Haymarket (16 page)

“Paul Grottkau is a most learned man,” he said. “I hold him in the highest regard. We agree on much, especially on the importance of strengthening the trade unions.”

Andrews, like a man who’s been sitting poised with a fly swatter above his head waiting for the annoying little buzzer to land exactly within range, came down hard. “Yet Grottkau has insisted that economic action should always take precedence over political action. How do you reconcile that view with the amount of energy you’ve spent running for a City Council seat?”

“With no more difficulty,” Albert replied, striving to maintain his equanimity, “than you might have in reconciling
Tribune
editorials that refer to Chicago’s unemployed workers as ‘prowling wantons’ with your own
obvious
sympathy for men desperate to feed their families.”

Seeing Andrews redden, Albert spoke rapidly to maintain his advantage. “People who band together in common cause don’t share all views in common. Besides, you seem not to have grasped the full subtlety of Grottkau’s position. He doesn’t oppose political action per se, but only the notion that it can, by itself, free the working class from economic servitude. He advocates political action when anchored to a solid trade union base. So you see, Grottkau and I are not so far apart. And who knows? The future may bring us still closer together—especially if the ruling class continues to use fraud and intimidation to block our law-abiding efforts to produce change through the ballot-box.”

Albert had spoken at such a clip that Andrews felt like the victim of one of those high-wheeler maniacs currently threatening the pedestrian population with their new fifty-four-inch bicycles. He retreated to a simple question: “Does that mean you will or will not be running again for municipal office?”

“Having been counted out by fraud last year, I’ll be devoting my time to the candidacy of others, mostly through my editorial writing in the
Socialist.”

“Ah yes, I’ve heard you’ve been named the assistant editor. I haven’t yet seen the little journal in question. Isn’t it one of those ethnic publications?”

Albert met him toe to toe. “The
Socialist
is the English-language organ of the
SLP
. Since English
is
an ethnicity, I suppose we could fairly be called an ethnic publication. Our focus, however, is on organizing all workers into one political party.”

“I suppose you have a very large subscription,” Andrews said, knowing full well that all the labor papers struggled along with minimal support.

“We’re growing all the time.” Albert spoke so emphatically that he sounded threatening.

Not that Andrews was fazed. “And is there any one candidacy this year that interests you more than the others?”

“The main race is, of course, for Mayor.”

Andrews seemed genuinely surprised. “Does the
SLP
intend to contest that office? You’ve never run a candidate for any municipal post higher than alderman.”

“We feel ready to move up in the world.” Albert’s smile was tight and pointed.

“And who might we expect the
SLP
candidate to be? Yourself, perhaps?”

“As I said, my contribution this time around will be through my writing. There was a move to nominate me for the Presidency, but—”

“—the Presidency of the
SLP
? But isn’t Phillip Van Patten still the—”

“The Presidency of the United States.”

Andrews literally gasped. His reaction was so flagrantly comic that Albert had trouble suppressing a laugh. “Why do you find that prospect so astonishing?” he asked in pretended innocence.

“Well, my dear sir, I mean surely it … it makes no sense for …” Andrews was sputtering—and furious at losing control of the reins.

“I refused, of course,” Albert said quietly, trying not to look like a Cheshire cat.

“Well, of course. I should think so.” Andrews nodded vigorous assent, as if a sense of propriety had been restored.

“I’m too young.”

“I beg pardon?” Andrews again looked dumbfounded.

“The Constitution, you know. One must be thirty-five years of age to run for the presidency. Four years to go, alas. But I’ll be of age in time for the ’84 canvas.”

Andrews rose to his feet with such a rush of anger that he nearly knocked over his chair. “I believe, sir, that our allotted thirty minutes has passed.”

“Right you are,” Albert said cheerfully, rising to his feet. “Nothing like small talk, very small talk, to make time fly, eh? Are you sure you have all you need?”

“More than enough,” Andrews replied stiffly. If a powdered wig had somehow been at hand, he would doubtless have jammed it on his head in a desperate gesture to restore the proper distinctions of rank.

