Haymarket (45 page)

The children clamored noisily up the iron flight of stairs, shouting “Papa! Papa!” at the top of their lungs before they’d even reached the entry to the cellblock. Hearing their cries, Albert jumped to his feet with such exuberance that he nearly overturned the small table at which he’d been writing, deeply engrossed, just a moment before.

Rushing to the front of his cell to glimpse the children at the earliest possible moment, he caught the eye of the guard standing nearby. “Don’t worry, Mr. Parsons,” the guard said, smiling, “I’ll let them in the cell, your wife, too. Just don’t snitch on me to the sheriff, or you’ll soon enough be gettin’ a less kindly type watchin’ over you!” Albert thanked him fervently and turned back to find Lulu and Albert Jr. racing down the corridor toward him, Lucy following behind.

It had been many, many months. Once inside his cell, the children scampered all over him, Lulu climbing up to his shoulders, Albert Jr. hugging him around the waist, then smothering his face with kisses. With Lulu perched on his neck, Parsons pretended to gallop around the tiny cell as she squealed with delight and as Albert Jr. brought up the rear whooping at the top of his lungs.

Shouts and greetings filled the cellblock as the other prisoners became aware of the children’s arrival. Fischer, in the cell next to Albert’s, called over in a ponderously cheery voice, “Don’t hurt your papa now, we must save him for the State!” He’d meant to make a joke, but jokes were not Fischer’s forte and the children, as if understanding the literal import of his words, did quickly quiet down. Lucy had brought some toys with her and scattered them over the cell floor for them to play with so she could talk to Albert.

“Remember what Aunt Lizzie said, Lulu,” she called over. “If you run around too much, you’ll shake out the medicine.”

“What’s wrong?” Albert asked in alarm.

Lucy tried to make light of it, though she was deeply worried at the frequency of Lulu’s fevers. “Oh, she’s had a little bout of sickness again, that’s all.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“You know doctors are useless for this sort of thing,” she said vaguely. Then, seeing Albert’s stricken look, she hastily added, “She’s been to half a dozen doctors. They all say the same thing: it’s nothing serious, just a bit of catarrh that she’ll soon outgrow. Lizzie’s been dosing her with Drake’s Plantation Bitters, which seem to help.”

Lucy abruptly took a small newspaper from her purse and handed it to Albert. “Now feast your eyes on
this!
” she said triumphantly. When he unfolded the paper and grasped what it was, his face lit up. The heading read: “
THE ALARM
. NOVEMBER 5, 1887
.”

“You’ve done it!” Albert cried. “You’ve brought it back to life! But how—how did you ever manage it?!”

“
I
didn’t do anything,” Lucy said. “All the credit goes to Dyer Lum. Remember him? We all met at the Greenback-Labor convention in 1880, and we occasionally published an article by him in the
Alarm
. He’s now a staunch
IWPA
man.”

“Remember him? Why, Dyer Lum visits the jail constantly, mostly to see Lingg. Haven’t the two of you ever run into each other here?”

“No, I had no idea …” Lucy was surprised. “All I knew was that he’d sold his bookbindery in New York and moved to Chicago after he heard about the Haymarket bombing.”

“How did Lum ever manage it? I didn’t think anyone could resurrect the
Alarm.”

“He’s been at it for a year, trying to raise the money. He put in all his own savings, $1,500.”

“And none of you told me what he was up to?”

“We were so afraid he wouldn’t be able to carry it off … Oh, and by the way, can you guess who Lum has chosen as his assistant editor?”

“You.”

“Almost as good—Lizzie!”

“Oh Lucy,” Albert said softly, his voice breaking, “maybe it hasn’t all been in vain …”

“In
vain?
!” Lucy’s exhaustion dropped from her like a veil. “Don’t ever think that, not ever. Albert, Albert, it’s been far, far from in vain!”

The children, startled at their mother’s vehemence, dropped their toys and climbed back into Albert’s lap.

