Haymarket (17 page)

Albert embraced the women, kissed his infant son, and hurried off.

Spies’s Verein unit was near the front of the line of march, directly behind the brass bands now playing the “Marseillaise,” as the crowd sang lustily along, to accompany the marchers as they passed into the building’s vast expanse. The interior of Exhibition Hall was draped wall to wall with flags and banners, the largest of which read “
THE GRAND ANNIVERSARY OF THE DAWN OF LIBERTY: PARIS, 1871.
” Within an hour, every inch of available space, including the platform, was crammed to overflowing with exuberant humanity—with twice as many people stirring on the grounds outside.

The militia groups had been scheduled to perform a drilling exhibition, but given the press of the crowd, the men simply stacked their guns into pyramids and took up police duty to ensure order. Acrobatic and dance performances had also been planned as entr’actes to the speechmaking, but the lack of space meant that most of the elaborate opening program had to be abandoned. No one was even sure whether, given the dense crowd, the speeches would carry beyond the main floor.

By now it was nearly half past eight, a half hour after the official program had been scheduled to start. The organizers huddled on stage and made a quick decision to send out the tried-and-true crowd pleasers W. B. Creech and John McAuliffe. Creech, the “untamed troubadour,” often provided an opening song or poem for large labor gatherings and on this night he declaimed his latest composition in a strong, clear voice that carried straight up to the galleries:

Creech sang on for a dozen stanzas, got a rousing cheer at the end, and returned the compliment with several grandiloquent bows. Before he’d even returned to his seat, John McAuliffe bounded across the stage. He was running for Congress on the
SLP
ticket and his vibrant tenor voice
rang through the crowd: “Let us yank, and thunder, and roar, and storm, and charge, at the ballot-box, and having thus peaceably, yet boldly, won the victory, we will enjoy it,
or know the reason why
! Fellow workers, be true to yourselves, desert the enemy, and the morn following election, Labor’s sun will rise radiant with glory!”

Lucy and Lizzie were seated so close to the stage that McAuliffe’s voice reverberated through them as though in an echo chamber. When he shouted “radiant with glory!” Lucy—handing off Albert Jr. to Lizzie so quickly that she nearly dropped him—leapt to her feet as if struck by lightning. Throwing her arms over her head, swaying from side to side, she shouted “Hurrah!” after “Hurrah!” up into McAuliffe’s face. Her voice was so powerful that he actually heard it above the din and turning in her direction, threw her a kiss.

“Next year!” Lucy yelled exuberantly at Lizzie, who was trying to comfort a bawling Albert Jr., “next year there’ll be a woman up there on the stand and”—her eyes blazed with anger and bravado—“that woman might just be me!”

The assembly meeting carried over into the next day, a Sunday. Many families camped out on the grounds for the night, and a constant stream of men went back and forth into the city to get food, blankets, and other provisions. The police, armed with formal complaints from the Board of Trade and the Stock Exchange, tried to remove people from inside the building, but most refused to budge. They caught a few hours’ rest on the hardwood floors or sat up all night in excited talk.

When it finally came time for Albert to speak, the crowd had thinned—Lizzie and Lucy had themselves been forced to leave in the early morning hours, after Albert Jr. developed diarrhea—and the thousands who still remained had by then heard the impassioned drone of so many speeches that the repetitive words barely penetrated. Fatigue and anticlimax were rapidly becoming the order of the day.

Albert began by saying that what the Chicago working-class wanted in 1879 was the same as what the German workers had wanted in 1848 and the French in 1871—“to establish a self-governing republic, wherein the masses could partake of the civilization which their industry and skill had created.” That produced a wave of applause and spurred Albert on to an energetic argument in favor of electoral politics. But the shift from
talk of pistols and bayonets to the vote didn’t suit the audience’s bleary, raw-edged mood. It wanted a few bold shots, however figurative, across the bow. The crowd’s restlessness dampened Albert’s spirit, made him feel muddled and heavy. “The ballot-box must remain our first remedy,” he said, his muted tone managing to make the tactic sound as tired as his voice. Light applause gave way to scattered booing when he went on to say, “In our current situation, with the power of the army at the beck and call of the propertied classes, strikes ultimately cannot be won, cannot bring lasting change.”

The booing thoroughly unnerved him. He’d never before experienced anything like it. A popular orator, a tried-and-true audience pleaser, he’d grown used to warm approval. Shaken, feeling a sudden evacuation of energy, he brought his speech to a swift close. “Independent political action is, I repeat, the answer. We must elect our own representatives to implement our social program through legislation. And that program, I want to emphasize in closing, is
not
—as our enemies claim—a communistic call to abolish or equalize property ownership. Rather, it is a socialistic call for government ownership of public utilities and an end to the wealth of the country being drained off into the pockets of the few while the masses go hungry.”

To a limp smattering of applause, Albert moved shakily off the podium, almost losing his balance and tripping as he disappeared into the sea of people.

By the time he arrived back home, not having slept for two nights and having eaten little, he still felt bewildered and sorely in need of comfort and rest. But Lucy was in too belligerent a mood to provide much of either.

“Well what did you expect? You misgauged their mood, and they let you know it. All week long I tried to warn you! But as usual, you refused to listen.”

“What are you saying, for heaven’s sake? I value your opinion above all others, and have nearly always heeded it. Why are you being so unfair?” he said, his frustration and exhaustion bringing him near tears.

“Electoral politics! The ballot-box!” Lucy, hands on hips, started to move agitatedly back and forth across their narrow living room. “Why
can’t you understand that those with power never yield it up peacefully. They’ll stuff your ballot-boxes. They’ll discard your votes. You and Spies prattle on like old women about ‘peaceful change’ through the ballot. At least Spies has bought a rifle …”

“Oh, is that what you think I should do?” Albert asked, flaring. “Go out there and kill a few people?”

