A March to Remember (10 page)

C
HAPTER
11

“W
e're here!” Sarah said, with an excited clap.

“Donations for the marchers?” A thin man, covered in dust, said from his post at the gate. “Ten cents for the gents, ladies free.”

“I will not!” Senator Smith said.

“The gall!” Chester mumbled.

“Here, this should cover it.” Walter handed a silver dollar coin to the man. “You look like you're starving.”

“We are,” the man said simply as he stepped away from the gate to allow our excursion wagon to pass.

Brightwood Riding Park was a ten-acre fairground with a half-mile oval horse track, inside which had been erected an immense canvas wall encircling the camp that read H
E IS
A
LIVE.
Inside the canvas wall, the camp was a scattering of old wagons hung with battered tin pans and dishes; emaciated horses grazing; idle cook fires; two tents, one round, about sixteen feet in diameter, and a small square one, colorfully painted—presumably by Marshal Browne, a painter—and hundreds of haggard, undernourished men lounging about on the ground.

These men were only a small fraction of the millions of jobless men and women across the country who were facing starvation, some of whom chopped wood, broke rocks, and even resorted to prostitution in exchange for food for their families. That was why these men had come to Washington in the first place—to raise awareness of their predicament. I'd come, admiring and envious of the men who had the freedom to march in the name of their cause, to see the heroes I'd read about come to life. Instead I felt pity for their plight and gratitude and relief that I wasn't counted among them.

The men of our company alighted from the wagon without hesitation. I would have readily followed them but had to wait as the other women hesitated. Taken aback by the scene before them, Sarah and Mrs. Smith were less than enthusiastic in disembarking. Mrs. Smith clutched Spencer as her son helped her down. Sarah gave me a nervous smile before taking her husband's hand and stepping off. Walter offered his aid, which I took simply to have an excuse to hold his hand and not because I was concerned for my safety. These marchers were not revolutionaries or rioters, as some in the city feared. These men were weary and hungry, nothing more.

“Where's Coxey?” Senator Smith said to no one in particular.

“Simeon will know,” Sir Arthur said, as we spied Simeon Harper approaching us from across the field.

“Welcome to the camp of the Commonweal of Christ!” Harper said, sweeping his hand across the view before us. “You wouldn't know it now, but yesterday was like a circus with Secretary of Agriculture Morton visiting as well as Senators Peffer, Allen, Dolph, Manderson, Frye, Coke, several congressmen, the entire Mexican legation, two members of the Chinese legation, the Japanese minister and his wife, and a seamlessly endless stream of gawkers. But as you can see, it's quiet today. Much better if you want to talk to the men, Sir Arthur.”

Sir Arthur nodded in appreciation.

“Where's Coxey?” Senator Smith repeated.

“Well, there's the thing,” Simeon said. “He's not here.”

“What?” several people exclaimed simultaneously.

“Where is he?” the senator demanded.

“He went to the Capitol to try to gain an audience with Vice President Stevenson again in hopes Stevenson will give him permission to give his speech tomorrow from the Capitol steps.”

Still no luck then,
I thought.

“And the rumor is that the word is ‘No,' ” said a man who had sauntered up to our group. I turned to the speaker. With the most peculiarly twisted nose, I'd know him anywhere.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Neely,” I said.

And then as I glimpsed the startled expressions on the faces about me, I wished I'd remained silent. Jasper Neely tipped his hat, but without another word or explanation, he sauntered away again. Walter questioned me with his gaze.

“I met the gentleman on my hike this morning,” I said as explanation. Simeon Harper chuckled as Walter nodded knowingly.

“All right, then we'll speak to Browne,” Senator Smith said.

“Well, there's the thing,” Simeon said again.

“You're not telling us Browne isn't here either?” Senator Smith demanded.

“I'm afraid so. Rumor is he went into town to get his picture taken.”

“This is preposterous!” Senator Smith said. “We came all the way out here and the man can't even show up?”

“Imagine what the men who marched from Ohio with him think of it,” Simeon Harper said. “These men are starving while Coxey and Browne enjoy the fruits of the city.”

