The Boy Orator

by Tracy Daugherty

  Her timing was perfect, honed in over a decade of public speaking. She knew when to lift the mood with a joke or startle her listeners with fire. Harry admired the way she used her plain dress and humble manner to draw people close, then grabbed them by the ears and wouldn’t let go.

  J. T. Cumbie, the Socialist candidate for governor, topped the bill with her. A distinguished old gentleman with a bright bald pate and a flowing beard—he called himself the “gray horse of the prairie”—he sparked the crowd, denouncing the “monstrous atrocity of a very few men controlling the means of production” and led a chorus of

  The coming of the jubilee

  When workers of the world are free.

  When it was his turn to talk, Harry was so excited, so inspired, he rushed to the edge of the stand and stammered, “Brothers and sisters! Here’s to the collective ownership of … of …” He worked up a small river of spit to soothe his scratchy throat. “… the entire earth!”

  Men and women waved the red flags that league members had passed around the encampment. Parents handed the flags to their children, hoisted the kids onto their shoulders, and danced across the low hill, beneath the shade of tall maples. J. T. Cumbie raised his arms like a vulture ready to swoop and urged everyone into song, to the tune of “Onward Christian Soldiers”:

  Then raise the scarlet standard high;

  Within its shade we’ll live and die.

  Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,

  We’ll keep the red flag flying here.

  He nudged Harry back to the center of the platform. “Tell ‘em, son. Go on.”

  The pine boards were flimsy. They bent and bowed as Harry lunged back and forth to engage each row of the crowd. His throat was weak, sore from his late-night meetings with Mollie. He coughed, spread his hands. “Human rights take precedence over property rights,” he croaked. “So the Bible says, and so said the patron saint of American agrarianism, Thomas Jefferson.” He spoke softly to protect his faltering voice. “Believe me, friends, when men and women work together instead of competing like jungle cats, laughter instead of tears, joy instead of sorrow, health instead of pain will overflow our lives. With a cooperative spirit, we can vanquish every evil!”

  Scattered applause. Red flags. He had to raise the volume. “It doesn’t matter if a man is Catholic, Baptist, Heathen, or Jew,” he said, ignoring the pain in his throat. “If we’re wage workers, our interests are all the same. And who represents the wage worker in the halls of the state capitol? The Democrats? The Democrats are a motley circus of landlords and parasites, huddling in luxury in their towns!”

  The clapping increased. He was building up steam. Word passed through the crowd that the speaker was just a little boy; those who hadn’t been watching or who were eating picnic lunches or changing their babies’ diapers looked up. Flies pestered Harry’s forehead. Sweat glued his shirt to his skin. “The Republicans and the Democrats don’t seem to hear it, but everywhere in this great state of ours there’s a sweeping call for righteous government. The earth’s burden-bearers demand it!” he yelled.

  Several men shouted “Yes!” and shook their fists. Kate O’Hare clapped in the front row, Warren Stargell beamed.

  “Friends, the Socialist movement is the concrete expression of this demand. It’s dedicated to the conscious organization of a just society. With the coming of Socialism, children can enjoy their childhood, women can be womanly, and men can be men. From conquest to victory!” He pumped his arm in the air. The crowd shouted, “Victory! Victory!”

  He wiped his face with his sleeve. His throat was tearing apart but he couldn’t stop now. These people were his; every muscle in his body tensed with awareness and control. “Now the highfalutin bankers and the rich, fat lawyers, they’ll tell you we’re the worst bunch of scoundrels ever to come down the pike. Oh yes indeed, they’d have you believe Socialists aren’t real Americans. But let me tell you, friends, a real American stands by his brothers and sisters. A real American doesn’t sell his neighbors out for a quick profit! You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “Hell yes!” “‘Ataboy!” “Tell it!”

  “Our road isn’t easy, though.”

  “No no.” “That’s right.” “Lord help us.”

  “We’ll all be called to sacrifice.” He patted his chest to break up the phlegm in his lungs. “Socialism will succeed only if working people of all races and religions unite to fight the property owners. I know and you know that most of our fine communities are based on religious and racial identity.” He placed his hands on his hips, challenged the group with a frank and sober stare. “It goes against all we’ve been taught to merge our individual personalities and our small holdings with larger, cooperative land units, but that’s the road to prosperity for all. It’s the humane road, the road to a true democratic America. Make a good family, make a good life—for everyone. How do we do that? Wave the red flag, my friends, wave the red flag!”

