Ten minutes later the Council walked into the office of Calvin and Calvin. There sat Joseph Calvin, the elder, a ratty little man still, with a thin stringy neck and with a bald head. His small, mousy eyes blinked at the workmen. He was exceedingly polite. He admitted that he was attorney for the owners’ association in the Valley, that he could if he chose speak for them in any negotiations they might desire to make with their employees, but that he was authorized to say that the owners were not ready to consider or even to receive any communication from the men upon any subject–except as individual employees might desire to confer with superintendents or foremen in the various mines and mills.
So they walked out. At labor headquarters in South Harvey, Nathan Perry came sauntering in.
“Well, boys–let’s have your agreement–I think I know what it is. We’re ready to sign.”
In an hour men were carrying out posters to be distributed throughout the Valley, signed by Grant Adams, chairman of the Wahoo Valley Trades Workers’ Council. It read:
STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE
The managers of our mines and mills in the Wahoo Valley have refused to confer with representatives of the workers about an important matter. Therefore we order a general strike of all workers in the mines and mills in this District. Workers before leaving will see that their machines are carefully oiled, covered, and prepared to rest without injury. For we claim partnership interest in them, and should protect them and all our property in the mines and mills in this Valley. During this strike, we pledge ourselves.
To orderly conduct.
To keep out of the saloons.
To protect our property in the mines and mills.
To use our influence to restrain all violence of speech or conduct. And we make the following demands:
First. That prices of commodities turned out in this district shall not be increased to the public as a result of concessions to us in this strike, and to that end we demand.
Second. That we be allowed to have a representative in the offices of all concerns interested, said representative to have access to all books and accounts, guaranteeing to labor such increases in wages as shall be evidently just, allowing 8 per cent. dividends on stock, the payment of interest on bonds, and such sums for upkeep, maintenance, and repairs as shall not include the creation of a surplus or fund for extensions.
Third, we demand that the companies concerned shall obey all laws enacted by the state or nation to improve conditions of industry until such laws have been passed upon by the supreme courts of the state and of the United States.
Fourth, we demand that all negotiations between the employers and the workers arising out of the demands shall be conducted on behalf of the workers by the Trades Workers’ Council of the Wahoo Valley or their accredited representatives.
During this strike we promise to the public righteous peace; after the strike we promise to the managers of the mines and mills efficient labor, and to the workers always justice.
STRIKE STRIKE STRIKE
At two o’clock that June afternoon the whistle of the big engine in the smelter in South Harvey, the whistle in the glass factory at Magnus, and the siren in the cement mill at Foley blew, and gradually the wheels stopped, the machines were covered, the fires drawn, the engines wiped and covered with oil, and the men marched out of all the mills and mines and shops in the district. There was no uproar, no rioting, but in an hour all the garden patches in the Valley were black with men. The big strike of the Wahoo Valley was on.
CHAPTER XLVI
WHEREIN GRANT ADAMS PREACHES PEACE AND LIDA BOWMAN SPEAKS HER MIND
A war, being an acute stage of discussion about the ownership of property, is a war even though “the lead striker calls it a strike,” and even though he proposes to conduct the acute stage of the discussion on high moral grounds. The gentleman who is being relieved of what he considers at the moment his property, has no notion of giving it up without a struggle, no matter how courteously he is addressed, nor upon what exalted grounds the discussion is ranging. It is a world-old mistake of the Have-nots to discount the value which the Haves put upon their property. The Have-nots, generally speaking, hold the property under discussion in low esteem. They have not had the property in question. They don’t know what a good thing it is–except in theory. But the Haves have had the property and they will fight for it, displaying a degree of feeling that always surprises the Have-nots, and naturally weakens their regard for the high motives and disinterested citizenship of the Haves.
Now Grant Adams in the great strike in the Wahoo Valley was making the world-old mistake. He was relying upon the moral force of his argument to separate the Haves from their property. He had cared little for the property. The poor never care much for property–otherwise they would not be poor. So Grant and his followers in the Valley–and all over the world for that matter,–(for they are of the great cult who believe in a more equitable distribution of property, through a restatement of the actual values of various servants to society), went into their demands for partnership rights in the industrial property around them, in a sublime and beautiful but untenable faith that the righteousness of their cause would win it. The afternoon when the men walked out of the mines and mills and shops, placards covered the dead walls of the Valley and the hired billboards in Harvey setting forth the claims of the men. They bought and paid for twenty thousand copies of Amos Adams’s Tribune, and distributed it in every home in the district, setting forth their reasons for striking. Great posters were spread over the town and in the Valley declaring “the rule of this strike is to be square, and to be square means that the strikers will do as they would be done by. There will be no violence.”
