Peter's heart was leaping with excitement; and it leaped even fasterwhen he had got his breakfast and was walking down Main Street. Hesaw crowds gathered, and American flags flying from all thebuildings, just as on the day of the Preparedness parade. It causedPeter to feet queer spasms of fright; he imagined another bomb, buthe couldn't resist the crowds with their eager faces and contagiousenthusiasm. Presently here came a band, with magnificent martialmusic, and here came soldiers marching--tramp, tramp, tramp--lineafter line of khaki-clad boys with heavy packs upon their backs andshiny new rifles. Our boys! Our boys! God bless them!
It was three regiments of the 223rd Division, coming from CampLincoln to be entrained for the war. They might better have beenentrained at the camp, of course, but everyone had been clamoringfor some glimpse of the soldiers, and here they were with theirmusic and their flags, and their crowds of flushed, excitedadmirers--two endless lines of people, wild with patriotic fervor,shouting, singing, waving hats and handkerchiefs, until the wholestreet became a blur, a mad delirium. Peter saw these closelypressed lines, straight and true, and the legs that moved likeclock-work, and the feet that shook the ground like thunder. He sawthe fresh, boyish faces, grimly set and proud, with eyes fixedahead, never turning, even tho they realized that this might betheir last glimpse of their home city, that they might never comeback from this journey. Our boys! Our boys! God bless them! Peterfelt a choking in his throat, and a thrill of gratitude to the boyswho were protecting him and his country; he clenched his hands andset his teeth, with fresh determination to punish the evil men andwomen--draft-dodgers, slackers, pacifists and seditionists--who werefailing to take their part in this glorious emprise.
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Peter went to the American House and met McGivney, and was put towork on a job that precisely suited his mood. The time had come foraction, said the rat-faced man. The executive committee of the I. W.W. local had been drafting an appeal to the main organization forhelp, and the executive committee was to meet that evening; Peterwas to get in touch with the secretary, Grady, and find out wherethis meeting was to be, and make the suggestion that all themembership be gathered, and other Reds also. The business men of thecity were going to pull off their big stroke that night, saidMcGivney; the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and theMerchants' and Manufacturers' Association had got together andworked out a secret plan, and all they wanted was to have the Redscollected in one place.
So Peter set out and found Shawn Grady, the young Irish boy who keptthe membership lists and other papers of the organization, in aplace so secret that not even Peter had been able to find them.Peter brought the latest news about the sufferings of Mac in the"hole," and how Gus, the sailor, had joined Henderson in thehospital. He was so eloquent in his indignation that presently Gradytold him about the meeting for that evening, and about the place,and Peter said they really ought to get some of their friendstogether, and work out some way to get their protest literaturedistributed quickly, because it was evident they could no longer usethe mails. What was the use of resolutions of executive committees,when what was wanted was action by the entire membership? Grady saidall right, they would notify the active members and sympathizers,and he gave Peter the job of telephoning and travelling about towngetting word to a dozen people.
At six o'clock that evening Peter reported the results to McGivney,and then he got a shock. "You must go to that meeting yourself,"said the rat-faced man. "You mustn't take any chance of theirsuspecting you."
"But, my God!" cried Peter. "What's going to happen there?"
"You don't need to worry about that," answered the other. "I'll seethat you're protected."
The gathering was to take place at the home of Ada Ruth, thepoetess, and McGivney had Peter describe this home to him. Beyondthe living-room was a hallway, and in this hallway was a big clothescloset. At the first alarm Peter must make for this place. He mustget into the closet, and McGivney would be on hand, and they wouldpen Peter up and pretend to club him, but in reality would protecthim from whatever happened to the rest. Peter's knees began totremble, and he denounced the idea indignantly; what would happen tohim if anything were to happen to McGivney, or to his automobile,and were to fail to get there in time? McGivney declared that Peterneed not worry--he was too valuable a man for them to take anychances with. McGivney would be there, and all Peter would have todo was to scream and raise a rumpus, and finally fall unconscious,and McGivney and Hammett and Cummings would carry him out to theirautomobile and take him away!
