On Friday, January 12 – payday – the women workers at the Everett Cotton Mills saw their checks and realized the mill owners cut their wages. Shouts of “short pay” spread through the mill. The women stopped their looms and walked out. It was a spontaneous uprising. They met later that day and realized they had no idea how to organize an effective strike, so they sent a telegram to the only labor leader they ever heard of, Big Bill Haywood, and asked for help and guidance. Haywood’s organization, the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), quickly dispatched organizers to Lawrence, Massachusetts, the center of the budding protest. The IWW organizers were greeted by a simple message from Lawrence’s mayor: “We will break this strike.” Within a day, Eugene Foss, the governor of Massachusetts – who was also a mill owner – sent five hundred state militiamen to Lawrence to “keep order.”
On Monday, January 15, one thousand men, women and children set up picket lines at Lawrence’s mills. They were met by the state militia who opened fire hoses and sprayed freezing water at the protesters. The strikers then threw snowballs at the guardsmen who, in turned, charged the crowd with rifles that had fixed bayonets. Thirty-four strikers were arrested. They were tried that evening by a judge. Three were sentenced to two years in prison; the rest got a year’s sentence. The judge said, “The only way we can teach them is to deal out the severest sentences.”
By the end of the first week, fourteen thousand mill workers were on the picket line. The mill owners, inspired by the bombing of the L.A. Times, hatched a plot to dynamite one of the mills and blame it on the strikers. They anonymously tipped off the police, who discovered an unexploded bundle of dynamite. When the initial story got out, there was nationwide outrage. A New York Times editorial stated, “The strikers display a fiendish lack of humanity which ought to place them beyond the comfort of religion until they have repented.”
However, the mill owners’ plot was exposed by a foolish error – the dynamite bundle was wrapped in a magazine cover addressed to a political figure tied to the owners. Newspapers began retracting their harsh words and shifted their sympathy to the strikers. Each side dug in and became more militant. On the third week of the strike, violence broke out between police and the demonstrators. A young woman striker, Anna LoPizzo, was shot dead. A young Syrian boy, John Ramy, was stabbed by a bayonet and died later that night. The Governor declared marshal law. The IWW organizers were arrested for incitement that led to the killings, even though they were three miles away.
With his organizers in jail and the strike unraveling into violent chaos, Bill Haywood trained up from Manhattan to take over the strike’s reins. He had last directed a strike in 1904. Many doubted that the firebrand had the organizational skills to be an effective organizer – he was seen more as a rabble-rousing leader.
Haywood arrived in Lawrence to a fanfare by the strikers. Despite marshal law, he coordinated small meetings of strikers and instituted a disciplined strike plan. High on the agenda was to garner nationwide sympathy. Haywood created a press release with pictures of soldiers pointing their bayonets at picketing children. The caption read: “Military Law Declared in Massachusetts!”
By the end of the third week there were 20,000 mill workers away from their looms. The strikers were inspired, marching and singing union hymns in the streets of Lawrence. A reporter noticed a pretty young woman’s picket sign: “We want bread and roses too.” He wrote a story about the marchers and the slogan. It was printed the next day and the strike became known as “The Bread and Roses Strike.”
* * *
From his Manhattan penthouse, George Vanderbilt was faced with the task of convincing America’s wealthiest tycoons to travel across the ocean to Europe for a business meeting. He knew it was a tall task. He began by setting the original list of names next to the telephone on his office desk. The stained and wrinkled sheet of paper was filled with checks and cross outs, questions marks and exclamation points; there were new names added in the margins and black ink stars by those who attended the first meeting and expressed genuine interest in being part of The Plan. Vanderbilt went down the list, calling each prominent man who had a star by his name and telling him that the project was nearing implementation. He explained that, at this critical juncture, it was important to have a meeting of everyone who wished to be involved. Most of the men were excited when they heard this. “It is Colonel Astor’s and my opinion that we would get far more accomplished by isolating ourselves for a period and completely focusing on the task at hand,” Vanderbilt said. The majority of men were agreeable until Vanderbilt mentioned that Italy was the place they had chosen for the retreat. Half the men were confused and couldn’t understand why they had to go so far away. The other half loved the idea of a European junket. When it came down to it, ten men were able to give a firm commitment to travel abroad for the meeting. They would form the core planning group.
