“We got the goods. You were told, right? My name’s Malcolm. I know the drill. Just call you the coal miner, right? We were told that.”
“Actually, my name is—”
“Hey, Grimes!” Malcolm yelled. “It’s the coal miner!”
Malcolm grinned at Homer. “Follow me to the goods,” he said, then got in the Ford and pulled out on the road.
When the fellow in the car behind blew its horn, Homer reluctantly started the Buick and fell in behind the Ford with the second car on his bumper. He glanced at the writer. “What do you think?”
“I think this is a lucky break. These are the kind of men I want to write about.”
Homer was annoyed by the writer’s joviality. “We’ll leave you with them, then. Are you all right, Elsie?”
“I’m trying to decide if I should be scared,” she replied.
“I’ll protect you,” Homer promised. He was disappointed when Elsie didn’t reply with gratitude or make any response at all. Surely, she knew he meant it!
Malcolm turned off on a dirt road and went on a couple miles, finally stopping at a field containing about a dozen tents that glowed in the dark from the lanterns within. The silhouettes of a number of men could be seen around the tents.
“I’d like a word with you,” Homer said to Malcolm after they’d parked their cars.
“First, let me show you the goods,” Malcolm said. When Homer hesitated, he said, “Your woman will be all right. The boys will set her up in a tent.”
“We don’t need a tent,” Homer said. “There’s been a mistake about me. I’m not who you think I am.”
The second driver walked up. “You’re not the coal miner?”
“I’m a coal miner, not the coal miner.”
The second driver put out his hand. “I’m Grimes,” he said. “Glad to have you with us.”
“Didn’t you understand what I just said?” Homer demanded. “I’m not the coal miner, I’m—”
“I’d like to see your goods,” Steinbeck interrupted. “I’m a writer and curious about the labor movement.”
Grimes scowled. “Movement? We’re not a movement, mister, we’re the wave of the future. Someday, unions will be more powerful than companies. And we’ll own presidents!”
Malcolm held up a kerosene lantern to get a better look at Homer and Steinbeck. To Homer, he said, “I know you have to be careful but we’re in the party. Maybe not as far into the party as you but pretty much. Just take a look at the goods, that’s all I’m asking. Your friend will need to stay behind. This ain’t for everybody to see.”
Homer studied Malcolm’s face. It was not the face he thought someone mean and dangerous would have. Its chin a little weak, it was more the face of someone who was uncertain of himself and looking for approval. “Will you let us go if I look at whatever you’ve got?”
“Sure. But you’ll be very impressed. I promise you.”
“I will look at what you have,” Homer said, “but then we will take our leave, understood?”
“Sure, sure,” Malcolm said with an ingratiating grin. “After you see my goods, you still want to leave, I got no beef.”
After motioning for Steinbeck to stay, Homer followed Malcolm to a large canvas tent. A brawny guard stood outside. Malcolm nodded to him, then threw open the flap and beckoned within. Homer stepped inside to find four unpainted pine boxes stamped TUG RIVER MINING COMPANY. One of them had the lid open and Homer was only a little surprised when he saw the red tubes inside. “Dynamite sticks,” he said, “the kind that was used in the mines about a decade ago.”
“Will they still work?” Malcolm asked, picking one of the sticks up.
“They may be a little shocky.”
“What does that mean?”
“Drop one and it might go off.”
Malcolm carefully placed the stick back in the box. “So how do we set it up?”
Homer felt a chill run up his back. “What did you have in mind?”
“See all those men out there? They worked for the Stroop Sock Mill before its damn lousy owner put them out on the street. It’s time to show Stroop we’re not going to take it lying down. It’s time to do something that will tell the whole world how serious we are.”
Just to be certain he was right about what Malcolm meant, Homer asked, “You want to blow up a sock mill?”
“That’s right, coal miner. You ready to help me?”
“No! And I’m leaving. Right now!”
Homer hurriedly left the tent. When he got to the Buick, neither Elsie nor Steinbeck was there, nor was Albert. He turned around and nearly bumped into Malcolm, who’d obviously followed him. “Where’s my wife?” Homer demanded.
