Boston a novel
and hearing the news, had hastened back, and removed the chief of
police from office, and taken charge of to-night’s meeting himself,
and introduced Alfred Baker Lewis as the principal speaker. Would the
workers of Boston learn anything from that?
Governor Fuller was in session with Congressman La Guardia, who had
flown all the way from Washington in an airplane; an Italian, he
pleaded for mercy for two men of his race. Musmanno, having presented
four new affidavits in vain, waited outside for a chance to present one
more. He argued with Attorney General Reading, counsel for the Decimo
Club and the “L.A.W.,” seeking to persuade him that it would be a
discourtesy to the United States Supreme Court, to take the life of two
men, when their appeal was actually on file before that high tribunal.
Mr. Reading did not answer Musmanno’s argument; neither did he say what
he would advise the Governor. Death was only three or four hours away.
Over in the death cells, Sacco was bidding a last farewell to his wife,
and Vanzetti to his sister. The men stretched their arms through the
bars; the women broke down, and had to be carried out, sobbing wildly.
They belonged to a demonstrative race--one of the reasons why stern New
England did not like them. Nevertheless, New England would read about
it--column after column in the next morning’s papers--“sob stuff,” that
sold best of anything.
Rosina and Luigia decided to try one last appeal to the Governor.
They had not intended to do it; they knew in their hearts that they
would fail; but they had several hours to pass, and it was easier
to do anything than to do nothing. Friends telephoned and made the
appointment, and at nine o’clock they arrived at the State House,
a fortress surrounded by armed men, the searchlights which usually
illuminated the golden dome now turned upon the crowds in the streets.
They ascended in the elevator, and Rosina walked ahead, through the
rows of silent newspapermen; Luigia followed hesitatingly, bewildered
by this strange environment. Musmanno was there to act as interpreter,
and they were shown into the private office, where so many had sat and
poured out eloquence in vain.
Rosina Sacco spoke first, in English. She told of her faith in her
husband’s innocence. She told about the trial; about Lola Andrews, the
hysteric; about Captain Proctor, who had admitted his trick; about
Goodridge, the many-times convicted crook; about Mary Splaine, and what
the Pinkerton reports had revealed about her. She told about Judge
Thayer; over and over, she insisted that the trial had not been fair.
She asked for mercy. The Governor was a father, and he was sentencing
two children to lose their father, and to wear a dreadful brand all
their lives.
The great man listened with politeness--his store of the commodity was
inexhaustible. He turned to the frail worn sister of Vanzetti, who
began speaking in soft musical Italian, the young lawyer translating
sentence by sentence. She had just come from her brother in the gloomy
deathhouse; his protestations of innocence were ringing in her ears.
He had asked her to convey a message to the Governor. Some weeks ago
Bartolomeo had shaken hands with the Governor in the prison, and he
thought that he had demonstrated his innocence; the Governor had given
him that impression; now he could not understand how the Governor would
let the death sentence stand. If he could have one more chance to talk
with the Governor and answer his objections, he, Bartolomeo, was sure
the death sentence would not be carried out.
For more than an hour the salesman of motor-cars listened, without
interrupting. At last the two women said that they were through; and
then, leaning forward slightly in his chair, he gave his answer. He
appreciated the feelings of both of them, and was sorry for them.
But he had taken an oath to uphold the constitution and laws of the
Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and his conscience dictated that he
should permit the law to take its course.
But still, he would be polite. Excessively so; as if he were paying
compliments at a social function; or as if he were selling a Packard
limousine. To some final argument of Musmanno’s he replied: “What you
have said impresses me greatly. But even that is nothing compared with
the eloquence of these ladies’ presence.” Was this one of the dreadful
perversions of Puritanism? A kind of sadistic pleasure in inflicting
torture with a smile? Whatever it was, it failed to make a hit with
Rosina Sacco. “Let us go,” she said, coldly, and they rose, and walked
slowly from the room.
The newspapermen besought Musmanno to tell them what had happened, and
he tried to do it; he touched upon a few of the arguments which the
women had presented, but before he had got very far the tears began to
run down his cheeks, and he had to stop. He went over to a chair and
sat down and buried his face in his hands and sobbed. It was then half
past ten, and the grandfather’s clocks which kept the time for all
Massachusetts were ticking steadily, with fifty-four hundred seconds
still to go.
III
At six o’clock Cornelia had gone back to her home. The chauffeur had
to help her up the stairs; and there were Deborah and Clara with the
Negro maid, ready to come running, and lead her to the bed, and make
any amount of fuss; to bring her tea or coffee, or a glass of milk, or
a poached egg on toast. No, she could not eat; they pleaded, and wanted
to phone for Dr. Morrow. The tears ran down their cheeks; they would
do anything, abase themselves, agree with her wildest words, in the
effort to quiet her, and persuade her that their love meant something.
They were terrified at her appearance and her attitude; ashamed because
they had shown so little sympathy in the past. Yes, no doubt there were
very fine and good qualities in anarchists--anything, anything--so that
their mother would stop killing herself!
