Chapter 57

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.