Chapter 26

RIOTS IN CHICAGO AND GERMAN PLOT TO RESCUE THE CROWN PRINCE

The first weeks of January, 1922, brought increasing difficulties and perplexities for the German forces of occupation in America. With comparative ease the enemy had conquered our Atlantic seaboard, but now they faced the harder problem of holding it against a large and intelligent and totally unreconciled population. What was to be done with ten million people who, having been deprived of their arms, their cities and their liberties, had kept their hatred?

The Germans had suffered heavy losses. The disaster to von Hindenburg’s army in the battle of the Susquehanna had cost them over a hundred thousand men. The revolt of Boston, the massacre of Richmond, had weakened the Teuton prestige and had set American patriotism boiling, seething, from Maine to Texas, from Long Island to the Golden Gate. There were rumours of strange plots and counter-plots, also of a new great army of invasion that was about to set sail from Kiel. Evidently the Germans must have more men if they were to ride safely on this furious American avalanche that they had set in motion, if they were to tame the fiery American volcano that was smouldering beneath them.

In this connection I must speak of the famous woman’s plot that resulted in the death of several hundred German officers and soldiers and that would have caused the death of thousands but for unforeseen developments. This plot was originated by women leaders of the militant suffrage party in New York and Pennsylvania (the faction led by Mrs. O. H. P. Belmont not approving) and soon grew to nation-wide importance with an enrolled body of twenty thousand militant young women, each one of whom was pledged to accomplish the destruction of one of the enemy on a certain Saturday night between the hours of sunset and sunrise.

By a miracle these women kept their vow of secrecy until the fatal evening, but at eight o’clock the plot was revealed to Germans in Philadelphia through the confession of a young Quakeress who, after playing her part for weeks, had fallen genuinely in love with a Prussian lieutenant and simply could not bring herself to kill him when the time came.

I come now to a sensational happening that I witnessed in Chicago, to which city I had journeyed after the Richmond affair for very personal reasons. If this were a romance and not a plain recital of facts I should dwell upon my meeting with Mary Ryerson and our mutual joy in each finding that the other had escaped unharmed from the perils of our recent adventures.

Miss Ryerson, it appeared, after the discovery of her daring disguise had been released on parole by order of General Langthorne, who believed her story that she had taken this desperate chance as the only means of saving Thomas A. Edison. Mary had heard the story of her brother’s heroic death and to still her grief, had thrown herself into work for the Red Cross fund under Miss Boardman and Mrs. C.C. Rumsey. She had hit upon a charming way of raising money by having little girls dressed in white with American flags for sashes, lead white lambs through the streets, the lambs bearing Red Cross contribution boxes on their backs. By this means thousands of dollars had been secured.

On the evening following my arrival in Chicago, I had arranged to take Miss Ryerson to a great recruiting rally in the huge lake-front auditorium building, but when I called at her boarding-house on Wabash Avenue, I found her much disturbed over a strange warning that she had just received.

“Something terrible is going to happen tonight,” she said. “There will be riots all over Chicago.”

I asked how she knew this and she explained that a deaf and dumb man named Stephen, who took care of the furnace, a man in whose rather pathetic case she had interested herself, had told her. It seems he also took care of the furnace in a neighbouring house which was occupied by a queer German club, really a gathering place of German spies.

“He overheard things there and told me,” she said seriously, whereupon I burst out laughing.

“What? A deaf and dumb man?”

“You know what I mean. He reads the lips and I know the sign language.”

The main point was that this furnace man had begged Miss Ryerson not to leave her boardinghouse until he returned. He had gone back to the German club, where he hoped to get definite information of an impending catastrophe.

“It’s some big coup they are planning for tonight,” she said. “We must wait here.”

So we waited and presently, along Wabash Avenue, with crashing bands and a roar of angry voices, came an anti-militarist socialist parade with floats and banners presenting fire-brand sentiments that called forth jeers and hisses from crowds along the sidewalks or again enthusiastic cheers from other crowds of contrary mind.

“You see, there’s going to be trouble,” trembled the girl, clutching my arm. “Read that!”

A huge float was rolling past bearing this pledge in great red letters:

“I refuse to kill your father. I refuse to slay your mother’s son. I refuse to plunge a bayonet into the breast of your sweetheart’s brother. I refuse to assassinate you and then hide my stained fists in the folds of any flag. I refuse to be flattered into hell’s nightmare by a class of well-fed snobs, crooks and cowards who despise our class socially, rob our class economically and betray our class politically.”

At this the hostile crowds roared their approval and disapproval. Also at another float that paraded these words:

“What is war? For working-class wives--heartache. For working-class mothers--loneliness. For working-class children--orphanage. For peace--defeat. For death--a harvest. For nations--debts. For bankers--bonds, interest. For preachers on both sides--ferocious prayers for victory. For big manufacturers--business profits. For ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’--boisterous laughter. For Christ--contempt.”

I saw that my companion was deeply moved.

“It’s all true, what they say, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“Yes, it’s true, but--we can’t change the world, we can’t give up our country, our independence. Hello!”

A white-faced man had rushed into the parlour, gesticulating violently and making distressing guttural sounds. It was Stephen.

Uncomprehending, I watched his swift signs.

“What is it? What is he trying to say?”

“Wait!”

Her hands flew in eager questions and the man answered her.

“Oh!” she cried. “The riots are a blind to draw away the police and the troops. They’re marching against the Blackstone Hotel now--a thousand German spies--with rifles.”

The Blackstone Hotel! I realised in a moment what that meant. The German Crown Prince was still a prisoner at the Blackstone, in charge of General Langhorne. It was a serious handicap to the enemy that we held in our power the heir to the German throne. They dared not resort to reprisals against America lest Frederick William suffer.

