Chapter Twenty-Eight
What say you, then,
To times, when half the city shall break out
Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear?
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, The Prelude
The next morning they awoke to find that a set of barricades had mysteriously sprung up around the tower overnight. Great, tottering obstructions blocked up every major street leading towards Babel – High Street, Broad Street, Cornmarket. Was this the Army’s work? They wondered. But it all seemed too slapdash, too haphazard to be an Army operation. The barricades were made of everyday materials – upturned carts, sand-filled barrels, fallen streetlamps, iron grillwork ripped away from the fences round Oxford’s parks, and the stone rubble that had been gathering at every street corner as evidence of the city’s slow deterioration. And what benefit did the Army obtain by fencing in their own streets?
They asked Ibrahim, who’d been on watch shift, what he’d seen. But Ibrahim had fallen asleep. ‘I woke up a little before dawn,’ he said defensively. ‘By then they were already in place.’
Professor Chakravarti came rushing up from the lobby. ‘There’s a man outside who wants to talk to you two.’ He nodded to Robin and Victoire.
‘What man?’ asked Victoire. ‘Why us?’
‘Unclear,’ said Professor Chakravarti. ‘But he was quite adamant he speaks to whoever’s in charge. And this whole thing is your circus, isn’t it?’
They descended to the lobby together. From the window they saw a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man waiting on the steps. He didn’t appear to be armed, nor particularly hostile, but his presence was baffling nonetheless.
He’d seen this man before, Robin realized. He wasn’t carrying his sign, but he stood the same way he always had during the mill workers’ protests: fists clenched, chin up, glaring determinedly at the tower as if he could topple it with his mind.
‘For heaven’s sake.’ Professor Craft peeked out of the window. ‘It’s one of those madmen. Don’t go out there, he’ll attack you.’
But Robin was already pulling on his coat. ‘No, he won’t.’ He had a suspicion of what was happening, and though he was afraid to hope just yet, his heart raced with excitement. ‘I think he’s here to help.’
When they opened the door,* the man courteously backed away, arms held high to show he had no weapon.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Robin. ‘I’ve seen you out here before.’
‘Abel.’ The man’s voice was very deep; solid, like building stone. ‘Abel Goodfellow.’
‘You threw an egg at me,’ accused Victoire. ‘That was you, last February—’
‘Yes, but it was only an egg,’ said Abel. ‘Nothing personal.’
Robin gestured to the barricades. The nearest one obstructed nearly the whole width of High Street, cutting off the main entrance to the tower. ‘This is your work?’
Abel smiled. It was an odd sight, through that beard; it made him look briefly like a gleeful little boy. ‘Do you like them?’
‘I’m not sure what the point is,’ said Victoire.
‘The Army’s on their way, haven’t you heard?’
‘And I don’t see how this stops them,’ said Victoire. ‘Unless you’re telling me you’ve also brought an army to man those walls.’
‘It’ll do a better job warding off troops than you think,’ said Abel. ‘It’s not just about the walls – though they’ll hold, you’ll see. It’s psychological. The barricades create the impression that there’s a real resistance going on, while the Army currently thinks they’ll be marching on the tower unopposed. And it emboldens our protestors – it creates a safe haven, a place to retreat.’
‘And what are you out here protesting?’ Victoire asked cautiously.
‘The silver industrial revolution, of course.’ Abel held up a crinkled, waterlogged pamphlet. One of theirs. ‘Turns out we’re on the same side.’
Victoire cocked her head. ‘Are we?’
‘Certainly where industry is concerned. We’ve been trying to convince you of the same.’
Robin and Victoire exchanged a glance. They both felt rather ashamed now of their disdain for the strikers over the past year. They’d bought into Professor Lovell’s claims, that the strikers were simply lazy, pathetic, and undeserving of basic economic dignities. But how different, really, were their causes?