Were he a different man, Haywood might’ve persuaded himself that the extra attention he gave Neva was born from appropriateness, social custom, and conciliation to her being his wife. But he couldn’t dupe himself by his own stratagems. Others, yes, but not himself. The truth was that he kept Neva happy so his life-affirming, manhood-ratifying romance with young Winnie could remain unguarded, undefended, and that it shouldn’t be threatened as only Neva could. Besides, he loved the women—both of them. He was good to them. He was necessary for them. But they were far from equal in his mind. If his relationship with Winnie was his coat of luxury, his devotion to Neva, with her shriveled leg and early-wrinkled face, was his penitent hair shirt.
Beyond those auspices of love, he knew he needed both women. Not only for the privilege of his morning release—Winnie’s pouch being the eighth wonder of the world—but for the preservation of his honorable image: an upstanding man duteous to his frail, religious wife while not chasing whores, others’ wives, temptresses all—though they were blatantly available to him. While Neva provided him the latter: the good husband persona, Winnie gave him the former: a clear mind and invigorated body. Indeed, it was the touch of his wife’s sister that kept him loyal to his wife. How could either have cause to complain?
Certainly, there were rumors among the union men and their wives, between the judges and the attorneys, whispered by shopkeepers, policemen, dancing girls, and barkeeps alike, about Haywood’s peculiar relationship with the two women. But the idea of the Federation leader bedding his wife’s sister was too scandalous to not yield its own width of doubt. And it was in that qualm that Haywood found safe passage, the opportunity to exist, to be satisfied. The very audaciousness of the act cloaked its existence.
As the applause faded and the three hundred men returned to their chairs, a face caught Haywood’s eye and he returned to it, finding it again in the middle of the crowd. With slow deliberation, Haywood smoothed his eyebrows. Then he repeated the motion. Most of these men were miners—rough faces and worn hands with temperaments to match. And they were his men. The women up front may be his private reward in this world, but his muscle mass, the red of his blood, his power beyond even the constraints of life, came from the men beyond. They would defend him. They would die for him. Most would kill for him. A few already had.
As Haywood rapped the pistol and resumed his speech, a slender man in a green jacket stood at attention near the back of the room. Upon seeing his leader’s brow-smoothing, he strode to a young, disheveled man in the middle of the room and signaled him up before ushering him outside.
***
In the street, the young man was delivered to three roughs in their shirt sleeves, their coats draped across a boardwalk bench. The three shoved the wide-eyed man around the corner and proceeded to beat and kick him, blow after blow. In the street nearby, Denver’s Sheriff Tetter, shotgun at the ready, stood bemused, murmuring with the green-jacketed man. The what and why of it all was understood: undercover Pinkerton spies were not welcome at Federation meetings, even public rallies like this one—a point being smashed into the young man unequivocally.
From inside the hall came the muffled thunder of Haywood’s oration. The sheriff turned and declared, “Alright, that’ll do, boys.” The three men donned their coats before re-entering the building. Having only a few teeth scattered, and ribs cracked, the Pinkerton knew he was lucky. He’d known it since he too saw Big Bill’s eyebrow signal. Had the man sneezed into a pocket-square three times instead, the young Pinkerton would have made a run for it, and probably failed. Then, instead of his current slow stagger into the dark of Imperial Street, he would be sliding to the dark of death’s door. It wouldn’t have mattered to Sheriff Tetter. Either way, Tetter would still be standing in the street, holding his favorite shotgun, watching the Pinkerton disappear.
***
“Look at your Federation cards,” Haywood commanded, now standing in front of the podium. “Yes, pull them out. Read with me those most precious words found there.” He took a moment, and then began the recitation. “Labor prod—” He paused as only a handful had started with him. Then he smiled at the group of clumsy men, all floundering for their union cards. His reaction caused others to grin, and soon a chortle the size of the room rose and then faded. A wave of merriment. Haywood took the resultant silence as an opportunity to spike a point. “Any worker who cannot produce such a membership card is an enemy to us, to himself, and to the community at large. But if you can’t read it, that’s all right. You good men know the words.”
