III
The principal orator of the evening was a young college professor
who had been turned out of his job for taking the side of the
working-class in his public utterances, and who was therefore a hero
to Jimmie Higgins. This young man had the facts of the war at his
finger-tips; he made you see it as a gigantic conspiracy of
capitalists the world over to complete their grip on the raw
materials of wealth, and on the bodies and souls of the workers. He
bitterly denounced those who had forced the country into the war; he
denounced the Wall Street speculators and financiers who had made
their billions already, and would be making their tens of billions.
He denounced the plan to force men to fight who did not wish to
fight, and his every sentence was followed by a burst of applause
from the throng which packed the Opera-house. If you judged by this
meeting, you would conclude that America was on the verge of a
revolution against the war.
The young professor sat down, wiping the perspiration from his pale
forehead; and then the Liederkranz sang again--only it was not
called the Liederkranz now, it had become known as the "Workers'
Singing Society", out of deference to local prejudice. Then arose
Comrade Smith, editor of the Worker, and announced that after the
collection the orator would answer questions; then Comrade Smith
launched into a speech of his own, to the effect that something
definite ought to be done by the workers of Leesville to make clear
their opposition to being dragged into war. For his part he wished
to say that he would not yield one inch to the war-clamour--he was
on record as refusing to be drafted in any capitalist war, and he
was ready to join with others to agree that they would not be
drafted. The time was short--if anything were to be done, they must
act at once--
And then suddenly came an interruption--this time not from an old
soldier, but from a sergeant of police, who had been standing at one
side of the stage, and who now stepped forward, announcing, "This
meeting is closed."
"What?" shouted the orator.
"This meeting is closed," repeated the other. "And you, young man,
are under arrest."
There was a howl from the audience, and suddenly from the pit in
front of the stage, whence ordinarily the orchestra dispensed sweet
music, there leaped a line of blue-uniformed men, distributing
themselves between the public and the speaker. At the same time down
the centre aisle came a dozen soldiers marching, with guns in their
hands and bayonets fixed.
"This is an outrage!" shouted Comrade Smith.
"Not another word!" commanded the police official; and two policemen
who had followed him grabbed the orator by each arm and started to
lead him off the stage.
Comrade Gerrity leaped to the front of the platform. "I denounce
this proceeding!" he shouted. "We are holding an orderly meeting
here--"
A policeman laid hold of him. "You are under arrest."
Then came Comrade Mabel Smith, sister of the editor of the Worker.
"For shame! For shame!" she cried. And then, to a policeman, "No, I
will not be silent! I protest in the name of free speech! I
declare--" And when the policeman seized her by the arm, she
continued to shout at the top of her lungs, driving the crowd to
frenzy.
There were disturbances all over the audience. Mrs. Gerrity, wife of
the organizer, sprang up in her seat and began to protest. It
happened that Jimmie Higgins was in the aisle not far from her, and
his heart leaped with strange, half-forgotten emotions as he saw
this trim little figure, with the jaunty hat and the turkey feather
stuck on one side. Comrade Evelyn Baskerville, of Greenwich Village,
she of the fluffy brown hair and the pert little dimples and the
bold terrifying ideas, she who had so ploughed up the soul of Jimmie
Higgins and almost broken up the Higgins' home--here she was,
employing a new variety of coquetry, by which she compelled three
soldiers with rifles and bayonets to devote their exclusive
attention to her!
And then Comrade Mary Allen, the Quaker lady, who believed in moral
force applied through the ear-drums. She stood in the aisle with her
armful of pamphlets and her red sash over her shoulder, proclaiming,
"In the name of liberty and fair play I protest against this
outrage! I will not see my country dragged into war without
asserting my right of protest! I stand here, in what is supposed to
be a Christian city; I speak in the name of the Prince of Peace--"
and so on, quite a little speech, while several embarrassed young
men in khaki were trying to find out how to hold their rifles and a
shouting Quakeress at the same time.
And then Comrade Schneider, the brewer. He had been up on the stage
with the singers, and now got somehow to the front. "Haf we got no
rights in America left?" he shouted. "Do we in this audience--"
"Shut up, you Hun!" roared someone on the front of the crowd, and
three policemen at once leaped for Comrade Schneider, and grabbed
him by the collar, twisting so hard that the German's face, always
purple when he was excited, took on a dark and deadly hue.
Poor Jimmie Higgins! He stood there with his armful of "War, What
For?"--trembling with excitement, itching in every nerve and sinew
to leap into this conflict, to make his voice heard above the
uproar, to play his part as a man--or even as a Comrade Mabel Smith,
or a Comrade Mary Alien, or a Comrade Mrs. Gerrity, nee Baskerville.
But he was helpless, speechless--bound hand and foot by those solemn
pledges he had given to Eleeza Betooser, the mother of babies.
He looked about, and near him in the aisle he saw another man, also
bound hand and foot--bound by the memory of the smash in the face
which had broken his nose and knocked out three of his front teeth!
"Wild Bill" saw a policeman watching him now, eager for another
pretext to leap on him and pound him; so he was silent, like Jimmie.
The two of them had to stand there and see the fundamental
constitutional rights of American citizens set at naught, to see
liberty trampled in the dust beneath the boots of a brutal soldiery,
to see justice strangled and raped in the innermost shrine of her
temple. At least, that was what you had seen if you read the
Leesville Worker; if on the other hand you read the Herald--which
nine out of ten people did--then you learned that the forces of
decency and order had at last prevailed in Leesville, the propaganda
of the Hun was stifled for ever, the mouthers of sedition had felt
the heavy hand of public indignation.
