And now a few more came into the line.
“It’s taking hold,” Lee said.
He saw Joe Ptak grab two fellows bodily and shove them toward the line. The fellows drew back and said something, and Lee could see the hard uncompromising gesture of Joe’s rejection. He should be out there with Joe, he thought. That was where he belonged. Then he saw a tiny group of a dozen or more come from between the cars and move toward the rear of the line.
“Some more are coming—” He broke off as he read the forward placard : “The Communist Party Supports Labor!”
His thoughts ran bitter. After all that they had done to undermine the campaign, they would come! While the rank and file trembled in the indecision they had helped inspire, they themselves would be on hand. They must be seen. It must be known. It was the line—not right, but revolution !
Words of Rosie’s tugged at his memory and cut loose his thoughts in strange omniscience. “Time, and the profound progression of materialistic change, will make all men communists.” And from some minor chord of memory echoed its root in Marx, “The victory of the proletariat is inevitable.” It struck him as a funny time to recall it.
“Keep on, Smitty, you’re doing good!” he said aloud.
“In union there is strength,” Smitty began again. “Without a union, you are helpless. It is too easy to cut wages of unorganized employees. It is too easy to ignore or violate seniority rules. It is too easy to misuse the speed-up. This is true, whether your particular employer is a basically fair employer, or basically unfair to labor. Without a union, even the fair employer, under pressure from without, will make mistakes costly to his employees and costly in the long run to himself and the industry. Vote for your union. It is the only practical step you can take today toward bettering your present condition and safeguarding your future—”
But if the rally failed, they would not vote the union in, Lee Gordon knew. These workers would not vote for failure.
His flitting, hunted gaze picked Rosie from the crowd and watched him stand at the edge of the parking lot and look about. He knew that Rosie was looking for him. From where he knelt within the truck, he could see the disappointment come into Rosie’s face when he failed to find him there. And now he wondered what effect his arrest would have on Rosie. It would probably cause him to perjure himself into prison. And this was what he had for everyone it seemed—the Gorgon touch.
“In the midst of this war for justice and liberty—” the voice of Smitty carried on. “For fraternity and equality—we bring you the manifestation of the democracy for which we fight—”
But through Lee Gordon’s mind kept running one refrain. What was this thing that made meaning ? This thing that brought change? What could he do for all these people who had befriended him ?—for Ruth ? for the union ? for Rosie’s simple faith in him ? What could he do to avoid the hurt he held in store for them ?
Overhead the metallic voice blared persistently : “What do you want ?—a job ? security ? the right to live decently ? to live without fear ? to educate your children ? to fulfill your democratic heritage ? Your union offers you this future!”
And what future had Lee Gordon ever offered anyone? Lee Gordon thought.
Smitty glanced at his watch. “It’s past time for Joe to start.”
“He’s starting now,” Lee said as he saw Joe Ptak step to the head of the line.
“Let’s hope, Lee, let’s hope, boy.” Now Smitty leaned toward the microphone with new life in his voice, “Line up, brothers! Line up ! March for your union !—”
Lee saw the deputy sheriffs close in before the line of workers.
“Have no fear. You have the right to march. The law says yes f—”
For a moment the tableau held, two suspended lines caught in that moment of time. It seemed suddenly like a battlefield before the battle has begun, with two opposing forces arrayed against each other. Lee sensed the drama of the moment. It made him bite down into his lip and tightly clench his fists. Then suddenly in that telescoped instant in history the zero hour sounded on which the future of the world might hang.
But what kept ringing in Lee Gordon’s mind like some forgotten liberty bell was not the words of Rosie nor the words of Marx, but the words of Jesus Christ: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”
Then Joe Ptak began to move. In one hand he carried a long-handled union banner. The other hand hung free. His iron-gray head bobbed slightly above the indomitable hunch of his shoulders. Behind him the others began to move. A slight wave of motion swept across the parking lot, stirring the first faint signs of action. The deputies shifted on their feet. One drew his gun, then quickly holstered it. Each stark detail showed with photographic clarity in the California sun.
Lee saw a deputy step into the path of Joe Ptak. He recognized the face of Walter. He saw Walter put out his white-gloved hand and push Joe in the chest. He saw Joe brush Walter aside with one uncompromising motion. He saw the moment hold again as if all time was tangible. A cold chill tingled down his spine. He felt his mouth getting big inside from the explosion of air, felt his muscles getting tight clear up from his feet.
He saw Walter swing at Joe with a blackjack. He saw Joe duck, still holding to the banner, and with his one free hand knock Walter down. He saw the workers behind Joe move up. He saw the other deputies close in from all directions. He saw the tide begin to break from the parking lot.
“He’s done it! He’s done it!”
He saw the deputies club a worker across the head, knock another down, and kick still another in the face. For as long as he could hold his breath, the scene was lost in motion. Then he saw the workers back up from the deputies’ assault, saw them break away, and saw the tide from the parking lot slow down and halt. He saw the deputies quickly draw their guns. He felt his hands getting wet with sweat.
Now he saw Joe Ptak alone and deserted in the street, fighting all of the deputies at once. He saw a deputy stand directly behind Joe and swing a long night stick down across Joe’s skull. His eyes followed Joe’s staggering recoil from the impact of the blow, and saw him catch his balance, shake his head, and bore back in.
He heard the workers scream curses and yell threats, and saw the tide surge down from the parking lot.
He saw the line of deputies quickly form again, saw the blue-steel gleam of many guns in the bright sunlight, and saw the tide of workers halt before what looked like certain death.
But alone in the street Joe Ptak fought on. Lee Gordon saw the sticks descend again and again across his skull until it did not seem that a man of flesh and bone could stand. But Joe kept fighting and taking his toll.
