CUI BONO?
Of the further doings of that day it seems hardly necessary to write,
for the papers recorded it with a fulness impossible here. The
gathering crowds. The reinforcement of the militia. The clearing and
holding of Forty-second Street to the river. The arrival of the three
barge-loads of “scabs.” Their march through that street to the station
safely, though at every cross street greeted with a storm of stones and
other missiles. The struggle of the mob at the station to force back
the troops so as to get at the “rats.” The impact of the “thin line”
and that dense seething mass of enraged, crazed men. The yielding of
the troops from mere pressure. The order to the second rank to fix
bayonets. The pushing back of the crowd once more. The crack of a
revolver. Then the dozen shots fired almost simultaneously. The great
surge of the mob forward. The quick order, and the rattle of guns, as
they rose to the shoulder. Another order, and the sheet of flame. The
great surge of the mob backwards. Then silence. Silence in the ranks.
Silence in the mob. Silence in those who lay on the ground between the
two.
Capital and Labor were disagreed as to a ten per cent reduction of
wages, and were trying to settle it. At first blush capital had the
best of it. “Only a few strikers and militia-men killed,” was the
apparent result of that struggle. The scabs were in safety inside the
station, and trains were already making up, preparatory to a resumption
of traffic. But capital did not go scot-free. “Firing in the streets of
New York,” was the word sent out all over the world, and on every
exchange in the country, stocks fell. Capital paid twenty-five million
dollars that day, for those few ounces of lead. Such a method of
settlement seems rather crude and costly, for the last decade of the
nineteenth century.
Boys all over the city were quickly crying extras of the “Labor-party”
organ, the first column of which was headed:
BUTCHER STIRLING
THE NOMINEE OF THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY
SHOOTS DOWN UNARMED MEN
IN
COLD BLOOD.
This was supplemented by inflammatory broadsides. Men stood up on
fences, lamp-posts, or barrels, wherever they could get an audience,
and shrieked out invectives against police, troops, government, and
property; and waved red flags. Orders went out to embody more
regiments. Timid people retired indoors, and bolted their shutters. The
streets became deserted, except where they were filled by groups of
angry men listening to angrier speakers. It was not a calm night in New
York.
Yet in reality, the condition was less serious, for representatives of
Capital, Labor, and Government were in consultation. Inside the
station, in the Directors’ room of the railroad, its officials, a
committee of the strikers, and an officer in fatigue uniform, with a
face to match, were seated in great leather-covered chairs, around a
large table. When they had first gathered, there had been dark brows,
and every sentence had been like the blow of flint on steel. At one
moment all but the officer had risen from their seats, and the meeting
had seemed ended. But the officer had said something quietly, and once
more they had seated themselves. Far into the night they sat, while
mobs yelled, and sentries marched their beats. When the gathering
ended, the scowls were gone. Civil partings were exchanged, and the
committee and the officer passed out together.
“That Stirling is a gritty bull-dog for holding on, isn’t he?” said one
of the railroad officials. “It’s a regular surrender for us.”
“Yes, but we couldn’t afford to be too obstinate with him, for he may
be the next governor.”
One of the committee said to the officer as they passed into the
street, “Well, we’ve given up everything to the road, to please you. I
hope you’ll remember it when you’re governor and we want things done.”
“Gentlemen,” said Peter, “for every surrender of opinion you and the
railroad officials have made to-night, I thank you. But you should have
compromised twelve hours sooner.”
“So as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?” asked
Kurfeldt. “You needn’t be afraid. You’ve done your best for us. Now
we’ll do our best for you.”
“I was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of the dead,” said Peter.
Peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all
was as it should be. Then spreading his blanket in the passenger
waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave
face.
But the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a
compromise, and New York and the country breathed easier.
Peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of—of a
striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with
a pair of slate-colored eyes—when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He
was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak.
“A despatch from headquarters,” said the man.
Peter broke it open. It said:
“Take possession of Printing-house Square, and await further orders.”
In ten minutes the regiment was tramping through the dark, silent
streets, on its way to the new position.
“I think we deserve a rest,” growled the Lieutenant-Colonel to Peter.
