Authors: John Steinbeck
“I rather not hear ’em,” said Lantern-jaw. “Don’t do no good to talk like that.”
The stout man asked, “Who was the little guy? I seen him try to get the scabs over, an’ then I seen ’im start over, an’ then, whang! Down he goes.”
Jim held his unlighted cigarette to his lips for a moment. “I knew him. He was a nice little guy. He was a kind of a labor leader.”
White-forehead said, “There seems to be a bounty on labor leaders. They don’t last long. Look at that rattlesnake, Sam. Says he’s a longshoreman. I bet he’s dead inside of six months.”
A dark boy asked, “How about London? Think they’ll get him like they got Dakin?”
Lantern-jaw: “No, by God. London can take care of himself. London’s got a head on him.”
White-forehead: “If London has a head on him, why in hell are we sitting around here? This strike’s screwy. Somebody’s making money out of it. When it gets tough somebody’ll sell out and leave the rest of us to take it on the chin.”
A broad, muscular man got to his knees and crouched there like an animal. His lips snarled away from his teeth and his eyes blazed with a red light. “That’s enough from you, wise guy,” he said. “I’ve knew London for a long time. If you’re gettin’ around to sayin’ London’s fixin’ to sell out, me an’ you’s goin’ round and round, right now! I don’t know nothin’ about this here strike. I’m doin’ it ’cause London says it’s O.K. But you lay off the smart cracks.”
White-forehead looked coldly at him. “You’re pretty hard, aren’t you?”
“Hard enough to beat the ass off you anyway, mister.”
“Lay off,” Jim broke in. “What do we want to get fighting for? If you guys want to fight, there’s going to be plenty of it for everybody.”
The square man grunted and sat back on his blankets. “Nobody’s sayin’ nothin’ behind London’s back when l’m there,” he said.
The little stout man looked at Jim. “How’d you get shot, kid?”
“Running,” said Jim. “I got winged running.”
“I heard a guy say you all beat hell out of some scabs.”
“That’s right.”
White-forehead said, “They say there are scabs coming
in in trucks. And they say every scab has tear-gas bombs in his pocket.”
“That’s a lie,” Jim said quickly. “They always start lies like that to scare the guys off.”
White-forehead went on, “I heard that the bosses sent word to London that they won’t deal as long as there’s reds in camp.”
The broad, muscular man came to life again. “Well, who’s the reds? You talk more like a red than anybody I seen.”
White-forehead continued, “Well, I think that doctor’s a red. What’s a doctor want out here? He doesn’t get any pay. Well, who’s paying him? He’s getting his; don’t worry about that.” He looked wise. “Maybe he’s getting it from Moscow.”
Jim spat on the ground. His face was pale. He said quietly, “You’re the God-damned meanest son-of-a-bitch I ever saw! You make everybody out the kind of a rat you are.”
The square man got to his knees again. “The kid’s right,” he said. “He can’t kick hell out of you, but I can. And by Christ I will if you don’t keep that toilet seat of yours shut.”
White-forehead got up slowly and went to the entrance. He turned back. “All right, you fellows, but you watch. Pretty soon London’ll tell you to settle the strike. An’ then he’ll get a new car, or a steady job. You just watch.”
The square man leaped to his knees again, but White-forehead dodged out of the tent.
Jim asked, “Who is that guy? Does he sleep in here?”
“Hell, no. He just come in a little while ago.”
“Well did any of you guys ever see him before?”
They shook their heads. “Not me.”
“I never.”
Jim cried, “By Christ! Then they sent him in.”
The fat man asked, “Who sent him?”
“The owners did. He’s sent in here to talk like that an’ get you guys suspecting London. Don’t you see? It splits the camp up. Couple you guys better see he gets run out of camp.”
The square man climbed to his feet. “I’ll do it myself,” he said. “They’s nothin’ I’d admire better.” He went out of the tent.
Jim said, “You got to watch out. Guys like that’ll give you the idea the strike’s just about through. Don’t listen to lies.”
The fat man gazed out of the tent. “It ain’t a lie that the food’s all gone,” he said. “It ain’t a lie that boiled cow food ain’t much of a breakfast. It don’t take no spies to spread that.”
“We got to stick,” Jim cried. “We simply got to stick. If we lose this, we’re sunk; and not only us, either. Every other working stiff in the country gets a little of it.”
The fat man nodded. “It all fits together,” he agreed. “There ain’t nothing separate. Guys think they want to get something soft for themselves, but they can’t without everybody gets it.”
