When Lieutenant McCormack, after reading the message announcing the
coming of the mob, crossed the plaza and faced his company, he found
his men already in ranks and standing at “order arms.” They also had
heard the ominous sound of approaching disorder. Already the forefront
of the procession was in sight on the street leading up from the
south. Inflamed with the liquor which they had seized in the course of
their journey, the exuberant and reckless spirit of the marchers was
showing itself. Men were singing, shouting, waving clubs, demanding
justice for their fellow-workers, and the recognition of the rule
of the proletariat. At the junction of every street and alley their
members had been swelled by the angry and resentful Industrialists of
Fairweather. The cordon of police that had attempted to block their way
was swept down as though it had been a rope of straw. Now, five hundred
strong, reckless and determined, they were bearing down on the center
of the city’s industries.
The waiting hundreds of citizens who, for the last hour, had lined the
curbs about the open place, began to withdraw. They did not care to be
caught between the clubs of the rioters and the bayonets of the militia.
The mob, filling the main street from wall to wall, entered the plaza
like a rushing stream which, confined between barriers at the side, is
powerful and resistless, but, spreading out over the broad lowland,
loses its momentum and its destructive force. It was so with the
marchers. The wide space into which they emptied themselves weakened
their physical power, but in no wise altered their purpose or their
spirit of aggressiveness. When they caught sight of the American
flag waving from the staff before their faces, and saw the silent,
khaki-clad ranks of soldiers standing at attention beneath it, they
sent up a howl of derision. These were but the visible sign and symbol
of the powers of oppression against which they fought. Therefore they
wanted the world to know that they despised and defied them.
From somewhere outside, a drayman’s cart was brought and rattled
across the pavement to the center of the plaza. A man leaped up into
it and began to harangue the crowd. Italian, German, Slavonic words
and sentences rolled from his tongue with equal fluency. His hearers
applauded him wildly.
Sergeant Barriscale could endure the situation no longer. He brought
his rifle to a “shoulder arms,” stepped one pace to the front and
saluted his commanding officer.
“Lieutenant McCormack,” he said, “do you intend to permit those fellows
to stir the rabble up to violence with incendiary speeches?”
The lieutenant acknowledged the salute and replied calmly:
“It is not our mission here to interfere with the right of free speech
or of public assembly.”
“But,” shouted Ben, “this is simply a mob. The thing will develop into
a riot. The time to stop it is now. I demand that you put this company
into action and disperse that crowd.”
Hal looked his first sergeant squarely in the eyes. He was not angry,
but there was a certain unusual note of decision in his voice as he
replied.
“I shall not permit this company,” he said, “so long as I am in
command, to oppress or harass any person acting within his rights. You
will take your post.”
“But these hoodlums are not within their rights. They----”
“You will take your post, sir!”
The look in Lieutenant McCormack’s eyes, the ring in his voice,
admonished Barriscale that the parley was at an end. He stepped back
into his place at the right of the line, and came to “order arms” with
a crash of the butt of his rifle on the pavement.
McCormack’s language had convinced him that, so far as the Guardsmen
were concerned, the rioters were to have their way and work their will.
And the same conviction was not far removed from the breasts of many of
the men in the ranks.
The voice of the orator on the dray grew louder, his words tumbled in
torrents from his lips, he was gesticulating like a man gone mad. His
hearers, dominated by his fierce eloquence, applauded him to the echo.
At the end of a fiery peroration there was a sudden movement of the
crowd. Some one thrust up a pole with a red flag waving from its tip.
Clubs were lifted into the air. From five hundred throats came a yell
of defiance. Every hate-lined face was turned toward the soldiers still
standing quietly at “order arms.” It was a critical moment. The orator
flung his hands into the air and begged his followers to restrain their
wrath until he should intercede for them with the capitalist-hired
militia. He dismounted from the dray and, for a moment, was lost in
the crowd. But, presently, with another leader at his side, he crossed
the narrow, open space that separated the ranks of turbulence from the
ranks of order and law.
At the foot of the flagstaff the two men met Lieutenant McCormack and
stopped and addressed him. He recognized them, then, for the first
time, as the two leaders whom he had met in Donatello’s shop. The
American was again the spokesman.
“May I ask,” he said, “the purpose of bringing soldiers here?”
Lieutenant McCormack, standing with folded arms, responded quietly but
firmly:
“To prevent disorder and violence.”
“There will be no disorder and no violence,” replied Kranich, “unless
an attempt is made to thwart my followers in their purpose.”
