The College of Wooster

WORKINGMEN! TO ARMS!

by

Joshua Nicholas Ware

Presented in Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements of Independent Study

English 451-452

Supervised by

Daniel Bourne

Department of English

March 26, 2013

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WORKINGMEN!

******

TO ARMS!

A Correspondence of Three Men All Working

Age An Their Troubles With Spc. Attentions

Paid to Labor an Industry an War an th Fate of

Immigrants an th Descendentss of Them esp.

With Regard to American Irishmen.

SIGNED, YOUR BROTHERS,

Mick Finn an Mr. Richmond an their monk by th name of Saint Patrick

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dedicated to th former keelboatman

wherever he chance t be

this month of Our Lord

March 2013

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TABLE OF CONTENTS.

Prologue; War Breaks Out. August 17th 1861. 2

WENDING TO GEORGETOWN, entry dated Sep. 23rd, 1865. 3

Interregnum I; Run on the Banks. 1873 20

ON TOWARDS WESTERN PARTS, entry dated July 20th, 1877 24

Interregnum II; The Fate of Mr. Richmond. 1885 37

THE HAYMARKET, entry dated May 2nd, 1886 42

Epilogue; Into the Chicago River. 1887. 60

Critical 64

Acknowledgements ` 80

Works Consulted 81

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August 17th, 1861.

We were in a tobaco field and it was a hellish hot afternoon in the middle of

August.

“It mought be a mistake to be out here when the boys go marching off”, Mick

Finn come right out an said.

“I em the best shot in the South an the Union boys don’t stand a chance. I don

want the boys to get too riled before they done their duty to Mr. Richmond here who aye

does his thing well but seeing as he does it himself. They mought get caught up thinking

they ken be like ol Mick Finn shootin from the hip an punchin in man’s faces. Aye we

must been making our own way for ever an that is fact an I tell it right as I am a canal

man.”

Still the day was hot an we were getting on in years. Mick Finn an I an Mr.

Richmond in Mr. Richmond’s tobaco field felt earth bein turned up as th kids marched

into the heat. Away from the smokehouses an cool crawdad streams they were marching

on up to meet Mr. Lincoln in his backyard at Antietam.

“An so’s the Cows I believe”, Mr. Richmond guts out lookin up from some

parchment paper map.

No they was not cows but rather men. Mr. Richmond had that map with fanciful

colors on it like old Joseph’s coat in the slave quarters over there. So we followed Mr.

Richmonds finger as he trace the route our boys was marchin all the way to Washington

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where they’d sneak a bullet in Mr. Lincoln’s backside if they had anything to say about it.

Finn pull out a pipe an he ripped up a plug of tobacco leaf an he stuff it down in his pipe

an he turn away from us an look out to those boys marching through th trees. Then he

turned around with a slyest grin on his countenance.

“Now hol’ this can of whiskey on yor forehead. Lay down on that patch of

ironweed yonder. I’m goin to shoot a hole in it an so prove what I say”, Mick Finn spat

out along with raw scraps of smokeplant stuck t his teeth .

Well I was standin up and he tol me to lay down with that whisky. I laid out and

he shot off the hip like he does an the cool licker came from the bucket into my mouth like

a river bein born. Mick Finn said it was a good shot an more modestly I believed in him.

“That mought be a mistake in a country you still don’t know kid”, Mick Finn said

through puffs of th worst smoke.

“Bound t get you killed out here where a rivermens business is dryin up. They got

these big wheels that churn the water almost good as I can. They got big men who think

ther goin’t’get bigger than me runnin the factories. All you that Ireland sent over here are

goin’t fight in this place an books won’t know yore names.”

I accepted this but not with no questions asked.

“If I get you two barrels peach brandy Mr. Finn you will you tell me what that

day might be that I have my story told?”

An Mick Finn put on a smile like a mask of th truest jester.

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“Yes sir Dooley I will gladly tell you when that day shall be.”

September 23rd, 1865.

Th day was hellish hot an as near as th clothes on my back. I was in that tobaco

field an eternity. Birds were flying over my head like they were bits of the clouds that

detach and form up their own body as I rustled out of my burlap pack some hard tack an

th last of my grits which I did eat barehanded. Around me gentle tobaco plants danced

with leaves for arms an damned the moles underfoot an they was numerous enough t

wreck a good crop if you ask me. Dirt was upturned for it was the month of September an

the boys were comin home to find everything plowed by Yanks. Standin under the sky

breathin something desperate as that make you want t believe in the old fables they tell

you about growing up about leprechauns an haints living out upon our land waiting t lap

up any child which come into contact with em an even th first High Kings of Ireland

whom marry th land an protect it as jealous men even in death. Theres things worse than

a damn myth however for I know a gaggle of Yanks is goin be here soon an they shall

wonder on these ol scraps of Rebel cloth I am clad in if I don’ leave soon so I step up in

that field where I been asleep for a long time.

Lots of boys take t the train tracks. I better get goin too.

I may have been asleep one hundred years or only hours but it hardly makes one

difference. A hundred years happened sure over the course of these last couple months.

Northern men come to th old fields now. For when I returned from my former post of

trying t chase down Genl. Kempner I took a tour of what our Grand Confederate Army

had been defending an found it in a sorry state. Riding in some rail-car acrossed th former

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nation left me in a reflective an maligned state for everywhere they had burn down trees

an villages with good mens corpses left up in those trees. I could not discern if they was

black men or white men burnt for both were hanging sacks of ash held together by

bandoliers an leather in some cases only white bone held em in a piece. Enough t make a

man alright with giving up a journey t some disbanded army aye an from then out I took

up for my own t Richmond determined.

