Jim said, "You got to watch out. Guys like that'll give you the idea the strike's just about through. Don't listen to lies."
The fat man gazed out of the tent. "It ain't a lie that the food's all gone," he said. "It ain't a lie that boiled cow food ain't much of a breakfast. It don't take no spies to spread that."
"We got to stick," Jim cried. "We simply got to stick. If we lose this, we're sunk; and not only us, either. Every other working stiff in the country gets a little of it."
The fat man nodded. "It all fits together," he agreed. "There ain't nothing separate. Guys think they want to get something soft for themselves, but they can't without everybody gets it."
A middle-aged man who had been lying down toward the rear of the tent sat up. "You know the trouble with workin' men?" he asked. "Well, I'll tell you. They do too Goddamn much talkin'. If they did more sluggin' an' less arguin', they'd get someplace." He stopped. The men in the tent listened. From outside there came the sound of a little bustling, the mutter of footsteps, the murmur of voices, the sound of people, penetrating as an odor, and soft. The men in the tent sat still and listened. The sound of people grew a little louder. Footsteps were slushing in the mud. A group walked past the tent.
Jim stood up and walked to the entrance just as a head was thrust in. "They're goin' to bring out the coffin. Come on, you guys." Jim stepped out between the tent-flaps. The mist still fell, blowing sideways, drifting like tiny, light snowflakes. Here and there the loose canvas of a tent moved soddenly in the wind. Jim looked down the street. The news had traveled. Out of the tents men and women came. They moved slowly in together and converged on the platform. And as their group became more and more compact, the sound of their many voices blended into one voice, and the sound of their footsteps became a great restlessness. Jim looked at the faces. There was a blindness in the eyes. The heads were tipped back as though they sniffed for something. They drew in about the platform and crowded close.
Out of London's tent six men came, bearing the box. There were no handles on the coffin. Each pair of men locked hands underneath, and bore the burden on their forearms. They hesitated jerkily, trying to get in step, and having established the swinging rhythm, moved slowly through the slush toward the platform. Their heads were bare, and the drops of moisture stood out on their hair like grey dust. The little wind raised a corner of the soiled flag, and dropped it, and raised it again. In front of the casket a lane opened through the people, and the bearers moved on, their faces stiff with ceremonial solemnity, necks straight, chins down. The people on the edge of the lane stared at the box. They grew quiet during the movement of its passage, and when it was by whispered nervously to one another. A few men surreptitiously crossed themselves. The bearers reached the platform. The leading pair laid the end on the planks, and the others pushed the box forward until it rested safely.
Jim hurried to London's tent. London and Mac were there. "Jesus, I wish you'd do the talkin', I can't talk."
"No. You'll do fine. 'Member what I told you. Try to get 'em answering you. Once you get responses started, you've got 'em. Regular old camp-meeting stuff; but it sure works on a crowd."
London looked frightened. "You do it, Mac. Honest to God I can't. I didn't even know the guy."
Mac looked disgusted. "Well, you get up there and make a try. If you fall down, I'll be there to pick it up."
London buttoned the collar of his blue shirt and turned up the flaps against his throat. He buttoned his old black serge coat over his stomach and patted it down. His hand went up to the tonsured hair and brushed it down, back and sides; and then he seemed to shake himself down to a tight, heavy solemnity. The lean-faced Sam came in and stood beside him. London stepped out of the tent, great with authority. Mac and Jim and Sam fell in behind him, but London walked alone, down the muddy street, and his little procession followed him. The heads of the people turned as he approached. The tissue of soft speech stopped. A new aisle opened to allow the leader to pass, and the heads turned with him as he passed.
London climbed up on the platform. He was alone, over the heads of the people. The faces pointed up at him, the eyes expressionless as glass. For a moment London looked down at the pine coffin, and then his shoulders squared. He seemed reluctant to break the breathing silence. His voice was remote and dignified. "I come up here to make some kind of speech," he said. "And I don't know no speeches." He paused and looked out over the upturned faces. "This little guy got killed yesterday. You all seen it. He was comin' over to our side, an' somebody plugged him. He wasn't doin' no harm to nobody." Again he stopped, and his face grew puzzled. "Well, what can a guy say? We're goin' to bury him. He's one of our own guys, an' he got shot. What can I say? We're goin' to march out and bury him--all of us. Because he was one of us. He was kind of like all of us. What happened to him is like to happen to any guy here." He stopped, and his mouth stayed open. "I--I don't know no speeches," he said uneasily. "There's a guy here that knowed this little fellow. I'm goin' to let him talk." His head turned slowly to where Mac stood. "Come on up, Mac. Tell 'em about the little guy."
