The Coal War (45 page)

[33]

During this crisis there were wild doings in the State Capitol. Hal got only swift glimpses at the time, being too busy even to read through the newspaper accounts; but when the trouble was over, and he met Lucy May and Will Wilmerding, he got the inside story. The first accounts of the “massacre” had come in the morning, and Wilmerding had rushed to see the Governor. Finding that nothing could be hoped for from this distracted wretch, he had proceeded to John Harmon's office, where a conference was held to discuss means of rousing the state. People came from every walk of life, both men and women—among the latter Mrs. Edward S. Warner, Junior. The decision was taken to call a mass-meeting on the State House grounds, and the Reverend Wilmerding undertook to notify the police authorities.

Lucy May told about this scene, which had been so funny that even in the midst of her excitement and distress she had hardly been able to keep her face straight. The clergyman had called up the chief of police, and there in the office of the miners' union, before a large company, had conducted a telephonic debate upon the rights, privileges and immunities of citizens in a free republic. The clergyman's voice had rolled and thundered, just as it was wont to roll and thunder from the pulpit; as the discussion waxed hotter, the reverend orator began to make gestures into the telephone—the gestures which Hal had watched on so many Sunday mornings from the family pew. “What, sir? Do you know whom you are addressing, sir? An ordained clergyman of the church! (Gesture of the right hand) Very well, sir—if you have no respect for my office, then perhaps you will have respect for the aroused citizens of this community. Let me inform you, sir, (Gesture of the admonitory fore-finger) I have not called you up to ask permission for this meeting, I have called you up to inform you that this meeting is to be held. It will be held, (Gesture of the clenched fist) regardless of anything that the debauched police-force of this community may threaten or attempt. You will be well-advised, sir, if you instruct your officers not to show their faces on the Capitol grounds during that meeting! (Gesture of the tossed head).”

And this advice the chief of police took; there was not a blue uniform in sight on the afternoon of the meeting. In spite of a pouring rain five thousand people packed the grounds, and they passed resolutions demanding the immediate impeachment of the Governor, and calling upon the citizens to arm and assemble.

Nor was this mere verbiage. The citizens meant it. It seemed that every third man you met was organizing a military company. The members of some of the unions had got arms, and were publicly drilling; many of them were setting out by automobile and train for the coal-country. It was the thing Hal had foretold to Congressman Simmons—civil war!

Lucy May made an effort to see Peter Harrigan again—this time at his office. When the old Caliban-monster refused to admit her, she set out to carry into effect the threat she had made—to raise up an insurrection of women against him! She and Adelaide Wyatt summoned a gathering of women at one of the big hotels, and it was resolved to march on the State House next morning, to demand an interview with Governor Barstow, and stay with him until they had got what they wanted. The papers published the summons, and next morning there was a throng of several thousand women—and women with votes, accustomed to having their way with politicians! They literally camped out before the Executive office, making speeches, singing hymns, doing everything they could to upset the nerves of a little cowboy Governor. They stayed day and night, and there was no way to get rid of them.

Their demand was that the Federal troops should be called to the scene, to put a stop to the bloodshed. This had been Hal's proposition to the congressional committee, and so Lucy May and Adelaide thought that they were carrying out his wishes. They were amazed when they received a telegram from him, telling them that they were playing into the hands of the enemy. Before long, there he was on the telephone, a faint voice, pleading in desperate excitement. The time for Federal intervention was past—what was wanted now was for people to keep their hands off! There were only some six hundred of the militia ruffians, and the strikers would drive them back into the mountains, or wipe them out altogether, and that would be the end of corporation rule in the coal-country!

“I tell you we've got everything in our hands! We're taking mine after mine—we've got a revolution accomplished!”

“But Hal, you're burning things—you're killing people!”

“We're not killing anybody that deserves to live! Keep your hands off! Let us settle our own affairs!”

And next day there was another telephone controversy, this time between Hal in Pedro and John Harmon in Western City. What madness was this which the newspapers reported? The union leaders were planning to grant a truce! Throwing away everything they had gained, going back into their old slavery! They had brought the operators to their knees at last—and now they proposed to lie down, to let Federal troops come in and deprive them of all they had fought and bled for!

It was the difference between a young man of the leisure class, high-spirited, accustomed to having his own way, and a representative of the toilers, a self-made and self-taught man, schooled in patience and obedience. John Harmon was not a revolutionist, he had never thought about a revolution, and did not know what to do with the advantage that had so suddenly come to him. What he was asking was a living wage and decent working conditions for his people; it had never occurred to him in his wildest dream that it might be his destiny to seize the coal-mines and run them co-operatively!

[34]

Jim Moylan and the young men were with Hal, but the older men had their way, and the truce was declared. But it proved that the truce could not be kept; both strikers and militiamen were like wild animals turned loose—they would fight, and nobody could stop them, and anybody that tried would get hurt. The mine-guards fired into the Oak Ridge tent-colony, and as a result the strikers charged the Oak Ridge mine, razing everything inside it.

And here was more work for Hal. Word came to Pedro over the phone that General Wrightman was sending a force of militiamen to retake the mine-property, and the strikers swarmed from every direction to defend it. Hal gathered a party of twenty picked men, and posted them near the entrance to the Oak Ridge canyon, where they would be hidden from anyone coming up the road. He himself took post a few yards in advance, giving orders that they were to wait for his signal, then to shoot, and shoot to kill. He lay for a couple of hours, until he made out an automobile winding its way up the road. As it came nearer, he saw that it carried some of the hated figures in khaki, and he gripped his rifle and made ready. They would wipe out that bunch at one volley, and then they would have an extra automobile for moving ammunition!

The car passed from sight for a minute or two, then suddenly it came round a turn directly in front of Hal. He looked, and his heart stood still with dismay. Sitting in the front seat, alongside the driver, was Captain Harding!