Well I left the Bannon crossroads roun’ bout noon which was comin on near th

outskirts of my destination. Some folks stood outside on porches an I walked on to the

dirt road outside town. Some Yanks were coming through town ridin on steel black mares

an their gallops pounded on my head like the rifle butts down on Cedar Creek. I walked

down the dirt road all into Richmond th former proud capital of the Confederate States.

The tobacco fields was far behin’ me now. I can’t remember when last I spoke out loud so

I whistled a jaunty song to lift my spirits “The Irish Brigade”. Out here you come t know

those outlying fields. As I gaze acrossed it on occasion I seen a tree all by itself an I did

wonder if th spirits of the old country was in there. All like them trees they was alone in a

strange land even I didn’t know this land no more. The trees stood like guards an I think,

there’s not any way that the spirits of my old land are in those trees. Some new spirits live

in there that don’ take to the ones coming in from the old continent an her islands. We got

enough trouble for one continent aye.

As I walk by another group of Yanks catches up to me these ones officers all

bedecked in blue an gold. I’m in open-sole black boots an so they think it funny to gallop

alongside and poke fun at my worn-through getup. I tell them I had it with their coarse

manners an get out of here back to the north as they was a bunch of terrible minded

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scalawags. To this one of em a blond lieutenant by th look of his shoulder insignia an

with a scoundrel mustache continued to jest at my uniform and tol me,

“Secesh, what you are wearin’ is a disgrace to the white man. You ought to see

your reflection on that stream over there. You look like you’re wearin’ a dead Negro!”

An th whole group erupt into laughter an I shant describe other invectives beat

into my head over th course of my shuffle to Richmond proper for they followed me th

whole half mile in.

I approach th city an all around is shopkeeps tryin t go on as if th war had not

touched us which is nigh funny as th city is still smellin like smoke an th shopkeeps is

Northmen anyway. When the leader of those Yanks come up behin’ me who was some

kind of jayhawker obvious by the look of his scarred or burned face neither which I had

desire to confirm saw me try an melt into the crowd of people all around he call out to the

crowd sayin,

“If anyone finds a rebel captain dressed up as a nigger you come to me and I’ll

reward you for your troubles”.

None object to his fool notion to ask for help finding me an I am sad t say it was

only by virtue of sheer exhaustion an want of food that none drag him down an beat out

his skull from his skin. Well he headed off after that with his scoundrel twin th Blond. We

in Richmond was together in our hatred of the northern men so we all shuffled together

though some were white and others migrants and others negroes. We all wore open-soled

boots an the caps wer all different even on th whites. An it all had to do with the war,

none of the depots ever give us anything standard which is t say th Confederate supply

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depots. We wore kepis an straw hats on marches an collars up high to hide scars that look

like cobbed webs on some of the men. This scarring from buckshot an shots not properly

connected to a mans back.

I walk on up to th old Randolph book store an the store is closed. It says on th

door We Are Out Of Business. I torn down that sign as my eyes did not quite believe such

a thing- this store been open an my family did come here ever since I been a kid. Well I

place all blame on the bluecoats an their black mares stomping over this land. I feel that I

am not far off in that assessment. Bluecoats on horseback flit around through th spaces in

the buildings an rubble-strewn foundations.

In th dusk its almost like th stories you were told about as a young child about

little powerful men who come down from th mountain and vales to take th valuables from

the towns an steal them away into a keep somewhere up north. Well those tall tales are for

th little ones. As a Captain in the Confederate States Army I feel duty-bound not to fall

for such comparisons but I have faith in the One Above an judgment will come from on

high one day soon. The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want sure that’s grand but what

happens to be right now in Richmond I know Jesus Christ sees it. And the ones in power

ought to shake in those fancy soled leather boots kickin on top of th black mares of theirs.

I walk on past J.W. Randolph former booksellers establishment and go on

wending through Richmond toward th Georgetown road. My father told me all about the

place my family spring from back in the darker days that had rolling hills steep canyon

and even more secessionists than here he’d joke. That was Ireland.

“No British in Richmond”, I’d retort, “over here we are free men!”

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But he would get a look behin’ his brows that tell that something troubled him. I

still can go where I want I’m walking over the dirt road in the middle of Richmond aren’t

I? An even the blue coated men know to leave me be as th gray tree left standing in a

farmers field. I am more trouble than they will to get into ha ha. Georgetown can wait I

think I have need of walking about these streets one more time. Yanks cannot take my

freedom even with their new harping on about machines t do their work in great big

factories. Well machines aint goin t take a mans immortal soul will they?

I decide to push through those spaces in between th buildings an see those spaces

with my own eyes. I can see cows at pasture as though it were still summer. Well it’s an

Indian summer I think. An I’m walking toward those spaces I know they can’t take that

nor th sky from me can they. They can beat us in war but they cant beat our souls because

our souls are made of finer material than they know. I remember a thing Pa once tol me:

“A trade not properly learned is an enemy” A trade not learned is going t be th enemy to

them someday an I tell you right that trade shall be fighting. Someday they learn about

what a machine look like when people make it up cogs in a big tawny nightmare with

gray an black caps and feathers in those caps by God.

