The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him by Paul Leicester Ford

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"But that makes the whole thing only the more arrant nonsense," grumbled
Ray. "It's foolish enough in all conscience sake, if they had a chance
of success, but when they haven't any, why the deuce do they want to
drag us poor beggars back from Newport?"

"Why did Rome insist on burning while Nero fiddled?" queried Peter
smiling. "We should hear nothing of socialism and anarchy if Newport and
the like had no existence."

"I believe at heart you're a Socialist yourself," cried Ray.

"No danger," laughed Ogden; "his bank account is too large. No man with
Peter's money is ever a Socialist"

"You forget," said Ray, "that Peter is always an exception to the rule."

"No," said Peter. "I disagree with Socialists entirely both in aims and
methods, but I sympathize with them, for I see the fearful problems
which they think their theories will solve, and though I know how
mistaken they are, I cannot blame them, when I see how seriously and
honestly they believe in, and how unselfishly they work for, their
ideas. Don't blame the Socialists, for they are quite as conscientious
as were the Abolitionists. Blame it to the lack of scientific education,
which leaves these people to believe that theories containing a half
truth are so wholly true that they mean the regeneration and salvation
of society."

"I suppose you are right," sighed Ray, "for you've thought of it, and I
haven't. I don't want to, either. I thank the Lord I'm not as serious as
you, Graveyard. But if you want to air your theory, I'll lend you my
ears, for friendship's sake. I don't promise to remember."

Peter puffed his cigar for a moment "I sometimes conclude," he said,
"that the people who are most in need of education, are the college-bred
men. They seem to think they've done all the work and study of their
life in their four years, and so can dissipate mentally ever after." But
Peter smiled as he said this and continued, more seriously: "Society and
personal freedom are only possible in conjunction, when law or public
opinion interferes to the degree of repressing all individual acts that
interfere with the freedom of others; thus securing the greatest
individual freedom to all. So far as physical force is concerned, we
have pretty well realized this condition. Because a man is strong he can
no longer take advantage of the weak. But strength is not limited to
muscle. To protect the weak mind from the strong mind is an equal duty,
and a far more difficult task. So far we have only partially succeeded.
In this difficulty lies the whole problem. Socialism, so far as it
attempts to repress individualism, and reduce mankind to an evenness
opposed to all natural laws, is suicidal of the best in favor of
mediocrity. But so far as it attempts to protect that mediocrity and
weakness from the superior minds of the best, it is only in line with
the laws which protect us from murder and robbery. You can't expect men
of the Most variety, however, to draw such distinctions."

"I do wish they would settle it, without troubling me," groaned Ray.
"Lispenard's right. A man's a fool who votes, or serves on a jury, or
joins a regiment. What's the good of being a good citizen, when the
other fellow won't be? I'm sick of being good for nothing."

"Have you just discovered that?" laughed Ogden. "You're progressing."

"No," said Ray, "I am good for one thing. Like a good many other men I
furnish the raw material on which the dearest of women may lavish her
affection. Heigh-ho! I wish I was before the fire with her now. It's
rather rough to have visits to one's wife cut short in this way."

Peter rose. "I am going to get some sleep, for we don't know what's
before us, and may not have much after to-night. But, Ray, there's a
harder thing than leaving one's wife at such a time."

"What's that, Peter?" asked Ray, looking at Peter with surprise.

"To know that there is no one to whom your going or return really
matters." Peter passed out of the cabin.

"By George!" said Ray, "if it wasn't Peter, I'd have sworn there was
salt water in his eyes."

"Anneke has always insisted that he was lonely. I wonder if she's
right?" Ogden queried.

"If he is, why the deuce does he get off in those solitary quarters of
his?"

"Ray," said Ogden, "I have a sovereign contempt for a man who answers
one question with another."

Peter reached the city at six the next morning, and, despite the hour,
began his work at once. He made a number of calls in the district,
holding whispered dialogues with men; who, as soon as Peter was gone,
hurried about and held similar conversations with other men; who
promptly went and did the same to still others. While they were doing
this, Peter drove uptown, and went into Dickel's riding academy. As he
passed through the office, a man came out.

"Ah, Mr. Stirling. Good-morning."

"Good-morning, Mr. Byrnes," said Peter. "How serious is it likely to
be?"

"We can't say yet. But the force has all it can do now to handle the
Anarchists and unemployed, and if this strike takes place we shall need
you."

