Authors: John Steinbeck
London said, “Whyn’t we just tell the guys to beat it, an’ the whole bunch of us get out?”
“Don’t talk so loud. You’ll wake up the kid. Here’s why. They can scare our guys, but we can throw a scare into them, too. We’ll take one last shot at them. We’ll hang on as long as we can. If they kill some of us the news’ll get around even if the papers don’t print it. Other guys’ll get sore. And we’ve got an enemy, see? Guys work together nice when they’ve got an enemy. That barn was burned down by our own kind of men, but they’ve been reading the papers, see? We’ve got to get ’em over on our side as quick as we can.” He took out a slim, limp bag of tobacco. “I’ve been saving this. I want a smoke. You smoke, London?”
“No. I chew when I can get it.”
Mac rolled himself a slender cigarette in the brown paper. He raised the lantern chimney to light the cigarette. “You ought to get in a nap, London. Christ knows what’s going to happen tonight. I’ve
got
to go in town and find a mailbox.”
“You might get caught.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll go in through the orchards. I won’t even get seen.” He stared past London, at the back of the tent. London swung around. The tent wall bellied up from the bottom, and Sam wriggled in, and stood up. He was muddy, and his clothes were torn. A long cut extended down his lean cheek. His lips were drawn back with fatigue, and his eyes were sunken.
“I on’y got a minute,” he said softly. “Jesus, what a job! You got a lot of guards out. I didn’t want nobody to see me. Somebody’d double-cross us sure.”
“You done it nice,” Mac said. “We seen the fire.”
“Sure. Damn near the whole house gone. But that ain’t it.” He looked nervously at Jim, sleeping on the mattress. “I—got caught.”
“Th’ hell!”
“Yeah, they grabbed me and got a look at me.”
“You oughtn’t to be here,” London said severely.
“I know. I wanted to tell you, though. You ain’t never seen me or heard of me. I had to—I kicked his brains out. I got to go now. If they get me again, I don’t want nothing, see? I’m nuts, see. I’m screwy. I talk about God told me to do it, see? I wanted to tell you. Don’t take no risk for me. I don’t want it.”
London went over to him and took his hand. “You’re a good guy, Sam. They don’t make ’em no better. I’ll see you sometime.”
Mac had his eye on the tent-flap. He said very quietly, over his shoulder, “If you get to town, forty-two Center Avenue. Say Mabel sent you. It’s only a meal. Don’t go more than once.”
“O.K., Mac. G’bye.” He was on his knees, with his head out, looking into the dark. In a second he squirmed out, and canvas dropped back into place.
London sighed. “I hope he makes it, Mac. He’s a good guy. They don’t make ’em no better.”
Mac said, “Don’t give it a thought. Somebody’ll kill him sometime, like that little guy Joy. He was sure to get popped off. Me an’ Jim’ll go that way, sooner or later. It’s almost sure, but it doesn’t make any difference.”
London’s mouth was open. “Jesus, what a hell of a way to look at it. Don’t you guys get no pleasure?”
“Damn right,” said Mac. “More than most people do. It’s an important job. You get a hell of a drive out of
something that has some meaning to it, and don’t you forget it. The thing that takes the heart out of a man is work that doesn’t lead any place. Ours is slow, but it’s all going in one direction. Christ, I stand here shooting off my face. I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t let ’em get you, Mac.”
“I won’t, but listen, London, there’s nothing those guys would like better than to rub me and Jim out. I can take care of myself. Will you stay right here and not let anything happen to Jim? Will you?”
“Sure I will. I’ll set right here.”
“No, lie down on part of the mattress and get some sleep. But don’t let ’em get the kid. We need him, he’s valuable.”
“O.K.”
“So long,” said Mac. “I’ll get back as soon as I can. I’d like to find out what’s going on. Maybe I can get a paper.”
“So long.”
Mac went silently out of the doorway. London heard him speak to a guard, and then, farther off, to another. Even after he was gone, London listened to the sounds of the night. It was quiet outside, but there was no feeling of sleep. The footsteps of the prowling guards came and went, and their voices sounded in short greetings when they met. The roosters crowed, one near, and far away the deep voice of an old, wise cock—train bell and spurt of steam and pounding of a starting engine. London sat down on the mattress, beside Jim, one folded leg flat, and the other standing up and clasped between his hands. He bowed his head over his knee and rested his chin, and his eyes questioned Jim and probed him.
