# The Ancient Grudge/Chapter 29
### XXIX
#### STEWART TAKES THE FIELD

It irritated Stewart to find, on arriving at his house, that his father-in-law was there. The fact that Mr. Dunbar had been for so long Stewart's most ardent and partisan admirer had made his defection in this crisis the more galling; and when they met, Stewart was always aware of tentative, foolish efforts on the part of the little man for his redemption. These he was accustomed to suppress with inexorable promptness; but on this afternoon he was in no mood to submit to even the most glancing suggestion that he was pursuing a mistaken course. He had been in conference nearly all day with various union leaders, seeking to influence them into taking some positive step in behalf of their brethren at New Rome; but they had been unwilling or stupid or incompetent, and his endeavors had in the end all been profitless. For this reason he was now the less disposed to endure any criticism which hinted of the waste he was making of his time and abilities.
Mr. Dunbar was in the hall with Lydia, on the point of leaving when Stewart entered.
"Hello, Stewart!" he said; and he added with a tactless cordiality that seemed bent on ignoring facts, "How's architecture?"
Stewart hung up his coat with some deliberation before replying. "I guess you'll have to ask Bennett & Durant about that," he said at last as he came forward. He shook hands with his father-in-law and, kissed Lydia, but in neither act was there any particular demonstrativeness. Mr. Dunbar's question had completed the work of irritation which his presence had begun.
​"Oh, well, I guess you can afford not to begrudge those fellows a little temporary success," Mr. Dunbar continued. "When you get back into harness again, you'll make their fur fly.—And, by the way, Stewart; about this New Rome matter that you're interesting yourself in; you know your taking such a public and radical stand in it is beginning to come back at me. My men are getting stirred up; they know you're my son-in-law, and they think I'm bound to share your sentiments. I don't believe you want to make trouble for me. Of course, in this affair—I daresay Floyd has n't been entirely wise in all his acts; I've had occasion to differ with his views, as you know;—but still on the general principle his stand is the only one according to which we manufacturers can do business and live—and I hope—"
"Father," broke in Lydia, who in an anxious glance had detected the storm gathering on her husband's face, "you must n't bother Stewart with such questions now; he's tired; you must n't bother him. Come, Stewart, and have a cup of tea—or will you lie down for a while and let me read to you?"
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Dunbar good-naturedly. "I did n't realize— Good-night, Stewart; by-by, Lydia."
He went out, and Stewart turned to his wife with an expression of gratitude for the way in which she had shielded him. "Thank you, Lydia," he said. "If you don't mind, you might make me some tea."
The tea and Lydia's gentle eagerness to entertain him developed in him a spirit of contentment; for her part she became tremulous with excitement when he put his cup down and announced that he felt a good deal better. If she could only get him into just the right mood!—and if she could only put things before him in just the right way! She hoped she might find the courage and the words. She would not try to hurry the moment; she would wait patiently. But meanwhile she had to conceal her agitation, and in the effort to do this as well as to prepare his mood, ​she showed him shy little attentions, a solicitude that amused and pleased him; she "made conversation" with him as eagerly as if he were an unfamiliar visitor to whom she wished to be especially polite. She went to the piano and sang him a new song that she had been practicing that day; he was touched again in a youthful spot by her charm. It was a great comfort to him to find that she was disposed to be his wife again and not his censor—that she was so sweetly trying to atone to him for her injustice. A kindness toward her permeated him; he remembered that it had been a long time since he had shown her a token of this feeling, and he determined that the next day he would look about in the shops downtown until he found something that would be a present worthy of his love.
They went upstairs to dress for dinner; she heard Stewart moving about in his dressing-room, whistling gayly, and that meant, she knew, that he was in a good humor. His whistle slid irrelevantly from aria into rag-time, from rag-time into stately march; and then she heard it swing off into the little song that she had just sung—and that pleased her. He came into her room all dressed before she was quite ready to go down and cried with a boyish glee, "Aha! beat you again, old lady!" She had a happy, fluttering premonition that she would win back her old Stewart this night.
It was not till dinner was half over that she made her attempt. Then she said,—
"I had a call from Marion this afternoon, Stewart."
"And how's Marion?" he asked.
"Nice, as usual. I had to stand up for you, though, against her. Now you'll thank me for that, won't you?" She laughed at him with at the same time a genuine appeal in her eyes for an expression of his pleasure. He did not deny her this.
"You took my part; good for you. Marion was pretty rough on me, was she?"
"Oh, no, she really was n't, Stewart; she only thought ​you were n't being quite fair to Floyd. I told her that you had been acting all along as you believed—and that you thought Floyd had been to blame—and especially for deliberately trying to provoke violence. And then she gave me her side—Floyd's side—and asked me if I wouldn't put it before you; she did it in really the nicest spirit, Stewart—and I thought you might like to hear."
