He finally settled the question to his own satisfaction, and seeing Private Hayes standing by the fire, Lou, with a face twice its natural length, slowly approached, and, leaning weakly on the shoulder of the stalwart private, began, in a voice, “hoarse with suffering”:
“Hayes—I really—must go to the hospital. This is no—place for—me. It’s a great mistake—I feel it now,” pressing his hand to his side. “And Hayes, like a good fellow—they’re cooking something—here, will you see—that I’m not forgotten—that I get some thing—to eat—when I go to the—hospital?”
“Most certainly I will, Lou,” answered Hayes, feeling a great wave of sympathy welling up in his heart of hearts for his poor, stricken comrade.
“Thank you—Hayes,” answered poor Lou, in a pain-stricken voice, as he wandered slowly and feebly off toward the hospital and those four neat beds, where, by the practice of his arts, he succeeded in establishing himself as an occupant of one. He now regained his voice and spirits miraculously. Meantime Hayes, with whom pity was but fleeting, went assiduously on with his work as scullery maid, and it was not long before Lou and his sufferings were entirely forgotten. The dinner was cooked and served, and the tired cooks and waiters had seated themselves down to enjoy their own meal. They, too, had almost finished, when O’Malley rushed across from the hospital and demanded of Hayes the meal he had promised to send Lou. Consternation! What were they to do? Rupp, the careful, never would cook too much; it took the united efforts of all to persuade him to cook enough.
However, making a virtue of necessity, and well knowing Lou’s capacity, sick or well, they gathered together a plateful of untouched pieces of stew-meat and potatoes, heaping it to the full with the remainder of their own meal, persuading Clifford, much against his will, to contribute a plate of stewed pears he was then eating, and O’Malley, himself, donating a plate of ice cream, so called, bought at the Japanese mission. Lou’s dinner was sent to him, with many kind inquiries as to his health. Later in the day Hayes made a party call on Lou, who, thanking him profusely, declared that day’s meal the best he had eaten in Sacramento. Future cooks on future campaigns many, many years hence remember, when cooking for Lou, that quantity, not quality, is the test.
Lou was so well pleased with himself and the world in general on this occasion that he became very facetious, telling a certain visitor that he had discovered, since his incarceration (?) in the hospital, “that the house really was haunted; the spirits were in the closet; have a drink.”
All this day the yard engines were busily steaming back and forth, making up trains, and, in the fore part of the afternoon, the first train for the East, carrying with it several Pullman cars, pulled out of the yards. As it passed our camp, at Ninth and D streets, it was cheered long and lustily by the soldiers, who felt that the leaving of many more such trains would be the signal for their return home.
This day undoubtedly saw the breaking of the backbone of the strike. Never was the Sacramento railroad yard so busy as now. Switch engines were dashing back and forth, clearing the tracks and making up long trains of freight and passenger coaches. Many of the firemen and brakemen, who had been forced out against their will and better judgment, were glad of the opportunity to return to work.
Little or no sympathy was felt by the soldiers for the strikers. The majority of them wage-earners themselves, they felt that the great cause of labor against capital was injured, not benefited, by such strikes as these. Never in the history of the world has a strike, great or small, been won by violence; and this was pre-eminently a strike of violence. While professing to act peaceably, they had made all possible preparations for even a revolution against the authority of the government. They had sent to all parts of the state, gathering together men the most lawless, and armed them with Winchesters and stolen rifles. They had loaded a car with giant powder and dynamite and rolled it into the station, ready for use—an awful engine of destruction, which, had they succeeded in exploding at the right time, as they most undoubtedly intended to attempt, would have shaken the very city to its foundations, and sacrificed the lives of all, soldier and civilian alike, within hundreds of feet of the depot. They had loaded an old cannon to the muzzle with scrap iron and bullets and planted it in the marsh within two hundred yards of the station, but seemingly lacked the courage, not the desire, to discharge it. And last, though by no means least, they had made the devilish preparations for slaughter described in a former chapter.
Add to this terrible list of at least intended crime that most cold-blooded, red-handed murder of their own comrade, Sam Clark, the engineer, and of the four United States soldiers, who were doing a duty they had taken a most solemn oath to perform when they swore to uphold their country and its laws against all transgressors, and not only the lack of sympathy, but the great and all-absorbing desire to mete out deserving punishment for such a fearful crime, which possessed the citizen soldiery, cannot seem strange. Who or what but a scurrilous daily sheet, cringing and toadying even to such bloodthirsty murderers as these, for the sake of an added subscription or a vote for its owner, should he run for office, could feel kindly toward a cause supported by such methods as these?