The American: A Middle Western Legend

by Howard Fast

  There were also hundreds and hundreds of policemen and Pinkerton operatives along the line of march, but when they saw this they stood quietly, put away the guns they had in their hands, and stared at the ground.

  For the workers were quiet. You could hear their breathing and you could hear the crunching tread of their feet, but there was no word you could hear. No one spoke; not the men, not the women, not even the children. Nor did any of the people who lined the streets break the silence.

  And still the workers came on. For an hour Altgeld stood there, and still they came, shoulder to shoulder, their faces like stone, the tears running slowly and unwiped. Another hour, yet there was no end to them; how many thousands had passed, he could not guess, nor could he guess how many thousands more were to come; but he knew one thing: that never before in the history of the land, not even when the most beloved of all leaders, Abe Lincoln, had died, was there such a funeral as this.

  PART THREE

  The First Variation

  On a clear, windy day, in the first part of March of 1893, a lawyer, Clarence Darrow by name, walked across the lawn in front of the Statehouse at Springfield, mounted the steps, entered, and in a firm and crisp tone announced that he desired to see the Governor. His manner was so preconceived and so intent that the Governor’s secretary, who knew Darrow, grinned and asked, as one well might, “Is something burning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does he expect you?”

  “He expects me,” Darrow said. “I phoned and told him I was coming. Won’t he see me?”

  “Sure he’ll see you. Catch your breath. Sit down.”

  Darrow seated himself in the reception room, and repeated over and over, in his mind, just what he intended to say. Lest his heat cool and his courage vanish, he enlarged upon what he had originally intended, and, still in his mind, he directed the conversation, phrase by phrase, to the conclusion he intended. All of this served to anger him, and when he was finally ushered into the Governor’s office, he felt more like a judge than a pleader at the bar. But the Governor, who had not long ago been a judge, smiled and extended his hand:

  “Good to see you, Clarence.”

  “Good to see you, sir,” he nodded, thinking that for one who had recently been ill, as the result of the most dynamic gubernatorial campaign the State of Illinois had ever known, Governor John Peter Altgeld looked surprisingly well, surprisingly fit, his blue eyes as alert as ever, his handshake as firm and as warm. As some said, he showed signs of age, signs of the recurrent bouts of malaria he constantly faced, and there were streaks of gray in his beard; but there was no doubting the fact that he was one of those men whom age improved, at least in physical appearance, and Darrow could well understand the pleasure so many got from simply looking at that face of his; but, perversely, this too increased the lawyer’s annoyance, and though Darrow was less than ten years younger than the Governor, who was forty-five, he felt like an indignant boy before a very mature man—the more so when Altgeld said:

  “I thought this might be a social call, but it isn’t, is it, Clarence?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Business?”

  “You might call it that.”

  “Well, sit down then. You want a cigar?”

  “No. I’d rather stand.”

  “All right.”

  The Governor sat behind his desk. Staring at the edge of the desk, not at the Governor, Darrow said, “It’s about the Haymarket people, about Fielden and Schwab and Neebe.”

  “Is it? What about them?” Just the trace of an edge had come into the Governor’s voice, not too much; he liked Darrow; he liked him immensely, though not entirely as a friend; those who knew the Governor well also knew that he had very few friends in the real sense of the word.

  “They’re still in jail,” Darrow said.

  “I know they’re in jail.”

  “This isn’t pleasant for me,” Darrow said, still avoiding the Governor’s eyes. “It’s no more pleasant for me than it is for you. But maybe someone has to remind you.”

  “Remind me of what?” the Governor asked.

  “Of the fact,” Darrow rushed on, “that thousands of us voted for you for governor because it was understood that you would pardon these three men. It’s three months since you took office—”

  “How was it understood?” Altgeld asked. “I don’t seem to have understood it.”