“All right, all right,” he said to Lucy, smiling gently, “I’ll believe you … or try to …”

With only days left before the scheduled executions, rallies and marches proliferated across the country and around the world. The protest meetings drew huge crowds; resolutions were passed ranging from fierce denunciations of “judicial bloodletting” to prayerful calls for impartial justice. And from London came a telegram to Oglesby petitioning for commutation that was signed by, among others, Oscar Wilde, Edward Carpenter, William Rossetti, George Bernard Shaw, Friedrich Engels, Olive Schreiner, and William Morris.

Terence Powderly continued to insist that the Knights avoid all taint of association with those who “abetted violence,” and the local assemblies of the Order remained bitterly divided over the question of clemency. Yet the more conservative Samuel Gompers joined hands with a number of other prominent labor leaders in calling the pending executions “a disgrace to the honor of our nation,” and in begging the governor to commute the sentences to life imprisonment. Gompers wrote Oglesby that his own organization, the American Federation of Labor, and the anarchists “were fighting for labor upon different sides of the house,” that he believed the Chicago police were themselves accountable “in some measure” for the violence at Haymarket, and that in any case the execution of the anarchists
would make them martyrs and give impetus to “this so-called revolutionary movement.” If this country could grant amnesty to Jefferson Davis, Gompers wrote, “it ought to be great and magnanimous enough to grant clemency to these men.”

Everyone was aware that even if the public outcry should succeed in personally moving the governor in the direction of clemency, state law would prevent him from acting unless the prisoners submitted a formal appeal requesting mercy and making some acknowledgment of regret, however hedged, for past “mistakes.”

The problem came in trying to persuade the condemned men to send such letters of appeal to the governor. Lingg, Engels, Fischer, and Parsons refused outright. Insisting that they were innocent of all charges, they held out for unconditional release. “If I cannot obtain justice from the authorities,” Fischer wrote Oglesby, “and be restored to my family, then I prefer that the verdict be carried out as it stands.” Fischer and Engel’s wives begged them to reconsider, but everyone knew it was futile: they’d never agree that staying alive was more important than adhering to principle.

As for Albert, many, including Captain Black, believed that he would ultimately yield to entreaty and bring himself to cooperate with those attempting to save his life.

Schwab and Fielden, from the beginning, were amenable to submitting a formal appeal to Oglesby, though they insisted that the wording be carefully crafted; they had no intention of admitting to thoughts they had never entertained or acts they had never committed. Spies, to the surprise of many, finally gave way to Nina’s pleas, and to his own intense desire to stay alive, and said that he would be willing to at least discuss signing a joint letter with Schwab and Fielden.

Speed was of the essence. Working around the clock and adjusting every word for maximum nuance, a letter was finally constructed that won the approval of Fielden, Schwab and, more reluctantly, Spies. The brief, two paragraph letter began with a firm declaration by the three: “We never advocated the use of force, excepting in the case of self-defense,” and moved on to assert, “We have never supported, or plotted to commit, an unlawful act.” That said, the required obeisance followed: “If, in the excitement of propagating our views, we were led into expressions which caused workingmen to think that aggressive force was a proper instrument of reform, we regret it. We deplore the loss of life at the Haymarket
and”—this was added at the insistence of Spies—“at McCormick’s factory as well.” “I think I am making a mistake,” Spies said, as he took up his pen to sign the letter.

Over the next two days, Fielden and Schwab sent second, supplementary letters to the governor, in which they ate just a bit more crow than Spies had proven willing to. Fielden admitted to having now and then been so “intoxicated with the applause of my hearers” that he had sometimes given speeches that were “irresponsible,” that could have been taken as recommending a resort to violence. “But,” he added—for Fielden was far from craven—“it is not true that I ever consciously attempted to incite any man to the commission of crime … I was not engaged in any conspiracy to manufacture or throw bombs and I had not the slightest idea that the meeting at the Haymarket would be other than a peaceable and orderly one.”

