The Iron Heel Page 4

  CHAPTER II

  CHALLENGES.

  After the guests had gone, father threw himself into a chair and gavevent to roars of Gargantuan laughter. Not since the death of my motherhad I known him to laugh so heartily.

  "I'll wager Dr. Hammerfield was never up against anything like it in hislife," he laughed. "'The courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy!' Didyou notice how he began like a lamb--Everhard, I mean, and how quicklyhe became a roaring lion? He has a splendidly disciplined mind. He wouldhave made a good scientist if his energies had been directed that way."

  I need scarcely say that I was deeply interested in Ernest Everhard. Itwas not alone what he had said and how he had said it, but it was theman himself. I had never met a man like him. I suppose that was why, inspite of my twenty-four years, I had not married. I liked him; I had toconfess it to myself. And my like for him was founded on thingsbeyond intellect and argument. Regardless of his bulging muscles andprize-fighter's throat, he impressed me as an ingenuous boy. I feltthat under the guise of an intellectual swashbuckler was a delicate andsensitive spirit. I sensed this, in ways I knew not, save that they weremy woman's intuitions.

  There was something in that clarion-call of his that went to my heart.It still rang in my ears, and I felt that I should like to hear itagain--and to see again that glint of laughter in his eyes that beliedthe impassioned seriousness of his face. And there were further reachesof vague and indeterminate feelings that stirred in me. I almost lovedhim then, though I am confident, had I never seen him again, that thevague feelings would have passed away and that I should easily haveforgotten him.

  But I was not destined never to see him again. My father's new-borninterest in sociology and the dinner parties he gave would not permit.Father was not a sociologist. His marriage with my mother had been veryhappy, and in the researches of his own science, physics, he had beenvery happy. But when mother died, his own work could not fill theemptiness. At first, in a mild way, he had dabbled in philosophy; then,becoming interested, he had drifted on into economics and sociology. Hehad a strong sense of justice, and he soon became fired with a passionto redress wrong. It was with gratitude that I hailed these signs of anew interest in life, though I little dreamed what the outcome wouldbe. With the enthusiasm of a boy he plunged excitedly into these newpursuits, regardless of whither they led him.

  He had been used always to the laboratory, and so it was that he turnedthe dining room into a sociological laboratory. Here came to dinnerall sorts and conditions of men,--scientists, politicians, bankers,merchants, professors, labor leaders, socialists, and anarchists. Hestirred them to discussion, and analyzed their thoughts of life andsociety.

  He had met Ernest shortly prior to the "preacher's night." And after theguests were gone, I learned how he had met him, passing down a street atnight and stopping to listen to a man on a soap-box who was addressinga crowd of workingmen. The man on the box was Ernest. Not that he wasa mere soap-box orator. He stood high in the councils of the socialistparty, was one of the leaders, and was the acknowledged leader in thephilosophy of socialism. But he had a certain clear way of stating theabstruse in simple language, was a born expositor and teacher, andwas not above the soap-box as a means of interpreting economics to theworkingmen.

  My father stopped to listen, became interested, effected a meeting, and,after quite an acquaintance, invited him to the ministers' dinner. Itwas after the dinner that father told me what little he knew about him.He had been born in the working class, though he was a descendant ofthe old line of Everhards that for over two hundred years had livedin America.* At ten years of age he had gone to work in the mills,and later he served his apprenticeship and became a horseshoer. He wasself-educated, had taught himself German and French, and at that timewas earning a meagre living by translating scientific and philosophicalworks for a struggling socialist publishing house in Chicago. Also, hisearnings were added to by the royalties from the small sales of his owneconomic and philosophic works.

  * The distinction between being native born and foreign born was sharp and invidious in those days.

