And then as I glimpsed the startled expressions on the faces about me, I wished I’d remained silent. Jasper Neely tipped his hat, but without another word or explanation, he sauntered away again. Walter questioned me with his gaze.
“I met the gentleman on my hike this morning,” I said as explanation. Simeon Harper chuckled as Walter nodded knowingly.
“All right, then we’ll speak to Browne,” Senator Smith said.
“Well, there’s the thing,” Simeon said again.
“You’re not telling us Browne isn’t here either?” Senator Smith demanded.
“I’m afraid so. Rumor is he went into town to get his picture taken.”
“This is preposterous!” Senator Smith said. “We came all the way out here and the man can’t even show up?”
“Imagine what the men who marched from Ohio with him think of it,” Simeon Harper said. “These men are starving while Coxey and Browne enjoy the fruits of the city.”
“Well, something should be done about these Coxey and Browne tomfools,” Chester said.
“I overheard a few men suggest lynching Browne when he finally shows. Is that what you had in mind, Mr. Smith?” Simeon Harper said. Chester’s face reddened in anger and embarrassment, but he held his peace.
“We should still try to speak with some of the men,” Sir Arthur said. “I’m not going to waste my afternoon waiting. Hattie.” And with that he headed to the center of the camp with me right behind him.
Before we had reached the first tent, a commotion ensued back near our excursion wagon.
“He’s got bread!” a waifish man, in obvious need of more than bread, shouted nearby.
A throng of men, who moments ago had appeared lethargic and hopeless, abruptly scrambled to their feet and raced past us. Sir Arthur held his ground as I stood behind him, hoping to avoid being shoved or trampled as the men rushed to get bread. Sir Arthur swiveled around to see what the fuss was all about. A mud-spattered wagon, upon which was painted a fantastic swirling of bright reds, yellows, and greens, had arrived. Driving was a man I knew could only be either Buffalo Bill, Daniel Boone, or more likely, Marshal Carl Browne. I’d never seen anyone like him. With a large, sturdy build, he sported a heavy mustache and a beard with two spirals. He wore a white sombrero tilted over his right eye and wore his hair to the shoulders. To my relief, a row of silver dollar buttons, shining in the late-afternoon sun, ornamented his fringed buckskin coat.
“Finally,” Senator Smith grumbled as Sir Arthur and I returned to our group, which had gathered next to Browne’s supply wagon.
In the commotion, Mrs. Smith’s dog leaped from her arms, and with ears and tongue flapping, sped past us into the center of the camp.
“Spencer! Spencer!” she cried after the puppy.
“Why on earth did you bring that damn dog here anyway?” Senator Smith demanded, loud enough to be heard above the din of the men shouting to Browne to pass down the bread.
“There he is,” Mrs. Smith said, relieved.
The dog jogged back toward his owner, his tail wagging and his mouth full of a treasure. When he reached Mrs. Smith, he dropped the object in his mouth. Mrs. Smith picked up the dog, ignoring the offering it had brought. I knelt down. The heavy web strap was once part of a man’s suspenders, the corroded buckle shiny and wet from the dog’s slobber.
“Don’t bother with it, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Smith said. “Spencer is always scrounging up rubbish.”
We all turned our attention back to Carl Browne, who had taken the opportunity of his lofty position to speak to the gathering. He told of his fruitless search for a new campsite.
“We don’t know where we will stay tomorrow night. Perhaps we’re going to camp in the Capitol grounds.”
“Like hell they will,” Chester Smith muttered under his breath. Senator Smith too was frowning.
Whether he heard Chester or not, Browne continued, “We’re going to carry this thing through to the end. Haven’t we done everything I said we would?”
“All except having a hundred thousand men to form the parade,” someone shouted angrily from the crowd.
“I didn’t say we’d have a hundred thousand men in line,” Browne replied. “I said there would be a hundred thousand people with us in Washington. Death to usury!” He shouted as he alighted from the wagon.