“We shan’t get it,” said Peter, “If there’s anything hard to be done,
we shall have it.” Then he smiled. “You’ll have to have an
understanding hereafter, before you make a man colonel, that he shan’t
run for office.”
“What are we in for now?”
“I can’t say. To-day’s the time of the parade and meeting in City Hall
Park.”
It was sunrise when the regiment drew up in the square facing the Park.
It was a lovely morning, with no sign of trouble in sight, unless the
bulletin boards of the newspapers, which were chiefly devoted to the
doings about the Central Station, could be taken as such. Except for
this, the regiment was the only indication that the universal peace had
not come, and even this looked peaceful, as soon as it had settled down
to hot coffee, bread and raw ham.
In the park, however, was a suggestive sight. For not merely were all
the benches filled with sleeping men, but the steps of the City Hall,
the grass, and even the hard asphalt pavement were besprinkled with a
dirty, ragged, hungry-looking lot of men, unlike those usually seen in
the streets of New York. When the regiment marched into the square, a
few of the stragglers rose from their recumbent attitudes, and looked
at it, without much love in their faces. As the regiment breakfasted,
more and more rose from their hard beds to their harder lives. They
moved about restlessly, as if waiting for something. Some gathered in
little groups and listened to men who talked and shrieked far louder
than was necessary in order that their listeners should hear. Some came
to the edge of the street and cursed and vituperated the breakfasting
regiment. Some sat on the ground and ate food which they produced from
their pockets or from paper bundles. It was not very tempting-looking
food. Yet there were men in the crowd who looked longingly at it, and a
few scuffles occurred in attempts to get some. That crowd represented
the slag and scum of the boiling pot of nineteenth-century conditions.
And as the flotsam on a river always centres at its eddies, so these
had drifted, from the country, and from the slums, to the centre of the
whirlpool of American life. Here they were waiting. Waiting for what?
The future only would show. But each moment is a future, till it
becomes the present.
While the regiment still breakfasted it became conscious of a
monotonous sound, growing steadily in volume. Then came the tap of the
drum, and the regiment rose from a half-eaten meal, and lined up as if
on parade. Several of the members remarked crossly: “Why couldn’t they
wait ten minutes?”
The next moment the head of another regiment swung from Chambers Street
into the square. It was greeted by hisses and groans from the denizens
of the park, but this lack of politeness was more than atoned for, by
the order: “Present arms,” passed down the immovable line awaiting it.
After a return salute the commanding officers advanced and once more
saluted.
“In obedience to orders from headquarters, I have the honor to report
my regiment to you, Colonel Stirling, and await your orders,” said the
officer of the “visiting” regiment, evidently trying not to laugh.
“Let your men break ranks, and breakfast, Major Rivington,” said Peter.
In two minutes dandy and mick were mingled, exchanging experiences, as
they sliced meat off the same ham-bones and emptied the same cracker
boxes. What was more, each was respecting and liking the other. One
touch of danger is almost as efficacious as one touch of nature. It is
not the differences in men which make ill-feeling or want of sympathy,
it is differences in conditions.
In the mean time, Peter, Ray and Ogden had come together over their
grub, much as if it was a legal rather than an illegal trouble to be
dealt with.
“Where were you?” asked Peter.
“At the Sixty-third Street terminals,” said Ray. “We didn’t have any
fun at all. As quiet as a cow. You always were lucky! Excuse me, Peter,
I oughtn’t to have said it,” Ray continued, seeing Peter’s face. “It’s
this wretched American trick of joking at everything.”
Ogden, to change the subject, asked: “Did you really say ‘damn’?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought you disapproved of cuss words.”
“I do. But the crowd wouldn’t believe that I was honest in my intention
to protect the substitutes. They thought I was too much of a politician
to dare to do it. So I swore, thinking they would understand that as
they would not anything else. I hoped it might save actual firing. But
they became so enraged that they didn’t care if we did shoot.”
Just then one of the crowd shrieked, “Down with the blood-suckers. On
to freedom. Freedom of life, of property, of food, of water, of air, of
land. Destroy the money power!”
“If we ever get to the freedom he wants,” said Ray, “we’ll utilize that
chap for supplying free gas.”
“Splendid raw material for free soap,” said Ogden.
