IN WHICH GRANT ADAMS AND LAURA VAN DORN TAKE A WALK DOWN MARKET STREET
AND MRS. NESBIT ACQUIRES A LONG LOST GRANDSON-IN-LAW
Grant Adams and Henry Fenn were among the first to arrive at the scene
of the explosion. Henry Fenn had tried to stop Grant from going so
quickly, thinking his presence at the scene would raise a question of
his guilt, but he cried:
"They may need me, Henry--come on--what's a quibble of guilt when a
life's to save?"
When they came to the pile of debris, they saw Dick Bowman coming
up--barefooted, coatless and breathless. Grant and Fenn had run less
than fifteen hundred feet--Dick lived a mile from the shaft house. Grant
Adams's mind flashed suspicion toward the Bowmans. He went to Dick
across the wreckage and said:
"Oh, Dick--I'm sorry you didn't get here sooner."
"So am I--so am I," cried Dick, craning his long neck nervously.
"Where is Mugs?" asked Grant, as the two worked with a beam over a
body--the body of handsome Fred Kollander--lying near the edge of the
litter.
"He's home in bed and asleep--and so's his mother, too, Grant, sound
asleep."
During the first minutes after the explosion, men near by like Grant and
Fenn came running to the scene of the wrecked shaft by the scores, and
as Grant and Dick Bowman spoke the streets grew black with men, workmen,
policemen, soldiers, citizens, men by the hundreds came hurrying up. The
great siren whistles of the water and light plants began to bellow; fire
bells and church bells up in Harvey began to ring, and Grant knew that
the telephone was alarming the town. Ten minutes after the explosion,
while Grant was ordering his men in the crowd to organize for the
rescue, a militia colonel appeared, threw a cordon of men about the
ruins and the police and soldiers took charge, forcing Grant and his men
away. The first few moments after he had been thrust out of the relief
work, Grant spent sending his men in the crowd to summon the members of
the Council; then he turned and hurried to his office in the Vanderbilt
House. For an hour he wrote. Henry Fenn came, and later Laura Van Dorn
appeared, but he waved them both to silence, and without telling them
what he had written he went with them to the hall where the Valley
Council was waiting in a turmoil of excitement. It was after two
o'clock. South Harvey was a military camp. Thousands of citizens from
Harvey were hurrying about. As he passed along the street, the electric
lights showed him little groups about some grief-stricken parent or
brother or sister of a missing militiaman. Automobiles were roaring
through the streets carrying officers, policemen, prominent citizens of
Harvey. Ahab Wright and Joe Calvin and Kyle Perry were in a car with
John Kollander who had come down to South Harvey to claim the body of
his son, Fred. Grant saw the Sands's car with Morty in it supporting a
stricken soldier. The car was halted at the corner by the press of
traffic, and as Grant and Laura and Henry passed, Morty said under the
din: "Grant--Grant, be careful--they are turning Heaven and earth to
find your hand in this; it will be only a matter of days--maybe only
hours, until they will have their witnesses hired!"
Grant nodded. The car moved on and Grant and his friends pressed through
the throng to the hall where the Valley Council was waiting. There Grant
stood and read what he had written. It ran thus:
"For the death by dynamite of the militiamen who perished at midnight in
shaft No. 7 of the Wahoo Fuel Company's mines, I take full
responsibility. I have assumed a leadership in a strike which caused
these deaths. I shirk no whit of my share in this outrage. Yet I
preached only peace. I pleaded for orderly conduct. I appealed to the
workers to take their own not by force of arms but by the tremendous
force of moral right. That ten thousand workers respected this appeal, I
am exceedingly proud. That one out of all the ten thousand was not
convinced of the justice of our cause and the ultimate triumph by the
force of righteousness I am sorry beyond words. I call upon my comrades
to witness what a blow to our cause this murder has been and to stand
firm in the faith that the strike must win by ways of peace.
"Yet, whoever did this deed was not entirely to blame--however it may
cripple his fellow-workers. A child mangled in the mines denied his
legal damages; men clubbed for telling of their wrongs to their
fellow-laborers who were asked to fill their places; women on the picket
line, herded like deer through the park by Cossacks whipping the fleeing
creatures mercilessly; these things inflamed the mind of the man who set
off the bomb; these things had their share in the murder.