  This much I learned of him before I went to bed, and I lay long awake,listening in memory to the sound of his voice. I grew frightened atmy thoughts. He was so unlike the men of my own class, so alien and sostrong. His masterfulness delighted me and terrified me, for my fancieswantonly roved until I found myself considering him as a lover, as ahusband. I had always heard that the strength of men was an irresistibleattraction to women; but he was too strong. "No! no!" I cried out. "Itis impossible, absurd!" And on the morrow I awoke to find in myselfa longing to see him again. I wanted to see him mastering men indiscussion, the war-note in his voice; to see him, in all his certitudeand strength, shattering their complacency, shaking them out of theirruts of thinking. What if he did swashbuckle? To use his own phrase, "itworked," it produced effects. And, besides, his swashbuckling was a finething to see. It stirred one like the onset of battle.

  Several days passed during which I read Ernest's books, borrowed from myfather. His written word was as his spoken word, clear and convincing.It was its absolute simplicity that convinced even while one continuedto doubt. He had the gift of lucidity. He was the perfect expositor.Yet, in spite of his style, there was much that I did not like. He laidtoo great stress on what he called the class struggle, the antagonismbetween labor and capital, the conflict of interest.

  Father reported with glee Dr. Hammerfield's judgment of Ernest, whichwas to the effect that he was "an insolent young puppy, made bumptiousby a little and very inadequate learning." Also, Dr. Hammerfielddeclined to meet Ernest again.

  But Bishop Morehouse turned out to have become interested in Ernest,and was anxious for another meeting. "A strong young man," he said; "andvery much alive, very much alive. But he is too sure, too sure."

  Ernest came one afternoon with father. The Bishop had already arrived,and we were having tea on the veranda. Ernest's continued presence inBerkeley, by the way, was accounted for by the fact that he was takingspecial courses in biology at the university, and also that he was hardat work on a new book entitled "Philosophy and Revolution."*

  * This book continued to be secretly printed throughout the three centuries of the Iron Heel. There are several copies of various editions in the National Library of Ardis.

  The veranda seemed suddenly to have become small when Ernest arrived.Not that he was so very large--he stood only five feet nine inches; butthat he seemed to radiate an atmosphere of largeness. As he stopped tomeet me, he betrayed a certain slight awkwardness that was strangely atvariance with his bold-looking eyes and his firm, sure hand that claspedfor a moment in greeting. And in that moment his eyes were just assteady and sure. There seemed a question in them this time, and asbefore he looked at me over long.

  "I have been reading your 'Working-class Philosophy,'" I said, and hiseyes lighted in a pleased way.

  "Of course," he answered, "you took into consideration the audience towhich it was addressed."

  "I did, and it is because I did that I have a quarrel with you," Ichallenged.

  "I, too, have a quarrel with you, Mr. Everhard," Bishop Morehouse said.

  Ernest shrugged his shoulders whimsically and accepted a cup of tea.

  The Bishop bowed and gave me precedence.

  "You foment class hatred," I said. "I consider it wrong and criminalto appeal to all that is narrow and brutal in the working class. Classhatred is anti-social, and, it seems to me, anti-socialistic."

  "Not guilty," he answered. "Class hatred is neither in the text nor inthe spirit of anything I have ever written."

  "Oh!" I cried reproachfully, and reached for his book and opened it.

  He sipped his tea and smiled at me while I ran over the pages.

  "Page one hundred and thirty-two," I read aloud: "'The class struggle,therefore, presents itself in the present stage of social developmentbetween the wage-paying and the wage-paid classes.'"

  I looked at hi
m triumphantly.

  "No mention there of class hatred," he smiled back.

  "But," I answered, "you say 'class struggle.'"

  "A different thing from class hatred," he replied. "And, believe me,we foment no hatred. We say that the class struggle is a law of socialdevelopment. We are not responsible for it. We do not make the classstruggle. We merely explain it, as Newton explained gravitation. Weexplain the nature of the conflict of interest that produces the classstruggle."

  "But there should be no conflict of interest!" I cried.

  "I agree with you heartily," he answered. "That is what we socialistsare trying to bring about,--the abolition of the conflict of interest.Pardon me. Let me read an extract." He took his book and turned backseveral pages. "Page one hundred and twenty-six: 'The cycle of classstruggles which began with the dissolution of rude, tribal communismand the rise of private property will end with the passing of privateproperty in the means of social existence.'"