Vanderbilt’s last phone call was to Archie. “Major Butt,” Vanderbilt started. “It is an honor to talk with you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Vanderbilt. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
As he did with all the men he called, Vanderbilt started by talking about the meeting. “It’s imperative you be there, Major.”
“And Colonel Astor will be there as well?”
“Of course,” Vanderbilt said. “This is Colonel Astor’s project as much as mine.”
“Good,” Archie said. “Count me in.”
Then Vanderbilt said that Rome was chosen as the place to meet. “Rome? Can’t we find someplace in the States?” Archie replied.
“When all is said and done, Colonel Astor and I have determined that Rome would be the best place for the meeting.”
“I can’t take time off now. No, I can’t leave the President.”
But Vanderbilt’s sales pitch was sharply honed. He stressed how important this project was to the nation and the central role Archie would play. “What would it take to get you to Rome, Major Butt?” Vanderbilt pressed.
“A miracle,” Archie uttered.
“I’ll try and arrange one, Major. That’s how important I feel your presence is.”
Archie thanked Vanderbilt for the compliment and asked to be kept informed on the project’s progress.
* * *
Amid the chattering, jostling New York multitudes at Penn Station, Henry caught a glimpse of himself reflected in a mirror near the ticket window. He cocked his head at the curious image. The boy he saw in the mirror looked good, great even, like one of those boys who worked as messengers in the high-rise Flat Iron Building near Madison Square Park. He was dressed like them too – long wool trousers, high starched collar, tight knotted tie, slim fitting coat and, last but not least, mirror polished shoes. The entire outfit cost $12.75 – a fortune – but Henry believed that the two hundred dollars that he found in the wallet was a gift of providence to balance out the injustices he had suffered. The truth was that Henry needed the suit like a knight needed armor. The suit protected him from the dark fear that was always with him: that his identity would be discovered and he would be returned to Sing Sing, locked away and silenced in a hellish cell with no way out.
It had been almost two months since he escaped. Five weeks since he pick-pocketed the money. The night he discovered the two hundred dollars in the wallet, he sat on a curbside, clutched the two bills to his chest and wept for an hour. He decided he wouldn’t return to his familiar haunts around Five Points, there was too much of a chance that someone would turn Judas on him. Instead, he walked up Columbus Avenue to the Upper West Side where he found a little boarding house that, for four dollars a week, would take him in, no questions asked. He stayed in his room for the first three weeks, most of the time sleeping a dreamless sleep, letting his body and psyche heal. Flesh began to fill in the hollows of his face; his eyes regained a glint of life. After nearly a month, he began venturing out of the boarding house, taking walks around the corner to the Hotel des Artistes, then north to Columbia University and over to Central Park
. He would let the winter air blast against his cheeks.
By the fifth week he began making plans. His first thought was to head west to the land of opportunity. Visions of a new, adventurous life amid cowboys and Indians filled his head. But he didn’t know how to ride a horse and the last thing he wanted was to camp out under the stars – he had his fill of that while on the run from Sing Sing. He pondered heading to Florida, but anything south of New Jersey was as foreign as China to Henry. He finally decided he should seek out someone who could help him. There was only one person in the world like that, even if that person had already let him down. So when he found himself at the front of a Penn Station ticket line and the clerk behind the window said, “Where to?” Henry answered, “Washington D.C.”