"But I knew what strikes were. I know indeed what strikes still are and
what this strike may be. I sorrow with those families whose boys
perished by the bomb in shaft house No. 7. I grieve with the families of
those who have been beaten and broken in this strike. But by all this
innocent blood--blood shed by the working people--blood shed by those
who ignorantly misunderstand us, I now beg you, my comrades, to stand
firm in this strike. Let not this blood be shed in vain. It may be
indeed that the men of the master class here have not descended as
deeply as we may expect them to descend. They may feel that more blood
must be spilled before they let us come into our own. But if blood is
shed again, we must bleed, but let it not be upon our hands.
"Again, even in this breakdown of our high hopes for a strike without
violence, I lift my voice in faith, I hail the coming victory, I
proclaim that the day of the Democracy of Labor is at hand, and it shall
come in peace and good will to all."
When he had finished reading his statement, he sat down and the Valley
Council began to discuss it. Many objected to it; others wished to have
it modified; still others agreed that it should be published as he had
read it. In the end, he had his way. But in the hubbub of the
discussion, Laura Van Dorn, sitting near him, asked:
"Grant, why do you take all this on your shoulders? It is not fair, and
it is not true--for that matter."
He answered finally: "Well, that's what I propose to do."
He was haggard and careworn and he stared at the woman beside him with
determination in his eyes. But she would not give up. Again she
insisted: "The people are inflamed--terribly inflamed and in the morning
they will be in no mood for this. It may put you in jail--put you where
you are powerless."
He turned upon her the stubborn, emotional face that she rarely had seen
but had always dreaded. He answered her:
"If anything were to be gained for the comrades by waiting--I'd wait."
Then his jaws closed in decision as he said: "Laura, that deed was done
in blind rage by one who once risked his life to save mine. Then he
acted not blindly but in the light of a radiance from the Holy Ghost in
his heart! If I can help him now--can even share his shame with him--I
should do it. And in this case--I think it will help the cause to make a
fair confession of our weakness."
"But, Grant," cried the woman, "Grant--can't you see that the murder of
these boys--these Harvey boys, the boys whose mothers and fathers and
sweethearts and young wives and children are going about the streets as
hourly witnesses against you and our fellow-workers here--will arouse a
mob spirit that is dangerous?"
"Yes--I see that. But if anything can quell the mob spirit, frank,
open-hearted confession will do it." He brushed aside her further
protests and in another instant was on his feet defending his statement
to the Valley Council. Ten minutes later the reporters had it.
At six o'clock in the morning posters covered South Harvey and the whole
district proclaiming martial law. They were signed by Joseph Calvin,
Jr., provost marshal, and they denied the right of assembly, except upon
written order of the provost marshal, declared that incendiary speech
would be stopped, forbade parades except under the provost marshal's
inspection, and said that offenders would be tried by court-martial for
all disobediences to the orders of the proclamation. The proclamation
was underscored in its requirements that no meeting of any kind might be
held in the district or on any lot or in any building except upon
written consent of the owner of the lot or building and with the
permission of the provost marshal. Belgian Hall was a rented hall, and
the Wahoo Fuel Company controlled most of the available town lots,
leaving only the farms of the workers, that were planted thick with
gardens, for even the most inoffensive meeting.
And at ten o'clock Grant Adams had signed a counter proclamation
declaring that the proclamation of martial law in a time of peace was an
usurpation of the constitutional rights of American citizens, and that
they must refuse to recognize any authority that abridged the right of
free assemblage, a free press, free speech and a trial by jury. Amos
Adams sent the workers an invitation to meet in the grove below his
house. Grant called a meeting for half-past twelve at the Adams
homestead. It was a direct challenge.
The noon extra edition of the _Times_, under the caption, "The
Governor Is Right," contained this illuminating editorial:
"Seven men dead--dynamited to death by Grant Adams; seven men
dead--the flower of the youth of Harvey; seven men dead for no
crime but serving their country, and Grant Adams loose,
poisoning the minds of his dupes, prating about peace in public
and plotting cowardly assassination in private. Of course, the
Governor was right. Every good citizen of this country will
commend him for prompt and vigorous action. In less than an hour
after the bomb had sent the seven men of the Harvey Home Guards
to eternity, the Governor had proclaimed martial law in this
district, and from now on, no more incendiary language, no more
damnable riots, miscalled parades will menace property, and no
more criminal acts done under the cover of the jury system will
disgrace this community under the leadership of this creature
Adams.