“Take it easy,” Malcolm replied. “I told you my boys were gonna escort your lady to a tent. It’s that big one. See? You can join her. Look, just think about what I’m asking.”
“I’ve already thought about it. The answer’s no.”
Malcolm shrugged and once more flashed his ingratiating smile. “Stay the night.” This time Homer recognized it wasn’t a request but an order.
Inside the tent, which contained two cots covered by thin blankets and a small folding table on which a kerosene lantern rested, Homer found Elsie sitting on one of the cots with Albert in the grass beside her. She looked up as Homer entered. “There’s a couple ham sandwiches on the table. Albert ate one and seemed to like it.”
Homer sat heavily on the other cot. “These fellows intend to blow up a sock mill.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they’ve got a grievance. And because they’re crazy.” He grabbed a sandwich off the table and took a bite. “Malcolm said he’s got guards watching us so we’re stuck here for the night. Might as well get some sleep. Where’s John?”
“Took him to another tent, I think.”
A little over an hour later, Elsie was asleep but Homer was still awake, trying to think a way out of the situation. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to show these subversives how to explode their dynamite.
He heard a footstep at the tent entrance. “Could you come out, please?” Malcolm called.
Malcolm led Homer to a fire and nodded toward a crude wooden bench set before it. “Your woman comfy?”
Homer sat on the bench. “She’s my wife and I guess she’s okay. Look, Malcolm, let me try to explain one more time. I’m not who you think I am. I’m just a common fellow trying to drive to Florida with a wife and an alligator and, temporarily, a writer. That’s all I am. Will you just let me go?”
“Do you know how to explode that dynamite?”
“Of course I do. I’m a coal miner. But I’m not going to show you how.”
Malcolm took on the aspect of severe disappointment. “Never suspected you fellows would test me so much. Where’s your piece?”
“Piece?”
“Your pistol. In your sock?”
“I don’t have a pistol. Look, at sunup, we’re leaving. That’s it.”
Malcolm took a deep breath. “The mill’s bringing in strikebreakers every day. If we blow it up, it’s gonna make a statement the party’s got to like.”
“What’s this party you keep talking about?”
Malcolm shook his head in disbelief. “You still think I’m a cop, don’t you?”
“No, I think you’re an agitator and probably a Communist.”
“Yeah, we’re birds of a feather. Now, look, Stroop’s locked the workers out, brought in some thugs and strikebreakers, so the only choice I got is to blow it up.”
Homer tried to imagine what the Captain would say to Malcolm. “Let me try some logic on you,” he said. “If you blow up the mill, there won’t be any place for the workers to work.”
“Ah, another test. Okay. By blowing up the Stroop mill, we’ll show the other mill owners we mean business.”
Homer tried again. “If you blow up the Stroop mill, the other owners might get afraid and shut down. Then everybody will be out of a job.”
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Malcolm studied Homer, then laughed. “Good God, man. Another test? Surely I’ve passed! By the by, will one stick of dynamite set off the others or do I need to run fuses to all of them?”
Homer was saved from replying by the arrival of several cars and trucks, their headlights sweeping across the little camp. “You boys put down your guns!” came a yell in the dark. Malcolm leapt up. “Follow me!” he yelled at Homer.
Homer didn’t follow Malcolm. He ran to the tent and took Elsie, who had awakened and was standing in the doorway, by her hand. “Let’s go!”
“Albert!” Elsie gasped. She ducked into the tent and quickly reemerged dragging the alligator with her arms wrapped around his head. Homer picked up Albert’s tail and they made a run to the Buick to hide behind it as men ran past them shouting, then disappeared into the darkness. There was a pistol shot and then more shouting followed by the sound of fists striking flesh. Then the attackers set some of the tents on fire and got into their cars and drove away.
Homer and Elsie waited for a while, just to be sure the invaders were gone, then put Albert in the car and went to see what had happened. They found Malcolm sitting Indian-style on the ground. His face, unhappy but unmarred, was lit by a burning tent. A man lay on the ground beside him.
