“Of course we made a rush for our friends and leaders, inspired with precisely the same instinct to go to their assistance as if they and we had been Men. One of our rigid principles is never to attack the police, to assume that they are merely obeying orders; and even when they treat us with their customary brutality, to struggle, but not to strike; it being our desire to show, if possible, that a great battle can be won in these days by brains instead of force.
“Therefore, although we attempted to reach our leaders, it was merely to rescue them if we could; at all events to show our sympathy and indignation. But we did not reach them. The police outside were waiting for their signal; they immediately closed in and began striking and pushing us about, at first not ungently: they merely bashed hats, knocked a few shoulders, and twisted a few arms. But as fast as they dispersed one group, or turned to attack another, we made a new rush; some in the direction of Mrs. Pankhurst, others toward those being led off to the police station, others, myself among them, intending to force our way into the House, and make another demonstration in the Lobby. Mrs. Lime had managed to keep by my side, for she intended to enter with me. But suddenly she caught sight of a girl being abominably mauled by a policeman, and made a brave attempt to rescue her. The policeman dropped the girl, seized Mrs. Lime, whirled her about, gripped her by the shoulders, and, rushing her against the palings of Palace Yard, struck her breasts against the iron again and again. That sight sent me off my head. I forgot instructions, forgot the lofty impassivity I had been taught in the East—an admirable recipe for occasions like this, but, as yet, beyond me—I leaped on the man and struck him on the back of the head with all my might. He dropped Mrs. Lime and whirled about on me as furiously as if my fist had been as hard as his own, but when he saw me, he merely dropped his arm, scowled, and said: —
“ ‘Go home! Go home! You’ll get hurt,’ and ran over to pull two women apart who had locked arms. Then I realized what I had dimly been conscious of, that my only injuries were to my clothes, and that these were but the result of the general scuffle; every policeman had avoided me or brushed me off. They had received orders to do me no harm. Among all those hundreds of indomitable women I alone was to go scot free. The idea so enraged me that I flew at another policeman and struck him, determined to go to prison with the others. But he, too, brushed me off, although he was already panting and angry, and no doubt would have liked to strike me and then drag me to the police station. I attacked another, and he turned his back on me with an oath, seized a girl who was merely pushing her way quietly through the struggling mass, her face set and gray, her eyes with that strange intent look worn by nearly every face belonging to our women—seized her, threw her down, and kicked her in the side.
“Well—I managed to drag her and Mrs. Lime out of the crowd, put them into a four-wheeler, and take them to Westminster Hospital. They will die, no doubt; if not now, then later, devoured by the most horrible of all diseases. But if we have lost them, we shall have gained forty in their place, for this insensate policy of the Government has its logical consequence—illustrates the old truth, ‘The blood of martyrs is the seed of reform.’ Have they never read history?
“And yet, sometimes I despair. We shall win in the end, of course, for it is as impossible to exterminate this new force as to chain the Atlantic. But when? And shall we be here to see? We are only mortal, after all, and our bodies, strong to endure as they are, can be broken by men. And the great mass of women are so slow in awakening. In spite of the tremendous increase in our numbers during the past year, and the interest we have aroused, our recruits are a mere handful when compared with the female population of Great Britain, in general. Not until all, or at least three-fourths, of those women have awakened and rallied to our side can we win. Of that I am convinced. One thing I strove to do in the north was to convert the political women, those that always assist the men so potently at every general election. If we can persuade these women to desert the men and fight for women alone, we shall have made a great stride. This autumn I am to renew my acquaintance with my old associates and visit country houses during the autumn and winter, making converts of women who would be of inestimable benefit to us. But that is a sort of inactive service under which I chafe. Would that we could rouse all the women at once, form a rebel army, take to the field and fight like men. Perhaps we shall be driven to that in the end. It is all very well to plan to win by brains alone, and it would be to our immortal glory if we did, but it is to be considered that we are opposing men either without brains themselves, or who have been bred on the idea of physical force and really respect nothing else. Well, whatever happens, I only ask that I may be here to see. I am willing to give my brain and body and soul and every penny I can command to this cause, but I want to give the last of myself at the last minute, all the same.
“Now, write and tell me honestly if you would have me desert these women, when I can be of signal assistance to them in not one but many ways; and if you think I would be anything but what this cause has made of me if I would.
“Julia France.”
BOOK V
DANIEL TAY
I
The great amphitheatre of the Albert Hall was filled from arena to dome: some ten thousand women and three hundred men, exclusive of police. Slim young women in the white uniform of stewards and decorated with the badges of their unions stood at the back of the gangways. On the platform, against flowers and banners, sat the officials of the Woman’s Social and Political Union and of the several unions it had inspired. Of the most important of these, Julia France had been elected president eighteen months before, and to-night sat at the right of Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, who occupied the chair in the absence of Mrs. Pankhurst.