The American: A Middle Western Legend

by Howard Fast

  “I think that even if Bryan loses, you’ll still be Governor of Illinois.”

  “If Bryan loses, I lose too. Let’s face it, Buck, the ticket isn’t going to win here and lose the rest of the country. Well, that suits me. Emma will tell you—it suits me just fine. I’ve had enough, Buck. If I’m licked today, I’m licked. My ears are pinned back, and I’ll leave them right there. This is a dirty, rotten game we’re in, and no matter how you fight it, it’s still dirty. I want to wash my hands of it. I want to pay off my debts and go away. My word, Buck, I’ve never been out of this country, if you don’t count the few months when I was on my way here. I want to see things; I want to relax.”

  “We’ve still got a chance.”

  “What kind of a chance, Buck? I saw Bathhouse John. He knows. He’s got a scent like a hound dog. You know what he said, he said this is just what comes of trying to mix politics and good government. And, by God, he’s not so wrong.”

  “I still think we got a chance.”

  “So do I. But not a hell of a big one.”

  V

  For a short while after Hinrichsen left, they were alone, and Altgeld went into the bedroom to lie down. Emma had drawn the shades; it was dark and warm and comfortable, and stretched out there, he was able to let his thoughts wander without any special attempt at cohesion. Vagrant thoughts, old ones and new ones. In his own mind, he felt that the election was lost, and as one does, he thought of the mistakes they had made, how they could have done things differently. If only Bryan had stood fast! If only he had answered charges with counter-charges! If only he had fought! But he didn’t know how to fight; accused of socialism, he had denied it; accused of being pro-labor, he had denied it; accused of being against the reactionary supreme court, he had denied that too; he denied being anti-trust, anti-business, anti-labor, and in the end he was nothing but a golden voice that talked on and on of free silver. Well, that was the way, and now it was over. His own gubernatorial campaign had lagged a bad second, and he found himself accepting, very calmly, the fact of his personal defeat. He had come into that frame of mind slowly, and he wondered how he would react to the one chance in ten of victory—to go back to Springfield for four more long and trying years. He had pleaded with Sam McConnell to accept the gubernatorial nomination, but McConnell knew better. But McConnell wouldn’t have been any more successful. If he, Pete Altgeld, only knew why—why would the people not rally to a concept of decency and honesty—if it was that? If there were men of good will and firm purpose, the system had to work; it had worked in the past; there were other changes, and somehow the country went on and became firmer and stronger. It had to happen now. Certain men today were richer, more powerful than any who had lived in the past, and it was only natural that they should buy their way into the government. But was it their government—was it their country, body and soul? He had a quick, frightened vision of Rockefeller, Morgan, Pullman and the rest of them—laughing, laughing uproariously at the antics of the middle-country bumpkins, of the naive followers of Abe Lincoln and Andrew Jackson, a pell-mell rabble that presumed to take over this union of states. Ten million dollars sloshing in the middle of a barrel, and a memory of Banker Walsh, who held some notes of his, saying to him, “This party of yours is a phase, Altgeld. When you’re ready to talk sense, let us know. You don’t run a political campaign on a few hundred thousand, and there’s enough money for all, I assure you. Make things easy for yourself; don’t worry about those notes. The Republican Party is only too glad to see money go to the Democrats, in reasonable amounts, of course, but they have to be assured that you stand for the same things we do. You’re laboring under a misconception of democracy, Altgeld; a democratic election is a contest between individuals, but for the health of this country, both parties must have certain understandings with business.…”

  He heard voices outside and sat up, kneading his eyes with his fists. It was better not to think too much today. He heard small voices, and when he went outside, Emma’s friend, May Wilson, was there, with her two little girls, one five, one seven.

  May Wilson said, “I thought that here it would be like a madhouse today.”

  “It will be, it’s still too early.”

  “The reporters were here this morning, and we got rid of them,” Emma said. “But they’ll be back. How do you feel, Pete?”

  “I feel good,” he smiled.