Peter passed into another room where were eight men.

"Good-morning, Colonel," said one. "You are prompt."

"What is the trouble?"

"The Central has decided to make a general reduction. They put it in
force at noon to-day, and are so certain that the men will go out, that
they've six hundred new hands ready somewhere to put right in."

"Byrnes tells me he has all he can do."

"Yes. We've obtained the governor's consent to embody eight regiments.
It isn't only the strike that's serious, but this parade of the
unemployed to-morrow, and the meeting which the Anarchists have called
in the City Hall. Byrnes reports a very ugly feeling, and buying of
arms."

"It's rather rough on you, Stirling," spoke up a man, "to have it come
while you are a nominee."

Peter smiled, and passed into the room beyond. "Good-morning, General
Canfield," he said. "I have taken the necessary steps to embody my
regiment. Are there any further orders?"

"If we need you, we shall put you at the Central Station," the officer
replied; "so, if you do not know the lay of the land, you had better
familiarize yourself at once."

"General Canfield," said Peter, "my regiment has probably more
sympathizers with the strikers than has any other in the city. It could
not be put in a worse place."

"Are you objecting to orders?" said the man, in a sharp decisive voice.

"No," replied Peter. "I am stating a fact, in hopes that it may prevent
trouble."

The man and Peter looked each other in the eye.

"You have your orders," said the man, but he didn't look pleased or
proud.

Peter turned and left the room, looking very grave. He look his cab and
went to his quarters. He ate a hurried breakfast, and then went down
into the streets. They seemed peaceably active as he walked through
them. A small boy was calling an extra, but it was in reference to the
arrival of a much-expected racing-yacht. There was nothing to show that
a great business depression rested with crushing weight on the city, and
especially on the poor; that anarchy was lifting its head, and from
hungering for bread was coming to hunger for blood and blaze; that
capital and labor were preparing to lock arms in a struggle which
perhaps meant death and destruction.

The armory door was opened only wide enough to let a man squeeze
through, and was guarded by a keeper. Peter passed in, however, without
question, and heard a hum of voices which showed that if anarchy was
gathering, so too was order. Peter called his officers together, and
gave a few orders. Then he turned and whispered for a moment with
Dennis.

"They don't put us there, sir!" exclaimed Dennis.

"Yes."

"Are they mad?"

"They've given us the worst job, not merely as a job, but especially for
the regiment. Perhaps they won't mind if things do go wrong."

"Yez mean?"

"What will people say of me on November fourth, if my regiment flunks on
September thirtieth?"

"Arrah musha dillah!" cried Dennis. "An' is that it?"

"I'm afraid so. Will the men stand by me?"

"Oi'll make them. Yez see," shouted Dennis, "Oi'll tell the b'ys they
are tryin' to put yez in a hole, an' they'll stan' by yez, no matter
what yez are told to do."

As quickly as possible Peter put on his fatigue uniform. When he came
out, it was to find that the rank and file had done the same, and were
now standing in groups about the floor. A moment later they were lined
up.

Peter stepped forward and said in a clear, ringing voice: "Before the
roll is called I wish to say a word. We may receive orders any moment to
take possession of the buildings and switches at the Central Station, to
protect the property and operators of that road. This will be hard to
some of you, who believe the strikers are right. But we have nothing to
do with that. We have taken our oath to preserve order and law, and we
are interested in having it done, far more than is the capitalist, for
he can buy protection, whether laws are enforced or not, while the
laboring man cannot. But if any man here is not prepared to support the
State in its duty to protect the life and property of all, by an
enforcement of the laws, I wish to know it now."

Peter stood a moment waiting, and then said, "Thank you, men."

The roll-call was made, and Peter sent off a line to headquarters,
stating that his regiment, with only eighteen reported "missing" was
mustered and ready for further orders. Then the regiment broke ranks,
and waited.

Just as two o'clock struck a despatch was handed Peter. A moment later
came the rap of the drum, and the men rose from the floor and fell in. A
few sharp, quick words were passed from mouth to mouth. Guns rose to the
shoulders with a click and a movement almost mechanical. The regiment
swung from a long straight line into companies, the door rolled open,
and without a sound, except the monotonous pound of the regular tread,
the regiment passed into the street. At the corner they turned sharply,
and marched up a side street, so narrow that the ranks had to break
their lines to get within the curbs. So without sound of drum or music
they passed through street after street. A regiment is thrilling when it
parades to music: it is more so when it marches in silence.