Clara’s precious youngest had got poison ivy all over him, and was shut
up in the house with a poultice over his eyes; her oldest, who was just
out of Harvard, was suspected to be on the verge of getting engaged
at Bar Harbor; the oldest little fat treasure of Priscilla had got a
bee sting over one eyelid, otherwise his mother would have been here.
Quincy Thornwell had won a chess match--such items of family gossip
Clara poured out, in a premeditated torrent--only to discover that her
mother was not hearing a word. “Please, Clara, I can’t think about
anything now. Let me be quiet.”
Deborah had taken the precaution to get a prescription from Dr. Morrow;
it was his advice that Cornelia should take a strong sleeping powder
and forget the ugly world and everything in it for at least twelve
hours. But Cornelia said no. When her oldest daughter tried to insist,
she said, “I was talking with one of the lawyers from New York, and
he offered me a quart of whisky. If all hopes fail, he will retire to
his hotel room and get drunk.” The silence of Deborah and Clara said
plainly, it was what everybody in Boston had known about that New York
crowd! Cornelia, reading their thoughts, remarked grimly: “The whisky
might give him pleasure, so that is immoral. But a sleeping powder is
strictly business!”
The women decided to call in Henry, who understood the insides of
this crisis so much better than they. So Henry put off dinner with an
important banker from New York, and came over to sit by the bedside
and tell his mother-in-law how it was possible for Boston to do this
dreadful deed; how it was possible for such wickedness to be organized,
and in control of society. “With all that new evidence before them,
Henry! And with an appeal to the United States Supreme Court actually
docketed!”
“Docketed doesn’t mean anything, Mother. It simply means that you have
put your request on file; it doesn’t mean that it will get anywhere. In
this case I assure you it wouldn’t.”
“Henry, if we could manage to keep those boys alive until October, we
could really get the public to understand about this case, and they
would never dare to execute them.”
“Well, I guess that’s just it, Mother. Fuller can’t afford to let the
case go on growing and growing.”
She pondered that. “I have just heard that Quincy has won a chess
match; and now the Governor is winning one, with human lives for pawns!”
IV
She told about her last interview, and the things that had been said.
She told about the trip to Rye Beach; it was quite a story, and helped
to pass the time without whisky or drugs. Deborah and Clara refrained
from breaking in; there must be no arguments, nothing to excite the
patient; each minute that passed was a danger escaped. Deborah ventured
to make some remarks on the subject of Mrs. Fuller, and the problem
of Catholic wives and Protestant husbands. The Governor was such an
ardent Baptist, he wanted to teach a Sunday school. Was he letting his
children be brought up as Catholics?
But no use; Cornelia could not be diverted from the main topic. “Henry,
did you find out what is that ‘confidential information’ that Mr.
Lowell and the Governor are talking about?”
“There’s a lot of it, Mother; they keep quoting the Italian colony and
what it thinks about the case.”
“The ‘Italian colony’! Do you stop to realize what the words mean?
There are as many differences inside the Italian colony as in any other
part of New England. The ruling group is Fascist; they hate Sacco and
Vanzetti exactly as Judge Thayer does--only more so, because they know
them better. The majority of the colony is Catholic; and when Bart
was arrested he had on him a letter in which one of their priests
was described as a ‘pig.’ Of course all the Italians know who that
priest is. Does the Governor take the opinion of the priest? Or of his
parishioners?”
“The story runs something like this, Mother: one of the Italian
anarchists got drunk and talked, and admitted that Sacco had been in
the bandit car at South Braintree.”
“I’ve heard that,” said Cornelia. “I’ve heard many such stories. But of
course I couldn’t guess which one the Governor of our Commonwealth and
the President of our University would elect to believe. What do they
say about Bart?”
“They don’t think Bart was in the car, but they think he knew about it,
which made him an accessory before the fact.”
“Before, or after, Henry--are they sure which?” A pause. “And so that
is what Mr. Lowell meant when he said that he thought Vanzetti was
guilty ‘on the whole’! I am solving the riddles which have tormented me
for weeks! Who do they say was actually in the car?”
“Boda and Coacci and Orciani.”
“Mike Stewart’s theory complete! Have they overlooked the fact that
Orciani punched a time clock that day in the foundry where he worked?”
“The story is that he got somebody else to do it for him.”
Cornelia sat, gazing with her inner eye into the face of Massachusetts
statesmanship. “So that is why our boys have to die! Somebody got drunk
and talked, and the talk came to the ears of our great men! Stop and
think what this means, Henry--the breakdown of our legal system and our
moral codes! Was it one of the guilty men who got drunk and talked?”
“No, that is not what I understand.”
“It couldn’t very well have been Sacco or Vanzetti, since they have
been in jail, and couldn’t get liquor in our model prisons, and anyhow,
they don’t drink. It couldn’t have been Coacci, who was deported
before the arrests took place; nor Orciani, nor little Mike Boda, who
are sitting out on a barren rock somewhere in the Mediterranean, as
prisoners of the Fascist government.”
“Fuller doesn’t claim it was the guilty ones who talked; it was one of
their comrades.”
“That is what I am trying to get straight. One of the bandits told a