  In a little while, he was sitting on the floor with the two small girls. They were fascinated by his beard. “Daddy has a mustache but no beard. You got a nice beard. You got a beautiful beard.” “I never thought of it as being very beautiful, but I suppose it is a nice beard.” “Very nice, very, very nice.” That was the younger one; the older one didn’t think it was polite to discuss personalities, and told her sister so. She said, “Do you know stories. Could you tell us a story?” So he told them the tale of the princess who lived on a glass hill, and how many horses and brave young men tried to ride up that slope. But it was the end of peace for that day.

  VI

  Joe Martin came after the two children had gone; he came up straight from the South Side, burning. “Strongarm methods,” he said. “They got Pinkertons covering the polls. It isn’t enough that they had a rumor going around about a blacklist, they’re out there writing down names, or pretending to. They’re intimidating anyone whose looks they don’t like; anyone in old clothes, off the line.”

  “John said Hennessy would be there.”

  “I spoke to John. He says, do you want a riot?”

  “I want a riot! You’re god-damned right I want a riot! You get Hennessy there and instruct him to vote everyone, everyone. And if he needs men, tell John to put a hundred or two hundred on the spot. They’re testing it early, and it’s not going to work.”

  “The Pinkertons are armed.”

  “Tell him to arm our men—wait a minute!” Martin was on his way to the phone. “Get hold of Buck Hinrichsen—he may be at the Sherman House. I’m going to call out the militia if necessary—I’ll put this whole damn state under martial law.”

  In a little while, he was on the phone to Hinrichsen. Two reporters from the Inter-Ocean and one from the Tribune came in. Emma pressed cigars and drinks on them. An artist from the News appeared and pleaded, could he draw the Governor? Just a single sketch? “All right,” Altgeld said, “all right.” Sam McConnell sauntered through the door and stood there, grinning. Altgeld dropped into a chair. The reporters began to hammer away, joined now by a telegraph correspondent of the New York Herald.

  “Would you say that you are confident, Governor?”

  “Of course, I’m confident.”

  “They say that in New York Mark Hanna is taking all money, six to one, on a McKinley landslide. What do you think of that?”

  “What do I think of that? Why, gentlemen, if I had a ten-million-dollar slush fund, I’d be in the betting business too. And since it’s Morgan’s money, why, gentlemen, what does Hanna stand to lose?”

  “Will you comment on the bad feeling between you and Mark Hanna, Governor?”

  “Bad feeling? I wouldn’t call it that. You know, gentlemen, I’ve worked with a lot of political bosses and I’ve fought some of them too. They’re like other folks. Sometimes, they’re very decent. Sometimes, they’re thorough going scoundrels. I’ll leave it to you to decide where Mark Hanna belongs.”

  A late arrival, the correspondent of Harper’s Weekly, asked caustically, “Do you believe that Mark Hanna would be as much of a power in the White House if McKinley wins as you will be if Bryan wins?”

  “If Bryan wins, young man, I intend to be the Governor of Illinois, no more, no less.”

  “Governor, Hanna is charging you directly with being an anarchist and a socialist. Will you comment?”

  “Well, being neither, I’m not too well learned on the subject. I’m not sure one could be both of them at the same time—you know, they charge me with being a communist too—and maybe I’m all three, if you consider that a man wh
o put up some of the finest office buildings in Chicago is that.”

  “Do you approve of socialism, Governor?”

  “I disapprove of government by the trusts, by injunction, by terror and murder. Only my enemies raise the question of socialism in this election. Read through our party’s platform, gentlemen, and see whether you find the word socialism there.”

  “Governor, is it true that there are differences between you and Bryan?”

  “Young man, are you married?”

  The reporter nodded.

  “And are there no differences between you and your wife? Well, a party’s like a family.”

  He took them like that, parrying, stroking, cajoling, and sometimes attacking savagely, for the next half hour. More reporters came in and out. The artist from the News finished his sketch. Schilling entered and whispered to McConnell, who glanced at Altgeld. The Governor nodded.

  “All right, gentlemen,” McConnell said. “This is election day, you know.”