“He’s not the only one,” said Ray. “I haven’t had a wash in nine hours,
and salt meats are beginning to pall.”
“There are plenty of fellows out there will eat it for you, Ray,” said
Peter, “and plenty more who have not washed in weeks.”
“It’s their own fault.”
“Yes. But if you burn or cut yourself, through ignorance, that doesn’t
make the pain any the less.”
“They don’t look like a crowd which could give us trouble.”
“They are just the kind who can. They are men lifted off their common
sense, and therefore capable of thinking they can do anything, just as
John Brown expected to conquer Virginia with forty men.”
“But there’s no danger of their getting the upper hand.”
“No. Yet I wish we had orders to clear the Park now, while there are
comparatively few here, or else to go back to our armories, and let
them have their meeting in peace. Our being here will only excite
them.”
“Hear that,” said Ray, as the crowd gave a great roar as another
regiment came up Park Place, across the Park and spread out so as to
cover Broadway.
As they sat, New Yorkers began to rise and begin business. But many
seemed to have none, and drifted into the Park. Some idlers came from
curiosity, but most seemed to have some purpose other than the mere
spectacle. From six till ten they silted in imperceptibly from twenty
streets. As fast as the crowd grew, regiments appeared, and taking up
positions, lay at ease. There was something terrible about the quiet
way in which both crowd and troops increased. The mercury was not high,
but it promised to be a hot morning in New York. All the car lines took
off their cars. Trucks disappeared from the streets. The exchanges and
the banks closed their doors, and many hundred shops followed their
example. New York almost came to a standstill as order and anarchy
faced each other.
While these antagonistic forces still gathered, a man who had been
yelling to his own coterie of listeners in that dense crowd, extracted
himself, and limped towards Peter.
“Mr. Stirling,” he shouted, “come out from those murderers. I want to
tell you something.”
Peter went forward. “What is it, Podds?” he asked.
Podds dropped his voice. “We’re out for blood to-day. But I don’t want
yours, if you do murder my fellow-men. Get away from here, quick. Hide
yourself before the people rise in their might.”
Peter smiled sadly. “How are Mrs. Podds and the children?” he asked
kindly.
“What is a family at such a moment?” shrieked Podds.
“The world is my family. I love the whole world, and I’m going to
revolutionize it. I’m going to give every man his rights. The gutters
shall reek with blood, and every plutocrat’s castle shall be levelled
to the soil. But I’ll spare you, for though you are one of the classes,
it’s your ignorance, not your disposition, that makes you one. Get away
from here. Get away before it’s too late.”
Just then the sound of a horse’s feet was heard, and a staff officer
came cantering from a side street into the square. He saluted Peter and
said, “Colonel Stirling, the governor has issued a proclamation
forbidding the meeting and parade. General Canfield orders you to clear
the Park, by pushing the mob towards Broadway. The regiments have been
drawn in so as to leave a free passage down the side streets.”
“Don’t try to move us a foot,” screamed Podds, “or there’ll be blood.
We claim the right of free meeting and free speech.”
Even as he spoke, the two regiments formed, stiffened, fixed bayonets,
and moved forward, as if they were machines rather than two thousand
men.
“Brethren,” yelled Podds, “the foot of the tyrant is on us. Rise. Rise
in your might.” Then Podds turned to find the rigid line of bayonets
close upon him. He gave a spring, and grappled with Peter, throwing his
arms about Peter’s neck. Peter caught him by the throat with his free
arm.
“Don’t push me off,” shrieked Podds in his ear, “it’s coming,” and he
clung with desperate energy to Peter.
Peter gave a twist with his arm. He felt the tight clasp relax, and the
whole figure shudder. He braced his arm for a push, intending to send
Podds flying across the street.
But suddenly there was a flash, as of lightning. Then a crash. Then the
earth shook, cobble-stones, railroad tracks, anarchists, and soldiers,
rose in the air, leaving a great chasm in crowd and street. Into that
chasm a moment later, stones, rails, anarchists, and soldiers fell,
leaving nothing but a thick cloud of overhanging dust. Underneath that
great dun pall lay soldier and anarchist, side by side, at last at
peace. The one died for his duty, the other died for his idea. The
world was none the better, but went on unchanged.