  Darrow reacted quickly and antagonistically; his face and eyes told the Governor as much as words.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Altgeld said. He was keeping his own temper in leash. “Before you write me off as a Judas, recall what I said. I said I’ll look into this. I said I’ll examine the case of the anarchists. Don’t pull a knight in armor on me; I know how you feel about this. You’re in a good spot to feel that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if and when I pardon those three men, the world will fall down around my ears.”

  “I don’t agree with that,” Darrow said.

  “No? You come storming in here to tell me what you do and don’t agree with. I made no promises! What you thought—my God, I sit and listen, and I ought to throw you to hell out!”

  “All right,” Darrow said. “All right. Throw me out.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Sit down. Talk sense.”

  Darrow said, “Sit down and talk sense, yes. Sit down and be made to feel like a damn fool for coming in here and walking where the angels fear to tread. Why don’t you remind me what an ungrateful swine I am? Who started me in politics—Altgeld. Who put me where I am now—Altgeld.”

  “I wasn’t going to remind you. Only of the fact that I never promised to pardon the anarchists. That’s all. I never promised. I’ll look into the case. Then I’ll do what I think should be done.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, that’s all. Damn it all, Clarence, don’t be an idiot. Don’t talk to me about justice. Those men are in jail for the same reason Parsons and the others died, because it suits the best interests of a lot of very powerful gentlemen. I knew that five years ago; should I be more ignorant of it now that I’m Governor? Should I throw away everything I’ve fought for, hoped for, dreamed of because you have a sentimental ax to grind?”

  “Everyone would support you—”

  “Don’t be a fool! No one will support me.”

  “The people elected you.”

  “What kind of drivel are you talking? If there’s one thing on God’s earth that I know by now, it’s politics. So don’t extend your homilies to me. When Cregier was elected mayor, and you as a result of that election got your job with the city, it was not the people of Chicago who elected him, but me—on my own. Do I have to repeat the lesson for you? I made the Anti-Machine Ticket; I created it; I paid for it, five thousand dollars and cheap at the price; and I did it because I hate Roche’s guts. So don’t give me lessons in politics or in political morality. Parsons believed in morality, and he is dead as a doornail.”

  “I see,” Darrow nodded.

  “You don’t see a devil of a lot,” Altgeld said.

  II

  Yet he smarted after Clarence Darrow had gone. The young fool, to come in like that, to presume! To do it like a knight crusader, and to walk out with righteous indignation cloaking him! Childish as it was, Altgeld counted score against Darrow; by what right did he presume? He, Darrow, was a corporation lawyer; his interest in the three Haymarket suvivors was romantic and idealistic, while the very people he served had originally led the blood hunt; yet he dared to speak of understandings. There was no understanding, the Governor repeated to himself; my hands are clean; they knew what they were getting: they were getting a politician who could bring the party into Springfield.

  Sitting at his desk now, in the Governor’s office, he put the label of politician on himself unashamedly. He had learned a trade, and he had learned it well, and he had no illusions, and he had a measure of contempt for those who live
d by illusions. It often took a long time for a man to see things clearly, but when at last he saw them clearly, if his stomach was strong enough, he could go a long way, a remarkably long way.

  As long as the road John Peter Altgeld had traveled; and where that road ended he still did not know, whether in the United States Senate, or in the cabinet, or in some other place equally high and equally hollow; for after a point, it ceased to be a process of selling out. The ethic and the morality were laid aside; you played the game within its framework, and within that framework it could even be pleasant and life could present a good many compensations. It could have the tense excitement of his triumph over Mayor Roche of Chicago, where, single-handed, he had split the regular ticket, set up a completely opportunist liberal ticket, handpicked his lesser candidates, second-rate reformers who had no chance of election, and then headed his ticket with the regular party candidate he supported. Twelve thousand of the liberal Chicago votes fell for his “anti-machine” bait, and voted for the machine candidate he supported. And when it was over, only a dozen men in Chicago knew that Pete Altgeld had pulled the strings; but the dozen men were important, and the tribute they paid him, over their cigars, in their clubs, and in the back rooms where whisky mingled with rewards, was worth more than a million dollars in cold cash. As to the price of his revenge on Mayor. Roche, that could not be estimated; for Roche had committed the worst kind of betrayal that a man in Altgeld’s circle could commit—he had fought and exposed Altgeld on a small piece of the mountain of spoils each and every politician concerned with Chicago squeezed out of its citizens.

