"He's sick of the job--that's my opinion," said Parks savagely. "He's
full of fighting talk when there's no trouble in sight, but when there's
a chance to strike a blow for the people, he's for hanging back. He
hasn't had any ginger in his talk about this meeting. You heard him
last night. He was about as warm as a fish then, and his pulse has been
going down ever since. Well, we can't wait any longer, so here goes."
And pushing to the front of the platform, he pounded on an improvised
desk and called for order.
It was by the eye rather than by the ear that he caught the attention of
the throng, for in the babel of amateur oratory that filled the square,
his voice was lost. But at his appeals, silence spread in concentric
rings about the platform, until the arguing groups melted into the mass
of humanity that pressed toward the speakers' stand.
I paid but perfunctory attention to the speeches. Under Parks' guidance
a man named D'Arcy was chosen chairman of the meeting, and speaker vied
with speaker in expressing sympathy with their brave brethren of
Pittsburgh, in declaring admiration for the courage with which they had
beaten down the hireling soldiery of the brutalized money lords, in
denouncing the policy that had called out the troops to settle a mere
business dispute between workmen and employers, in bewailing the hard
lot of the workmen of San Francisco, and in assailing the Chinese as the
cause of the local industrial woes. It was not the inflammatory speeches
that drew the major part of my attention, nor even the riotous applause
that followed those speakers who expressed their approval of violence as
a cure for low wages or no wages. Some subtle sense of divination drew
my eyes and thoughts to certain currents and eddies in the crowd, where
lines of men appeared to move with common purpose through the great
gathering. The lines would grow in length as they proceeded, then would
swirl into a group, and break or unfold into two or three new lines that
would push out in different directions to form new centers of
excitement. Some plan of action was evidently preparing.
In the midst of a speaker's appeal to the sacred rights of labor against
the wrongs of coolie immigration, a man swung himself over the back rail
of the platform and whispered to Parks.
"What's that?" demanded Parks incredulously.
The man repeated his statement.
"When did it happen?"
"About seven o'clock."
Parks' face grew black with suppressed storm, and the man continued:
"He said you could rouse the town about it if you thought best, but for
himself he didn't want the course of the law interfered with."
"What do you think, Hampden?" said Parks, in my ear. "Kearney's
arrested!"
"What's he been doing now?"
"Oh, it's his Nob Hill speech. He threatened to hang Stanford and
Crocker, you know; and they've jailed him for that."
"Well," I said cheerfully, "are you going to follow your example by
leading the mob to rescue him?"
"I'd take five thousand men down to the City Prison and have him out in
half an hour, if I was sure he hadn't contrived this arrest himself,"
replied Parks darkly.
"What put that into your head?" I asked in surprise.
"Never mind," said Parks with an angry shake of his head. "I've a right
to my suspicions." Then he turned to his messenger and growled: "Don't
say anything about this. I'll announce it later if it seems best. I'll
have to think it over a little. I'll wait till Reddick has spoken,
anyhow."
Reddick, as the mouthpiece of the Council of Nine, gave a speech filled
with denunciations of social and industrial conditions, and with the
roars of applause that he evoked, the currents and eddies of men grew
stronger. As he drew toward the close of his address, I felt a touch
from behind, and turned to find Clark beckoning for attention. As I
bent to him, he whispered in my ear:
"Those fellows of Morgan's are trying to stir up a rumpus. They are
going through the crowd now passing the word that it's time to burn out
the rich fellows that have brought in the Chinese, and that the place to
begin is on Van Ness Avenue, and finish with Nob Hill and Chinatown.
There's going to be trouble as soon as the meeting breaks up."
This alarming information revealed Bolton's purpose, whatever might be
the plans of the Council of Nine, and though the meeting seemed likely
to be prolonged for an hour or two more, I scribbled a note on the back
of one of Wharton Kendrick's cards and handed it to Clark, saying:
"Get down to the Old City Hall, see Chief Ellis, or whoever is in
charge, and tell him that Kendrick's place is to be attacked. Ask him
to send as many men as he can spare to keep the avenue clear. That card
will get you a chance to speak with him, and you can tell him what the
gang is doing. I am going up to Kendrick's before the meeting closes
and get ready for trouble."
"I'll do the best I can, sir," said Clark, with evident doubt of his
power to influence so important a man as the chief of police, and in a
moment had disappeared into McAllister Street.
While I had been engaged with Clark, Reddick had ended his speech with a
fiery peroration that brought a roar of applause, during which a stout,
red-faced man climbed to the platform and took his place.
"This is all wrong, men," were the first words I heard from the new
speaker. "We can't help the cause of labor by getting into a row with
the police. We can't get more wages by hunting a fight with the militia.
We can't even get a better job by punching a Chinaman's head."
"Who the devil is this?" cried Reddick angrily. "He's a hell-hound of
plutocracy. Who asked him to speak?"
"Stop him, D'Arcy," said Parks. "He'll be a wet blanket on the
meeting."
