Sweet Thunder (26 page)

“That's right, Jake,” Jared encouraged that response, “it's a while yet to Miners Day. That'll help the town hold out.” A ghost of a smile visited him. “Show me any miner who isn't going to want to march this year to demonstrate to Anaconda we can't be pushed around.”

How right he was, if past experience was any guide at all. Miners Day was Butte's version of New Orleans's Mardi Gras, Venice's Carnevale, Munich's Oktoberfest, of all such gala holidays from the daily strains of life, a civic celebration giving mineworkers a chance to march in their thousands under peaceable conditions, the various lodges and brotherhoods and sisterhoods to show off their regalia, businesses to build floats to wow and woo customers, on and on through the ranks of all those with local pride or some cause to flaunt. It was a spectacle, a declaration, a civic rite, a coming together of the nationalities of the Constantinople of the Rockies, all that and more. I oh so vividly remembered watching—no, there was not time for that memory now as Jared in his authoritative way was going on, “The Hennessy Building jaybirds think they're so clever, how'd they overlook that? We're one up on them until the big day, anyway.”

“I shall remind them of it so incessantly they'll hear it in their sleep,” I promised to do my editorial utmost.

“That's the stuff.” What remained of the smile hovered another moment as he gave the mock instruction, “Give Cutlass a dose of bayonet.”

“It's still going to be a damned hard slog from now till then, Jared,” Armbrister warned. “You know how things get when the mines aren't running. Butte goes on its back like a beetle.”

Jared knew that only too well, his face told, but he remained grimly resolved. “Every family on the Hill has lived on short rations before.” Under the weight of command in such circumstances, his voice went low and reflective. “One thing about it, Dublin Gulch and Finntown and the rest”—he solemnly named off his vital constituencies, as union leader and senator—“are used to misery. We'll see how Wall Street likes the taste of it.”

•   •   •

At least the newsboys prospered as the lockout took hold, with headlines raging back and forth over the dead quiet of the Hill. My editorials were variations on a theme, practically operatic in orchestration, back and forth from characterizing Anaconda as the cold-blooded money-grubbing untrustworthy reptilian corporate monster it behaved like—this was no time to spare the adjectives—and sounding every note of hope and defiance I could think of, for a citizenry under economic siege to hearken to. Or so we hoped. Jared and his union council were busy keeping the anger banked in the miners' neighborhoods, helped by the newspaper running pleas and pledges in various tongues that echoed those of “Voices of the Hill,” only with much graver accents. And while the
Thunder
lived up to its name, Cutlass dueled with my offerings by employing every dirty trick known to journalism, from quotes out of context to implications that Pluvius was, of all things, a hired gun of the writing sort, bought and paid for so richly he lived in a mansion while posing as a tribune of the people. “He ought to have to live in this overgrown bunkhouse,” Sandison said to that.

As Armbrister bleakly forecast, Butte did slow to a crawl without the rhythm of the mines in its daily life. Men whose hands knew nothing but work had to find time-killing pursuits. The public library was jammed daylong, I reported to Sandison, and I would have bet good money that Smitty and crew were telling the Highliner the same about speakeasies. Nor did it escape me that with everything shut down, a certain Neversweat powderman with a Roman profile now had nothing to do but idle around under the same boardinghouse roof as the attractive woman who was very much my wife, still. The animal.

Even in those first days, a widespread unease, something like the brink of fever before some terrible illness, could be sensed in the conversations in the streets and the way people glanced up at the stock-still equipment of the mines and quickly down again. The pinch of lost wages had been endured before by the families of the Hill during strikes, but, according to the oldest hands on the
Thunder
, Armbrister profanely included, there was a feeling in the air that this time was nothing like anything before. A strike was one thing, workers withholding their labor, the only real weapon they possessed. A lockout was chillingly different. The contrast, say, between a queue waiting at the doorstep for the right invitation to come in, and a slammed and barred door. Between negotiation and coercion; between callused hand and merciless fist.