Jim moved restlessly. One arm flung out and dropped again. He said, “Oh—and—water.” He breathed heavily. “Tar over everything.” His eyes opened and blinked quickly, sightlessly. London unclasped his hands as though to touch Jim, but he didn’t touch him. The eyes closed and were quiet. A great transport truck rumbled into hearing. London heard a muffled cry outside the tent, some distance away. “Hey,” he cried softly.
One of the patrol came up. “What’s the matter, Boss?”
“Well who’s doin’ the yellin’?”
“That? Didn’t you hear that before? That’s the old guy with the busted hip. He’s crazy. They’re holdin’ him down. Fightin’ like a cat, an’ bitin’. They got a rag in his mouth.”
“Ain’t you Jake Pedroni? Sure you are. Look, Jake, I heard Doc say if the old guy didn’t get soap and water up him to keep him cleared out, he’d get like that. I got to stay here. You go over and get it done, will you, Jake?”
“Sure, boss.”
“O.K. Get along. It ain’t doin’ his hip no good to fight. How’s the guy with the busted ankle?”
“Oh, him. Somebody give ’im a slug of whiskey. He’s O.K.”
“Call me if anything happens, Jake.”
“All right, I will.”
London went back to the mattress and lay down beside Jim. Far away, the engine pounded, faster and faster in the night. The old tough rooster crowed first, and the young one answered. London felt heavy sleep creeping into his brain, but he rose up on his elbow and looked at Jim once more before he let the sleep wash over him.
THE dark was just beginning to thin when Mac looked into the tent. On the central post the lantern still burned. London and Jim were sleeping, side by side. Mac stepped in, and as he did London jerked upright and peered about. “Who is it?”
“Me,” said Mac. “Just got in. How’s the kid?”
“I been asleep,” said London. He yawned and scratched the round bald spot on his head.
Mac stepped over and looked down at Jim. The tired lines were gone out of the boy’s face, and the nervous muscles were relaxed. “He looks fine. He got a good rest.”
London stood up. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s just starting to get light.”
“The guys building the fires yet?”
“I saw somebody moving around over there. I smelled wood smoke. It might be Anderson’s barn smouldering.”
“I didn’t leave the kid a minute,” said London.
“Good for you.”
“When you goin’ to get some sleep?”
“Oh, Christ knows. I don’t feel it much yet. I got some last night, or rather the night before, it was. Seems a week ago. We just buried Joy yesterday, just yesterday.”
London yawned again. “I guess it’s beef and beans this morning. God, I’d like a cup of coffee!”
“Well, let’s go in and get coffee and ham and eggs in town.”
“Oh, go to hell. I’m goin’ to get them cooks movin’.” He stumbled sleepily outside.
Mac pulled a box under the light and took a rolled newspaper out of his pocket. As he opened it, Jim said, “I’ve been awake, Mac. Where have you been?”
“Had to go mail a letter. I picked a paper off a lawn. We’ll see what’s going on.”
“Mac, did I make a horse’s ass of myself last night?”
“Hell, no, Jim. You made it stick. You had us eating out of your hand.”
“It just came over me. I never felt that way before.”
“How do you feel this morning?”
“Fine. But not like that. I could of lifted a cow last night.”
“Well, you sure lifted us around. That’s a good gag about the two trucks, too. The owner of the car that has to bust the barricade may not like it much. Now let’s see what’s going on in town. Oh—oh, headlines for the scrapbook! Listen, Jim:
STRIKERS BURN HOUSES—KILL MEN!
Last night at ten o’clock fire destroyed the suburban home of William Hunter. Police say the men now on strike from the apple orchards are responsible. A suspect, captured, assaulted his captor and escaped. The injured man, Olaf Bingham, special deputy, is not expected to live.
Now let’s see, farther down:—
Earlier in the evening strikers, either through carelessness or malice, burned the barn on the Anderson
farm. Mr. Anderson had previously given the men permission to camp on his land.
It’s a long story, Jim. You can read it if you want to.” He turned the page. “Oh boy, oh boy. Listen to this editorial:
We believe the time has come to take action. When transient laborers tie up the Valley’s most important industry, when fruit tramps, led and inspired by paid foreign agitators (That’s us, Jim), carry on a campaign of violence and burning, bringing Red Russia into peaceful America, when our highways are no longer safe for American citizens, nor their homes safe from firebrands, we believe the time for action has come!
