Part 44 (1/2)
”Supermen?”
”Another way of saying it.... When exploitation is ended, when we produce for need and not profit, when a man's highest selfishness will be to serve all, not pile up a backyard h.o.a.rd of gold. Call it socialism or what you please, it will come; it is self-planted by and in our soil.
The mountain will win, in the long run, not for its despoiler, but for all of its red-handed, ore-stained children. Work will be distributed, life lengthened, wealth and joy evened----”
”A big program cut out for Mr. Pelham Judson!”
”Not for me, heavens, no! I can only do my little part. It will use me ... just as it has used poor Babe Cole, dead on the railroad track, or his brothers, dead in the explosion and the shooting; just as it uses even d.i.c.k Sumter, Henry Tuttle, incredible little Roscoe Little, whose judicial rompers are merely a materialization of the greed of the corporations. All of their rich thefts will be taken from them, when the scales have finally adjusted themselves....”
”Nice old earth!” She patted the post beside her affectionately. ”Just like a big brown doggie! We think, and bother; and to it we are no more than irritations on its skin, or little insects bred of it there. Our stirring annoys it: Vesuvius and Pele, or an earthquake.... The old world sniffs and snuffles down the fenced sky, leashed to the sun, its rope always a little shorter.... And a good warm sleep to it at the end, before cold night sets in.”
Pelham shook his head in despair. ”You say it so much better than I--the final word....”
”Come on, if we're to take that trip to Lake Pontchartrain before night.” She prodded him off the bale, linking a comradely arm within his. ”You notice that woman's 'final' word, as always, is followed by man's lament that she says the last thing. No,” as he sought to answer, ”it needs no footnote. At least I have you to myself this week, before the mountain woos you from me again.”
Tired by the flat miles of rice-fields, swamp-land, and bayou, they returned to the haven of the hotel. Pelham had the elevator wait while he secured an armful of local papers.
”Nothing from Adamsville,” scanning the pages rapidly, unaware how the mountain still held him. ”Nothing.... Here it is. Another fight, with the invariable demand for the militia.”
”You don't think they'll----”
”I certainly hope not. That would cause a smash-up.”
The week ended; the return began. Just above Lower Peachtree, they secured an early edition of the _Times-Dispatch_, and found that the strike shared first-page headlines with the elaborate plans for the iron city's semi-centennial. The attack was more serious than the out-of-town papers had reported. Two guards, three strike-breakers, and an uncertain number of strikers had been killed; John Dawson's indignant statement that the deputies had fired first, and without provocation, was smothered in the body of the story; while the front page heading quoted Judge Florence to the effect that the company saw no other way to stop bloodshed than by immediate presence of the soldiers. A hurried meeting of the Commercial Club backed up this demand.
”They'll try to wipe the boys out,” groaned Pelham, bitterly. ”They may have planted this fight, for an excuse. We must have won too many strike-breakers.”
An inside page held an account of the conviction of Nils Jensen, Benjamin Wilson, Lafe Puckett and a negro named Moses Pike for attempting to dynamite the ramp opening.
”They're out for blood now,” Pelham commented somberly, after reading the brief announcement.
”They won't get you for anything, dear?” she queried quickly.
”I don't believe so.... You never can tell.”
On their arrival, he sent Jane home by taxi, and went at once to strike headquarters. Two men lay sleeping on a rug thrown into the corner, their faces gray and exhausted. A young miner, his arm bandaged, sat at the table with Spence and several others.
”h.e.l.lo, Judson. Just in time for the big round,” the lawyer greeted grimly.
They walked over to the window. ”Two companies arrive to-night,” Spence continued. ”By to-morrow they'll proclaim martial law for the entire mountain district....” His tone grew shrilly significant. ”That includes the place where the boys live now.”
”What can we answer?”
The lawyer lifted wearied shoulders. ”Do what we can. We won't quit, but----I saw what they did in '04, remember.”
”No chance for justice from the soldiers? I know some of the boys in the local company----”
”My dear man, the company gave 'em new bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, new rifles, new bullets! Where will they put those bullets, do you suppose? It's irony for you: most of the soldiers were once laborers; labor's money pays for their food and their rifles; and labor receives their fire. Of course, if we can avoid trouble----It's our only hope; we can win, if we can prevent a smash-up.”
”What about Jensen?”
”I'm appealing; that'll tie it up for a year. But the cards are marked, and they are dealing.”