From those fields I come back down into th lane again. I had to stop in the

marketplace. I stop an stare at the many people all goin about their business. Mothers had

kids about em an the men in worn bandages on their foreheads. Some men walk in

crutches for they prolly caught the broadside of some cannon in the siege that just lifted

not too long ago. Like th mist off a cliffside when it roll down into the sleepy towns of

the south their breath comes out in ragged gasps an settles on the dirty muddy ground. I

continue on down into the marketplace center. Cows pullin wagons of hay and the

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farmers sit up top and scowl down t me. I believe it to be on account of the fact that I

have all my arm and leg intact but I tell it fierce I am a patriot. The cows go silent

forward into the cracks between those houses I guess that pass for roads now-a-days.

Every blade of hay on that hay wagon had a story like every soldier I heard talk

over the campfires on the trail. Some of those blades were cut down on the trail some

were cut down on the field an others still were pushed down by all manner of people

marchin over an under an through things. I used to sleep on it an count the stars if I had a

lucky night. I’m still standin in th marketplace square wonderin how many of my kin will

come through these ruins just to get away. The lucky nights seem a long place from here

now. My soles have holes in them and the mud seeps on in even when it doesn’t rain

straight t my heels an my heel bones. Th stars shine like bits of glass caught in my eye

like th windows on the shops when there was street fights in th final months of war.

Though I was not one of those fighters I heard it told after I come back from those

soldiers able to tell. An before them memories come back I believe I am done with

communion with th town.

I remember my goal in all this walking. I am goin to Georgetown to join the

seminary. Communion is talkin to blades of grass an broken stars and mist comin down

off cliffs. Times like these you can say it straight that God has his hand even in war or so

I have come t believe.

Like the carpetbagger Yanks in town earlier I too decide to make it scarce. I been

standin in this square for longer than I ought to any way. Somethin held me back here

tellin me th market would be mighty important but there’s not a thing I needed t buy an

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beside that all I have is my name an a few bits of CSA scrip. Georgetown is just a day’s

ramble from here along with a ferry ride an sufficient amount of food is stuck inside my

gut fast. Grits an corn and enough biscuit t choke a horse if I am bold enough to say it. I

pass on through the market and forget the blades an ghosts of what might come to pass an

I head far past th streets of Richmond just as such a specter might. The puddles have th

eyes of ponds now-a-days they are large enough to house a spinning miller wheel in

them. I remember when the millers had the lay of the land in their pocket, now that age

seem to have passed away. I had the strangest dream of a man in a straw hat th other day.

I cannot help but think that I see that man from that dream in that puddle as I put my foot

in my reflected face it did remind me of a man I once met in th Johnson Island prison

sitting atop Ohio in Lake Erie.

I stop. For th strangest reason I believe it to be for th slightest second an

embodiment. Of some higher or lower power that much is unclear but the face is watery

an shifting. First I see th worn but thoughtful creased face of my Pa old man Dooley.

Then th clear complex face of another man manifests itself in that hole. His cheekbones

can be seen through the water’s cool gaze an he has one of those hats I seen in th sqaure

th straw kind not unlike th ones we was forced t use on th marching to Gettysburg. Times

so long gone yet they feel as though they could be today or even dare I say tomorrow for

the past sometimes gets that quality to it in that it could happen all again in different

manifestations. There is nothing new under the sun says the Good Book of Proverbs.

Those hats I seen all over the land as I marched around but it gets to me deeper than that.

The hat sits upon that cool blue skull an I can see it to be one of th canal workers or one

of the boathands on the docks outside Richmond. His hair could be red if he weren’t

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composed up of water but it may been black as well. Th water shifts a final time an I just

seen my own reflection in it this time. I step away from that water hole.

I continue on for another hour and a half. The cows all around are beginning to

lay down upon their front legs and all stare down at the ground as though they had no

idea the stars come out at night. Of course by this time th sun is setting but th stars can be

glimpsed through th cracks in the clouds. The ruined Confederate States lay behind me an

I feel as though I am one of th men who passed by the beat man on the road, the second

man to pass by before th Good Samaritan. It is a shameful feeling t be leaving for th

North on one sense but on th other hand it is Gods service I plan t enter. I wend on and do

my best to get past th wagons busted in the road some with burns an some of them

shackled to skeletal passed mares. As I passed the signpost pointing North and back behin

me South a shiver settled over my shoulders like a chain-link coat of arms. Th world is in

such a sorry state when th cows in th fields don’t look up to see the work of the Lord’s

hands tearing down the sun an I can’t help but recall the words the man on Johnson’s

Island up atop Ohio far north waxed to me.

“Every pebble a stone; every stone a boulder; every boulder is a mountain to us

Irish. But this world’s prisons are no pebble,” he said.

The fields are nearly full-on enveloped in darkness by this time. I believe I tarried

too long in the marketplace square making my observations an I don’t believe they are

worth recording in my journal of the war years. No I’ve written enough about th war an

the time is coming I must lay down my weary body what with th fables an all. I stop my

footsteps in one of th burnt tobacco fields in-between th ferry and Richmond’s old road.

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The fires burn intense in the fields out in these parts. I know it to be other families tearing

down th trees setting on th outskirts of their neighboring properties for heat. Well I need

sleep I decide. I set myself down upon a stump nearer to the road North. When I stepped

from that dirt road North I feel as if I crossed over some boundary but I know that’s a

fool’s notion for no Mason-Dixon line runs through Virginia. Over those fires off in th

distance I see the constellations an stars I was taught in school.