"In his manifesto pulingly taking the blame for a crime last
night so obviously his that mere denial would add blood to the
crime itself, Adams says in extenuation that 'women were herded
before the Cossacks like deer in the park,' while they were
picketing. But he does not say that in the shameful cowardice so
characteristic of his leadership in this labor war, he forced,
by his own motion, women unfit to be seen in public, much less
to fight his battles, under the hoofs of the horses in Sands
Park this morning, and if the Greek woman, who claims she was
dragooned should die, the fault, the crime of her death in
revolting circumstances, will be upon Grant Adams's hands.
"When such a leader followed by blind zealots like the riff-raff
who are insanely trailing after this Mad Mullah who claims
divine powers--save the mark--when such leaders and such human
vermin as these rise in a community, the people who own
property, who have built up the community, who have spent their
lives making Harvey the proud industrial center that she is--the
people who own property, we repeat, should organize to protect
it. The Governor suspending while this warlike state exists the
right of anarchists who turn it against law and order, the right
of assembling, and speech and trial by jury, has set a good
example. We hear from good authority that the Adams anarchists
are to be aided by another association even more reckless than
he and his, and that Greeley county will be flooded by bums and
thugs and plug-uglies who will fill our jails and lay the burden
of heavy taxes upon our people pretending to defend the rights
of free speech.
"A law and order league should be organized among the business
men of Harvey to rid the county of these rats breeding social
disease, and if courageous hearts are needed, and extraordinary
methods necessary--all honest people will uphold the patriots
who rally to this cause."
At twelve o 'clock crowds of working people began to swarm into Adams's
grove. Five hundred horsemen were lined up at the gate. Around a
temporary speaker's stand a squad of policemen was formed. The crowd
stood waiting. Grant Adams did not appear. The crowd grew restless; it
began to fear that he had been arrested, that there had been some
mishap. Laura Van Dorn, sensing the uncertainty and discouragement of
the crowd, decided to try to hold it. It seemed to her as she watched
the uneasiness rising slowly to impatience in the men and women about
her, that it was of much importance--tremendous importance indeed--to
hold these people to their faith, not especially in Grant, though to her
that seemed necessary, too, but at bottom to hold their faith firm in
themselves, in their own powers to better themselves, to rise of their
own endeavors, to build upon themselves! So she walked quickly to the
policeman before the steps leading to the stand and said smilingly:
"Pardon me," and stepped behind him and was on the stand before he
realized that he had been fooled. Her white-clad figure upon the
platform attracted a thousand eyes in a second, and in a moment she was
speaking:
"I am here to defend our ancient rights of meeting, speaking, and trial
by jury." A policeman started for her. She smiled and waved him back
with such a dignity of mien that her very manner stopped him.
When he hesitated, knowing that she was a person of consequence in
Harvey, she went on: "No cause can thrive until it maintains anew its
right to speech, to assemble and to have its day in court before a jury.
Every cause must fight this world-old fight--and then if it is a just
cause, when it has won those ancient rights--which are not rights at all
but are merely ancient battle grounds on which every cause must fight,
then any cause may stand a chance to win. I think we should make it
clear now that as free-born Americans, no one has a right to stop us
from meeting and speaking; no one has a right to deny us jury trials. I
believe the time has come when we should ignore rather definitely--" she
paused, and turned to the policeman standing beside her, "we should
ignore rather finally this proclamation of the provost marshal and
should insist rather firmly that he shall try to enforce it."
A policeman stepped suddenly and menacingly toward her. She did not
flinch. The dignity of five generations of courtly Satterthwaites rose
in her as she gazed at the clumsy officer. She saw Grant Adams coming up
at a side entrance to the grove. The policeman stopped. She desired to
divert the policeman and the crowd from Grant Adams. The crowd tittering
at the quick halt of the policeman, angered him. Again he stepped toward
her. His face was reddening. The Satterthwaite dignity mounted, but the
Nesbit mind guided her, and she said coldly: "All right, sir, but you
must club me. I'll not give up my rights here so easily."