So far from being a wet blanket, the speaker had a remarkably enlivening
influence on the crowd. The elements that had been roused to enthusiasm
by fiery speeches, culminating in Reddick's red-pepper harangue, were in
no mood to listen to this sort of talk, and catcalls, hoots and cries of
dissent drowned his words.
"This agitation don't do us no good," shouted the volunteer orator. "It
hurts us. It scares away capital. I lost two jobs by it myself."
"Sit down! Dry up! Get off the platform!" came in volleys from the
audience, and the chairman, with a pull at the speaker's coat tails,
paraphrased the demand.
"I won't sit down!" shouted the unknown. "I'm an American citizen and
as good as any of you."
"Throw him off!" cried Reddick; and suiting action to word, he seized
the speaker about the waist.
The unknown resented this interference by whirling about, and planting a
blow on Reddick's face that sent him to the floor with a thump. But the
militant friend of order was seized by a dozen men before he could make
another movement, and with a struggle was hustled to the side of the
platform and dropped over the rail.
The scene of violence was contagious. During the altercation on the
platform the signs of disorder in the crowd had multiplied, and at the
sight of the blow that laid Reddick on his back, a mighty roar rose on
the air, and the whole throng appeared to break into tumultuous motion.
The great mass was shaken to its confines with a sudden blind impulse of
conflict, the thousands of faces tossed and eddied about like sea waves
ruffled by cross-currents, and a surge of men broke against the
platform.
"Hold on," shouted Parks, springing to the front. "There's four more
speakers to be heard, and the resolutions to be passed." But in the
uproar his voice was overwhelmed, and in a moment the hoodlum mob was
upon us. A conflux of wolfish faces centered upon the platform, and
with cries of "Kill the Chinese! Down with the coolie-lovers!" they
tore at the supports. The platform went down with a crash of breaking
boards and screaming men, and the flaming gasoline torches that lighted
the stand fell forward with the uprights to which they were fastened,
only to be raised in the van as the standards of the hoodlum mob.
The downfall of the platform sent half the group sprawling on the ground
among its ruins. But at the first warning crack I had seized Parks as
he was about to be pitched forward under the feet of the attacking
forces, and dragged him to the back rail. This frail support held for a
space against the wrench of the falling front, and offered us a moment's
safety.
"This is an outrage!" cried Parks, as we scrambled to the ground. "The
money of the railroad or the Six Companies has paid for this assault on
a peaceable meeting. But I am not going to be silenced by a pack of
hoodlums. Come up to the City Hall steps, and we will finish our
speeches and pass our resolutions."
"Better let bad enough alone," I said. "You'd much better come with me
to see to Miss Fillmore's safety."
But Parks had not waited to hear the end of my words, and was already on
his way to the Hall of Records, shouting at the top of his voice,
"Follow me, all members of the International Clubs!" while I struggled
to press my way through the division of the mob that was sweeping up
Leavenworth Street. As I reached the corner I heard one of the leaders
shout:
"Come on, youse fellows! We'll burn out Millionaire's Row on Van Ness
Avenue. They's the ones that gets rich by bringing in the coolies!"
And his suggestion was approved with a roar.
This was, I could no longer doubt, a part of the scheme that had been
hatching in the fertile brain of Peter Bolton. It was for this that Jim
Morgan had hired and trained his ruffians, and the objective point of
the mob in front of me was the home of Wharton Kendrick.
It was of this that my sixth sense had warned me, even before Clark had
spoken; and yet I had loitered in the belief that there was plenty of
time to reach the place before the close of the meeting should loose the
forces of disorder. And now, with a sudden gust of passion all evil
things had thrown away restraint, the mob with roars of rage was
swarming in different directions, smashing doors and windows, and
shouting its war-cries with cheers and curses, while I was still by the
City Hall, trying to force past the throng that streamed up Leavenworth
Street.
I had got as far as Tyler Street (later to become famous as Golden Gate
Avenue), when I found the way blockaded. The crowd had halted, packed
into a dense mass about the corner, and shouts and yells, the crash of
breaking wood and the tinkle of falling glass told that the wild beast
had found an object on which to vent its rage. By the light of the
street-lamps and the flare of the torches carried by the mob, I saw that
the point of attack was a low, wooden building, and a painted sign above
the door told that therein Ah Ging did washing and ironing.
I had barely discerned so much when the sign disappeared, and a moment
later the form of a Chinaman was framed in the doorway above the crowd,
amid a gang of hoodlum captors. For an instant I could see the wild,
terror-stricken face, its brown skin turned to a sickly yellow, its eyes
rolling in the red glare of the torches with the instinct of the animal
seeking despairingly some path of escape. Then at a blow from behind
the Chinaman gave a scream and plunged headlong down the steps.
The end was shut out from my sight, but I was shaken by the qualms of
deathly sickness at this wanton barbarity, as the maelstrom of
struggling bodies closed in upon its victim, and his death-cries were
drowned in the chorus of yells, jeers and animal ejaculations of rage
with which the collective beast accompanied the murder of Ah Ging.
