It would be unjust in this narrative to class David Baldwin, the
Congressman, with his brother, Zechariah. David meant to be just.
Whatever of justice there was in the relations of the Baldwins to their
workmen was usually credited by the workmen to Congressman Baldwin, and
probably they were right. Such reforms as had been granted in the mills
had usually been secured by appealing from Zechariah, the resident
manager, to David, whose public duties kept him much of the time in
Washington. David Baldwin was generous. If there was anything of the
“milk of human kindness” in the treatment of the Baldwin workmen it was
due largely to David.
Zechariah Baldwin was generous when he thought his generosity would
make a big display, and be heralded in the public press. In the
church and in the press, especially the religious press, the name of
Zechariah Baldwin was acclaimed loudly as a philanthropist. In private
circles, particularly among his own workmen, in those small circles
where the laborer dared to speak his honest feelings, he was oftener
spoken of as a “skinflint,” or simply a “skin,” a term in common use
which is full of meaning, and that not of the best kind. Zechariah
Baldwin was the last to raise the wages of his help and the first to
cut them down.
David Baldwin was rarely known, where the decision lay with himself
alone, to refuse any reasonable request of a workingman. While his
public gifts were not as large, nor trumpeted as loudly as his
brother’s, still, the unfortunate employee or neighbor who needed
help, knew where to get it. But David was absent much of the time,
either in Washington, performing his official duties as Congressman,
or attending to large financial interests outside of Papyrus. Hence
it happened that Zechariah Baldwin was usually the boss of Papyrus
and political independence was not tolerated among the workmen. Few
workingmen had ever remained long in Papyrus after showing in any way
their independence of the Baldwins.
Zechariah Baldwin defended the position of the paper manufacturers in
this way:
“We have built up the town; we own it and we claim the moral right to
drive out of it any man who is offensive to us. That one-eyed Wycliff
is a mischief-maker and trouble-breeder and he has got to get out.”
But Wycliff did not get out. He did not even promise to get out. He
seemed to have no intention of getting out. The methods which usually
succeeded in driving a workingman out of town--blacklisting him in
all the Baldwin industries and warning other employers not to hire
him--these methods had failed utterly in the case of John Wycliff.
“We cannot tolerate him much longer,” said Zack Baldwin. Certainly not.
Where one workingman dares to do his own thinking and to express his
own opinions there is danger that others will catch the distemper. What
if they should form a union and demand the same wages paid elsewhere
for the same work? Such a thing was not to be thought of for an instant.
“We must fight the devil with fire,” said Zack Baldwin. Accordingly he
offered a few Papyrus roughs a large sum if they would drive Wycliff
out of town. He was not particular as to the means employed, so long as
they avoided publicity and arrest. Zack Baldwin’s own son, Jehu, might
be classed with other Papyrus roughs, in spite of a thin veneer of
polished manners, which high society and the schools had given him. It
is highly probable that the means employed to rid the town of Wycliff
might have been violent but for an unexpected incident.
Zechariah Baldwin met an old acquaintance from the West at the Taconic
House, the only hotel in Papyrus, and, of course, the property of the
Baldwins.
“How do you do, Colonel Lathrop?” exclaimed the Lord of Papyrus,
effusively.
“That you, Baldwin?” replied the Westerner; “you have a delightful town
here.”
“So we think;” and the little millionaire paper-maker rubbed his hands
in self-congratulation; “but we have a few evil-minded cranks among us
who think they could improve matters. However, I think the boys will
drive out the worst one within a week.”
“Who is he? Who would think of finding fault with such a paradise as
this?” pursued the Colonel.
“No one but a fool--a crank named Wycliff. There he is now, cleaning
the street, with the rest of Maxwell’s gang--a job just suited to him,
except that he ought not to have any employment at all in a decent
town.”
“Wycliff? Wycliff? John Wycliff?--One-eyed Wycliff?”
“Yes, that’s the man. Do you know him?” asked the little man in
surprise.
“I rather think I do,” replied Colonel Lathrop, pulling out his wallet,
“and here’s a hundred dollars that says you don’t drive John Wycliff
out of Papyrus, and that if you try it you’ll have the biggest job
for the Coroner you ever had in Berkshire. What! Won’t put up the
money?” and the big ranchman looked down on the little millionaire with
contempt.
“There’s no blood in your neck, is there!”
The dapper little churchman was shocked that anyone should expect him
to do such a vulgar, unchristian thing as to bet, but he controlled
himself long enough to ask:--
“What do you know of Wycliff?”
“Oh, not much,” sneered the big fellow, “except that he is the most
stubborn cuss, and can shoot the straightest and quickest of any man I
ever knew.” Then, as the little man waited, he continued:--
“He was a cow-boy on my ranch. One day the Indians tried to stampede
his herd. There were seven red devils, and he all alone against them.