CHAPTER 43
With his popularity continuing to plummet and fearing that Roosevelt would soon announce his candidacy for President, Taft decided to embark on a week-long political junket through the upper mid-west to “win back those Republicans who wandered off the reservation.” It turned out to be an exhausting odyssey, filled with late night banquets and early morning wake-up calls. For Archie, it was too much coffee, too many cigars and far too many chummy slaps on the back. By the time the Presidential entourage returned to Washington D.C., Archie was a hacking, wheezing mess. “You sound terrible, Archie,” Taft said as the Presidential train pulled into the station. “Why don’t you stay at the White House tonight. We’ll have a doctor see you in the morning.”
“Thank you, Mr. President, but I prefer my own bed,” Archie weakly replied.
Archie’s G Street townhouse was only two blocks from the White House. That evening, the two blocks seemed like a thousand miles. Archie grew sicker and more delirious with each step. He had made the walk hundreds of times before, but this time, through his fevered haze, he thought he made a wrong turn and was lost. A chill came over him. He needed to lie down. But not here, not on the sidewalk. He pushed forward, looking around, confused, trying to get his bearings, concentrating hard to find some landmark he recognized when, hallelujah, he caught sight of the distinctive cornice of his own home. He jammed his hand into his pocket, clutched the house key, and took off, hurtling stiff-legged down the block then up the few steps to his front door. Just as he slipped his key into the lock, a nicely dressed young man emerged from the darkness.
“Geezus,” the young man shouted. “I thought you’d never show up.”
Archie looked quizzically at the young man.
“We got a lot to talk about, Captain.”
“Excuse me?” Archie murmured.
“What’s the matter? Ya don’t recognize me?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t. I must go inside.”
“It’s me! Henry!” the young man gleefully shouted.
Archie coughed, still not recognizing him. “I’m sorry young man, but I have just returned from a long trip.”
“That’s okay. Just put me up tonight and we’ll talk in the morning,” the young man said, then opened his mouth in a wide, gap-tooth grin.
At that moment Archie did recognize him: he was the boy that jabbed a gun in his ribs in Central Park, the boy he last saw in a New York jail cell. “I’m sorry, I can give you money for a hotel, but…” then Archie started coughing and couldn’t stop.
“You don’t sound good, Captain. I’d say you’re comin’ down with a flu. And I know just the remedy. Why don’t you let me in and I’ll make you a hot cuppa tea with lemon. I ain’t gonna hurt you and it ain’t good for your health to be standin’ out here in the cold. Whattya say?”
“I say you’re crazy. Now please leave…”
“Mick would want me to take care of you just like I took care of him. You can depend on me, Captain.”
“Mick…” Archie’s voice trailed off as a flush of dizziness came over him. He pushed his door open and stumbled into the house. Henry followed him in. “Now, I want you to go right up stairs and hop into bed. I’ll find the kitchen and make some tea and bring it on up. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight and we’ll reintroduce ourselves in the mornin’.”
Archie tried to object again but Henry wouldn’t hear it. “Captain, you’re sicker than a mangy mutt,” Henry chided. “Now let’s get you into bed and Henry will take care of everything.”
Archie teetered on his feet. Henry went to steady him, grabbing his arm beneath the shoulder and propping him up. Archie finally surrendered and let the boy help him up the stairs to the bedroom.
The next day Archie grew even sicker. He hardly had the strength to sit up in bed. Henry insisted that he not go to work. “Gimme the line to the White House and I’ll tell ol’ Taft you can’t make it in today.”
“No,” Archie croaked. “You don’t call anyone.”
“Okay, then you call ‘em.”
Archie stared at the boy who was giving him such authoritative commands. Then he called in sick.
Over the next three days Archie descended into a hellish bout with the flu. His days were filled with vomiting, his nights with hot sweats. Henry was by his side, bringing tea and making sure Archie stayed in bed. He wouldn’t even let him come downstairs. “Captain, if you don’t take care of yourself you ain’t ever gonna get better,” Henry said. Archie was so weak that he gave in without an argument. On the fourth day of his illness, Archie regained enough strength to put on a robe and meander from his bedroom. He started down the stairs, then stopped and surveyed his living room. Henry had rearranged all the furniture.
