“Like hell you do!” some one shouts from the upper gallery. There is suppressed giggling in the cells. Pellmell the officers rush up the stairs. The uproar increases. “Order!” Yells and catcalls drown the Warden’s voice. Doors are violently opened and shut. The thunder of rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all is quiet: the guards have reached the galleries. Only hasty tiptoeing is heard.
The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the supper hour. The prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee.
“Give the s—— of b—— no supper! No supper!” roars the Warden.
Sabbath benediction!
The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night.
IX
In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn’t die! He has almost recovered. I have positive information: the “blind” prisoner gave me the clipping during exercise. “You’re a poor shot,” he teased me.
The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. I feel it with the intensity of a catastrophe. My imprisonment, the vexations of jail life, the future—all is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms me. I failed! Failed!… It might have been different, had I gone to Frick’s residence. It was my original intention, too. But the house in the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to wait: that very morning the papers had announced Frick’s intended visit to New York. I was determined he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It was mainly his cowardice that saved him—he hid under the chair! Played dead! And now he lives, the vampire.… And Homestead? How will it affect conditions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot only made use of Frick to destroy the hated union. He himself was absent, he could not be held accountable. The author of “Triumphant Democracy” is sensitive to adverse criticism.57 With the elimination of Frick, responsibility for Homestead conditions would rest with Carnegie. To support his rôle as the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle. Such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the Anarchist propaganda. However some may condemn my act, the workers could not be blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick’s death. But his recovery.…
Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,—our propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers are but a very small part of the American working class. Important as this great struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere sentimentality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, but we know the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can save the world.
These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure to accomplish the desired result is grievously exasperating, and I feel deeply humiliated. But I shall be the sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is, always, the supreme consideration. The chief purpose of my Attentat was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital interest in the sufferings of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the world. The Homestead situation offered the psychologic social moment.58 What matter the personal consequences to Frick? the merely physical results of my Attentat? The conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the act is accomplished.
As to myself—my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I wanted to die for the Cause. But now they will send me to prison—they will bury me alive.…
Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the police station, on the third day after my arrest.… Rough hands seize my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat.
“Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!”
Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling.…
“Now, Doc, quick!”
There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise, and my mouth is torn open.
“What d’ye think of that, eh?”
The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge.
“What’s this?” he demands, with an oath.
“Candy,” I reply, defiantly.
X
How full of anxiety these two weeks have been! Still no news of my comrades. The Warden is not offering me any more mail; he evidently regards my last refusal as final. But I am now permitted to purchase papers; they may contain something about my friends. If I could only learn what propaganda is being made out of my act, and what the Girl and Fedya are doing! I long to know what is happening with them. But my interest is merely that of the revolutionist. They are so far away,—I do not count among the living. On the outside, everything seems to continue as usual, as if nothing had happened. Frick is quite well now; at his desk again, the press reports. Nothing else of importance. The police seem to have given up their hunt. How ridiculous the Chief has made himself by kidnapping my friend Mollock, the New York baker!59 The impudence of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman across the State line, and then arrest him as my accomplice! I suppose he is the only Anarchist the stupid Chief could find. My negro friend informed me of the kidnapping last week. But I felt no anxiety: I knew the “silent baker” would prove deaf and dumb. Not a word could they draw from him. Mollock’s discharge by the magistrate put the Chief in a very ludicrous position. Now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a victim nearer home, in Allegheny. But if the comrades preserve silence, all will be well, for I was careful to leave no clew. I had told them that my destination was Chicago, where I expected to secure a position. I can depend on Bauer and Nold. But that man E., whom I found living in the same house with Nold, impressed me as rather unreliable.60 I thought there was something of the hang-dog look about him. I should certainly not trust him, and I’m afraid he might compromise the others. Why are they friendly, I wonder. He is probably not even a comrade. The Allegheny Anarchists should have nothing in common with him. It is not well for us to associate with the bourgeois-minded.
My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am “wanted at the office.” There is a letter for me, but some postage is due on it. Would I pay?
“A trap,” it flits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail.
“More letters from Homestead?” I turn to the Warden.
He quickly suppresses a smile. “No, it is post-marked, Brooklyn, N. Y.”
I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman’s, but the chirography is smaller than the Girl’s. I yearn for news of her. The letter is from Brooklyn—perhaps a Deckadresse!
“I’ll take the letter, Warden.”
“All right. You will open it here.”
“Then I don’t want it.”
I start from the office, when the Warden detains me:
“Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must