  The audience jumped up and down, hooting and shouting. Harry staggered a little, dizzy and weak. He stumbled toward the platform steps; J. T. Cumbie stood there with his arms crossed. He was scowling. Was he angry at something Harry had said? Jealous of the enthusiasm Harry had pulled from the crowd? He stroked his beard, moved aside. The field was a sea of red shirts, red hats, red flags.

  Warren Stargell patted Harry’s back. “Nice job, son. Rest up a little. In a while we’ll rustle up some grub.”

  Kate O’Hare caught Harry’s eye, smiled, nodded, then disappeared into the crowd, passing out copies of the Appeal.

  Harry made his way to the tent he shared with Warren Stargell. People shook his hand or hugged him. Some had tears in their eyes. They thanked him for his message of salvation. In the tent he swallowed a bit of his mother’s tonic, washed his face in a bucket of water, and napped for a couple of hours.

  When he ventured back out the sun had set. Families huddled around campfires, grilling rabbit or chicken or squirrel. The dusky sky and yellow flames accented every scar or bruise on their bodies, the wear and tear of life on the farm. Webworm silk drifted like lace in the trees. Scorpio rose in the south.

  A group of men sat on logs at the top of the hill discussing the effects of industrialization on the life of the worker. A few yards away, another group argued the “race question” and the Grandfather Clause. Still others listed “divine” correspondences between the New Testament and the Socialist doctrine.

  Harry, still groggy from his nap, drained by the speech he’d given, found himself irritated by the words, by his inability to concentrate and sort them out. His neck ached—he missed his bed, his mother, his marbles, his room. He was glad to be here. He was. But just for a minute, he wanted to see his mother’s face, her gentle, sloping shoulders.

  He spotted Kate O’Hare and her husband Frank, dark and handsome, with their oldest boy, their baby daughter, and twin sons. They were sitting at a fire with a man Harry recognized from photographs as Fred Warren, the managing editor of the Appeal to Reason. He had big ears and a wide mouth that made Harry want to laugh. Next to him were J. T. Cumbie, Warren Stargell, and two men Harry didn’t know, one of whom was saying, “Jefferson himself believed that man had an innate moral sense. So did Emerson: ‘Look with the eyes of the spirit,’ he said.”

  “Yes, but Darwin’s done away with those ideas, don’t you think?” said his friend.

  “For a few dissolute Frenchmen, maybe, who can’t wait to embrace every new fad—”

  “If you accept the basic premise of evolution—”

  “Then you have to believe life’s progressing from incoherence to clarity—”

  “You’ve misread Darwin, John. It’s not a straight line to perfection.”

  “Harry, have a seat,” said Warren Stargell. “We’re frying up some frogs’ legs.” Behind him, a man Harry had just noticed was busily skinning a squirrel, peeling away the fur with a long gray knife, stretching the white, marbled skin.

  Fred Warren s
cratched his huge right ear. “In any case, it’s clear to me that the United States is an evolutionary peak. It’s moved from chaos into a system of laws; our beliefs’ll take it to the next level, from brutal competition to self-regulation—”

  “The rule of love,” whispered Kate O’Hare. She brushed a horsefly from her daughter’s nose. The little girl crawled into her lap. J. T. Cumbie stared at Harry, still with a sour face. In the gauzy light of the fire, his shadowy eyes seemed to move back and forth like collapsible telescopes. Harry wondered what he’d done to offend the old man. Again, he longed for Annie Mae.

  Warren Stargell laughed. “My Christian friends used to tell me God was a ruler in the sky, like old King George. Nowadays they tell me He’s a force in Nature, working—like evolution—to perfect eternal Good.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Frank O’Hare. “As our colonial experience recedes—”

  And as scientific thought progresses,” added Fred Warren.

  “—naturally, our conceptions of God, not to mention national destiny, change to fit the latest models.”

