Haymarket (10 page)

“Besides,” Lucy abruptly declared, “the Knights already have the answer.”

Albert nearly jumped in disbelief. “Lucy, you’re teasing again!”

“I most certainly am not,” she replied.

“Not long ago you were denouncing the Knights.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind. Been readin’ their stuff and goin’ to their meetings. And what I’ve learned is that they’re the only organization open to all workers. And that’s the only approach that can save us. I got no trouble at all pledging allegiance to that,” she said, staring boldly at Spies.

Albert was dumbfounded, but pleased. “Well, my dear,” he said with some amusement, “I suppose you might have first told me all this in private, but I can understand why the announcement of your major conversions requires a larger audience than your dull old husband.”

Lucy ignored his affectionate gibe. “And the Knights are trying to live up to their principles. A woman’s just been elected to a leadership position in a Philadelphia local, and an assembly of negro coal miners is forming out in Iowa. I’m even beginnin’ to see more colored folks at meetings right here in Chicago.”

Fielden looked up with sharp interest at Lucy’s mention of negroes. He decided he
would
attempt a private word with her at some later time.

“No other group,” Lucy went on, “is even trying to overcome the old prejudices.”

“No other group wants to,” Albert said.

“I believe you could end up playing a leadership role yourself, Lucy,” Spies said. “You’ve got the fire for it.”

“Yes, I think that might be right. Couldn’t do worse than you menfolk, that’s for sure! And Albert’s going to make a fine mother—he’s the kindest person I know.”

They all laughed, Spies a little skittishly, not sure if he actually approved of Lucy or was simply trying to appease her. Albert gave Spies a reassuring
smile, as if to confirm that it was perfectly safe to play with the tiger cub.

“Well, in my opinion,” Fielden declared, “the Knights aren’t radical enough. They don’t want to destroy the monopolies, they want the government to regulate them in the name of fair competition—whatever that is. If the Knights have their way, all that will happen is that private property will be safeguarded. I want it abolished.”

Fielden stopped as abruptly as he’d started, and a respectful silence followed.

“Eloquently put, Mr. Fielden,” Lucy finally said. “You speak with great force.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Fielden blushed deeply, a shy youngster peeking out from his powerful frame.

Another lull followed.

“Well,” Albert finally said, “I hope we can keep talking like this. It … it … well, for me, it’s been—just grand.” He felt utterly foolish, like a Texas clodhopper. No one else seemed to notice, which surprised him.

“Let’s not keep talking
tonight,”
Lizzie said, laughing. “I’ve got to be up at five.” She moved her chair back from the table and started to rise. The others followed suit, though Spies seemed reluctant to leave. As the group headed out of the garden, he took Parsons aside and the two strolled together toward the park gate. Spies was quick to reopen the question of the Verein.

“Am I correct that you don’t speak German?” he asked.

“That’s right, I don’t. But I’d better start learning, given how active the German community has become.”

“ ‘You understood, I hope,” Spies said, lowering his voice, “that the Lehr-und-Wehr Verein I spoke of back there is still a small organization, founded only a year ago.”

“Are you a member?” Parsons asked.

“I attend meetings and I’m attracted by what I see and hear,” Spies answered. “The emphasis is on education—the Social Question—though the Verein is also a militia.”

“Do you drill with actual weapons?”

“Yes, when we can afford them. We’re trying to raise money to buy more, and uniforms as well. Some of the socialist clubs have made donations.”

“Frankly, I think any use of violence will backfire.” Albert was feeling confident again, no longer the stammering yokel talking to his intellectual superior. “I’ve read enough to agree with the author who called violence ‘a form of revolutionary romanticism.’ A destructive form. And as for socialism … well, I believe in less government, not more.”

“The Verein doesn’t sanction violence, either!” Spies said vehemently. “Our weapons are for self-defense
only
.” He took firm hold of Parsons’s elbow. “Surely you’ve seen the willingness of the Chicago police to use force in breaking up protest meetings that were entirely peaceful.”

“I have, yes. Several times.”

“Besides,” Spies continued, “the Constitution itself sanctions the militia system, the right of the people to bear arms.”

“But Spies,” Albert said solemnly, “if the Verein grows in strength, you must realize that the authorities won’t stand idly by.”