Lee Gordon felt so great an admiration for this one man’s gallant stand that it tore him up inside. “Fight ‘em, Joe, goddamnit, fight ‘em!” It filled him with an exaltation to be on this man’s side, and now he was with him in heart and body and soul. And when Joe went down to his knees from the weight of the blows, Lee Gordon went down too; and when Joe still fought back on his knees, Lee Gordon fought beside him and felt each separate blow.
The spectacle of this unconquerable man sealed the workers in awed silence. Nor could Lee Gordon find time to breathe.
He saw Joe get to his feet again and turn, and now he could see the streams of blood down Joe’s face as he fought on without thought of ever quitting. He saw the final blow and saw Joe fall as some mighty oak. And even as brutal a man as Walter could not find the villainy to kick Joe in the face, which was the expected thing.
Now Lee’s eyes went down the ragged line of workers to see who might come to Joe Ptak’s aid. No one moved. But they did not look defeated, only poised, held on that breath of indecision. It needed but a spurring-on, a calling-out, an incident to set it off.
Suddenly in that tense line of watching workers his gaze came upon the face of Ruth, and it claimed his whole attention. She was pressing forward desperately toward the front where the fighting had taken place. He saw Rosie head her off, s
aw them standing there, and saw their eyes search the crowd for him once more. He looked quickly away from the thoughts that showed in their actions.
Now he saw the deputies rolling the unconscious body of Joe Ptak over on his back.
“Take that man to the hospital!”
The metallic voice from overhead ran shock down through his skull. He felt his eyes jumping as next he saw the deputies cross Joe Ptak’s legs and stick the handle of the union banner in his crotch so that it stood erect. There was blood on the banner now—and blood on Joe’s hard, uncompromising face, looking up from the pavement of the street, down but undefeated.
He looked back at Ruth and saw the agitation in her face, the worry and concern. And he could not help thinking of what it would do to her—the degradation and dishonor, a woman scorned in the eyes of the world because her husband had been convicted of a murder—the grief inside of her, the protest and the fear, and the knowledge of his innocence she would have to carry—not for just a day, but for all of the days of her life.
“What you are doing to our organizer is brutal and inhuman!” the voice overhead cried out.
“The next son of a bitch that crosses this line gets killed on the spot!” a deputy shouted back.
The workers booed, cursed, yelled, taunted. But no one moved.
“Somebody ought to do something for Joe,” the operator said.
“I’ll go get him,” Smitty said. He climbed down from his seat and let himself through the back doors, quickly closing them behind him.
Lee watched him squeeze his way through the crowd. He saw the deputies halt him. He saw them argue and gesticulate. He looked toward the line of workers. They did not look quite beaten yet, but still held on that breath of indecision. He looked at Rosie. And now at last he looked at Ruth again. For a long moment he studied the flower of her face—and thought of how it might have been.
Now once again he turned his gaze on the long line of deputy sheriffs, cutting off the success of the rally, the future of the union, the movement of the working people of the world. He felt overcome with a helpless impotence. All he could bring these people was more hurt. All he had ever offered anyone was hurt—Ruth and the union alike, Rosie and all the other good guys who had befriended him, and all of these poor workers who would also suffer because of him—Thoughts flashing like sheet lightning through the turmoil of his brain—Joe Ptak, lying there unconscious in the sun, who had done the best he could for the thing in which he most believed—the disappointment in Rosie’s eyes—the hurt in the face of big, bluff Smitty, the only white gentile he had ever known to be his friend (was his faith in human nature to be lost?)—and Ruth!—“All I ever wanted was just to love you, Lee.”
A thin flame came alight in his mind, burning ever brighter. Words spun through his thoughts : “When the occasion calls for it—” Not tomorrow, or an hour hence. But now! For the time was running out!
It was as if all of his life was coming to a head; the good and the evil, the high and the low, all of the things that had ever happened to him and all of the things he had ever done and the things he had not done, coming together into meaning. It was as if this was the moment he had lived for—not the choice of a conclusion, nor the facing of a fact, but this was the knowledge of the truth.
He straightened out his legs, flexed the muscles to ease the cramp.
“Tight quarters,” the operator said.
“It is that!” Lee Gordon said.
He moved to the back and opened both doors. As he jumped to the ground he saw the startled faces of the two policemen. He saw them move toward him but he was running.
“Halt! Halt or I’ll shoot!”
The words pushed him on to greater effort. He fought through the mass of workers, pushing them aside. When he reached the line of deputies he heard Rosie suddenly cry : “No, Lee I No!”
And Ruth screaming : “Lee!”
But he did not look around. He pushed with all of his might into the chest of the deputy in his path, saw him fall away. Ducking beneath the blackjack of another, he was through the line. Out of the corner of his vision he saw the gun of Walter come leveling down on him. And from the parking lot he heard a worker cry : “Don’t shoot that boy!”
He reached Joe Ptak, snatched up the union banner, and holding it high above his head, began marching down the street.
About the Author
Chester Himes is the author of numerous novels, short stories, essays, and two films. He is best known for his angry social criticism in books like If He Hollers Let Him Go and Lonely Crusade and for creating the adventures of Harlem detectives, Coffin Ed Smith and Gravedigger Jones, including the two films Cotton Comes to Harlem and Come Back, Charleston Blue. He began to write while serving a prison term for jewel theft in the early 1940’s, emigrated to France in 1953, and subsequently moved to Spain, where he lived until his death in 1984.
Table of Contents
Title
Publisher
Booklist
Reviews
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
About the Author
Lonely Crusade Page 44