“Well, something should be done about these Coxey and Browne tomfools,” Chester said.

“I overheard a few men suggest lynching Browne when he finally shows. Is that what you had in mind, Mr. Smith?” Simeon Harper said. Chester's face reddened in anger and embarrassment, but he held his peace.

“We should still try to speak with some of the men,” Sir Arthur said. “I'm not going to waste my afternoon waiting. Hattie.” And with that he headed to the center of the camp with me right behind him.

Before we had reached the first tent, a commotion ensued back near our excursion wagon.

“He's got bread!” a waifish man, in obvious need of more than bread, shouted nearby.

A throng of men, who moments ago had appeared lethargic and hopeless, abruptly scrambled to their feet and raced past us. Sir Arthur held his ground as I stood behind him, hoping to avoid being shoved or trampled as the men rushed to get bread. Sir Arthur swiveled around to see what the fuss was all about. A mud-spattered wagon, upon which was painted a fantastic swirling of bright reds, yellows, and greens, had arrived. Driving was a man I knew could only be either Buffalo Bill, Daniel Boone, or more likely, Marshal Carl Browne. I'd never seen anyone like him. With a large, sturdy build, he sported a heavy mustache and a beard with two spirals. He wore a white sombrero tilted over his right eye and wore his hair to the shoulders. To my relief, a row of silver dollar buttons, shining in the late-afternoon sun, ornamented his fringed buckskin coat.

“Finally,” Senator Smith grumbled as Sir Arthur and I returned to our group, which had gathered next to Browne's supply wagon.

In the commotion, Mrs. Smith's dog leaped from her arms, and with ears and tongue flapping, sped past us into the center of the camp.

“Spencer! Spencer!” she cried after the puppy.

“Why on earth did you bring that damn dog here anyway?” Senator Smith demanded, loud enough to be heard above the din of the men shouting to Browne to pass down the bread.

“There he is,” Mrs. Smith said, relieved.

The dog jogged back toward his owner, his tail wagging and his mouth full of a treasure. When he reached Mrs. Smith, he dropped the object in his mouth. Mrs. Smith picked up the dog, ignoring the offering it had brought. I knelt down. The heavy web strap was once part of a man's suspenders, the corroded buckle shiny and wet from the dog's slobber.

“Don't bother with it, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Smith said. “Spencer is always scrounging up rubbish.”

We all turned our attention back to Carl Browne, who had taken the opportunity of his lofty position to speak to the gathering. He told of his fruitless search for a new campsite.

“We don't know where we will stay tomorrow night. Perhaps we're going to camp in the Capitol grounds.”

“Like hell they will,” Chester Smith muttered under his breath. Senator Smith too was frowning.

Whether he heard Chester or not, Browne continued, “We're going to carry this thing through to the end. Haven't we done everything I said we would?”

“All except having a hundred thousand men to form the parade,” someone shouted angrily from the crowd.

“I didn't say we'd have a hundred thousand men in line,” Browne replied. “I said there would be a hundred thousand people with us in Washington. Death to usury!” He shouted as he alighted from the wagon.

As Marshal Browne approached our group, my conscience and curiosity were at odds. Despite his shout of “Death to usury!” I was disappointed Browne wasn't going to preach or give a sermon to the crowd. I knew we'd missed the Sunday sermon he'd given yesterday; I'd read about it in this morning's paper. But still I had hoped for something . . . unusual. Having followed Carl Browne and the rest of Coxey's marching army in the newspapers, I knew Marshal Browne to be notorious for his scandalous religion. He preached a unique form of Theosophy to which he'd converted Coxey when the two met at the World's Fair last year. So I felt slightly cheated not to hear Browne expound on his peculiar theory of reincarnation wherein all human souls, upon death, entered a reservoir, which he called a huge cauldron, which contained a mixture of all the souls that had gone before. According to Carl Browne, each child born was given a soul made from this mixture and was therefore a fractional reincarnation of all the souls who had died before his birth. Shockingly, this included the soul of Christ. He claimed he and Coxey had been reincarnated with exceptionally large quantities of Christ's soul. Moreover, he felt those who flocked to their standard had also been born with part of Christ's soul, and thus together, they would bring a large part of Christ's soul to bear on Washington for their cause. Hence the “He Is Alive” painted on the canvas wall and the name “The Commonweal of Christ,” which Coxey and Browne had christened their band of marching men.

