The Octopus, Frank Norris [books you need to read txt] 📗

folly of it! Liberty is NOT a crowned goddess, beautiful, in spotless garments, victorious, supreme. Liberty is the Man In the Street, a terrible figure, rushing through powder smoke, fouled with the mud and ordure of the gutter, bloody, rampant, brutal, yelling curses, in one hand a smoking rifle, in the other, a blazing torch.

“Freedom is NOT given free to any who ask; Liberty is not born of the gods. She is a child of the People, born in the very height and heat of battle, born from death, stained with blood, grimed with powder. And she grows to be not a goddess, but a Fury, a fearful figure, slaying friend and foe alike, raging, insatiable, merciless, the Red Terror.”

Presley ceased speaking. Weak, shaking, scarcely knowing what he was about, he descended from the stage. A prolonged explosion of applause followed, the Opera House roaring to the roof, men cheering, stamping, waving their hats. But it was not intelligent applause. Instinctively as he made his way out, Presley knew that, after all, he had not once held the hearts of his audience. He had talked as he would have written; for all his scorn of literature, he had been literary. The men who listened to him, ranchers, country people, storekeepers, attentive though they were, were not once sympathetic. Vaguely they had felt that here was something which other men—more educated—would possibly consider eloquent. They applauded vociferously but perfunctorily, in order to appear to understand.

Presley, for all his love of the people, saw clearly for one moment that he was an outsider to their minds. He had not helped them nor their cause in the least; he never would.

Disappointed, bewildered, ashamed, he made his way slowly from the Opera House and stood on the steps outside, thoughtful, his head bent.

He had failed, thus he told himself. In that moment of crisis, that at the time he believed had been an inspiration, he had failed. The people would not consider him, would not believe that he could do them service. Then suddenly he seemed to remember. The resolute set of his lips returned once more. Pushing his way through the crowded streets, he went on towards the stable where he had left his pony.

Meanwhile, in the Opera House, a great commotion had occurred. Magnus Derrick had appeared.

Only a sense of enormous responsibility, of gravest duty could have prevailed upon Magnus to have left his house and the dead body of his son that day. But he was the President of the League, and never since its organisation had a meeting of such importance as this one been held. He had been in command at the irrigating ditch the day before. It was he who had gathered the handful of Leaguers together. It was he who must bear the responsibility of the fight.

When he had entered the Opera House, making his way down the central aisle towards the stage, a loud disturbance had broken out, partly applause, partly a meaningless uproar. Many had pressed forward to shake his hand, but others were not found wanting who, formerly his staunch supporters, now scenting opposition in the air, held back, hesitating, afraid to compromise themselves by adhering to the fortunes of a man whose actions might be discredited by the very organisation of which he was the head.

Declining to take the chair of presiding officer which Garnett offered him, the Governor withdrew to an angle of the stage, where he was joined by Keast.

This one, still unalterably devoted to Magnus, acquainted him briefly with the tenor of the speeches that had been made.

“I am ashamed of them, Governor,” he protested indignantly, “to lose their nerve now! To fail you now! it makes my blood boil. If you had succeeded yesterday, if all had gone well, do you think we would have heard of any talk of ‘assumption of authority,’ or ‘acting without advice and consent’? As if there was any time to call a meeting of the Executive Committee. If you hadn’t acted as you did, the whole county would have been grabbed by the Railroad. Get up, Governor, and bring ‘em all up standing. Just tear ‘em all to pieces, show ‘em that you are the head, the boss. That’s what they need. That killing yesterday has shaken the nerve clean out of them.”

For the instant the Governor was taken all aback. What, his lieutenants were failing him? What, he was to be questioned, interpolated upon yesterday’s “irrepressible conflict”? Had disaffection appeared in the ranks of the League—at this, of all moments? He put from him his terrible grief. The cause was in danger. At the instant he was the President of the League only, the chief, the master. A royal anger surged within him, a wide, towering scorn of opposition. He would crush this disaffection in its incipiency, would vindicate himself and strengthen the cause at one and the same time. He stepped forward and stood in the speaker’s place, turning partly toward the audience, partly toward the assembled Leaguers.

“Gentlemen of the League,” he began, “citizens of Bonneville”

But at once the silence in which the Governor had begun to speak was broken by a shout. It was as though his words had furnished a signal. In a certain quarter of the gallery, directly opposite, a man arose, and in a voice partly of derision, partly of defiance, cried out:

“How about the bribery of those two delegates at Sacramento? Tell us about that. That’s what we want to hear about.”

A great confusion broke out. The first cry was repeated not only by the original speaker, but by a whole group of which he was but a part. Others in the audience, however, seeing in the disturbance only the clamour of a few Railroad supporters, attempted to howl them down, hissing vigorously and exclaiming:

“Put ‘em out, put ‘em out.”

“Order, order,” called Garnett, pounding with his gavel. The whole Opera House was in an uproar.

