Boston a novel
I deserved it. But they don’t, they are good men; some day it will
be known.” The voice was slow and drawling, marred by only a slight
accent. Cornelia did not see the speaker, but she had met him before:
a thin, undernourished young fellow with a weak but amiable face and
small dark mustache. He was only twenty-one, and the doctors said he
was a half-wit; the job for which he was to die was the killing of a
bank-cashier in a robbery. He admitted it, and some other crimes.
Had he really been at South Braintree, or had he just climbed onto
the Sacco-Vanzetti band-wagon at the last moment, with a faint hope
of respite? Cornelia had never been able to make up her mind about
that. She had watched a curious little drama going on--Madeiros looked
up to Sacco and Vanzetti, as to social superiors; they were great
men, celebrities, and he was proud to be associated with them. Sacco
accepted his homage, but Vanzetti was extremely reserved. The young
Portuguese never stopped insisting that both were innocent, and that he
was the only guilty man.
Vanzetti spoke about Luigia, and what a joy it had been to see her--but
hard for her; such crowds, such excitement, and a terrible end. He had
tried to explain to his sister what it was to die as a martyr, not
the same as a criminal. She ought to have been able to understand,
because she believed in Jesus; but Jesus to her was something far away
and terrifying, to be dealt with by the priests. A wicked thing, that
ecclesiastical system, which enslaved the minds of the poor, and made
the name of God something which libertarians could not speak.
The prison authorities had been pleading with Sacco and Vanzetti to let
a priest or some kind of clergyman administer to them. It seemed to
the authorities dreadful to kill men and have their souls go to hell!
It was the first time the thing had happened in eighteen years, so
they said. But the three men stood firm--Madeiros taking a chance with
the others. They would never surrender the integrity of their minds.
“Giammai!” cried Nick; and added: “That says, ‘Not on your life,’
Nonna.” He was gay, being soon to get the freedom which he had craved
for so many years. Impossible to crush that spirit of steel springs;
and for the body, even though weakened by confinement and fasting, they
would need an extra voltage.
X
Cornelia wore a wrist-watch, and every now and then her glance would be
drawn towards it. The minute-hand seemed to be stealing time from her,
it would take jumps when she was not watching. Vanzetti sat on his cot,
and peering with one eye through the bars, saw a tear stealing down
the old woman’s cheek. “Nonna,” he exclaimed, quickly, “I want you do
something for me.”
“What is it, Bart?”
“Something very great, a last thing--something hard.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you to not be sad.”
“Oh, Bart!”
“It is easy to die. It is little thing--only for friends, for so many
women, grieving, weeping. It is--what you say, futile. Is most futile
thing in the whole world to have grief. Is it not so?”
“Yes, Bart--but--”
“Listen. I speak for all three. We are soldiers. It is our business to
die. What for do you weep? It is our job.”
“I will try, Bart.”
Vanzetti’s voice had taken on a note of sternness that Cornelia had
heard a few times, when in his imagination he was going to battle with
the capitalist class. “You remember, Nonna, we publish book, our
gruppo, ‘Faccia à Faccia col Nemico.’ All right. It is what we are
now. It is our dream, it is our life. What for do we ask you to weep?
Coraggio! Coraggio!” He went back to his childhood language when he was
deeply moved; and his voice stiffened Cornelia’s bent spine.
“Amica mia, you have been good soul to us. You have done more than
help, you have onderstood. Now onderstand once again--is it too much?”
“I will do my best.”
“We choose this death. Long ago we know it, we see him come. You be
anarchista militante, you die. You die by hangman of capitalist class.
All right, we choose. Every man have got to die, it is no great news,
it happen each day. Poor workingmen, rich capitalistas, all. But to
live forever, that is not so easy; to speak to all the world--how many
time do it happen to poor workingmen? To a couple of wops? Did ever you
hear such thing?”
“No, Bart, you are right.”
“Our life, it has been success; it is victory, like never we have
dream. Men stop, they say, ‘What is this anarchist? What is this men
believe, that they die so glad? What is this joostice? Have I got it?
Have I got freedom, or am I slave like they tell me?’ He ask, and he
begin to think--million men begin to think--it is something your great
Go-vérnor give us, something he cannot take! Our crown, our victory! Is
it not so?”
“Yes, yes, Bart!”
“Viva l’anarchia!” came the voice of Nick.
“Our bodies they kill, they make our souls immortal. Young workers take
up our cry--you see, Nonna, only wait, it grows all over the world,
the revolt of the worker, the message that men be free, that they work
for joostice, not for parasite. And we have helped, we have done a
part. Only one thing more to do, is to die brave; to walk to the chair,
smile, speak the truth to the end. So, amica mia, help us; no sad
thought, only coraggio! Tell our friends it is joy, not grief, it is
success, not failure.”
There is a contagion that spreads in human souls, and shakes the
thrones of emperors and kings. Cornelia’s hands were clenched and her
teeth set. “All right, Bart, I will do what you say. I will be with you
to the end, and afterwards.”
The warden stood in the doorway; and Cornelia rose to her feet, not
waiting for him to help her. “All right, Mr. Hendry, I am ready. I have
had a worthwhile hour. May I shake hands with my boys once more?”