“Henry!!” Archie called.
“In here, Captain,” Henry answered from the kitchen.
Archie walked in the kitchen to see Henry hunched over an ironing board, pressing and hanging Archie’s shirts and trousers.
“What are you doing?!” Archie bellowed.
“Your clothes were a mess. If you’re gonna be standin’ next to the President all the time, I should think you’d wanna present yourself properly.”
“My clothes weren’t pressed because I had returned from a long trip. And I present myself just fine, Henry.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m jus’ helpin’ out, Captain.”
“By the way, I was promoted. If you want to refer to me by rank, it’s ‘Major.’”
“Sorry, Captain, but you’ll always be ‘Captain’ to me ‘cause that’s what you were to Mick.”
Archie rolled his eyes. “And did I give you permission to move around my furniture?”
“No, sir, you did not,” Henry said. “But don’t the living room look great?!”
Archie didn’t say anything. The living room did look great.
It took Archie two more days to regain his strength. Henry continued to wait on him hand and foot. In a way, he became to Archie what Archie was to the President – an ever-present, dependable Man Friday who was always anticipating every need before the need even occurred. Archie began to grow attached even as he was suspicious of the baby-faced youngster who pushed his way into Archie’s life.
“Henry,” Archie said over breakfast. “What do you plan to do now? You can’t stay here indefinitely.”
“Why not?” Henry replied, scooping a healthy serving of eggs and bacon onto Archie’s plate.
“Well, that wouldn’t be practical. Don’t you have parents?
“No, sir, I don’t got none of those things.”
“Relatives? A home?”
“I was left at the orphanage when I was a baby and ran away when they started beatin’ me.”
“How long ago was that?”
“I was eleven, so that woulda been four years ago.”
“And where have you lived since?”
“Streets. Alleys. Subway stations,” Henry shrugged.
Archie couldn’t quite believe that Henry would answer in such a nonchalant way. “How did you eat?”
“Thievin’ mostly. Took food from markets and pushcarts. And I pickpocketed too. I’m a champeen pickpocketer. That’s how I met Mick. I tried liftin’ his wallet and damn if he didn’t grab my h
and when it was in his pocket. I don’t know how he felt it, no one ever does. So’s he turns around and snatches my arm and sez real fierce, ‘What the hell ya doin, kid?’ and I thought he was gonna hit me so I started bawlin’ and tell him I’m hungry and instead of givin’ me a smack he takes me to his place and gives me a whole chicken to chow on and sez he wants to make me his assistant and I sez ‘Why?’ and he sez, ‘cause you’re sneaky and clever and I need a sneaky and clever assistant.’ Now I don’t trust him one bit ‘cause I’m familiar with perverts on the street, but he kept on bein’ nice to me and I figured, well, I’ll stay as long as he keeps feedin’ me. And he kept feedin’ me…” Henry stopped and sniffed back a tear. “He jus’ kept on feedin’ me and I jus’ never left.”
Archie reached out and touched the boy’s shoulder in a tender, paternal gesture. “Thank you, Captain. You knew Mick. You understand.”
“I’m not sure I understand everything. The last time I saw you, you were in jail for Mick’s murder. You told me you had nothing to do with it. Did they let you out?”
“Not exactly…” Henry hemmed, then told Archie about his ordeal in Sing Sing. Archie listened somberly and it quickly became apparent that the boy was a criminal fugitive. “You must turn yourself in,” Archie stated after Henry finished.
“Are you outta your mind?!” Henry howled.
“No. I will help you get a good lawyer. America has a fair system. If what you tell me is true, you will find justice.”
“The same way Mick found justice?” Henry said sharply. The words hit Archie like a slap across the face. “Well, Captain,” Henry pressed. “Did he find justice?”
Archie looked away. “Alright Henry, you can stay here for a while. Until we figure out a better solution.”
CHAPTER 44
The Titanic Plan Page 27