But the interruption of the Governor’s speech was evidently not unpremeditated. It began to look like a deliberate and planned attack. Persistently, doggedly, the group in the gallery vociferated: “Tell us how you bribed the delegates at Sacramento. Before you throw mud at the Railroad, let’s see if you are clean yourself.”

“Put ‘em out, put ‘em out.”

“Briber, briber—Magnus Derrick, unconvicted briber! Put him out.

Keast, beside himself with anger, pushed down the aisle underneath where the recalcitrant group had its place and, shaking his fist, called up at them:

“You were paid to break up this meeting. If you have anything to say; you will be afforded the opportunity, but if you do not let the gentleman proceed, the police will be called upon to put you out.”

But at this, the man who had raised the first shout leaned over the balcony rail, and, his face flaming with wrath, shouted:

“YAH! talk to me of your police. Look out we don’t call on them first to arrest your President for bribery. You and your howl about law and justice and corruption! Here “—he turned to the audience—” read about him, read the story of how the Sacramento convention was bought by Magnus Derrick, President of the San Joaquin League. Here’s the facts printed and proved.”

With the words, he stooped down and from under his seat dragged forth a great package of extra editions of the “Bonneville Mercury,” not an hour off the presses. Other equally large bundles of the paper appeared in the hands of the surrounding group. The strings were cut and in handfuls and armfuls the papers were flung out over the heads of the audience underneath. The air was full of the flutter of the newly printed sheets. They swarmed over the rim of the gallery like clouds of monstrous, winged insects, settled upon the heads and into the hands of the audience, were passed swiftly from man to man, and within five minutes of the first outbreak every one in the Opera House had read Genslinger’s detailed and substantiated account of Magnus Derrick’s “deal” with the political bosses of the Sacramento convention.

Genslinger, after pocketing the Governor’s hush money, had “sold him out.”

Keast, one quiver of indignation, made his way back upon the stage. The Leaguers were in wild confusion. Half the assembly of them were on their feet, bewildered, shouting vaguely. From proscenium wall to foyer, the Opera House was a tumult of noise. The gleam of the thousands of the “Mercury” extras was like the flash of white caps on a troubled sea.

Keast faced the audience.

“Liars,” he shouted, striving with all the power of his voice to dominate the clamour, “liars and slanderers. Your paper is the paid organ of the corporation. You have not one shadow of proof to back you up. Do you choose this, of all times, to heap your calumny upon the head of an honourable gentleman, already prostrated by your murder of his son? Proofs—we demand your proofs!”

“We’ve got the very assemblymen themselves,” came back the answering shout. “Let Derrick speak. Where is he hiding? If this is a lie, let him deny it. Let HIM DISPROVE the charge.” “Derrick, Derrick,” thundered the Opera House.

Keast wheeled about. Where was Magnus? He was not in sight upon the stage. He had disappeared. Crowding through the throng of Leaguers, Keast got from off the stage into the wings. Here the crowd was no less dense. Nearly every one had a copy of the “Mercury.” It was being read aloud to groups here and there, and once Keast overheard the words, “Say, I wonder if this is true, after all?”

“Well, and even if it was,” cried Keast, turning upon the speaker, “we should be the last ones to kick. In any case, it was done for our benefit. It elected the Ranchers’ Commission.”

“A lot of benefit we got out of the Ranchers’ Commission,” retorted the other.

“And then,” protested a third speaker, “that ain’t the way to do— if he DID do it—bribing legislatures. Why, we were bucking against corrupt politics. We couldn’t afford to be corrupt.”

Keast turned away with a gesture of impatience. He pushed his way farther on. At last, opening a small door in a hallway back of the stage, he came upon Magnus.

The room was tiny. It was a dressing-room. Only two nights before it had been used by the leading actress of a comic opera troupe which had played for three nights at Bonneville. A tattered sofa and limping toilet table occupied a third of the space. The air was heavy with the smell of stale grease paint, ointments, and sachet. Faded photographs of young women in tights and gauzes ornamented the mirror and the walls. Underneath the sofa was an old pair of corsets. The spangled skirt of a pink dress, turned inside out, hung against the wall.

And in the midst of such environment, surrounded by an excited group of men who gesticulated and shouted in his very face, pale, alert, agitated, his thin lips pressed tightly together, stood Magnus Derrick.

“Here,” cried Keast, as he entered, closing the door behind him, “where’s the Governor? Here, Magnus, I’ve been looking for you. The crowd has gone wild out there. You’ve got to talk ‘em down. Come out there and give those blacklegs the lie. They are saying you are hiding.”

But before Magnus could reply, Garnett turned to Keast.

“Well, that’s what we want him to do, and he won’t do it.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the half-dozen men who crowded around Magnus, “yes, that’s what we want him to do.”

Keast turned to Magnus.

“Why, what’s all this, Governor?” he exclaimed. “You’ve got to answer that. Hey? why don’t you give ‘em the lie?”

“I—I,” Magnus loosened the collar about his throat “it is a lie. I will not stoop—I would not—would be—it would be