I always believed if Pollock voted, he would vote “Yes.” But Mrs. William P. Vaughan of Greenville, our State Chairman, and I tramped the State up and down, saying, “There’ll be no vote—unless Pollock declares.”
Finally one night Senator Pollock’s secretary appeared at my hotel in Columbia, and he said, “Don’t say again that Pollock is defeating Suffrage by delay.” I said, “Well, then, get him to declare.” He said, “I’m going to Washington, going tomorrow. Good night. We will have a surprise for you within a week—within three days.” And at once, after weeks and weeks of campaigning, Senator Pollock of South Carolina broke the Conservative record of his State, declared “Yes,” and voted “Yes,” on the freedom of American women.
When it was all over—his vote and our campaign to get him to declare—I came back to Washington, had lunch with him at the Capitol, and sat, while he told me of the numerous people in South Carolina who had asked him to vote “Yes!” “You’ll never know the sentiment that exists in South Carolina,” was all he said. But I felt we knew.
Florida
Getting the South Florida Press Association at its annual meeting to endorse the Federal Suffrage Amendment was marvelous fun—I learned that Senator Trammell had gotten solid support from two counties, and owed this support to a man named Goolsby—editor. So I hired a car and made for Goolsby. He is a very powerful newspaper man. We sat around a log fire, with the wife, a parrot, and a cat, and finally he said he was going in two days to a meeting of the South Florida Press Association, and that he was President. I said, “I’m going too.” He said, “Well, there’s hope while there’s life—they’re against you, but you can try.” I felt that we could do it, talked it all over with him, and said that I would be down to put the resolution in regardless of the results—but that I knew it could pass.
Two days seemed like years. At daybreak—five—I climbed in a Ford and arrived at the Press Conference at ten. Goolsby was the only one I knew. He introduced me to the Resolutions Committee. I sat through speeches and speeches. At noon came a luncheon. The Chairman of the Resolutions Committee took me to that. Then an auto ride all through the orange groves—we got out and picked them, talking Suffrage all the while. Only the Resolutions Committee and I were in the car. The Chairman of the Committee finally said out of a clear sky to the elderly gentleman at my left—a strong anti—“I believe we ought to pass a resolution or something, don’t you, thanking Miss Pollitzer for coming?”—all in joke. I said: “No, but you ought to pass a resolution urging your own Florida Senators to stand behind President Wilson. They’re not.” He said, “They should.” I said, “Well, let’s pass it.” So in the car, speeding along, thanks to the marvelously smooth roads and my luncheon friend—we wrote the resolution. The old editor said, “What? Suffrage!” My young one said, “Yes; Suffrage; standing back of President Wilson.” When we got back, my old editor said: “Say, let’s make that strong—we’ve got to go on record unmistakably for Wilson.” He worked—Goolsby worked—of course the young one worked. I sat and ate oranges. It was all done—in less than fifteen minutes. The Resolutions Committee reported out a glorious resolution, calling on Senators Trammell and Fletcher to support the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, and it passed unanimously. The Resolution read: “Be it resolved that we stand with President Wilson in his advocacy of Woman Suffrage, and we urge our Representatives in Congress to vote for the enfranchisement of women!!!”
The most exciting adventure of my life was “holding up the Florida legislature” till midnight so Governor Catts could send a resolution in asking Trammell and Fletcher (Senators) to vote for Suffrage. I saw Senator Trammell in Washington, and he said he had not decided how he would vote on the Amendment. That his vote would represent “the people”—I asked him if in our government a State legislature didn’t represent “the will of the people.” He said, “Yes, but I don’t intend to instruct my legislature.” I said: “No, but maybe your legislature will instruct you.” I came home and told Miss Paul, who said, “Will you go down to Florida tonight?” and Bertha Arnold and I went. Helen Hunt, a capable young Jacksonville lawyer, joined us, and the campaign began.
It was absolutely essential to get Governor Catts to send in the Resolution, as messages from the Governor only took a majority—others a two-third vote, but we didn’t want this too soon. When we had our votes all there in the Senate, the leader, anti, moved that no new business not already in by noon, could come up at all—the legislature barring everything, to save themselves from Suffrage. This was fearful, as the House was most difficult, and we had planned to attack the Senate first. At four o’clock the last afternoon of the special session, called simply to discuss prohibition, we flew to the Governor’s office. Helen Hunt, a senator, a member of the House, and I got Governor Catts to say he’d send a message at once. 4.30 came—5.30 came—no message. In terror, I flew down. The Governor’s office was locked—I got one of the House to move a night session—we lobbied for that, it carried. The Night Session began at eight—Governor Catts still nowhere to be found. Finally, after phoning his home every five minutes it seemed—I called at ten and they said, “Governor Catts is in bed.”—I said we had to have him. The person who answered the phone said nothing could be done. His secretary had the office keys; he was ill at home; his stenographer had the desk keys; she was at a movie. These obstacles to be overcome, and Governor Catts to be rushed to the Capitol. I flew back to our night session at the Capitol. I sent in a little slip-written message to Mr. Stokes, saying: “Trust us—you said you’d help—keep this session going—filibuster—do anything—don’t let them adjourn.” I stood in the door and saw him nod “All right,” and flew.
Bertha Arnold in a taxi secured the outer key from the secretary—after arousing secretary and encountering a storm.
Helen Hunt in another taxi called for Governor Catts, waited till he got up from bed and dressed, and brought him and his daughter, Ruth, to the Capitol. I meanwhile stopped at a Western Union Office and got a messenger boy. He said, “What am I to take?” I said, “Me!” He knew the way, and together we ran through the streets of Tallahassee at midnight, covered every movie, and had the stenographer paged—brought her and her escort to the Capitol—produced the desk keys—got the resolution. Never was any sound more marvelous than Governor Catts’ thud when he walked up those Capitol steps at midnight—instantly he rushed it up—the door of the House opened—there stood my man Stokes, talking and hoarse. He had kept them there. The secretary announced, “Message from the Governor,” and our resolution was read!