Harper's Round Table, September 3, 1895

by Various

"STAND BACK!" HE SHOUTED, "OR I'LL FIRE!"

Not a moment too soon, either. Stunned, bruised, and blinded, Mr. Manners lay like a log upon the wooden walk; but Fred, light and athletic, had bounded to his feet, despite the shock, and in an instant had picked up his rifle and run to the succour of his companion. With a yell of triumph the nearest rioters came rushing down upon them around the corner. Two blocks further away the gas-light showed other parties of excited, wolflike men hastening in pursuit. The nearest were some sixty yards away, but at least a dozen of them, with exultant howls and renewed cries of "Kill 'em!" "Slash 'em!" "Lynch' em!" bore down on the luckless manager and his sole defender. Instantly Fred slipped one of the long copper cartridges in the breech and slammed the block. "Stand back!" he shouted, "or I'll fire!" Then as they still rushed on he quickly raised the long brown Springfield to his shoulder and sighted square at the foremost man. "Halt, or I'll drop you in your tracks!" and the coward knew he meant it, and crouched and dodged, waiting for others to reach him. Then again, encouraged by the yells of those behind, on they came, but slower, skulking close to the fence, bending low, clucking and dancing to disconcert his aim. And then the words of his Colonel at the armory came ringing in his ears. "Not a shot, men—not a finger on the trigger except at the order fire!"—and there was none to order here. Yet dauntless and determined there he stood, and that one gallant Yankee boy, in whose veins the fighting blood of the Highland clans was boiling, in the simple service dress of the National Guard, was just enough to hold ten city "toughs" at bay one vital and all-important moment, for when, re-enforced by the coming of their fellows from the rear, they finally rushed on to work their cowardly hate on the one prostrate man with his sole defender, they were met face to face by the charge of Company L, and got the hammering they so richly deserved.

And so morning dawned at last on smoking yards, on half-burned shops, on slowly but surely moving mail and passenger trains, on the glistening walls and windows of the unharmed Amity Works, all stoutly guarded by businesslike detachments of the city's crack regiment, and the great mobs of the previous day and night were scattered far and wide. All night police and patrol wagons had been busily at work, and drunken or still riotous characters were being gathered in and trundled to the station-houses, or pitched neck and crop into some freight-car temporarily turned guard-house. The Steinmans, Frenzels, and other instigators had disappeared. Just as they had kept well behind the fighting line when the struggle was hottest, so now were they nowhere to be found when by their deluded followers as well as by the police they most were wanted. Stoltz, too, had been spirited away, and was in hiding somewhere among the outlying wards, but with a crack in his skull, said the doctor who gave first aid to the wounded, that would neutralize "the wheels in his head" for months to come. This at least was comfort to many, and the Wallaces were in sore need of comfort, for up to eight o'clock on this second morning of the strike not one word had been heard of the loved husband and father. At six the Colonel himself had ridden over to the Amity Works with a little escort, finding the neighborhood deserted, and only a few scowling, skulking rioters left. Taking Fred with him, he had patrolled the streets, and then given his anxious guide a chance to visit his home. "Stay as long as necessary, corporal; but— I've heard about last night, and shall want you later to-day after you've found your father."

But when and how were they to find father was the question. Jim, under the influence of opiates, still slept heavily. The policemen told off to search came back crestfallen to say they could hear nothing of the old man. No one had seen him since he left the shops the previous day. Anxiety deepened with every minute, and at nine o'clock poor Mrs. Wallace had practically abandoned hope. "They've murdered him," she sobbed; "I know they have. They hated him for standing by his duty."

And even as she spoke there was a stir and excitement on the street without. "Police patrol coming!" said some one, and come it did at rapid trot, but without clang of bell or warning cry. It reined up abruptly in front of the little cottage, and then there went up a shout of delight, and Mrs. Wallace, rushing from the house, sobbing anew in relief from dread and sorrow, seized and clasped her husband in her arms as with calm dignity he stepped from the wagon. The police seemed desirous of creating a pleasant impression. They were assiduous in their care of Mr. Wallace. They begged Mrs. Wallace to understand that he had had the best breakfast money could buy. There was evident cause of embarrassment and something to be explained and extenuated, yet everybody crowded around Wallace, and nobody seemed to care to listen to them. They hung about as though they wanted to shake hands with him, but the old foreman only very formally touched his hat as he said good-by.

"Where have I been? How did I escape?" he finally said in answer to appeals of friends and neighbors. "I've been spending the night in jail—with other desperate characters. I escaped by being arrested—in Jim's coat—as a leader of the riot. Where's Jim?"

This was actually the case. Too few in number to effect anything in face of such a mob, some police officers, scouting about their heels, had caught sudden sight of old Wallace issuing with defiant air from the side door of the threatened shops. These officers were new to that section and had never seen him before, but his demeanor, his dress, his badge all stamped him as a man prominent in the outbreak, and despite his protestations they bundled him with a load of other prisoners into a patrol wagon, and sent him to the main station two miles away. Not until this morning could he secure recognition and a hearing. The old man was exceeding wroth, but his wife was thankful. "He'd have been killed," said she, "if he hadn't been jailed."

But despite his indignation, old Wallace was on hand a few hours later when a pleasing little ceremony was enacted at the Amity Works. There the "backwoods boys" were drawn up in line to listen to some remarks of their Colonel. A man of few words was that veteran when on duty, but everybody seemed to know what was coming as he halted in front of them, and Corporal Fred brought his rifle to the carry, stepped a few paces forward, and stood there a little white, a little tremulous with emotion.

"Men of Company L," the Colonel said, "you've done soldierly service—valuable service, one and all, and some day I hope you'll get the recognition you deserve; but there's one of your number who even more than the rest deserves a word. Within twelve hours of the call for duty Corporal Fred Wallace has had the conspicuous honors of being discharged from his clerkship for obeying the summons, being knocked senseless while doing it, being the guide of his regiment into the thick of the riot, and finally of saving the life, at the risk of his own, of the very man who discharged him.

"It has been your province during the night to convert some few rioters, but it has been his to convert what is termed 'a soulless corporation,' and I know you'll all be glad to hear him promoted sergeant on the spot. So much for our side. Now we'll hear Mr. Manager Manners."