Watchfires of Freedom
December came to an end with no plan for action on the amendment
assured. This left us January and February only before the session
would end. The President had not yet won the necessary 2 votes. We
decided therefore to keep a perpetual fire to consume the President’s
speeches on democracy as fast as he made them in Europe.
And so on New Year’s Day, 1919, we light our first watchfire of freedom
in the Urn dedicated to that purpose. We place it on the sidewalk in a
direct line with the President’s front door. The wood comes from a tree
in
Independence Square, Philadelphia. It burns gaily. Women with banners
stand guard over the watchfire. A bell hung in the balcony at
headquarters tolls rhythmically the beginning of the watch. It tolls
again as the President’s words are tossed to the flames. His speech to
the workingmen of Manchester; his toast to the King at Buckingham
Palace: “We have used great words, all of us. We have used the words
‘right’ and ‘justice’ and now we are to prove whether or not we
understand these words;” his speech at Brest; all turn into ignominious
brown ashes.
The bell tolls again when the watch is changed. All Washington is
reminded hourly that we are at the President’s gate, burning his words.
From Washington the news goes to all the world.
People gather to see the ceremony. The omnipresent small boys and
soldiers jeer, and some tear the banners. A soldier rushes to the scene
with a bucket of water which does not extinguish the flames. The fire
burns as if by magic. A policeman arrives and uses a fire extinguisher.
But the fire burns on! The flames are as indomitable as the women who
guard them! Rain comes, but all through the night the watchfire burns.
All through the night the women stand guard.
Day and night the fire burns. Boys are permitted by the police to
scatter it in the street, to break the. urn, and to demolish the
banners. But each time the women rekindle the fire. A squad of
policemen tries to demolish the fire. While the police are engaged at
the White House gates, other women go quietly in the dusk to the huge
bronze urn in Lafayette Park and light another watchfire. A beautiful
blaze leaps into the air from the great urn. The police hasten hither.
The burning contents are overturned. Alice Paul refills the urn and
kindles a new fire. She is placed under arrest. Suddenly a third blaze
is seen in a remote corner of the park. The policemen scramble to that
corner. When the watchfires have been continued for four days and four
nights,, in spite of the attempts by the police to extinguish them,
general orders to arrest are sent to the squad of policemen.
Five women are taken to the police station. The police captain is
outraged that the ornamental urn valued at $10,000 should have been
used to hold a fire which burned the President’s words! His indignation
leaves the defendants unimpressed, however, and he becomes
conciliatory. Will the “ladies promise to be good and light no more
fires in the park?”
Instead, the “ladies” inquire on what charge they are held. Not even
the police captain knows. They wait at the police station to find out,
refusing to give bail unless they are told. Meanwhile other women
address the crowd lingering about the watchfire. The crowd asks
thoughtful questions. Little knots of men can be seen discussing “what
the whole thing is about anyway.”
Miss Mildred Morris, one of the participants, overheard the following
discussion in one group composed of an old man, a young sailor and a
young soldier.
“But whatever you think of them,” the sailor was telling the soldier,
“you have to admire their sincerity and courage. They’ve got to do this
thing. They want only what’s their right and real men want to give it
to them.”
“But they’ve got no business using a sidewalk in front of the White
House for a bonfire,” declared the soldier. “It’s disloyal to the
President, I tell you, and if they weren’t women I’d slap their faces.”
“Listen, sonny,” said the old man, patting the soldier’s arm, “I’m as
loyal to the President as any man alive, but I’ve got to admit that he
ain’t doing the right thing towards these women. He’s forced everything
else he’s wanted through Congress, and if he wanted to give these women
the vote badly enough he could force the suffrage amendment through. If
you and I were in these women’s places, sonny, we’d act real vicious.
We’d want to come here and clean out the ,whole White House.”
“But if the President doesn’t want to push their amendment through,
it’s his right not to,” argued the soldier. “It’s nobody’s business how
he uses his power.”
“Good God!” the sailor burst out. “Why don’t you go over and get a job
shining the Kaiser’s boots?”
The women were released without bail, since no one was able to supply a
charge. But a thorough research was instituted and out of the dusty
archives some one produced an ancient statute that would serve the
purpose. It prohibits the building of fires in a public place in the
District of Columbia between sunset and sunrise. And so the beautiful
Elizabethan custom of lighting watchfires as a form of demonstration
was forbidden!