He did not answer at once; he did not even respond with his eyes to her anxious glance; and the sanguine confidence went from her heart. While she waited for him to speak, she became aware of the coldness that had settled on her hands; she clasped them together, waiting.
"Well, what did Marion say?" he asked. The enthusiasm which had rung in his voice and which had led her on so hopefully had all at once failed; she recognized the unrelenting quality that she had come to dread.
"Why, about the riot the other morning," she began; and then she hurried the story, as if afraid that he might cut her short before she had reached her strongest plea. "Floyd meant to send the men in so quietly—he didn't think any one would know—he did n't expect there would be any trouble—and he'd especially warned them not to get into trouble, Marion says. She says that he's been trying his best to get through without any one's being hurt on either side. To show me how thorough and careful and anxious he is to take every precaution for this, she told me what he's doing to-night."
"What's that?" asked Stewart; and because he betrayed more interest, Lydia's hope rose again and she said eagerly,—
"He wants to keep everybody protected; there are n't police enough in New Rome to do it when the people are excited as they are now; and he's sending up two hundred watchmen, all armed, so that men won't dare to get into riots around the mills any more."
"That's interesting," said Stewart, in a tone that con​vinced Lydia she was making headway. "They're going up to-night—these watchmen?"
"Yes. And, oh, Stewart, this is the part that shows how careful Floyd is, how anxious to guard against violence,—more even than his thought of sending these men. They're going up very quietly—by boat—in a way that would never be suspected; because if they went out in the usual way by train or trolley car and tried to get in at the gate, Floyd thought there might be some trouble—some of the men might n't understand why they'd been sent and might try to keep them out; especially seeing they had guns, the workmen might think it was sort of ominous, I suppose, not understanding the motive. So Floyd arranged to have them go up the river very secretly at night by boat and get into the works from the river side; oh yes,—and so that nobody watching along the shore should suspect the boat and give an alarm about armed men coming, he's arranged to have them go up in coal-barges, towed by a little tug—coal-barges roofed over, that no one would ever suspect. Of course the only place where riots and violence would be liable to occur is right round the mill gates; and if these watchmen can only be landed quietly in the mills, they can prevent any trouble that may threaten. Don't you think really, Stewart, that this puts Floyd's motives in a better light?"
"Did Marion say what time these watchmen would start—what time they'd arrive?"
"They were to reach the works at about eleven o'clock."
She waited anxiously for Stewart to pronounce an opinion, to make some slight admission of leniency, even the most grudging. If he would do this, she could have faith; but if he should fail to render justice now—
"You regard this measure as an indication that Floyd has forsworn violence?" Stewart asked the question mildly, looking at his wife with a smile.
"Why, yes, Stewart, of course. What else could it mean?"
​"It might be interpreted, perhaps, as a determination to fortify himself by means of violence. However, we differ so radically—we must differ so radically—on the subject of Floyd's motives that there is no use in our discussing such a matter as this."
She had failed; she leaned back in her chair despondently. Stewart was meditating and did not observe the dejected expression on her face. Finally he said,—
"Lydia, will you excuse me for a few moments? I have to telephone."
She sat waiting for him idly, indifferently. At last he returned with a brisk step and an excitement in his manner which she at once noticed.
"Sorry; I'll have to have my coffee and run," he announced. "I thought I could stay at home this evening, but it turns out I can't. A matter of business—"
He swallowed his coffee, and rose. Lydia had been watching him; his nervous eagerness to escape confirmed her suspicion. She accompanied him out into the hall where the servants should not hear, and while he was putting on his overcoat she stood before him, in front of the outer door.
"Stewart," she said, "are you going to New Rome?"
He put on his hat and dropped his hands into his overcoat pockets. There was a hint of defiance in the movement and in his voice as he answered,—
"Yes."
"To make use of the information I have given you?"
"It's a matter of life and death to those men at New Rome."
"You are willing to make use of me—to put me in the position of betraying Floyd's secrets to his enemies?"
"If you choose to look upon it in that way—if you happen to be in possession of Floyd's secrets—I must make even that sacrifice—I must ask you to make it."
"Stewart!" With one arm behind her she leaned ​back against the door; her face was white. "If you do this—I can never look upon you as an honorable man again."
He bit his lip angrily and then spoke with repressed anger,—
"Then I must make even that sacrifice. If I did not go to warn those men of this crime against them that is being secretly prepared—where would my honor be?—the men in whose cause I believe, whose counsels I have shared! The one dishonorable thing that I could do to-night, Lydia, would be to stay at home with you."
"Stewart," she said inflexibly, "if you go, I shall despise you all my life."
"Better so than that I should despise myself," he answered hotly. "Assassins on the way—and I not warn the victims! Lydia! you certainly do not mean to hold the door against me!"
