In the Heart of a Fool

“Shame on Grant Adams, Trying to Inflame Ignorant Foreigners. Declares he is the Prince of Peace and gets Applause from his Excited Dupes–Will he Claim to be Messiah?”

It was a good story–from a purely sensational viewpoint, and it was telegraphed over the country, that Grant Adams, the labor leader, was claiming to be a messiah and was rallying foreigners to him by supernatural powers. The Times contained a vicious editorial calling on all good citizens to stamp out the blasphemous cult that Adams was propagating. The editorial said that the authorities should not allow such a man to speak on the streets maintained by tax-payers, and that with the traitorous promises of ownership of the mines and mills backing up such a campaign, rebellion would soon be stalking the street and bloodshed such as had not been seen in America for a generation would follow. The names which the Times called Grant Adams indicated so much malice, that Grant felt encouraged, and believed he had the strike won, if he could keep down violence. So triumph flambeaued itself on his face. For two peaceful days had passed. And peace was his signal of victory.

But during the night a trainload of strike-breakers came from Chicago. They were quartered in the railroad yards, and Grant ordered a thousand pickets out to meet the men at daybreak. Grant called out the groups of seven and each lodging house, tenement and car on the railroad siding was parceled out to a group. Moreover, Grant threw his army into action by ordering twenty groups into Sands Park, through which the strike-breaking smelter men would pass after the pickets had spoken to the strike-breakers in their door yards. Lining the park paths, men stood in the early morning begging working men not to go into the places made vacant by the strike. In addition to this, he posted other groups of strikers to stand near the gates and doors of the working places, begging the strike-breakers to join the strikers.

Grant Adams, in his office, was the motive power of the strike. By telephone his power was transferred all over the district. Violet Hogan and Henry Fenn were with him. Two telephones began buzzing as the first strikers went into Sands Park. Fenn, sitting by Grant, picked up the first transmitter; Violet took the other. She took the message in shorthand. Fenn translated a running jargon between breaths.

“Police down in Foley–Clubbing the Letts.–No bloodshed.–They are running back to their gardens.”

“Tell the French to take their places,” said Grant–“There are four French sevens–tell him to get them out right away–but not to fight the cops. Militia there?”

“No,” answered Fenn, “they are guarding the mill doors, and this happened in the streets near the lodging houses.”

“Mr. Adams,” said Violet, reading, “there’s some kind of a row in Sands Park. The cavalry is there and Ira Dooley says to tell you to clear out the Park or there will be trouble.”

“Get the boys on the phone, Violet, and tell them I said leave the Park, then, and go to the shaft houses in Magnus–but to march in silence–understand?”

Fenn picked up the transmitter again, “What’s that–what’s that–” he cried. Then he mumbled on, “He says the cops have ax-handles and that down by the smelters they are whacking our people right and left–Three in an ambulance?–The Slavs won’t take it? Cop badly hurt?” asked Fenn.

Grant Adams groaned, and put his head in his hand, and leaned on the desk. He rose up suddenly with a flaming face and said: “I’m going down there–I can stop it.”

He bolted from the room and rattled down the stairs. In a minute he came running up. “Violet–” he called to the woman who was busy at the telephone–“shut that man off and order a car for me quick–they’ve stolen my crank and cut every one of my tires. For God’s sake be quick–I must get down to those Slavs.”

In a moment Violet had shut off her interviewer, and was calling the South Harvey Garage. Henry Fenn, busy with his phone, looked up with a drawn face and cried:

“Grant–the Cossacks–the Cossacks are riding down those little Italians in Sands Park–chasing them like dogs from the paths–they say the cavalry is using whips!”

Grant stood with bowed head and arched shoulders listening. The muscles of his jaw contracted, and he snapped his teeth.

“Any one hurt?” he asked. Fenn, with the receiver to his ear went on, “The Dagoes are not fighting back–the cavalrymen are shooting in the air, but–the lines are broken–the scabs are marching to the mines through a line of soldiers–we’ve stopped about a third from the cars–they are forming at the upper end of the Park–our men, they–”

“Good-by,” shouted Grant, as he heard a motor car whirring in the distance.

Turning out of the street he saw a line of soldiers blocking his way. He had the driver turn, and at the next corner found himself blocked in. Once more he tried, and again found himself fenced in. He jumped from the car, and ran, head down, toward the line of young fellows in khaki blocking the street. As he came up to them he straightened up, and, striking with his hook a terrific blow, the bayonet that would have stopped him, Grant caught the youth’s coat in the steel claw, whirled him about and was gone in a second.

He ran through alleys and across commons until he caught a street car for the smelters. Here he heard the roar of the riot. He saw the new ax-handles of the policemen beating the air, and occasionally thudding on a man’s back or head. The Slavs were crying and throwing clods and stones. Grant ran up and bellowed in his great voice:

“Quit it–break away–there, you men. Let the cops alone. Do you want to lose this strike?”

A policeman put his hand on Grant’s shoulder to arrest him. Grant brushed him aside.

“Break away there, boys,” he called. The Slavs were standing staring at him. Several bloody faces testified to the effectiveness of the ax-handles.

“Stand back–stand back. Get to your lines,” he called, glaring at them. They fell under his spell and obeyed. When they were quiet he walked over to them, and said gently:

“It’s all right, boys–grin and bear it. We’ll win. You couldn’t help it–I couldn’t either.” He smiled. “But try–try next time.” The strike-breakers were huddled back of the policemen.