  They filed out. Martin was still inside, hanging over the telephone. Clarence Darrow entered, followed by a waiter who pushed a table of cold meats, hot soup and beer. No one spoke until the waiter had gone, except Emma, who, filling plates, ladling soup into cups, said, “Please eat. This is going to be one of those days. So you might as well eat.”

  Schilling shook his head sadly, so sadly that Altgeld laughed to see his face. McConnell said, “I’m glad someone can laugh. George has a beauty, oh, a genuine beauty,”

  “What is it?” Altgeld demanded. “It gets to a point where it can’t be worse. What is it now?”

  “Tell him, George.”

  Schilling sipped at his soup and watched Altgeld. He began apologetically. “I got a message from Debs that he wanted to see me. Gene Debs, you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “It’s a very simple thing, and they did it very quietly. Debs began to get word of it last night, and I’ve been checking this morning. I checked New York, Cleveland, San Francisco, and St. Louis. Debs had word from Pittsburgh and from Philadelphia and from Portland. Then three cities in upstate New York. Now, today, Newark in New Jersey. So that makes it almost all over, doesn’t it? From that you would—”

  “What the devil are you talking about, George?” Altgeld demanded.

  “They closed the. factories early. I thought you heard. Sometimes an hour early, sometimes two hours, in some places they only worked half a day. I’m not exaggerating. Hundreds of shops were closed down. In some places, they were frank, just as open about it as they could be. They put up signs—“If Bryan is elected, this plant will remain closed.” In other places, they were more quiet. So they did it by passing around the word ‘Bryan is elected and you don’t have to come back. The shop stays closed.’ Maybe not those exact words, but always the implication was the same.”

  “It’s a bluff,” Darrow said. “It’s just a damn bluff.”

  “It’s a beauty,” McCohnell sighed. “In all my life, I never heard of one like that. It’s a beauty, all right.”

  “Of course, it’s, a bluff,” Altgeld agreed. “Suppose you try to explain to a million workers that it’s just a bluff. George, do you think it was coordinated?”

  “Can there be any doubt? It’s not only coordinated, it is Mark Hanna. Pete, that’s a smart fellow, that’s maybe the most dangerous man in America.”

  “I suppose it is coordinated. What were those cities, New York, Pittsburgh, San Francisco—?”

  Schilling went through the rest, numbering them off carefully on his fingers. McConnell pushed away his plate. “I’ve got no appetite,” he said.

  “Is it legal?” Darrow asked.

  “If McKinley wins, it’s damn well going to be legal. I don’t know. If we could prove conspiracy—no, no, we’d never be able to prove it. If a man closes down his plant, he’s within the law, isn’t he? That’s what we recognize, isn’t it? The right of one man to dictate the fate of a plant that produces more than the whole country did a hundred years ago. If he closes it down and fifty thousand men are out of work, well, that’s his business. Who’s going to challenge it?”

  “But it’s the dirtiest trick that’s ever been pulled in any campaign.”

  “The smartest, too,” McConnell nodded.

  “What did Debs say?” Altgeld asked.

  “He’s been up all night, telegraphing, sending out men, trying to work through the unions. But it’s an impossible job. It’s too late. Debs though also that it was impossible. Debs—”

  His voice trailed away. Debs had said to him, “Schilling, this is the cleanest lesson in economics that I ever had. This makes me a socialist; other things, yes, but until the day I die, I won’t forget this. Quietly, they took over the government; quietly, they made it plain to the people that they are the government. Tell Altgeld I’ll fight, but it’s no use, not one god-damned bit of use. His way is no good. Tell him that. Tell him that he’s chasing a rainbow. Or leave him alone, and he’ll wake up tomorrow and have the answer.”