Rising smoke an heat dances underneath an forms up a barrier between th fire and

th sky an rightly it does give me pause I can’t quite recall what caused all this to come

about looking beautiful after all those horrors done to Richmond. The landscape is

hainted. I content myself by allowing th images of braves doing battle with the

cavalryman out west to settle over my thoughts. An the great warrior Orion slaying th

hydra washes over my mind as I slouch back on this stump and see the heat waves rising

forever upward. An I can feel the powerful pull of sleep come on almost as if I am that

boathand I seen in th puddle. I’m bein pulled out on the river onto a jetty drifting out

from some quaint canal in southern Ohio. I know I cannot make it into Georgetown

tonight but the weather is pure an crisp. I slide off from the stump to the mudcaked

ground an I curl into a fast doze.

Images from before th war come back up to the surface of my mind an ripple out.

I can’t help the man walkin up t me from th field. If this be sleep I do not know.

“Mought be a mistake to think you can go on to Georgetown in the morning,”

says the man.

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“Name’s Mick Finn. I helped on the path back at Richmond. I seen you staring

down at me. It’s true I haven’t much height Dooley but you need understand only that the

road yore walking is the final one your descendants ever will walk down. You go on up to

Georgetown and your descendants will keep on going that way til they get to the big

cities where no soul knows your name an the masters always will scorn you. Now you

listen close Cap. John Dooley. You go on to Georgetown and you study what the Lord

tole you to. An like Abram long before you and like Cerbaill after him youll marry the

bloodsoaked land to th North. An like Abram and like Cerbaill old high king of Eire

nobody in th land will know yore name.”

I shifted. In my vision I seen the hand of some shepherd come down over me and

touch my forehead near th spot I was nearly shot clean through by a Yankee bullet when I

was foraging in Petersburg. I gaze up an hes much taller than th pictures in my old home

make him out to be. I seen he was wearin no flowing white robe but in my dream I knew

it was God Almighty. He had about him a ruffled brown cloak as though he may be a

monk of some order with which I am not familiar. His sleeves flowed over his arms like

the streambeds I seen my friends strewn about at Cedar Creek. An just like my friends in

that creek there were splashes of brown an red an green color on those cassock sleeves.

There was a peculiar sheep wrapped around his shoulders which Mick Finn stroked upon

th neck with his hands. I had occasion to see the eyes of the sheep an was astonished to

see they had irises and the holy white of human eyes! An what is more than I could bear

the irises were th color of my Father’s eyes. I could hardly believe what I was beholding.

Well I awoke like a tree bein planted an what is more Id sunk into th mud a bit

leavin a print of my body in the earth. It was early morning an autumnal chill was comin

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on strongly. I could see hints of mist playin around hangin over th corners or the field as

far as I can see around. Off somewhere I cannot see are the farm livestock though the

shadows play by on th edges of my sight. It’s like in that dream how that sheep on Mick

Finn’s hands cast no shadow. Or it is rightly like the stories Father told.

I walk down th path. I see mist an it rolls on in front of me as though it were a

river mouth gently rolling on. I walk on toward th next town. Spotsylvania hills full on

bodies peek out from th trees along th path I’m on. T’ be truthful this place north of Mr.

Richmond feels like it is asleep on th battlefield trying to be mistook for a dead man. I

can see no birds but I can hear a train’s whistle somewhere mournful fierce and tender all

at the same time. Such as it is with th time being as early as it is and my limbs being nigh

frozen from sleeping on th cold earth I feel just false as th land. Chills my ankle bones

just to think of th mist rolling around like this you ought to think it could be the clothing

on th backs of the towns’men and women. I feel that strange chill travel up-ward to my

poor skull and it makes me want to lay down with it. But I will do no such a thing. I will

continue walking on toward Georgetown.

My thoughts drift as the angels did in those days carrying away the old souls who

were spilled out on the battlefield. They drifted over us, and still drifts lazier than the

world below to which all we poor travelers are consigned. This fog obscures Purgatory

deep in Sheol if what I have read and heard whilst in the camps is true.

Th path is becoming much rockier in place of th previous mud bits. Now corners

of stone detach from their ground and tumble down the path’s steep sides. I am

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descending somewhat slowly into a gross abyss but for the smell of th cold depths of the

Chesapeake Bay and the boat man I feel will be there.

When I approach through the pass there are two tall cliff’s sides. In those cliff’s

sides I see roots tangled as a body might be when falling from a great height. I see stones

pushed together and laying in quickly assembled heaps up top, and they speak their

stories from a place no man can fully hear but can see with their eyes be they inclined to.

It is an inaccessible place like th spot between rousing for th work day and being in the

tight grip of sleep. I can not remember why I noticed these stones but I feel deep in my

bones that it transpired as if in the same field where the boat man and the sheep and the

saint stood. It was something of a revelation for me to realize this place was linked so

stronger in my mind as I descended. Th closer I got to the bays edge th more strongly I

felt that no man could hear my voice. An outline materialized out of the wisps of wind an

fog on th riverbank.

I approach on foot. My eyes can now make much of th fill-in detail but I cannot

describe what the man standing on th riverbank resembled to my weary eyes. He holds

his hand across his chest like th pictures in th story books I was read to as a young child.