After another chuckle rippled through the crowd—now with their cards in hand—Haywood started anew, and this time a low-rolling chorus of male voices joined him. “Labor produces all wealth. Wealth belongs to the producer thereof.” He paused. “Once more: Labor produces all wealth. Wealth belongs to the producer thereof.” Again, the men recited it with him. “As we know, there are only two classes of people in the world: One is men like you, who produce all. The other is those who produce nothing, but are content to live in luxury, to grow fat on the wealth you produce.”
He let the expected chorus of boos and curses shake the windows before he resumed. “We’ll never forget what they did to our brothers in Idaho. We’ll never forget their disregard for the laws of these United States.” He paused for a drink of whiskey from a crystal glass on the podium. “Thank you, fine gentlemen. You may put your cards away.”
This speech was nothing new. The words little changed since they were last hurled upon an almost identical audience. Once every six months or so, Federation men would gather in this hall and a boisterous murmuring (deigned union business) got underway. Most came as an act of union loyalty, tolerating it fine, enjoying the brotherhood, the tradition of gathering—before slipping across Arapahoe Street to The Antelope for cheap whiskey and drafts. But some were there for the unmatched exultation, bathing in the emotional lift. Matters of business were not for them. In fact, they found such particulars a nuisance. They were there to have their passions filled, their opinions validated, their sweat and anger justified. And no one could do that quite like their union boss, Big Bill. His bluster, the fullness of his bearing, his unhidden mining injury, the fearlessness behind his demands and threats, lifted them from their misery, empowered them to resume their labors for yet another season. He saw them. His good eye saw their honor, his dead eye their hatred.
Everyone suspected Big Bill Haywood had orchestrated the killings, the beatings, the bombings. Some knew it to be fact. Where some chose to indulge their doubts—so they may justify their continued engagement with the labor union cause—others embraced the knowledge. Celebrated it. Through an unspoken covenant, they had collectively abolished any moral ambiguities within themselves, allowing only a resolute worship of the man. Where he led, they would go freely and without question or hesitation, including to their deaths if so required.
The only price they demanded, all that was required of Haywood, was loyalty in return—to not steal from them, not to rob them of their hope, their anger, their money. Haywood need only be true to them—or a semblance of truth—to give them something that appeared solid in which to believe. In that, they could find cause to surrender, to give themselves over to that shimmering mirage of glory such men stumble toward—each a cane to another’s imbalance—lest they fall alone and, from the dirt, be forced to reconcile their fragility.
Haywood was still going. “Not but three years ago the Colorado legislature passed our long-fought law for the eight-hour workday.” General applause. “You, the great torchbearers, the guardians for all working men, you made that law come to pass. You made the sacrifices necessary. You should congratulate yourselves! Yes. But still we wait for it to be obliged upon the greedy mine owners!”
He pushed on before the crowd’s roar might drown the coming point. I ask you, is this state of Colorado in the United States?” He turned to a fifteen-foot wide American flag nailed to t
he wall. “Does any one of those white stars stand for Colorado? I wonder. And you wonder too: Is this not a land of laws and justice? Can a man here behave any way he sees fit? May there be no fairness or justice in this state? Or even now in Idaho? Where else but these mining states can the rich ignore, outright disregard, the laws established by the government—your government—your laws—your will? You, the working men of America. Where else? It’s an outrage that we will not stand for! I will not stand for! You will not stand for! Eight hours of work, eight hours of play, eight hours of sleep—even for only eight goddamned dollars a day!”
