In Lawrence, Massachusetts, the mill worker’s strike was taking on the grim routine of entrenched warfare. To Big Bill Haywood, the Lawrence strike represented the archetypal struggle of the working class. The mill strikers were a collection of immigrant groups that embodied Haywood’s vision of an egalitarian army that could fight the elite ruling class. For Haywood, the ballot box was too slow a means of revolution. Here, in Lawrence, his philosophy of direct action was being played out on a grand scale. Haywood was as inspired by the strikers as they were by his presence. To keep their spirits up in the second hard month of the walkout, the strikers started singing. There was song everywhere – on the picket lines, in the streets, in the homes, in the union meetings. One reporter wrote, “The tired, gray crowds ebbing and flowing perpetually into the mills had waked and opened their mouths to sing.”
Despite the spirit of solidarity among the now 23,000 mill workers on strike, there was no movement on either side. Haywood was looking for a new tactic to shake things up. The spark came from a group of Italian Socialists. They told Haywood that strikers in Europe would often send their children to relatives and friends in other cities to protect them from the harsh and often violent strike environment. For Haywood, the idea was ingenious, not only for its practicality, but for propaganda benefits.
On February 11, 1912, 119 children, ages 4 to 14, were taken on a train to New York City. A cheering crowd of 5,000 met them at Grand Central Station. Doctors examined the children and declared that they suffered from malnutrition. Pictures of the children going into exile were run in newspapers and magazines from coast to coast. Thousands of people across the country were wiring Haywood to take in the children. The sympathetic publicity that was generated was more than Haywood ever dreamed of.
Fighting back, the mill owners threatened to have the parents of the children refugees arrested for child neglect. To prevent parents from sending any more children away, the state militia encircled the Lawrence train depot. On February 24th, Haywood countered by having a group of Quakers escort 200 children from Lawrence to their new, temporary homes. The Quakers, parents and children arrived at the station that was now in complete military lockdown. As the children and mothers approached the trains, amid teary farewells and long embraces, the police attacked. A Quaker woman later testified to Congress, “The police closed in on us with their clubs, beating right and left with no thought of the children, who were then in desperate danger of being trampled to death. The mothers and children were thus hurled into a mass and dragged into a military truck and even then, clubbed, irrespective of the cries of the panic stricken children.”
Though there were no deaths, the attack horrified the nation. Respectable citizens from all walks of life denounced the “brutally repressive police action.” Congress voted to hold immediate hearings.
Just as the hearings were getting underway in Washington D.C., the mill owners, recognizing that they had been outmaneuvered by Bill Haywood, opened negotiations. A 5 percent wage increase was offered. Now empowered, the strikers rejected it. It took ten more days of hard bargaining, but an agreement was finally hammered out, with workers getting up to a 25 percent wage increase. It was a triumph for the strikers. After a ratification vote was taken at the Lawrence Common, several strikers climbed onto the bandstand and handed Haywood a bouquet of roses. The entire auditorium, thousands of working men and women, spontaneously broke into singing The Internationale:
Arise, you prisoners of starvation!
Arise, you wretched of the earth!
For justice thunders condemnation:
A better world’s in birth
Tears filled Bill Haywood’s eyes. It seemed to him that the spark had been lit. His revolution was finally at hand and ready to burst into flame. And he held the torch.
CHAPTER 45
The area just east of the President’s office, which would one day become the Rose Garden, was, in 1912, where the White House laundry was hung to dry. Walking down the West Colonnade to the Oval Office, Archie was heartened by the wet clothes flapping on the laundry lines – it sounded like applause welcoming him back to work.
“Hello, Major. We missed you,” Charles Hilles, Taft’s secretary said when Archie stepped into his office. “How are you feeling?”
“About as good as a man could feel who’s been on a week-long furlough in Hell. Is the President in?”
“He is, but he’s in a meeting,” Hilles said. “Why don’t you go relax and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The waiting room was just across the hall from the Oval Office. It was a dark chamber, painted in deep blue with red leather chairs pushed against the walls. Archie settled in a plush chair and lit a cigarette. He hadn’t had one during the entire time he was sick. He drew the smoke in slowly, expecting the calming moment that always accompanies the first drag. But the tobacco tasted strange. Bitter. He snuffed it out then leaned back to relax. He noticed the paint along the ceiling molding was starting to peel. The room’s clock ticked loudly. Then a peculiar sensation came over him – an electric chill that started at the base of his spine and spread through his entire body. He grew disconcerted. Archie was not a particularly religious man and premonitions were not in his realm of reality. Yet, having spent many evenings in society drawing rooms listening to discussions of “messages from beyond,” he knew that what he was experiencing carried all the characteristics of the supernatural.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the icy shiver left. Archie tried to rationalize it. Perhaps it had something to do with his illness, a lingering sensitivity. Nothing more. Still, that didn’t explain the deep emotion that accompanied the physical sensation. And while the jolt of the premonition had left, a strong, unexplainable feeling of dread continued to persist in its afterglow. Though he was a natural skeptic, a thought crept into Archie’s head that he was being sent some sort of supernatural message. Maybe the spirit of a long departed President was paying a visit to the waiting room. Rumors of Presidential ghosts walking the old halls abounded with the White House staff. Or perhaps it was Mick signaling from across the valley of death.