Three officers made a rush for her, grabbed her by the arms, and,
struggling, she went off the platform, but she left Grant Adams standing
upon it and a cheering crowd saw the ruse.
"I'm here," he boomed out in his great voice, "because 'the woods were
man's first temples' and we'll hold them for that sacred right to-day."
The police were waiting for him to put his toe across the line of
defiance. "We'll transgress this order of little Joe Calvin's--why, he
might as well post a trespass notice against snowslides as against this
forward moving cause of labor." His voice rose, "I'm here to tell you
that under your rights as citizens of this Republic, and under your
rights in the coming Democracy of Labor, I bid you tear up these martial
law proclamations to kindle fires in your stoves."
He glared at the policemen and held up his hand to stop them as they
came. "Listen," he cried, "I'm going to give you better evidence than
that against me. I, as the leader of this strike--take this down, Mr.
Stenographer, there--I'll say it slowly; I, as the leader of this
movement of the Democracy of Labor, as the preacher preaching the era of
good will and comradeship all over the earth, bid you, my
fellow-workers, meet to preach Christ's workingman's gospel wherever you
can hire a hall or rent a lot, to parade your own streets, and to bare
your heads to clubs and your breasts to bullets if need be to restore in
this district the right of trial by jury in times of peace. And
now,"--the crowd roared its approval. He glared defiance at the
policemen. He raised his voice above the din, "And now I want to tell
you something more. Our property in these mills and mines--" again the
crowd bellowed its joyous approval of his words and Grant's face lighted
madly, "our property--the property we have earned, we must guard against
the violence of the very master class themselves; for under this
infernal Russian ukase of little Joe Calvin, the devil only knows what
arson and loot and murder--" the crowd howled wildly; a policeman blew
his whistle and when the melee was over Grant Adams was in the midst of
the blue-coated squad marching toward the gate.
At the gate, on a pawing white horse, sat young Joe Calvin. The crowd,
following the officers, came upon the first squad of policemen--the
squad that took Laura Van Dorn from the stand. The two squads joined
with their prisoners, and back of the officers came the yelling, hooting
crowd, pushing the officers along. As the officers came up, the provost
marshal cried:
"Turn them over to my men here. Men, handcuff them together." In an
instant it was done.
Then the cavalry formed in two lines, and between them marched Laura Van
Dorn and Grant Adams, manacled together. Up through the weed-grown
commons between South Harvey and the big town they marched under the
broiling sun. The crowd trudged after them--trailing behind for the most
part, but often running along by the horsemen and calling words of
sympathy to Grant or reviling the soldiers.
Down Market Street they all came--soldiers, prisoners and straggling
crowd. The town, prepared by telephone for the sight, stood on the
streets and hurrahed for Joe Calvin. He had brought in his game, and if
one trophy was a trifle out of caste for a prisoner, a bit above her
station, so much the worse for her. The blood of the seven dead soldiers
was crying for vengeance in Harvey--the middle-class nerve had been
touched to the quick--and Market Street hooted at the prisoners, and
hailed Joe Calvin on his white charger as a hero of the day.
For the mind of a crowd is a simple mind. It draws no fine distinctions.
It has no memory. It enjoys primitive emotions, and takes the most
rudimentary pleasures. The mind of the crowd on Market Street in Harvey
that bright, hot June day, when Joe Calvin on his white steed at the
head of his armed soldiers led Grant Adams and Laura Van Dorn up the
street to the court house, saw as plainly as any crowd could see
anything that Grant Adams was the slayer of seven mangled men, whose
torn bodies the crowd had seen at the undertaker's. It saw death and
violation of property rights as the fruit of Grant Adams's revolution,
and if this woman, who was of Market Street socially, cared to lower
herself to the level of assassins and thugs, she was getting only her
deserts.
So Grant and Laura passed through the ranks of men and women whom they
knew and saw eyes turned away that might have recognized them, saw faces
averted to whom they might have looked for sympathy--and saw what power
on a white horse can make of a mediocre man!