  "But I disagree with you," the Bishop interposed, his pale, ascetic facebetraying by a faint glow the intensity of his feelings. "Your premiseis wrong. There is no such thing as a conflict of interest between laborand capital--or, rather, there ought not to be."

  "Thank you," Ernest said gravely. "By that last statement you have givenme back my premise."

  "But why should there be a conflict?" the Bishop demanded warmly.

  Ernest shrugged his shoulders. "Because we are so made, I guess."

  "But we are not so made!" cried the other.

  "Are you discussing the ideal man?" Ernest asked, "--unselfish andgodlike, and so few in numbers as to be practically non-existent, or areyou discussing the common and ordinary average man?"

  "The common and ordinary man," was the answer.

  "Who is weak and fallible, prone to error?"

  Bishop Morehouse nodded.

  "And petty and selfish?"

  Again he nodded.

  "Watch out!" Ernest warned. "I said 'selfish.'"

  "The average man IS selfish," the Bishop affirmed valiantly.

  "Wants all he can get?"

  "Wants all he can get--true but deplorable."

  "Then I've got you." Ernest's jaw snapped like a trap. "Let me show you.Here is a man who works on the street railways."

  "He couldn't work if it weren't for capital," the Bishop interrupted.

  "True, and you will grant that capital would perish if there were nolabor to earn the dividends."

  The Bishop was silent.

  "Won't you?" Ernest insisted.

  The Bishop nodded.

  "Then our statements cancel each other," Ernest said in a matter-of-facttone, "and we are where we were. Now to begin again. The workingmenon the street railway furnish the labor. The stockholders furnish thecapital. By the joint effort of the workingmen and the capital, money isearned.* They divide between them this money that is earned. Capital'sshare is called 'dividends.' Labor's share is called 'wages.'"

  * In those days, groups of predatory individuals controlled all the means of transportation, and for the use of same levied toll upon the public.

  "Very good," the Bishop interposed. "And there is no reason that thedivision should not be amicable."

  "You have already forgotten what we had agreed upon," Ernest replied."We agreed that the average man is selfish. He is the man that is. Youhave gone up in the air and are arranging a division between the kindof men that ought to be but are not. But to return to the earth, theworkingman, being selfish, wants all he can get in the division. Thecapitalist, being selfish, wants all he can get in the division. Whenthere is only so much of the same thing, and when two men want all theycan get of the same thing, there is a conflict of interest between laborand capital. And it is an irreconcilable conflict. As long as workingmenand capitalists exist, they will continue to quarrel over the division.If you were in San Francisco this afternoon, you'd have to walk. Thereisn't a street car running."

  "Another strike?"* the Bishop queried with alarm.

  * These quarrels were very common in those irrational and anarchic times. Sometimes the laborers refused to work. Sometimes the capitalists refused to let the laborers work. In the violence and turbulence of such disagreements much property was destroyed and many lives lost. All this is inconceivable to us--as inconceivable as another custom of that time, namely, the habit the men of the lower classes had of breaking the furniture when they quarrelled with their wives.

  "Yes, they're quarrelling over the division of the earnings of thestreet railways."

  Bishop Morehouse became excited.

  "It is wrong!" he cried. "It is so short-sighted on the part of theworkingmen. How can they hope to keep our sympathy--"

  "When we are compelled to walk," Ernest said slyly.

  But Bishop Morehouse ignored him and went on:

  "Their outlook is too narrow. Men should be men, not brutes. There willbe violence and murder now, and sorrowing widows and orphans. Capitaland labor should be friends. They should work hand in hand and to theirmutual benefit."

  "Ah, now you are up in the air again," Ernest remarked dryly. "Come backto earth. Remember, we agreed that the average man is selfish."

  "But he ought not to be!" the Bishop cried.