At least I won't have to go to confession to cleanse myself from hearing him preach,
I thought.

Browne shook everyone's hand equally, mine included, and welcomed us. But then he made his excuses as he had much to do before the march to the Capitol in the morning. He encouraged us to walk around, mingle with the men, and hear their stories. Maybe then, he hoped, we'd understand better the plight of the unemployed worker and the cause behind this “petition in boots.”

Senator Smith grumbled something under his breath about lack of respect, but then Claude Morris reminded him why they had come. “Quite right, Morris, let's mingle,” the senator said.

We all spread out, me following Sir Arthur and Simeon Harper, Walter accompanying Sarah and Congressman Clayworth. Mr. Harper introduced Sir Arthur to several men he'd gotten to know over the course of his travels with the marchers. One man, once a butcher from Ohio, in the prime of his life, saw his wages cut in half every month until he had nothing left. His children survived only by working in the local mill while he marched. Another man, a blacksmith from Chicago, hadn't found work since January and had seen his wife weaken and die of starvation.

“I once heard this advice to the jobless,” the blacksmith said. “ ‘Cheerfully and courageously do the best you can. Do not cry, commit suicide, or join Coxey's Army.' I couldn't fathom the first two, so here I am.” He turned his head away as tears dripped down his cheeks.

Without being asked, I wrote down everything the men said, in shorthand, as though taking dictation, so as not to miss a word. I could easily imagine their stories being used in Sir Arthur's next book. Despite having read the accounts of these men in the newspapers, it was still inspiring to meet them in person and hear their plight spoken in their own words. Sir Arthur was speaking to a man who had lost his job in a steel plant in Coxey's hometown of Massillon, Ohio, days before the march began, when shouting drew our attention to a crowd surrounding Senator Smith. Mrs. Smith, Chester, and Claude Morris stood slightly behind the senator. Directly in front of him was the man with the misshapen nose, Jasper Neely, pumping his fist into the air.

“But don't you see?” Mr. Neely's shout rose above the din of the camp. “General Coxey's Good Roads project would put thousands of unemployed men back to work, building and repairing this great nation's roads.” I'd read about Coxey's Good Roads idea in the newspaper. It was the impetus behind the march, to convince Congress to fund it.

“That's Jasper Neely,” Simeon Harper said to Sir Arthur. “He's a character. You won't want to miss this.”

With Harper in the lead, Sir Arthur and I made our way over. We arrived as Walter, Sarah, and Daniel Clayworth joined the crowd as well.

“I don't think you quite appreciate our position, young man,” Senator Smith was saying.

“I don't think that blockhead could understand anything,” Chester said to his father behind his hand. “Or any of these half-wits, for that matter.”

“You have a point, son,” Senator Smith replied under his breath. “Who else but a simpleton would walk from Ohio to complain about not having a job? If they put that much effort into finding employment, they'd have nothing to complain about.”

“Oh, I understand your position, Senator,” Mr. Neely said, too far away to have overheard the derogatory exchange. “You will argue the program is too expensive.”

“It is,” Senator Smith said.

I sympathized with Mr. Neely's cause, the destitution of millions was undeniable, but his tactics reminded me too much of another, a labor reformer I'd met in Newport. Nothing good came of that man's judgmental lectures. And I couldn't see anything good coming from Mr. Neely's demands either. Why do men insist on haranguing others about their cause and then resort to violence when their message is dismissed or ignored? Even women, at times, resorted to such measures; Mrs. Trevelyan had been infamous for smashing barrels of whiskey with hatchets in her protest against intemperance.

Will Coxey's speech, if ignored, lead to the violent protest the government fears after all?
I wondered.