Castle Garden

by Bill Albert

  It didn’t. That’s just the way the world is. But then Bill didn’t see the world the way most people do. Behind what might look simple enough to you or me, like a building or a miner digging in a slope, for Bill and other Socialists like him there was a vast hidden machinery at work—wheels, engines, gears, chains, and pulleys—unseen, unheard but nonetheless grinding away to beat the band. You just needed someone to point out to you that it was there, that terrible machinery of exploitation which robbed the worker of the fruits of his labor, gave him back just enough to survive and made it all seem nothing less than right and proper. That kind of idea was akin to the Lakotas’ about really knowing things behind what they seemed, although, of course, their knowing was Nature—trees, streams, animals, and such. A very different kind of knowing, one that got them about as far as the Socialist kind, which was pretty much nowhere at all.

  Bill wanted others to see that by understanding the Socialist Truth the world could be changed for the better. That’s what made him the revolutionary he is. When it was full on him I reckon that made him almost joyful too, as much as his gray-day-in-winter nature allowed. In that you might say he wasn’t so different from Mrs. Haywood and her Revealed Truth. Naturally, the one person you would not want on any account whatsoever to say that to was Big Bill himself.

  By the time we had reached the Mining Exchange the certainties of the days’ worthy combat to come had pushed aside for a time the miserable uncertainties of Mrs. Haywood, his girls, her religion, and their home. He was back to his confident battling self.

  We paused at the entrance. He rested his hand on my shoulder, staring down at me.

  “You want to room with us, Herbert? I’d like that just fine. You’re a right good little fella. But, you mind what I’m telling you about Mrs. Haywood and her religious nonsense. I could not tolerate another convert in my house. No miracle cures, no praying. You hear me good? OK then, let’s get at what’s waiting for us up there.”

  It was my second day in Denver and caught between the Federation and the detectives, between Big Bill and his wife, the outlook for a clean break and a new life in the big city was not looking any too promising.

  15

  There aren’t many people who are lucky enough to enjoy the work they do. Most have no choice; either they work or their families don’t eat. It was like that for miners. Sure, they liked the money right enough and were proud of doing a real man’s job, but if you got them alone they’d tell you straight out that if they could find something cleaner and safer, and just about anything is, they would never again swing a pick or drop down through the earth in a wire cage. I know Bill didn’t regret trading his machine drill in the Blaine mine for a desk in Denver. Not that the desk he picked out wasn’t dangerous, but the dangers were of his own choosing and on his own terms.

  Mine weren’t. I enjoyed traveling about the city on Federation business, but I did not enjoy looking over my shoulder, waiting for the detectives to search me out or for Bill to discover I was really working for them and not the Federation.

  After a week or so in Denver I began to believe that perhaps the three detectives had forgotten about me. No doubt they had other, more urgent, concerns. The strike in Cripple Creek was still roaring away. I was only a small, no-account ripple in that pond. It was when that belief was growing more certain that D. C. Scott caught up with me outside the Post Office.

  “Hello, Herbert, remember me?” he whispered. “No, don’t look around, just ya walk behind me a ways.”

  I followed him up Arapahoe to Seventeenth Street, turned left five blocks to Blake. As we came around the corner of the street the air suddenly thickened with the sickly-sweet taste of sugar. In the middle of the block there was a large candy factory, the smoke from its tall chimney flavoring the Denver morning.

  Scott’s room was on the fourth floor of the Elk Hotel, two doors up from the factory. The shade was pulled down. The heady smell in the street was displaced by the close odor of cigar smoke. Waiting for us were K. C. Sterling and Harry Orchard.

  “Howdy, Herbert!” Harry greeted me, getting up from the bed where he’d been sitting and pumping my hand like to tear it off.

  “Sit down over there on that chair,” said Sterling, who was leaning on a chest of drawers. “Go on, make yerself comfortable. Here; I recollect you smoked these.”

  He handed me a cheroot. I stuck it in my top pocket.