Wearing a fashion that is from some other time and place he whistles quickly the jaunty

song or as I say tune that evoked in me that dream again. This cools my racing heart that

has I feel some apprehension. But oh! What a violence comes over me and paints pictures

of th future. A violence of calling after someone leaving this life for th next as I did call

out for my men on th field at Gettysburg. They ran up the hill By God we all did in Genl.

Kempner’s Brigade. It is almost as if I am venturing back down to their graves from th

thick bushes an scrub up Cemetery Hill an it was th high water mark when we nearly

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made it. Th slain men I feel I run from. Irish with Mick after their names, others still with

barbed epaulettes an machinery sputtering out in their hometowns spreading wings as

butterflies in spring do. Kempner in his splendid gray leading the charge from horseback

and men falling like leaves. Th trees spit them up as used chaw.

This man at th rivers bank speaks.

“Can see you need t’ cross the river son.”

I’m close to him now an can smell his pipe clinging to his clothes. A tiny fleck of

brown slicks from th side of his mouth. I wonder if he has been doing all right since th

time the man that look like him appeared to me before the War Between Th States.

“Theres a mighty lot of people needing passage,” I speak up,

“Some getting called away still fewer precious others getting saved. Th war took

most of what we work for all these years an I am consigned to travel North to th land of

the aggressor. But others among my kind in th South cannot find their old homes in th

ways they once were. I’m needing to get t’ th other side of this bay an I am willing t pay

what you need me to pay.”

At this th man turned an cocked his head. I did notice his hat in that moment. A

kind of felt covering which drooped low on the right side it was wide-brimmed. After a

most tense minute in which we judged each other’s competency and I indeed realized this

was th same man which Mr. Richmond had introduced me to all those long battle worn

years ago and I held out my hand to shake his. It was a pleasure to meet in this way says

Mick Finn as his head cocks even deeper than before in a bow. I recognize that it was a

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gesture from some other time and place that Father had once done th same to an old

plantation man when I was a young child. An that old man’s coat was covered in dust

much like th man standing in the dirt in front of me.

“It’ll costs three Confederate dollar bills to cross this bay”, he says from under

that bowed hat but his eye focused from under th side toward me.

“What need do you have of those worthless scraps?” I exclaim. I could not see for

the life of me why this man would want such paltry fare though I kept those thought

inside me.

“These are th spiritual banks sir. All pay accepted. My days went out wit the

canals. Now-a-days if it weren’t fer th’ accepting of various form of pay I would not have

a job. O Hell last ride th’ man paid with one half-flask whisky but he did attempt to add a

piece of coal to this. I tore in at that point by God an took down that whisky an tole that

man get in.”

I was not sure how long he would continue an if he was elevated possibly from

spirits. I shift upon the gravel of th river bank an let my gaze drift out to th covered bay

which was drenched in a deeper sort of fog.

With a spit to clear his narrative he did continue.

“ I tell you one point I was able to bring forth men from th’ south to th’ north on

th’ Mississippi. From Natchez to Paducah and every beggars’ hole in between I carried

them an tricked the men and bedded the women on the banks. But now a days there are

hardly a man left to tell how Mick Finn the river man cleared the way for th’ ironclads t’

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fight. They taken th’ ironclads an turn them into factories for these new rich boys to play

in as though they were th’ saints of some new smoke and metal world. Perhaps more

properly a world made of smoke an metal. I tell you I find more value in three

Confederate dollars than all the authentic greenbacks they push on us now a days.”

At this point I did speak. I felt some fact in my bones that my question could be

borne without any increase in th fare an aside from it all th venture down through those

fogs had left my head in a bold enervated state.

“Mr. Finn this still seem to be a very inexpensive fare for crossing over such a

wide expanse. T be honest which is more rare a Confederate dollar or a Greenback.”

To this his response was a scathing thing.

“I tell you the Secesh dollars but it is not any great love for those plantation men

or the army they raised nor is it in any sort an affection for Mr. Richmond. It’s the fact

that it stand for a time when I in deed stood for something that seem to have faded in

recent time an nothing more than that.”

I had hardly even expected such a thing. This Mick Finn was some new man I

figured. No where in his tirade did I sense the same raw incarnation of tomfoolery that he

showed years ago. But he did appear with his head like that an his leather brown coat as

though he were a rabid dog like those dogs on Cedar Mountain. No those were not dogs I

thought had lived in those hills. Those fogs had charged with us when we went up on to

th hill an each had a leatherbound hide that looked like some sort of terrible curse but

when I look down on them as I charge it seem time had come to a close. It was a dreadful

emotion that come over me when I looked down on those hounds and realize none looked

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back up to me. When we got up to that peak there was foam that come out of those

mouths and they all kept running even running in place at th top of Cedar Mountain.

Captain said simple exhaustion of being on the trail without sleep in so long had made me

believe in eye tricks. Maybe this man in front of me was some person in th same leather

skins.

As he reached for my bills in payment I had notice of a blue overlay of veins in

his hands. He was older an it did cause a certain discomfort t swell in my breast. No time

for melancholy so I lay it by. Now by this time of day th early fog was lifting toward th

sky, dispelling like vespers whispered to th Lord at the earliest hours, I was on my way t

Georgetown University to learn those vespers by my God! No amount of battles nor

death in its complexity nor birth by means of rebirth could take me from His patient

waiting arms.

