The Harbor
BOOK III
CHAPTER XV
To all this, from the buildings far downtown that loomed like tall grim
shadows, the big companies said nothing.
But that same night, while I sat talking to those two men, we heard a
sharp excited cry. We saw a man behind us running along the line of
saloons. From these and from the tenements came pouring angry throngs of
men. And out of the hubbub I caught the words,
"They're bringing in the scabs! By boat!"
Past a watchman that I knew I ran into a dockshed and out to the open
end of the dock. And there I saw a weird ominous scene. Up the empty
harbor, under a dark and cloudy sky, came four barges, black with negro
laborers, and ahead and around and behind them came police boats
throwing their searchlights upon an angry swarm of union picket dories,
from which as they drew nearer I heard furious voices shouting, "Scab!"
One of the barges docked where I stood and the negroes quickly slunk
inside. I drew back from them as they passed, for to me too they were
"scabs" that night. Afraid to face the men outside, whose jobs they had
taken, these strike-breakers were to live on the dock, under cover of
police. Soon half of them lay snoring on long crowded rows of cots. Food
and hot coffee were served to the rest. Then I heard the harsh rattle of
winches, I saw these negroes trundling freight, the cargo went swooping
up into the ship—and with a deep dismay, a sharp foreboding of trouble
ahead, I felt the work of the harbor begun.
I heard a quick voice at my elbow:[Pg 332]
"Say. What the hell are you doing here!" I turned to the Pinkerton man
by my side:
"I'm reporting this strike."
"No you're not, you're in here to report what you see to the strikers.
Now don't let's have any words, my friend, we've seen you in their
meeting-hall and we've all got your number. Go on out where you belong!"
So I went out where I belonged.
I went out to the crowd—but I found it changed, split up into furious
swarms of men, I found the beginning of chaos here. And the world that I
had left behind, the old world of order and rule from above, which I had
all but forgotten of late, now sharply made its presence felt. For the
god I had once known so well was neither dead nor sleeping. Behind
closed doors, the doors that had flown open once to show me every
courtesy, it had been silently laying plans and sending forth orders or
"requests" to all those in its service.
The next day the newspapers changed their tone. Until now they had given
us half the front page. Every statement I had written had been printed
word for word. The reporters had been free to dig columns of "human
interest stuff" out of the rich mine of color here, and they had gone at
it hungrily, many with real sympathy. You would have thought the entire
press was on the side of the strikers, at times it had almost seemed to
me as though the entire country had risen in revolt. But now all this
was suddenly stopped, and in its place the front pages were filled with
news of a very different kind. "Big Companies Move at Last," were the
headlines, "Work of Breaking Strike Begun." The first ship would sail
that evening, three more would be ready to start the next day, and
within a week the big companies hoped to resume the regular service.
They regretted the loss to shippers of all the perishable produce which
to the value of millions of dollars had been rotting away at the docks.
They deplored the inconvenience and ruin which had been[Pg 333] brought on the
innocent public by these bodies of rough, irresponsible men who had
openly defied the law. With such men there could be no arbitration, and
in fact there was no need. The port would be open inside of a week.
So the big companies spoke at last. And as I read the papers, at home
that day at breakfast, I remembered what Eleanore's father had said:
"Don't let yourself forget for one minute that the men behind me are
going to stamp out this strike." Not without a fight, I thought. But I
was anxious and depressed. Dillon had not come of late, he had felt that
we wanted to be alone. As now I glanced at Eleanore, whose eyes were
intent on the news of the day, I saw with a rush of pity and love how
alone she suddenly felt in all this. A moment later she looked up.
"Pretty bad, isn't it, dear?" she said.
"It doesn't look very fine just now."
"Are you going down to the docks?"
"Yes, they'll want me," I replied, "to write some answer to this stuff."
"Can you wait a few moments?" Eleanore rose. "I'll get on my hat. I
promised Nora Ganey I'd run her relief station for her to-day." I took
her a moment in my arms:
"You're no quitter, are you?" I said.