Mac broke out of his stiffness and almost threw himself on the platform. His shoulders weaved like a boxer's. "Sure I'll tell 'em," he cried passionately. "The guy's name was Joy. He was a radical! Get it? A radical. He wanted guys like you to have enough to eat and a place to sleep where you wouldn't get wet. He didn't want nothing for himself. He was a radical!" Mac cried. "D'ye see what he was? A dirty bastard, a danger to the government. I don't know if you saw his face, all beat to rags. The cops done that because he was a radical. His hands were broke, an' his jaw was broke. One time he got that jaw broke in a picket line. They put him in the can. Then a doctor come an' looked at him. 'I won't treat a Goddamn red,' the doctor says. So Joy lies there with a busted jaw. He was dangerous--he wanted guys like you to get enough to eat." His voice was growing softer and softer, and his eyes watched expertly, saw faces becoming tense, trying to catch the words of his softening tone, saw the people leaning forward. "I knew him." Suddenly he shouted, "What are you going to do about it? Dump him in a mud-hole, cover him with slush. Forget him."
A woman in the crowd began to sob hysterically. "He was fightin' for you," Mac shouted. "You goin' to forget it?"
A man in the crowd yelled, "No, by Christ!"
Mac hammered on, "Goin' to let him get killed, while you lie down and take it?"
A chorus this time, "No-o-o!"
Mac's voice dropped into a sing-song. "Goin' to dump him in the mud?"
"No-oo." The bodies swayed a little bit.
"He fought for you. Are you going to forget him?"
"No-o-o."
"We're going to march through town. You going to let any damn cops stop us?"
The heavy roar, "No-oo." The crowd swayed in the rhythm. They poised for the next response.
Mac broke the rhythm, and the break jarred them. He said quietly, "This little guy is the spirit of all of us. We won't pray for him. He don't need prayers. And we don't need prayers. We need clubs!"
Hungrily the crowd tried to restore the rhythm. "Clubs," they said. "Clubs." And then they waited in silence.
"O.K.," Mac said shortly. "We're going to throw the dirty radical in the mud, but he's going to stay with us, too. God help anybody that tries to stop us." Suddenly he got down from the platform, leaving the crowd hungry and irritated. Eyes looked wondering into other eyes.
London climbed down from the platform. He said to the bearers, "Put him in Albert Johnson's truck. We'll get goin' in a few minutes now." He followed Mac, who was working his way out of the crowd.
Dr. Burton fell in beside Mac when he was clear of the bunched people. "You surely know how to work them, Mac," he said quietly. "No preacher ever brought people to the mourners' bench quicker. Why didn't you keep it up awhile? You'd've had them talking in tongues and holy-rolling in a minute."
Mac said irritably, "Quit sniping at me, Doc. I've got a job to do, and I've got to use every means to
do it."
"But where did you learn it, Mac?"
"Learn what?"
"All those tricks."
Mac said tiredly, "Don't try to see so much, Doc. I wanted them mad. Well, they're mad. What do you care how it's done?"
"I know how it's done," said Burton. "I just wondered how you learned. By the way, old Dan's satisfied not to go. He decided when we lifted him."
London and Jim caught up with them. Mac said, "You better leave a big guard here, London."
"O.K. I'll tell Sam to stay and keep about a hundred. That sure was a nice speech, Mac."
"I didn't have no time to figure it out ahead. We better get movin' before these guys cool off. Once they get goin' they'll be O.K. But we don't want 'em just to stand around and cool off."
They turned and looked back. Through the crowd the bearers came swinging, carrying the box on their forearms. The clot of people broke up and straggled behind. The light mist fell. To the west a rent in the cloud showed a patch of pale blue sky, and a high, soundless wind tore the clouds apart as they watched.
