The American: A Middle Western Legend (38 page)

IV

He appeared to be dozing when Joe Martin said, very gently, “Dinner, Pete.”

He got to his feet, grinning. “I must have fallen asleep. Do you know, I guess I forgot to eat lunch.”

“Hungry?”

“I could eat a cow,” he said. “Nothing ever seems to interfere with my appetite.”

They walked into the dining car and sat down. When the waiter, a tall, thin colored man, came over to take their order, he stared at Altgeld a long moment and then said, “Pardon me, sir, but you're Governor Altgeld.”

Joe Martin smiled and nodded. Altgeld, unfolding a napkin, held it in front of him and stared at it, without speaking.

“I thought you was, sir. I served you four years ago. It's a real pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“Thank you.” An old habit, a good habit for a politician, made him ask the man's name.

“Sidney Jackson.”

“Well, thank you for remembering me, Mr. Jackson. Thank you.”

“Why you don't forget, sir. My God, you just don't forget, that's all.”

That or the little nap he had made him feel better. He ordered a steak for the main course, and followed it with apple pie and cheese. Cigars and coffee finished it, and he leaned back in his chair, looking at Joe Martin, smiling comfortably.

“Feel better?”

“Much better. Joe, we're getting old. The body slows down. But you rest it a little, and then you feel fine. I feel fine. I could almost say I never felt better than I do right now.” He considered a moment, then brought his hand down on the table with a crack that stiffened every person in the car. “I've got it—Joe, I took the wrong tack there in court, wrong as hell, pleading. I'm not going to plead tomorrow. I'm going to demand. What the hell, the case is gone anyway.”

“Demand an injunction on the Pennsylvania?”

“You're right in principle.”

“Pete, how do you do it? How do you go on, year after year? Don't you get tired? Doesn't it beat you down?”

“It beats me down. It's just a little harder to get up, that's all.”

V

They got off the train at Joliet, Altgeld leaning on Joe Martin's arm. Glancing sidewise at him, Martin saw that the gray pallor had returned. They got a cab and drove to the Munroe House. Martin had reserved a room for them, but when they registered at the desk, the clerk shook his head and said that if the gentlemen would only wait a little while, the room would be ready.

“But I wired for a room hours ago,” Martin insisted.

“Yes, yes, but not any room. I can't put Governor Altgeld into any room. The room I have for you, our very best room, will be ready in a little while.”

Altgeld shook his head, whispering, “Any room, Joe, for God's sake, tell them to give us any room. I can't stand here. I have to lie down somewhere.”

Joe Martin pleaded, but the clerk would not give in on his point, that Altgeld must have the best room in the hotel. Finally, Joe Martin roared, “Damn it, give us a room!”

Then, bewildered and hurt, the clerk gave in, and had them taken upstairs. Once in the room, Altgeld stumbled over to the bed and stretched out on it. He lay motionless, his hands flat on the bedspread, his blue eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“How do you feel, Pete?”

“All right. I was just tired and I got a dizzy feeling. I guess I ate too much.”

Joe Martin pulled off his shoes. “You don't have to go through with it,” he said. “You're sick—you're sick enough to be in bed. Why don't you tell them that you're sick?”

“I got here, didn't I?”

“Sure you got here. That's smart as hell. That's awful damn smart.”

“What are you afraid of, Joe?” Altgeld asked gently. “Are you afraid I'm going to die?”

“Other men have.”

“I've been holding its hand, Joe. For years now—it's day to day. I've felt tired like this before. What difference does it make?” Then he was quiet. Martin sat there, staring at nothing at all. An old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece ticked out the hours, hard and sharp, clack, clack, clack.

About ten minutes later, someone knocked at the door. Joe Martin opened it, keeping his body between the crack and the room.

“Mr. Altgeld can't be disturbed.”

A dry-faced man with glasses said, “I'm the editor of the local sheet. It would be a good thing for us to have an interview with the Governor.”

“He can't be disturbed,” but from inside the room, “Joe! Who's there? Will you stop being such a damned old woman!”