Now it would seem that coming to the discussion with these obviously high motives, and such fair promises, the strikers would have been met by similarly altruistic methods. But instead, the next morning at half past six, when a thousand strikers appeared bearing large white badges inscribed with the words, “We stand for peace and law and order,” and when the strikers appeared before the entrance to the shaft houses and the gates and doors of the smelters and mills, to beg men and women not to fill the vacant places at the mills and mines, the white-badged brigade was met with five hundred policemen who rudely ordered the strikers to move on.
The Haves were exhibiting feeling in the matter. But the mines and mills did not open; not enough strike-breakers appeared. So that afternoon, a great procession of white-badged men and white-clad women and children, formed in South Harvey, and, headed by the Foley Brass Band, marched through Market Street and for five miles through the streets of Harvey singing. Upon a platform carried by eight white-clad mothers, sat little Ben Bowman swathed in white, waving a white flag in his hand, and leading the singing. Over the chair on which he sat were these words on a great banner. “For his legal rights and for all such as he we demand that the law be enforced.”
For two hours the procession wormed through Harvey. The streets were crowded to watch it. It made its impression on the town. The elder Calvin watched it with Mayor Ahab Wright, in festal side whiskers, from the office of Calvin & Calvin. Young Joe Calvin from time to time came and looked over their shoulders. But he was for the most part too busily engaged, making out commissions for deputy sheriffs and extra policemen, to watch the parade. As the parade came back headed for South Harvey, the ear of the young man caught a familiar tune. He watched Ahab Wright and his father to see if they recognized it. The placid face of the Mayor betrayed no more consciousness of the air than did his immaculate white necktie. The elder Calvin’s face showed no appreciative wrinkles. The band passed down the street roaring the battle hymn of labor that has become so familiar all over the world. The great procession paused uncovered in the street, while Little Ben waved his flag and raised his clear, boyish voice with its clarion note and sang, as the procession waved back. And at the spectacle of the crippled child, waving his one little arm, and lifting his voice in a lusty strain, the sidewalk crowd cheered and those who knew the tune joined.
Young Joe Calvin stood with his hands on the shoulders of the two sitting men. “Mr. Mayor, do you know that tune?” said Young Joe.
Mr. Mayor, whose only secular tune was “Yankee Doodle,” confessed his ignorance. “Listen to the words,” suggested Young Joe. Old Joe put his hand to his right ear. Ahab Wright leaned forward, and the words of the old, old cry of the Reds of the Midi came surging up:
“To arms! to arms!–ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe!
March on! March on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death.”
When Ahab Wright caught the words he was open mouthed with astonishment. “Why–why,” he cried, “that–why, that is sedition. They’re advocating murder!”
Young Joe Calvin’s face did not betray him, and he nodded a warning head. Old Joe looked the genuine consternation which he felt.
“We can’t have this, Ahab–this won’t do–a few days of this and we’ll have bloodshed.”
It did not occur to Ahab Wright that he had been singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” and “I Am a Soldier of the Cross,” and “I’ll Be Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,” all of his pious life, without ever meaning anything particularly sanguinary. He heard the war song of the revolution, and being a literal and peth-headed man, prepared to defend the flag with all the ardor that had burned in John Kollander’s heart for fifty years.
“I tell you, Mr. Mayor, we need the troops. The Sheriff agrees with me–now you hear that,” said young Joe. “Will you wait until some one is killed or worse, until a mine is flooded, before sending for them?”
“You know, Ahab,” put in old Joe, “the Governor said on the phone this morning, not to let this situation get away from you.”
The crowd was joining the singing. The words–the inspiring words of the labor chant had caught the people on the sidewalk, and a great diapason was rising:
“March on! March on!–all hearts resolved
On victory or death.”
