Then piercing shrieks arose, while the bugle sounded the cease fire. They had really fired, and the crowd stood motionless, unable to believe it. The bricks rained thicker still, and just as he was opening his mouth to shout ‘Fire!’ the rifles went off of their own accord first three shots, then five, then the whole volley of a platoon and then, long afterwards, a single shot in the midst of silence. He was torn with perplexity, and for some seconds an apparently endless struggle within him shook all his ideas, his sense of duty and his beliefs as a man and as a soldier. Three times the captain was on the point of ordering them to fire. The recruit had been grazed in two places, his thumb was smashed and his right knee was smarting: how much longer were they going to put up with this? One brick had bounced up and hit the veteran in the groin, and he had turned green and was raising his rifle with his thin arms. The sergeant had let out an oath when his shoulder had nearly been put out and his skin bruised by a heavy thud that sounded like a dolly banging the washing. Several of his men were wounded, and he realized that they were at the end of their tether and had reached the stage of instinctive self-defence when they would no longer obey their superiors. A brick had just broken the peak of his cap and blood was trickling down his forehead. What was to be done? For a moment the captain considered retreating into the buildings, but the very thought of showing his back to the mob made his pale face flush – and in any case it was no longer practicable, for if they made the slightest movement they would be lynched. Fortunately they landed too high and merely pitted the wall above. The little squad was nearly lost to sight under the hail of stones.

Zola – whose sympathies throughout this novel are with the miners and their cause – shows that things are never as simple as they seem afterwards in the cold light of day: A small contingent of soldiers are guarding Belgian scabs in the pit and the strikers are attacking them with stones and bricks. In this Sensational Snippet, the strike has got out of control. The realism of this story of a miners’ strike in the 1860s in northern France is stunning. Germinal, (1885) by Emile Zola, is the thirteenth novel in his twenty-volume series Les Rougon-Macquart, but it’s the first that I have read by this great French writer.

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