Haymarket (29 page)

Instead of then going home to rest, Albert decided to stop off at the
Alarm
and catch up on recent events. He ended up spending the entire day. Spies came by to welcome him back and sat for several hours filling him in on developments.

“A lot has happened,” Spies said, “almost all of it bad. And the worst of it at the McCormick plant.”

“Again?”

“Much worse than the skirmishes of the past few months. If only Cyrus McCormick Sr. was still alive. Things were better back then.”

“That’s because he was born poor. And smart enough to walk the plant floor and talk to his workers.”

“Unlike his benighted son,” Spies added. “They don’t come more arrogant and misguided than Cyrus Jr. Bringing in those non-union scabs and hiring three hundred armed Pinkertons to guard them—idiotic provocation. No wonder the men now call the place Fort McCormick. And the machinations of Bonfield aren’t helping.”

“Is he up to some new tricks?”

“Well, you know how much Bonfield wants Ebersold’s job and has been trying to discredit him as pro-union.”

“That much I know, yes.”

“Ebersold has caught wind of it and to burnish his image as the Protector of Property has stationed three hundred and fifty Chicago policemen, nearly a third of the force, at the McCormick works.”

“When I left for Cincinnati,” Albert said, “there were only a few hundred scabs still on the job, despite police protection.”

“True, but yesterday,” Spies said, “was the worst confrontation yet at the plant. I was out that way and saw some of it myself. I went to give an open-air talk to a large group of workers gathered at Black Road, a few blocks from the McCormick works. I was speaking to them from the top of a boxcar, and wasn’t having much success. I was dead tired—I’ve been giving two or three speeches a day for weeks, plus the newspaper.”

“What?” Albert asked good-humoredly, “August Spies’s famously fiery oratory failed for once?”

“I was more like a burnt-out cinder,” Spies laughed. “As soon as the three o’clock whistle blew at the McCormick plant, my audience had an excuse for leaving, and hundreds rushed off to heckle the scabs between shifts. I tried to get them to hear me out, but the crowd continued to dwindle. Then, suddenly, a number of patrol wagons raced by us, heading toward the plant, and before long we heard distinct sounds of a struggle. At that point, the remnant of my audience took off for McCormick’s.”

“Did you say anything to incite them?” Albert asked, knowing that Spies could get carried away.

“Albert, I was so down-in-the-mouth, I couldn’t have incited Louis Lingg! I simply urged them to stick together and not retreat in the face of McCormick’s threats. You’re as bad as the reporter from the
Chicago Herald.”

“What’s that mean?” Albert asked.

Spies handed Albert the morning edition of the
Herald
. “He quotes me as telling the crowd to ‘strike while the iron is hot—arm yourselves and forcibly drive the scabs out of the McCormick yards!’ ”

Parsons broke into a smile. “Maybe he was exhausted too, got you confused with Lingg, or Engels or Fischer?”

“None of whom were there.”

“Just listen to this.” Spies picked up the
Herald
. “ ‘By the time the McCormick bell tolled at three o’clock, the fiery Spies had worked the crowd up to such a pitch that they filled the air with bloodcurdling cries of “Kill the scabs!” and in a fever of excitement rushed towards the plant, sweeping across the vacant lots in disciplined phalanxes.’ ”

Parsons burst out laughing. “That would mark the first time in history that a frenzied mob managed to maintain a disciplined phalanx. What
did
happen?”

“What—you don’t believe our free, democratic press? For shame! Well,
it’s simple: deserted by my audience, I decided to follow and see for myself what was going on at the plant.” Spies turned somber. “It was a sight, I can tell you. A horrible sight. Something I’ll never forget.”

“The strikers didn’t attack the scabs, did they?” Albert sounded seriously worried.

“They did bombard them with stones when the shift let out, driving them back into the factory. Nobody was hurt.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“But the stoning gave the police an excuse to call for reinforcements. The new detail arrived within minutes and some of the strikers surrounded the patrol wagon. The captain got out and started lashing at them with a whip. Then he—”

“A
whip?
” Parsons almost gagged on the word. “Where in God’s name does he think he is, in the Deep South?”