“Hear that–hear that, Ahab!” cried old Joe. “Why, the decent people up town here are going crazy–they’re all singing it–and that little devil is waving a red flag with the white one!”
Ahab Wright looked and was aghast. “Doesn’t that mean rebellion–anarchy–and bloodshed?” he gasped.
“It means socialism,” quoth young Joe, laconically, “which is the same thing.”
“Well, well! my! my! Dear me,” fretted Ahab, “we mustn’t let this go on.”
“Shall I get the Governor on the phone–you know we have the Sheriff’s order here–just waiting for you to join him?” asked young Joe.
The Haves were moving the realm of the discussion about their property from pure reason to the baser emotions.
“Look, look!” cried the Mayor. “Grant Adams is standing on that platform–and those women have to hold him up–it’s shameful. Listen!”
“I want to say to my old neighbors and friends here in Harvey,” cried Grant, “that in this strike we shall try with all our might, with all our hearts’ best endeavors, to do unto others as we would have them do unto us. Our property in the mines and mills in this Valley, we shall protect, just as sacredly as our partners on Wall Street would protect it. It is our property–we are the legatees of the laborers who have piled it up. You men of Harvey know that these mines represent little new capital. They were dug with the profits from the first few shafts. The smelters rose from the profits of the first smelters in the district. Where capital has builded with fresh investment–we make no specific claim, but where capital has builded here in this district from profits made in the district–profits made by reason of cheating the crippled and the killed, profits made by long deadly hours of labor, profits made by cooking men’s lungs on the slag dump, profits made by choking men to death, unrequited, in cement dust, profits sweated out of the men at the glass furnaces–where capital has appropriated unjustly, we expect to appropriate justly. We shall take nothing that we do not own. This is the beginning of the rise of the Democracy of Labor–the dawn of the new day.” He waved his arm and his steel claw and chanted:
“March on!–March on!–all hearts resolved,”
And in a wave of song the response came
“To victory or death.”
Grant Adams flaunted his black slouch hat; then he sprang from the platform, and hurried to the front of the procession. The band struck up a lively tune and the long trail of white-clad women and white-badged men became animate.
“Well, Ahab–you heard that? That is rebellion,” said old Joe, squinting his mole-like eyes. “What are you going to do about that–as the chief priest of law and order in this community?”
Five minutes later Ahab Wright, greatly impressed with the dignity of his position, and with the fact that he was talking to so superior a person as a governor, was saying:
“Yes, your excellency–yes, I wanted to tell you of our conditions here in the Valley. It’s serious–quite serious.” To the Governor’s question the Mayor replied:
“No–no–not yet, but we want to prevent it. This man Adams–Grant Adams, you’ve heard about him–”
And then an instant later he continued, “Yes–that’s the man, Governor–Dr. Nesbit’s friend. Well, this man Adams has no respect for authority, nor for property rights, and he’s stirring up the people.”
Young Joe Calvin winked at his father and said during the pause,
“That’s the stuff–the old man’s coming across like a top.”
Ahab went on: “Exactly–‘false and seditious doctrines,’ and I’m afraid, Governor, that it will be wise to send us some troops.”
The Calvins exchanged approving nods, and young Joe, having the enthusiasm of youth in his blood, beat his desk in joyous approval of the trend of events.
“Oh, I don’t know as to that,” continued Ahab, answering the Governor. “We have about four thousand men–perhaps a few more out. You know how many troops can handle them.”
“Tell him we’ll quarter them in the various plants, Ahab,” cut in old Joe, and Ahab nodded as he listened.
“Well, don’t wait for the tents,” he said. “Our people will quarter the men in the buildings in the centers of the disturbance. Our merchants can supply your quartermaster with everything. We have about a thousand policemen and deputy sheriffs–”
While the Mayor was listening to the Governor, Calvin senior said to his son, “Probably we’d better punch him up with that promise about the provo marshal,” and young Joe interrupted:
“And, Mr. Mayor, don’t forget to remind him of the promise he made to Tom Van Dorn,–about me.”