Finn thumbed th bills I gave him into a pocket tucked to the underside of his

brown coat. In that moment I studied him closely as I could. His beige cap hung low an I

got th feeling he had staggered out from a woodcut some roof thatcher or carpenter had

made for his great grand father. It was in th way he bent his head to find th pocket. There

was a slight deliberation before his purpose became clear. A level of near imperceptible

dust flickered from his overcoat as he shoved in th bills an I dare say that cows could

dance upward in th coming rays of sun an it wouldn’t cause me to alter my gaze away

from Finn in that one moment. I saw myself also in this way he fingered th bills, it was a

specific kind of faith that could move mountains once but no longer. I felt as close as I

could t sharing a common fate with another man in that moment.

23

Even in the action of unclasping th pocket I saw reflections of th legendary loch

masters standin on the docks from Father’s stories. It was a watered down faith bogged in

th misery of experience but strong on deft living.

What had th priest told me on my first Mass? He had told me that in this world

more than one person has been transfigured. An in my private moments I took that t be

sacrilegious and in moments where I am closer t myself I realize that it’s the way it

always has been. But I will fight for this nation America an what I had need of it t be. I

fight on in for th Lord even if he is Anglo. I nod at Mick Finn an I step not hesitant into th

rocking boat crushing stones under my open sole boots. Finn steps light upon th bank and

leaps in as though he were some ancient animal. Th sun is out full force an this inlet

glistens with fish.

We push forth from th banks and th fog is disspated entirely. It is an earthy day in

late September but the sun still shines an the water just flows by. I drift my hand through

that water. Mick Finn issues a cough an dust colors the sun rays. Seems like dust covers

up a lot of things now-a-days. Well I was yawning as we headed towards Georgetown far

down past this place.

1873

24

I stood upon that square in th Capitol of these United States. Off in th cold

somewhere I could still see trees dropping their leaves as though they were downtrodden

folk disposing of their rich brown coat for some other kind of covering. I know they

approached death but as trees do they shall be born again new. Women an men in their

coats seem to be goin faster on th walks by th road at this time an if you saw their faces

you would know that there was a bank panic or rather a run on th banks as all papers are

calling it. Mr. Richmond stood over to th left side of me as Mick Finn come bounding up.

Mr. Richmond was holding a copy of th daily paper where in big black letters th words

“ECONOMIC WOES ARRIVE ON AMERICAN SHORE” glared at all th heads beneath

th hats walking by. What is more I realize I have never met these men as I stand in that

square but still I know their names. The names came from somewhere though so I think

perhaps I seen them in a ships manifest somewhere an just happen to get it right.

Th bounding stops an Mick Finn had planted himself in the midst of that square

alongside myself an Mr. Richmond who took off his gray felt suit an underneath he seem

more haggard than he once was but whether from some emotional display or a fight

where he was torn down I do not know. His face held a scar I beheld from th side of my

field of vision. It was large enough t distract me as I opened my mouth t talk to this

newcomer Finn.

“Been a few years aye since I seen you last.”

Mick Finn bowed down an as his hand crossed th front of his tattered beige coat.

I seen he also bore some kind of injury but his injury took th form of a long lash acrossed

each palm. It was only when he drew back that hand an it disappeared into his sleeve

25

that I notice a clanking sort of noise off to my right side on over th buildings of

Washington. A group of gray men in top hats an black coats began crossin the square all

in a large procession an standing my ground on that spot in th square those men go by an

so conversation did begin to present a difficulty. It seemed as though a veritable

stampede was picking up for these men an it became a flood all of em running to th

nearest bank.

Truth be told I had no ideas as to their destination but in a manner of speaking

their unease seemed to be a palpable thing. They were capsized an thrashing

economically of course. No comfort found itself in my soul though I held my ground there

in that one square so as not t be swept into th crowd. But I do try to make a way for these

men to bypass my humble trinity of me and my companions. Some of those coat men

wove direct through us like we simply did not exist. Whenever I tried for contact with any

of their eyes it seemed I was unable to discern any facial feature beyond a long gray

beard or a slight glinting of eyeglass.

“I seen you were making a go at crossing here”, this Mick Finn said as he thrust

down his other hand into a coat pocket, “an I thought t humor you with a few words.”

I could see his face. I thought for one split rail second there could have been an

element of humor to his complexion that then went out like some river that was flooded

and some bridge taken out. Now all that could be seen upon his face was a mask but of

what I did not know.

But in any case I did not know why I knew him though I did.

26

“I am not crossing here yet sir. I am Jack Dooley an I do have a feeling we have

met once before though I do not know where. Are you called Mick Finn sir?”

Th shuffling an clanking an shifting of coats roundabout me hollered roughlike in

my ears still. Finn choked back a barking sort of laugh before his response. Mr.

Richmond was meanwhile takin off his coat an attempting t hand it off to some black man

crossin in th crowd surrounding our midst with Mr. Finn now our midst. Peeking out from

under his beige cap with his brown eyes he swore to Mr. Richmond who nowabout had

torn off his ragged shirt as well th blood stains caked into great bluish splashes on his

shirt. Mr. Richmond begun shouting about some allegation about that man.

Well I turn my head back to Mick Finn who was viewing this cacophony with a

great interest. He spoke up as a slow smoke began pouring in from somewhere on the

western side of town.

“Aye you have it right, I am Mick Finn an many faces have crossed my path. I

doubt you have met me in person: though I am widely known around in th southern states

so I believe y’may have seen me mayhaps on some travels in th area or else heard talk of

me in some bar out West.”