After the by-then-weary audience settled, Haywood cleared his throat for his peroration. “I ask that we not forget the other color on that flag.” He pointed again to the massive American flag. “Besides those white stars and bars, and the blue, there is another color on that flag. The most important color: Red! The workers’ color. The blood of patriots spilt for this nation—for their families and yours. For your freedoms. For your future. And it is the blood of tyrants, spilt to refresh the tree of liberty—in the past and in days to come. For this nation we hold so dear. It is the red of your blood—American blood—American red—American bled!”
<><><>
– 10 –
MONDAY
December 24, 1906
“Help me up, Bill, please,” said Neva. Tired of being low in her invalid chair at their Christmas gathering, she had rolled herself into the drawing room, and then to Bill standing by the fire where he was talking with other officers of the Western Federation of Miners. Beside him, the thick, oak mantel was adorned with pine boughs and fairy-light candles. Neva glanced again at the man-cluster, all in various sack suits and jackets. Among them was her private friend, George Pennington, wearing the jacket she liked so much: midnight blue, worsted with faint chevrons. Was that why he wore it again, for her, so soon after she had complimented it the week prior? She would have preferred George helping her up, feeling his hands under her arms, lifting her. But here, in this group, actually in any assembly of people, decorum required her to behave as if she barely knew George. It was a pretense that made her chagrin all the more acute. Especially as Bill was still ignoring her. She ran her wheeled chair into his leg and growled, “Bill.”
He looked down. His instant expression was a grimace wrapped in bother, as if she was a peculiar dog sniffing his leg. In fact, had she been Claus, his bulldog, humping his leg, he would have regarded her with more warmth. Snapping his countenance from scowl to careless little smile, he said, “Oh, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“I said, help me up. Get my crutches, please.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Before the girls arrive.”
“Where are they?”
“My crutches?”
“Yes of course, your crutches.”
“In our bedroom,” she said.
“I was in the middle of … but—” He sighed, walking away.
George approached. “Merry Christmas,” he said with a wink.
“Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Pennington,” she replied, beaming. “There’s that jacket again. Very dapper.”
“Thank you. It’s my Neva-coat,” he said, making her blush. He leaned close. “I have a present for you.”
“And I have one for you,” she whispered, and touched his arm. “But not here. Later.” She could smell him, oaky and warm.
“Not tonight,” said George. “I’ll come to Park Hill soon.”
“I’ll bring a mistletoe,” she said, peeping at the one dangling from the chandelier above them.
“Good,” he said. “But tonight, I expect you to dance with me.”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning. “The Viennese.”
She laughed and began to speak, but swallowed her words seeing Bill returning with two hefty, worn crutches. They were man sized but sawn down for her, with wooden arm supports, and cloth tied at their bottoms to protect the floor. She hated them, but Bill had long declared them “good enough.” She held them as Bill moved behind her, helping her up to where she could put all her weight on her right leg. As she tucked the crutches under her arms, the left one caught the white-lace trim of her gown’s sleeve cap. She looked to Bill, hoping he would extricate her from the snag, but he had already returned to the men. Then George’s hands came in, and, as he eased the lace free with his right hand, his left brushed her breast. “Why, thank you, gallant knight,” she whispered, feeling her cheeks warm, wondering why he smelled so good.
“My pleasure. That dress is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Noting the gown’s scarlet color, he remarked, “If you had green crutches, you’d be a Christmas present.” He turned, rolled her chair out of the way, then rejoined the circle of resonant male voices mulling profound things of little consequence. He glimpsed back at Neva, eyes smiling.
She crutched through the front entry, glanced toward the closed door, and then into the large parlor from which “Joy to the World” was underway from musicians at one end of the room—a guitar, violin, cello, and the Haywood’s Chickering parlor-grand piano. Just as in the drawing room, the parlor’s large fireplace was also in full blaze; and though most of the parlor’s furniture and rugs had been removed in preparation for a waltz, twelve chairs stood near the edges; and along one wall was a buffet offering champagne, port, and slices of holiday cake adorned with almonds, mince pie, and plum pudding in a basin covered with embroidered linen bearing rosy-cheeked Father Christmas. Opposite the quartet was the Christmas tree, adorned with strings of beads and popcorn, paper angels, silver yarn, gold satin bows, seventy-two small red stars, eight golden glass balls from Germany, and twelve white pen-candles waiting to be lit. Beneath it was a scattering of butcher-paper-wrapped presents tied with burgundy ribbons.