Presently it passed into a long tunnel, where the footfall echoed in a
startling way. But as it neared the other end, a more startling sound
could be heard. It was a low murmur, as of many voices, and of voices
that were not pleasant. Peter's wisdom in availing himself of the
protection and secrecy of the tunnel as an approach became obvious.

A moment later, as the regiment debouched from the tunnel's mouth, the
scene broke upon them. A vast crowd filled Fourth Avenue and
Forty-second Street. Filled even the cut of the entrance to the tunnel.
An angry crowd, judging from the sounds.

A sharp order passed down the ranks, and the many broad lines melted
into a long-thin one again, even as the regiment went forward. It was
greeted with yells, and bottles and bricks were hurled from above it,
but the appearance of the regiment had taken the men too much by
surprise for them to do more. The head entered the mob, and seemed to
disappear. More and more of the regiment was swallowed up. Finally,
except to those who could trace the bright glint of the rifle-barrels,
it seemed to have been submerged. Then even the rifles disappeared. The
regiment had passed through the crowd, and was within the station. Peter
breathed a sigh of relief. To march up Fifth Avenue, with empty guns, in
a parade, between ten thousand admiring spectators is one thing. To
march between ten thousand angry strikers and their sympathizers, with
ball cartridges in the rifles, is quite another. It is all the
difference between smoking a cigar after dinner, and smoking one in a
powder magazine.

The regiment's task had only just begun, however. Peter had orders to
clear the streets about the station. After a consultation with the
police captain, the companies were told off, and filing out of the
various doors, they began work. Peter had planned his debouchments so as
to split the mob into sections, knowing that each fragment pushed back
rendered the remainder less formidable. First a sally was made from the
terminal station, and after two lines of troops had been thrown across
Forty-second Street, the second was ordered to advance. Thus a great
tongue of the mob, which stretched towards Third Avenue, was pressed
back, almost to that street, and held there, without a quarter of the
mob knowing that anything was being done. Then a similar operation was
repeated on Forty-third Street and Forty-fourth Street, and possession
was taken of Madison Avenue. Another wedge was driven into the mob and a
section pushed along Forty-second, nearly to Fifth Avenue. Then what was
left of the mob was pushed back from the front of the building down Park
Avenue. Again Peter breathed more freely.

"I think the worst is done," he told his officers. "Fortunately the
crowd did not expect us, and was not prepared to resist. If you can once
split a mob, so that it has no centre, and can't get together again,
except by going round the block, you've taken the heart out of it"

As he said this a soldier came up, and saluting, said: "Captain Moriarty
orders me to inform you that a committee of the strikers ask to see you,
Colonel."

Peter followed the messenger. He found a couple of sentries marking a
line. On one side of this line sat or reclined Company D. and eight
policemen. On the other stood a group of a dozen men, and back of them,
the crowd.

Peter passed the sentry line, and went up to the group. Three were the
committee. The rest were the ubiquitous reporters. From the newspaper
report of one of the latter We quote the rest:

"You wish to see me?" asked Colonel Stirling.

"Yes, Colonel," said Chief Potter. "We are here to remonstrate
with you."

"We've done nothing yet," said Doggett, "and till we had, the
troops oughtn't to have been called in."

"And now people say that the scabs are to be given a regimental
escort to the depot, and will go to work at eight."

"We've been quiet till now," growled a man in the crowd surlily,
"but we won't stand the militia protecting the scabs and rats."

"Are you going to fight for the capitalist?" ask Kurfeldt, when
Colonel Stirling stood silent.

"I am fighting no man's battle, Kurfeldt," replied Colonel
Stirling. "I am obeying orders."

The committee began to look anxious.

"You're no friend of the poor man, and you needn't pose any more,"
shouted one of the crowd.

"Shut your mouth," said Kurfeldt to the crowd. "Colonel Stirling,"
he continued, "we know you're our friend. But you can't stay so
if you fight labor. Take your choice. Be the rich man's servant,
or our friend."

"I know neither rich man nor poor man in this," Colonel Stirling
said. "I know only the law."

"You'll let the scabs go on?"

"I know no such class. If I find any man doing what the law allows
him to do, I shall not interfere. But I shall preserve order."

