# The Ancient Grudge/Chapter 30
### XXX
#### THE NIGHT ATTACK

There was a blockade of trolley cars in front of the Halket Company's works. Floyd stepped down from the rear platform on which he had been impatiently standing and hurried along the sidewalk. He had expected to find himself at once in the midst of a tumult; but although people were running through the streets and fire-engines and hook-and-ladder wagons were at the mill entrance obstructing all traffic, there was a singular absence of noise. Those whom he passed were mostly women, and they seemed to be scurrying along in a subdued, voiceless panic. From beyond the high board fence in the direction of the river there rose a few remote, unimpressive cries; Floyd was beginning to think that in spite of all the evidence of agitation given by the presence of women and children and fire-engines in the street, there was nothing serious taking place. Then he heard from the direction of the river the sound of shots—three, fired in rapid succession.
The fire-engines, the hook-and-ladder wagons, were deserted by all except their drivers, and were wedged together in possession of the street; a few firemen were dragging a length of hose out of the mill-yards across the bridge. Floyd passed between the wagons and ran up the steps of the company's offices. Gregg and three of his subordinates were standing at the windows of the general superintendent's room when Floyd entered.
"Well, Mr. Gregg?" he asked as he came across the room.
The superintendent turned with a start, as did the others.
​"Hell's broke loose down there, Mr. Halket," he said. "Come—take a look."
He drew Floyd up to the window, which commanded a view of the roadway leading from the bridge to the river-bank. Lights were swinging and darting back and forth and across—lights green and red as well as yellow, for the trainmen's lanterns had been seized—and in the erratic illumination from all these it seemed to Floyd as if the whole population of New Rome must be massed down among the miUs. He could see the motion, the agitation in the crowd—people running far off to the left and right, solitary lantern-bearers making their way in the distance toward the river to be suddenly blotted out by some shed; and through the open window he could hear more distinctly than in the street the undertone of sound, the intermittent cries, the desultory rifle shots, once the staccato of a revolver.
"What's happened?" Floyd said, turning sharply away.
"They poured into the works all of a sudden at about half-past nine," Gregg answered. "I sent word down to the ferry below the bridge to intercept the Emerald Isle and the barges. But she was ahead of her schedule; and by the time my message reached the ferry, she'd passed under the bridge. There was no way of sending word out to her; the men had the bank all patrolled, and nobody could get out in a boat—or even yell an alarm. They let the Emerald Isle push the barges aground at the landing and cut loose; and then they began shooting when the watchmen showed their heads. The Emerald Isle tried to tow them off again when she saw what trouble they were in; and then the fire was turned on her; from what I hear, the pilot was wounded if not killed; anyhow, the Emerald Isle gave up trying to rescue anybody but herself, and got away as fast as she could. And ever since, those poor devils have been cooped up between decks of the barges, potted at by anybody in town that ​has a gun. I've got the police and the firemen;—the police could n't do anything—well, there are a couple of thousand people in there now—and the firemen could n't; I thought they might turn the hose on the crowd, but there's no water near enough, and it would be like squirting at a fire with a syringe. The sheriff came and read the riot act, and nobody listened; then he went away to telephone the governor to call out the militia. I don't see as there's anything we can do to help those poor devils,—but just pray for the governor to act."
"I can make an effort," said Floyd. "While I'm gone, telephone the Berwick Coal-Boat Company—no, the office will be closed; call up James D. Berwick at his house; tell him he's got to send a boat up here to take off these barges. Tell him you'll pay any price to the captain and the men who'll do the job—tell him to send 'em ready to fight—and for God's sake at once. Berwick will do it; he'll find the men.—I'll see you later; call him up at once, Mr. Gregg."
"But, Mr. Halket—you can't go into that mob—you can't handle it—and—you'll be just the man they're looking for!"
"Please call up Berwick."
"But, Mr. Halket!" Gregg clutched his arm imploringly, and with the other hand pointed to the opera-hat in which Floyd had come straight from the theatre. "That hat anyway! It'll make you a marked man.—Take mine."
"I want to get their notice," Floyd answered. He drew his arm away and went out of the room.
Some women and girls were standing huddled together on the bridge, as if they were afraid to go farther; and when he passed them, they began to hiss. Others a little distance away recognized him and joined in the demonstration. He walked on as if he did not hear, although the sound not only followed him but even went rippling before him; his cheeks were hot; he had not been prepared for this, ​he felt that nothing could have hurt him so much as this from wives and daughters of his men.