Other people were milling about, some in knots, some in pairs, all with courteous nods, convivial smiles, Christmas wishes, praises to Neva for the festive décor, and a few women gushing over her new pearl teardrop, 1.9 carat diamond earrings, courtesy of her husband. “Why, thank you,” Neva would say. “Bill was very generous this year.”
Then the front door opened, and a scamper of buttoned boots, high voices, and happiness hurried into the parlor and rushed to Neva. “Mommy!” exclaimed ten-year-old Henrietta.
“Merry Christmas, Mommy,” said Vernie, twelve.
Behind them, while Haywood assisted Winnie out of her black sable coat, Winnie quietly instructed him to put on his eye patch.
“Girls!” Neva exclaimed, welling up, dropping one of her crutches as she clung to her daughters. “Henrietta! Vernie! Oh my! Oh my!” She looked up at Winnie who was standing in a chartreuse embroidered gown, smiling from the entrance. “Thank you, Sissy,” said Neva. “My Christmas is now complete.”
“Do we have presents?” asked Henrietta, adding, “Vernie has a boyfriend.”
“Shush,” snapped Vernie.
“Of course you have presents.” Neva’s grin and tears were irrepressible. “Oh my, let me look at you. I love how this fits. I was worried,” she said, as Vernie spun in her white linen dress and high-buttoned boots. “You’re growing so quickly. And you”—she looked at Henrietta’s crimson-over-cream bib and tucker—“you’re so beautiful in that. Go now, find your presents!”
As the girls went to the tree, Winnie approached Neva and picked up the dropped crutch.
“Thank you,” said Neva. Winnie also wore new diamond earrings—though smaller than Neva’s. She touched one of Winnie’s ears. “Whoever chooses them for him certainly has good taste.”
“I think it’s that woman at Parker’s Jewelers,” said Winnie. “The round one with the scar.” She gestured a slash on her cheek.
“Probably,” murmured Neva. “Thank God for her, then.”
“Worker’s ‘Marseillaise’!” boomed Haywood, ent
ering the parlor chest first, sporting his eye patch and leading a train of men behind him.
“Oh Bear,” exclaimed Winnie. “Perfect! Worker’s ‘Marseillaise’!”
Others were gathering as Haywood loomed toward the musicians. They stopped playing “The Mistletoe.” “‘La Marseillaise?’” asked the Englishman at the piano.
“The Russian version,” shouted Haywood. “‘The Worker’s!’”
The violinist frowned. “The French—”
“No, no!” barked Haywood.
“Aye, we know it,” said the pianist. He turned to the other musicians and said softly, “It’s the same.”
“No,” said Haywood. “The Russian ‘Marseillaise,’ damn you.”
The pianist gave a dutiful nod and commenced playing the French “La Marseillaise”—to Haywood’s unaware delight. Most were silent, though a few began singing in French:
Allons, enfants de la Patrie,
le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie—
(Arise, children of the Fatherland,
the day of glory has arrived!
Against us tyranny’s—)
Meanwhile Haywood was alone belting in Russian:
Otrechemsya ot starogo mira!
Otryakhem yego prakh s nashikh nog!
Nam vrazhdebny ziatyye kumiry.
(Let us denounce the old world!
Let us shake its dust from our feet!
We are enemies to the golden idols.)
When the others sang:
Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons!
(To arms, citizens, form your battalions!)
Haywood sang:
Vstavay, podymaysya, rabochniy narod!
(Stand, rise up, working people!)
And when they sang:
Qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!
(Let an impure blood soak our fields!)
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