  III

  Leaning back in his leather seat after Clarence Darrow had left, Altgeld turned over in his mind the case of these three men, Neebe, Fielden, and Schwab, three men in prison who remained as a gnawing echo of the famous, or perhaps infamous, Haymarket bombing. Do as he would, Darrow’s attack had an effect on him; and what Darrow had said was in the thoughts of many others.

  A long time ago, his wife had said that this Haymarket thing was like a sickness pervading all of Chicago, yet when the men died the sickness was not, as so many thought, cured. Not only did three living reminders remain in prison, but the presence of Parsons, dead though he was, would not leave Chicago. Parsons lived in the stonegray faces of the men who had marched in his funeral; he lived in the badly printed circulars; he lived in the picket lines, becoming more and more common in Chicago; he lived in his wife too. It would have been romantic to say that Altgeld dwelled over-heavily on Parsons, once Parsons was dead; the Judge was a busy man, a successful man, a rich man; as he was fond of telling his friends, he lived a very full life. But now and again, that dark, handsome face intruded, and since no words were spoken, no accusations made, Judge Altgeld could not beat it down as he had beaten down those others who opposed him.

  Three times, too, in the six years gone by, he had met Lucy Parsons. That was not strange, since Lucy Parsons, after her husband’s death, became as much a part of Chicago as the dirty streets, the unspeakable slums, and the packing houses. Her dark face, aged considerably, became more Indian-like than ever; and she hid her sorrow under a tight, pain-drawn mask.

  The first time Altgeld met her, he did not know who she was, but stopped on the street, his attention arrested by the intense face of the woman as well as by what she was saying. She wore an old and ragged man’s coat which was fastened at the throat with a large blanket-pin. Her hair was wrapped in a kerchief, and the sole of one shoe was held on by a piece of string. Next to her was a small wooden stand, piled high with books. It was a cold winter’s day, with twilight hard by, and the few people on the streets were hurrying to the warmth of their homes and families. But the title on the books caught Altgeld’s eye, and that, in conjunction with the woman’s words, “Justice shall not perish from the earth while a spark of courage remains—” made him pause and pick one up. The title of the book was Life of Albert R. Parsons.

  “How much is it?” he asked.

  “A dollar. But take more than one. Take more than one and strike a blow for freedom. Give it away.”

  He got a dollar out of his wallet, but when the woman saw the rich leather, the gold corners, the fat stack of bills inside, her face changed. She gave him the book and said no more, except to answer him, when he asked wasn’t she Mrs. Parsons, with:

  “Yes, I’m his wife.”

  He tried to give her five dollars; and when she refused it, he found himself walking away very quickly. At home, he glanced through the book. Published by Lucy Parsons—how, with what funds, he could not imagine—it was a compilation of Parsons’ writings, newspaper articles, letters and speeches, along with some comments and poems certain friends had sent her. He read only fragments of it, yet two parts remained in his mind. The first was the dedication of the book, to Parsons by his wife: “This book is lovingly dedicated to the sacred memory of one whose only crime was that he lived in advance of his time, my beloved husband, companion and comrade, Albert R. Parsons.” The other part that Altgeld remembered so vividly was the facsimile reproduction of Parsons’ last letter to his children, both what it said and the amazing gentleness of the handwriting; for, as he remarked almost shamefacedly to Emma, in the very manner in which the letters were formed was something close to a benediction apart from these words:

  Dungeon No. 7

  Cook County Jail

  Chicago, Ill., Nov. 9th, 1887

  To my Darling, Precious Children:

  Albert R. Parsons Jr. and his sister,

  Lulu Eda Parsons:

  As I write this word I blot your names with a tear. We never meet again. Oh, my children, how deeply, dearly your Papa loves you. We show our love by living for our loved ones, we also prove our love by dying, when necessary, for them. Of my life and the cause of my unnatural and cruel death, you will learn from others. Your Father is a self-offered Sacrifice upon the Altar of Liberty and Happiness. To you, I leave; the legacy of an honest name and duty done. Preserve it, emulate it. Be true to yourselves, you cannot then be false to others. Be industrious, sober and cheerful. Your mother! Ah, she is the grandest, noblest of women. Love, honor and obey her.