“Major Butt!” a voice interrupted his reverie. Archie turned his head, expecting to see the large, genial figure of President Taft beckoning him into the Oval Office. Instead, there was a scrawny little man standing in the doorway. “Finch,” Archie said, and then stood up. “You’ll excuse me, but I have a meeting with the President.” Archie tried to brush past Finch.
“No,” Finch said firmly, grabbing Archie’s arm. “You have a meeting with me first.”
“Let go of me, sir!”
“I just got out of my meeting with the President,” Finch said. “I’m going to be briefing him every week. We’ve decided it’s important for the security of our nation.”
“Thank you for the information. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and offer my advice to the President.”
Archie took a step away when Finch called after him. “You’ve been harboring a federal fugitive, Major. You must turn him in.”
Archie stopped and turned back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.”
“Mr. Finch, I am a bachelor who lives alone. I often have guests in my home. Perhaps your spies have mistaken one of my guests as a fugitive.”
“No, our information is not mistaken. We know the boy is there. You’re committing a crime. And if you don’t rectify it, well, let’s just say, it will be rectified for you.”
“You can’t blackmail me, Finch.”
“Listen, Archie,” Finch said, changing to a friendly tone. “The boy is a conniving, lying murderer who opened a gas line and blew your dear friend to bloody bits.”
“Do you have a shred of evidence that would make me believe you?”
“How about a signed confession?” Finch smugly said, then snatched a single sheet of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Archie. The typewritten confession began “I, Henry Kosinski do knowingly an
d truthfully confess to having committed the murder of Michael Shaughnessy…” The details of the confession filled the densely packed page and ended with a shaky, child-like scrawl at the bottom: Henry Kosinski.
“The United States government does not send its citizens to Sing Sing without a justifiable reason. I’m holding you responsible for returning the boy to federal custody,” Finch said, then whirled and strutted away.
“Don’t you want the confession?” Archie waved the paper after Finch.
“That’s yours, Butt, to remind you of your duty. He signed several. Standard procedure on important cases. Have a good meeting with the President.”
“Archie, welcome back,” Taft said, struggling to lift his enormous body from his chair. “You don’t know how much I missed you. Please, have a seat.” Archie was shocked by what he saw. Taft’s face was waxen, his lips looked lifeless and thin. Huge black bags sagged under his eyes. To Taft, Archie didn’t appear much better. “You look tired, Archie.”
“I’m still recovering from a bad flu, Mr. President.”
“Yes,” Taft mumbled, then plopped back into his oversized chair. “I’ve been putting you through the ringer, haven’t I? I know how you’re torn over the rift between Theodore and me.”
The one thing Archie wanted to avoid his first day back was Taft’s obsession with Roosevelt. “I hold you both dear to my heart,” Archie said. “But you are my President and commander and I wish to make it clear, sir, that my loyalty is undivided. It is to you and no other.”
“I appreciate that, Archie. I really do. I can’t say enough about what your service and friendship has meant to me. I just wanted you to know that I understand the strain you’re under.”
“No more strain than you, sir.”
“Hmmm, perhaps not. In any event, your illness has led me to believe that you need a break from the pressure cooker. A little vacation.”
“I just came back to work,” Archie said, surprised at the suggestion. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“First, you need to recover your health completely. Maybe we can combine a little work with pleasure. What do you say to that?”
“I say that I’m fairly puzzled at the moment.”
“Then let me clear it up for you, Archie. I just had a meeting with the head of our federal investigative unit. Director Finch. I believe you know him.”
“I do,” Archie said hesitantly.
“A rather intense little man, but I believe he’s very dedicated to his job.”
“If I might speak frankly, Mr. President,” Archie said carefully. “I have my reservations about him.”
“Really? Well, he has no reservations about you, Archie. Speaks very highly of you.”
“He does?!”
“Oh, yes. He filled me in on the work you did for him. Said you were a great asset. You should have told me you were on a secret spy mission.”
“I was led to believe that my dealings with Mr. Finch had the knowledge and approval of the Executive branch.”
“Yes…well, yes…I suppose they did,” Taft hemmed. “In any case, Director Finch brought to my attention a delicate matter that you appear to have some knowledge of.”
“Oh?” Archie stiffened, readying himself for questions about Henry.
“Yes,” Taft said. “It involves a group of prominent capitalists. It appears they’re planning some sort of grand business venture.”
“Oh, right…” Archie sighed, relieved, “They were interested in having me act as a liaison to you and others in the government. But I told them ‘No,’ that I would not leave my White House post.”
“Did you tell them in no uncertain terms that you were not interested in the project?”
“I wasn’t so forthright, Mr. President. John Astor was involved and if you remember, you encouraged me to follow up his entreaties.”