“What is their purpose?”
The question came as mildly as though it had to do with a summer shower
instead of a prospective riot.
“Our purpose,” was the response, “is to pass up the streets, the
entrances to which you have covered with your troops, and spread our
propaganda in the public places of the city, which is our right.”
“I understand. Is that your entire programme?”
The men in the ranks moved uneasily. It was apparent to them that their
commanding officer was about to accede to the demand of the leaders of
the mob.
Kranich hesitated, and studied his questioner’s face for a moment
before replying. He was debating in his mind whether he should evade
the real issue, or whether he should depend upon the friendly sympathy
and anticipated acquiescence of the first lieutenant, and disclose the
full purpose of the marchers. He made a quick decision, and chose
the latter course as likely to lead to quicker and more satisfactory
results.
“No,” he replied, “we intend to take possession of this plant before
us, in behalf of the men who have a right to work there and to receive
full compensation for their toil.”
“I see. And what is it that you wish me to do?”
Again the mild, acquiescent, deprecatory manner, with its intimation of
a truculent yielding to the will of the mob.
The faces of the Guardsmen were a study in the expression of anxious
doubt and increasing dismay. Brownell felt chills creeping down his
back. The time had come when he, too, staunchest supporter and firmest
friend of Halpert McCormack, had to keep tight grip on his faith in him
in order to prevent it from sinking out of sight.
Barriscale was in a tumult of wrath. That McCormack should even consent
to parley with the leaders of the mob was unbelievable and unendurable.
“Bullets, not words,” he said in a hoarse whisper to the men at his
left. “That’s what they want, bullets, not words!”
Kranich did not reply directly to the lieutenant’s last question. He
gesticulated slightly, assumed an oratorical manner, and said:
“The time has come for you to prove by your works your declared faith
in the righteousness of the proletarian movement.”
“What is it that you wish me to do?”
The question was repeated, perhaps a little more firmly, a little more
distinctly than before, and it now brought a definite answer.
“We wish you to withdraw your troops from the plaza. The sight of them
excites and angers my followers. If they remain here I shall not be
responsible for the consequences.”
“I understand.”
Lieutenant McCormack turned and faced his company. It was apparent that
he was about to yield to the demand of the captains of the mob and give
such orders to his company as would lead to its immediate withdrawal.
Kranich and Gabriel looked at each other and smiled with satisfaction.
The men in the ranks grew sick at heart. Brownell clutched the butt of
his pistol in sheer desperation. Barriscale snatched his rifle up from
the pavement and started once more to leave the ranks, but was checked
by the command that now issued from the lips of the first lieutenant.
“Fix bayonet!”
The first sergeant dropped back into his place. Brownell’s heart leaped
in his breast. The Guardsmen caught their breaths and wondered and were
happy.
But there was no delay in the execution of the order. The men came to
“parade rest” and drew their bayonets from their scabbards. The click
sounded sharp and ominous as the springs caught on the muzzles of the
rifle barrels. Then, with shining blades fixed, the “order arms” was
promptly resumed.
Lieutenant McCormack turned again to face the ringleaders. The smiles
had vanished from their faces, their eyes were filled with a surprise
that was not unmixed with indignation.
“In answer to your request,” said the lieutenant, “I will say that I
decline to withdraw my troops. But I demand that you, who seem to be
leaders of this crowd, take your men back at once along the street by
which they came. Otherwise I shall clear the plaza at the point of the
bayonet.”
His voice, rising as he proceeded, rang out at the last with a
clearness and precision that left no room for doubt as to the meaning
of his words.
Against all military precedent and custom the men of Company E, with
almost a single voice, gave vent to a great shout of approval. The
reaction was so great, the relief was so tremendous, that a week in
the guard-house would scarcely have been sufficient to repress this
exuberant expression of their feeling.
The faces of the leaders of the mob blazed with wrath, and their eyes
shot fire. They had been mistaken in their man. It was Gabriel who now
spoke up.
“And is it,” he cried angrily, the words tumbling from his bearded
lips, “that we are deceived? Are you also traitor? Judas? Hound? I
curse you! I defy your guns!”
His face was distorted with rage. His whole body was writhing with
ungovernable passion.
“See!” he shrieked, “I despise your capitalist flag! I spit upon it! I
destroy it!”