  "And there I agree with you," was Ernest's rejoinder. "He ought not tobe selfish, but he will continue to be selfish as long as he lives in asocial system that is based on pig-ethics."

  The Bishop was aghast, and my father chuckled.

  "Yes, pig-ethics," Ernest went on remorselessly. "That is the meaningof the capitalist system. And that is what your church is standingfor, what you are preaching for every time you get up in the pulpit.Pig-ethics! There is no other name for it."

  Bishop Morehouse turned appealingly to my father, but he laughed andnodded his head.

  "I'm afraid Mr. Everhard is right," he said. "LAISSEZ-FAIRE, thelet-alone policy of each for himself and devil take the hindmost. As Mr.Everhard said the other night, the function you churchmen perform is tomaintain the established order of society, and society is established onthat foundation."

  "But that is not the teaching of Christ!" cried the Bishop.

  "The Church is not teaching Christ these days," Ernest put in quickly."That is why the workingmen will have nothing to do with the Church.The Church condones the frightful brutality and savagery with which thecapitalist class treats the working class."

  "The Church does not condone it," the Bishop objected.

  "The Church does not protest against it," Ernest replied. "And in so faras the Church does not protest, it condones, for remember the Church issupported by the capitalist class."

  "I had not looked at it in that light," the Bishop said naively. "Youmust be wrong. I know that there is much that is sad and wicked inthis world. I know that the Church has lost the--what you call theproletariat."*

  * Proletariat: Derived originally from the Latin PROLETARII, the name given in the census of Servius Tullius to those who were of value to the state only as the rearers of offspring (PROLES); in other words, they were of no importance either for wealth, or position, or exceptional ability.

  "You never had the proletariat," Ernest cried. "The proletariat hasgrown up outside the Church and without the Church."

  "I do not follow you," the Bishop said faintly.

  "Then let me explain. With the introduction of machinery and the factorysystem in the latter part of the eighteenth century, the great mass ofthe working people was separated from the land. The old system of laborwas broken down. The working people were driven from their villages andherded in factory towns. The mothers and children were put to work atthe new machines. Family life ceased. The conditions were frightful. Itis a tale of blood."

  "I know, I know," Bishop Morehouse interrupted with an agonizedexpression on his face. "It was terrible. But it occurred a century anda half ago."

  "And there, a century and a half ago, originated the modernp
roletariat," Ernest continued. "And the Church ignored it. While aslaughter-house was made of the nation by the capitalist, the Churchwas dumb. It did not protest, as to-day it does not protest. As AustinLewis* says, speaking of that time, those to whom the command 'Feed mylambs' had been given, saw those lambs sold into slavery and worked todeath without a protest.** The Church was dumb, then, and before I go onI want you either flatly to agree with me or flatly to disagree with me.Was the Church dumb then?"

  * Candidate for Governor of California on the Socialist ticket in the fall election of 1906 Christian Era. An Englishman by birth, a writer of many books on political economy and philosophy, and one of the Socialist leaders of the times.

  ** There is no more horrible page in history than the treatment of the child and women slaves in the English factories in the latter half of the eighteenth century of the Christian Era. In such industrial hells arose some of the proudest fortunes of that day.

  Bishop Morehouse hesitated. Like Dr. Hammerfield, he was unused to thisfierce "infighting," as Ernest called it.

  "The history of the eighteenth century is written," Ernest prompted. "Ifthe Church was not dumb, it will be found not dumb in the books."

  "I am afraid the Church was dumb," the Bishop confessed.

  "And the Church is dumb to-day."

  "There I disagree," said the Bishop.

  Ernest paused, looked at him searchingly, and accepted the challenge.

  "All right," he said. "Let us see. In Chicago there are women who toilall the week for ninety cents. Has the Church protested?"

  "This is news to me," was the answer. "Ninety cents per week! It ishorrible!"

  "Has the Church protested?" Ernest insisted.

  "The Church does not know." The Bishop was struggling hard.

