A Tale Of A Wet Trip [1900]

‘Going to be wet?’ ‘No, my boy, it’s bound to look up for the picnic; it couldn’t rain then; perhaps a few drops just to damp our ardour a little in case we seek to emulate Bresci upon the person of the village policeman!’[1]

‘Well, then, we won’t need capes?’ said Arthur. ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘perhaps we had better borrow Kit’s.’

So we did, and with glad feelings started for Monsal Dale; for there we were to have high jinks, meet old and new faces, and do good work for Anarchy. 

On the road, we sighted a murky blotch on the beautiful landscape of hill and dale; it was Sheffield, that modern pocket edition of Hell: great, ugly chimneys belching forth smoke, great furnaces roaring with flame, smelting the iron not for any useful purpose, but to make Guns and other means of destroying human life. 

We surveyed it from a safe distance and thought that, as a minor evil, we would go and see Alf Barton.[2] And we rejoiced that we did; for who should we find there but our comrade Marsh.[3] Our regard for him would not permit us to leave him alone in such company, so we expropriated Alf’s dinner and his couch and sent him to buy cigarettes. 

There were now five of us: one Londoner, two Sheffielders and two lean and hungry-looking Leedsites. So what could we do but sit down and set the whole of the affairs of the movement right? We managed to do this extremely well, at any rate to our own great satisfaction; because we knew, from our experience of former years, that if everything were not ready there was a danger of nothing being done; for many of the comrades have only a few hours to spend on their trip, and under the influence of old faces and old associations were apt to grow garrulous and forget altogether the main work. And, as things turned out, it was a good job that we did; for the weather—! I wish all the comrades could have been there; for we had a rare talk and cleared up many things in connection with Freedom, and the movement that I feel sure have brought us closer together. 

The next day, after I had woke them all up, us men of Leeds valiantly went into the hill-country surrounding Sheffield and after mounting what appeared to be several mountains rolled into one (no pun), were able to sit down, and over a glass of lemonade(?) reflect upon the glorious tidings that we were only five miles from the rendezvous. We sped on for another ten minutes, and found that we were ten miles off. And it rained! rivers! We turned our machines into paddle-boats and after many and divers adventures we were rejoiced to find ourselves overlooking Monsal Dale. 

But we couldn’t see the ’narchists. We did see a couple of artless damsels, one long and the other short, who informed us that the rest were down below in the valley. We went below; but nary a sign of them could we see. We passed an antiquated cowshed, and heard strains of ‘Yes, Jesus loves me,’ and knew it couldn’t be our folk. But, then, we heard a sound that fairly shivered the marrow in our bones. It was an Irish-cum-Yiddish song! And then light dawned for us; we sought again, and found about eighty comrades trying to rival the harmony of a church choir, who had also got stranded. Needless to say, they did not succeed. 

Well, what a waterlogged lot they were! It was true that we could not tell which was we and which mas mud; but them! Ugh! 

There was Tommy Cantwell,[4] the only jolly-looking chap in the lot (he always was merry over other people’s misfortunes). He had some ham sandwiches, we took charge of them for him. Gorrie[5] – trying to get warm I suppose – discussed ‘non-resistance’; but we settled him. (There was a non-resistant in Leicester who punched a man’s head at a peace meeting. Of course, I don’t say it was Gorrie!) 

There was a good turn up, considering the weather; although I have since learned that there were a few who started to come, but got waterlogged on the way. It was a treat to be among all the old faces, and we very nearly forgot the weather. 

Someone proposed the Conference, and we tried to hold it. But it was a terrible job: we had the competition of the church choir and the ceaseless swish and pitter-patter of the rain to contend with. We had the agenda to discuss that we had talked out the day before in Sheffield: (1) The general Propaganda; (2) The Press; (3) Federation; (4) The Paris Congress; (5) Easter Conference; (6) Next Picnic. 

Here, indeed, was something important to do; but we could not properly deal with it; Marsh had with him a most important article from a foreign correspondent, dealing with the question of propaganding, extracts from which were going to be read, throwing as they would a new light upon our methods and they would have been very helpful to all of us. But the Sheffield contingent had not yet arrived, and Marsh was with them; they had started by rail to a station about ten miles from Monsal Dale and were having to walk all through that pitiless deluge; so we started the Conference, and as time was very limited we practically confined ourselves to the most important item of all: the question of Federation. Everyone seemed to think that by it we would be able to do more and effective work, and although we were not able to do more than indicate the lines upon which it would work, i.e., exchange of speakers, collection of reports, assistance of groups in their local work, the taking of joint action where such action would redound to the benefit of the movement, etc. We had managed to agree upon the idea when Sheffield arrived, sopping wet and presenting a most pitiful sight. We let them dry, and promptly made Alf Barton secretary by way of getting the chill off his bones. 

A most important suggestion was to have been put to the assembled comrades anent Freedom, but all of a sudden a fire broke out in the adjoining farmhouse and helter-skelter everyone rushed to put it out (to be blamed afterwards, when mine host awoke to the fact that we were Anarchists, as the cause of it). The fire out, it was time for tea. (Not even a radish to it this time.) Then it was time for the Leicester comrades to catch their train and for the Sheffield folk to commence their dreary walk which, by the exercise of much ingenuity and a ‘short cut,’ they succeeded in increasing from ten to seventeen miles. 

It was a glorious day! the rain never ceased for long together, the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled we were cooped up in an apology for a cowshed, wet through and shivering; it was impossible to hold a set Conference, and yet we are happy that we went, because with all the difficulties we accomplished a great deal of work and believe that the movement will be stronger as a result. In the Newsletter (now being printed) we shall be able to discuss all the points that were not brought. up and those that were only partially dealt with. It remains with the comrades to see that the Federation is made a success, to co-operate heartily with the Secretary, and we will be able to have as the result of a wet day something even more satisfactory than the colds we caught: a better and healthier movement in the North. 

MAC. 

Freedom  : A Journal of Anarchist Communism Sept-Oct 1900

Notes

1, Gaetano Bresci assassinated King Umberto I of Italy in 1900

2, Barton: See https://radicalmanchester.wordpress.com/2010/01/05/alfred-barton-19th-century-anarchism-and-the-early-20th-century-labour-party/

3, presumably Alfred Marsh https://libcom.org/article/marsh-alfred-1858-1914

4, Thomas Cantwell, see https://libcom.org/article/cantwell-thomas-edward-1864-1906

5, Archibald Gorrie of Leicester see the Gorrie Collection at Leicester University library https://specialcollections.le.ac.uk/digital/collection/p16445coll1 and https://www.nednewitt.com/whoswho/G.html#Archibald%20Gorrie