ON TO NEW YORK.
In all the evening papers the announcement appears that Harvey Trueman
is to start on a tour of the East. The fact that he will leave the city
by train from the Union Depot is carefully suppressed, except in the two
comparatively unimportant journals which advocate the election of the
people's candidate.
But the managers of Trueman's campaign have come to know what has to be
combatted. Handbills are hurriedly printed and distributed in the late
afternoon along State, Clark and Dearborn streets, and on the
intersecting streets in the centre of the business locality. These
hand-bills announce that Trueman will deliver his farewell speech to
Chicagoans that night at seven o'clock at the Adams street Bridge.
At six o'clock the crowds begin congregating; they come from all
sections of the city; they are of every type, from the cowboy of the
Stock Yards to the Street Railway Magnate. All are intent on hearing the
captivating orator.
Ten thousand people huddle in an area of five blocks. They know that
they all cannot hear Trueman; yet they hope to catch a glimpse of him,
and perhaps hear him make a short speech in their immediate
neighborhood.
It is 6.50 when a hansom conveying Trueman hurries down Adams street
from State. The crowds cheer and yell. From a trot the horse attached to
the vehicle is forced to proceed at a walk.
"Speech! speech!" cry the excited men as they surge through the narrow
thoroughfare.
Trueman stands up in the hansom and leaning forward explains that he
cannot stop to make a speech at every corner.
The few words he addresses to the crowd seem to satisfy their demands,
and they at once subside.
Slowly the speaker approaches the throng at the Depot steps. In crossing
the bridge he twice has to comply with the persistent demand for a
speech.
Now he is on the platform.
His voice works a magic spell on the audience. They have been
boisterous, fretful, even at times disorderly. Not a dozen words are
uttered by Trueman and the silence, save for his ringing voice, is
intense.
"I am leaving you that we may be assured of the support of the East," he
begins.
"That you are with me and are determined to vote for your rights I do
not doubt for a moment. You are men who have learned the lesson of life
in the school of experience. A truth once grasped by you is not soon
forgotten. You all know who are your enemies."
"Down with the Plutocrats!" howl the people.
"As you stand before me, men of might, one a mechanic, one a laborer,
another a tradesman, another a railway employee, is there any one of you
who wishes to vote to deprive his fellow-workmen of the right to earn a
living? Is there a single man among you who is striving night and day to
corner the food of the land that he may starve his brother-workmen into
paying him tribute? Is there a man among you who is living on the
distress of his fellows, brought about by his wrecking the bank in which
they have hoarded their savings?
"No, there is none such here.
"Then there should not be a voter here who will cast a ballot to put in
power men who seek in public office only their personal ends. The
Plutocratic ticket has not a man on it who is not an agent of the
Trusts. Do not take this assertion on my authority. Investigate the
ticket for yourselves."
Here the assembly cheer wildly.
"I want you to roll up a majority in the city of Chicago which shall
demonstrate to the world that the citizens of the Star of the West are
among the staunchest patriots in the Union."
With the whistling and shrieking of the crowd in his ears, Trueman steps
from the platform and makes his way to the train. The trip East is
unique. It differs from the ordinary Presidential campaign tour in so
much as there is no attempt to have reception committees meet the trains
on which the candidate travels; there is no speaking from the rear
platform of the trains. The depots are owned by the Plutocrats and no
crowds are permitted to congregate to hail Trueman.
At Toledo, Columbus, Philadelphia and Newark, Trueman changes trains and
goes to a public square where he addresses the populace. As he nears New
York the enthusiasm of the crowds abates. In Newark the Plutocratic
missionaries have spread the seeds of falsehood and have made such
telling use of coercive threats that the people are actually hostile to
Trueman and his party, deeming them Anarchists. The protection of the
police is needed to prevent the most violent of the men from attacking
the speakers. In the attempt to suppress supposed law-breakers, these
misguided citizens become lawless themselves.
At Jersey City there is a great crowd blocking the passageways of the
terminal. Trueman is forced to mount one of the mail cars and make a
speech. No sooner has he finished, then he is surrounded by the
reporters of the New York papers.
"Mr. Trueman, are you aware that the Plutocrats have arranged for a
torchlight parade for to-night, as a counter demonstration to your
meeting?" one of the reporters asks.
"Yes, I received a telegram at Philadelphia informing me to that
effect."
"The line of march is from the Battery north on Broadway to Cortlandt
street; west on Cortlandt to Harrison street, and north on that street
to Spring," explains another reporter.
"This means that they will run the parade parallel with the river front
and one block from West street. It will be timed so as to pass just as
you are making your address," he adds.