But Grant was not interested in power on a white horse, nor was he
interested in the woman who marched with him. His face kept turning to
the crowd from South Harvey that straggled beside him outside of the
line of horsemen about him. Now and then Grant caught the eyes of a
leader or of a friend and to such a one he would speak some earnest word
of cheer or give some belated order or message. Only once did Laura
divert him from the stragglers along the way. It was when Ahab Wright
ducked his head and drew down his office window in the second story of
the Wright & Perry building. "At least," said Laura, "it's a lesson
worth learning in human nature. I'll know how much a smile is worth
after this or the mere nod of a head. Not that I need it to sustain me,
Grant," she went on seriously, "so far as I'm concerned, but I can feel
how it would be to--well, to some one who needed it."
Under the murmur of the crowd, Laura continued: "I know exactly with
what emotion pretty little Mrs. Joe Calvin will hear of this episode."
"What?" queried Grant absently. His attention left her again, for the
men from South Harvey at whom he was directing volts of courage from his
blazing eyes.
"Well--she'll be scared to death for fear mother and I will cut her
socially for it! She's dying to get into the inner circle, and she'll
abuse little Joe for this--which," smiled Laura, "will be my revenge,
and will be badly needed by little Joe." But she was talking to deaf
ears.
A street car halted them before Brotherton's store for a minute. Grant
looked anxiously in the door way, and saw only Miss Calvin, who turned
away her head, after smiling at her brother.
"I wonder where George can be?" asked Grant.
"Don't you know?" replied Laura, looking wonderingly at him. "There's a
little boy at their house!"
The crowd was hooting and cheering and the procession was just ready to
turn into the court house corner, when Grant felt Laura's quick hand
clasp. Grant was staring at Kenyon, white and wild-eyed, standing near
them on the curb.
"Yes," he said in a low voice, "I see the poor kid."
"No--no," she cried, "look down the block--see that electric! There
comes father, bringing mother back from the depot--Oh, Grant--I don't
mind for me, I don't mind much for father--but mother--won't some one
turn them up that street! Oh, Grant--Grant, look!"
Less than one hundred feet before them the electric runabout was
beginning to wobble unsteadily. The guiding hand was trembling and
nervous. Mrs. Nesbit, leaning forward with horror in her face, was
clutching at her husband's arm, forgetful of the danger she was running.
The old Doctor's eyes were wide and staring. He bore unsteadily down
upon the procession, and a few feet from the head of the line, he jumped
from the machine. He was an old man, and every year of his seventy-five
years dragged at his legs, and clutched his shaking arms.
"Joe Calvin--you devil," he screamed, and drew back his cane, "let her
go--let her go."
The crowd stood mute. A blow from the cane cracked on the young legs as
the Doctor cried:
"Oh, you coward--" and again lifted his cane. Joe Calvin tried to back
the prancing horse away. The blow hit the horse on the face, and it
reared, and for a second, while the crowd looked away in horror, lunged
above the helpless old man. Then, losing balance, the great white horse
fell upon the Doctor; but as the hoofs grazed his face, Kenyon Adams had
the old man round the waist and flung him aside. But Kenyon went down
under the horse. Calvin turned his horse; some one picked up the
fainting youth, and he was beside Mrs. Nesbit in the car a moment later,
a limp, unconscious thing. Grant and Laura ran to the car. Dr. Nesbit
stood dazed and impotent--an old man whose glory was of yesterday--a
weak old man, scorned and helpless. He turned away trembling with a
nervous palsy, and when he reached the side of the machine, his
daughter, trying to hide her manacled hand, kissed him and said
soothingly:
"It's all right, father--young Joe's vexed at something I said down in
the Valley; he'll get over it in an hour. Then I'll come home."
"And," gasped Mrs. Nesbit, "he--that whippersnapper," she gulped,
"dared--to lay hands on you; to--"
Laura shook her head, to stop her mother from speaking of the
handcuff,--"to make you walk through Market Street--while," but she
could get no further. The crowd surrounded them. And in the midst of the
jostling and milling, the Doctor's instinct rose stronger than his rage.
He was fumbling for his medicine case, and trying to find something for
Kenyon. The old hands were at the young pulse, and he said unsteadily:
"He'll be around in a few minutes."