The crowd, swarming off along the lanes between the mills, was less dense than it had appeared; and in order to gain a general view of the situation, Floyd turned and went up one of these by-ways. He escaped the hissing, and in the greater darkness here he was apparently not recognized; the opera-hat, at the same time that it was a distinction, was also something of a disguise. As he walked, he caught fragments of talk—"They say there's two dead bodies lying on the barge."—"How many of our men have been killed?"—"They're goin' to pour oil on the river and set fire to it; that'll smoke 'em out."—"Why the hell don't somebody bring some dynamite and blow 'em out o' the water?" Floyd soon derived an idea of the temper of the men.
At last he worked his way into the throng on the edge of the bank a hundred yards up the river; and from this position he could dimly see the two barges lying side by side inshore. At intervals, from under or between the freight cars which were lined up below him, darted a flash of light in a downward stab—and the shot would be followed by cheers. Three times from one of the barges there was an answering flash.
It was clear that for the watchmen the only hope was in the coming of a tug to the rescue, or in the yielding of the mob to some impulse of mercy. They could not land, they could not scale the bank and then the barricade of cars; the attempt would mean massacre.
Floyd walked down beside the freight cars through the mob in the direction of the rifle flashes. It was so dark, and men were jostling so eagerly, so blindly to reach some point from which they could see what was happening, that he went on unnoticed. He came to a place where the crowd had given back a few feet from one of the cars; the men in front were stooping, looking under the trucks; and among these men Floyd saw Stewart, peering with the rest. ​He turned; there, from under the car, protruded a pair of legs; and at that moment the man to whom the legs belonged discharged a rifle. Anger overwhelmed Floyd—anger that this dastardly creature should lie there in ambush, trying to maim or murder if ever a hand or a head was raised; he stooped and with a sudden passionate strength gripping the man by the ankles, he dragged and flung him with one motion out from under the car. In the next instant, he had wrenched away his rifle; he sprang with it through the narrow gap that separated this car from the next, and hurled it down the slope into the river.
A furious shout went up from the men who had seen and stood astounded. But Floyd turned at once, and seizing the low side of the flat-car, sprang up. A clinker of slag struck him in the chest as he was getting to his feet, but he stumbled to the middle of the car and took off his hat and held it aloft.
"Men!" he cried, but they drowned him with a shout of wrath,—"Halket!" "Shoot him!" "Kill him!" Missiles began to fly.
Floyd shielded his eyes with one arm, holding up his hat.—"Shoot him!" "Kill Halket!"
"Ah, don't! Don't!" came the wild imploring cry from just below—and Stewart leaped forward and began scrambling up on the car. A man rushed out to pull him back; Floyd, shielding his eyes and glancing down, saw that it was Tustin. But Stewart at the man's clutch kicked out frantically even while he climbed and with all his force drove his boot-heel into Tustin's face. Tustin sank upon the ground with a broken jaw, and Stewart sprang up to Floyd, who was shouting at the top of his voice, "Hear me, please! Just a few words! Just a few words!"
But Stewart's act had maddened the mob beyond all power of words to control; down close in front of the car men were stooping, digging up clinkers of slag with both hands, cursing and yelling as they stooped to the ground; a man rushed in and flung his lantern at Floyd, ​but it went to one side, whirling down into the river. Stewart sprang in front of Floyd, faced him, and with his back to the crowd flung both arms wide to protect him. "Lie down, Floyd; lie down!" he besought him; struck heavily in the back by a stone, he lurched forward against Floyd, still crying, "Lie down!"
Floyd tried to pull him to one side and shelter him from the storm of iron and stone and slag; but Stewart flung both arms about Floyd's neck and stood between him and the tempest. Floyd, struggling in the embrace, felt the shock of the missiles battering Stewart's back and shoulders. Down his own head the blood was pouring into both eyes, blinding him. "Please lie down, Floyd, please!" Stewart continued to urge; and Floyd muttered, "All right, old man,—if you'll let me,—you lie down, too."
Floyd heard a shot near by; Stewart groaned a little in his arms. "Lie down, Floyd," Stewart murmured; and then he collapsed at Floyd's feet. Without the thought of it in his heart Stewart had at last paid his debt.
Floyd hurled down into the crowd the useless hat that he had been holding and shook both fists aloft and shouted, "You've killed him, God damn you! You've killed him!" And while he stood shrieking this, which they in their own insane shouting did not hear, while he stood over Stewart blinded by blood, defying them helplessly with his clenched fists, they battered him; and at last he also fell.