The one bright spot on the horizon remained Miners Day, and as vowed, in my editorials I drummed away at reminding our readership that, more than ever, Butte's own holiday must serve as the occasion to celebrate the unity of the house of labor and show the copper bosses that the spirit of ten thousand mineworkers was not broken. Take
that
,
Cutlass. I did my best to have my typewriter keys echo the sound of a mile of men on the march, Jared's confident goal for turnout on the great day.

This was the hard going for my fingers, every mention of that midsummer high point of life in the proud mining community bringing such a surge of emotions in me. Two years before, watching the parade together from a private aerie and then a trolley ride to the attractions of the amusement park called Columbia Gardens had been Grace's and my first “date,” to use that modern term for the onset of courtship, those first breathless hours of shy glances and modestly exchanged confidences.

What a picture we made, I in my best suit and checked vest the least of it, Grace resplendently filling out an aquamarine dress with a sea shimmer to it, her hair done up in a circlet braid with a swooping ribbon-sprigged summer hat topping even the gold of that crown upon a crown—an enchanting vision time could not dim. Although it flickered the following day, when my newfound darling suffered an outbreak of second thoughts and hives.
I tossed and turned all night trying to figure out who am I with when I'm with you,
she'd wailed through her mask of calamine lotion while trying not to scratch.
Take yesterday. One minute I'm on the arm of someone I enjoy thoroughly, and the next, you're gambling away money like you're feeding the chickens.
Actually only a bet on Russian Famine in a footrace, which I pointed out in vain was a sure thing. Thank heavens, hives and much else had been overcome in the subsequent course of our romance, leading to matrimony and our year of wonder, of traveling the world on a cloud.

Descending from a cloud brings an awful jolt, however, and I already was not at my best while trying to compose yet another Miners Day piece, several days into the lockout, when Armbrister came by my typewriter stand and dropped a freshly inked
Post
with a plop. “Take a look at this, and then slit my wrists for me.”

I stared down at the headline shrieking across the top of the front page.

Anaconda Takes Steps Against Miners Day Threats

And below was worse.

The Anaconda Copper Mining Company, citing grave threats against life and property, today announced the hiring of extra guards to be deployed around company headquarters and other properties during the forthcoming Miners Day observance. “We have reason to believe radical elements may use the parade as an occasion to incite violence,” a company spokesman declared, “making necessary certain protective steps.”

Questioned whether the guards would be armed, the company spokesman said: “All necessary measures will be taken.”

It went on in the same sickening way. The mayor was quoted as calling on the miners to forgo the traditional parade in this time of tension. The chief of police was quoted as warning the public at large that he did not have enough men on the force to quell major trouble if it erupted. Anaconda and its
Post
lackeys had not missed a trick.

Topping it off was a front-page editorial—front-page!—by Cutlass piously expressing the hope that cooler heads would prevail on the union side, but if not, the consequences clearly would fall on those who instigated trouble. “Those who mistake the temple of prosperity for the Bastille,” the fiend wrote.

“Cute, isn't it,” Armbrister said dolefully over my shoulder. “Just nicely letting everybody know there'll be goons with guns if the union doesn't scrap the Miners Day parade.”

The threat sent a chill cold as ice through me. “Has Jared seen—?”

“I called him at union headquarters. He'll be here as soon as he picks himself up off the floor.”

It wasn't long before we were joined by our Sisyphus of a publisher, who indeed looked as if the rock had rolled down the hill on him. Alert to trouble, the newsroom watched the three of us huddle over the flagrant
Post
front page spread on the desk in Armbrister's goldfish bowl of an office.

His voice tight, Jared began, “I'm afraid”—the first time I had ever heard that word from him, even in such a context—“they've got us. I can't put our people in a fix like that, where a hothead on either side can set off a shooting war.” He looked ready to spit out something bitter, and did. “Anaconda doesn't mind that, it would just as soon live on blood as copper.”

“What about troops,” I reluctantly came up with, “to keep the peace?”