"Will you order your men to fire on us?"

"If you break the laws."

"Do it at your peril," cried Potter angrily. "For every shot your
regiment fires, you'll lose a thousand votes on election day."

Colonel Stirling turned on him, his face blazing with scorn.
"Votes," he cried. "Do you think I would weigh votes at such a
time? There is no sacrifice I would not make, rather than give the
order that ends a human life; and you think that paper ballots can
influence my action? Votes compared to men's lives!"

"Oh," cried Doggett, "don't come the heavy nobility racket on us.
We are here for business. Votes is votes, and you needn't pretend
you don't think so."

Colonel Stirling was silent for a moment. Then he said calmly: "I
am here to do my duty, not to win votes. There are not votes
enough in this country to make me do more or less."

"Hear him talk," jeered one of the crowd, "and he touting round
the saloons to get votes."

The crowd jeered and hissed unpleasantly.

"Come, Colonel," said Kurfeldt, "we know you're after votes this
year, and know too much to drive them away. You ain't goin' to
lose fifty thousand votes, helpin' scabs to take the bread away
from us, only to see you and your party licked."

"No," shouted a man in the crowd. "You don't dare monkey with
votes!"

Colonel Stirling turned and faced the crowd. "Do you want to know
how much I care for votes," he called, his head reared in the air.

"Speak up loud, sonny," shouted a man far back in the mass, "we
all want to hear."

Colonel Stirling's voice rang quite clear enough, "Votes be
damned!" he said, and turning on his heel, strode back past the
sentries. And the strikers knew the fate of their attempt to keep
out the scabs. Colonel Stirling's "damn" had damned the strike as
well as the votes.

Dead silence fell on the committee and crowd. Even Company D. looked
astounded. Finally, however, one of the committee said, "There's no good
wasting time here." Then a reporter said to a confrere, "What a stunning
headline that will make?" Then the Captain of Company D. got his mouth
closed enough to exclaim, "Oi always thought he could swear if he tried
hard. Begobs, b'ys, it's proud av him we should be this day. Didn't he
swear strong an' fine like? Howly hivens! it's a delight to hear damn
said like that."

For some reason that "swear-word" pleased New York and the country
generally, showing that even an oath has its purpose in this world, so
long as it is properly used. Dean Swift said a lie "was too good to be
lavished about." So it is of profanity. The crowd understood Peter's
remark as they would have understood nothing else. They understood that
besides those rifles and bayonets there was something else not to be
trifled with. So in this case, it was not wasted.

And Mr. Bohlmann, Christian though he was, as he read his paper that
evening cried, "Och! Dod Beder Stirling he always does say chust der
righd ding!"

CHAPTER LVI.

CUI BONO?

Of the further doings of that day it seems hardly necessary to write,
for the papers recorded it with a fulness impossible here. The gathering
crowds. The reinforcement of the militia. The clearing and holding of
Forty-second Street to the river. The arrival of the three barge-loads
of "scabs." Their march through that street to the station safely,
though at every cross street greeted with a storm of stones and other
missiles. The struggle of the mob at the station to force back the
troops so as to get at the "rats." The impact of the "thin line" and
that dense seething mass of enraged, crazed men. The yielding of the
troops from mere pressure. The order to the second rank to fix bayonets.
The pushing back of the crowd once more. The crack of a revolver. Then
the dozen shots fired almost simultaneously. The great surge of the mob
forward. The quick order, and the rattle of guns, as they rose to the
shoulder. Another order, and the sheet of flame. The great surge of the
mob backwards. Then silence. Silence in the ranks. Silence in the mob.
Silence in those who lay on the ground between the two.

Capital and Labor were disagreed as to a ten per cent reduction of
wages, and were trying to settle it. At first blush capital had the best
of it. "Only a few strikers and militia-men killed," was the apparent
result of that struggle. The scabs were in safety inside the station,
and trains were already making up, preparatory to a resumption of
traffic. But capital did not go scot-free. "Firing in the streets of New
York," was the word sent out all over the world, and on every exchange
in the country, stocks fell. Capital paid twenty-five million dollars
that day, for those few ounces of lead. Such a method of settlement
seems rather crude and costly, for the last decade of the nineteenth
century.