  My children, my precious ones, I request you to read this parting message on each recurring anniversary of my Death in remembrance of him who dies not alone for you, but for the children yet unborn. Bless you, my Darlings. Farewell.

  Your Father, Albert R. Parsons.

  Emma, however, was not impressed by this letter, and Altgeld, though he read it to himself a dozen times over, did not press his feelings on his wife. Out of his childlessness, children became a mystery; he stopped to look at them in the streets, and he was very good with his friends’ children; but sometimes, when he thought too much about them, they gave him a sensation of woeful emptiness, and he half suspected that emptiness was present in a far more cutting way in Emma.

  His second meeting with Lucy Parsons came shortly after the first. In the early spring of that year, 1889, he was asked to address the Economic Conference Forum on the subject of Prison Reform. That was fitting, for who was better informed than the author of Our Penal Machinery and its Victims? It was in such a mood that Altgeld came to the meeting, in a mood of liberal determination, his mind made up that he would speak forthrightly and plainly, saying what he thought, the newspapers be damned. He half expected to be the scapegoat of the affair, to emerge through a welter of bitter editorials the following day; and he had learned that such editorials on such a subject generally did more good than harm; but it turned out quite differently, and instead of being the scapegoat he became the hero of the next day’s press. A group of labor people were in the audience, and when the discussion began, Lucy Parsons got the floor and demanded:

  “Judge Altgeld!”

  “Yes?”

  “Judge Altgeld, will you deny that your jails are filled with the children of the poor, not the children of the rich? Will you deny that men steal because their bellies are empty? Will you dare to state that any of
these lost sisters you speak of enjoy going to bed with ten and twenty miserable men in one night and having their insides burn like they were branded?”

  A storm of protest broke out; cries of “Disgraceful!” and “Disgusting!” came from all over the hall. A parson rose, waving his umbrella wildly and calling for the floor. Others hissed. But Judge Altgeld, as the papers pointed out the following day, acted admirably. He spread his arms and quelled the tumult. He demanded order and imposed it. He said, “A lady has the floor. Can we condemn courtesy by showing ourselves so discourteous?” And then, turning to Mrs. Parsons, he said, “Please finish your statement, Mrs. Parsons, and then, if you wish, I will answer you.”

  So it was the notorious Lucy Parsons! The hall hushed, and Mrs. Parsons, who had remained on her feet, went on:

  “What is the approach of you who talk reform, preach reform, and make a sleigh of reform upon which you will ride into heaven? How do you solve things? Judge Altgeld advocates gray suits for the prisoners instead of striped suits. He advocates constructive work, good books, and large, clean cells. Rightly enough, he says that the hardened criminal should be kept apart from the first offender. Being a judge himself, I am not surprised that he talks so much of justice, for even if a thing is nowhere present, it is good that it should be discussed. No, I am not attacking Judge Altgeld. I am with him when he talks of the horror of clubbing. I know. I was clubbed, not once but many times. I bear the scars. But I will not rise to your reform bait. This is your society, Judge Altgeld; you helped to build and create it, and it is this society that makes the criminal. A woman becomes a prostitute because it’s a little better than dying of hunger. A man becomes a thief because your system turns him into an outlaw. He sees your ethics, which are the ethics of wild beasts, and yet you jail him because he uses those ethics. And if the workers unite to fight for food, for a better way of life, you jail them too. And the sop to your conscience is reform, always reform. No, so long as you preserve this system and its ethics, your jails will be full of men and women who choose life to death, and who take life as you force them to take it, through crime.”