  “Ya get yerself settled in here all right?” Scott asked. “Good. Lots to see in the big city, ain’t there? We hear tell yer boardin over at the Haywoods’ place. That right?”

  I’d been looking out and had never seen anyone.

  “That’s good work,” Sterling said. “Clever boy.”

  He nodded at Harry, who beamed a big smile at me with what looked alarmingly like paternal affection.

  “Ya got that report we wanted?”

  He held out his hand. His jacket sleeve rode up and I noticed that his cuff was spotted with brown gravy stains. I figured that detectiving probably didn’t leave him any time for careful eating or clean cuffs.

  I didn’t have a report. Partly it was for the hoping they’d never come and partly for them never saying exactly what they wanted me to find out. Besides, there was so much going on at the office which was new to me, and I was running messages and errands to so many places all day long, that I hadn’t had time to give too close attention to much more than learning how to get myself around the city. That’s what I told them, leaving out the part about hoping they wouldn’t show up.

  Harry’s paternal regard melted into a sickly grin.

  “Now that ain’t what ya’d call very cooperative at all, Herbert, is it?” Scott said.

  “Not patriotic,” Sterling declared. “No sir. Thought ya was a good patriot, Herbert. Assured us ya were. So did yer friend Harry here.”

  “Ain’t holdin out on us are ya, boy?”

  To show them I was willing I wrote down that Mother Jones had visited headquarters on the previous Thursday.

  “Never heard of her?” Bill said on our way for a “short visit” before going home. “That’s what you get from a gambler’s education, no education at all. That ‘harmless looking little old lady’ as you got it written here, is the most tenacious battler for the working class you are ever likely to run across. A true firebrand who can rouse that fire in strikers’ bellies with an oratory that makes them feel it’s coming directly from her heart to theirs. And she’s feared for that too, by bosses and labor fakers all across the country. They say if you want to put John D. off his feed, the quickest way is to mention the name Mother Jones. A brave and marvelously dangerous woman, Herbert, especially if you happen to own a coal mine.”

  I reckoned someone as famous and as dangerous as that had to be of interest to the detectives.

  “Did ya hear what they was talkin about?” Scott asked. “No? Did Haywood tell ya what they’d been talkin about?”

  He hadn’t. If Bill wanted me to know something he told me. He wasn’t a man to be pressed.

  “Then that ain’t much in the way of information, is it? Could find out as much from readin the newspapers.”

  “Didn’t we lay out ten good dollars for that information?” Sterling asked me, sounding almost like I’d hurt his feelings. “Let me spell it out real clear for ya. We want to know what they’re plannin for Cripple Creek or anywhere else they’re stirrin up trouble, like Telluride or Idaho Springs. Names, Herbert, and then the rest to go with them. Who, when, where, how, and why. Ya got me?”

  “That’s right,” Scott added. “And all of it written out in a fair copy and delivered to us here in this room next week at exactly this time. If there’s anythin urgent comes up ya call up this telephone number here in Denver and leave a message for me or Mr. Scott. We’ll make contact. Is that all clear enough for ya, boy?”

  He didn’t make it clear precisely how I was to
go about leaving a message over the telephone. What they did make clear was that if I did not deliver what they wanted exactly as they laid it out, the consequences would be extremely unpleasant. They said no more, leaving the details to my imagination, which unfortunately is too damn spirited for restfulness.

  Sterling stopped me as I was leaving.

  “And one more thing, Herbert. About Haywood. Anythin ya can tell us that might be useful. Family things, private things, ya know what I mean? Sets himself up so high, might be as how we can bring him down a few pegs, show him up for the murderin bastard he really is. We can do that, with your help. So, you write us out a separate report on Haywood. Think ya can do that? Good boy.”

  Big Bill Haywood sure does excite more than his fair share of interest. That’s part of his job. If he doesn’t get noticed then he isn’t speaking out strong enough for the miners. So it didn’t take much to see why the detectives were interested in Big Bill then. I also understand why McParland is interested in him now. That’s his detective job. What I don’t understand is why I was and am caught in the middle. How can that be my job? No choice, no enjoyment, and very little future.

