The Mail and Empire, December 15, 1934

Army Quells Strike Violence

PORT TICONDEROGA, ONT.

Fresh violence broke out yesterday in Port Ticonderoga, a continuation of the week's turmoil in connection with the closure, strike and lockout at Chase and Sons Industries Ltd. Police forces proving outnumbered and reinforcements having been requested by the provincial legislature, the Prime Minister authorised intervention in the interests of public safety by a detachment of the Royal Canadian Regiment, which arrived at two o'clock in the afternoon. The situation has now been declared stable.

Prior to order being restored, a meeting of strikers ran out of control. Shop windows were broken all along the town's main street, with extensive looting. Several shop owners attempting to defend their property are in hospital recovering from contusions. One policeman is said to be in grave danger from concussion, having been struck on the head by a brick. A fire that broke out in Factory One during the early hours, but which was subdued by the town's firefighters, is being investigated, and arson is suspected. The night watchman, Mr. Al Davidson, was dragged to safety out of the path of the flames, but was found to have died due to a blow on the head and smoke inhalation. The perpetrators of this outrage are being sought, with several suspects already identified.

The editor of the Port Ticonderoga newspaper, Mr. Elwood R. Murray, stated that the trouble had been caused by liquor introduced into the crowd by several outside agitators. He claimed that the local workmen were law-abiding and would not have rioted unless provoked.

Mr. Norval Chase, President of Chase and Sons Industries, was unavailable for comment.

Horses of the night

A different house this week, a different room. At least there's space to turn around between door and bed. The curtains are Mexican, striped in yellow and blue and red; the bed has a bird's-eye maple headboard; there's a Hudson 's Bay blanket, crimson and scratchy, that's been tossed onto the floor. A Spanish bullfight poster on the wall. An armchair, maroon leather; a desk, fumed oak; a jar with pencils, all neatly sharpened; a rack of pipes. Tobacco particulate thickens the air.

A shelf of books: Auden, Veblen, Spengler, Steinbeck, Dos Passos. Tropic of Cancer, out in plain view, it must have been smuggled. Salammb, Strange Fugitive, Twilight of the Idols, A Farewell to Arms. Barbusse, Montherlant. Hammurabis Gesetz: Juristische Erla terung. This new friend has intellectual interests, she thinks. Also more money. Therefore less trustworthy. He has three different hats topping his bentwood coat stand, as well as a plaid dressing gown, pure cashmere.

Have you read any of these books? she'd asked, after they'd come in and he'd locked the door. While she was taking off her hat and gloves.

Some, he said. He didn't elaborate. Turn your head. He untangled a leaf from her hair.

Already they're falling.

She wonders if the friend knows. Not just that there's a woman-they'll have something worked out between them so the friend won't barge in, men do that-but who she is. Her name and so on. She hopes not. She can tell by the books, and especially by the bullfight poster, that this friend would be hostile to her on principle.

Today he'd been less impetuous, more pensive. He'd wanted to linger, to hold back. To scrutinise.

Why are you looking at me like that?

I'm memorising you.

Why? she said, putting her hand over his eyes. She didn't like being examined like that. Fingered.

To have you later, he said. Once I've gone.

Don't. Don't spoil today.

Make hay while the sun shines, he said. That your motto?

More like waste not, want not, she said. He'd laughed then.

Now she's wound herself in the sheet, tucked it across her breasts; she lies against him, legs hidden in a long sinuous fishtail of white cotton. He has his hands behind his head; he's gazing up at the ceiling. She feeds him sips of her drink, rye and water this time. Cheaper than scotch. She's been meaning to bring something decent of her own-something drinkable-but so far she's forgotten.

Go on, she says.

I have to be inspired, he says.

What can I do to inspire you? I don't have to be back till five.

I'll take a rain check on the real inspiration, he says. I have to build up my strength. Give me half an hour.

O lente, lente currite noctis equi!

What?

Run slowly, slowly, horses of the night. It's from Ovid, she says. In Latin the line goes at a slow gallop. That was clumsy, he'll think she's showing off. She can never tell what he may or may not recognise. Sometimes he pretends not to know a thing, and then after she's explained it he reveals that he does know it, he knew it all along. He draws her out, then chokes her off.

You're an odd duck, he says. Why are they the horses of the night?

They pull Time's chariot. He's with his mistress. It means he wants the night to stretch out, so he can spend more time with her.

What for? he says lazily. Five minutes not enough for him? Nothing better to do?

She sits up. Are you tired? Am I boring you? Should I leave?

Lie down again. You ain't goin' nowheres.

She wishes he wouldn't do that-talk like a movie cowboy. He does it to put her at a disadvantage. Nevertheless, she stretches out, slides her arm across him.

Put your hand here, ma'am. That'll do fine. He closes his eyes. Mistress, he says. What a quaint term. Mid-Victorian. I should be kissing your dainty shoe, or plying you with chocolates.

Maybe I am quaint. Maybe I'm mid-Victorian. Lover, then. Orpiece of tail. Is that more forward-looking? More even-steven for you?

Sure. But I think I prefermistress. Because things ain't even-steven, are they?

No, she says. They're not. Anyway, go on.

He says: As night falls, the People of Joy have encamped a day's march from the city. Female slaves, captives from previous conquests, pour out the scarlethrang from the skin bottles in which it is fermented, and cringe and stoop and serve, carrying bowls of gristly, undercooked stew made from rustledthulks. The official wives sit in the shadows, eyes bright in the dark ovals of their head-scarves, watching for impertinences. They know they'll sleep alone tonight, but they can whip the captured girls later for clumsiness or disrespect, and they will.

The men crouch around their small fires, wrapped in their leather cloaks, eating their suppers, muttering among themselves. Their mood is not jovial. Tomorrow, or the day after that-depending on their speed and on the watchfulness of the enemy-they will have to fight, and this time they may not win. True, the fiery-eyed messenger who spoke to the Fist of the Invincible One promised they will be given victory if they continue to be pious and obedient and brave and cunning, but there are always so many ifs in these matters.

If they lose, they'll be killed, and their women and children as well. They're not expecting mercy. If they win, they themselves must do the killing, which isn't always so enjoyable as is sometimes believed. They must kill everyone in the city: these are the instructions. No boy child is to be left alive, to grow up lusting to revenge his slaughtered father; no girl child, to corrupt the People of Joy with her depraved ways. From cities conquered earlier they've kept back the young girls and doled them out among the soldiers, one or two or three each according to prowess and merit, but the divine messenger has now said that enough is enough.

All this killing will be tiring, and also noisy. Killing on such a grand scale is very strenuous, also polluting, and must be done thoroughly or else the People of Joy will be in bad trouble. The All-Powerful One has a way of insisting on the letter of the law.

Their horses are tethered apart. They are few in number, and ridden only by the chief men-slender, skittish horses, with hardened mouths and long woebegone faces and tender, cowardly eyes. None of this is their fault: they were dragged into it.

If you own a horse you are permitted to kick and beat it, but not to kill it and eat it, because long ago a messenger of the All-Powerful One appeared in the form of the first horse. The horses remember this, it is said, and are proud of it. It is why they allow only the leaders to ride them. Or that is the reason given.