Word: maces
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...peaceful march ends Saturday's action, and an inconclusive meeting ends Saturday night. After five hours, you decide to meet at nine the next morning and start from scratch. The basic split is emerging here. Some people want to keep attacking, keep cutting fences. Others don't like Mace, don't like wearing gas masks, fear that real violence may break out. "What did you come here for--to occupy or not?" one man shouts, and people around the circle really wonder...
...have to do something, you decide on another assault, this time through the woods and across a road. It's chaos and no one knows who is going where, and so everyone goes the wrong place, down a suicide alley where the police wait with two cans of Mace apiece. A little fence is cut, a few people even reach the other side, and pretty soon you're retreating backwards, trying to doctor Mace victims and to keep singing and hold hands and walk-not-run, and the police are right behind you. They have their sticks out and they...
...goes on and they move in. One of you gets picked up by a pigtail and tossed. Another, who goes limp, is clubbed until his hand is fractured and he is rolled down the hill. The glasses are ripped off one of you, and your eyes are sprayed with Mace. They kick and they shove and they are strong, and then everybody is retreating and every available water bottle is above somebody's face, and you know there is no way on God's green earth that you'll ever get near the plant. It starts to rain...
Back in camp, even the rumors are kind of boring. People have been arrested, and some have been injured, but you know it's really all over. Sure there will be action tomorrow--a march and a rally and some meetings and a little Mace, and some independent fence-cutting. But they'll keep building Seabrook, at least until next spring when you and your affinity group come back to shut it down again. So you talk with friends, for a while and listen to the spokes meeting, and then, in a gusty 45-degree wind you crawl into your...
...were singing, facing the line of guardsmen who stood elbow to elbow grasping their clubs. Suddenly, at a signal perceptible only to them they pulled out their canisters of Mace and started spraying the people in the front. No warning. The front line turned and fled. The guardsmen kept coming. I lunged for Sarah, and we linked elbows and began to move back. She fell and I reached down to help her, as a New Hampshire state trooper, aiming at where her head had been, caught me straight in the face with Mace. Again I stumbled frantically forward, trying...