Homer asked, “Who were those men?”
“Stroop’s strikebreakers.”
“I heard a shot.”
“Winged one of my new volunteers. That’s him stretched out on the ground. He just came in yesterday.” Malcolm reached over and lifted the pants leg of the man, revealing a florid wound.
Homer thought he recognized both the man and the wound. When the man sat up and Homer got a better look at him, he was certain of it. “I don’t know who he told you he was but his name’s Huddie and that’s an alligator bite, not a bullet wound. This fellow’s a bank robber.”
“Ain’t none neither,” Huddie growled.
Malcolm shrugged. “Bank robbers like John Dillinger are the heroes of our time.”
“Huddie’s no Dillinger. He’s more like Fatty Arbuckle.”
Malcolm shrugged, then beckoned Homer away and lowered his voice. “I was kind of expecting something like this. After you got your gander, my fellows hid the dynamite in a haystack so we’re still in business. You in?”
“No!”
“You’re good. I’ll give you that. When do the tests end, coal miner?”
Homer shook his head, then walked with Elsie back to the car. “You sleep inside and I’ll stand guard. We’ll leave at sunrise, no matter what.”
Elsie sleepily curled up on the front seat. It was Homer’s firm intention to stay awake all night to stand guard but his eyes soon got too heavy. He sat down and put his back against the front wheel on the passenger side of the Buick and that was the last thing he recalled until the next morning, when he was awakened by Steinbeck crawling from under the car to sit beside him. “Rough night,” the writer said, squinting at the pink spokes of sunlight emanating from the eastern edge of the pasture.
“You got your stuff? We’re leaving in about ten minutes.”
“You don’t want to see how this ends?”
“I know how it ends. People get hurt. Sometimes, they even die. That’s what always happens when Communists start causing trouble.”
“Far as I can tell, these Communists, as you call them, were just sitting around their campfires and sleeping in their tents. It was a capitalist who sent rough men to beat them up.”
“Don’t try to confuse me,” Homer griped.
Malcolm came over. He had a red-stained rag tied around his head although Homer didn’t recall seeing any kind of head wound on him the night before. “I’m rallying the men this morning,” Malcolm said. “You want to see my style?”
“No,” Homer said.
“Yes,” Steinbeck said.
Elsie and Albert got out of the Buick. “We’re off to do our business,” Elsie said, and, leading Albert on his leash, walked toward the outhouse behind the tents.
“Looks like your woman’s not quite ready to go,” Malcolm said. “She’ll want some breakfast, too. Come on, let me show you what I do.”
Steinbeck looked pleadingly at Homer. “Really like to see this for my book.”
Suddenly curious, Malcolm asked, “You’re a real author, published and all?”
“One or two,” Steinbeck replied, a trifle smugly. “My novel To a God Unknown was recently brought out.”
Malcolm blinked thoughtfully. “Never heard of it. But, before this is over, I’ll write a book about poor men using dynamite to blow up capitalist sock mills.”
Steinbeck frowned. “Blowing people up . . . not sure people would want to read about that.”
“You kidding?” Malcolm laughed. “Fellow named Hemingway writes books about blood and guts and I bet he sells a helluva lot more than you do.”
Steinbeck looked offended. “I don’t know about that.”
“Come on,” Malcolm said. “Listen to me get these fellows stirred up.”
Malcolm led them to a grassy rise in the meadow, where sat Huddie, flanked by a very short man Homer also recognized. They were sitting on a plank atop two old stumps. Malcolm’s lieutenants were herding the other men around.
“You ready, Huddie?” Malcolm asked.
“He’s ready,” the short man said.
“I thought you’d still be running, Slick,” Homer said.
“Hi there, stranger,” Slick replied. “I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else.”
“Slick’s a party operative,” Malcolm said, then smiled at Homer and shook his head. “Should have known you’d know each other. All that stuff about you not being in the party! Did I pass the test?”
“You pass for stupidity,” Homer groused.