  VII

  Telegrams, messengers, more reporters, ward-workers, long-distance calls, more telegrams, consultations when it was too late for consultation, frantic appeals at a time when some precincts had already closed their boxes and proceeded to count. If any man was removed from innocence in politics, it was John Peter Altgeld; he knew that ballot boxes were stuffed; he knew the workings as well as the principles of election-day resurrection, where a thousand cemeteries gave up their dead of five generations past; he knew of the countless infant fatalities who somehow grew to sufficient maturity to become loyal party voters; he knew of the birth certificates forged for numberless ghosts who had no existence outside of the ward-heeler’s file; he even knew the mechanics of such mundane and plug-ugly methods as Bathhouse John practiced, those of loading brewery wagons with bums and thugs, and voting them all day long, round and round the city; he even knew how much laudanum was necessary to load a watcher’s coffee, so that he would watch no more, and he was not ignorant of that fact that while votes, by and large, cost five dollars apiece, among certain sections of the population votes could be bought for two dollars, and the contents of a municipal jail could be voted at fifty cents a head. He had seen elections where, out of a total electorate of one hundred thousand, each party had voted twice that number, and he also knew that a conservative politician marked off at least one seventh of the national vote as being fraudulent. This was a part of American democracy, and it was practiced by both parties with equal efficiency although not with equal funds; and it was taken for granted by everyone except very small children and a few maiden ladies.

  But in this election there were new refinements that made the fumbling and tradition-bound efforts of Bathhouse John seem completely adolescent. It was a step forward when Pinkertons were hired to promote riots in Bryan meetings with stinkbombs and smokebombs and wild screams and when the newspapers created daily false stories of anarchist assassinations; but even that was unorganized in terms of the insurance and bank scheme. Rumors of this trickled in for weeks before election day; but the farm population was widespread; communications were bad; and while the farmers were almost wholly for Bryan they could not be either reached or organized either by their granges or populist committees in the same terms in which the workers were organized and reached through the trade unions. So, at first, when one farmer told the story of having his fire insurance canceled because of the possibility of Bryan’s election, it was shrugged off; but when farmer after farmer reported the same thing, the shape of a national campaign became apparent; but the full shape of it was not realized until a few hours after Altgeld had heard of the closed-shop technique: then Dreyer, the same who had delivered the pardon message, called and said he had to see him. Dose said the Governor was busy; busy was a small word; actually, the suite had become a madhouse by that time. But Altgeld said, “Let him come up. One more won’t matter.” But he mattered; he pulled Altgeld into a corner and told him about the banks. More than fou
r hundred banks were involved, and they were demanding all call loans and overdue mortgages. They had timed their demands for today and tomorrow and along with the demands had gone the information that both loans and mortgages would be extended if McKinley were elected president. The majority of the banks involved—and there might be hundreds more, for all Dreyer knew—stretched right across the corn and hog belt and into the south, like a girdle over the grange and populist territory, where Bryan was strongest. “I wanted you to know,” Dreyer said, wiping the sweat from his face, nervous, possessed of a shame that seemed as much of him as his skin. “I’m not for your man, but I’m not for this. What in God’s name is a free vote, if you tell a man that when his candidate comes in, he’s going to lose his farm and everything else he owns?” “I don’t know what a free vote is,” Altgeld said, “but thank you for telling me.” “Well, I’m glad I told you. It’s in confidence, you understand, Governor?” “In confidence, of course.”

  VIII

  Toward evening, it began to quiet down. Only Darrow, Schilling, Martin, and McConnell were left. An hour before, Altgeld had told his secretary, “Bill, it’s washed out. We haven’t a chance in a million. So you might as well get down to Springfield and catch up on my work. Emma wants to go right back there; I don’t blame her.”

  A Tribune reporter had asked him if he intended to stay up all night for the returns. “I have no doubt about the returns,” he smiled. “I intend to sleep.” He said as much to McConnell, and that old friend of his nodded. “You’re right, Pete. We’ve got nothing to celebrate.” “Except that we’ve learned something.” “Maybe we have and perhaps we haven’t. This isn’t the last election, Pete. Every four years, something like this will happen. Perhaps they’ll take the simple way and run Jack and Jill; but if they try to buck it, do you think they’ll do better than we did?” “If I knew what we were bucking.”