  16

  Who, when, where, how, and why. Sounds easy, but it wasn’t, not with four big Federation strikes going on in Colorado, strikes in other states, as well as all the day-to-day union business that passed through the office. If I was there and not out running errands I could pick up an occasional “who” and a “when,” sometimes even a “why.” The “wheres” and the “hows” were a bit more tricky.

  Bill Davis, Bill Easterly, and Sherman Parker came up from Cripple Creek to discuss the strike with Haywood and Moyer. I didn’t hear what they discussed, but I noted down their names, where they were from and when they came in. J. C. Williams, one of the Federation vice presidents, returned from Telluride to report on the deportations. I took down what he said. A man whose name I didn’t know came from the coal miners’ union in Trinidad. Bill went to visit Judge Owers. They talked about what the Citizens’ Alliance was doing in Leadville.

  There were other comings and goings, but overall I reckoned that my first week of dedicated spying didn’t amount to much. Every night back in my attic room at the Haywoods’ I wrote out secret notes in my best hand and hid the report deep under the center of my mattress. By the end of the week I had about ten pages ready to deliver.

  I wasn’t comfortable doing that spying, but I convinced myself I had no choice, and anyway, when you’re making three dollars and fifty cents a week, an extra ten dollars a month was too tempting to pass up. So it wasn’t difficult to convince myself I was only doing what I had to do.

  The report on Bill was different. Much of that was about personal and private things. I hated like the cold ague to do that brand of spying but I wrote it out all the same, maybe rounding off some of the corners just a little here and there.

  Mr. W. D. Haywood has a commendable home life. He is very devoted to his crippled wife and two young daughters.

  Many nights he attends meetings, at which he makes speeches saying a good many hard things about mine owners, the Governor of Colorado, the Citizens’ Alliance, the Mine Owners’ Association, the Smelter Trust, and various eastern capitalists, such as Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Guggenheim.

  I have never heard Mr. Haywood talk about murdering or bombing anybody, except to say such actions are not in the interest of the Federation, but only work to the benefit of those who oppose it.

  Mr. Haywood said directly to me that he doesn’t see why the miners should not be armed. He says it is there in the Constitution. Mr. Haywood carries a.38 Colt revolver for self-defense.

  Mr. Haywood drinks a good deal, almost every evening after work and sometimes during the day as well. He says it is to cut the dust.

  At least two nights in the last week Mr. Haywood has not returned home. He says that it does him good to spend an occasional night in the Turkish baths.

  On Tuesday, the third of November, Mr. Haywood together with Mr. Moyer and Mr. MacDonald were involved in a brawl outside a saloon. Mr. Haywood shot and wounded a man, whose name was Mr. J. O’Neill. He was taken to the police station but was released without being charged.

  Although Mr. Haywood says he is not a God-fearing man, he is always polite and I have never heard him use bad language, even when he has been drinking heavily in a saloon.

  For a miner, that is one who hasn’t been Saved, not cussing is close on to miraculous; for someone with Bill’s lion’s roar and his temper it is an absolute miracle.

  “Language is one of the most powerful gifts man’s been given,” he explained. “Like dynamite, Herbert, use it correctly and you can move mountains. Misuse it and more than likely you’ll only bury yourself in the rock fall.”

  I told the truth about Bill’s language, but I must own up to the fact that his home life wasn’t really as commendable as I reported. Maybe they’d never got along, I don’t know all the history of that, but when I landed on them it seemed as if his Socialism and Mrs. Haywood’s religion simply couldn’t share the same room without exploding. That’s how Vernie saw it. She said their two big Truths were too big for one another, and she would know better than anyone.