As Marshal Browne approached our group, my conscience and curiosity were at odds. Despite his shout of “Death to usury!” I was disappointed Browne wasn’t going to preach or give a sermon to the crowd. I knew we’d missed the Sunday sermon he’d given yesterday; I’d read about it in this morning’s paper. But still I had hoped for something . . . unusual. Having followed Carl Browne and the rest of Coxey’s marching army in the newspapers, I knew Marshal Browne to be notorious for his scandalous religion. He preached a unique form of Theosophy to which he’d converted Coxey when the two met at the World’s Fair last year. So I felt slightly cheated not to hear Browne expound on his peculiar theory of reincarnation wherein all human souls, upon death, entered a reservoir, which he called a huge cauldron, which contained a mixture of all the souls that had gone before. According to Carl Browne, each child born was given a soul made from this mixture and was therefore a fractional reincarnation of all the souls who had died before his birth. Shockingly, this included the soul of Christ. He claimed he and Coxey had been reincarnated with exceptionally large quantities of Christ’s soul. Moreover, he felt those who flocked to their standard had also been born with part of Christ’s soul, and thus together, they would bring a large part of Christ’s soul to bear on Washington for their cause. Hence the “He Is Alive” painted on the canvas wall and the name “The Commonweal of Christ,” which Coxey and Browne had christened their band of marching men.
At least I won’t have to go to confession to cleanse myself from hearing him preach, I thought.
Browne shook everyone’s hand equally, mine included, and welcomed us. But then he made his excuses as he had much to do before the march to the Capitol in the morning. He encouraged us to walk around, mingle with the men, and hear their stories. Maybe then, he hoped, we’d understand better the plight of the unemployed worker and the cause behind this “petition in boots.”
Senator Smith grumbled something under his breath about lack of respect, but then Claude Morris reminded him why they had come. “Quite right, Morris, let’s mingle,” the senator said.
We all spread out, me following Sir Arthur and Simeon Harper, Walter accompanying Sarah and Congressman Clayworth. Mr. Harper introduced Sir Arthur to several men he’d gotten to know over the course of his travels with the marchers. One man, once a butcher from Ohio, in the prime of his life, saw his wages cut in half every month until he had nothing left. His children survived only by working in the local mill while he marched. Another man, a blacksmith from Chicago, hadn’t found work since January and had seen his wife weaken and die of starvation.
“I once heard this advice to the jobless,” the blacksmith said. “ ‘Cheerfully and courageously do the best you can. Do not cry, commit suicide, or join Coxey’s Army.’ I couldn’t fathom the first two, so here I am.” He turned his head away as tears dripped down his cheeks.
Without being asked, I wrote down everything the men said, in shorthand, as though taking dictation, so as not to miss a word. I could easily imagine their stories being used in Sir Arthur’s next book. Despite having read the accounts of these men in the newspapers, it was still inspiring to meet them in person and hear their plight spoken in their own words. Sir Arthur was speaking to a man who had lost his job in a steel plant in Coxey’s hometown of Massillon, Ohio, days before the march began, when shouting drew our attention to a crowd surrounding Senator Smith. Mrs. Smith, Chester, and Claude Morris stood slightly behind the senator. Directly in front of him was the man with the misshapen nose, Jasper Neely, pumping his fist into the air.
“But don’t you see?” Mr. Neely’s shout rose above the din of the camp. “General Coxey’s Good Roads
project would put thousands of unemployed men back to work, building and repairing this great nation’s roads.” I’d read about Coxey’s Good Roads idea in the newspaper. It was the impetus behind the march, to convince Congress to fund it.
“That’s Jasper Neely,” Simeon Harper said to Sir Arthur. “He’s a character. You won’t want to miss this.”
With Harper in the lead, Sir Arthur and I made our way over. We arrived as Walter, Sarah, and Daniel Clayworth joined the crowd as well.
“I don’t think you quite appreciate our position, young man,” Senator Smith was saying.
“I don’t think that blockhead could understand anything,” Chester said to his father behind his hand. “Or any of these half-wits, for that matter.”
“You have a point, son,” Senator Smith replied under his breath. “Who else but a simpleton would walk from Ohio to complain about not having a job? If they put that much effort into finding employment, they’d have nothing to complain about.”