*CHAPTER XXI*
*BATTLE*
As I came within sight of the Kendrick house, breathless, shaken with
scenes of brutality, and torn with apprehensions, I found that my fears
were realized. A disorderly mob of two or three hundred men had gathered
in front of the place, their groans and hoots filling the air, and the
score or more of torches they carried throwing a smoky glare on the
buildings.
The mob had not yet ventured to attack the place, and I was relieved to
see that Andrews and his men still held the steps and guarded the walls;
but the riotous elements were lashing the crowd into the courage to
attack the little band that looked down upon them.
Suddenly, as I reached the confines of the crowd, a silence fell, and I
started with surprise to see Wharton Kendrick walk down the steps to the
level of the garden, and then advance to the iron fence that surmounted
the retaining wall. From this point of vantage he surveyed the mob with
a good-humored smile and waved his hand in cheerful greeting. I
trembled with anxiety at his rashness, but something in his personal
magnetism held them for him to speak.
"Well, boys," he cried in his full hearty voice, "what can I do for you?
Have I been nominated for mayor, or is this just a serenade?"
A laugh here and there showed the good impression he had made on his
audience, and a hasty voice from the leaders of the mob shouted:
"We want you to fire your Chinese!"
"The Chinese?" he said, affecting to misunderstand the cry. "You've
come to the right shop if you want a good little talk on that question.
As I told Senator Morton the other day, I'm the original Chinese
exclusionist--not excepting Bill Nye and Truthful James. Ask the
reporters to take a front seat."
I had never suspected Wharton Kendrick of oratorical ability, but he
showed all the arts of the stump speaker, and with a few pat anecdotes
stated his position, and appealed to the men to trust the settlement of
the problem to the substantial men of the State.
The leaders of the mob were quick to see the danger to their schemes,
and tried several interruptions, which Kendrick blandly ignored. At
last one of them shouted as comment on his profession of faith:
"Then why don't you discharge your Chinese help?"
This thrust renewed the cries of anger from the mob, and a wolfish look
came on the faces about me.
"Why," returned Kendrick with a jovial laugh, "for the same reason that
the rabbit couldn't cut off his tail--because he didn't have one. I
don't know any reason why I shouldn't hire a Chinese cook if I wanted
one, as long as they are permitted to come into the country; but I don't
want one. My servants are all white."
The reply raised a laugh, and a few enthusiastic rioters shouted "Hooray
for Kendrick!"
"Shut up, you fools!" cried the leaders; and the voice that had called
on Kendrick to discharge his Chinese shouted:
"It's a lie about there not being any Chinese in de house!"
"The honorable gentleman has forgotten to speak the truth," retorted
Kendrick good-humoredly. "I keep no Chinese."
"Aw, what's de use talkin' like dat?" shouted the voice. "There's a
Chinese girl in de house dis minute."
"Quite true," admitted Kendrick candidly. "The poor creature was
wounded, and we took her in to save her from the highbinders. You
surely wouldn't have us turn her out. She's not a servant. She's a
guest."
The explanation was lost on half the crowd in the clamor that had been
raised. One of the mob leaders shouted:
"Where there's a Chinese girl there's a dozen Chinese men,"--an opinion
that renewed the jeers and catcalls.
"Aw, the place is full of coolies! Smoke 'em out!" cried another,
waving a torch.
Even with this renewal of hostile sentiment, the leaders of the mob
would scarce have been able to spur their followers to violence but for
the arrival of a reinforcement of another hundred hoodlums, shouting,
swearing, and laden with the spoil of looted wash-houses. They came
straight for the Kendrick house, and I had no doubt that they were
directed thither by the same mind that had sent the first company to the
siege.
While the play between Kendrick and the mob had been going on, I had
edged my way toward the steps by those alternate arts of diplomatic and
aggressive pressure which enable one to make progress through a crowd.
The arrival of the hoodlum reinforcement brought me assistance as
unwelcome as it was unexpected.
Wharton Kendrick faced the new-comers with a confident smile, and
appealed with a jest to "the gentlemen in a hurry" for a hearing. But
the hoodlum arrivals had not fallen under the spell of his personality,
and their courage and wrath had been inflamed by their success in their
wash-house raids. With shouts of "Gangway! gangway! Smoke out the
coolies!" they charged forward in a wedge that struck the standing crowd
directly behind me. There was a shock of meeting bodies, a grunt that
might have come from a giant in sudden distress, and the crowd crumpled
together like the telescoping cars of a railroad collision; the men in
the center were lifted off their feet, and the crowd was forced forward
and scattered in disorder.
Standing directly in the line of shock, I was thrown forward with
amazing force, scraped against the stone wall, and flung headlong on to
the lower step of the flight that led to Wharton Kendrick's garden. At
the same moment there was an outburst of wrathful yells, and a shower of
stones rattled about me. I felt a smart crack from a falling stick on
my shoulder as I scrambled to my feet, and looking upward I was just in
time to see Kendrick struck by a flying missile, reel backward, fling up
his arms with a whirling motion, and fall heavily on to the grass.