Malcolm grinned. “I’ll keep trying to win your confidence.” He addressed Huddie. “Roll up your pants leg. No, the other one.”
When the big man complied, Malcolm put his hand on Huddie’s shoulder and addressed the men who had gathered around. “Listen up, people. I want you to take a look at this fellow and the wound on his leg. Why is he wounded? For the same reason they beat us up and burned our tents last night. This fellow is a radical, get it? That’s what they called him before they shot him, what they called all of us. Radicals! What’s a radical? Somebody who wants fellas like you and me to have food on the table for our families and roofs over our heads. That’s a radical! That’s why those scabs knocked us around and wounded this poor fellow.”
“At least he ain’t dead!” somebody yelled from the crowd.
“Naw, he ain’t dead,” Malcolm agreed. “But they wanted to kill him. Why? Because he’s dangerous! And you know what? Just by being here, you’re dangerous, too. They wounded this man and busted us up last night. Next time, they’ll murder all of us. You gonna put up with that?”
Grimes yelled out, “No, by thunder!”
“Are you a radical?”
“Hell, yes! We’re all radicals!”
“You gonna let those scabs stop us?”
“No, no, no!”
Malcolm held up his hands for silence, not that anybody other than his lieutenant had said a word. That was when Homer noticed Elsie walk up with Albert in tow. Everyone moved back to give the alligator more room. Albert hissed at them and opened his jaws.
Undaunted by the reptile, Malcolm bowed his head. “Why don’t we pray for justice?”
Grimes, his voice hoarse, brayed out, “We don’t want to pray! We want to kick those scabs across the county line!”
“All right,” Malcolm went on. “We’ll march. When do you want to do it?”
“Right now!” It was Grimes again.
Malcolm smiled. “You inspire me. You truly do. All right, we’ll march.” When not even Grimes responded, he added, “But first we’ll make some signs.”
“What do you think?” Homer asked Steinbeck after the listless strikers were herded off.
“This is exciting,”
the writer answered.
Homer ran his hand through his hair. “John, I’m thinking you haven’t seen too many bloody heads. Last night was just a taste. Where I come from, mine owners have used machine guns on strikers and strikers have turned it around and ambushed mine owners or murdered their families in the night. It was during a strike when I first saw hate on a man’s face. Hate is an awful thing. It gets inside you and makes you do things you swear you’d never do. It’s why I begged for a job in Coalwood and was happy to get it and now don’t want to lose it. The owner there—Mr. Carter—and his superintendent—Captain Laird—give their men a living wage, decent houses to live in, and a company store that doesn’t gouge. He even provides money for the local schools. They built a playground with all new equipment. Even stocked the library with books. Probably included a few of yours, for all I know. Owners do that, the unions can’t get a toehold and neither does hate.”
Steinbeck absorbed Homer’s little speech. “The mills around here don’t seem to agree with the philosophy of your Mr. Carter.”
“No, I suspect they don’t.”
Steinbeck studied Homer. “How’d you like to see the mill from the inside and maybe meet this Stroop fellow? There’s a phone line leading to that farmhouse. I’m a bit of a celebrity, you know. I bet I can make some calls and get us an invitation.”
Homer thought it over. “Okay,” he concluded. “Maybe I can tell the owner about how it is in Coalwood and he’ll change his tune and stop all this nonsense. Malcolm’s got it in his head to blow up that mill. The owner—this Mr. Stroop—has got it in his head to beat up people. You reap what you sow, the Bible says.”
“You sure about this, Homer? Maybe I could distract Malcolm, let you and Elsie make a run for it.”
Homer shook his head. “The way I see it, if everybody ran from bad things instead of trying to stop them, bad things would be all there is.”
“That’s a good line. Maybe I’ll steal it.”
Homer shrugged. “Make your call,” he said.
10
ELSIE WAS UNEASY. AFTER APPRISING MALCOLM OF THEIR intentions, Homer and Steinbeck were gone to the mill and she was left behind as something of a hostage. Her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast about the same time that Malcolm walked up bearing a paper sack and a cup of coffee. “Breakfast,” he said.