“Oh, I understand your position, Senator,” Mr. Neely said, too far away to have overheard the derogatory exchange. “You will argue the program is too expensive.”
“It is,” Senator Smith said.
I sympathized with Mr. Neely’s cause, the destitution of millions was undeniable, but his tactics reminded me too much of another, a labor reformer I’d met in Newport. Nothing good came of that man’s judgmental lectures. And I couldn’t see anything good coming from Mr. Neely’s demands either. Why do men insist on haranguing others about their cause and then resort to violence when their message is dismissed or ignored? Even women, at times, resorted to such measures; Mrs. Trevelyan had been infamous for smashing barrels of whiskey with hatchets in her protest against intemperance.
Will Coxey’s speech, if ignored, lead to the violent protest the government fears after all? I wondered.
“But don’t you think it’s too expensive for this country not to fund it?” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Now see, that’s exactly my point,” Neely said. “What costs more, the Good Roads project or allowing thousands of able-bodied men to languish in unemployment? Do you enjoy knowing their families starve because you won’t fund the Good Roads project, Senator?”
“But see here, son,” Senator Smith said.
As the argument continued, each man repeating his views without deviation, I grew disenchanted and glanced about me. And there she was. The woman I’d seen Simeon Harper speaking to Saturday morning—the madam, Lottie Fox. She was speaking with Carl Browne and a few others. Fascinated, I couldn’t keep from staring at her as she moved away and mingled throughout the camp, speaking with many of the men, all who were more respectful to her than I expected. Not that I had any experience with women who made their living doing what she did, but I had expected her to have a different reception. But then again she was the “veiled lady” after all, traveling with the men at times. Perhaps it was only her “girls” who interested the men in . . . that way, as she was a known follower of Carl Browne’s brand of religion.
Did she too think she had part of Christ’s soul? I suppressed the desire to make the sign of the cross at the very thought of it.
She slowly made her way toward the crowd surrounding the senator and Jasper Neely. I wondered what the others would do. If I hadn’t known who, or more precisely what, she was, I wouldn’t have doubted her respectability for a moment. Hopefully no one else would have cause to either.
She gave a nod of recognition when Simeon Harper tipped his hat at her. She walked right up behind Jasper Neely and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“And furthermore—” he shouted, his fist in the air. Madam Fox leaned close and whispered in his ear. He nodded reluctantly and lowered his arm, but he still clenched his fists. “Never mind,” he said. “We’ll see you all tomorrow on the Capitol steps!”
The men from the camp cheered while the senator and Chester Smith frowned and grumbled incoherent protests.
“When Hell freezes over,” Chester declared, unconcerned at being overheard. Jasper Neely, who had turned and was walking away, jerked his head in our direction, his lip curled in disgust. Madam Fox grabbed the man’s arm in an attempt to keep him by her side, but Jasper shook her off without a glance, took several large steps, and was inches from Chester Smith’s face before someone stronger than the madam grabbed his shoulder and stopped him.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Jasper Neely said, sneering. “You hangdog, you scapegrace.” The other women’s mouths gaped open at hearing such insults. I didn’t bat an eye. I’d heard my male employers, including Sir Arthur, use these and more.
“How dare you!” Chester Smith reared back his fist and punched Neely squarely in the face. Neely’s head snapped back as he fell.
“Chester!” Senator and Mrs. Smith cried simultaneously. Spencer barked.
As they pulled their son back, men pushed past to gather around the fallen figure of Jasper Neely, who glared at Chester from the ground.
“I’ll see you at the Capitol tomorrow, you son of a bitch, and there’s nothing you can do about it,” Neely said, blood streaming down his hand as he tried to stanch the flow from his nose. Lottie Fox knelt beside him and offered her handkerchief.
“There’s something I can do about it, all right, you bastard,” Chester said, shoving past his parents toward the fallen man. He raised his leg, intending to kick Neely, still prostrate on the ground. Simeon Harper leaped through the crowd, encircled Chester’s throat with his arm, and yanked him backward. Off-balance, Chester stumbled back, swearing vehemently under his breath.
