that could not be heard in the street; and every now and then the landlord, looking nervous, would hold a hurried conference with him on the advisability of turning away the custom that came none too quietly pushing down the back entry. He was urging them to finish their drink and go, but the men were in no hurry. They wanted to talk over the meeting, and now and then a loud voice would be raised, to be immediately hushed by the barman’s urgent command for quiet. The men from the meeting crowded up one end of the bar away from the regular customers, who eyed them askance and exchanged remarks under their breath that were accompanied by scowls and hostile side-glances.
‘Hey, Snow!’ Angus beckoned from the doorway, and Snow lounged over. ‘Come outside a minute.’
‘Have a drink?’ Snow offered, but Angus was already leading him into the darkness of the yard. He had much to talk about, and he wanted no eavesdroppers.
Angus’s mates joined Thirty-Bob and Dick Tyrell, and were yarning about where they had been since leaving Logan.
‘And talking about Logan!’ Thirty-Bob gripped Dick’s arm. ‘Look who’s just come in.’
Dick followed the direction of Thirty-Bob’s eyes and started up.
‘He’s mine, Bob.’
‘He’s mine, Dick. I saw him first.’
Through the door Sam Little had thrust his way, followed by a group with whom he was talking and laughing. He took no notice of the barman’s warning to lower his voice. He looked even bulkier and more formidable than when Dick, by a chance blow, had knocked him out in Logan.
‘He’s mine, Dick.’ Thirty-Bob repeated in a low voice. Angus’s mates exchanged glances as Thirty-Bob got up and went over to the bar. ‘Well, if it ain’t me old pal, Sam Little!’ he exclaimed, leering up at Sam. ‘Come to do a little pickin’?’
‘Don’t know you,’ Sam frowned. He turned his back on Thirty-Bob deliberately.
‘Come to support the union in its fight for the new award,’ Thirty-Bob went on. ‘Ain’t you, Sam, old pal?’
‘That’s what I think of your union, and that’s what I think of you,’ Sam illustrated offensively. ‘Now hook it.’
‘Here!’ The barman had leapt the counter. He knew danger signals when he saw them. ‘Get out of here. Come on, both of you. Out of this.’
But he was too late. Thirty-Bob, with great deliberation, had slung his beer in Sam’s face, mug and all, and Sam with a roar responded by hitting Thirty-Bob over the head with a chair. Thirty-Bob came up again and leapt at him. He was not a pleasant fighter, Thirty-Bob. He fought like a cat, with his feet, teeth — anything that came handy. The barman flung himself into the fray, and some of Sam Little’s pals helped.
They tumbled out into the passage and through the hall, the barman swearing and struggling to get them out. Behind them poured the excited throng from the bar, ready to form a ring as the battle joined in the back alley. Dick Tyrell had fallen upon one of Sam’s mates who was endeavouring to kick Thirty-Bob’s ribs in, while Sam knelt on him and smashed his face with his fists. Angus’s mates came to the assistance of Dick, who was being overpowered; and in the dark, jumbled alley there was a sudden, savage free-for-all battle that presently resolved itself into Union versus Independents.
On the outskirts there was an uproar of wildly excited men offering a fight or not waiting for an invitation.
‘Come on. I’ll take on the whole bloody lot of you’s.’
‘He was right to hit the bastard.’
‘Who said he was? The A.W.U. is a …’
‘Take a man’s job, you mongrel, would you? Take that!’
The unionists were in a minority, and things might have gone badly with them, if it had not been for a yell of: ‘Coppers, boys!’ and at that call the fighters broke and ran, union and non-union, stumbling and cursing; Dick with Thirty-Bob’s arm flung across his shoulder, Snow supporting the Dogger, who had a cut over his eye.
In the rear came Burning Angus raging. ‘A fine mob you are! Take me eyes off ye for two minutes and you try to cook the whole show.’ It was he who had raised the false alarm of police. It served its purpose in giving the combatants time to collect their wits and cool down.
‘Arr,’ Thirty-Bob flung at Burning Angus, as he danced round spluttering reproaches, ‘what the hell! A man’s got to have a bit of fun sometimes, hasn’t he?’<
br />
‘Fun? D’ye call it fun?’
‘It was good while it lasted,’ Thirty-Bob grinned. ‘It’ll teach them Littles to pick on us, eh, Dick?’ He tenderly felt his bruised face. ‘Me girlish beauty’s done for,’ he murmured.
21
I
Jabez Hacker had one of those hard, angular natures that fitted his name like a plug of dynamite in a rock. It was his pride to consider himself a strong, hard man. He had a reputation for cunning, unscrupulous determination that made him disliked as well as feared. He was the acknowledged leader of the Orchardists’ Association, and when he opened his thin rat-trap of a mouth to voice its policy, there was seldom any opposition. What Jabez knew to be to his advantage was usually to the advantage of the rest of the big growers who dominated the Association. He had issued an edict that year forbidding any grower to ‘face’ cherries, because he himself saw no profit in wasting money and time placing a neat layer of cherries on the bottom of every box. He had enough cherries to ‘dump,’ and he was going to dump them.
The small growers who wanted to ‘face’ cherries would be forbidden to use the Association’s trucks and generally hounded for the pariahs they were in Hacker’s opinion. It was that way with many things in Orion. Jabez Hacker told the big growers what he was going to do, and they agreed. He hated Vladimir Waldo because Waldo was the one man, fat, wheezy and fantastic, who was too big to be affected in any way by Hacker or anything Hacker might do.
Jabez was also at loggerheads with the local police sergeant, and the fight behind the hotel gave him just the opportunity he was wanting to bail up the sergeant the following Saturday and point out to him that a lawless rabble was trying to run the town, and he, the sergeant, would be failing in his duty if he didn’t bring them to heel. Why should Orion be over-run with ugly, drunken tramps who refused to work? Jabez spoke significantly of the last sergeant who had followed a policy of ‘clearing off the scum,’ which meant that anyone who after a week in Orion had no work, either left the town or went to gaol.
The Battlers Page 30