"You may inform the managers of the parade that I will be delighted to
have them send their army of intimidated workmen down to West street,
and I may be able to entertain them.
"Those who come within reach of my voice will, I think, hear news that
will hold them, as against a brass band and fireworks. If not, then they
would be better off in the wake of the procession," exclaims Trueman
icily.
"Where do you propose to make your first speech?" asks a youthful
reporter.
It is a superfluous question in the minds of all the older newspaper
men. They smile inwardly; but the answer this query evokes sends them
all flying to telephones.
"I shall make my first speech at the Battery, where the paraders may
have the benefit of a little plain truth."
The group of Independents are now on the ferryboat.
Across the river the myriad lights of the metropolis give the scene air
appearance as of fairyland. The night is overcast and the clouds act as
a reflector to the million lights in the city below; the sky line of
Brooklyn is a dull salmon color. A chill October wind sweeps from east
to west. It is a bad night to speak out of doors. Upon reaching
Cortlandt slip Trueman descends to the lower deck and is among the first
to leave the boat. He crosses West street unobserved, and on reaching
the Elevated Station at Cortlandt street, boards a down-town train. With
him are three of the committee of arrangements. The remainder of the
party go to the platform at the foot of Barclay street to address the
crowd and announce the cause of Trueman's delay.
When the South Ferry is reached Trueman sees that Battery Park is packed
with people. He descends to the street and wedges his way to the music
stand in the centre of the park. Without much difficulty he manages to
climb upon the stand.
As a piece of good fortune an electric light shines full on his face as
he turns to the crowd.
Up to this moment people think that the tall man with the slouch hat is
seeking a point of vantage from which to view the formation of the
parade.
It does not require two glances, however, to assure the people that the
man before them is Harvey Trueman.
"That's Trueman, or I'm a liar!" shouts an Irishman.
"That's who it is," blurts a man beside him.
"What is he doing down here? I thought he was to speak on West Street?"
Some of the men in the crowd now begin cheering. They cry:
"Trueman! Trueman! Rah! rah! rah! Speech! speech!"
The proper moment has arrived. Trueman takes off his hat and waves it as
a sign for silence. The cheering and the rumor that Trueman has suddenly
appeared, turns a sea of people in the direction of the music stand.
Fully eight thousand men are within the radius of his voice. He speaks
at first in a high metallic key; but after the first minute or so he
reaches his normal voice, which with its fullness and exquisite
modulation makes his oratory remarkable.
Here is an occasion where rhetoric will prove available; the crowd
before him is composed for the most part of the better element, so
called for reason of its disinclination to change existing conditions.
If a sense of justice in this great mass of humanity can be aroused it
will impel each and all to yield to the will of the orator. With sharp
sarcasm he refers to the precautionary action of the Plutocrats to
prevent his addressing a New York audience. Do they fear he may convert
it?
Rapidly he pictures the scenes of intimidation he has witnessed in the
west and northwest. Is New York chained to the wheels of the Plutocratic
chariot?
As the first sign of sympathy answers his appeal, he urges upon his
audience the necessity of declaring anew the independence of the people.
The fervor of his speech affects the crowd; the indescribable impulse to
yield to the will of a fellow-man who commands the power of oratory,
asserts itself. At the declaration of a principle of government which is
trite in itself, there is a scattered cheer; an apt epigram evokes a
storm of applause. Trueman wins the full sympathy of his audience; they
are his to command.
"I am expected to address an audience at the foot of Barclay street. It
will afford me unbounded pleasure if I may tell them that the meeting
will not be disturbed; that you have decided to apply to politics the
same spirit of fair play that you would demand in a street brawl."
"We're with you," cries a man. "You're all right." Trueman steps from
the music stand. The crowd gather about him, shouting and cheering for
him.
"This is an Independence parade," some one shouts.
"Forward, march, for Barclay street!" becomes the general shout. Trueman
is pushed on toward the edge of the Battery Park till the line of
carriages in which some of the members of the parade were to ride is
reached. He is lifted into one of the carriages and the march for the
West street stand is begun. The line of march leads along State street
to Battery Place; here it turns west to the river, and thence up West
street. The traffic which chokes that thoroughfare in the day is absent
and the broad expanse of street affords an excellent concourse.
With the clashing strains of three bands, the shouts of thousands of
men, the flickering lights of torches and Roman candles, Trueman
approaches the audience which has been impatiently awaiting him. Flushed
with the pride of his victory he mounts the stand to address ten
thousand men in the citadel of Plutocracy. His advent in New York is a
signal triumph.