In a few days eleven women were brought to trial. There was a titter in
the court room as the prosecuting attorney read with heavy pomposity
the charge against the prisoners “to wit: That on Pennsylvania Avenue,
Northwest, in the District of Columbia they did aid and abet in setting
fire to certain combustibles consisting of logs, paper, oil, etc.,
between the setting of the sun in the said District of Columbia on the
sixth day of January and the rising of the sun in the said District of
Columbia o f the sixth day o f January, 1919, A. D.”
The court is shocked to hear of this serious deed. The prisoners are
unconcerned.
“Call the names of the prisoners,” the judge orders. The clerk calls,
“Julia Emory.”
No answer!
“Julia Emory,” he calls a second time.
Dead silence!
The clerk tries another name, a second, a third, a fourth. Always there
is silence!
In a benevolent tone, the judge asks the policeman to identify the
prisoners. They identify as many as they can. An attempt is made to
have the prisoners rise and be sworn. They sit.
“We will go on with the testimony,” says the judge.
The police testify as to the important details of the crime. They were
on Pennsylvania Avenue—they looked at their watch—they learned it was
about 5:30—they saw the ladies in the park putting wood on fires in
urns. “I threw the wood on the pavement; they kept putting it back,”
says one policeman. “Each time I tried to put out the fire they threw
on more wood,” says another. “They kept on lighting new fires, and I’d
keep putting them out,” says a third with an injured air.
The prosecuting attorney asks an important question, “Did you command
them to stop?”
Policeman—“I did sir, and I said, ‘You ladies don’t want to be arrested
do you?’ They made no answer but went on attending to their fires.”
The statute is read for the second time. Another witness is called.
This time the district attorney asks the policeman,—“Do you know what
time the sun in the District of Columbia set on January 5th and rose on
January 6th?”
At this profound question, the policeman hesitates, looks abashed, then
says impressively, “The sun in the District of Columbia set at 5
o’clock January 5th, and rose at 7:28 o’clock January 6th.”
The prosecutor is triumphant. He looks expectantly at the judge.
“How do you know what time the sun rose and set on those days?” asks
the judge.
“From the weather bureau,” answers the policeman.
The judge is perplexed.
“I think we should have something more official,” he says.
The prosecutor suggests that perhaps an almanac would settle the
question. The judge believes it would. The government attorney
disappears to find an almanac.
Breathless, the prisoners and spectators wait to hear the important
verdict of the almanac. The delay is interminable. The court room is in
a state of confusion. The prisoners, especially, are amused at the
proceedings. It is clear their fate may hang upon a minute or two of
time. An hour goes by, and still the district attorney has not
returned. Another half hour! Presently he returns to read in heavy
tones from the almanac. The policeman looks embarrassed. His
information from the weather bureau differs from that of the almanac.
His sun rose two minutes too early and continued to shine twelve
minutes too long! However, it doesn’t matter. The sun shone long enough
to make the defendants guilty.
The judge looks at the prisoners and announces that they are “guilty”
and “shall pay a fine of $5.00 or serve five days in jail.” The
Administration has learned its lesson about hunger strikes and
evidently fears having to yield to another strike. And so it seeks
safety in lighter sentences. The judge pleads almost piteously with
them not to go to jail at all, and says that he will put them on
probation if they will promise to be good and not light any more fires
in the District of Columbia. The prisoners make no promise. They have
been found guilty according to the almanac and they file through the
little gate into the prisoners’ pen.
Somehow they did not believe that whether the sun rose at 7:26 or 7:28
was the issue which had decided whether they should be convicted or
not, and it was not in protest against the almanac that they
straightway entered upon a hunger strike.
Meanwhile the watchfires continued in the capital. January thirteenth,
the day the great world Peace Conference under the President’s
leadership, began to deliberate on the task of administering “right”
and “justice” to all the oppressed of the earth, twenty-three women
were arrested in front of the White House.
Another trial! More silent prisoners! They were to be tried this time
in groups. A roar of applause from friends in the courtroom greeted the
first four as they came in. The judge said that he could not possibly
understand the motive for this outburst, and added, “If it is repeated,
I shall consider it contempt of court.” He then ordered the bailiff to
escort the four prisoners out and bring them in again.—Shades of school
days!
“And if there is any applause this time . . .”
With this threat still in the air, the prisoners reentered and the
applause was louder than before. Great Confusion! The judge roared at
the bailiff. The bailiff roared at the prisoners and their friends.
Finally they rushed to the corners of the courtroom and evicted three
young women.
