Haymarket (9 page)

“Eight hundred marchers and twenty-nine floats—just imagine, folks!” the speaker thundered from the platform. “Two years ago a beer garden—a small beer garden—would’ve been enough to hold our numbers!
Today we’ve filled the lawn of the Colehour picnic grounds to capacity! We finally got us a Fourth of July picnic that does represent the spirit of independence!”

The crowd roared in delight. Albert and Lucy were standing near the front, his arm around her waist; he squeezed her so hard with excitement that she let out a little squeal, then playfully smacked him on the arm.

“The Knights,” the speaker went on, “cannot be stopped—not by the government, not by the police, not by the monopolists—until we reach our goal of a decent life for everyone!”

Albert leaned down and whispered in Lucy’s ear.
“Everyone
. Hear that?” Lucy swatted him again.

A tidal wave of enthusiasm swept through the crowd, the earsplitting roar of approval rolling on and on. Dozens of banners and placards—“
THE LAND FOR THE PEOPLE; UNITED WE STAND
”—waved through the air like low-flying flocks of birds. Fathers swung their children into the air. A drum corps beat out roll after roll. One of the two bands started playing “Hold the Fort, Ye Knights of Labor,” inspiring a top-of-the-lungs sing-along. The speaker kept raising his arms in a futile plea for quiet, but soon gave up. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he good-naturedly yelled out to the crowd, “On to the picnic, folks! Time to enjoy! … footraces! … crafts! … barbecue! … don’t forget dancing at the lake pavilion! … and the greased pigs! … beer enough to float Mayor Colvin out to sea! …” The notables descended from the platform.

Albert and Lucy had come to Colehour with Lizzie Swank, and as the crowd began to disperse in search of various amusements, the three of them started across the lawn.

“It’s too hot for dancing,” Lizzie said. “It’s bound to be the polka, and then more polka.”

“I say it’s time for beer and pretzels,” Albert offered.

Lucy agreed. “A glass of beer would save my life.”

As the three of them turned in the direction of the beer garden, Lizzie bumped into a man passing close to her on the left. “I’m so sorry,” she said, stepping back. Then her face lit up with pleasure—“Why for heaven’s sake—it’s Mr. Spies!”

“My dear Miss Swank, what an unexpected surprise!” The man’s English was impeccable, though unmistakably flecked with a German accent. In his early twenties and strikingly poised and handsome, he had
an athletic build and a face so classically sculpted that it might easily have appeared inert—were it not for a luxurious, thick moustache and deep-set azure eyes that sparkled with ironic humor. He was in the company of another man.

“This is August Spies,” Lizzie said, introducing him to Albert and Lucy. “He has a small upholstery store near the dress shop where I once worked. We used to stop now and then to chat.” They exchanged greetings, and Albert congratulated Spies on being self-employed.

“Only recently,” Spies said. “My mother and sisters have come over from Landeck and I must try to make more money to support them.”

“Aha!” Lucy said, smiling, “You’re a budding capitalist!”

“Alas,” Spies replied, “I earned more when working in someone else’s furniture store. But perhaps sales will pick up soon.”

Spies turned and introduced his companion, a large, brawny man, somewhat older than he, with thick eyebrows and a full black beard. “This is my friend Samuel Fielden, who works in the stoneyards.”

“There isn’t a street in Chicago,” the smiling Fielden said tipping his hat, “on which I haven’t dropped my sweat.” His powerful voice and physicality might have been intimidating were it not for his modest manner, the warmth in his eyes, and the neutralizing trace of an English accent.

“I should warn you,” Fielden said with a twinkle. “I’m saving my pennies to buy a team, to become a hauler of stone rather than a lifter. I suppose that makes me a potential capitalist, too.”

“Nonsense,” said Lucy. “That simply makes you a hard-working man—which disqualifies you from membership in the capitalist class.”

They laughed together with an easy sympathy that led Albert—who felt himself immediately and powerfully drawn to Spies—to impulsively suggest that the two men join them for beer and some food, and they readily accepted his invitation.

Lizzie wondered whether she shouldn’t stop off on the way to have a look at the pagoda housing handicrafts and needlework. That prompted Fielden to say that he, too, was tempted to join up with them later, since he wanted to have a go at the fifty-yard fat men’s race.

