The Coal War

by Upton Sinclair

  “But Hal, you’re burning things—you’re killing people!”

  “We’re not killing anybody that deserves to live! Keep your hands off! Let us settle our own affairs!”

  And next day there was another telephone controversy, this time between Hal in Pedro and John Harmon in Western City. What madness was this which the newspapers reported? The union leaders were planning to grant a truce! Throwing away everything they had gained, going back into their old slavery! They had brought the operators to their knees at last—and now they proposed to lie down, to let Federal troops come in and deprive them of all they had fought and bled for!

  It was the difference between a young man of the leisure class, high-spirited, accustomed to having his own way, and a representative of the toilers, a self-made and self-taught man, schooled in patience and obedience. John Harmon was not a revolutionist, he had never thought about a revolution, and did not know what to do with the advantage that had so suddenly come to him. What he was asking was a living wage and decent working conditions for his people; it had never occurred to him in his wildest dream that it might be his destiny to seize the coal-mines and run them co-operatively!

  [34]

  Jim Moylan and the young men were with Hal, but the older men had their way, and the truce was declared. But it proved that the truce could not be kept; both strikers and militiamen were like wild animals turned loose—they would fight, and nobody could stop them, and anybody that tried would get hurt. The mine-guards fired into the Oak Ridge tent-colony, and as a result the strikers charged the Oak Ridge mine, razing everything inside it.

  And here was more work for Hal. Word came to Pedro over the phone that General Wrightman was sending a force of militiamen to retake the mine-property, and the strikers swarmed from every direction to defend it. Hal gathered a party of twenty picked men, and posted them near the entrance to the Oak Ridge canyon, where they would be hidden from anyone coming up the road. He himself took post a few yards in advance, giving orders that they were to wait for his signal, then to shoot, and shoot to kill. He lay for a couple of hours, until he made out an automobile winding its way up the road. As it came nearer, he saw that it carried some of the hated figures in khaki, and he gripped his rifle and made ready. They would wipe out that bunch at one volley, and then they would have an extra automobile for moving ammunition!

  The car passed from sight for a minute or two, then suddenly it came round a turn directly in front of Hal. He looked, and his heart stood still with dismay. Sitting in the front seat, alongside the driver, was Captain Harding!

  Hal saw the terrible plight he was in. Could he kill his cousin? Could he give the signal and let others kill him? No, he could not!

  It was necessary to act instantly, for at any moment the men behind him might take matters into their own hands; and of course, if one shot were fired, it would be too late. Hal dropped his rifle, and springing up, rushed forward, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and waving it. “Stop! Stop!”

  The driver of the car obeyed. He was a militiaman in uniform, and there were four other militiamen in the back seat, all with rifles in their hands. They craned their necks and stared at Hal, who waited until he was close, and then said, “Appie, you must turn back.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded the Captain.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Hal. “Don’t stop to talk about it. Turn back and get out of here.”

  “But I have business up the canyon.”

  “Don’t you know that Oak Ridge has been taken by the strikers?”

  “No, I didn’t know it.”

  “Well, it has. So you can’t go forward.”

  “I have orders,” declared the Captain.

  “Your orders aren’t to get yourself killed!” And then, with swift intensity, “For God’s sake, Appie, don’t be a fool! I’m trying to save your life. Every second may be too late.”

  Captain Harding answered, coldly, “I don’t think you know the man you’re dealing with.” And he took one glance about the landscape, to see where the enemy might be hidden. Then came his command, quick and sharp: “Get out, and get under cover!”

  The five militiamen, clutching their rifles, leaped out of the automobile. Before Hal had time to realize what was happening, they had run across the road and flung themselves down behind the rocks. Captain Harding stepped behind the automobile and stood waiting with his revolver drawn.

  Hal was beside himself with indignation. “You dog!” he cried. “When I was trying to save you!”

  “Did I ask you to save me?” demanded the other. He was almost as angry as Hal, but controlled himself better.

  “Have you no honor at all?” Hal exclaimed.

  “My honor is not in your keeping. My duty is not to you, but to the state.”

  Hal looked about him, in desperation. He could not see any possible escape from this predicament. He had betrayed his fellows, put them in a trap. “If you must have a fight,” he cried, suddenly, “let’s settle it between us two!” And he drew the revolver which was at his belt.

  But Captain Harding would not even look at him. “Rubbish!” he said. “It will take more than that to settle this matter.”

  “All right!” exclaimed Hal. “But let’s begin with this anyhow!” He caught his cousin by the arm and jerked him round.

  Appie, however, was not to be moved. “Forget it!” he said, contemptuously. “I’ll do no fighting with you.”

  “Whom do you think you’ll fight with? Don’t you know that if you fire on my men, I’ll kill you?”

  “Very well,” said the Captain. “As you please about that.” He was looking in the direction of the strikers, trying to estimate where and how many they were. Some of them were now showing their heads, staring at the perplexing scene; but none of them made a move to fire.

  As for Hal, he thought of walking out to rejoin his men, leaving it for his cousin to shoot him, or to order the militiamen to shoot him, as he saw fit. His hesitation was because he realized that such an action would not help his men in the least. He had put them in a plight from which they could hardly escape without loss of some of their lives.