"We're in this now," she answered, just a little breathlessly. "And so
of course we'll see it through."
So we went down together.
The waterfront looked different now. In front of the docks where work
had begun a large space had been roped off. Inside the rope was an
unbroken cordon of police. And without, but pressing close, the
multitude of people for whom in a day so much had been changed, moved
restlessly, no longer sure of its power, no longer sure of anything but
a fast rising hatred of the men who had taken their jobs. As at times
the police lines tightened and the negroes came out for more freight,
thou[Pg 334]sands of ominous eyes looked on. Standing here at one such time, I
saw a negro striker pass. His head was down and he walked quickly—for
race feeling had begun.
The first ship sailed that evening. Tens of thousands watched her sail.
And a bitter voice beside me said,
"Laughing ain't going to be enough."
Among men on strike there are two kinds of attitudes toward those who
take their places. The first is the scorn of the man who is winning.
"You are a dirty scab," it says. "You're a Judas to the working class
and a thief who is trying to steal my job. But you won't get it, we're
bound to win, and you're barely worth kicking out of the way." The
second is quite a different feeling. In this is the fear of the man who
is losing—and fear, as an English writer has said, is the great mother
of violence. "You may keep my job! And if you do I'll be left with
nothing to live on!" It is this second attitude which is dreaded by
strike leaders, for it leads to a loss of all control, to machine guns
and defeat.
With a deepening uneasiness I saw this feeling now appear. Starting in
small groups of men, I saw it spread out over the mass with the speed of
a prairie fire. I felt it that afternoon on the Farm, changing with a
startling speed that sure and mighty giant, the crowd, into a blind
disordered throng, a mottled mass of groups of men angrily discussing
the news. Threats against "scabs" were shouted out, the word "scab"
arose on every side. Bitter things were said against "coons," not only
"scabs" but "all of 'em, God damn 'em!" There were hints of violence and
open threats of sabotage, things done to dock machinery.
But presently, by slow degrees, as though by a deep instinct groping for
the giant spirit that had been its life and soul, I felt the crowd now
gather itself. Slowly the cries all died away and all eyes turned to the
leader. Facing them with arms upraised, Marsh stood on the[Pg 335] speakers'
pile, his own face imperturbable, his own voice absolutely sure.
"Boys," he said, when silence had come, "one lonesome ship has gone to
sea—so badly loaded, they tell me, that she ain't got even a chance in
a storm. She was loaded by scabs."
A savage storm of "booh's" burst forth. He waited until it subsided and
then continued quietly:
"We have no use for scabs, black or white. But we have use for strikers,
both black and white—our negro brothers are with us still, and we'll
show them we know that they are our brothers. We're going to stand
together, we won't let the bosses split us apart. And when we read the
papers to-morrow we're going to ask if the news is all there—not the
little news in big headlines about a ship or two leaving port, but the
big news in a little paragraph, that you have so stopped this nation's
trade that now its Congress is demanding that your masters come to
terms! And as for this lonesome ship that has sailed, if you want to see
just how much that means, go down and look at Wall Street. They say down
there, 'We're all right now.' But their market prices say, 'We're all
wrong!'"
Suddenly out of the multitude there came a high, clear voice:
"You seem to know Wall Street, Brother Marsh. Have you been selling
short down there? Who's your private broker?"
Instantly there was a rush toward the questioner, but a group of police
formed quickly around him and he was hurried out of the way.
"Get after that, Jim, get after it quick!" said Joe by my side. And
Marsh lost not a moment.