“I do remember me prodding you about your financial future, yes,” Taft said, then put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “The Director has heard it’s a rather significant project and believes the government should have more information about it. He suggested that because you have been approached by these men, you would be the perfect person to find out the details.”
“No,” Archie shook his head. “Despite what Mr. Finch has said about me, I’m really not cut out for spy work.”
“Finch told me they have scheduled an important meeting in Rome.” Taft leaned back in his chair again. “Do you know anything about that?”
“Yes,” Archie said hesitantly. “I was invited to attend. But I said that was impossible.”
“Now it is possible. In fact, it’s perfect! You take a vacation in Italy and in your spare time, find out what these gentlemen are up to.”
“I’d rather not, Mr. President,” Archie insisted. “I know you’re going through a very difficult period. I don’t wish to abandon you.”
“You would not be abandoning me. You’d be on an important mission. And I need some diplomatic fence mending done with the Vatican as well. You could take care of it all. Have you ever been to Italy?”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“The food is…” Taft smacked his lips together. “And the Italian women are the most gorgeous on earth. I’ll have our State Department make the arrangements.”
“But…” Archie tried to protest again but Taft cut him off.
“No ‘buts,’ Major,” Taft smiled. “There’s nothing like a long sea cruise to get your health back. You’ll come back refreshed and ready to do battle for our reelection. Don’t fight me on this, Archie. It will be good for you.”
“If this is an order, sir, I will obey it,” Archie answered, surrendering to the fact that fate seemed to be directing him to Rome.
CHAPTER 46
"Henry!” Archie shouted as he stepped into his townhouse.
“In here, Captain,” Henry shouted back from the kitchen. Archie pushed through the kitchen door to see Henry on his tiptoes at the stove. He was engulfed in an apron that was several sizes too large for him. “Have a seat, Captain. I cooked the most dee-licious lamb you’re ever gonna taste,” Henry said, setting out several juicy chops on plates that were already steaming with mounds of mash potatoes and green beans.
“We have to talk, Henry.” Archie said, injecting a deep sense of gravity in his voice.
“Can’t it wait till after dinner?”
“No. We have to talk now.”
“Okay, if we hafta, we hafta,” Henry said, placing the plates of food on the kitchen table. “Jus’ let me say grace and we can talk while we’re munchin’ the chops.” Henry took his place at the end of the kitchen table and folded his small hands, preparing for a prayer. “Com’on, Captain, sit down and let’s get to the food.”
Archie reluctantly pulled out his chair and sat, watching the joyful boy. “Let us thank you, Lord, for the food you have provided. And I would like to add a real big thanks for havin’ you guide me to the Captain’s house here ‘cause...”
“Henry,” Archie interrupted. “You’re not making this easy.”
“What?”
“All this prayer and thanking the lord for guiding you here.”
“Well, I’m just bein’ truthful.”
“You haven’t been truthful with me since you arrived, Henry,” Archie said. “You’ve just given me one big lie after another.”
The happy sparkle that shone from Henry’s face disappeared in an instant, replaced by a look of disbelief. “No…no…I ain’t lied to you.”
“You’re very convincing, Henry. And I believed what a poor, lost boy you were, especially when you used one of my dearest friends as a shield for your lies.”
“Captain, I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I ain’t never lied to you,” Henry repeated.
“Then what’s this?” Archie said, pulling out the typed confession and tossing it on the table in front of Henry.
“I dunno, what is it?” Henry answered, genuinely confused by Archie’s dramatics.
Archie pointed at the page. “Look at it, Henry. You don’t recognize it?”
Henry glanced down, his eyes scrutinized the paper. “Yeah. It’s somethin’ I signed when I was in jail.”
“And you signed it willingly?”
“Yeah, sure. This guy was askin’ all these questions over and over about Mick’s murder and knockin’ me around a bit, so I told him everythin’ I knew ‘cause I had nothin’ to lose, tellin’ the truth and all, and he wrote it out in good language and I wrote my name at the bottom there. I don’t get the problem.”
“The problem is, Henry, this is a confession that you murdered Mick. It’s here in black and white.” Archie picked up the page and started reading. “I, Henry Kosinski, do knowingly and truthfully confess to having committed the murder of Michael Shaughnessy…”
Henry began shaking his head. “No, I didn’t tell him that. I told him everythin’ I told you.”
“Is this your signature?”
Henry looked at the scrawl on the bottom of the page. “Yeah, but that’s not what I told him,” Henry said, now with a desperate edge in his voice.
“Didn’t you read it before signing it?”
Henry squirmed in his chair. “Well…no, he said it was exactly what I told him.”
“I find it very hard to believe that you wouldn’t read your confession.”
Henry paused and looked down at his plate. “What makes you think I can read, Captain?” Henry said softly. “Mick was helpin’ me to learn, but…”
“Then why did you sign this?”
“The guy told me what was in it and he said if I signed it, I would get outta jail.”
“Who told you that, Henry?”
“The big scary guy who was askin’ me all the questions. He didn’t exactly introduce himself.”
“What did he look like?”
“Like I said, big and scary.”
“Do you remember anything more about him? Did he have a scar? A twitch? Anything?”
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