We found four ‘good Indians,’ Indians that would never steal any more
cattle, one just dying, and two had returned to the reservation to
report that Wycliff was ‘bad medicine.’ We found Wycliff, nearly dead,
with one eye shot out, behind a breastwork of dead cattle.”
The big ranchman did not attempt to disguise his contempt for the
little man, and without a word of farewell, he strode down into the
dirt of the street, to greet his former employee. Meanwhile one of the
loungers at the hotel had overheard the Colonel’s story. Before night
it was repeated, with numerous additions, all through Papyrus, and all
the Baldwins’ money would not have hired the biggest bully in the town
to approach John Wycliff with evil intent.
The ranchman stepped up to Hugh Maxwell, who was overseeing the work,
saying:--
“I want to borrow one of your men--Wycliff--for awhile, if I may do
so.”
“All right,” was the reply. “Only return him in good condition.”
Then the two walked off down the street, and the Colonel told Wycliff
of his conversation with Zechariah Baldwin.
“I’m not afraid of anything in that direction,” replied Wycliff. “I
am blessed with lots of good friends in Papyrus, and one of Zack
Baldwin’s own gang gave away the whole plot to me. I have friends in
Zack Baldwin’s own house. I have taken all the precautions I care
to. I have sent away my wife and child, for the present, up into the
country. Such of our household goods as are valuable merely for their
associations--our pictures, my mounted cougar, everything which money
could not replace--all these things I have taken to a neighbor’s.
As for me, I don’t know as I should live a week if some one did not
threaten to injure me.” And Wycliff laughed.
“I came to town,” said Colonel Lathrop, “to see about your share in
the Rattlesnake. I hope you haven’t sold it.”
“No. When I lost my property I tried to sell it, but could not get an
offer. I have felt that sometime it might become of value, perhaps
through cheaper methods of mining.”
“You know Walker Nichols, the mining expert?”
“By reputation. Yes.”
“He thinks that by the practice of new economies in mining, which
will lessen our expenses considerably, we may be able to operate
the Rattlesnake Mine at a small profit. Then there is always the
possibility of striking a richer vein. Shall I go ahead? You will not
need to advance anything.”
“Certainly.”
“You remember Mr. Baxter?”
“Yes; ‘Old Sunshine,’ the boys used to call him.”
“He has great faith that we shall strike something better if we open up
the Rattlesnake again. His opinion ought to be worth something. He was
a ‘forty-niner,’ has worked in the mines ever since, and has made and
lost fortunes in them.”
Colonel Lathrop withdrew, and John Wycliff returned to his work.
Zechariah Baldwin, although temporarily thwarted in his plans to rid
the town of Wycliff, was by no means inclined to give up his efforts.
He had an abundance of resources and expedients, and when one failed he
was not usually long in finding another.
Wycliff’s family had been sent up to Sprucemont, where they were the
guests of their old friends, the Porters. One night, soon after their
departure, Wycliff, who had retired, was awakened by a lusty rap at the
door.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, throwing up his chamber window.
“Not too loud, John,” came the answer from a suppressed voice.
“That you, Dan? Wait a minute till I let you in.”
“No; I can’t stop. There’s a big game on foot. Jehu Baldwin will fire a
revolver through his Uncle David’s bedroom window. Then he will run in
the middle of the street to your house, where he will take to the grass
and throw the weapon upon your lawn.”
“To-night?”
“Yes; just after midnight. But I must get back.”
Congressman Baldwin was the idol of the masses, and if it could
be made to appear that Wycliff had assaulted him there would be a
riot, and the victim of its fury would be fortunate if he escaped
alive. Frontier methods would not avail at this crisis. Wycliff was
somewhat resourceful himself. He got his camera and prepared for a
flashlight photograph. He had been writing a magazine article on the
whippoorwill--(one of these birds sang in the lilacs every night)--and
he had the materials ready for a flashlight of the bird, to illustrate
his article. He would now use them to photograph a different object.
He set his camera so that it would sweep the highway, and waited under
cover of the midnight darkness.
The town clock struck for twelve. A thunder-shower was coming up. There
was an occasional flash and roar from the cloud. The whippoorwill sang
in the lilacs. There were pistol-shots down the road, and then the
sound of running footsteps. They drew nearer until they were directly
in front of Wycliff. The flashlight did its work. Wycliff boarded a
trolley-car for Elmfield, carrying the precious camera, and leaving
this notice on his front door:--
“_Gone to visit my old friend, Sheriff Coggswell, at the Jail._
“_JOHN WYCLIFF._”