This county takes care of its own people, but these strikers do not belong here. They flout the laws, and destroy life and property. They are living on the fat of the land, supplied by secret sympathizers. This paper does not, and has never believed in violence; but it does believe that when law is not sufficient to cope with these malcontents and murderers, an aroused citizenry must take a hand. The incendiary deserves no mercy. We must drive out these paid trouble-makers. This paper recommends that citizens inquire into the sources of luxuries these men have been given. It is reported that three prime steers were slaughtered in their camp yesterday.”
Mac smashed the paper down on the ground. “And that last means that tonight a flock of pool-room-Americans will start slinging rocks through the windows of poor devils who said they wished times might get better.”
Jim was sitting up. “Jesus Christ, Mac! Do we have to take all the blame?’
“Every damn bit.”
“How about that guy they say was murdered.”
“Well, Sam did it. They caught him. He had to get away. The guy had a gun; all Sam had was his feet.”
Jim lay back again. “Yeah,” he said. “I saw him use his feet the other day. But God, it sounds bad. Sounds awful!”
“Sure. That editor used some dollar-an’-a-half words, all right. ’Paid foreign agitators.’ Me, born in Minneapolis! An’ granpaw fought in the Battle of Bull Run. He always said he thought it was a bull-fight instead of a battle he was goin’ to ’til they started shootin’ at him. An’ you’re about as foreign as the Hoover administration. Oh, hell, Jim. That’s the way it always is. But—” he brought out the last of his tobacco—’’it’s closing in, Jim. Sam shouldn’t of set that fire.”
“You told him to go ahead.”
“I know, I was mad about the barn.”
“Well, what do we do now?”
“Just go ahead, just go ahead. We start those cars out at the scabs. We keep it up as long as we can fight, and then we get away, if we can. Are you scared, Jim?”
“N-no-o.”
“It’s closing in on us, Jim. I can feel it, closing in.” He got up from his box and walked to the mattress and sat down. “Maybe it’s because I need sleep. On the way out from town just now it seemed to me there was a bunch of guys waiting for me in the shadow under every tree. I got so scared, I’d of run if a mouse moved.”
“You’re all tired,” Jim said gently. “Maybe I could of
been some use around here, if I hadn’t got myself hurt. I just lie around, and get in the way’
Mac said, “The hell you do. Every time I get low you steam me up, and, baby, I need steam this morning. My guts are just water! I’d take a drink if I could get it.”
“You’ll be all right when you get something to eat.”
Mac said, “I wrote to Harry Nilson; told him we had to have help and supplies. But I’m afraid it’s too late.” He stared strangely at Jim. “Listen, Jim, I found Dick last night. Now you listen close. Remember the night we came in?”
“Sure.”
“Well, you remember when we turned left at that bridge and went to the jungle?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, listen close. If hell should pop and we get separated, you get to that bridge and go underneath, clear up under the arch, on the side away from town. You’ll find a pile of dead willows there. Lift ’em aside. There’s a deep cave underneath. Get inside, and pull the willows over the hole. You can go in about fifteen feet, see? Now Dick’s putting blankets in there, an’ canned goods. If they dynamite us, you go there an’ wait for me a couple o’ days. If I don’t come, you’ll know something’s happened to me. You get back to town. Travel at night till you’re clear of this county. They’ve got nothing on us that’ll get us more than six months unless they pad up a murder charge about that guy last night. I don’t think they will, because it’d be too much publicity. I.L.D’d come through and break that upstairs shooting of Joy. Now will you remember, Jim? Go there and wait for a couple of days. I don’t think they’ll root you out of there.”
Jim asked, “What do you know, Mac? You’re keeping something back.”
“I don’t know a thing,” Mac said. “I’ve just got a feeling this joint’s closing in on us—just a feeling. A lot of the guys took it on the lam last night, mostly the guys with women and kids. London’s O.K. He’ll be a Party member pretty soon. But right now I wouldn’t trust the rest of these guys with a road-apple at a banquet. They’re so God damn jumpy they might knife us themselves.”
“You’re jumpy yourself, Mac. Calm down.” Jim got to his knees and stood carefully up, his head cocked as though he listened for pain. Mac watched him in alarm. “It’s swell,” said Jim. “Shoulder’s a little bit heavy, but I feel swell. Not even light-headed. I ought to get around some today.”
“That bandage ought to be changed,” said Mac.
“Oh, yeah, say, did Doc come back?”