Peter was so frightened that he couldn't eat any dinner, butwandered about the street talking to himself and screwing up hiscourage. He had to stop and look at the American flags, still wavingfrom the buildings, and read the evening edition of the AmericanCity "Times," in order to work up his patriotic fervor again. As heset out for the home of the little cripple who wrote pacifistpoetry, he really felt like the soldier boys marching away to war.
Ada Ruth was there, and her mother, a dried-up old lady who knewnothing about all these dreadful world movements, but whosepleadings had no effect upon her inspired daughter; also Ada'scousin, a lean old-maid school teacher, secretary of the Peoples'Council; also Miriam Yankovitch, and Sadie Todd, and Donald Gordon.On the way Peter had met Tom Duggan, and the mournful poet revealedthat he had composed a new poem about Mac in the "hole." Immediatelyafterwards came Grady, the secretary, his pockets stuffed with hispapers. Grady, a tall, dark-eyed, impulsive-tempered Irish boy, waswhat the Socialists called a "Jimmie Higgins," that is, one of thefellows who did the hard and dreary work of the movement, who werealways on hand no matter what happened, always ready to have somenew responsibility put upon their shoulders. Grady had no use forthe Socialists, being only interested in "industrial action," but hewas willing to be called a "Jimmie Higgins"; he had said that Peterwas one too, and Peter had smiled to himself, thinking that a"Jimmie Higgins" was about the last thing in the world he ever wouldbe. Peter was on the way to independence and prosperity, and it didnot occur to him to reflect that he might be a "Jimmie Higgins" tothe "Whites" instead of to the Reds!
Grady now pulled out his papers, and began to talk over with DonaldGordon the proceedings of the evening. He had had a telegram fromthe national headquarters of the I. W. W., promising support, andhis thin, hungry face lighted up with pride as he showed this. Thenhe announced that "Bud" Connor was to be present--a well-knownorganizer, who had been up in the oil country with McCormick, andbrought news that the workers there were on the verge of a bigstrike. Then came Mrs. Jennings, a poor, tormented little woman whowas slowly dying of a cancer, and whose husband was suing her fordivorce because she had given money to the I. W. W. With her, andhelping her along, came "Andy" Adams, a big machinist, who had beenkicked out of his lodge for talking too much "direct action." Hepulled from his pocket a copy of the "Evening Telegraph," and read afew lines from an editorial, denouncing "direct action" as meaningdynamiting, which it didn't, of course, and asking how long it wouldbe before the friends of law and order in American City would use alittle "direct action" of their own.
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So they gathered, until about thirty were present, and then themeeting speedily got down to business. It was evident, said Grady,that the authorities had deliberately framed-up the dynamiteconspiracy, in order to have an excuse for wiping out the I. W. W.organization; they had closed the hall, and confiscated everything,typewriters and office furniture and books--including a book onSabotage which they had turned over to the editor of the "EveningTimes"! There was a hiss of anger at this. Also, they had taken tointerfering with the mail of the organization; the I. W. W. werehaving to get out their literature by express. They were fightingfor their existence, and they must find some way of getting thetruth to people. If anybody had any suggestions to make, now was thetime.
There came one suggestion after another; and meantime Peter sat asif his chair were full of pins. Why didn't they come--the youngermembers of the Chamber of Commerce and the Merchants' andManufa
cturers' Association--and do what they were going to dowithout any further delay? Did they expect Peter to sit there allnight, trembling with alarm--and he not having any dinner besides?
Suddenly Peter gave a jump. Outside came a yell, and Donald Gordon,who was making a speech, stopped suddenly, and the members of thecompany stared at one another, and some sprang to their feet. Therewere more yells, rising to screams, and some of the company made forthe front doors, and some for the back doors, and yet others for thewindows and the staircase. Peter wasted no time, but dived into theclothes closet in the hallway back of the living-room, and got intothe farthest corner of this closet, and pulled some of the clotheson top of him; and then, to make him safer yet, came several otherpeople piling on top of him.