Jared shook his head. “This governor won't want to do that. He's too new in office, and while he's mostly with us against Anaconda, he won't stick his neck out farther than he already has on the tax vote.” The other two of us followed his dispirited gaze back down to the threatening headline. “This raises absolute hell with us in trying to hold on against the lockout, but we've got to scrap the parade, I don't see any way around it.”

“Conniving bastards,” said Armbrister. “Bastard,” he corrected himself, for this had Cutlass written all over it in more ways than one. Dread in his every feature, he shook his head at the retreat the
Thunder
now had to lead. “Better get started putting the best face on it you can, Morgie, so—”

The editor broke off, scowling as he always did at unfamiliar faces in his newsroom. “Who the hell are these, the oldest living candidates for the Lonely Hearts Club?”

No, they were not lovelorn ancients come to place matrimonial ads, they were Hoop and Griff. Each wearing a suit and tie, like themselves a bit threadbare but serviceable, and clutching in both hands nice hats, homburgs I never would have suspected they possessed. Behaving as though they were in church, they gazed around the newsroom meekly as they padded past surprised reporters.

Coming up to us in the editor's office, they nodded a little greeting as if we were all in the same pew, and paused to consider, one to another.

“You better tell them. It's pretty much your idea.”

“It's just as much yours. You go ahead.”

“No, no, be my guest.”

“Righto. What this is”—Griff addressing the blinking trio of us—“we couldn't help but hear the
Post
newsboys yelling their tonsils out about what the snakes are up to now.” He shook his head at Anaconda's latest injustice, Hoop following suit. “We'd miss the Miners Day parade, something awful. Marching in that is the last thing we've got of our life on the Hill, if you know what I mean.” The seamed old face, duplicated by the work-worn one next to it, spoke memorably to that. “So Hoop and me got to thinking, how about the Fourth of July?”

While I was a moment behind on that, Jared looked like he'd been hit by the Book of Revelation. “The American Legion parade? Pull a fast one on Anaconda and the mayor?”

Armbrister's face lit up all the way to the green of his eyeshade. “Hell yes, that's it! The Legion is always scrambling for bunches to march with them besides the DAR and the GAR and kiddies with sparklers.”

He had scarcely finished before Jared let out a whoop that brought up heads all around the newsroom. “Not even Anaconda can let itself be known for a Fourth of July massacre,” our tactician said with a smack of his fist in his palm. “I'll bet my bottom dollar they have to rein in any bloodthirsty goons if we're out there strutting our stuff like true Americans.”

By then I could see it as plainly as reveille in some grand dream, the men of the Hill stepping forth as if from some monumental shift change to form the tighter ranks of comrades in arms. Montana always rallied to the colors, famously so, contributing more than its share of manpower in time of war—there was no doubt about it, every mining neighborhood of every nationality would have veterans who were in the Great War or served in the Philippines insurrection or in Mexico against Villa. What a sight it would be, the army of the Hill stretching behind the Legionnaires in their service caps and the Grand Army of the Republic aged remnant in their Union blue and the Daughters of the American Revolution costumed as Betsy Ross in multiple. Carried away, I whapped Jared on the back hard enough to startle him. “And you, Sergeant Evans, must wear your uniform and be out front, like a good soldier.”

Laughing, he said Rab might have to let it out a little for him, but by God, he would wear it to the fullest. Exuberance then got the best of him. “You old devils,” he seized Griff and Hoop each by a shoulder, “are going to be right there in the front rank of the honor guard.” Modest as church mice, they shuffled their feet and declared in duet that would sure take care of their wanting to march, all right.

As publisher and editor feverishly began trading further ideas about how to turn the Fourth of July into Miners Day come early—Armbrister already was envisioning a
Thunder
special section headlined
Butte Marches for Loyalty and Country
; “Let the readers catch on, loyalty to what,” he chortled—Griff and Hoop edged toward the door, turning their hats in their hands. Before they could make their exit, I caught up with them to rid myself of the question tickling at the back of my mind. “Why are you dressed to the teeth?”