  The young man stood motionless, heartsick, numb. The strikers, now probably realizing his predicament, and their own, lay back out of sight and waited; the militiamen also waited—and so this strange, almost ridiculous situation continued for a couple of minutes.

  At last Hal turned to his cousin again. “Can’t you see there’s no sense going on with this? You’re outnumbered three to one. You’re only throwing away the lives of your men.”

  “What do you propose?” demanded Harding.

  “I propose that you let my men go up the canyon without firing on them.”

  The other considered the matter. He had had time to realize the military aspects of the affair; perhaps also he felt that he had vindicated his reputation for courage. “I’ll not fire on them if they don’t fire on me,” he replied, at last.

  “Will you give that order to your men?”

  Captain Harding gave it; and then Hal turned towards the strikers, and took a few steps in their direction. “Boys,” he called, “I’ve made a mess of it for you, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t shoot at my cousin. Call it off and go up the canyon; please. Don’t shoot, and the militiamen won’t shoot at you.”

  After a few moments’ hesitation, several of the strikers stood up and started to back away. Others, less trustful, began crawling away on the ground. But as the militiamen did not fire, they were reassured, and stood up and went off. Farther up the canyon they came together on the road and passed from sight.

  [35]

  Captain Harding gave an order, and the car was turned about. Then he went up to Hal and touched him on the shoulder. “Come,” said he.

  Hal was standing in an attitude of utter dejection. “Why should I?” he asked.

  “Come,” repeated the other, firmly.

  “Let me alone. I’ll not travel in your car.”

/>   The other grasped him by the arm. “You are my prisoner,” he said.

  Hal looked at him for a moment. He had no more heart for disputing; he answered, dully, “Oh, very well. I don’t care.” He had betrayed the strikers and disgraced himself! What did it matter where he went?

  His cousin put him in the seat beside the driver, and stood on the running-board beside him; so they went down the canyon, Hal staring before him, but seeing nothing, his shoulders sinking lower and lower. He had a sudden terrible reaction from the strain and excitement of the past week. He was sick, sick.

  He hardly noted the remark which his cousin made to the five militiamen as they were coming into the village of Horton. “Men, I think we’d best say nothing about this. I don’t know just what I’m going to do about it, and I don’t want anything known until I make up my mind.”

  “All right, sir,” replied the men, promptly. They were loyal to their young officer, and could appreciate his plight.

  Captain Harding took his cousin to the little hotel, and went upstairs with him to one of the rooms. There was a big upholstered chair in the room, and Hal sank into it wearily, and closed his eyes; for a considerable while he paid no attention whatever to the conversation of Captain Harding.

  But after a while this conversation began to filter into his mind. He heard Appie say that he, Appie, was in the devil of a predicament. And gradually Hal made out why. Hal had been taken with arms in his hands, in insurrection against the authority of the state; he was liable to pay the penalty with his life, and obviously it was any militia officer’s duty to give him up.

  “Well, why don’t you?” exclaimed Hal, at last. “I failed in my duty, but that’s no reason you should fail in yours.”

  “You failed in your duty?” echoed Harding, puzzled.

  “Of course. Wasn’t it my duty to shoot you? But I was a coward, and didn’t do it.”

  That point of view had evidently not occurred to the other. “May I ask why it was your duty to shoot me?”

  “Because,” replied Hal, “I found you with arms in your hands, engaged in maintaining a regime of infamy which I had sworn to exterminate. But you were my cousin, and I hadn’t the courage of my convictions.”

  Captain Harding did not seem to know how to deal with such an argument. There was a pause, and then Hal added, “There are exponents of the class-war who say that only proletarians should be trusted in the movement. It would seem that I’m a proof of their contention.”

  There was nothing to be gained by discussion with a lunatic. The officer began to pace up and down the floor, consumed by his own thoughts. Could he give Hal up to imprisonment and possible execution, with the frightful scandal it would involve? But on the other hand, if he let him go, what would become of discipline? How could he face his men? What would he say to his superiors?

  After a while Hal looked at him, and realizing the torment he was inflicting upon himself, remarked, “Cut it out, Appie, and give me up. It won’t make any difference. Nothing will come of it.”

  “They would hang you!” cried the other.

  Hal laughed. “Hang a millionaire’s son in this state? You know they couldn’t keep me in jail three days!”

  “You’re guilty of murder!” exclaimed the other.

  “I am that, of course—guilty of several murders. I shot one of the men of your own company, I think—a big beefy animal in khaki—”

  “Hush!” cried Captain Harding. He looked about him as if he thought the walls might have ears.

  “I drilled a hole clean through his forehead. And I shot another one as he was running down the railroad-cut. I got two mine-guards at North Valley, and I think I winged a third at Sheridan. I did all that—and in spite of it, they couldn’t keep me in jail three days!”

  Captain Harding had resumed his pacing of the room. He was in a terrible condition of agitation.