  "Yet the command to the Church was, 'Feed my lambs,'" Ernest sneered.And then, the next moment, "Pardon my sneer, Bishop. But can youwonder that we lose patience with you? When have you protested to yourcapitalistic congregations at the working of children in the Southerncotton mills?* Children, six and seven years of age, working every nightat twelve-hour shifts? They never see the blessed sunshine. They dielike flies. The dividends are paid out of their blood. And out of thedividends magnificent churches are builded in New England, wherein yourkind preaches pleasant platitudes to the sleek, full-bellied recipientsof those dividends."

  * Everhard might have drawn a better illustration from the Southern Church's outspoken defence of chattel slavery prior to what is known as the "War of the Rebellion." Several such illustrations, culled from the documents of the times, are here appended. In 1835 A.D., the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church resolved that: "slavery is recognized in both the Old and the New Testaments, and is not condemned by the authority of God." The Charleston Baptist Association issued the following, in an address, in 1835 A.D.: "The right of masters to dispose of the time of their slaves has been distinctly recognized by the Creator of all things, who is surely at liberty to vest the right of property over any object whomsoever He pleases." The Rev. E. D. Simon, Doctor of Divinity and professor in the Randolph-Macon Methodist College of Virginia, wrote: "Extracts from Holy Writ unequivocally assert the right of property in slaves, together with the usual incidents to that right. The right to buy and sell is clearly stated. Upon the whole, then, whether we consult the Jewish policy instituted by God himself, or the uniform opinion and practice of mankind in all ages, or the injunctions of the New Testament and the moral law, we are brought to the conclusion that slavery is not immoral. Having established the point that the first African slaves were legally brought into bondage, the right to detain their children in bondage follows as an indispensable consequence. Thus we see that the slavery that exists in America was founded in right."

  It is not at all remarkable that this same note should have been struck by the Church a generation or so later in relation to the defence of capitalistic property. In the great museum at Asgard there is a book entitled "Essays in Application," written by Henry van Dyke. The book was published in 1905 of the Christian Era. From what we can make out, Van Dyke must have been a churchman. The book is a good example of what Everhard would have called bourgeois thinking. Note the similarity between the utterance of the Charleston Baptist Association quoted above, and the following utterance of Van Dyke seventy years later: "The Bible teaches that God owns the world. He distributes to every man according to His own good pleasure, conformably to general laws."

  "I did not know," the Bishop murmured faintly. His face was pale, and heseemed suffering from nausea.

  "Then you have not protested?"

  The Bishop shook his head.

  "Then the Church is dumb to-day, as it was in the eighteenth century?"

  The Bishop was silent, and for once Ernest forbore to press the point.

  "And do not forget, whenever a churchman does protest, that he isdischarged."

  "I hardly think that is fair," was the objection.

  "Will you protest?" Ernest demanded.

  "Show me evils, such as you mention, in our own community, and I willprotest."

  "I'll show you," Ernest said quietly. "I am at your disposal. I willtake you on a journey through hell."

  "And I shall protest." The Bishop straightened himself in his chair, andover his gentle face spread the harshness of the warrior. "The Churchshall not be dumb!"

  "You will be discharged," was the warning.

  "I shall prove the contrary," was the retort. "I shall prove, ifwhat you say is so, that the Church has erred through ignorance. And,furthermore, I hold that whatever is horrible in industrial society isdue to the ignorance of the capitalist class. It will mend all that iswrong as soon as it receives the message. And this message it shall bethe duty of the Church to deliver."

  Ernest laughed. He laughed brutally, and I was driven to the Bishop'sdefence.

  "Remember," I said, "you see but one side of the shield. There ismuch good in us, though you give us credit for no good at all. BishopMorehouse is right. The industrial wrong, terrible as you say it is,is due to ignorance. The divisions of society have become too widelyseparated."

  "The wild Indian is not so brutal and savage as the capitalist class,"he answered; and in that moment I hated him.

  "You do not know us," I answered. "We are not brutal and savage."

  "Prove it," he challenged.