As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a big clasp-knife, opened
the blade, and made a lunge toward the flagstaff with the evident
purpose of slashing the halyards and dropping the flag to be trampled
on. Quick and dextrous as he was, the first lieutenant of Company E was
quicker. In a blaze of patriotic wrath he cleared the space between him
and Gabriel, and brought the butt of his pistol crashing down upon the
head of the would-be desecrator of the flag.
The knife dropped from the man’s hand and went clattering to the
pavement, and he, himself, swaying, staggering for a moment, fell,
bleeding and unconscious, at the foot of the staff he would have
despoiled.
If the cheer that had greeted McCormack’s ultimatum to the leader
of the mob had been whole-souled and exuberant, the yell that came
now from the throats of half a hundred khaki-clad enthusiasts was
vociferous and overwhelming. At last they had a soldier and a patriot
for a leader, and they wanted the world to know it.
Barriscale alone was displeased and dissatisfied.
“It was a reckless thing to do,” he shouted. “Those fellows over there
will see red now. Bayonets are no use. We’ve got to shoot into ’em or
they’ll murder us. Look at ’em!”
The rioters presented, indeed, a terrifying spectacle. Stunned, for
a moment, by the swift retribution that had fallen on their leader,
their amazement now gave way to a frenzy of rage. Incited to still
greater fury by Kranich who had precipitately fled into the midst of
his followers when he saw his companion fall, the men of the invading
host were clamoring for revenge. The red flag, temporarily lowered,
was again shaken aloft. Men with faces distorted by wrath and a desire
for vengeance were shrieking their anger, flourishing their clubs,
brandishing knives, daggers, pistols, gathering from the street
missiles of any and every kind with which to charge upon their enemy.
They could not conceive that sixty Guardsmen in khaki, with rifles and
bayonets, could check the murderous onslaught of five hundred desperate
and daring men.
Already stones and brickbats were hurtling through the air, and falling
in the midst of the troops. A stone struck Manning’s head, cut through
his hat, and sent him staggering and bleeding to the curb.
“Charge bayonet!”
McCormack’s command rang out clear and distinct above the din and
tumult of the riot. As it went down the line the rifle of every man
was thrown to the front, his left hand supporting the barrel, his
right hand grasping the stock. The points of sixty bayonets, four
paces apart, ranged in the sweeping arc of a circle, converged in the
direction of the howling and advancing mob. Barriscale alone was in
revolt.
“It’s wild!” he shouted. “We’ve got to give ’em bullets, not bayonets!
This is no pink tea! This is war! I say, load your guns, men, load!
load!”
Obeying his own command, he pulled back the bolt of his piece, withdrew
a clip from his cartridge belt, pushed it with trembling and hurried
fingers into the slot of his rifle, forced the cartridges into the
magazine, thrust the bolt home, and then looked around in amazement to
see that no one else had followed his lead.
McCormack, though his face went white with anger, still thought
it prudent to let Barriscale have his fling. The man was excited,
terrified, utterly beyond even self-control; he could harm no one but
himself.
The calmness, the deliberation, the apparent patience which the
commanding officer was exercising in the handling of his force,
appeared to give courage to the attacking mob, the front rank of which,
forced on from behind, was now within twenty paces of the line of
army steel. The jeering was hideous and the yelling terrific. Stones,
brickbats, missiles of all kinds went crashing into the silent ranks.
“Advance!”
McCormack gave the command and repeated it. It was instantly obeyed.
With measured step, bayonets pointed ahead of them at the height of
their chins, firmness in every eye, determination gripping every inch
of muscle, the men of Company E moved forward in the face of such a mad
and murderous assault as few of them ever cared to witness again.
All but Sergeant Barriscale. He was now in flat revolt. He seemed
bereft of his senses, wild with rage or fear or both.
“I’ll not advance!” he yelled. “You boys are going to your death.
They’ll murder you. I say again, load and fire!” He turned savagely
toward the commanding officer. “Fool!” he cried, “to send your men to
slaughter. I defy your orders!”
Then, indeed, the first lieutenant lost grip on his patience. He
thrust his pistol into its holster, reached out a right hand nerved
with wrath, tore Barriscale’s loaded and unbayoneted rifle from his
grasp, and tossed it to Manning sitting on the curb. With both hands he
gripped the shoulders of the first sergeant and flung him about, face
to the rear.
“Report at the armory,” he cried, “and consider yourself under arrest
till I return.”
Then he swung about and followed his men into action.