“You’ve done enough damage already, don’t you think?” Simeon Harper whispered into the man’s ear but loud enough for those immediately around to hear.
“Let go of me, Harper,” Chester growled.
“I’m not just referring to your assault on Jasper,” the journalist continued calmly, as if he wasn’t in imminent danger of finding himself on the ground bleeding. “I’ve been investigating other stories that might interest you. Ever heard the name the National Bank of the Potomac?”
Chester drove the heel of his boot into Harper’s foot, causing the journalist to release his grip. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
“Harper, I forbid you to put this in the paper,” Senator Smith said.
“Don’t worry, Senator,” Harper said, shaking his injured foot. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But then again, I won’t have to.” He motioned with his arm to the crowd surrounding them. “Plenty of my colleagues here will do it for me.” Several men in brown derbies were frantically scribbling in their notebooks.
Was that a chuckle? Was Simeon Harper enjoying this? As I glanced at Sir Arthur, with his arms crossed against his chest and a frown on his face, I wondered how the two men could be friends.
“It’s time we leave,” Mrs. Smith said sensibly, as Jasper Neely was helped up and led away.
“Yes, this was a fiasco,” Senator Smith said.
“I can’t imagine how it could’ve gone worse,” Claude Morris muttered in agreement.
And then we heard the rumbling of another arriving carriage. We turned to the sound as a Grand Victoria made its way through the gates and pulled beside our excursion wagon. A familiar, young, energetic man leaped out almost before the carriage had come to a stop. A collective groan escaped Chester, Claude Morris, and Daniel Clayworth. Even Mrs. Smith’s smile faded briefly from her face.
“Abbott!” Senator Smith hissed.
“Well, gentlemen,” Daniel Clayworth said. “It seems you were wrong. It just got a whole lot worse.”
CHAPTER 12
“Well, hello, Meriwether. Hello, Daniel,” Senator Abbott said, in his distinctly Southern drawl. “And who are these lovely ladies?” He touched the rim of his black planter hat and tipped his head slightly.
Mrs. Smith rewarded him with one of her ever-present smiles. Sarah, more reserved, acknowledged him with a slight, quickly fading grin. Daniel Clayworth nodded curtly and the
n, with his arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulders, turned both of their backs as if something immensely more interesting were occurring on the vacant horse track. When the new arrival’s gaze met mine, I simply regarded him with curiosity, glancing at his plain white ball vest buttons until he looked away. Walter, who had been attending to Mr. Neely’s injuries, was suddenly at my side.
“Hello, Clarence,” Senator Smith said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“And why not? I voted in favor of the Good Roads initiative when it came up for a vote the first time. I’ve visited with General Coxey and Marshal Browne on several occasions. I’m the Populist here. It’s you who surprises me by your presence.”
“Why? I’m not against labor or farmers.”
“Really? Well, they will be most pleased to hear that.”
“You know what I mean, Abbott.”
“Yes, Meriwether. Unfortunately, I do know what you mean. As long as it doesn’t cost this country a cent, you’ll support anything.”
“The senator is also here at the bequest of a famous historian,” Claude Morris added, attempting to salvage Senator Smith’s image. Senator Smith nodded appreciatively at his clerk.
“Well, that at least is commendable,” Senator Abbott said. “History will be very interested in what happens here today and tomorrow.”
“Yes, he is my houseguest, and it was he who was keen to meet this grand army face-to-face,” Senator Smith said. “Ask Sir Arthur to join us, won’t you, Morris?”
Claude Morris navigated through the marchers, lounging about eating their dinner of bread, to Sir Arthur, who was halfway across the camp in conversation with Marshal Browne. Sir Arthur excused himself and came over.
“Sir Arthur Windom-Greene, may I introduce you to Senator Clarence Abbott,” Senator Smith said.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Arthur,” Senator Abbott said, thrusting out his hand.
“And I yours,” Sir Arthur said. “I saw you at the Senate session on Saturday. Do you happen to be related to Major Maurice Abbott of the First Regiment, North Carolina Cavalry, Ninth Regiment Volunteers?”
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