  Overcrowding of those Truths at home and Mrs. Haywood’s being badly crippled accounts for Bill spending so many nights away. It wasn’t just two nights, as I wrote in my report, more like three or four a week. It wasn’t Turkish baths either, although that’s what Bill told his wife. Most often it was Mattie Silks’ place on Market Street or one of the other high-class parlor houses on the Row. And that’s how I saw the fight with O’Neill.

  I was leaving the office pretty late to go home when Burt Canwell caught hold of me. He had an urgent message that needed to be delivered to Bill.

  “You take this and run like you’re on fire. Try that saloon up the block and if he’s not there you go to this address.”

  I got one step through the front door of 1916 Market Street when a friendly-faced fellow, much taller and thicker than Bill, and with what looked like a diamond set in one front tooth, grabbed me by my coat collar.

  “Whoa there partner!” he called, lifting me a couple of feet off the floor. “Ya must have got yer directions mixed up and turned around. This ain’t no ice cream parlor!”

  I pointed to the envelope. Handsome Jack Ready put me down gently.

  “Bill Haywood, huh? Ya wait right here. Not a muscle, mind ya.”

  I turned my head just enough to catch myself, cap in hand, staring back at me from one of the many mirrors that lined the walls. Red plush curtains, a red carpet, and what looked like a crystal chandelier. Through from the next room came the sound of violin music.

  A few minutes later Bill, along with Charles Moyer and Dan MacDonald—he was president of the American Labor Union—came striding into the foyer. Bill growled a thank-you, the other two avoided looking at me and said nothing. Handsome Jack flashed me a handsome, diamond-glittered smile as he ushered us through the front door.

  It was outside the house that we ran into O’Neill and four other men. They were wearing badges.

  “Damn fancy whoring for you good, clean union boys?” one of the men shouted.

  “Should be down at the twenty-five cent Nigger and Chink cribs with that other miner scum,” suggested another.

  The deputies tried to crowd us off the sidewalk, but Bill and the others stood their ground.

  “You got one of those shiny badges I could have for my dog?” asked Moyer.

  Something glinted brass yellow at the end of a fist and Moyer was down on the ground, twitching, white foam dribbling out the side of his mouth. O’Neill pulled a gun. He smashed the barrel sideways into MacDonald’s face. The top of the man’s forehead folded back and spurted blood. I tried to run. A boot caught me hard in the side. Lying there without any breath I watched Bill wade into the five men, his heavy arms swinging wide. H
e knocked one back and then O’Neill caught him on the top of the head with his revolver. Bill dropped to one knee and shook his head like an old bull. O’Neill came for him again. Gunfighter quick, Bill drew his Colt from his waistband and let fly three shots. O’Neill screamed, clutched at his arm, and then he and the other deputies ran off down the street yelling like a swarm of angry bees was after them.

  It was all over in about thirty seconds. Better than any barroom fight it was, especially Bill’s lightning gunplay, which I’m sure Buffalo Bill would have been proud of. Moyer and MacDonald were bleeding and groaning pretty bad. Bill stood above them, legs wide, breathing in big gulps with his face and shirtfront soaked with blood. A crowd of people had gathered to stare. Bill ignored them.

  “Herbert, you OK? Good lad. Hop it quick before the police get here. Back to the office and tell them what’s happened. Have them get Richardson. No doubt I’ll be at the police station. Then you go home and tell Mrs. Haywood and the girls not to worry. Go on, boy!”

  If I hadn’t known it before, that night I learned at firsthand that Bill Haywood was as tough as he looked and talked. That’s not to say he was mean-spirited or unforgiving with it.

  “I’m sorry I hurt the boy so badly,” he told me a couple of days later. “But you know what I learned from that scrape? To carry a stronger gun and shoot it off quicker.”

  That night while Bill, the wounded hero, was being pampered by family and friends, I sat upstairs and wrote out my spy’s report.

  All the rest of the week my chest pained me something awful where the deputy’s boot had sunk in. I figured I deserved it for the spying. The large blue-black weal was still there a month later. It was my private badge of shame.