As the troops pressed on the howling and shrieking died down, and the
firing of missiles ceased. The points of sixty bayonets were within
two feet of a hundred throats grown tired with shouting. The front
rank of rioters looked into the eyes of the men behind the guns and
saw their own doom written there. They made a last wild attempt to
thrust aside the glittering steel. The effort was futile. They only
pierced and lacerated their hands and put their lives in jeopardy.
Then valor gave way to discretion. They broke and fell back, crowding,
pushing and trampling on their comrades in the rear. The line of
bayonets lengthened till it swept the plaza and forced the last man
of the riotous host into the street up which the marchers had come a
short half hour before. Panic seized upon the throng, a mad desire in
the breast of each one to protect himself, regardless of his fellows,
against what appeared to be the murderous onslaught of the pitiless
troops. There was a wild scramble, shrieks of terror, a futile effort
to escape. But it was not until vacant lots, side streets unguarded
by police, and at last the open country, had been reached that the
defeated, scattered and terrorized invaders found safe asylum and a
respite from their fears. So, crushed, humiliated and spiritless,
bleeding from many superficial wounds, singly and in groups, the
rioters found their way back to the city from which, in the early
morning, they had come.
Back, on the north side of the plaza, four persons stood or sat,
watching, with vivid interest, the vanishing mob and the backs of the
khaki-clad troops as they disappeared in the dust and distance down the
main street leading to the south.
First among them was Gabriel the anarchist, who, coming to himself,
had struggled into a sitting posture the better to nurse his wounds
to which the surgeon who had administered first aid to Manning was
now giving his attention. Manning himself, sitting on the curb, a
little weak from shock and loss of blood, lifted his feeble voice in
enthusiastic acclaim as he saw the riotous army routed from the plaza
and driven down the street. Chick, seated at Manning’s side, joined
his voice, pathetically tremulous, with the corporal’s outburst of
rejoicing; and back of them a multitude of order-loving and law-abiding
citizens shouted vociferously their delight at the victory won over the
forces of disloyalty and disruption.
Finally, Barriscale stood there, midway between the wounded rioter and
the cheering Guardsman, a powerless and pathetic figure. He looked
at the marching troops, with bayonets at the “charge,” pressing the
mob to its overthrow. He turned his eyes to the big buildings and the
spacious yards of his father’s great industrial plant, saved by the
firm and wise action of Lieutenant Halpert McCormack from pillage and
destruction. He gazed up at the swelling and rolling folds of the
“Star-Spangled Banner,” still floating, thanks to the alert patriotism
of the same bold officer, in glorious symbolism from the summit of its
staff. Finally his eyes fell on Corporal Manning and General Chick
still sitting in front of him on the curb. His face was a study. It no
longer showed any mark of excitement or anger. The emotions pictured
on it were far different; wonder, humiliation, disgust, following each
other in quick succession; finally the indication of a transforming
force back of his countenance, no less powerful and thorough than that
which this very morning had changed the tenor of the life and thought
of his comrade in arms, Halpert McCormack. He came a step nearer to
Manning.
“Dick,” he said, “I’ve been a fool.”
“I think, myself,” replied the corporal with a wan smile, “that you’ve
been rather indiscreet.”
“Indiscreet! I’ve been a consummate idiot. Look at that fellow;”
he half turned his head in the direction in which McCormack had
disappeared; “getting all the honor and glory of this thing; and
deserving it; and me--facing a court martial and the penitentiary--and
deserving it.”
He came over and sat down on the curb beside Chick, and dropped his
head into his hands.
“Him,” said Chick, gazing also with eyes filled with admiration after
the disappearing troops, “he’ll be a major-general some day.”
Barriscale started up again. “I’m under arrest,” he said; “I’ve got to
go to the armory. Who’s going?”
“I am,” replied Manning.
“Me too,” added Chick.
“Come along then, both of you.”
The corporal rose uncertainly to his feet, picked up his own rifle, and
started to pick up the one belonging to Barriscale with which McCormack
had intrusted him.
“Here,” said Chick, bravely, “give that one to me.”
The first sergeant looked down on him with pitying eyes. Yesterday he
would have despised him and thrust him aside. But to-day the boy was
so shrunken, so white and trembling, such a pathetic little figure to
undertake to carry a man’s load.
“No,” said Barriscale, “you can’t. I’ll carry ’em both, Dick, if you’ll
trust me.”
He took both rifles, put one over each shoulder, pushed a way through
the noisy and wondering crowd, and together the three started up the
main street toward the central city.