“A strong-armed militia patrolling workers’ meetings, leading their protests and parades, will give the police pause. Our goal is to prevent violence by demonstrating that we have the strength to resist it.”

“It’s more likely, I think, that armed workers will frighten the moneyed class so much that the government will intervene. You’ll bring about a violent confrontation, not prevent one.”

“Possibly. But tell me, Parsons,” Spies sounded cooler, more aloof, “Do you have another suggestion for stopping the police from interfering with our right to assemble and to speak our minds?”

“Well,” Parsons offered hesitantly, “maybe electing our own people, so they can pass laws to end such abuses?”

“Ah, my friend! Where are the numbers for winning elections?” The hint of condescension was unmistakable. “The workers in this country are divided and disinterested. Besides, even if we could gather the needed votes for success at the ballot-box, the authorities would find a way to disallow the results—a benign way, hopefully, through some legal technicality. But I wouldn’t
count
on it being benign.”

“I think you’re too cynical,” Parsons said quietly. Spies jerked his head with impatience, but kept silent.

Albert decided to be bold. “I must say, Spies, you seem much more deeply engaged in questions of the day than one would have guessed from your conversation back in the beer garden. There, you sounded like a somewhat skittish bookworm—and managed to get my wife
rather upset at you in the process.”

“Lucy’s quite remarkable,” Spies chuckled. “She has a keen scent, picks up on the most delicate clues—especially the unintended ones. I don’t believe she took to me at all. Thinks I’m snotty and highfalutin’. I give that impression sometimes, which is regrettable. People think me arrogant. But I’m not. As you’ll come to see when you get to know me better.”

“Which I look forward to.”

“I have the strong sense that we’re going to end up great friends. And allies.”

“I feel it, too,” Albert said.

The two men embraced, then walked silently side by side for a few moments.

“I do try my best, in public, to be prudent,” Spies suddenly remarked. “And that isn’t entirely a pose. I feel I have much to learn before solidifying my commitments. After all,” he said, smiling enigmatically, “unlike you, I haven’t even joined the Knights of Labor.”

“Even? To me, it’s the most advanced group around.”

“Well as to that, time will tell, eh?” He looked as if he was tempted to say more.

They had reached the gate, and looking back saw Lucy, Lizzie, and Fielden approaching.

“Let’s talk more about all this,” Parsons said.

“Yes, we must,” Spies said earnestly. “And soon, I hope.”

The conversation between Lucy, Lizzie and Fielden had been no less intense. It began with Lizzie asking about his early life in Lancashire.

“We were a family of hand-loom weavers,” he said. “I went to work in a cotton mill at age eight. It was a place of torture. Ten hours a day stripping full spools from the spinning jennies and then replacing them with empty spools. I tell you, exhausted children is a pitiful sight. I often had tears streaming down my cheeks, hands bruised and skinned from the revolving spools, rushing from machine to machine to meet our allotted quotas and avoid beatings.”

“How awful,” Lizzie said.

“I was one of the lucky ones. At ten, I was already a strong lad, so I got shifted from the spinning machines to carrying the heavy spools from the carding room to the jennies. Eight years ago, at twenty-two, I finally
quit the mill and came to America.”

He went on to tell them how important it had been to his education to hear “several colored lecturers” speak, on different occasions, about slavery in the United States. “One of those gentlemen was named Henry Box Brown. Do you know of him, Lucy—er, Mrs. Parsons?”

“You’ve been calling me Lucy all evening, Mr. Fielden. Why stop now?”

Taken aback, Fielden began to stutter an apology. But Lucy cut him short.

“I’m not one for formalities,” she said, sounding decidedly formal. “Isn’t that right, Lizzie?”

“Sounds right to me,” Lizzie responded, puzzled at the undercurrent of anger.

“Yes, I’ve heard of Henry Box Brown,” Lucy said. “Who hasn’t?”

“I haven’t,” Lizzie said innocently.

“He had himself shipped to freedom,” Fielden explained, then paused, uncertain whether to leave the topic entirely.

Lucy continued the story herself. “Henry Brown was a slave in Virginia, Lizzie. He had himself boxed into a container with holes bored in the top for air, and with provisions of food and water. He was shipped via Adams Express to abolitionist headquarters in Philadelphia, where he arrived safely twenty-six hours later.”

“Goodness!” Lizzie said. “What a brave man.”