Ahab nodded and listened. “Wait,” he said, putting his hand over the telephone receiver, and added in a low voice to those in the room: “He was just talking about that and thinks he will not proclaim martial law until there is actual violence–which he feels will follow the coming of the troops, when the men see he is determined. He said then that he expected Captain Calvin of the Harvey Company to take charge, and the Governor will speak to the other officers about it.” Ahab paused a moment for further orders. “Well,” said the elder Calvin, “I believe that’s all.”
“Will there be anything else to-day, Joe?” asked Ahab, unconsciously assuming his counter manner to young Joe Calvin, who replied without a smile:
“Well–no–not to-day, thank you,” and Ahab went back to the Governor and ended the parley.
The Times the next morning with flaring headlines announced that the Governor had decided to send troops to the Wahoo Valley to protect the property in the mines and mills for the rightful owners and to prevent any further incendiary speaking and rioting such as had disgraced Market Street the day before. In an editorial the Governor was advised to proclaim martial law, as only the strictest repression would prevent the rise of anarchy and open rebellion to the authorities.
The troops came on the early morning trains, and filed into the sheds occupied by the workmen before the strike. The young militiamen immediately began pervading South Harvey, Foley and Magnus, and when the strikers lined up before the gates and doors of their former working places at seven o’clock that morning they met a brown line of youths–devil-may-care young fellows out for a lark, who liked to prod the workmen with their bayonets and who laughingly ordered the strikers to stop trying to keep the strike-breakers from going to work. The strikers were bound by their pledges to the Trades Council not to touch the strike-breakers under any circumstances. The strikers–white-badged and earnest-faced–made their campaign by lining up five on each side of a walk or path through which the strike-breakers would have to pass to their work, and crying:
“Help us, and we’ll help you. Don’t scab on us–keep out of the works, and we’ll see that you are provided for. Join us–don’t turn your backs on your fellow workers.”
They would stretch out their arms in mute appeal when words failed, and they brought dozens of strike-breakers away from their work. And on the second morning of the strike not a wheel turned in the district.
All morning Grant Adams moved among the men. He was a marked figure–with his steel claw–and he realized that he was regarded by the militiamen as an ogre. A young militiaman had hurt a boy in Magnus–pricked him in the leg and cut an artery. Grant tried to see the Colonel of the company to protest. But the soldier had been to the officer with his story, and Grant was told that the boy attacked the militiaman–which, considering that the boy was a child in his early teens and the man was armed and in his twenties, was unlikely. But Grant saw that his protests would not avail. He issued a statement, gave it to the press correspondents who came flocking in with the troops, and sent it to the Governor, who naturally transferred it back to the militiamen.
In the afternoon the parade started again–the women and children in white, and the men in white coats and white working caps. It formed on a common between Harvey and South Harvey, and instead of going into Harvey turned down into the Valley where it marched silently around the quiet mills and shafts and to the few tenements where the strike-breakers were lodged. A number of them were sitting at the windows and on the steps and when the strikers saw the men in the tenements, they raised their arms in mute appeal, but spoke no word. Down the Valley the procession hurried and in every town repeated this performance. The troops had gathered in Harvey and were waiting, and it was not until after three o’clock that they started after the strikers. A troop of cavalry overtook the column in Foley, and rode through the line a few times, but no one spoke, and the cavalrymen rode along the line but did not try to break it. So the third day passed without a fire in a furnace in the district.
That night Grant Adams addressed the strikers in Belgian Hall in South Harvey, in Fraternity Hall in Magnus and on a common in Foley. The burden of his message was this: “Stick–stick to the strike and to our method. If we can demonstrate the fact that we have the brains to organize, to abandon force, to maintain ourselves financially, to put our cause before our fellow workers so clearly that they will join us–we can win, we can enter into the partnership in these mills that is ours by right. The Democracy of Labor is a Democracy of Peace–only in peace, only by using the higher arts of peace under great provocation may we establish that Democracy and come into our own. Stick–stick–stick to the strike and stick to the ways of peace. Let them rally to their Colonels and their tin soldiers–and we shall not fear–for we are gathered about the Prince of Peace.”
The workmen always rose to this appeal and in Foley where the Letts had worked in the slag-dump, one of them, who did not quite understand the association of words implied by the term the Prince of Peace, cried:
“Hurrah for Grant, he is the Prince of Peace,” and the good natured crowd laughed and cheered the man’s mistake.