"It might be a nice day yet," Mac said. He turned to Jim. "I nearly forgot about you. How do you feel?"
"All right."
"Well, I don't think you better walk all that distance. You ride on the truck."
"No. I'll walk. The guys wouldn't like it if I rode."
"I thought of that," said Mac. "We'll have the pallbearers ride too. That'll make it all right. We all set, London?"
"All set"
13
THE coffin rested on the flat bed of an old Dodge truck. On each side of it the bearers sat, hanging their legs over. And Jim rode hanging his feet over the rear. The motor throbbed and coughed, Albert Johnson drove out of the park and stopped in the road until the line formed, about eight men to a file. Then he dropped into low gear and moved slowly along the road, and the long line of men shuffled after him. The hundred guards stood in the camp and watched the parade move away.
At first the men tried to keep step, saying, "Hep, hep," but they tired of it soon. Their feet scuffed and dragged on the gravel road. A little hum of talk came from them, but each man was constrained to speak softly, in honor to the coffin. At the concrete state highway the speed cops were waiting, a dozen of them on motorcycles. Their captain, in a roadster, shouted, "We're not interfering with you men. We always conduct parades."
The feet sounded sharply on the concrete. The ranks straggled along in disorder. Only when they reached the outskirts of the town did the men straighten up. In the yards and on the sidewalks the people stood and watched the procession go by. Many took off their hats to the casket. But Mac's wish was denied. At each corner of the line of march the police stood, re-routing the traffic, turning it aside, and opening the way for the funeral. As they entered the business district of Torgas the sun broke through and glittered on the wet streets. The damp clothes of the marching men steamed under the sudden warmth. Now the sidewalks were dense with curious people, staring at the coffin; and the marchers straightened up. The squads drew close together. The men fell into step, while their faces took on expressions of importance. No one interfered, and the road was kept clear of vehicles.
Behind the truck, they marched through the town, through the thinning town again, and out into the country, toward the county cemetery. About a mile out they came to it, weed-grown and small. Over the new graves were little galvanized posts, stamped with names and dates. At the back of the lot a pile of new, wet dirt was heaped. The truck stopped at the gate. The bearers climbed down and took the casket on their forearms again. In the road the traffic cops rested their machines and stood waiting.
Albert Johnson took two lengths of tow-rope from under his seat and followed the bearers. The crowd broke ranks and followed. Jim jumped down from the truck and started to join the crowd, but Mac caught him. "Let them do it now; the main thing was the march. We'll wait here."
A young man with red hair strolled through the cemetery gate and approached. "Know a guy they call Mac?" he asked.
"They call me Mac."
"Well, do you know a guy they call Dick?"
"Sure."
"Yeah? What's his other name?"
"Halsing. What's the matter with him?"
"Nothing, but he sent you this note."
Mac opened the folded paper and read it. "Hot damn," he said. "Look, Jim!"
Jim took the note. It said:
"The lady wins. She has got a ranch, R.F.D. Box 221, Gallinas Road. Send out a truck there right away. They have got two cows, old, and one bull calf and ten sks. lima beans. Send some guys to kill the cows. Dick.
P. S. I nearly got picked up last night.
P.P.S. Only twelve axe-handles."
Mac was laughing. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ! Two cows and a calf and beans. That gives us time. Jim, run over and find London. Tell him to come here as quick as he can."
Jim plunged off, and walked through the crowd. In a moment he came back, with London hurrying beside him.
Mac cried, "Did he tell you, London? Did he?"
"He says you got food."
"Hell yes. Two cows and a calf. Ten sacks of beans! Why the guys can go right out in this truck now."
From the crowded side of the cemetery came the beating of mud thrown down on the pine casket. "Y'see," Mac said. "The guys'll feel fine when they get their stomachs full of meat and beans."
London said, "I could do with a piece of meat myself."
"Look, London, I'll go on the truck. Give me about ten men to guard it. Jim, you can come with me." He hesitated. "Where we going to get wood? We're about out of wood. Look, London, let every guy pick up a piece or two of wood, fence picket, piece of culvert, anything. Tell 'em what it's for. When you get back, dig a hole and start a fire in it. You'll find enough junk in those damned old cars to piece out a screen. Get your fire going." He turned back to the red-haired young man. "Where is this Gallinas Road?"