She stood a moment, while with his hands in his pockets he waited, looking at her.
"No, Stewart; no," she said; she stepped aside and opened the door. "I'll hold it open for you—and the Stewart that I knew and loved goes out—never to return."
"Ah," he answered, as he passed out, "you are melodramatic to-night."
He was too stirred by the importance of that which he was about to do to feel much discomfort over this parting from his wife. He strode away wishing that she had not made such an unpleasant scene, but he did not tingle long with the memory. His mind turned eagerly to the preparation of the speech that was to awaken the men of New Rome. The dramatic opportunity to put before them this most important, unsuspected news elated him, thrilled him with a sense of power; this night it was his part to be these people's guide, and he would rouse them to such a pitch of righteous wrath as would sweep away forever the vile oppression under which they had suffered. At ​last he had Floyd in his power! These two thoughts, these two inspirations mingled, and stimulated his brain. As he waited upon the street corner for a car, he ran swiftly over the specific details on which Lydia had so pathetically enlarged, assigned to each its dramatic value, sought with a swift imagination the fiery suggestion that their presentment might contain. Sentences sprang to life whose energy shook him even as he stood. It was a fine mild November night, with the stars shining, the half-moon gleaming among the denuded trees, with no sound except that of a wagon rattling in the distance; then the car that he was to take swung round the curve, and as he stepped out into the street, he flung one hand up and cried hilariously,—
"David and Uriah! David and Uriah!"
When he entered the car, the two girls who were the only other passengers ascribed to their own charms the radiance of his handsome face. They directed at him provocative smiles, but he sat in a corner quite unconscious of their presence and fitted together the speech which was to emancipate New Rome.
It was not yet nine o'clock when he entered the headquarters of the executive committee. Tustin, Caskey, and McGraw were there awaiting him.
"What's happened?" McGraw asked excitedly. "What's up?"
Stewart had no intention of making any premature disclosures. "Have you called a meeting?" he asked. "Have you got the men together?"
"There's quite a crowd at the hall now," Tustin answered. "There's others coming. When I got your telephone, I sent out at once and began rounding 'em up. We've got Pulaski down there to hold 'em—all he's got to tell 'em is that important news is coming to 'em from Avalon."
"Then we'll go right down there," said Stewart.
"Hold on. It may be all right—but we'd like to hear ​about it first and consider it as a committee. The men will wait. You said you could n't tell it by telephone; you can tell it now."
"There's no time to waste about it," Stewart replied decisively. "It's something for all the people to know and at once. I'll tell you when I tell them—right away. Come on, Mr. Tustin."
The union leader was not well pleased by this evasion of his authority.
"I've trusted you, Mr. Lee," he said. "If you've got nothing worth while to tell us—or if it should be something that turned out to be a fake, you'd better just let the committee have it; we've called a mass meeting on your say-so, but we don't want to go before it if it ain't worth while."
"You'll have to trust me as to that," Stewart replied haughtily. "I don't come out here at this time of night on errands that are not worth while."
Tustin opened the door. "Come along, then," he said bluntly.
The hall was the one where the Saturday night dances took place. Pulaski and another man stood at the bottom of the stairs to prevent the admittance of any one about whose loyalty there might be suspicion.
"All right," he said, when Stewart and the members of the executive committee entered. "It's pretty full now." He closed the street door and followed the others up the stairs into the crowded, clamorous hall. Men had climbed up on the few benches placed against the walls and stood lined there, shoulder to shoulder, shouting vociferously to friends whom they recognized in the dense mass oscillating below. On the platform a young man with his slouch hat pulled down over his eyes was playing the piano; the feeble notes of "Home, Sweet Home" were lost in the echoing din.
Tustin and Stewart elbowed their way through the crowd and mounted the platform; the musician descended ​into the audience. Stewart took off his overcoat and laid it on the piano; it was perhaps his revelation of himself then in evening clothes as much as anything else which caused an outbreak of applause. There were no chairs on the platform; Tustin stood beside Stewart and held up his hand.
"Most of you know Mr. Stewart Lee," he said. "He is a good friend of ours and he has come here to-night to give us a message of importance."
Then Tustin walked over and sat down on the piano stool. The audience, after a brief applause, stood in an expectant stillness.
"Gentlemen," said Stewart, speaking slowly and with an impressive gravity, "at eight o'clock to-night I learned—it matters not how or from whom—but I learned beyond the possibility of doubt"—he drew and held up his watch—"that within two hours from this time a crushing blow would fall upon your heads. I have come to tell you what you may expect."
He paused; the silence was breathless.
"No doubt you guess the source. The same hand which struck you that foul blow one morning last week before the sun had risen is lifted now with dagger drawn in the dark; it hovers over you now while you stand here, it hovers over your homes where your wives and children await your return—I will give you time to return—to return and arm yourselves!"—Stewart flung the words with a shout—"but let me show you first some of the machinations of that unseen, hovering, grasping, and death-dealing hand.
