Free Haymarket by Martin Duberman Page B

Says they work so hard for so little money that they’re takin’ the bread outta the mouths of real Americans. Now is this what you Knights mean by universal brotherhood?”
    Albert sighed. “It’s not what
I
mean. And you know it. But okay, you’re right. Most Knights do despise the Chinese, just like the rest of the country.” He fell silent for a moment, tongue-tied with discomfort. Lucy said nothing, wanting him to stew a little longer.
    Albert finally blurted out, “What else is there, Lucy? No labor organization—no elected official, for that matter—is sayin’ anything different about the Chinese. The white man is what matters. You taught me that.”
    “Gotta be pale white—no Jews or Italians, thank you.”
    “At least the Knights are
aimin’
at something better, even if they haven’t fully taken hold of their own principles. Yes, they got a long way to go. The question is, Do we try to help ’em get there, or do we turn up our superior noses—and give up?”
    Lucy broke into a warm smile, and her voice was emphatic. “We try to help ’em get there, of course.” She hugged Albert. “I like to make you sweat. But I’m with you, sweet boy.”

    “Eight hundred marchers and twenty-nine floats—just imagine, folks!” the speaker thundered from the platform. “Two years ago a beer garden—a small beer garden—would’ve been enough to hold our numbers!Today we’ve filled the lawn of the Colehour picnic grounds to capacity! We finally got us a Fourth of July picnic that does represent the spirit of independence!”
    The crowd roared in delight. Albert and Lucy were standing near the front, his arm around her waist; he squeezed her so hard with excitement that she let out a little squeal, then playfully smacked him on the arm.
    “The Knights,” the speaker went on, “cannot be stopped—not by the government, not by the police, not by the monopolists—until we reach our goal of a decent life for everyone!”
    Albert leaned down and whispered in Lucy’s ear.
“Everyone
. Hear that?” Lucy swatted him again.
    A tidal wave of enthusiasm swept through the crowd, the earsplitting roar of approval rolling on and on. Dozens of banners and placards—“ THE LAND FOR THE PEOPLE; UNITED WE STAND ”—waved through the air like low-flying flocks of birds. Fathers swung their children into the air. A drum corps beat out roll after roll. One of the two bands started playing “Hold the Fort, Ye Knights of Labor,” inspiring a top-of-the-lungs sing-along. The speaker kept raising his arms in a futile plea for quiet, but soon gave up. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he good-naturedly yelled out to the crowd, “On to the picnic, folks! Time to enjoy! … footraces! … crafts! … barbecue! … don’t forget dancing at the lake pavilion! … and the greased pigs! … beer enough to float Mayor Colvin out to sea! …” The notables descended from the platform.
    Albert and Lucy had come to Colehour with Lizzie Swank, and as the crowd began to disperse in search of various amusements, the three of them started across the lawn.
    “It’s too hot for dancing,” Lizzie said. “It’s bound to be the polka, and then more polka.”
    “I say it’s time for beer and pretzels,” Albert offered.
    Lucy agreed. “A glass of beer would save my life.”
    As the three of them turned in the direction of the beer garden, Lizzie bumped into a man passing close to her on the left. “I’m so sorry,” she said, stepping back. Then her face lit up with pleasure—“Why for heaven’s sake—it’s Mr. Spies!”
    “My dear Miss Swank, what an unexpected surprise!” The man’s English was impeccable, though unmistakably flecked with a German accent. In his early twenties and strikingly poised and handsome, he hadan athletic build and a face so classically sculpted that it might easily have appeared inert—were it not for a luxurious, thick moustache and deep-set azure eyes that sparkled with