But the Times the next morning contained this head:
“Shame on Grant Adams, Trying to Inflame Ignorant Foreigners. Declares he is the Prince of Peace and gets Applause from his Excited Dupes–Will he Claim to be Messiah?”
It was a good story–from a purely sensational viewpoint, and it was telegraphed over the country, that Grant Adams, the labor leader, was claiming to be a messiah and was rallying foreigners to him by supernatural powers. The Times contained a vicious editorial calling on all good citizens to stamp out the blasphemous cult that Adams was propagating. The editorial said that the authorities should not allow such a man to speak on the streets maintained by tax-payers, and that with the traitorous promises of ownership of the mines and mills backing up such a campaign, rebellion would soon be stalking the street and bloodshed such as had not been seen in America for a generation would follow. The names which the Times called Grant Adams indicated so much malice, that Grant felt encouraged, and believed he had the strike won, if he could keep down violence. So triumph flambeaued itself on his face. For two peaceful days had passed. And peace was his signal of victory.
But during the night a trainload of strike-breakers came from Chicago. They were quartered in the railroad yards, and Grant ordered a thousand pickets out to meet the men at daybreak. Grant called out the groups of seven and each lodging house, tenement and car on the railroad siding was parceled out to a group. Moreover, Grant threw his army into action by ordering twenty groups into Sands Park, through which the strike-breaking smelter men would pass after the pickets had spoken to the strike-breakers in their door yards. Lining the park paths, men stood in the early morning begging working men not to go into the places made vacant by the strike. In addition to this, he posted other groups of strikers to stand near the gates and doors of the working places, begging the strike-breakers to join the strikers.
Grant Adams, in his office, was the motive power of the strike. By telephone his power was transferred all over the district. Violet Hogan and Henry Fenn were with him. Two telephones began buzzing as the first strikers went into Sands Park. Fenn, sitting by Grant, picked up the first transmitter; Violet took the other. She took the message in shorthand. Fenn translated a running jargon between breaths.
“Police down in Foley–Clubbing the Letts.–No bloodshed.–They are running back to their gardens.”
“Tell the French to take their places,” said Grant–“There are four French sevens–tell him to get them out right away–but not to fight the cops. Militia there?”
“No,” answered Fenn, “they are guarding the mill doors, and this happened in the streets near the lodging houses.”
“Mr. Adams,” said Violet, reading, “there’s some kind of a row in Sands Park. The cavalry is there and Ira Dooley says to tell you to clear out the Park or there will be trouble.”
“Get the boys on the phone, Violet, and tell them I said leave the Park, then, and go to the shaft houses in Magnus–but to march in silence–understand?”
Fenn picked up the transmitter again, “What’s that–what’s that–” he cried. Then he mumbled on, “He says the cops have ax-handles and that down by the smelters they are whacking our people right and left–Three in an ambulance?–The Slavs won’t take it? Cop badly hurt?” asked Fenn.
Grant Adams groaned, and put his head in his hand, and leaned on the desk. He rose up suddenly with a flaming face and said: “I’m going down there–I can stop it.”
He bolted from the room and rattled down the stairs. In a minute he came running up. “Violet–” he called to the woman who was busy at the telephone–“shut that man off and order a car for me quick–they’ve stolen my crank and cut every one of my tires. For God’s sake be quick–I must get down to those Slavs.”
In a moment Violet had shut off her interviewer, and was calling the South Harvey Garage. Henry Fenn, busy with his phone, looked up with a drawn face and cried:
“Grant–the Cossacks–the Cossacks are riding down those little Italians in Sands Park–chasing them like dogs from the paths–they say the cavalry is using whips!”
Grant stood with bowed head and arched shoulders listening. The muscles of his jaw contracted, and he snapped his teeth.
“Any one hurt?” he asked. Fenn, with the receiver to his ear went on, “The Dagoes are not fighting back–the cavalrymen are shooting in the air, but–the lines are broken–the scabs are marching to the mines through a line of soldiers–we’ve stopped about a third from the cars–they are forming at the upper end of the Park–our men, they–”
“Good-by,” shouted Grant, as he heard a motor car whirring in the distance.
