The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack, Volume 1, page 130
“Yes,” answered Craig, once Congressman Craig, but now hiding from the Air Trust spies. “And what’s more, they’d mighty soon confiscate this resting-up place of the Comrades, and have us back behind bars, or worse. But they don’t know about it, and aren’t likely to. Thank Heaven for at least one place the Party can maintain as an asylum for our people when too hard-pressed! Not a road within ten miles of here. No way to reach this place, masked here in the cliffs and mountains, except by aeroplane. Not one chance in a thousand, fellows, that they’ll ever find it. Confusion take them all!”
The meal progressed, with plenty of serious and earnest discussion of the pressing problems now close at hand. Brevard, a short, spare man, editor of the recently-suppressed “San Francisco Revolutionist” and now in hiding, made a few trenchant remarks, from time to time. Grantham and his wife, both active speakers on the “Underground Circuit” and both under sentence of long imprisonment, said little. Most of the conversation was between Catherine, Craig and Gabriel. Long before the supper was done, lamps had to be brought and curtains lowered. At last the meal was over.
“Dessert, now, Gabriel!” exclaimed Grantham. “Your turn!”
“Eh? What?” asked Armstrong. “My turn for what?”
“Your turn to do your part! Don’t think that you’re going to write a poem and then put it in your pocket, that way. Come, out with it!”
Gabriel’s protests availed nothing. The others overbore him. And at last, unwillingly, he drew out the manuscript and spread it open on his knee.
“You really want to hear this?” he demanded. “If you can possibly spare me, I wish you would!”
For all answer, Craig pushed a lamp over toward him. The warm light on Gabriel’s face, now slightly bearded, and on his strong, corded throat, made a striking picture as he cast his eyes on the manuscript and in vibrant and harmonious voice, read:
I SAW THE SOCIALIST
I saw the Socialist sitting at a great Banquet of Men,
Sitting with honored leaders of the blind, unwitting Multitude;
I saw him there with the writers, editors, painters, men of letters,
Legislators and judges, the Leaders of the People,
Leaders flushed with the wines of price, eating costly and rare foods,
Making loud talk, and boastful, of that marvel, American Liberty!
Thinking were they no thought of hunger and pinching cold;
Of the blue-lipped, skinny children, the thin-chested, coughing men,
The dry-breasted mothers, the dirt, disease and ignorance,
The mangled workmen, the tramps, drunkards, pickpockets, prostitutes, thieves,
The mad-houses, jails, asylums and hospitals, the sores, the blood of war,
And all the other wondrous blessings that attend our civilization—
That civilization through which the wines and foods were given them.
I saw the Socialist there, calm, unmoved, unsmiling, thoughtful,
Sober, serious, full of dispassionate and prophetic vision,
Not like the other men, the all-wise Leaders of the People.
The political economists, the professors, the militarists, heroes and statisticians;
Not like the kings and presidents and emperors, the nobles and gold-crammed bankers,
But mindful, more than they, of the cellars under the House of Life
Where blind things crawl in the dark, things men and yet not human,
Things whose toil makes possible the Banquets of the Leaders of Men,
Things that live and yet are not alive; things that never taste of Life;
Things that make the rich foods, themselves snatching filthy crumbs;
Things that produce the wines of price, and must be content with lees;
Things that shiver and cringe and whine, that snarl sometimes,
That are men and women and children, and yet that know not Life!
I saw the Socialist there; I sat at the banquet; beside him,
Listened to the surging music, saw all the lights and flowers,
Flowers and lights and crystal cups, whereof the price for each
Might have brought back from Potter’s Field some bloodless, starving baby.
I heard the Leaders’ speeches, the turgid oratory,
The well-turned phrases of the Captains, the rotund babble of prosperity,
(Prosperity for whom? Nay, ask not troublesome questions!)
The Captains’ vaunting I heard, their boasts of glory and victory,
While red, red, red their hands dripped red with the blood of the butchered workers.
I heard the Judges’ self-glorification, Quixotic fighting of windmills,
Heard also the unclean jests that those respected Leaders told.
And as I looked and listened, I still observed the Socialist,
Unmoved and patient and serious, calm, full of sober reflections.
Then there spake (among many others) an honored and full-paunched Bishop.
Rubicund he was, and of portly habit of body,
Shepherd of a well-pastured flock, mightily content with God,
Out of whose omnipotent Hand (no doubt) the blessings of his life descended.
I heard this exponent of Christ the Crucified, Christ the Carpenter,
Christ the Leader of Workingmen, the Agitator, the Disturber,
Christ the Labor-organizer, Christ the Archetypal Socialist,
Friend of the dwellers in the pits of Life, Consoler of earth’s exploited,
Who once with the lash scourged from the Temple the unclean graft-brood of usurers.
And the rotund Bishop’s words were as the crackling of dry thorns
Under a pot, bubbling without use in the desert of dreary platitudes.
The story he told was spiced and garnished with profane words,
Whereat the Leaders laughed in their cups, making great show of merriment,
So that the banquet-hall rang, and wine was spilt on the linen.