Some one in the crowd offered a big automobile. The Doctor got in, waved
to his daughter, and followed Mrs. Nesbit up the hill.
"You young upstart," he cried, shaking his fist at Calvin as the car
turned around, "I'll be down in ten minutes and see to you!" The provost
marshal turned his white steed and began gathering up his procession and
his prisoners. But the spell was broken. The mind of the crowd took in
an idea. It was that a shameful thing was happening to a woman. So it
hissed young Joe Calvin. Such is the gratitude of republics.
In the court house, the provost marshal, sitting behind an imposing
desk, decided that he would hold Mrs. Van Dorn under $100 bond to keep
the peace and release her upon her own recognizance.
"Well," she replied, "Little Joe, I'll sign no peace bond, and if it
wasn't for my parents--I'd make you lock me up."
Her hand was free as she spoke. "As it is--I'm going back to South
Harvey. I'll be there until this strike is settled; you'll have no
trouble in finding me." She hurried home. As she approached the house,
she saw in the yard and on the veranda, groups of sympathetic neighbors.
In the hall way were others. Laura hurried into the Doctor's little
office just as he was setting Kenyon's broken leg and had begun to bind
the splints upon it. Kenyon lay unconscious. Mrs. Nesbit and Lila
hovered over him, each with her hands full of surgical bandages, and
cotton and medicine. Mrs. Nesbit's face was drawn and anxious.
"Oh, mamma--mamma--I'm so sorry--so sorry--you had to see." The proud
woman looked up from her work and sniffed:
"That whippersnapper--that--that--" she did not finish. The Doctor drew
his daughter to him and kissed her. "Oh, my poor little girl--they
wouldn't have done that ten years ago--"
"Father," interrupted the daughter, "is Kenyon all right?"
"Just one little bone broken in his leg. He'll be out from under the
ether in a second. But I'll--Oh, I'll make that Calvin outfit sweat;
I'll--"
"Oh, no, you won't, father--little Joe doesn't know any better. Mamma
can just forget to invite his wife to our next party--which I won't let
her do--not even that--but it would avenge my wrongs a thousand times
over."
Lila had Kenyon's hand, and Mrs. Nesbit was rubbing his brow, when he
opened his eyes and smiled. Laura and the Doctor, knowing their wife and
mother, had left her and Lila together with the awakening lover. His
eyes first caught Mrs. Nesbit's who bent over him and whispered:
"Oh, my brave, brave boy--my noble--chivalrous son--"
Kenyon smiled and his great black eyes looked into the elder woman's as
he clutched Lila's hand.
"Lila," he said feebly, "where is it--run and get it."
"Oh, it's up in my room, grandma--wait a minute--it's up in my room."
She scurried out of the door and came dancing down the stairs in a
moment with a jewel on her finger. The grandmother's eyes were wet, and
she bent over and kissed the young, full lips into which life was
flowing back so beautifully.
"Now--me!" cried Lila, and as she, too, bent down she felt the great,
strong arms of her grandmother enfolding her in a mighty hug. There, in
due course, the Doctor and Laura found them. A smile, the first that had
wreathed his wrinkled face for an hour, twitched over the loose skin
about his old lips and eyes.
"The Lord," he piped, "moves in a mysterious way--my dear--and if Laura
had to go to jail to bring it--the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh
away--blessed be--"
"Well, Kenyon," the grandmother interrupted the Doctor, stooping to put
her fingers lovingly upon his brow, "we owe everything to you; it was
fine and courageous of you, son!"
And with the word "son" the Doctor knew and Laura knew, and Lila first
of all knew that Bedelia Nesbit had surrendered. And Kenyon read it in
Lila's eyes. Then they all fell to telling Kenyon what a grand youth he
was and how he had saved the Doctor's life, and it ended as those things
do, most undramatically, in a chorus of what I saids, and you saids to
me, and I thought, and you did, and he should have done, until the party
wore itself out and thought of Lila, sitting by her lover, holding his
hands. And then what with a pantomime of eyes from Laura and the Doctor
to Mrs. Nesbit, and what with an empty room in a big house, with voices
far--exceedingly far--obviously far away, it ended with them as all
journeys through this weary world end, and must end if the world wags
on.