Schwab’s second letter, a mere three sentences long, made essentially the same points: “Many utterances of mine were expressions made under intense excitement, often without any deliberation, and were injudicious. These I regret, believing that they must have had a tendency to incite to unnecessary violence oftentimes. I protest again that I had no thought or purpose of violence in connection with the Haymarket meeting, which I did not even attend.”

Captain Black could hear Lucy’s hissing voice from the end of the corridor, and as he got closer to Albert’s cell a few of her words became distinct: “… a coward, he’s a coward! … Radicals in Germany are denouncing him as a traitor …”

As Black approached, he could pick up Albert’s hushed protest: “Be quiet, for heaven’s sake—Spies will hear you!”

“I don’t care if he does,” Lucy said, lowering her voice nonetheless.

“You’re being much too harsh … Spies was under intense pressure … you cannot judge another man’s—”

By this point Captain Black was standing directly opposite the cell, and Albert abruptly left off. All three made vague efforts at apology, though no one was sure for what. To end the general embarrassment, Black quickly asked if he might have a few words alone with Albert. He knew Lucy would be offended—which the suspicious look in her eye confirmed—but he’d heard just enough in coming down the corridor to
realize that he stood his best chance with Albert if they conferred alone. Lucy covered over for all concerned by claiming that in any case she’d been on her way out.

When the two men were alone, Black began by telling Albert that his refusal to sign any petition for executive clemency was being widely construed as obstinacy, folly, or some combination thereof, bespeaking a character so self-righteously intransigent that he had only himself to blame if he ended on the scaffold.

“And exactly who is saying these horrid things?” Albert asked, still buoyant from Lucy’s visit.

“Among others, several of your codefendants.”

“Meaning, I presume, Schwab and Fielden. Though not, I’m fairly certain, Spies. Mind you, Schwab and Fielden are speaking out of their love for me, their wish to ‘save me from myself,’ as they might put it, not out of a need to defend their own willingness to petition the governor. I know these men well. They have bowed to the entreaties of their families and appealed for clemency, but have done so, I can assure you, with a heavy heart.”

“Why do you exempt Spies?”

“Because Spies is about to rescind his appeal to Oglesby, and himself become one of the ‘obstinate intransigents,’ making it unlikely he’d simultaneously deplore their ‘folly.’ ” From the moment Spies signed the appeal, he’s been in anguish about it. He’s talked to me at length and has concluded that he made the wrong decision.”

“I have a copy of Spies’s latest letter to the governor. Have you seen it?”

“I know the gist of what he’s been planning to say; we’ve gone over several drafts together, but no, I haven’t seen the final version.”

They spoke in a whisper, to avoid being overheard. Captain Black handed Albert his copy of Spies’s letter and sat back. It was only two pages long, and Albert, thinking he was already familiar with its sentiments, started to skim the letter when an unfamiliar paragraph brought him up short. He looked up at Black in astonishment.
“This
section I haven’t seen!” He held up the letter and read softly from it: “ ‘If a sacrifice of life must be, will not my life suffice? I offer it to you that you may satisfy the fury of a semi-barbaric mob and save that of my comrades. If legal murder there must be, let one, let mine, suffice.’ ”

Albert let the letter fall into his lap. “There’s the measure of the man,” he said quietly. “Who will dare call Spies a coward now?”

“There’s no chance, of course,” Captain Black said gravely, “that Oglesby will accept the offer. Which does raise some question as to why he made it. To repair his reputation among his comrades, of course, and to remove all doubt of his devotion to principle. But I suspect there may be another reason, one of which Spies himself may not be fully aware.”

Albert looked puzzled, and Captain Black quickly went on, “In my opinion, Spies doesn’t believe that any of you, ultimately, will go to the scaffold. He’s an idealist at heart. How does he put it at the end of his letter to Oglesby?—something about ‘men whose only crime is that they long for a better future for all.’ It surely follows, in Spies’s logic, that the State would never be callous enough to put such men to death. Spies is convinced there will be a last-minute reprieve. He doesn’t understand that the State isn’t fond of idealists.”