A coat man then brushed violent past Mick Finn who was balanced upon his left

foot with th other over it. I was glad of this distraction since Mr. Richmond was fast

becoming a pitiable wreck waving his stained shirt in th air an callin over th crowd. He

was callin for some sort of order but it seem to me that order was off running into a bank

an drowning an here still I was standing in this one square as though I were a phantom

no body had summoned.

27

“Well Mr. Finn I ask you what kind of man stands around in this square as a great

herd of men goes forward on into th banks as we are?”

I spoke loud an my voice reached a pitch I hadn’t known I was capable of. But

these men did not look in my direction, They only kept up their mad stomp to th nearest

bank an despite it all we were not being run over or splattered it seemed.

Mick Finn was standing on th flat cold stone on that square. Coming in from th

distance all that smoke I had mentioned earlier was washin over the top hats of those

stampeding men rushing off to their banks. Mick Finn took out his hand from his pocket.

Mick Finn took down his brown floppy cap from off of his head. And Mick Finn said,

“Got to get out of th way when th market bulls are rushin’ on those banks.”

July 20th, 1877.

28

At the whistle th train began clackiling off down th tracks. You might be thinkin

some god was guiding me from above but how I got this job even He don’t know. I was

poking my head around th market one day an just so happened I seen an advertisement by

a certain train line looking for a job with need of being filled. I did answer that call for a

new type of enforcer on the Baltimore and Ohio Railway to be called a railroad enforcer

which is some kind of policeman of th tracks.

“As long as it pays”, I had said to that man in th office room full of maps an a big

clock which sat facing me from th other side of th table.

My thoughts did drift in that meeting but I found time t speak to th clock or rather

it felt that I had been speaking to a clock whose hands did not move as normal. A man

beneath that clock said my experiences living all roundabout on tracks during wartime

would certainly be helpful and I did agree with him but absentminded. Still I couldn’t

escape this feeling of time slippin by an the clock made it obvious it was so.

Although it felt a long time I suddenly realized it took less than an hour. I walked

from th clock room out to th street in a haze as I was now employed by th Baltimore and

Ohio Railroad as a watch man. The District of Columbia had not ever look to be this way

before because at once I took notice of th seeming skeleton of metal framework up above

me on th sidewalk. It was a simple strange bit of building. Perhaps it had been or would

be for holding an awning of some sort. Almost like a web over my head but I just began

thinking what form of roof would come to be over my head after this out on th tracks?

We were told to keep a look out for the James Younger gang as a joke but rightly I

did not believe any kind of crime was going to befall me out on those lines. Still my job

29

was at stake an so even one crime was too much to let slip me by so I kept a watch out. I

say any crime too much to bear only because as an Irishman crime was already said t be

in my blood so an added amount of vigilance had to be observed so as to defeat that sort

of illusion. Now I take no stock in such fool notions but I tell you many do. As these

things go however I soon found out that there were less crimes to be seen than that office

man had made it seem. Most days I could find myself in th back of th train which is t say

caboose watching time flow on by th passing of each station with aid from a tarnished

copper pocketwatch. I did have workers there with me an on occasion we engaged in

discourses on recent events both political and labor centered. I often took to the opinion

that my job was the most important thing I could be engaged in an so be it if others took

to organizing I would not be a part of any such organization. Most like for fear of losing

that job I was lucky to have got in th first place.

One such of these men was a Negro porter in the Pullman cars we pulled who did

go by the name of John Abraham. He did have a quiet nature but on the topic of working

rights what could be said of him was that loyalty to the company was one priority which

he cared to make first. John had a way of using the right words to describe situations in a

piercing fashion. One such occasion introduced me to the man. It was in the year of 1875

an I had just been hired as th railway watch man. What I now known as a time of

economic troubles was gripping th whole country over an rightly we did fear for our jobs.

As was often th case I was making my rounds through th Pullman cars on a Friday as we

were waiting on passengers in th Cleveland station. I chanced to come upon John in that

car as he was doing something for which he would not be paid which is t say cleaning out

th cabin an making up beds.

30

I walked to him as he was standing an I said,

“By God get out of this aisle an let th whiteman through”. It was not so much as I

put supremacy in my race as it is that I was knackered after a long day an aside from that

he was beneath me on this train. But there he stood all th same as still as an icon in some

forgotten church an he said t me

“I’m not getting paid”.

It did seem t me that none of those of us working about th railroad were t be paid

that week. I watched his hands as they took out th corners of that sheet and I stood there

paying my attention to th way his eye never left th corner just t make sure that all corners

were even though the corners made an attempt to fold or rather bunch up. Th first corner

was held in one hand an he brought over t meet it at th next corner but he did hold th

sheet in th middle as he did so. All this time I failed t meet his brown eyes as they stared

at me an as he lay that blanket down I said to him

“We aren’t being paid”.

Now I am seated in front of this Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers character

by th name of Donovan McFoley an we are on a rare break an hes tellin some sorry tale

about when th Railway Union struck out against th big houses of riches. House

Vanderbilt- House Carnegie- House Astor. I am tryin t eat a sandwich an get some sleep

an this bindlestiff goes on about workers rights an unionizing an how it shall help us. I

am staring out th window as this man jaws off but I listen only a small bit. Mostly what I

am concerned about is my previous state of affairs which was before I got a job. This

windbag made it seem like we was just pawns on a patchwork board with bombs strapped

31

to our hands as fruit with all th chaos he spoke of. Well I had more independence than

that by God.