“You’re not fat, Mr. Fielden, you’re strong,” Lucy said in that definitive way of hers. “Why, it wouldn’t be fair to the other contestants.” Both Fielden and Lizzie were easily persuaded, given the heat, to relax first and take in the fairgrounds later.

The beer garden was set in a cool, shady grove of trees with a big banner stretched across its entryway: “
UNION THROUGHOUT: UNION CIGARS, UNION HELP, UNION MUSIC, UNION BEER
.”

“I know what union music is—loud and brassy,” Lucy joked as they seated themselves at one of the few vacant tables, “but what is union
beer
?”

“It’s beer,” Spies said solemnly, “brewed during a workday not longer than eight hours.”

“Which means beer that don’t exist,” Albert replied. “No one I know works an eight-hour day—except a lucky few in the craft unions.” He was surprised at his own earnestness and wondered if it was appropriate to sharing a light-hearted drink with brand-new acquaintances. But the newcomers picked right up on it.

“No employer has to make concessions now, not even to the craft unions,” Fielden boomed out. “There’s an army of unemployed men more than glad to work twelve-hour days for half the regular wage.”

“Wages fall, but prices don’t,” Lucy chimed in.

“Least of all the price of food,” Lizzie added. “Over half my wages go for food these days. Add in the rent, and I don’t have enough left over for a bolt of calico.”

“Not to mention the cost of a draught of beer,” Lucy said, lightening up the conversation. “That means one of you fine gentlemen will have to treat this poor”—she gestured toward Lizzie—“working girl.”

Spies and Fielden vied to outdo each other for the privilege, their voices overlapping with Lizzie’s indignant protest, “For heaven’s sake, Lucy, I’ve got my own nickel to spend.”

Lucy held up her hand for quiet. “Thank you, thank you,” she nodded to Spies and Fielden. “Lizzie
and
I accept your kind offer—Albert can pay for his own. And the second draught is on us!”

“Meanin’ on me,” Albert said, laughing.

“No such thing.” Lucy replied in a flash. “I make my own wages, I’ll thank you to remember, and am just as independent as you.”

“Oh my dear,” Albert said with a huge, concluding smile, “you’re far more so.”

Beer was at once ordered for all but Spies, who said he preferred Rhine wine. Fascinated by Spies’s educated tastes and speech, Albert was keen to know more about his background and started plying him with questions.

It turned out that Spies had emigrated from Germany just five years earlier, at age seventeen. “I had a happy childhood,” he said. “I played and studied. In my country children must go to school for eight years and during that time cannot, by law, be utilized by parents or employers for profit.”

“Whereas here I’d wager,” Albert said, “poor children attend school for two, three years—which is why I sometimes still feel like a country bumpkin. Like now.” He grinned ingratiatingly at Spies, who smiled back sympathetically but said nothing.

Lucy filled the silence. “Some children,” she said, “get no schooling. They’re slaves from birth, even now that slavery’s ended.” She was aware that Fielden was suddenly staring at her intently, and felt sure she knew why: he was wondering if this was a subject he could broach. Fielden hesitated a moment, then turned instead to Spies, who had started to describe his father’s work as administrator of a forest district, a career for which he, too, as a youngster, had been preparing.

“I even had private tutors now and then, and for a time studied at the Polytechnicum in Kassel.”

“You sound like a rich boy,” Lizzie said innocently.

“I certainly never saw the kind of poverty and suffering that I’ve seen since coming to this country,” Spies replied.

“Why didn’t you become an administrator?” Albert asked.

“Father died suddenly when I was seventeen and as the eldest of six, I didn’t feel justified in continuing my studies. And so I immigrated to the States, first to New York and then, the following year, here to Chicago. From forestry to furniture—that about sums up my journey thus far,” he said with a sardonic laugh.

“May I put a direct question to you?” Albert asked, a bit belatedly.

“Yes, of course. I’m all for bluntness.” There was a detectable edge to Spies’s voice. “But I think I’ve guessed your question and the answer is, No, I’m not married.”

Lucy let out a delighted hoot and said something about “being able to fix that soon enough.”

Albert looked a little offended. “That was not at all my question,” he said.

“Everybody asks the handsome Mr. Spies that,” Fielden affectionately explained. “Nobody ever asks
me
. But in case you had, I’d have told you
I have a wife and three children. And love ’em dearly.”