“A newspaperman.”

“All right, send him in. Stop that damned whispering.”

The editor came in, and Altgeld sat up, leaning on one elbow. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, “and fire away. It's got to be short. I'm due at the theatre in half an hour. Why don't you come there and listen, and when it's over, we can have a chat.”

“Just one or two questions. You condemn England's action in South Africa?”

“As I condemn ours in the Philippines. As I condemn imperialism, whether it be British or American or German wherever it shows its ugly head.”

“And you believe the Boers are fighting a just fight?”

“The man who fights for his native soil, for his home and for his family against a foreign invader—he fights a just fight. You don't have to look any deeper than that.”

“And you're going to speak about the Boer War tonight?”

“That's right.”

“You'll be outspoken, I suppose?”

Smiling, Altgeld said, “I haven't minced words since the last time I rah on the Democratic ticket.”

VI

They stood in the wings, peering out at the house. The hall was jammed, and there was a line of people standing in the rear. In the wings behind them, the men and women of the Choral Society were clearing their throats and softly going, ah, ah, ah. Ex-Mayor Haley, officiating, bustled back to Altgeld and said:

“I think we'll sit on the stage. I think that's better, don't you? Then the Choral Society can line up in front of us, and we can slip out behind them, if you want to.”

“Any way you say.”

The director of the Choral Society, standing behind Altgeld, said, “But, mayor, we were to sing first.”

“Let me get it over with,” Altgeld whispered.

“Only it seems funny, the main speaker starting a program instead of finishing it.”

“Just let me get it over with,” Altgeld said.

“It doesn't matter,” Haley shrugged. “Of course, it's customary for the main speaker to finish a program instead of beginning it. But if you want to speak first, I don't suppose it matters.”

Altgeld followed Haley out onto the stage. The audience, impassive at first, broke into applause when they recognized him. A few in front rose, then a few more, then a wave until the whole hall was on its feet, clapping in tribute. Joe Martin stood in the wings, smiling with pleasure. A man could have a brother, or he could have a friend like Pete Altgeld; or a man could have half of the world and not know Pete Altgeld. The audience stood there, clapping, for almost a full five minutes.

Haley said, “Here, I think, is a man I don't have to introduce to you. You know him. Illinois knows him. America knows him. I give you John Peter Altgeld.”

He began to speak softly. He put both his arms on the rostrum, leaning forward, talking to them, sometimes from the script he had in front of him, sometimes without looking at the script. For about half an hour he spoke to them, simply and straightforwardly, about imperialism, what it meant in human terms, what it meant when you stripped away the cheap glitter of Rudyard Kipling, and left the broken bodies of men and women and children. He told them of the concentration camps the British had built in South Africa.

He paused, beads of sweat running down his brow. Reaching for his handkerchief, he almost fell. He gripped the rostrum again and mopped his brow. Then, the handkerchief still in his hand, he sought for words:

“I told you about concentration camps. They solve nothing. Put a thousand or ten thousand men into them; they solve nothing. You don't break men by torturing them. You don't break man's spirit—”

He hesitated and stared at his script, as if he were seeing it for the first time. By now the audience was aware, that something was wrong, and he could hear the murmur passing from person to person. He made an effort, smiled, and said:

“It's all right, all right. Sometimes, we get tired. That's natural, that's only natural. We are filled with despair. We ask ourselves, what is the good of such meetings as these? But there is some good out of them.” He spoke slowly and forcefully, not looking at his script at all. “There is always good when men gather together for liberty—good when any man puts his shoulder alongside his neighbor's—”

His voice trailed away. He continued to smile for a moment, then shook his head, as if he were puzzled. He turned back to his script and read, his tone low and labored:

“I am not discouraged. Things will right themselves. The pendulum swings one way and then another. But the steady pull of gravitation is toward the center of the earth. Any structure must be plumb if it is to endure, or the building will fall. So it is with nations. Wrong may seem to triumph. Right may seem to be defeated—”

His voice trailed off and the last few words came out in a whisper that was barely or not at all heard. He smiled again and picked up his papers. He turned, walked back to his chair, and dropped into it. Haley rose and waited for the applause to finish. But hardly had he begun to speak when the audience saw Altgeld stagger to his feet and shuffle painfully toward the wings. Two members of the chorus caught him as he almost fell, and Joe Martin came running out to help him off the stage. Haley followed. Altgeld put his arm around Joe Martin and Haley supported him on the other side.