From his place of refuge he listened to the confusion that reigned.The place was a bedlam of women's shrieks, and the curses offighting men, and the crash of overturning furniture, and of clubsand monkey-wrenches on human heads. The younger members of theChamber of Commerce and the Merchants' and Manufacturers'Association had come in sufficient force to make sure of theirpurpose. There were enough to crowd the room full, and to pack allthe doorways, and two or three to guard each window, and a flyingsquadron to keep watch for anybody who jumped from the roof or triedto hide in the trees of the garden.
Peter cowered, and listened to the furious uproar, and presently heheard the cries of those on top of him, and realized that they werebeing pulled off and clubbed; he felt hands reach down and grab him,and he cringed and cried in terror; but nothing happened to him, andpresently he glanced up and he saw a man wearing a black mask, buteasily to be recognized as McGivney. Never in all his life had Peterbeen gladder to see a human face than he was to see that masked faceof a rat! McGivney had a club in his hand, and was dealing ferociousblows to the clothes heaped around Peter. Behind McGivney wereHammett and Cummings, covering the proceedings, and now and thencarefully putting in a blow of their own.
Most of the fighting inside the house and outside came quickly to anend, because everybody who fought was laid out or overpowered. Thenseveral of the agents of Guffey, who had been studying these Redsfor a year or two and knew them all, went about picking out the oneswho were especially wanted, and searching them for arms, and thenhandcuffing them. One of these men approached Peter, who instantlyfell unconscious, and closed his eyes; then Hammett caught him underthe armpits and Cummings by the feet, and McGivney walked alongsideas a bodyguard, remarking now and then, "We want this fellow, we'lltake care of him."
They carried Peter outside, and in the darkness he opened his eyesjust enough to see that the street was lined with automobiles, andthat the Reds were being loaded aboard. Peter's friends carried himto one car and drove him away, and then Peter returned toconsciousness, and the four of them sat up and laughed to splittheir sides, and slapped one another on the back, and mentioned thesatisfactory things they had seen. Had Hammett noticed that sliceGrady had got over the eyes, and the way the blood had run all overhim? Well, he wanted to be a Red--they had helped him be one--insideand out! Had McGivney noticed how "Buck" Ellis, one of their men,had put the nose of the hobo poet out of joint? And young Ogden, sonof the president of the Chamber of Commerce, had certainly managedto show how he felt about these cattle, the female ones as well asthe males; when that Yankovich slut had slapped his face, he hadcaught her by the breasts and nearly twisted them off, and she hadscreamed and fainted!
Yes, they had cleaned them out. But that wasn't all of it, they weregoing to finish the job tonight, by God! They were going to givethese pacifists a taste of the war, they were going to put an end tothe Red Terror in American City! Peter might go along if he likedand see the good work; they were going into the country, and itwould be dark, and if he kept a mask on he would be quite safe. AndPeter said yes; his blood was up, he was full of the spirit of thehunt, he wanted to be in at the death, regardless of everything.
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The motor purred softly, and the car sped as if upon wings thru thesuburbs of American City, and to the country beyond. There were carsin front, and other cars behind, a long stream of white lightsflying out into the country. They came to a grove of big pine trees,which rose two or three feet thick, like church arches, and coveredthe ground beneath them with a soft, brown carpet. It was awell-known picnic place, and here all the cars were gathering byappointment. Evidently it had all been pre-arranged, with thatefficiency which is the pride of 100% Americans. A man with a blackmask over his face stood in the center of the grove, and shouted hisdirections thru a megaphone, and each car as it swept in rangeditself alongside the next car in a broad circle, more than a hundredfeet across. These cars of the younger members of the Chamber ofCommerce and the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Association were wellbehaved--they were accustomed to sliding precisely into placeaccording to orders of a megaphone man, when receptions were beinggiven, or when the younger members and their wives andfiancees, clad in soft silks and satins, came rolling up totheir dinner-parties and dances.