“His lectures had a great effect on my mind,” Fielden said. “They awoke me to the horrors of slavery. I read a great deal about it … Harriet Martineau … Fanny Kemble … 
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
. During the American Civil War, you know, the people of Lancashire suffered grievously for lack of cotton, but we remained staunch supporters of the North.”

“As indeed you should have,” Lucy said, her voice only a shade warmer.

“When I came to this country in ’68,” Fielden continued, “I had to work for a time in the South, and I discovered that in many instances the so-called freedman was as much a bond slave as ever. Sambo had confidently looked forward to the government giving him forty acres and a mule, but instead—”

“Sambo?” Lucy bristled.
“Sambo
is a Southern term, a mocking term, Mr. Fielden—or should I say Sam, now that we’re all on such familiar
terms. Sambo. Sam. How curiously close the two names are.”

Fielden felt as if he’d been knocked to the ground. “I … I had no idea that … that your people took offense at the term … at the word … Sambo,” he offered haltingly.

“My people? Oh, I see … yes, now I see!”

So did Lizzie, who let out a small groan.

Fielden, however, remained mystified. Where he had meant to express sympathy, he had somehow managed to give offense.

“This isn’t a subject I discuss, Sam. Ever. But since it seems possible we might be working together in some fashion politically, I’ll make an exception. This once. After I’ve finished, I don’t intend to return to this topic again.” Lucy was breathing fire. Lizzie took hold of her friend’s hand in an effort to calm her, but Lucy sharply withdrew it.

“Yes, of course, Lucy … whatever you say. I’m so very sorry … I had only meant to express my deep concern for the plight of—”

Lucy interrupted him. “I recognize your concern. It does you honor. It’s a concern I share. The negro’s plight in this country is a tragic one, and we must all work to alleviate it. But though it will apparently come as a great surprise to you, Sam, I am not myself a negro. My looks do allow for that mistaken impression—I mean my dark complexion, the broad base of my nostrils, and so forth. But my ancestry is Spanish and Aztec. Not African. I’m a great admirer of the negro race. In my judgment negroes are a superior people, decent and kind, far superior to whites in ordinary relations. But I don’t happen to be one of them.”

Fielden looked utterly stricken. Lucy’s heart went out to him, despite herself, and as if to say as much, she let her arms, which had been tightly folded across her chest, drop to her sides.

“Doubtless my dark skin,” she said, her tone decidedly more conciliatory, “misled you. It does many people.”

“Oh yes, many people, Sam, I can assure you of that!” Lizzie was quite overwrought.

Lucy raised her eyebrows in surprise. She stared hard at Lizzie. “Many people?”

Having said more than she’d intended, Lizzie now busily backtracked. “Oh just neighbors, you know … a few of the neighbors.”

Lucy took in a deep breath. “I don’t want to know their names,” she said regally.

“There’s bound to be talk, you know that,” Lizzie said, intending comfort but falling far off the mark. “You and Albert have different skin color … it sets people to wondering, that’s all …”

“Yes, that is all. I suggest we consider this subject closed. Permanently closed. Why don’t we return to some lighter matter—like dynamiting police headquarters, say.”

Lucy’s humor was so unexpected that Lizzie burst out laughing. Fielden managed a weak, tentative smile. Within a minute or two he regained enough composure to beg Lucy’s forgiveness for his “stupidity,” and to express the hope that they might yet become good friends. Lucy said she was sure of it.

They had now reached the gate.

I have this day, May 3, 1877, decided to keep a daily journal, or as nearly so as I can manage. With my increased involvement in the new Workingman’s Party, Lucy says I have a responsibility to record what I see and hear. The lives of working people like us don’t often get written down; our stories and struggles don’t get passed on to the next generation, or into the textbooks. The monopolists control history to the same extent they do the economy. Since I aim to keep this record as honest as I can, I need to confess at the start that I also have my vanity; this diary will help to preserve my name for posterity. No man wants to leave without a trace.

I’m aware that the passion I’ve begun to feel about what’s going on in this city and country might color the truth of what I set down. Yet I believe my concern allows me to see a side to events that the disinterested might miss. Anyway, I vow to do my best to create an accurate chronicle of events. Alas, I’m not a writer. I don’t have the imagination for it. The best writers can invent whole stories. Perhaps it’s just as well I can’t.