“Where can he lie down?” Joe Martin cried.

Altgeld shook his head. Then he began to vomit. The two men supported him as long spasms racked him, through and through.

Some blankets were found, and Joe Martin persuaded him to lie down. He lay there on the blankets, his eyes closed. Joe Martin took off his shoes, loosened his clothes, and then covered him with another blanket.

Meanwhile, the meeting had broken up. People were gathered in knots, through the theatre and on the street outside. Haley was trying frantically to find a doctor, but it so happened that there was none in the audience. Then Haley realized that the state medical society was holding its banquet here, and that all the doctors would be there. He sent a messenger over there, and three doctors came back to the theatre. One of them was Cushing, an old friend of Altgeld's. He knelt down beside him, taking his wrist and feeling his pulse.

Altgeld had lost consciousness now. Mutely, Joe Martin stood over him, watching for a reaction on the doctor's face. But Cushing shook his head, shrugged as he rose.

“What is it?” Martin asked.

“I don't know. It looks like a stroke.”

The other doctors agreed. They wrapped Altgeld in the blankets and carried him back to the hotel. There, the doctors worked over him, rubbing his wrists and ankles, using smelling salts. He opened his eyes very suddenly, like a man waked out of sleep. For a moment, he appeared puzzled, then said, “Hello, Cushing,” just as if nothing at all had happened.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Just tired. Did I get through the talk?”

“You got through it,” Joe Martin said. “It was a good talk.”

“I must have fainted.”

“You're going to get into bed and rest,” Cushing said. He and Joe Martin helped him off with his clothes. Martin fumbled around in back of him until he demanded, “Joe, what in the name of Heaven do you want?”

“Shirt buttons.”

“Well, mine button in front. And stop trembling. I told you I was all right.”

“Sure, sure, I know, Pete.”

Suddenly, Altgeld sat up, glaring at his friend accusingly.

“Joe—Joe, you didn't think I was dying and wire Emma? Joe, you didn't do any damn fool thing like that!”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Well, don't. You hear me? I have to be careful of her. It would be insane, frightening her out of her wits.”

“You'd better get some sleep,” Cushing said. “Mr. Martin, I'll stay with him for a while. Do you have a room?”

Martin shook his head.

“Well, see about getting one—or are you going back to the city? He can't be moved tonight.”

Joe Martin walked over to Altgeld's bed, smiled at him, and then bent over and took his hand.

“Goodnight, Pete.”

“Goodnight.”

He went downstairs to the lobby then. At the desk, he bought a handful of cigars, lit one, and sat in a big leather chair, puffing it silently. Some reporters came in and spoke to the desk clerk. He nodded at Joe Martin, and they walked over and began to question him. He answered the questions, and finally they went away.

It was quite late now, and still neither Cushing nor the two other doctors appeared. Sometime after one, the room clerk said, “Will you want a place to sleep, sir?”

Joe Martin shook his head.

The room clerk locked up his ledger and his cigar cases. He put out all the lights except two. Outside, two drunks staggered by, singing. The night porter, a colored man, stopped by Joe Martin and asked:

“How's the Governor?”

“I don't know—”

“Mister, you tell him he's got the prayers of good people.”

“I'll tell him,” Joe Martin said.

The clock in the lobby said half past two. The little gambler lit another cigar. There was a long ash on it when one of the doctors came downstairs. Joe Martin stared at him.

“As well as can be expected,” the doctor said.

“Will he live?”

“I don't think so. You'd better notify his wife.”