“Some day,” Albert said, “a person from the working class
will
head this government. That is, if the working class doesn’t lose all faith in it before then.”

With that, he turned and left.

Two days later, Andrews’s article appeared in the
Tribune
. The headline read, “
ANARCHIST PARSONS PLANS UPCOMING SLP RALLY TO LAUNCH 1884 CANDIDACY FOR PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.
”

Spies stepped purposefully to the front of the group of fifty or so men, a signal for them to fall in and close ranks. They were one of several units of the Lehr-und-Wehr Verein designated to serve as marshals for the march to Exposition Hall. They’d gathered here at the Ogden Grove picnic grounds to run their drills while there was still some daylight and to review their plans for keeping order along the march route. Spies moved easily among the men, chatting in German with this one, in English with another, coaxing them into formation, his eyes shining with excitement. Though he looked (and sometimes acted) the aristocrat, Spies, like Parsons, was comfortable before any kind of audience and with people of varied backgrounds.

Next month would mark Spies’s twenty-fifth birthday, yet he had the commanding presence of someone much older and people seemed quick to defer to him. Some of his natural authority emanated from his physicality. Even as a young boy in Landeck, a mountainous region of Germany dominated by the ruins of medieval castles, he’d spent much of his time out of doors, often accompanying his father, a forester, on his rounds, but almost as often scampering off alone on forbidden explorations. He would joyfully clamor over the rocky terrain of his favorite ruin, Castle Wildeck, unafraid of the omnipresent bats and adders, bursting with happiness when he reached its highest point and could stare down into the fertile valleys and cozy villages below. Only once did he feel afraid—when he stumbled on the remains of an old torture rack, its corroded spikes encrusted (so he imagined) with human blood. As an adult, he converted the fear into philosophy, drawing confident parallels between the barbarism of the medieval knight and the agony inflicted by the policeman’s brutal club.

Today at Ogden Grove, the splendor of Spies’s outfit amplified his natural charisma. He wore the full, striking
LWV
uniform: a tufted cotton jacket and heavy dark pants for protection against the winter wind (in summer the pants were white), a blue linen blouse, a light-colored sailcloth sash across the chest, and a black Sheridan hat. Few
LWV
members could afford the outfit, and it had taken many a fund-raising petition and much scrimping for most of the men even to approximate the official garb. A good number of them wore frayed undershirts rather than blouses and carried old muzzleloaders rather than breechloading Springfields or Remingtons. Still, the
LWV
was known as the smartest-looking and best equipped of the various workers’ militias—though the gray dress uniforms of the Bohemian Sharpshooters had their decided fans.

Spies and his men were proud of the responsibility they’d been given. The long-awaited Exposition Hall rally, designed to demonstrate the potential power of an aroused working class, had galvanized the poorer districts of the city and scared silly the wealthier ones. The
Tribune
had spoken for the propertied elements in characterizing the prospective participants as “the dregs of the slums, the choicest thieves and the worst specimens of female depravity.”

On an ordinary Saturday, the Ogden Grove picnic grounds would be packed with thousands of working-class people thronging to the various stands, booths and tents for food, dancing, and carousels. Today, it was nearly empty. Most of the regular patrons had gone to one of the numerous other assembly points that the
SLP
had assigned to each of the different trade unions and organizations that made up the constituent sections of the march.

For weeks, details regarding the march and the Exposition Hall proceedings had been thrashed out at popular working-class gathering places in Chicago’s North Side, at Thalia Hall, Zepf’s Saloon, Greif’s, Neff’s, and a dozen other smaller places, like the Labor Hall at West Twelfth Street—and on plenty of street corners and vacant lots, too. Night after night, exultant discussion had rung out over details small and large: the wording (and stitching) of a banner, approval (or denunciation) of a chosen speaker or political plank, skirmishes over an organization’s place in the line of march, the number of torches needed, whether or not to carry arms, and so on.

