‘‘A lot of the union men picket outside the gates and holler at the scabs.’’
When he’d given me directions to McCormick’s, out Blue Island Avenue, I rewarded the unkempt fellow with a few pennies, then took the streetcar, as the McCormick works were some three miles from the city center.
I did not ride the full distance, because when we reached Twenty-second Street I saw a large crowd of workers, Peebles perhaps among them. The workers were gathered around a boxcar, and atop it stood a man perhaps thirty years old, with a handsome light brown mustache and a gaze that might have inspired Shakespeare to cry, ‘‘Look on me with your welkin eye!’’ He was speaking in German when I first approached, and about half of the large crowd was nodding, but he soon shifted to pleasantly accented English. As I wandered through the crowd searching for Peebles, I couldn’t help but hear some of what the handsome gentleman was saying. ‘‘Wherever we cast our eyes,’’ he declared with a sweeping gesture, ‘‘we see that a few men have not only brought technical inventions into their private ownership, but have also confiscated for their exclusive advantage all natural powers, such as water, steam and electricity. They little care that they destroy their fellow beings right and left.’’ The blue eyes blazed and indignation radiated from his honest face.
‘‘Who is the speaker?’’ I murmured to a grizzled man who was nodding enthusiastically.
He looked at me with pity. ‘‘You don’t know? He is the editor of the best German newspaper, the Arbeiter-Zeitung, and one of our most popular speakers. His name is August Shpeece.’’ Later I learned that, in the peculiar way the Germans have, it was spelled Spies, but I always thought of him as August.
‘‘We must progress to cooperative labor for the purpose of continuing life and of enjoying it,’’ August told us. ‘‘Anarchy does not mean bloodshed, does not mean arson or robbery. These monstrosities are, on the contrary, the characteristic features of capitalism.’’
Well, having recently been robbed, I certainly agreed that it was a monstrosity, and I was ready to do away with whatever had caused it, though I wasn’t certain what this dreadful thing ‘‘capitalism’’ was. And August had mentioned anarchy favorably-but surely he couldn’t be one of the horrid anarchists that the newspapers told us we must fear! I couldn’t believe it of such a kindly, well-spoken man.
‘‘Do not be slaves! Your toil produces the wealth, it is yours, not the bosses’!’’ August cried. ‘‘Workers must stand firmly together, then we will prevail!’’
Oh, they were splendid words, as stirring as Shakespeare’s ‘‘Once more unto the breach’’! I was on the verge of running up to Kohl and Middleton and pummeling them for higher wages! But on reflection I wasn’t certain that the other workers would stand firmly with me, as August advised. Johanna might, and perhaps her brother if he wasn’t at the beer hall. But those giant hero dogs were more likely to rescue the managers than attack them. I decided I’d best wait for better troops.
There was no sign of Peebles, and I could see another clump of men farther along Blue Island Avenue near the McCormick works. So I left August and his enormous crowd behind me, and moved on toward the pickets outside McCormick’s. Suddenly a loud bell clanged. A man called, ‘‘Here they come!’’ and as workers began to emerge from the door the men who’d been locked out began to holler ‘‘Scabs!’’ and ‘‘Shame!’’ and some German words that sounded even worse. I thought I saw a yellow checked cap on the far side of the little crowd and started toward it eagerly. But a few among the picketers picked up stones and threw them at the strikebreakers, and suddenly there was a melee. One of the two policemen on duty fought his way to a patrol box to call for help.
Well, my aunt Mollie always said that a lady should never get involved in anything as low-class as a riot, so notwithstanding August’s inspiring words I ducked around the corner of a building, and a lucky thing I did! When I peeked I saw a patrol wagon full of policemen, drawn by two galloping horses, careening up Blue Island Avenue and straight into the crowd. ‘‘It’s Black Jack Bonfield!’’ cried a picket, and a few stones were thrown at the police. The officers laid about with their nightsticks and bloodied many heads, and soon were joined by dozens of officers on foot. The strikebreakers had run back into the building but a few picketers continued to throw stones. Although the police had the upper hand, whenever I glimpsed a face under a helmet it looked frightened. Captain Bonfield, a squinty-eyed fellow, yelled something I couldn’t hear above the shouting, and the officers pulled their revolvers.
Well, in my experience revolvers make a situation a sight more dangerous than stones and nightsticks. I dove back to safety and pulled my Colt from my bustle pocket. I heard gunshots and screams and in a moment the pickets were dragging their wounded friends away, some to the haven where I stood. The groans of the bleeding men were piteous indeed.
At last the gunshots stopped, and I peeked again, but could not see Peebles. I heard a familiar voice and saw August come running toward the factory, looking as shocked and sickened as I felt.
The picketers had scattered, and the police arrested the stragglers while shouting congratulations to each other for winning such a glorious victory. Yes indeed.
When they’d left I put away my Colt and tore strips from my petticoat to hand to those who had crept out to help the wounded. Peebles was not among them. My chance to find him was gone, and even the handsome blue-eyed August had left. Frustrated, I kicked a stone into the street and made my way back to Kohl and Middleton’s.
At the theatre I found Johanna too in a dark mood. She wore a terrible scowl, and was distracted and clumsier than usual, dropping a ball once and almost lighting her poor brother’s hair on fire with a poorly aimed torch. Afterward he drew me aside. ‘‘Please, Bridget, walk home with her! The only thing she said to me was, ‘You men are beasts!’ ’’
Well, I had to agree with her opinion of men after seeing all the pelting and shooting at McCormick’s. I followed her out the door and murmured, ‘‘Johanna, what did that dreadful Officer Degan do?’’
‘‘Nothing!’’ She strode up Halsted Street and I had to trot to keep up.
‘‘Nothing? You mean some other horrid man has hurt you?’’
‘‘No! I mean he did nothing! He didn’t meet me in the park!’’ She began to weep.
I offered her a handkerchief, patted her arm, and asked, ‘‘Didn’t Detective Loewenstein say that Officer Degan worked with Captain Bonfield’s men? They were in action today, so perhaps Matt couldn’t-’’
‘‘But he promised!’’ Johanna sobbed.
I suggested, ‘‘Why don’t we go speak to your friend Mabel? She can tell you if Officer Degan had adequate reason for such a terrible breach of courtesy.’’
Johanna nodded and allowed herself to be guided toward the Loewenstein home. I was pleased, for I too had questions.
‘‘I’m delighted to see you!’’ Mabel, in a violet jacket dress, hugged us both. ‘‘Jakey is so busy these days. I dined alone again tonight-’’ A shadow darkened her lively features. She looked more closely at Johanna and added, ‘‘But Johanna, what is wrong?’’
Though red-eyed from weeping, Johanna was listening carefully to Mabel’s words. She asked, ‘‘You say Jake is busy these days? Abandons you?’’
‘‘Sometimes it seems that way! Captain Schaack assigns him to these secret meetings-oh, I shouldn’t be telling you this-’’
Johanna sank into a plush armchair, sniffled into my handkerchief, and asked, ‘‘Do you think Matt Degan was assigned to a secret meeting?’’
Mabel looked surprised. ‘‘I wouldn’t think so. He’s not a detective. If he had to stay on duty to help Captain Bonfield, it wouldn’t be a secret assignment like Jake’s. Matt should have got word to you!’’