Some time later I got to know Arthur Little, who was the printer and practically owner of Pearson's Magazine. He was not only kindly, but wise, and soon took me on as editor. Of course, I gave up my position on the railways and went back to my old work.
At first, I was very successful with Pearson's. The circulation rose rapidly and for nearly a year it looked as if I could make a great magazine out of it. But later came bad times. The Germans had invaded France and were beating the French and the English together. They had also practically crushed Russia. The idea was in the air that America should go to the help of the Allies and prevent Germany winning an undeserved victory. I was against the war passionately. I wanted America to force a peace, a “peace without victory,” as Wilson had said, which she could have done quite easily. But Wilson was not the man for the job, and so the war dragged on, sacrificing more than a million lives every month. To me it was all horrible and I protested against it in Pearson's again and again. That soon earned me the dislike of the authorities at Washington, and A. S. Burleson, the Secretary of State, held up Pearson's Magazine again and again in the mail for weeks at a time. When I went to Washington and asked him why he did it, he told me that it was on information he had received that it was seditious and against the interest of America. I pointed out that he had been mistaken six times running but got no satisfaction from the fool. Finally he held up the magazine for 27 days and that practically ruined the circulation. A.S.S. Burleson, as I called him to his face, was too strong for me. Instead of making $25,000 a year, I began to lose money. Soon the position became intolerable to me.
In 1918 the war ended, as I had predicted it would. I began to lecture in my bureau on 5th Avenue in New York, and made some money. But I had to give up my hopes of a great and significant journalistic success, thanks to the enmity of the government in Washington. One little incident will show how far Wilson's spite went.
In 1919 I was asked to produce my naturalization papers. When I told the official that I could not, he said: “It must be done if you wish to be treated like an American citizen, otherwise you might be turned out of the country.”
I felt the threat and explained: “I was admitted to the Bar in Lawrence, Kansas in 1875. I could not have been admitted to the Bar and practice law without being a citizen.”
He said he had to refer the whole case to Washington. I proved that I was admitted to the Bar in Lawrence, Kansas as I had said, but after two or three days, the official came and told me that it was not sufficient, and the government would not regard me as a citizen.
I answered: “I have no wish to vote; I only want to remain quietly here.”
But he said: “You had better make yourself a citizen, if you can.”
That seemed to me significant. Accordingly I took all the necessary steps and was again accepted as an American citizen in 1919. This put an end to the petty annoyances of Wilson's government and A. S. Burleson.
One word more to show the idiocy of war. Considerable commotion was stirred up in 1905 by the publication of Sir W. Butler's report on the clever scheme by which, after the South African war was over, millions of pounds worth of supplies were sold by the British government to contractors at a low price and immediately bought back by the government from the same contractors at a very high price. As there was no need to sell it at allthis transaction represented an ingenious contrivance to put a great deal of money into somebody's pocket at the expense of the British taxpayer. The hopeless state of confusion into which the Ministers had allowed everything to slide in South Africa is shown by the fact that they were quite unable to say what had been lost by sheer dishonesty or whether, as Mr. Balfour wished to make out, England had actually made money on the transactions. Jingo finance is a mere affair of blind man's bluff. The War Office at first objected to selling the stores by contract, then gave way. It first demanded monthly returns of sales, and then allowed month after month to pass without any returns being made. Meanwhile, contractors got rich. Ministers obstinately turned a deaf ear to the warnings of the Liberal leader, and instead of exposing the scandal, did all they could to hush it up. Fortunately the Auditor-General, an official independent of the executive, brought the matter before the Accounts Committee. By this means General Butler's report came to be published. Otherwise everything would have been hushed up “in the best interest of the Army.”
I hate accusing my adopted nation of crimes, but now and then it is an imperative duty, an obligation of conscience. These accusations shame me to the soul.
In 1910 Secretary of War Baker promised to punish the officers who were found guilty of brutalities to soldiers in prison camps in France. “It is not too late,” he declared, “to punish any officer or enlisted man still in the service.”
It was not too late to punish, but it was certainly too late to prevent the atrocious cruelties that stained the name of America and which it was Secretary Baker's obvious duty to prevent at all costs.
For over two years he had been listening to the court-martial reports, confirming or mitigating, and revising them. He ought to have learned his work. “There have been three hundred and fifty thousand condemnations by court-martials in these United States.” I am quoting the daily papers. Dozens of soldiers and conscientious objectors were sentenced to ten and twenty years' imprisonment for offenses that nowhere else in the civilized world would have been punished with more than one or two years. Secretary Baker sympathized with medieval cruelty or he'd have revised these atrocious sentences. Dozens of men were tortured till they went mad in prison, or committed suicide, or died in agony, while Secretary Baker continued eating, drinking and talking platitudes, all the while callously neglecting his chief duty. He allowed these myriad crimes and devilish atrocities to be perpetrated without doing anything to prevent them.
The story of the martyrdom of the three Hofer brothers, who belonged to the religious sect of the Mennonites, will always in my mind be associated with Mr. Secretary Baker.
These men were objectors to war services on religious grounds. Though married, they were taken from their home in South Dakota to Camp Lewis. On the way they were treated worse than dogs. Their beards were clipped to make them ridiculous, and they were cursed by the various guards just to show them what our brand of Christianity means. After two months in close confinement they were court-martialed and sentenced to thirty-seven years' imprisonment! This, however was reduced by the base commander to twenty years.
They were sent to Alcatraz prison in San Francisco Bay fettered at the ankles and wrists. Here they were put in solitary dungeons below ground in darkness, filth and stench. For four and-a-half days they received no food. They had to sleep on the wet concrete floor without a blanket. During the next day and-a-half, they were manacled by the wrists to the bars of their cell, so high that they could hardly touch the floor with their feet. David, the one discharged man now at home, says he still feels the effects in his sides.
When they were taken out of the “hole” at the end of the week, they were covered with scurvy eruptions, insect-bitten, and with arms so swollen that they could not get the sleeves of their jackets on.
They had been beaten with clubs in the dungeons by their guards so unmercifully that when taken out, Michael fell down unconscious. Did Secretary Baker approve of this? If he didn't, he ought to have taken care that the brutality was never repeated.