"Let that man go!" he shouted. "He was sent here to try to stir up a
riot. That lie was framed up 'way downtown! But it is a lie and you all
know it—you know how I live and how my wife lives—we don't ex[Pg 336]actly
roll in wealth! But even if I were a crook, or if I were dead, this
strike would go on exactly the same—for think a minute and you'll see
that whatever has been done in this struggle has been done each time by
you. It's you who have decided each point. It's you who have been called
here to-day to decide the one big question. Congress has said,
'Arbitrate.' It's for you all to decide on our answer. This is no
one-man union, there is no one man they can fix, nor even a small
committee. We're a committee of fifty thousand here to make our own laws
for ourselves. As you lift up your hands and vote, so it will be
decided. But before you do I want to say this. I care so little for Wall
Street and I am so sure we'll win this strike, that with all the
strength I have in me I beg you to answer, 'No arbitration, nothing half
way! All or nothing!' If this is your answer, hold up your hands!"
Up went the hands by thousands, the crowd was all together now and again
it spoke in one great roar. And with a sudden rush of hope I told
myself, "It's still alive! This fight has only just begun!"
"That is our answer to Congress," said Marsh, when again quiet had been
restored. "That is the law which we have enacted. This strike is to be
fought through to the end. We are not to be scared by Wall Street or
worked upon by their hired thugs and so resort to violence. I am not
afraid of violence," he continued sharply, "I am here to preach it. But
the only violence I preach is the violence of folded arms. You have
folded your arms and their ships are dead. No other kind is so deadly as
that. Only hold to this kind of violence, and though they may send out a
ship here and there, this great port of New York will stay
closed—bringing ruin all over the land—till the nation turns to Wall
Street and says, 'We cannot wait! You will have to give in!'"
As he ended his speech, it seemed to me as though he[Pg 337] were reaching far
out, gripping that throng and holding it in. But for how long could he
hold them?
Every paper that they read had suddenly turned against them and
prophesied their swift defeat. Two more ships sailed that night. And as
Marsh had foretold, their sailing was played up in pictures and huge
headlines, while the statement that I wrote was cut to one small
paragraph and put upon the second page.
That night, with the eager aid of strikers of five nationalities, I
wrote a message to the crowd, translated it into German and French,
Spanish, Italian and Polish. A socialist paper loaned us their press,
and by noon our message was scattered in leaflets all up and down the
waterfront. This message went out daily now. For the greater part of
each night I sat in strike headquarters and wrote direct to the
tenements.
The next day Marsh proposed a parade, and the Farm took it up with
prompt acclaim. He challenged the mayor of the city to stop it. To
friends who came to him later he said:
"You tell the mayor that I'm doing my best to give these men something
peaceful to do. If he wants to help me, all well and good. If he don't,
let him try to stop this parade."
And the mayor granted a permit.
The next afternoon the Fifth Avenue shops all closed their doors, and
over the rich displays in their windows heavy steel shutters were rolled
down. The long procession of motors and cabs with their gaily dressed
shoppers had disappeared, and in their place was another procession,
men, women and children, old and young. All around me as I marched I
heard an unending torrent of voices speaking many languages, uniting in
strange cheers and songs brought from all over the ocean world.
Bright-colored turbans bobbed up here and there, for there was no
separation of races, all walked together in dense[Pg 338] crowds, the whole
strike family was here. And listening and watching I felt myself a
member now. Behind me came a long line of trucks packed with sick or
crippled men. At their head was a black banner on which was painted,
"Our Wounded." Behind the wagons a small cheap band came blaring forth a
funeral dirge, and behind the band, upon men's shoulders, came eleven
coffins, in which were those dock victims who had died in the last few
days. This section had its banner too, and it was marked, "Our Dead."
But at one point, late in the afternoon, some marcher just ahead of me
suddenly started to laugh. At first I thought he was simply in fun. But
he kept on. Those near him then caught the look on his face and they all
began to laugh with him. Each moment louder, uglier, it swept up the
Avenue. And as it swelled in volume, like the menace of some furious
beast, the uncontrollable passion I heard filled me again with a sharp
foreboding of violence in the crisis ahead.
"Why are you here?" I asked myself. "You can't join in a laugh like
that—you're no real member of this crowd—their world is not where you
belong!"
But from somewhere deep inside me a voice rose up in answer:
"If the crowd is growing blind—is this the time to leave it? Wait."[Pg 339]