One of the few booths open that day at Ogden Grove was the wine bar,
famed for 1873 Riesling from the royal caves in Stuttgart; and several of the
LWV
men on arriving at the grounds headed directly for it. But Spies put an immediate stop to that. “Liquor consumption of any kind is forbidden,” he reminded the men, his voice gentle but firm. “We’ve been given a mission of supreme importance and must remain true to it. Our senses must be clear and our minds alert.” A few good-natured curses were thrown Spies’s way, but the men dutifully headed off to a second tent, this one serving coffee, buttered almond cake, and the sweet yeast bread Topfkuchen.

The
LWV
and all the other worker militias would be marching with the chambers of their rifles empty. The Citizens Association, an organization of the city’s leading businessmen, had seen to that. Alarmed at the militancy shown during the Great Strike, and convinced that the Exposition Hall rally marked “the possibility of a dangerous Communistic outbreak in Chicago,” the association had successfully pressured the state legislature into passing a bill that made armed workers groups illegal.

The leadership of the Socialistic Labor Party was itself divided on the wisdom of militaristic display. Van Patten carried the day with the argument that the appearance of armed groups of workers would, whatever their actual intention, primarily serve to frighten the general public, confirming the long-standing propaganda that the
SLP
was intent on outright revolution and distracting attention from its just grievances. But when Van Patten banned even the carrying of empty weapons, the party’s militant Chicago section rejected his order and a fissure was opened in the
SLP
that would continue to widen.

At the exact stroke of 5:00
P.M
., Spies’s
LWV
unit marched smartly out of Ogden’s Grove to link up with the other militias—the Bohemian Sharpshooters, the Irish Labor Guards, the Jaegerverein, and a variety of
LWV
groups. Together they formed ten units, totaling more than five hundred men. Trade union flags waved in the brisk breeze alongside red flags and the Stars and Stripes. Whole families accompanied their marching kin and, galvanized by the Jaegerverein’s two brass bands, cheered them on vociferously from the sidelines. Together the militias represented a diverse mix of ethnic and trade groups—from laborers and factory hands to boxmakers, bakers, machinists, and teamsters.

Following the militias in the parade line were the tableaux vivants—floats, most of them bathed in red calcium lights, depicting heroic episodes
from the final days of the Paris Commune uprising. The most ambitious one, mounted through the combined efforts of the Furniture Workers’ and Iron Moulders’ Unions, depicted government lackeys shooting General Jeroslas Dombrowsky and his falling back into the arms of wounded freedom fighters.

Fielden was marching with the teamsters’ brigade, and when he and Spies spotted each other along the route, they broke ranks for a warm embrace. Fielden had only a few seconds to introduce Spies to the man marching next to him. His name was George Engel—the same impressive man Fielden had introduced Albert to a year or so back. Engel’s stolid intensity caught Spies’s attention. But there was no chance to talk; the line of march began to move forward again, and the men rejoined their respective units.

As the procession swelled in numbers and headed toward the lakefront, the sky darkened and the human serpent grew bright with an endless string of bobbing torches that stretched out for miles along the shore. So huge was the turnout that the approach to Exhibition Hall soon became blocked with an undulating sea of humanity. Albert, as a featured speaker, as well as Lizzie and Lucy (who was holding Albert Jr. wrapped in blankets in her arms), were already inside the hall. They stood looking out at the massive crowd from the second-story stairway of the gigantic building.

“It’s beyond anything I dreamed possible!” Lucy gasped.

“Truly amazing,” Albert said in a near whisper, his eyes ablaze with excitement. “Humanity awake.”

Lizzie worried that the crush of bodies might lead to injuries, that someone would get trampled underfoot.

“No, no,” Lucy reassured her. “Just look!” She pointed out the window. “It’s entirely orderly. No one’s pushing or shoving. They’re patiently waiting for admittance.”

“But how will they all fit in?” Lizzie asked anxiously.

“They won’t,” Albert said. “There could well be forty thousand people, or more, out there. Not even this barn can hold that many. But no one will leave and no one will get hurt. Somehow I know that. People simply want to tell their grandchildren that they were part of this glorious occasion, the day when working people realized their numbers and power. Getting inside to hear the speeches is the least of it. Which reminds me—I should get to the platform and see if we’re running
anywhere near schedule. Don’t forget: there are places reserved for the two of you in the first few rows.”