  The man who’d skinned the squirrel cut off its head, rammed a stick through its body, and held it over the fire. The meat began to glisten and spit. Warren Stargell handed Harry a frog leg. It tasted like catfish, sharp and ashy.

  “Well, despite our differences, we all agree that America under Socialism is Earth’s best hope for moral order, right?” Fred Warren asked.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said J. T. Cumbie. Everyone raised a cup. Harry lay on the ground with his food and watched the stars through the trees. He began to relax, imagining his mother’s voice. Harry, he heard her say, Harry, I’m with you.

  The Northern Cross, Cassiopeia, Leo with its sickle-shaped head all hung like dewy nets in the limbs. The air, full of smoke, smelled gamey. The grass was moist and cool. Babies laughed and cried in tents on the hill; lanterns hissed, pots banged, men and women lowered their voices, surrendering to the evening.

  Frank O’Hare said Dora Mertz and Stanley Clark would join them at the next encampment, and maybe they’d get to meet Patrick Nagle, Oscar Ameringer, Gene Debs. All of Harry’s heroes! (The name “Patrick Nagle” saddened him briefly.) Excited again, he felt his strength return. His head hummed with thoughts of God, morality, national destiny—these people knew so much!

  Frank O’Hare stood and picked up his boys. “I’d better get these Short Hares to bed,” he said.

  They all finished eating and wished each other pleasant dreams. As Harry turned from the fire, J. T. Cumbie grabbed his arm. His beard, like the tail of a mare, brushed Harry’s hand. “Warren here tells me you’re Irish Catholic. Is that right?” he said.

  “Yessir.”

  The old man nodded, dropped Harry’s arm, then walked away. Kate O’Hare slipped by him, carrying her daughter. “You spoke real well today,” she said.

  Harry blushed. “My throat was sore. I can do better.”

  “Oh my. I can’t wait.” She nodded good-night.

  In the tent he brushed grass and dirt off his bedroll. Warren Stargell rolled a cigarette. “Harry, my boy, by the time we’re done this month, a red tide’ll sweep the cities and the plains! Your pappy would’ve been proud of you today. Cigarette?”

  Harry hesitated. Warren Stargell laughed. His left eye, drooping, glimmered in the lantern light. “Here, I’ll help you roll it. A little victory smoke. You’ve earned it.” He pulled the pouch of Bull Durham out of his pocket again. Harry smiled, feeling tonight like a grownup. He reached for the paper and a match.

  HE AND WARREN STARGELL hadn’t gotten along well, their first week on the road. The schedule and the pace were both more strenuous than Harry had expected—much busier than the trips with his dad—and Harry tired easily. Exhausted, he slipped into bad habits Andrew had once drummed out of him. He forgot to button his coat. He picked his nose onstage. “Harry, stop acting like a baby!” Warren Stargell yelled at him. “Straighten up, son!”

  “I’m not a baby!”

  “Then get your finger out of your nose.”

  “You’re not my dad. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Your dad asked me to look after you. He told me you’d developed into a fine little man—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Harry, now—”

  “Shut up!”

  One morning, Warren Stargell tried to straighten Harry’s tie.

  “You’re choking me!” Harry screamed.

  “You think Oscar Ameringer walks around looking like he just fell off a hog train?” “I can do it.” “All right, then.”

  Harry relooped the knot. “Does Oscar Ameringer look like he does in newspaper pictures?” he asked.

  “Handsomer, in person. Almost as handsome as you.” Warren Stargell patted Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you a little secret, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s not the speaker you are. No one in this camp can hold a candle to you, kid, once you get on a roll.”

  Harry knew the man was just buttering him up, but he preferred this kind of talk to being called a baby. After that, he and Warren Stargell didn’t fight so much. Harry grew accustomed to the daily pace. He took more care with his coat and his tie. Warren Stargell joked with him; he said Harry was trying to look like Oscar. Actually, Harry imagined Mollie whenever he dressed. It helped him do his best, knowing she’d be impressed if she could see him.