“They mean to rescue the Crown Prince?”

“Yes.”

I rushed to the telephone to call up police headquarters, but the wires were dead--German spies had seen to that.

“Come!” I said, seizing her arm. “We must hustle over to the auditorium.”

Fortunately the great recruiting hall was only a few blocks distant and as we hurried there Miss Ryerson explained that the furnace man, Stephen, before coming to us, had run to McCormick College, the Chicago home for deaf students, and given the alarm.

“What good will that do?”

“What good! These McCormick boys have military drill. They are splendid shots. Stephen says fifty of them will hold the Germans until our troops get there.”

“I hope so.”

I need not detail our experiences in the enormous and rather disorderly crowd that packed the auditorium building except to say that ten minutes later we left there followed by eighty members of the Camp Fire Club (they had organised this appeal for recruits), formidable hunters of big game who came on the run carrying the high power rifles that they had used against elephants and tigers in India and against moose and grizzlies in this country. Among them were Ernest Thompson Seton, Dan Beard, Edward Seymour, Belmore Brown, Edward H. Litchfield and his son, Herbert.

Under the command of their president, George D. Pratt, these splendid shots proceeded with all speed to the Blackstone Hotel, where they found a company of deaf riflemen, under the command of J. Frederick Meagher, about seventy in all, guarding the doors and windows. Not a moment too soon did they arrive for, as they entered the hotel, hoarse cries were heard outside and presently a bomb exploded at the main entrance, shattering the heavy doors and killing nine of the defenders, including Melvin Davidson, Jack Seipp and John Clarke, the Blackfoot Indian, famous for his wood carvings and his unerring marksmanship.

Meantime messengers had been sent in all directions, through the rioting city, calling for troops and police and in twenty minutes, with the arrival of strong reinforcements, the danger passed.

But those twenty minutes! Again and again the Germans came forward in furious assaults with rifles and machine guns. The Crown Prince must be rescued. At any cost he must be rescued.

No! The Crown Prince was not rescued. The defenders of the Hotel Blackstone had their way, a hundred and fifty against a thousand, but they paid the price. Before help came forty members of the Camp Fire Club and fifty of those brave deaf American students gave up their lives, as is recorded on a bronze tablet in the hotel corridor that bears witness to their heroism.

I must now make my last contribution to this chapter of our history, which has to do with motives that presently influenced the Crown Prince towards a startling decision. I came into possession of this knowledge as a consequence of the part I played in rescuing Thomas A. Edison after his abduction by the Germans.

One of the first questions Mr. Edison asked me as we escaped in a swift automobile from the burning and shell-wrecked Virginia capital, had a direct bearing on the ending of the war.

“Mr. Langston,” he asked, “did the Committee of Twenty-one receive my wireless about the airship expedition?”

“Yes, sir, they got it,” I replied, and then explained the line of reasoning that had led the Committee to, disregard Mr. Edison’s warning.

He listened, frowning.

“Huh! That sounds like Elihu Root.”

“It was,” I admitted.

For hours as we rushed along, my distinguished companion sat silent and I did not venture to break in upon his meditations, although there were questions that I longed to ask him. I wondered if it was Widding’s sudden death in the Richmond prison that had saddened him.

It was not until late that afternoon, when we were far back in the Blue Ridge Mountains, that Mr. Edison’s face cleared and he spoke with some freedom of his plans for helping the military situation.

“There’s one thing that troubles me,” he reflected as we finished an excellent meal at the Allegheny Hotel in Staunton, Virginia. “I wonder if--let’s see! You have met the Crown Prince, you interviewed him, didn’t you?”

“Twice,” said I.

“Is he intelligent--_really _intelligent? A big open-minded man or--is he only a prince?”

“He’s more than a prince,” I said, “he’s brilliant, but--I don’t know how open-minded he is.”

Edison drummed nervously on the table.

“If we were only dealing with a Bismarck or a von Moltke! Anyhow, unless he’s absolutely narrow and obstinate--”

“Oh, no.”

“Good! Where are the Committee of Twenty-one? In Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“And the Crown Prince too?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there to-morrow and--listen! We can destroy the German fleet. Widding’s invention will do it. Poor Widding! It broke his heart to see America conquered when he knew that he could save the nation if somebody would only listen to him. But nobody would.” Edison’s deep eyes burned with anger. “Thank God, I listened.”

It seemed like presumption to question Mr. Edison’s statement, yet I ventured to remind him that several distinguished scientists had declared that the airship _America_ could not fail to destroy the German fleet.

“Pooh!” he answered. “I said the _America_ expedition would fail. The radio-control of torpedoes is uncertain at the best because of difficulties in following the guide lights. They may be miles away, shut off by fog or waves; but this thing of Widding’s is sure.”

“Has it been tried?”

“Heavens! No! If it had been tried the whole world would be using it. After we destroy the German fleet the whole world will use it.”

“Is it some new principle? Some unknown agency?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing new about it. It’s just a sure way to make an ordinary Whitehead torpedo hit a battleship.”

Although I was consumed with curiosity I did not press for details at this time and my companion presently relapsed into one of his long silences.

We reached Chicago the next afternoon and, as the great inventor left me to lay his plans before the Committee of Twenty-one, he thanked me earnestly for what I had done and asked if he could serve me in any way.

“I suppose you know what I would like?” I laughed.

He smiled encouragingly.

“Still game? Well, Mr. Langston, if the Committee approves my plan, and I think they will, you can get ready for another big experience. Take a comfortable room at the University Club and wait.”