“Men,” he shouted to the strike-breakers over the heads of the policemen, “this strike is yours as well as ours. We have money to keep you, if you will join us. Come with us–comrades–Oh, comrades, stand with us in this fight! Go in there and they’ll enslave you–they’ll butcher you and kill you and offer you a lawsuit for your blood. We offer you justice, if we win. Come, come,” he cried, “fellow workers–comrades, help us to have peace.”

The policemen formed a line into the door of the shaft house. The strike-breakers hesitated. Grant approached the line of policemen, put up his arm and his maimed hand, lifted his rough, broken face skyward and cried, “O–O–O, God, pour Thy peace into their hearts that they may have mercy on their comrades.”

A silence fell, the strike-breakers began to pass through the police lines to join the strikers. At first only one at a time, then two. And then, the line broke and streamed around the policemen. A great cheer went up from the street, and Grant Adams’s face twitched and his eyes filled with tears. Then he hurried away.

It was eight o’clock and the picketing for the day was done, when Grant reached his office.

“Well,” said Fenn, who had Violet’s notes before him, “it’s considerably better than a dog fall. They haven’t a smelter at work. Two shafts are working with about a third of a force, and we feel they are bluffing. The glass works furnaces are cold. The cement mills are dead. They beat up the Italians pretty badly over in the Park.”

The Times issued a noon extra to tell of the incident in front of the smelter, and expatiated upon the Messianic myth. A tirade against Grant Adams in black-faced type three columns wide occupied the center of the first page of the extra, and in Harvey people began to believe that he was the “Mad Mullah” that the Times said he was.

When Dr. Nesbit drove his electric home that noon, he found his daughter waiting for him. She stood on the front porch, with a small valise beside her. She was dressed in white and her youthful skin, fresh lips, glowing eyes and heightened color made her seem younger than the woman of forty that she was. Her father saw in her face the burning purpose to serve which had come to indicate her moments of decision. The Doctor had grown used to that look of decision and he knew that it was in some way related to South Harvey and the strike. For during her years of work in the Valley, its interests had grown to dominate her life. But the Valley and its interests had unfolded her soul to its widest reach, to its profoundest depths. And in her features were blazoned, at times, all the love and joy and strength that her life had gathered. These were the times when she wore what her father called “the Valley look.” She had “the Valley look” in her face that day when she stood waiting for her father with the valise beside her–a beautiful woman.

“Father–now don’t stop me, dear. I’m going to Grant. Mother will be home in a few days. I’ve told Lila to stay with Martha Morton when you are not here. It’s always secure and tranquil up here, you know. But I’m going down in the Valley. I’m going to the strike.”

“Going to the strike?” repeated her father.

“Yes,” she answered, turning her earnest eyes upon him as she spoke. “It’s the first duty I have on earth–to be with my people in this crisis. All these years they have borne me up; have renewed my faith; they have given me courage. Now is my turn, father. Where they go, I go also.” She smiled gently and added, “I’m going to Grant.”

She took her father’s hands. “Father–Oh, my good friend–you understand me–Grant and me?–don’t you? Every man in the crisis of his life needs a woman. I’ve been reading about Grant in the papers. I can see what really has happened. But he doesn’t understand how what they say happens, for the next few days or weeks or months, while this strike is on, is of vastly more importance than what really happens. He lacks perspective on himself. A woman, if she is a worthy friend–gives that to a man. I’m going to Grant–to my good friend, father, and stand with him–very close, and very true, I hope!”

Trouble moved over the Doctor’s face in a cloud. “I don’t know about Grant, Laura,” he said. “All this Messiah and Prince of Peace tomfoolery–and–”

“Why, you know it never happened, don’t you, father? You know Grant is not a fool–nor mad?”

“Oh, I suppose so, Laura–but he approximates both at times,” piped the father raspingly.

“Father–listen here–listen to me, dear. I know Grant–I’ve known him always. This is what is the matter with Grant. I don’t think one act in all his life was based on a selfish or an ulterior motive. He has spent his life lavishly for others. He has given himself without let or hindrance for his ideals–he gave up power and personal glory–all for this cause of labor. He has been maimed and broken for it–has failed for it; and now you see what clouds are gathering above him–and I must go to him. I must be with him.”

“But for what good, Laura?” asked her father impatiently.

“For my own soul’s good and glory, dear,” she answered solemnly. “To live my faith; to stand by the people with whom I have cast my lot; to share the great joy that I know is in Grant’s heart–the joy of serving; to triumph in his failure if it comes to that!–to be happy–with him, as I know him no matter what chance and circumstance surround him. Oh–father–”

She looked up with brimming eyes and clasped his hand tightly while she cried: “I must go–Oh, bless me as I go–” And the father kissed her forehead.

An hour later, while Grant Adams, in his office, was giving directions for the afternoon parade a white-clad figure brightened the doorway.

“Well, Grant, I have come to serve,” she smiled, “under you.”

He turned and rose and took her hands in his one flinty hand and said quietly: “We need you–we need you badly right this minute.”

She answered, “Very well, then–I’m ready!”

“Well, go out and work–talk peace, don’t let them fight, hold the line calm and we’ll win,” he said.

She started away and he cried after her, “Come to Belgian Hall to-night–we may need you there. The strike committee and the leader of each seven will be there. It will be a war council.”

Out to the works went Laura Van Dorn. Mounted policemen or mounted deputies or mounted militiamen stood at every gate. As the strike-breakers came out they were surrounded by the officers of the law, who marched away with the strangers. The strikers followed, calling upon their fellow workers, stretching out pleading arms to them and at corners where the strikers were gathered in any considerable numbers, the guards rode into the crowd waving their whips. At a corner near the Park a woman stepped from the crowd and cried to the officers:

“That’s my boy in there–I’ve got a right to talk to him.”