  WHEREVER HARRY WENT—ANTLERS, McAlester, Coalgate, Tishomingo—Andrew mailed him telegrams and letters full of good luck wishes, prayers. His correspondence said nothing about the family’s money troubles or the national events Harry was learning about every day: the burgeoning of the garment workers union, the growing power of the American Federation of Labor, the energy of the Chicago Renaissance. Andrew never mentioned the bold Socialist challenge to Samuel Gompers for control of the AFL, or W. E. B. DuBois’s doubts about the movement.

  Little by little, Harry realized, he was beginning to outgrow his old man. In the encampments he met the movement’s intellectuals—planners, talkers, readers who brought to life for him all the history and thoughts behind the words he’d spoken for years. They knew not only politics, but art and literature and fashion. They mourned Mark Twain, who’d died with the appearance of Halley’s Comet (“What’s the difference between a dog and a man? Twain said, ‘If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he won’t bite you.’“). They quoted Walt Whitman and William Dean Howells. They gave Harry copies of the Nation, Harper’s, Scribner’s, the Independent and the Outlook, magazines so vivid and venturesome he couldn’t imagine ever using their pages in an outhouse.

  One man he met even had advance copies of articles and political cartoons that eventually appeared in a brand-new monthly called the Masses.

  It’s happening, Harry thought. The Red Tide. And no one can stop it. His head throbbed with excitement, with curiosity, and the pressure to learn.

  Tough lessons, too: for example, he discovered that Socialists often bickered, like everyone else. There was rarely a united front. When he asked Warren Stargell why J. T. Cumbie seemed mad at him, Warren Stargell replied that Cumbie didn’t trust Catholics or Jews (whom Harry had mentioned in his speech); he didn’t favor voting rights for Negroes.

  “He’s crazy, then,” Harry said.

  “He’s our candidate for governor, Harry.”

  “Bad choice.”

  Warren Stargell shrugged.

  “I’ll support him publicly,” Harry said, growing in confidence—he felt it in himself, surging and rising—maturing rapidly in the heady swirl of the circuit, “but I’m going to stay away from the old coot.”

  One day, Kate O’Hare bravely challenged her female comrades. Harry had gone with her and a few other speakers to address the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Club of Guthrie, a powerful women’s organization. He was overwhelmed by the combination of thick, sweet perfumes in the downtown meeting room, the secretive rustling
of petticoats beneath long black skirts. He thought of Mollie: her mysteries.

  Two or three times since leaving the farm he’d noticed pretty young ladies in the streets of the towns, and tingled to touch Mollie again, or the girls in the streets, or any girl, and he marveled at the force, the new constancy in him, of this impulse.

  Now, he sat by the stage, watching Kate O’Hare pull herself erect, smile, and open her arms. She praised the club and others like it for raising library funds, establishing kindergartens, lobbying for better child labor laws. “I’ve watched ragged children weave youth and health into shining silks,” she said. “I’ve followed children into mine and mill and sweatshop, into the cotton fields, and over to the sunny fruitland slopes. Oh, I know where the icy blasts chill blood and marrow, where fires scar body, mind, and soul, and sisters, having seen all this, I hate it as only a mother can!”

  Harry thought of his own mother, of Mollie, of the ladies in the streets: the thrill of the pitch, the billowing shocks of the body. Comfort. Excitement. Desire. They were all mixed up in him now, like a fresh and potent marmalade.

  Kate O’Hare commended the efforts of woman suffragists. Her voice was a steady drumbeat of sense: “Today, everything used in a home is produced outside the home in a factory; without the power to vote, to effect change in the workplace, a mother has absolutely no control of the conditions existing there. If a textile mill is unsanitary, operated by sickly women and children, a veritable breeding place of disease, a mother who buys the fabric made there is helpless. If a food factory is reeking with filth and germs, and sends poisoned food to the family table, a mother is powerless to protect her own.”

  The club billed itself as an open forum for ideas. It allowed interested men to attend her speech. When she mentioned woman suffrage, a skinny fellow shouted, “My mother wouldn’t have been any better if she’d had the ballot! She found ample opportunities at home to exercise feminine virtue.”

  Another man, a chubby clerical-type, chimed in: “Supper’s a part of everyday life. I suppose you ladies would like to change that, wouldn’t you? If you get the vote, you’ll all be running for county commissioner, and no one’ll be home to fix our meals—”