Hal saw the terrible plight he was in. Could he kill his cousin? Could he give the signal and let others kill him? No, he could not!

It was necessary to act instantly, for at any moment the men behind him might take matters into their own hands; and of course, if one shot were fired, it would be too late. Hal dropped his rifle, and springing up, rushed forward, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and waving it. “Stop! Stop!”

The driver of the car obeyed. He was a militiaman in uniform, and there were four other militiamen in the back seat, all with rifles in their hands. They craned their necks and stared at Hal, who waited until he was close, and then said, “Appie, you must turn back.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the Captain.

“Don't ask me,” said Hal. “Don't stop to talk about it. Turn back and get out of here.”

“But I have business up the canyon.”

“Don't you know that Oak Ridge has been taken by the strikers?”

“No, I didn't know it.”

“Well, it has. So you can't go forward.”

“I have orders,” declared the Captain.

“Your orders aren't to get yourself killed!” And then, with swift intensity, “For God's sake, Appie, don't be a fool! I'm trying to save your life. Every second may be too late.”

Captain Harding answered, coldly, “I don't think you know the man you're dealing with.” And he took one glance about the landscape, to see where the enemy might be hidden. Then came his command, quick and sharp: “Get out, and get under cover!”

The five militiamen, clutching their rifles, leaped out of the automobile. Before Hal had time to realize what was happening, they had run across the road and flung themselves down behind the rocks. Captain Harding stepped behind the automobile and stood waiting with his revolver drawn.

Hal was beside himself with indignation. “You dog!” he cried. “When I was trying to save you!”

“Did I ask you to save me?” demanded the other. He was almost as angry as Hal, but controlled himself better.

“Have you no honor at all?” Hal exclaimed.

“My honor is not in your keeping. My duty is not to you, but to the state.”

Hal looked about him, in desperation. He could not see any possible escape from this predicament. He had betrayed his fellows, put them in a trap. “If you must have a fight,” he cried, suddenly, “let's settle it between us two!” And he drew the revolver which was at his belt.

But Captain Harding would not even look at him. “Rubbish!” he said. “It will take more than that to settle this matter.”

“All right!” exclaimed Hal. “But let's begin with this anyhow!” He caught his cousin by the arm and jerked him round.

Appie, however, was not to be moved. “Forget it!” he said, contemptuously. “I'll do no fighting with you.”

“Whom do you think you'll fight with? Don't you know that if you fire on my men, I'll kill you?”

“Very well,” said the Captain. “As you please about that.” He was looking in the direction of the strikers, trying to estimate where and how many they were. Some of them were now showing their heads, staring at the perplexing scene; but none of them made a move to fire.

As for Hal, he thought of walking out to rejoin his men, leaving it for his cousin to shoot him, or to order the militiamen to shoot him, as he saw fit. His hesitation was because he realized that such an action would not help his men in the least. He had put them in a plight from which they could hardly escape without loss of some of their lives.

The young man stood motionless, heartsick, numb. The strikers, now probably realizing his predicament, and their own, lay back out of sight and waited; the militiamen also waited—and so this strange, almost ridiculous situation continued for a couple of minutes.

At last Hal turned to his cousin again. “Can't you see there's no sense going on with this? You're outnumbered three to one. You're only throwing away the lives of your men.”

“What do you propose?” demanded Harding.

“I propose that you let my men go up the canyon without firing on them.”

The other considered the matter. He had had time to realize the military aspects of the affair; perhaps also he felt that he had vindicated his reputation for courage. “I'll not fire on them if they don't fire on me,” he replied, at last.

“Will you give that order to your men?”

Captain Harding gave it; and then Hal turned towards the strikers, and took a few steps in their direction. “Boys,” he called, “I've made a mess of it for you, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't shoot at my cousin. Call it off and go up the canyon; please. Don't shoot, and the militiamen won't shoot at you.”

After a few moments' hesitation, several of the strikers stood up and started to back away. Others, less trustful, began crawling away on the ground. But as the militiamen did not fire, they were reassured, and stood up and went off. Farther up the canyon they came together on the road and passed from sight.

[35]

Captain Harding gave an order, and the car was turned about. Then he went up to Hal and touched him on the shoulder. “Come,” said he.

Hal was standing in an attitude of utter dejection. “Why should I?” he asked.

“Come,” repeated the other, firmly.

“Let me alone. I'll not travel in your car.”

The other grasped him by the arm. “You are my prisoner,” he said.

Hal looked at him for a moment. He had no more heart for disputing; he answered, dully, “Oh, very well. I don't care.” He had betrayed the strikers and disgraced himself! What did it matter where he went?

His cousin put him in the seat beside the driver, and stood on the running-board beside him; so they went down the canyon, Hal staring before him, but seeing nothing, his shoulders sinking lower and lower. He had a sudden terrible reaction from the strain and excitement of the past week. He was sick, sick.

He hardly noted the remark which his cousin made to the five militiamen as they were coming into the village of Horton. “Men, I think we'd best say nothing about this. I don't know just what I'm going to do about it, and I don't want anything known until I make up my mind.”

“All right, sir,” replied the men, promptly. They were loyal to their young officer, and could appreciate his plight.

Captain Harding took his cousin to the little hotel, and went upstairs with him to one of the rooms. There was a big upholstered chair in the room, and Hal sank into it wearily, and closed his eyes; for a considerable while he paid no attention whatever to the conversation of Captain Harding.

But after a while this conversation began to filter into his mind. He heard Appie say that he, Appie, was in the devil of a predicament. And gradually Hal made out why. Hal had been taken with arms in his hands, in insurrection against the authority of the state; he was liable to pay the penalty with his life, and obviously it was any militia officer's duty to give him up.