Boys all over the city were quickly crying extras of the "Labor-party"
organ, the first column of which was headed:

BUTCHER STIRLING

THE NOMINEE OF THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY

SHOOTS DOWN UNARMED MEN

IN

COLD BLOOD.

This was supplemented by inflammatory broadsides. Men stood up on
fences, lamp-posts, or barrels, wherever they could get an audience, and
shrieked out invectives against police, troops, government, and
property; and waved red flags. Orders went out to embody more regiments.
Timid people retired indoors, and bolted their shutters. The streets
became deserted, except where they were filled by groups of angry men
listening to angrier speakers. It was not a calm night in New York.

Yet in reality, the condition was less serious, for representatives of
Capital, Labor, and Government were in consultation. Inside the
station, in the Directors' room of the railroad, its officials, a
committee of the strikers, and an officer in fatigue uniform, with a
face to match, were seated in great leather-covered chairs, around a
large table. When they had first gathered, there had been dark brows,
and every sentence had been like the blow of flint on steel. At one
moment all but the officer had risen from their seats, and the meeting
had seemed ended. But the officer had said something quietly, and once
more they had seated themselves. Far into the night they sat, while mobs
yelled, and sentries marched their beats. When the gathering ended, the
scowls were gone. Civil partings were exchanged, and the committee and
the officer passed out together.

"That Stirling is a gritty bull-dog for holding on, isn't he?" said one
of the railroad officials. "It's a regular surrender for us."

"Yes, but we couldn't afford to be too obstinate with him, for he may be
the next governor."

One of the committee said to the officer as they passed into the street,
"Well, we've given up everything to the road, to please you. I hope
you'll remember it when you're governor and we want things done."

"Gentlemen," said Peter, "for every surrender of opinion you and the
railroad officials have made to-night, I thank you. But you should have
compromised twelve hours sooner."

"So as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?" asked
Kurfeldt. "You needn't be afraid. You've done your best for us. Now
we'll do our best for you."

"I was not thinking of myself. I was thinking of the dead," said Peter.

Peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all
was as it should be. Then spreading his blanket in the passenger
waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave
face.

But the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a
compromise, and New York and the country breathed easier.

Peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of--of a
striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with
a pair of slate-colored eyes--when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
He was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak.

"A despatch from headquarters," said the man.

Peter broke it open. It said:

"Take possession of Printing-house Square, and await further orders." In
ten minutes the regiment was tramping through the dark, silent streets,
on its way to the new position.

"I think we deserve a rest," growled the Lieutenant-Colonel to Peter.

"We shan't get it," said Peter, "If there's anything hard to be done, we
shall have it." Then he smiled. "You'll have to have an understanding
hereafter, before you make a man colonel, that he shan't run for
office."

"What are we in for now?"

"I can't say. To-day's the time of the parade and meeting in City Hall
Park."

It was sunrise when the regiment drew up in the square facing the Park.
It was a lovely morning, with no sign of trouble in sight, unless the
bulletin boards of the newspapers, which were chiefly devoted to the
doings about the Central Station, could be taken as such. Except for
this, the regiment was the only indication that the universal peace had
not come, and even this looked peaceful, as soon as it had settled down
to hot coffee, bread and raw ham.

In the park, however, was a suggestive sight. For not merely were all
the benches filled with sleeping men, but the steps of the City Hall,
the grass, and even the hard asphalt pavement were besprinkled with a
dirty, ragged, hungry-looking lot of men, unlike those usually seen in
the streets of New York. When the regiment marched into the square, a
few of the stragglers rose from their recumbent attitudes, and looked at
it, without much love in their faces. As the regiment breakfasted, more
and more rose from their hard beds to their harder lives. They moved
about restlessly, as if waiting for something. Some gathered in little
groups and listened to men who talked and shrieked far louder than was
necessary in order that their listeners should hear. Some came to the
edge of the street and cursed and vituperated the breakfasting regiment.
Some sat on the ground and ate food which they produced from their
pockets or from paper bundles. It was not very tempting-looking food.
Yet there were men in the crowd who looked longingly at it, and a few
scuffles occurred in attempts to get some. That crowd represented the
slag and scum of the boiling pot of nineteenth-century conditions. And
as the flotsam on a river always centres at its eddies, so these had
drifted, from the country, and from the slums, to the centre of the
whirlpool of American life. Here they were waiting. Waiting for what?
The future only would show. But each moment is a future, till it becomes
the present.

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