" 'Bout a mile from here. You can drop me off on the way."
London said, "I'll get Albert Johnson and some men." He hurried over and disappeared in the crowd.
Mac still laughed softly to himself. "What a break!" he said. "New lease on life. Oh, Dick's a great guy. He's a great guy."
Jim, looking at the crowd, saw it stir to life, it swirled. An excited commotion overcame it. The mob eddied, broke and started back to the truck. London, in the lead, was pointing out men with his finger. The crowd surrounded the truck, laughing, shouting. Albert Johnson put his muddy ropes under the seat and climbed in. Mac got in beside him, and helped Jim in. "Keep the guys together, London," he shouted. "Don't let 'em straggle." The ten chosen men leaped on the bed of the truck.
And then the crowd played. They held the tailboard until the wheels churned. They made mud-balls and threw them at the men sitting on the truck. Outside, in the road, the police stood quietly and waited.
Albert Johnson jerked his clutch in and tore loose from the grip of the crowd. The motor panted heavily as he struck the road. Two of the cops kicked over their motors and fell in beside the truck. Mac turned and looked out through the rear window of the cab at the crowd. They came boiling out of the cemetery in a wave. They broke on the road, hurrying along, filling the road, while the cops vainly tried to keep a passage clear for automobiles. The jubilant men mocked them and pushed them and surged around them, laughing like children. The truck, with its escorts, turned a corner and moved quickly away.
Albert watched his speedometer warily. "I guess these babies'd like to pick me up for speeding."
"Damn right," said Mac. He turned to Jim. "Keep your head down if we pass anybody, Jim." And then to Albert, "If anybody tries to stop us, drive right over 'em. Remember what happened to Dakin's truck."
Albert nodded and dropped his speed to forty. "Nobody ain't goin' to stop me," he said. "I've drove a truck all my life when I could get it."
They did not go through the town, but cut around one end of it, crossed a wooden bridge over the river and turn
ed into Gallinas Road. Albert slowed up to let the red-haired youth drop off. He waved his hand airily as they drove away. The road lay between the interminable apple trees. They drove three miles to the foothills before the orchards began to fall off, giving place to stubble fields. Jim watched the galvanized postboxes at the side of the road. "There's two-eighteen," he said. "Not very far now."
One of the cops turned back and went toward the town, but the other hung on.
"There it is," Jim said. "That big white gate there."
Albert headed in, and stopped while one of the men jumped down and opened the gate. The cop cut off his motor and leaned it against its stand.
"Private property," Mac called to him.
"I'll stick around, buddy," he said. "I'll just stick around."
A hundred yards ahead a little white house stood under a huge, spreading pepper tree, and behind it a big white barn reared. A stocky ranchman with a straw-colored mustache slouched out of the house and stood waiting for them. Albert pulled up. Mac said, "Hello, mister. The lady told us to come for some stuff."
"Yah," said the man. "She told me. Two old milk cow, little bully calf."
"Well, can we slaughter 'em here, mister?"
"Yah. You do it yourself. Clean up after. Don't make mess."
"Where are they, mister?"
"I got them in barn. You don't kill them there. Makes mess in the barn."
"Sure, mister. Pull around by the barn, Albert."
When the truck was stopped, Mac walked around it. "Any of you guys ever slaughter a cow?"
Jim broke in, "My old man was a slaughterhouse man. I can show 'em. My arm's too sore to hit 'em myself."
"O.K.," said Mac.
The farmer had walked around the house toward them. Jim asked, "You got a sledge-hammer?"
He pointed a thumb at a little shed that sloped off the barn.
"And a knife?"
"Yah. I got goot knife. You give him back." He walked away toward the house.
Jim turned toward the men. "Couple of you guys go into the barn and bring out the calf first. He's probably the liveliest."
The farmer hurried back carrying a short-handled, heavy-headed hammer in one hand and a knife in the other. Jim took the knife from him and looked at it. The blade was ground away until it was slender and bright, and the point was needle-like. He felt the edge with his thumb. "Sharp," the farmer said. "He's always sharp." He took the knife back, wiped it on his sleeve and reflected the light from it. "Cherman steel. Goot steel."
In Dubious Battle Page 21