Lizzie gave Fielden’s arm an approving squeeze.

“I’m so sorry,” Spies said to Albert. “Do ask me what you wanted to.”

“I wanted to know your philosophy. Your politics. You needn’t answer, of course.”

“Oh do attempt some answer, Mr. Spies, or how will we ever get to know you?” Lizzie said, her eyes weighty with sincerity.

“I ask as a novice,” Albert added, “as someone just beginnin’ to feel his way politically.”

“But that’s how I feel.” Spies laughed.

“I think you’re being modest,” Lucy said. “You’re a learned man; anyone can see that.”

“Well, I’ve read many books; that’s true,” Spies replied, his tone dejected. “But they’ve filled my head with many more questions than answers. If I have a basic philosophy, I suppose it’s simply this: the object of life is to enjoy it. And to make sure that other people can as well.”

“But what about your politics?” Albert asked, his disappointment transparent. “You and Fielden seem to care about the plight of the poor, but—”

“—we
are
the poor,” Fielden interrupted, with an amused grin.

“Well then,” Albert went on, “what political means do you favor for improving your lot? There are so many competing organizations and ideologies.”

“Yes, and each wants single-minded allegiance,” Spies said. “But why give it? Why commit exclusively to the Knights of Labor, say, or the International, or the Lehr-und-Wehr Verein, or any of a dozen others, when all are doing valuable work? I simply don’t understand the need to—”

“—excuse me for interrupting,” Lizzie said, “but what’s that last group? I’ve never heard of it. What did you call it?”

“The Lehr-und-Wehr Verein?”

“Yes, that’s the one. What does it stand for, what does it do?”

“There’s no reason you should know it. My apologies. The first Verein is only now getting organized.” Spies went on to explain that the German words roughly translated into “education and defense society.”

“They’re modeled,” he said, “on the Turnverein, a gymnastic association popular in Germany.”

“What’s the ‘defense’ part all about?” Albert asked.

“The members drill,” Spies said matter-of-factly, “to provide guards for meetings and parades. And to prepare for self-defense.”

“Against what?” Lucy asked, full of interest.

“Against any threat to the safety of working people.” Spies’s unambiguous reply took them by surprise, contrasting as it did with the elusive sophistication of his earlier conversation.

“But as I was saying before,” Spies continued, immediately softening the impact of his words, “I find no real need to choose among the various organizations. All have valid messages, however partial; all have valid contributions to make.”

“Then why not join them all?” Lucy asked in a vexed tone, nettled at what she took to be the condescending way Spies kept shifting his position, as if he didn’t consider them enlightened enough to be trusted with consistently straightforward talk. The sensuous way he kept stroking his moustache added to her suspicion.

“Because there aren’t enough hours in the day,” Lizzie explained, puzzled at Lucy’s vexation. “Why, just deciding to come here today means I’ll have to put in overtime all next week to meet my rent.”

Spies had caught the hostility in Lucy’s voice, and to placate her—though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need—he said he did constantly push himself to become more politically engaged. “But I have to add, in all honesty,” he continued, “that I’m not convinced humanity yet knows what is best for it. It isn’t humanity’s fault, of course. Most workers have been turned into automatons, incapable of understanding what their own best interest is.”

Lucy’s distrust went up another notch. He
is
arrogant, she thought to herself, likes to play the visionary, the man above the fray.

“You do sound like a rich boy,” she said.

“I’m as confused as the next man. Which is what I was trying to say before you pushed me into this pompous recitation about What I Believe. All I know for the moment is that I can clarify my thoughts better through study rather than through organizational affiliation.”

“Rubbish, I say.” Lucy was delighted to see Spies flinch. “In my opinion, you learn more by joining with others in struggle than by sitting alone under the gas lamp.”

Albert had remained silent during the exchange, his hands thoughtfully cupped under his chin. He now turned to Spies. “I agree,” he said,
carefully measuring his words, “that it’s difficult to know which struggle to join. The movement for an eight-hour day? For trade unions? For government ownership of—”

“All right, Albert!” Lucy cut in. “You’re reciting the platform of every group that ever existed.”

Albert laughed. “I guess I
could
go on all night! Everybody has a theory, it seems …”