Wine as red as blood—the blood of the shattered miner,
Blood of the boy in the rifle-pits, blood of the coughing child-slave,
Blood of the mangled trainman, blood that the Carpenter shed.
And still I watched the Socialist. Sober, judicial, observant
And full of greater wisdom he was than to laugh with the tipsy Leaders.
His eyes were fixed on the Bishop, vice-regent of God upon earth.
And as I watched the Socialist, the unmoved, the contemplative one,
He thoughtfully took his pencil, he took the fine and large card
Whereon the names of the rich foods and all the costly wines were printed,
And made a few notes of the feast, notes of the Bishop’s speech,
Notes to remind him to search the slums for the great, God-given prosperity,
Which all the Judges, Lawmakers, Captains and Leaders knew to be “our” portion;
Notes of the flowers, the wine, the lights, the music, the splendor,
Notes of the Leaders’ oratory, notes of the Bishop’s deep-voiced unctiousness,
Notes he made; and as I looked at the notes he was carefully writing,
The words ran red like wine and blood, they blazed like the blazing lights!
Words they were of blood and fire, that spread, that filled the banquet-hall.
Words of old, I read them—”MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSHIN!—
Weighed in the Balance you are, ye Leaders respected of men,
You Statesmen, Lawmakers, Judges, Captains, Bishops, vice-regents of God!
Weighed and tried and found wanting. Give way, now, to what shall come after!
Make ye way for the Men who shall do what ye have but neglected and shirked!
Make ye way for a Time which hath more than Power and Greed for its watchwords!
Soon your day shall decline forever, your sun shall sink and shall vanish.
Then from the Cellars of Life the darkness-dwellers shall issue,
Greeting another daunt which shall have more than pain for its portion.
Then no more shall the humble, the lowly, the friends of the Nazarene Carpenter
Be starved, be mangled for gold, be crucified, slaughtered, bled.
Make ye way!...Make ye way!...”
Such was the message I read, the words of that fire-writ warning.
Then peace came back to my spirit, calm peace, and hope and patience:
Then, through my anger and heat, I thought of the Retribution.
But even more clearly I saw the New Birth of this weary world,
This world now groaning in chains, with the bloody sweat of oppression.
These things and many more, such as were hard to write of,
I read in the words of the Socialist, patient, peaceful and sober,
Full of prophetic vision, above all things hopeful and patient,
Written in living flame at the Feast of the Leaders of Men....
CHAPTER XXIX.
“APRÈS NOUS LE DÉLUGE!”
As Gabriel’s voice fell to silence, after the last words, a stillness came upon the lamp-lit room, a hush broken only by the snapping of the pine-root fire on the hearth and by the busy ticking of the clock upon the chimneypiece. Then, after a minute’s pause, Craig reached over and took Gabriel by the hand.
“I salute you, O poet of the Revolution now impending!” he cried, while Catherine’s eyes gleamed bright with tears. “Would God that I could write like that, old man!”
“And would God that my paper was still being issued!” Brevard added, making a gesture with the pipe that, in his eagerness to hear, he had allowed to die. “If it were I’d give that poem my front page, and fling its message full in the faces of Plutocracy!”
Gabriel smiled a bit nervously.
“Don’t, please don’t,” he begged. “If you really do like it help me spread it. Don’t waste words on praise, but plan with me, tonight, how we can get this to the people—how we can perfect our final arrangements—what we must do, now, at once, to meet the Air Trust and defeat it before its terrible and unrelenting grip closes on the throat of the world!”
“Right!” said Craig. “We must act at once, while there’s yet time. today, all seems safe. The Air Trust spies haven’t ferreted this place out. A week from now, they may have, and one of the most secure and useful Socialist refuges in the country may be only a heap of ashes—like the ones at Kenwyck, Hampden, Mount Desert and Loftiss. Every day is precious. Every one helps to perfect Gabriel’s disguise and adds materially to his strength.”
“True,” assented Gabriel. “We mustn’t wait too long, now. That last report we got yesterday, by our wireless, ought to stimulate us. Brainard says, in it, that the Air Trust people are now putting the finishing touches on the Niagara plant. That will give them condensing machinery for over 90,000,000 horsepower, all told. As I see the thing, it looks absolutely as though, when that is done, the whole Capitalist system of the world will center right there—focus there, as at a point. Let kings and emperors continue to strut and mouth vain phrases; let our own President and Congress make the motions of governing; even let Wall Street play at finance and power. All, all are empty and meaningless!
“Power has been sucked dry, out of them all, comrades. You know as well as I know—better, perhaps—that all real power in the world, today, whether economic or political—nay, even the power of life and death, the power of breath or strangulation, has clotted at Niagara, in the central offices of the Air Trust; nay, right in Flint and Waldron’s own inner office!”
Gabriel had stood up, while speaking; and now, pacing the floor of the big living-room, glanced first at one eager and familiar face, then at another.
“Comrades,” said he, “we should not sleep, tonight. We should get out all our plans and data, all the dispatches that have come to us here, all the information at hand about our organization, whether open or subterranean. We should make this room and this time, in fact, the place and the hour for the planning of the last great blow on which hangs the fate of the world. If it succeed, the human race goes free again. If it fail—and God forbid!—then the whole world will lie in the grip of Flint and Waldron! With our other centers broken up and under espionage, our press forced into impotence—save our underground press—and political action now rendered farcical as ever it was in Mexico, when Diaz ruled, we have but one recourse!”