“Lock the doors, and see that they do not return,” shouted the angry
judge. Thus the dignity of the court was restored. But the group idea
had to be abandoned. The prisoners were now brought in one at a time,
and one policeman after another testified that, “she kep’ alightin’ and
alightin’ fires.”
Five days’ imprisonment for each woman who “kep’ alightin’” watchfires!
On January 25th, in Paris, President Wilson received a delegation of
French working women who urged woman suffrage as one of the points to
be settled at the Peace Conf6rence. The President expressed admiration
for the women of France, and told them of his deep personal interest in
the enfranchisement of women. He was ‘honored’ and ‘touched’ by their
tribute. It was a great moment for the President. He had won the
position in the eyes of the world of a devout champion of the liberty
of women, but at the very moment he was speaking to these French women
American women were lying in the District of Columbia jail for
demanding liberty at his gates.
Mrs. Mary Nolan, the eldest suffrage prisoner, took to the watchfire
those vain words of the President to the French women. The flames were
just consuming—“All sons of freedom are under oath to see that freedom
never suffers,” when a whole squadron of police dashed up to arrest
her. There was a pause when they saw her age. They drew back for an
instant. Then one amongst them, more “dutiful” than the rest, quietly
placed her under arrest. As she marched along by his side, cheers for
her went up from all parts of the crowd.
“Say what you think about them, but that little old lady has certainly
got pluck,” they murmured.
At the bar Mrs. Nolan’s beautiful speech provoked irrepressible
applause. The judge ordered as many offenders as could be recognized
brought before him. Thirteen women were hastily produced. The trial was
suspended while the judge sentenced these thirteen to “forty-eight
hours in jail for contempt of court.”
And so, throughout January and the beginning of February, 1919, the
story of protest continued relentlessly.
Watchfires—arrests—convictions—hunger strikes—release—until again the
nation rose in protest against imprisoning the women and against the
Senate’s delay. Peremptory cables went to the President at the Peace
Conference, commanding him to act. News of our demonstrations were well
reported in the Paris press. The situation must have again seemed
serious to him, for although reluctantly and perhaps unwillingly, he
did begin to cable to Senate leaders, who in turn began to act. On
February 2d, the Democratic Suffrage Senators called a meeting at the
Capitol to “consider ways and means.” On February 3d, Senator Jones
announced in the Senate that the amendment would be-brought up for
discussion February 10th. The following evening, February 4th, a caucus
of all Democratic Senators was called together at the Capitol by
Senator Martin of Virginia, Democratic floor leader in the Senate. This
was the first Democratic caucus held in the Senate since war was
declared, which would seem to point to the anxiety of the Democrats to
marshal two votes.
Several hours of very passionate debate occurred, during which Senator
Pollock of South Carolina announced for the first time his support of
the measure.
Senator Pollock had yielded to pressure by cable from the President as
well as to the caucus. This gain of one vote had reduced the number of
votes lacking to one.
Many Democratic leaders now began to show alarm lest the last vote be
not secured. William Jennings Bryan was one leader who, rightly alarmed
over such a situation, personally consulted with the Democratic
opponents. The argument which he presented to them he subsequently gave
to the press.
“Woman suffrage is coming to the country and to the world. It will be
submitted to the states by the next Congress, if it is not submitted by
the present Congress.
“I hope the Democrats of the South will not handicap the Democrats of
the North by compelling them to spend the next twenty-five years
explaining to the women of the country why their party prevented the
submission of the suffrage amendment to the states.
“This is our last chance to play an important part in bringing about
this important reform, and it is of vital political concern that the
Democrats of the Northern Mississippi Valley should not be burdened by
the charge that our party prevented the passage of the suffrage
amendment, especially when it is known that it is coming in spite of,
if not with the aid of, the Democratic Party.”
As we grew nearer the last vote the President was meeting what was
perhaps his most bitter resistance from within. It was a situation
which he could have prevented. His own early hostility, his later
indifference and negligence, his actual protection given to Democratic
opponents of the measure, his own reversal of policy practically at the
point of a pistol, the half-hearted efforts made by him on its behalf,
were all coming to fruition at the moment when his continued prestige
was at stake. His power to get results on this because of belated
efforts was greatly weakened. This also undermined his power in other
undertakings essential to his continued prestige. Whereas more effort,
at an earlier time, would have brought fairer results, now the
opponents were solidified in their opposition, were through their votes
publicly committed to the nation as opponents, and were unwilling to
sacrifice their heavy dignity to a public reversal of their votes. This
presented a formidable resistance, indeed.
Therefore the Democratic blockade continued.
And so did the watchfires !