“Maybe,” Lucy said quietly.

“Oh fine … just lovely … like the wonderful results violence gave us during the Great Strike … ending with the men stripped down to the status of slaves.”

“There are slaves and there are slaves,” Lucy said. “Fifty years ago, one of them was named Nat Turner.”

“I know as much about Nat Turner as you do!” Albert shouted. “And I know what happened to him, too. He ended up on the gallows, his rebellion a failure.”

Lucy turned on him in a fury. “As
you
measure failure, maybe. But in the hearts of his own people, Nat Turner is a living source of inspiration.”

She turned away. “I must tend to the baby.” And with that, she swept off into the other room.

Lucy agitatedly paced the floor in front of Albert. “I want to write. And so does Lizzie.”

She was making a declaration, not opening a discussion. “And I intend to start immediately. Between the dress shop and taking care of Albert Jr., I’m home all day anyway.”

“But how will you find the time?” Albert was startled at Lucy’s sharpness, but tried to hold to a neutral tone.

“The same way you and Spies and Grottkau and Van Patten—and all the other men—find the time. By not getting enough sleep. By taking your meals standing up. By rushing through the day. By seeing your spouse only when your heads hit the pillow at night. Why do you even ask? Do you think I’m less resourceful or energetic than you?”

Albert got up from his chair and went over to embrace her. “Sweetheart, you have more zest than the rest of us put together. And I want you to do this. You have strong opinions and they need to be heard.”

“So does Lizzie.”

“Lizzie doesn’t speak out as forcefully as you, so her commitment isn’t as apparent.”

“It’s apparent to me. We talk all the time. And not about fabrics and stitching.”

Albert laughed. “And I thought a sewing circle was the apex of both your ambitions,” he teased.

She wasn’t amused. “I want you to get Frank Hirth to publish our articles in
The Socialist
. And I want him to pay us for them.”

That took Albert aback. “Lucy, I’m only his assistant! He’s the editor, he makes the final decisions.”

The telltale flush that preceded a major outburst starting to ascend from Lucy’s neck, and seeing it, Albert shifted his tone. “Of course Frank does consult with me. But all I can promise is to put the idea in front of him.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow—what?”

“Speak to Hirth tomorrow.”

“I will if I can get his attention long enough.”

“Oh Albert!” Lucy wailed with frustration.

“I will, I will. You have my word. I
want
you to write for the press. Yes, and to speak out at public forums too. Surely you know I don’t doubt your right, or your ability.” He was sounding frustrated himself, which softened Lucy.

“I do know,” she said quietly. “And I also know how lucky I am to have you for a husband—even if you were pigheaded about your Exposition Hall speech.” Albert decided not to reply.

“Most men,” Lucy went on, “would suspect their wives of neurasthenia if they showed any interest in public questions. I’m very lucky to have you.” She stroked his cheek and put her arm around his waist.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said, still holding himself at some distance. “Lately you seem angry with me most of the time.”

“I’ve been angry with myself—and take it out on you,” Lucy said simply. “I feel I have so much to contribute, but no way to do it.”

“We’ll find a way, I promise.” He was touched by Lucy’s admission. “If it doesn’t work out with Hirst, we can take your articles to the new
Arbeiter-Zeitung
. Did I tell you the paper might use some of the five thousand dollars it raised at Exhibition Hall to hire Spies? As its business manager.”

“Lucky man! I’m sure he’d love to stop stuffing chairs for a living.”

“Don’t tell him you’ve heard the rumor. He hasn’t a firm offer yet. I’ll start by approaching Hirst.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” They smiled happily at each other.

“Now tell me,” Albert said, “and I’m asking this as a serious question. What are some of the things you want to write about? Some of the topics.”

“My first subject,” Lucy said, “will be the egotism of reformers. Too many of our male friends, it seems to me, care more about their own
glory than the cause.”

“We’re probably all driven by a little personal ambition.”

“I didn’t mean you, for heaven’s sakes. You’re the most modest man I know! But there’s a big difference between you and Mr. Philip Van Patten.”

“Oh? I thought you liked him.”

“I do. But what the man wants above all is to remain the president of the
SLP
. To that end, he’ll compromise his principles.”

“I think you’re being too hard on him. Van Patten’s human, that’s all. We all like to see our name in the newspaper.”

Lucy visibly stiffened. “I don’t. I couldn’t care less if Lucy Parsons, the individual, is ever mentioned. In fact, I have no intention in my articles of ever talking about myself. I refuse to.”

“My, my,” Albert said, trying to sound impish, “I didn’t realize I was living with a saint.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Very well. Then I’ll tell you what I really think. I think you have a great deal of ambition.” He surprised himself with his own directness. “And what’s more, there’s nothing dishonorable about it. I take ambition as a given. What matters is how you use it—in what cause, for what end.”

“I never said I wasn’t ambitious.” Lucy felt she’d trumped him. “All I said was that I’d do nothing to push myself forward, nothing for personal notoriety. Self-importance is the first, nearest, hardest, most contemptible of our enemies.”

There was a momentary silence. Faced with Lucy’s righteous, almost ceremonial declaration, Albert decided against discretion. “You know what I think, my dear Lucy?”

“I’m eager to hear.”

“I think you have the makings of a first-class revolutionary fanatic.”

He’d hoped to sound a waggish note, but Lucy’s response had no playfulness in it: “I dearly hope you’re right. I’ve gotten a late start.”

“What will happen, I wonder, if I fail to keep up with you?”

“I’ll chuck you out, straightaway, that’s what!” Lucy’s smile signaled her agreement to end the exchange with humor. “Anyway,” she added, “that’s the first thing I would write about.”