  "How can I prove it . . . to you?" I was growing angry.

  He shook his head. "I do not ask you to prove it to me. I ask you toprove it to yourself."

  "I know," I said.

  "You know nothing," was his rude reply.

  "There, there, children," father said soothingly.

  "I don't care--" I began indignantly, but Ernest interrupted.

  "I understand you have money, or your father has, which is the samething--money invested in the Sierra Mills."

  "What has that to do with it?" I cried.

  "Nothing much," he began slowly, "except that the gown you wear isstained with blood. The food you eat is a bloody stew. The blood oflittle children and of strong men is dripping from your very roof-beams.I can close my eyes, now, and hear it drip, drop, drip, drop, all aboutme."

  And suiting the action to the words, he closed his eyes and leaned backin his chair. I burst into tears of mortification and hurt vanity. I hadnever been so brutally treated in my life. Both the Bishop and my fatherwere embarrassed and perturbed. They tried to lead the conversationaway into easier channels; but Ernest opened his eyes, looked at me,and waved them aside. His mouth was stern, and his eyes too; and in thelatter there was no glint of laughter. What he was about to say, whatterrible castigation he was going to give me, I never knew; for at thatmoment a man, passing along the sidewalk, stopped and glanced in at us.He was a large man, poorly dressed, and on h
is back was a great load ofrattan and bamboo stands, chairs, and screens. He looked at the house asif debating whether or not he should come in and try to sell some of hiswares.

  "That man's name is Jackson," Ernest said.

  "With that strong body of his he should be at work, and not peddling,"*I answered curtly.

  * In that day there were many thousands of these poor merchants called PEDLERS. They carried their whole stock in trade from door to door. It was a most wasteful expenditure of energy. Distribution was as confused and irrational as the whole general system of society.

  "Notice the sleeve of his left arm," Ernest said gently.

  I looked, and saw that the sleeve was empty.

  "It was some of the blood from that arm that I heard dripping from yourroof-beams," Ernest said with continued gentleness. "He lost his arm inthe Sierra Mills, and like a broken-down horse you turned him out onthe highway to die. When I say 'you,' I mean the superintendent and theofficials that you and the other stockholders pay to manage the millsfor you. It was an accident. It was caused by his trying to save thecompany a few dollars. The toothed drum of the picker caught his arm. Hemight have let the small flint that he saw in the teeth go through. Itwould have smashed out a double row of spikes. But he reached for theflint, and his arm was picked and clawed to shreds from the finger tipsto the shoulder. It was at night. The mills were working overtime. Theypaid a fat dividend that quarter. Jackson had been working many hours,and his muscles had lost their resiliency and snap. They made hismovements a bit slow. That was why the machine caught him. He had a wifeand three children."

  "And what did the company do for him?" I asked.

  "Nothing. Oh, yes, they did do something. They successfully fought thedamage suit he brought when he came out of hospital. The company employsvery efficient lawyers, you know."

  "You have not told the whole story," I said with conviction. "Or elseyou do not know the whole story. Maybe the man was insolent."

  "Insolent! Ha! ha!" His laughter was Mephistophelian. "Great God!Insolent! And with his arm chewed off! Nevertheless he was a meek andlowly servant, and there is no record of his having been insolent."

  "But the courts," I urged. "The case would not have been decided againsthim had there been no more to the affair than you have mentioned."

  "Colonel Ingram is leading counsel for the company. He is a shrewdlawyer." Ernest looked at me intently for a moment, then went on. "I'lltell you what you do, Miss Cunningham. You investigate Jackson's case."

  "I had already determined to," I said coldly.

  "All right," he beamed good-naturedly, "and I'll tell you where tofind him. But I tremble for you when I think of all you are to prove byJackson's arm."

  And so it came about that both the Bishop and I accepted Ernest'schallenges. They went away together, leaving me smarting with a senseof injustice that had been done me and my class. The man was a beast. Ihated him, then, and consoled myself with the thought that his behaviorwas what was to be expected from a man of the working class.