A middle-aged man who had been lying down toward the rear of the tent sat up. “You know the trouble with workin’ men?” he asked. “Well, I’ll tell you. They do too God-damn much talkin’. If they did more sluggin’ an’ less arguin’, they’d get someplace.” He stopped. The men in the tent listened. From outside there came the sound
of a little bustling, the mutter of footsteps, the murmur of voices, the sound of people, penetrating as an odor, and soft. The men in the tent sat still and listened. The sound of people grew a little louder. Footsteps were slushing in the mud. A group walked past the tent.
Jim stood up and walked to the entrance just as a head was thrust in. “They’re goin’ to bring out the coffin. Come on, you guys.” Jim stepped out between the tent-flaps. The mist still fell, blowing sideways, drifting like tiny, light snowflakes. Here and there the loose canvas of a tent moved soddenly in the wind. Jim looked down the street. The news had traveled. Out of the tents men and women came. They moved slowly in together and converged on the platform. And as their group became more and more compact, the sound of their many voices blended into one voice, and the sound of their footsteps became a great restlessness. Jim looked at the faces. There was a blindness in the eyes. The heads were tipped back as though they sniffed for something. They drew in about the platform and crowded close.
Out of London’s tent six men came, bearing the box. There were no handles on the coffin. Each pair of men locked hands underneath, and bore the burden on their forearms. They hesitated jerkily, trying to get in step, and having established the swinging rhythm, moved slowly through the slush toward the platform. Their heads were bare, and the drops of moisture stood out on their hair like grey dust. The little wind raised a corner of the soiled flag, and dropped it, and raised it again. In front of the casket a lane opened through the people, and the bearers moved on, their faces stiff with ceremonial solemnity, necks straight, chins down. The people on the edge
of the lane stared at the box. They grew quiet during the movement of its passage, and when it was by whispered nervously to one another. A few men surreptitiously crossed themselves. The bearers reached the platform. The leading pair laid the end on the planks, and the others pushed the box forward until it rested safely.
Jim hurried to London’s tent. London and Mac were there. “Jesus, I wish you’d do the talkin’, I can’t talk.”
“No. You’ll do fine. ’Member what I told you. Try to get ’em answering you. Once you get responses started, you’ve got ’em. Regular old camp-meeting stuff; but it sure works on a crowd.”
London looked frightened. “You do it, Mac. Honest to God I can’t. I didn’t even know the guy.”
Mac looked disgusted. “Well, you get up there and make a try. If you fall down, I’ll be there to pick it up.”
London buttoned the collar of his blue shirt and turned up the flaps against his throat. He buttoned his old black serge coat over his stomach and patted it down. His hand went up to the tonsured hair and brushed it down, back and sides; and then he seemed to shake himself down to a tight, heavy solemnity. The lean-faced Sam came in and stood beside him. London stepped out of the tent, great with authority. Mac and Jim and Sam fell in behind him, but London walked alone, down the muddy street, and his little procession followed him. The heads of the people turned as he approached. The tissue of soft speech stopped. A new aisle opened to allow the leader to pass, and the heads turned with him as he passed.
London climbed up on the platform. He was alone, over the heads of the people. The faces pointed up at him, the eyes expressionless as glass. For a moment London
looked down at the pine coffin, and then his shoulders squared. He seemed reluctant to break the breathing silence. His voice was remote and dignified. “I come up here to make some kind of speech,” he said. “And I don’t know no speeches.” He paused and looked out over the upturned faces. “This little guy got killed yesterday. You all seen it. He was comin’ over to our side, an’ somebody plugged him. He wasn’t doin’ no harm to nobody.” Again he stopped, and his face grew puzzled. “Well, what can a guy say? We’re goin’ to bury him. He’s one of our own guys, an’ he got shot. What can I say? We’re goin’ to march out and bury him—all of us. Because he was one of us. He was kind of like all of us. What happened to him is like to happen to any guy here.” He stopped, and his mouth stayed open. “I—I don’t know no speeches,” he said uneasily. “There’s a guy here that knowed this little fellow. I’m goin’ to let him talk.” His head turned slowly to where Mac stood. “Come on up, Mac. Tell ’em about the little guy.”