“It gets worse. He ordered his men to wield their clubs freely and to fire their revolvers directly into the crowd. And fire they did, round after round, even though the crowd rushed to disperse. No one has reliable casualty figures. Some reports have six workers dead, with others close to death.”

Spies gestured contemptuously toward the copy of the
Herald
lying on the table. “The press, of course, insists that the police gave warning—‘Disperse or we’ll fire.’ The
Herald
even dares to claim that initially the police shot above the strikers’ heads and resorted to direct fire only after the strikers attacked them. The reporter doesn’t bother to explain why no police officer was wounded, let alone killed.”

Parsons was on his feet, agitatedly pacing the room. “Then what happened, what happened? This is an unspeakable outrage!”

“I must’ve been in a state of shock. I raced back to the
Arbeiter
office and drafted a circular, both in English and German.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“Right here.” Spies pulled the folded circular from his pocket.
“This
can justifiably be called fiery.”

Parsons took it from his hand and quickly scanned it. “No, no, it’s just right,” he said, having read it at a glance. “It’s grand.” He patted Spies on the back. “The language is strong, but necessary.”

“And that last line?” Spies asked apprehensively.

Albert hesitated a beat. “It can be misread—‘To arms we call you, to
arms!’—but then, our masters deliberately misread everything we say or write anyway.”

“You do have some doubts about the line, don’t you? I can tell from your tone.”

“I know how you meant it—as a summons to preparedness. Our enemies, of course, will insist that it’s an overt call to violence.”

“The German version,” Spies said sheepishly, “is stronger still. I don’t think you’ll approve. But then, I’m not sure I approve, now that my rage has subsided. Especially one part.” He paused, doubtful whether to continue.

Parsons pressed him. “What part? Did you invoke Johann Most and advocate dynamite?” he asked kiddingly. Albert didn’t dream that the answer might be yes.

Spies looked away in embarrassment. “I didn’t specify the means. But I did advocate ‘annihilating’—alas, I’m now quoting verbatim—‘the beasts in human form who call themselves rulers!’ What can I say? I was nearly out of my mind with anguish. To make matters worse, one of our compositors, a friend of Fischer’s, took it upon himself to insert the word
revenge
in bold letters at the top of the circular.”

Parsons sucked in his breath with apprehension, then tried to cover over his unease. He knew that Spies, for all his occasional pridefulness, was as tender-hearted a man as ever lived; he knew, too, that even the tenderest, pushed too far, can become maddened. “Well, wait’ll Lucy reads your words. She’ll knight you on the spot!”

The attempt at humor failed.

“You’re disappointed in me, I know.” Spies said quietly. “I’ve let you down. I’ve let a lot of people down.”

“None of us was there,” Parsons said firmly. “None of us saw young men with their faces blown off for daring to go on strike for a few cents more a week. I wouldn’t think of judging you. And anyone who does, refuses to see that violence of language is not violence of deed.” He put his arms around Spies and hugged him tightly.

“Thank you for that, dear friend. I’ll not forget your kindness.”

“I’m being truthful, not kind,” Albert said.

“Saying that is part of your kindness.” For a moment there was an awkward pause, then Spies said, “I can at least say in my own defense that I didn’t go as far as the North-West Side Group.”

Albert froze, deeply alarmed.

“A small group of Most’s followers, plus some members of the armed auxiliaries, met last night at Greif’s Hall to figure out how to respond to future police attacks. Both Engel and Fischer were there. From what I’ve heard, Engel presented some sort of general contingency plan—the accounts I’ve had vary—for a coordinated reaction to police aggression. They left the specifics for some future meeting. What dominated the discussion, I’m told, was the outrage at McCormick’s. In the upshot, it was decided to call a mass protest gathering for this evening in Haymarket Square. Fischer was chosen to oversee the printing of a handbill announcing the meeting and …” Spies paused ominously. “… and … and Fischer—unauthorized, mind you—inserted into the flyer, in bold print, “
WORKINGMEN ARM YOURSELVES AND APPEAR IN FULL FORCE
!”

“Fischer’s a compositor at the
Arbeiter
, isn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“So didn’t he have to show you the flyer before printing it?”

“He came to me this morning and asked if I’d let the handbill run in today’s edition. When I saw it, I flared up and denounced it as ridiculous.” Spies caught Albert’s puzzled expression.