The cars came and came, until there was just room enough for thelast one to slide in. Then at a shouted command, "Number one!" agroup of men stepped out of one of the cars, dragging a handcuffedprisoner. It was Michael Dubin, the young Jewish tailor who hadspent fifteen days in jail with Peter. Michael was a student anddreamer, and not used to scenes of violence; also, he belonged to arace which expresses its emotions, and consequently is offensive to100% Americans. He screamed and moaned while the masked menun-handcuffed him, and took off his coat and tore his shirt in theback. They dragged him to a tree in the center of the ring, asomewhat smaller tree, just right for his wrists to meet around andbe handcuffed again. There he stood in the blinding glare of thirtyor forty cars, writhing and moaning, while one of the black-maskedmen stripped off his coat and got ready for action. He produced along black-snake whip, and stood poised for a moment; then in abooming voice the man with the megaphone shouted, "Go!" and the whipwhistled thru the air and was laid across the back of Michael, andtore into the flesh so that the blood leaped into sight. There was ascream of anguish, and the victim began to twist and turn and kickabout as if in his death-throes. Again the whip whistled, and againyou heard the thud as it tore into the flesh, and another red stripeleaped to view.
Now the younger members of the Chamber of Commerce and theMerchants' and Manufacturers' Association were in excellentcondition for this evening's labor. They were not pale and thin,underfed and overworked, as were their prisoners; they were sleekand rosy, and ashine with health. It was as if long years ago theirfathers had foreseen the Red menace, and the steps that would haveto be taken to preserve 100% Americanism; the fathers had imported agame which consisted of knocking little white balls around a fieldwith various styles and sizes of clubs. They had built magnificentclub-houses out here in the suburbs, and had many hundreds of acresof ground laid out for this game, and would leave their occupationsof merchanting and manufacturing early in the afternoon, in order torepair to these fields and keep their muscles in condition. Theywould hold tournaments, and vie with one another, and tell over thestories of the mighty strokes which they had made with their clubs,and of the hundreds of strokes they had made in a single afternoon.So the man with the black-snake whip was "fit," and didn't need tostop for breath. Stroke after stroke he laid on, with a splendidrhythmic motion; he kept it up easily, on and on. Had he forgotten?
Did he think this was a little white ball he was swinging down upon?He kept on and on, until you could no longer count the welts, untilthe whole back of Michael Dubin was a mass of raw and bleedingflesh. The screams of Michael Dubin died away, and his convulsivestruggling ceased, and his head hung limp, and he sunk lower andlower upon the tree.
At last the master of ceremonies stepped forward and ordered a halt,and the man with the whip wiped the sweat from his forehead with hisshirt-sleeve, and the other men unchained the body of Michael Dubin,and dragged it a few feet to one side and dumped it face downward inthe pine-leaves.
"Nu
mber two!" called the master of ceremonies, in a clear,compelling voice, as if he were calling the figures of a quadrille;and from another car another set of men emerged, dragging anotherprisoner. It was Bert Glikas, a "blanket-stiff" who was a member ofthe I. W. W.'s executive committee, and had had two teeth knockedout in a harvest-strike only a couple of weeks previously. Whilethey were getting off his coat, he managed to get one hand free, andhe shook it at the spectators behind the white lights of theautomobiles. "God damn you!" he yelled; and so they tied him up, anda fresh man stepped forward and picked up the whip, and spit on hishands for good luck, and laid on with a double will; and at everystroke Glikas yelled a fresh curse; first in English, and then, asif he were delirious, in some foreign language. But at last hiscurses died away, and he too sank insensible, and was unhitched anddragged away and dumped down beside the first man. "Number three!"called the master of ceremonies.
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Now Peter was sitting in the back seat of his car, wearing the maskwhich McGivney had given him, a piece of cloth with two holes forhis eyes and another hole for him to breathe thru. Peter hated theseReds, and wanted them punished, but he was not used to bloodysights, and was finding this endless thud, thud of the whip on humanflesh rather more than he could stand. Why had he come? This wasn'this part of the job of saving his country from the Red menace. Hehad done his share in pointing out the dangerous ones; he was a manof brains, not a man of violence. Peter saw that the next victim wasTom Duggan with his broken and bloody nose, and in spite of himself,Peter started with dismay. He realized that without intending it hehad become a little fond of Tom Duggan. For all his queerness,Duggan was loyal, he was a good fellow when you had got underneathhis surly manners. He had never done anything except just togrumble, and to put his grumbles into verses; they were making amistake in whipping him, and for a moment Peter had a crazy impulseto interfere and tell them so.
100%: the Story of a Patriot Page 17