  “Make a test of it,” persisted Hal, defiantly. “You believe in the law—you’re going to practice it, make your living out of it. Go tell Wrightman what I’ve just told you, and see what he’ll do about it!”

  “Hal,” protested the other, “you may please yourself by flouting the law, but surely you must realize that I am one of its officers—I have taken my oath to maintain it—”

  And Hal laughed, a wild, half-hysterical laugh. “Poor fellow! He’s a lover, and he believes in his mistress, and he wants to fight anyone who doubts her virtue! But I—I know her—the bedraggled old harlot! I have followed her about the streets at night—I have tracked her to the filthy dens where she makes her bed! I know that she will lie with any man that puts gold into her palm; so I pity the poor fool who believes in her and won’t listen to the truth!”

  So they had it back and forth; until little by little it became clear to Hal that his cousin’s nerve had failed, like his own. He would not, could not do his duty!

  He wanted Hal to go away, to go home; but Hal answered that he had enlisted for the war. Probably he had destroyed his influence with the strikers, but still, in a fresh emergency, he would have to do what he could to help them.

  “Then you’ll have to stay here!” exclaimed Captain Harding. “I’ll hold you myself, since you make it necessary.”

  “Your private prisoner?” laughed Hal.

  “Yes, my private prisoner.”

  “Well, you’ve exactly as much right as the General has to hold his prisoners. But be careful I don’t fall out of the window.”

  “Hal,” pleaded the other, “won’t you give me your promise and quit fighting?”

  The other considered, and then answered, “Suppose I asked you to promise and quit fighting?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t expect to do any more.”

  “Indeed! What were you doing in that automobile?”

  “I was on my way to see some members of the guard who are wanted as witnesses. You evidently haven’t heard that I’ve been appointed on a committee to investigate the events at Horton.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that.” Hal was interested, and his cousin told what had happened since that dreadful night of destruction. The sights he had seen had been too much for Harding; he had made up his mind that the murder of the three prisoners was an intolerable crime, and he had gone up to Western City with the intention of preparing a statement concerning the conduct of the militia, and giving it to the newspapers. But as fate would have it, on the train he met a fellow-officer, whom he told of his intention; this officer argued and pleaded with him, and when they got to Western City, he called in Major Cassels to help. They finally persuaded Harding to accept as a compromise the appointing of the three of them as a commission to go down and make an investigation into the conduct of the guard.

  Hal was first thrilled with this story, and then made heartsick. If only he could have been on hand at the critical moment, to hold his cousin to his bold resolve! Now, of course, it was too late; they had got their nets about Appie, they would soon have a ring in his nose, and be leading him where they pleased. —And so in the event it proved. Before they got far in their “investigation”, Major Cassels was objecting to some of the witnesses Captain Harding produced, and to some of the questions he asked them; finally he was using his authority as Captain Harding’s superior officer, to forbid him to summon certain witnesses at all!

  [36]

  The question of Hal’s immediate fate was decided by a compromise. Captain Harding saw that he lay back in the chair with his eyes closed, and desperate weariness in his face. “Boy,” he said, in a different tone, “you’re pretty nearly done up!”

  “I know I am.”

  “Don’t you want to rest?”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Why not make an agreement to stay in this room for a few hours? So we’ll both have a chance to think it over—”

  “And you have a chance to get hold of Edward and Dad. Is that your plan?”

  “Edward was here for two days, Hal—looking for you.”

  “W
here’s he gone?”

  “He went back home. What else could he do?”

  There was a pause; then again the other began to press his proposition. Finally Hal gave his promise—he would stay in the room until six o’clock in the evening. And so Appie, relieved of his anxiety for the moment, became human and solicitous. Could he get a doctor for his cousin? Could he get him some food? Hal answered that he wanted nothing but to be let alone, and so the other went out, closing the door behind him.

  During the past week Hal had had an experience which falls to men only in great crises of history. He had known the soul-shaking emotions of martyrdom. He had known what it was to be able and willing to throw his life away as he would a withered flower; to go with the clashing of cymbals and the blare of trumpets in his ears, to be blind, dizzy, walking upon air, transported out of himself, so possessed with rage that he might have been torn limb from limb without feeling it. He had forgotten that he had a body; he had gone on and on, living upon his nerve, consuming his own substance—

  And now suddenly came reaction, as violent and extreme as the former excitement. Exhaustion possessed his body, despair possessed his mind. He who had set out to make people happier, to make the world better—he had killed several men, he had cruelly wounded others—and he had accomplished nothing, absolutely nothing! He saw his week’s proceeding as an insane delirium, a drunken debauch; he saw all his two years of strife and pain from the point of view of his brother and his cousin—a thing of utter futility.

  He flung himself down on the bed, where in the end the claims of a worn-out body took precedence, and he fell into a sleep. But it was a sleep tormented by nightmares. He was back in the burning tent-colony, and women and children were shrieking and rushing to him for help. He was holding Little Jerry in his arms, and as the child struggled, his burned flesh came off, and he fell to pieces in Hal’s hands. And then came the sounds of cannon-firing; the reports beat upon his brain, there was a crash of shells about him, he struggled to run, but his legs would not move—