“Yes, I know, I’d expressed very nearly the same sentiments in my own circular of the day before. But overnight, I’d come to my senses. Which may be why I got so angry at Fischer—why hadn’t
he
come to his senses? Plus, I was furious at my own earlier stupidity. I told Fischer that unless he removed the offending line, I’d neither run the handbill in the
Arbeiter
nor speak at the Haymarket meeting, as he’d asked. He agreed, but I sensed his resistance. Then I learned, to my horror, that some copies—with the offending line included—had already been printed. I immediately ordered them destroyed, only to discover a few hours ago that several bundles of the original handbills, probably a few hundred in all, had been distributed in various working-class bars.”

Spies was so upset his eyes misted over. “Let’s hope they fell into the hands of our more peaceful-minded brethren.”

Parsons tried to quell his own alarm, in the name of comforting his friend. “You’re needlessly worried, Spies, I’m sure of it. Try to remember, after all, that most workers abhor the idea of violent protest and have vigorously rejected the views of Most and his kind. The meeting at Haymarket
tonight will, I feel sure, be entirely peaceable.”

“I’m counting on you to be there,” Spies said, his voice still heavy with apprehension. “We’re expecting upwards of twenty thousand people, and tensions have been running high in the city all day. People are saying that the class war is finally at hand.”

“A one-sided class war has been going on for some time,” Albert added dryly.

“And no one longs to precipitate it more than Black Jack Bonfield,” Spies said, “as sadistic a brute as ever lived. With the defenders of law and order themselves lusting for violence, the workers become mere cats’-paws. Though some are ready enough to scratch back. And I count myself among them.”

“You’ve always advocated self-defense. Is that what you mean?”

“I mean”—Spies’s voice unexpectedly went up a notch—“that despite all the remorse I’ve just been claiming, I found myself not two hours ago writing an editorial for the
Arbeiter
that was as inflammatory as my circular of yesterday. I’m veering back and forth like a drunken sailor.”

“Let me see it,” Parsons said with trepidation.

“I know it by heart: ‘There must never again be a slaughter of workers like the one that took place at the McCormick plant.’ Next time, ‘we must fight back with
weapons
, not stones!’ ”

“That’s strong language,” Albert said quietly, “but the sentiment’s not new.”

“What worries me is that the language is
so
strong, it can be construed as the same as, or uncomfortably close to, a call for violence.”

“Words are not acts. Yelling at a man is not the same as shooting him.”

“How much more
can
we take?” Spies unexpectedly burst out, possibly in relief at Parsons’s consoling attitude. “Should we simply lie down and be slaughtered?”

“You’ve been through too much these past few days.” Parsons had never seen his friend this mercurial and decided to tread lightly.

“I don’t recognize myself,” Spies said, as if he’d read Albert’s mind. “I’ve never felt so erratic, unstable really. I think my nerves must be shattered. Though these days, being overwrought seems the norm. You’re one of the few, Albert, who seems able to maintain his balance in all circumstances.”

“Lucy might tell you otherwise. I think you have a need, my friend, to
see me as better than I am. And do you know what? I suddenly realize that I don’t like it. You’re denying me the right to become passionate and upset, just like everyone else.” Parsons was startled by his own words, but Spies had hardly heard him. His mind had shifted back to the meeting planned that night in Haymarket Square.

“You
must
be one of the speakers,” he said to Albert. It came out as a command, not a request. “You and only you can draw the needed distinctions, can rechannel all this turbulence into calmer waters.”

“What distinctions?” Spies’s renewed vehemence puzzled Albert.

“The ones I’ve just been drawing, for heaven’s sake!” Spies sounded downright snappish. The Spies Albert knew had always been among the most judicious and well grounded of men.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Parsons said. “Now you’re getting
me
rattled—though you think I never am. You’ve told me so much in the last few hours, I can’t keep it all straight.”

Spies slumped into a chair, shaking his head with remorse.

“No, my dear Parsons, I’m the one who is sorry. Desperately sorry. To have raised my voice at you, the most decent man I know, is unforgivable.”

Albert sighed deeply. “Perhaps we should start all over.”