“Yes, Mrs. Thornwell.” He came to help her, but she did not wait for
him. She took Vanzetti’s hand in a firm, strong grip. “Good-by, for the
last time, Bart. You have taught me more than any of the great persons
I have met in my life. I shall remember every word you said to me.”
“Good-by, Nonna. I thank you. Thank you for the good help.”
“Good-by, Nick. You have been a brave fellow. You have done your job.”
“Good-by, Nonna. Good-by to wife and kids. Teach them for me--what I
believe.”
Then Madeiros. He put out his hand, and Cornelia made no difference
between a hero and a criminal. “Good-by, my son. I hope the next world
treats you better than this one.”
“Good-by, lady.” He was a timid bank robber, who found this an
incomprehensible world. Anarchists sought to overthrow the rich, and
then the rich came to shake their hands!
Cornelia went to the door. The guard had risen, ready to help her if
need be; but she was doing her stunt. “Thank you, Mr. Hendry, these
three soldiers have given me back my strength.” She turned, and called:
“Good-by, dear friends! Good luck to you--and to your cause!” To a
chorus of good-by shouts in English and Italian she walked through the
death-chamber, past the chair with the gaping arms and the dangling
leather straps; her little head held high, her steps firm and proud.
Through the prison yard she went, steady, amid the beams of the drunken
searchlights, staggering this way and that; past the cell-blocks, with
white faces looking out, eight hundred and eighty-one human beasts,
roaring now and then, “Let them out!” Into the warden’s home, and
through the front door; through the group of policemen, and into the
waiting car with the anxious women.
“Mother! Mother!” They started to make a fuss, after the fashion of
families. She sank back in the seat and whispered, “Let me be quiet! I
have been talking with God.”
That happens also to families in Boston now and then. They thought,
“It has been too much for her mind!” and were frightened into silence.
They could not realize how this strange idea would haunt the minds of
men all over the world in this dreadful hour. John Haynes Holmes, a
clergyman, formerly of Boston, was writing at that moment a “Ballad of
Charlestown Gaol”:
_There’s a chair for you, Vanzetti,
In a cold and empty room;
A chair aloof and lonely,
Like a spectre in the gloom;
A chair with open arms and wide,
To welcome you to doom._
_They’ve made this chair, Vanzetti--
Good men, and strong, and true--
To manifest the will of God
On poor men such as you;
To show the Lord Christ lives again--
And dies, the Lord Christ, too!_
CHAPTER XXIV
THE TRIUMPH
I
Even at that late hour there were men and women who could not make
up their minds to let Sacco and Vanzetti die. There were protestants
who would not cease marching. In Salem Street, in the North End of
Boston, a thousand or more Italians gathered, declaring their intention
to march to the Bunker Hill monument and hold a meeting during the
execution. Mike Crowley’s mounted men charged into the midst of them,
scattering them in every direction, crushing many. The same thing
happened in Thompson Square, and in the roped-off area near the prison.
Here seven men and women broke through the police lines, singing the
“International,” and lifting their printed protests, in defiance of all
that military might. “Hail, Sacco and Vanzetti! The élite of the world
salute you as heroes!” One of the seven was a war veteran, and when the
police fell upon him, “Oh, boy,” they cried, “wait till we get you in
jail!” A traitor to the army system, they would teach him a lesson he
would remember! They beat three men, one of them insensible, the others
nearly so.
Also there was another campaign before the Governor--at half-past ten
at night. William G. Thompson had come down from his vacation in New
Hampshire, and was making an appeal, based on the Governor’s fixed
prejudice concerning Vanzetti at the Plymouth trial. Over and over
again, for months, Fuller had been talking about the fact that Vanzetti
had not taken the stand in his own behalf. That very morning he had
voiced dark rumors about Vahey and Graham, the lawyers who had defended
Vanzetti at Plymouth; if they were not bound by the code which forbids
lawyers to betray a client, they could tell dreadful things about
Vanzetti.
The substance of this proposition had been telephoned to William G.
Thompson, up in New Hampshire, and he had motored to Boston, and gone
to see Vanzetti early in the evening--a long conference, the substance
of which he later published in the _Atlantic Monthly_, He asked if
Vanzetti would be willing to permit Vahey to tell the truth about the
case, and his dealings with his clients. The answer was Vanzetti’s
usual charge, as to how his case had been conducted, which he was
certain had cost him his life. Now the lawyer came to see Governor
Fuller, bringing Vanzetti’s message, that he was willing for Vahey
to say anything he knew, provided that the interview took place in
the presence of Thompson, or some other friend in whom Vanzetti had
confidence. So now the way was open to a “show-down,” and would the
Governor follow his own suggestion? Surely fair play required that!
The answer of Fuller was to make no answer--a trick which public
personages have to learn. Silence! Out there on the other side of the
Charles River was a miniature army on duty, and a prison staff about
to put those wops out of the world, so that Fuller and his class could
“sleep better.” All traffic stopped over main highways between the two
cities; thousands of persons, living near the prison, illegally shut
up in their homes for the night; a million dollars invested by Boston
merchants and manufacturers in riot and bomb insurance; the newspaper
wires run into the prison, the witnesses summoned, the traveling
expenses of the executioner incurred for the second time--and all that