Turning out of the street he saw a line of soldiers blocking his way. He had the driver turn, and at the next corner found himself blocked in. Once more he tried, and again found himself fenced in. He jumped from the car, and ran, head down, toward the line of young fellows in khaki blocking the street. As he came up to them he straightened up, and, striking with his hook a terrific blow, the bayonet that would have stopped him, Grant caught the youth’s coat in the steel claw, whirled him about and was gone in a second.
He ran through alleys and across commons until he caught a street car for the smelters. Here he heard the roar of the riot. He saw the new ax-handles of the policemen beating the air, and occasionally thudding on a man’s back or head. The Slavs were crying and throwing clods and stones. Grant ran up and bellowed in his great voice:
“Quit it–break away–there, you men. Let the cops alone. Do you want to lose this strike?”
A policeman put his hand on Grant’s shoulder to arrest him. Grant brushed him aside.
“Break away there, boys,” he called. The Slavs were standing staring at him. Several bloody faces testified to the effectiveness of the ax-handles.
“Stand back–stand back. Get to your lines,” he called, glaring at them. They fell under his spell and obeyed. When they were quiet he walked over to them, and said gently:
“It’s all right, boys–grin and bear it. We’ll win. You couldn’t help it–I couldn’t either.” He smiled. “But try–try next time.” The strike-breakers were huddled back of the policemen.
“Men,” he shouted to the strike-breakers over the heads of the policemen, “this strike is yours as well as ours. We have money to keep you, if you will join us. Come with us–comrades–Oh, comrades, stand with us in this fight! Go in there and they’ll enslave you–they’ll butcher you and kill you and offer you a lawsuit for your blood. We offer you justice, if we win. Come, come,” he cried, “fellow workers–comrades, help us to have peace.”
The policemen formed a line into the door of the shaft house. The strike-breakers hesitated. Grant approached the line of policemen, put up his arm and his maimed hand, lifted his rough, broken face skyward and cried, “O–O–O, God, pour Thy peace into their hearts that they may have mercy on their comrades.”
A silence fell, the strike-breakers began to pass through the police lines to join the strikers. At first only one at a time, then two. And then, the line broke and streamed around the policemen. A great cheer went up from the street, and Grant Adams’s face twitched and his eyes filled with tears. Then he hurried away.
It was eight o’clock and the picketing for the day was done, when Grant reached his office.
“Well,” said Fenn, who had Violet’s notes before him, “it’s considerably better than a dog fall. They haven’t a smelter at work. Two shafts are working with about a third of a force, and we feel they are bluffing. The glass works furnaces are cold. The cement mills are dead. They beat up the Italians pretty badly over in the Park.”
The Times issued a noon extra to tell of the incident in front of the smelter, and expatiated upon the Messianic myth. A tirade against Grant Adams in black-faced type three columns wide occupied the center of the first page of the extra, and in Harvey people began to believe that he was the “Mad Mullah” that the Times said he was.
When Dr. Nesbit drove his electric home that noon, he found his daughter waiting for him. She stood on the front porch, with a small valise beside her. She was dressed in white and her youthful skin, fresh lips, glowing eyes and heightened color made her seem younger than the woman of forty that she was. Her father saw in her face the burning purpose to serve which had come to indicate her moments of decision. The Doctor had grown used to that look of decision and he knew that it was in some way related to South Harvey and the strike. For during her years of work in the Valley, its interests had grown to dominate her life. But the Valley and its interests had unfolded her soul to its widest reach, to its profoundest depths. And in her features were blazoned, at times, all the love and joy and strength that her life had gathered. These were the times when she wore what her father called “the Valley look.” She had “the Valley look” in her face that day when she stood waiting for her father with the valise beside her–a beautiful woman.
“Father–now don’t stop me, dear. I’m going to Grant. Mother will be home in a few days. I’ve told Lila to stay with Martha Morton when you are not here. It’s always secure and tranquil up here, you know. But I’m going down in the Valley. I’m going to the strike.”
“Going to the strike?” repeated her father.
“Yes,” she answered, turning her earnest eyes upon him as she spoke. “It’s the first duty I have on earth–to be with my people in this crisis. All these years they have borne me up; have renewed my faith; they have given me courage. Now is my turn, father. Where they go, I go also.” She smiled gently and added, “I’m going to Grant.”