"You know the story of David and Uriah—how David looked from the housetop and saw Uriah's wife—and Uriah was put in the forefront of the battle, where he fell. You all know the story. But has it occurred to you that here, in New Rome within a few days, this old, old story has been reënacted, with a few modern alterations, yet substantially the same? What matters it that the Uriah ​whom we know, instead of being an honorable patriot, is a traitorous hireling—or that instead of being slain he is recuperating in a hospital? What matters it, I say?—for the curse on David remains the same. Do you men know who David is?"
He paused for answer, and it came—"Yes—yes!"—an angry shout. Already he had the passion of the men aroused; the intensity of their interest made him desire to prolong his sensation of power.
"Why do I recall to you this thing? It is that you may see how the mind that could conceive that small and double perfidy is the same that plots the greater and more treacherous attack to-night. My friends, you have been cozened into a careless comfort because you have been told that no strike-breakers, no scabs would be introduced into the mills. That is true, my friends; no strike-breakers, no scabs will be introduced into the mills. But there are men worse than strike-breakers, men worse than scabs—and two hundred of these men, armed and ready, are creeping stealthily upon you at this moment through the dark. They do not come by day along the ordinary channels; they move secretly at night, for theirs is a dark and wicked trade. To the American who loves liberty there is no uglier word than that which describes these men—the word 'mercenaries;' and there is no uglier thing. Mercenaries, armed and shipped for a purpose—what purpose? Can you guess? What should you think were you to wake to-morrow and find the mills a fortress—rifles leveled at you if you paused before the gate—each knot-hole in the fence become a port-hole for a gun—and every shed a cover for sharp-shooters to roost? Unless you act to-night, that is what to-morrow you will see."
"Where are they?" shouted a man in the back of the hall, and the question was taken up inarticulately by the crowd. Tustin rose from the piano stool and held up a hand invoking silence.
"You have two hours," cried Stewart, "and I shall not ​detain you long. A steamboat is pushing two coal-barges up the Yolin Kiver—coal-barges roofed over, empty of coal, but not empty of men. These barges will be pushed ashore at the mill landing at eleven o'clock to-night. The steamboat will leave them and go back down the river.—And then—single file, two hundred mercenaries armed with rifles will march up the path from the landing, and occupy the mills. And once that occupation is achieved, what next? How many more, if need be, could be poured into the fortress—marching boldly in through the streets? Do you think that mercenaries like these, who live by the sword, will be careful of human life? They are sent that the works may be opened by force of arms—and that means slaughter. Why, the most innocent demonstration that any two or three of you may make, one irresponsible outcry by some one in a crowd, may be the signal for a rifle volley. Once the first shot is fired, who may forecast the bloodshed and murder that will follow? And when by force of arms you are crushed, out comes Uriah from the hospital, marches boldly into the works with his gang, and claims his reward. For nowadays, it is not necessary for David to kill Uriah—only to bargain with him. And you men are forever crushed if these two hundred hired assassins land to-night."
"They shall not land!" cried Tustin, raising his clenched fist before the audience could respond. "Spread the alarm—bring your guns—batter down the gate—we'll meet them, men,—we'll meet them!"
With wild cheering the crowd rushed and jammed at the stairs; Tustin and Stewart remained standing on the platform, Tustin gesticulating with both arms, shouting to keep alive the tumult—"No surrender!—Never let them land!"—any words that could be pitched as fuel to the flame. At last the hall was emptied, the shouting thinned away along the streets, Stewart put on his hat and overcoat and went down the stairs with Tustin. The mill entrance was only a block away, and already a crowd ​was collected in front of it; Stewart and Tustin started for it running. By the time they came up, two men with axes were smashing down the gates while the others shouted encouragement and jeered at the company's watchman who stood inside, feebly protesting. In a few moments the breach had been made and the mob swarmed in across the bridge and ran to the bank above the landing. This bank was a steep slope of twenty feet or more; at the bottom was the level jutting beach, from which a narrow path slanted up the slag-covered face of the slope. Close along the edge of the bank ran the tracks; Tustin sent men skirmishing to bring in cars and form with them a barricade. From both directions cars of all descriptions—low trucks, flat-cars, high-sided freight cars—were rushed up and strung together—with little intervals between. Stewart walked about, fascinated by the excitement, the shouting, the constant pouring in of men carrying guns, flourishing revolvers, swinging lanterns; the mills which Stewart had seen on other nights wreathed and seamed with fire loomed now sinister dark shapes; about them the lanterns danced fantastically, went writhing up the long black vistas, or shot, comet-like, out of darkness into darkness.
Tustin neglected nothing. From the sloping town a school-house bell began to ring, in hurrying, unmeasured peals.