Mac broke out of his stiffness and almost threw himself on the platform. His shoulders weaved like a boxer’s. “Sure I’ll tell ’em,” he cried passionately. “The guy’s name was Joy. He was a radical! Get it? A radical. He wanted guys like you to have enough to eat and a place to sleep where you wouldn’t get wet. He didn’t want nothing for himself. He was a radical!” Mac cried. “D’ye see what he was? A dirty bastard, a danger to the government. I don’t know if you saw his face, all beat to rags. The cops done that because he was a radical. His hands were broke, an’ his jaw was broke. One time he got that jaw broke in a picket line. They put him in the can. Then a doctor come an’ looked at him. ‘I won’t treat a Goddamn
red,’ the doctor says. So Joy lies there with a busted jaw. He was dangerous—he wanted guys like you to get enough to eat.” His voice was growing softer and softer, and his eyes watched expertly, saw faces becoming tense, trying to catch the words of his softening tone, saw the people leaning forward. “I knew him.” Suddenly he shouted, “What are you going to do about it? Dump him in a mud-hole, cover him with slush. Forget him.”
A woman in the crowd began to sob hysterically. “He was fightin’ for you,” Mac shouted. “You goin’ to forget it?”
A man in the crowd yelled, “No, by Christ!”
Mac hammered on, “Goin’ to let him get killed, while you lie down and take it?”
A chorus this time, “No-o-o!”
Mac’s voice dropped into a sing-song. “Goin’ to dump him in the mud?”
“No-oo.” The bodies swayed a little bit.
“He fought for you. Are you going to forget him?”
“No-o-o.”
“We’re going to march through town. You going to let any damn cops stop us?”
The heavy roar, “No-oo.” The crowd swayed in the rhythm. They poised for the next response.
Mac broke the rhythm, and the break jarred them. He said quietly, “This little guy is the spirit of all of us. We won’t pray for him. He don’t need prayers. And we don’t need prayers. We need clubs!”
Hungrily the crowd tried to restore the rhythm. “Clubs,” they said. “Clubs.” And then they waited in silence.
“O.K.,” Mac said shortly. “We’re going to throw the
dirty radical in the mud, but he’s going to stay with us, too. God help anybody that tries to stop us.” Suddenly he got down from the platform, leaving the crowd hungry and irritated. Eyes looked wondering into other eyes.
London climbed down from the platform. He said to the bearers, “Put him in Albert Johnson’s truck. We’ll get goin’ in a few minutes now.” He followed Mac, who was working his way out of the crowd.
Dr. Burton fell in beside Mac when he was clear of the bunched people. “You surely know how to work them, Mac,” he said quietly. “No preacher ever brought people to the mourners’ bench quicker. Why didn’t you keep it up awhile? You’d’ve had them talking in tongues and holy-rolling in a minute.”
Mac said irritably, “Quit sniping at me, Doc. I’ve got a job to do, and I’ve got to use every means to do it.”
“But where did you learn it, Mac?”
“Learn what?”
“All those tricks.”
Mac said tiredly, “Don’t try to see so much, Doc. I wanted them mad. Well, they’re mad. What do you care how it’s done?”
“I know how it’s done,” said Burton. “I just wondered how you learned. By the way, old Dan’s satisfied not to go. He decided when we lifted him.”
London and Jim caught up with them. Mac said, “You better leave a big guard here, London.”
“O.K. I’ll tell Sam to stay and keep about a hundred. That sure was a nice speech, Mac.”
“I didn’t have no time to figure it out ahead. We better get movin’ before these guys cool off. Once they get goin’
they’ll be O.K. But we don’t want ’em just to stand around and cool off.”
They turned and looked back. Through the crowd the bearers came swinging, carrying the box on their forearms. The clot of people broke up and straggled behind. The light mist fell. To the west a rent in the cloud showed a patch of pale blue sky, and a high, soundless wind tore the clouds apart as they watched.
“It might be a nice day yet,” Mac said. He turned to Jim. “I nearly forgot about you. How do you feel?”
“All right.”
“Well, I don’t think you better walk all that distance. You ride on the truck.”
“No. I’ll walk. The guys wouldn’t like it if I rode.”
“I thought of that,” said Mac. “We’ll have the pallbearers ride too. That’ll make it all right. We all set, London?”
“All set”
THE coffin rested on the flat bed of an old Dodge truck. On each side of it the bearers sat, hanging their legs over. And Jim rode hanging his feet over the rear. The motor throbbed and coughed, Albert Johnson drove out of the park and stopped in the road until the line formed, about eight men to a file. Then he dropped into low gear and moved slowly along the road, and the long line of men shuffled after him. The hundred guards stood in the camp and watched the parade move away.