“And that is?” asked Catherine. “The general strike?”
“A final, general, paralyzing strike; and with it, the actual, physical destruction of the colossal crime of crimes, the Air Trust works at Niagara!”
A little silence followed. They all drew round the reading-table, now, near the fireplace. Mrs. Grantham brought a lamp; and Brevard, opening a chest near the book-case, fetched a portfolio of papers, dispatches, plans, reports and data of all kinds.
“Gabriel’s right,” said he. “The time is ripe, now, or will be in a week or so. Nothing can be gained by delaying any longer. Every day adds to their power and may weaken ours. Our organization, for the strike and the attack on the works, is as complete as we can make it. We must come to extreme measures, at once, or world-strangulation will set in, and we shall be eternally too late!”
“Extreme measures, yes,” said Gabriel, while Brevard spread the papers out and sorted them, and Craig drew contemplatively at his pipe. “The masters would have it so. Our one-time academic discussion about ways and means has become absurd, in the face of plutocratic savagery. We’re up against facts, now, not theories. God knows it’s against the dictates of my heart to do what must be done; but it’s that or stand back and see the world be murdered, together with our own selves! And in a case of self-defense, no measures are unjustifiable.
“Whatever happens our hands are clean. The plutocrats are the attacking force. They have chosen, and must take the consequences; they have sown, and must reap. One by one, they have limited and withdrawn every political right. They have taken away free speech and free assemblage, free press and universal suffrage. They have limited the right to vote, by property qualifications that have deprived the proletariat of every chance to make their will felt. They have put through this National Censorship outrage and—still worse—the National Mounted Police Bill, making Cossack rule supreme in the United States of America, as they have made it in the United States of Europe.
“Before they elected that tool of tools, President Supple, in 1920, on the Anti-Socialist ticket, we still had some constitutional rights left—a few. But now, all are gone. With the absorption and annexation of Canada, Mexico and Central America, slavery full and absolute settled down upon us. The unions simply crumbled to dust as you know, in face of all those millions of Mexican peons swamping the labor-market with starvation-wage labor. Then, as we all remember, came the terrible series of strikes in 1921 and 1922, and the massacres at Hopedale and Boulder, at Los Angeles and Pittsburg, and, worst of all, Gary. That finished what few rights were left, that killing did. And then came the army of spies, and the proscriptions, and the electrocution of those hundred and eleven editors, speakers and organizers—why bring up all these things that we all know so well? We were willing to play the game fair and square, and they refused. Say that, and you say all.
“No need to dwell on details, comrades. The Air Trust has had its will with the world, so far. It has crushed all opposition as relentlessly as the car of Juggernaut used to crush its blind, fanatical devotees. True, our Party still exists and has some standing and some representatives; but we all know what power it has—in the open! Not that much!” And he snapped his fingers in the air.
“In the open, none!” said Craig, blowing a cloud of smoke. “I admit that, Gabriel. But, underground—ah!”
“Underground,” Gabriel took up the word, “forces are now at work that can shatter the whole infernal slavery to dust! This way of working is not our choice; it is theirs. They would have it so—now let them take their medicine!”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly exclaimed Catherine, her face flushed and intense. “I’m with you, Gabriel. To work!”
“To work, yes,” put in Craig, “but with system, order and method. My experience in Congress has taught me some valuable lessons. The universal, all-embracing Trust made marionettes of us, every one. Our strength was, to them, no more than that of a mouse to a lion. Their system is perfect, their lines of supply and communication are without a flaw. The Prussian army machine of other days was but a bungling experiment by comparison with the efficiency of this new mechanism. I tell you, Gabriel, we’ve got to give these tyrants credit for being infernally efficient tyrants! All that science has been able to devise, or press and church and university teach, or political subservience make possible, is theirs. And back of that, military power, and the courts and the prisons and the electric chair! And back of all those, the power to choke the whole world to submission, in a week!”
Gabriel thought, a moment, before replying. Then said he:
“I know it, Craig. All the more reason why we must hit them at once, and hit hard! These reports here,” and he gestured at the papers that Brevard had spread out under the lamp-light, “prove that, at the proper signal, every chance indicates that we can paralyze transportation—the keynote of the whole situation.
“True, the government—that is to say, the Air Trust, and that is to say, Flint and Waldron—can keep men in every engine-cab in the country. They can keep them at every switch and junction. But this isn’t France, remember, nor is it any small, compact European country. Conditions are wholly different here. Everywhere, vast stretches of track exist. No power on earth—not even Flint and Waldron’s—can guard all those hundreds of thousands of miles. And so I tell you, taking our data simply from these reports and not counting on any more organized strength than they show, we have today got the means of cutting and crippling, for a week at least, the movements of troops to Niagara. And that, just that, is all we need!”
A little silence. Then said Catherine:
“You mean, Gabriel, that if we can keep the troops back for a little while, and annihilate the Air Trust plant itself, the great revolution will follow?”