“There’s a way to get out from under a belly-up strike, aye, but I don’t think we

found it yet”, this great blatherskite mumbled from out under his brown moustache.

I just look out th window some more as us railroad watchmen are wont t do. You

know I hesitate t associate myself with a union man from th beginning an what is more a

worthless fellow Irishman t boot. I let spit fall from th corner of my mouth down t th

creosote floor as I chew my tobacco. This fellow had a gift for gab as we call it.

Despite my negligence toward a full hearin of his tales of strikes against railroad

baron Gould he persists in tellin me some cock-and-bull story for which I had my own

experience. Said a character named Finn visited durin that strike an arrived with some

other man who had a whip an they rode through on mares tearing down into th hired

guards as well as th strikers in about equal measure. Old Jay Gould an rightly everyone

present including th teller of th tale had nary an idea of what t do. Well I look that

blundersmith in th eyes as he told me it all an tell him that he sounds like a Protestant all

right for how much hes griefing. Well that stops his cannonade well enough.

I been on these tracks for days. What kinda Irishman gets a job on th tracks? Th

kind who caint find a job working th soil or tilling it- something he can come back from

home to see a wife an kiddies. Times like these make a man pine for th old country. Men

like myself that is t say. At times I get me a chance t gaze out on that big Mississip

country when we are tracking through th South. A place of rollin green hills an hollows

an then times other we are tracking through Penns Woods which is t say Pennsylvania

32

where th coal gets sucked out through human veins. Yea you do not need be a windbag t

know its us that has t suffer for th sake of th big houses of riches I believe. Th late

afternoon sun is comin in through th slatted windows of this rail car lulling me an I admit

it makes my eyelids droop as we head on out from th Cleveland station.

I hold out th days paper from my hands an see th sun cut through th faded type.

Th Plain-Dealer looks almost like a window in this light. But still I bring it over and lay it

on top of my legs. I got t get me some sleep. I yawned.

As my head nodded downward I gaze at this paper. On th front page it has some

news of th continuing rebuilding of Chicago after its blaze oh about five years back. It

says some Irish broad named McGrath fell asleep on her watch of her cow and th cow in

question kick over a lantern th small fire ended up making off with th entire City of

Chicago. Life has changed fast in that American city. Then I look through those words

and see a world on fire out on th passin landscape as well.

Well the fire took me over too because I did fall asleep in that moment. Th clitter

clatter over the tracks lull me time to dozing even if it goes against th regulation. I’m only

a watch-man at any rate and trains you cannot watch. If its on th tracks you have done

your job an well I might say. So I have no objection to letting my lids close and this

vision opens up frightening.

It was hard t take all of it in. By way of words I will set down what I seen. Th

envelope of wooden benches roundabout me give way to a black room an at first I did

rightly infer that it was a prison cell of some kind. Chains was stuck to th wall as though

they were cows internals as I seen once in the packyards on our way into Chicago. In

33

those chains there was a man in perhaps his early forties or perhaps fifties. I was in sterns

affront of him an he was draped down across cold brick. Groggy I open my eyes but I felt

caked blood upon my cheek. Across our bottom halfs was laid a funeral shroud tied

across as in pictures of Jesus Christ. Water ran down from th single window which I saw

to be about fifty feet higher than my cell-mates head but I could feel no rain an rightly th

sun seemed t be pouring in in equal measure.

I open my mouth.

“Where is this place?”

To this simple question I received none an answer though my companions mouth

did move somewhat. He had on an old tan jacket an had a white beard but I seen he had

brown hair mix in with some black too. Blood stained his face too a he appeared out of

sorts. I look up to th window with bars over it an light shone down but it is a cold light. I

feel myself ascending on through that window an leaving that man behin’ me. My chains

rattle down an as I flow up I feel as a soul must feel. It was th strangest dream as I could

have sworn a song was sounding in my ears as I flew an it had something t do with

marching on t Richmond.

I seen a landscape rolling by. Sage-brushes an cactus an tumbleweeds which I

seen only in my mind. I know it to be th West where tall tales I hear oft from my co-

workers come from. But quick goes by that barren place to be reflected only on th loch

waters of a place I feel myself to be a distant part of. I am flying at a speed I cannot

describe in English over those waters. I seen a man in a boat going through those waters

at a speed going th same as me. His flopped brown hat turns up an he looks up an faces

34

me an I feel a peculiar affinity to that boat man as both of us take people home. Or at th

least to a place closer to where their homes may be.

I can only see white or more properly opaque waters underneath but when I turn

my head I seen a field of sheep being led about by some man who smoked a pipe. He was

dressed in a queer manner of an earlier time when men could be seen t wear frilled things

an black overcoats. Which is what caused the alarm whistle t go off in my head? How is

it that this high society man is leading around all these sheep?

As it often happens a feeling came over me that this man was of Southern stock.

He held a cane and a tall stove pipe hat as he shew the sheep where to place their hooves.

I come to be idle over this verdant rolling space an saw a procession of sheep marchin

lockstep as though they were soldiers. At a certain point sheep reach from one end of th

field to th other an th water was not far off but they kept up that march. Th man cracked a

whip over th heads of tardy ones an t be truthful I had a tough time remembering how

long I had tarried there before they all stopped at waters edge. A mirthful grin did appear

on th man’s face when he cracked his whip once again and th sheep first hoof started in

on th water. No sound that sheep is known to make came out but I notice the back of th

procession was breaking formation an what sounded like a human mimicking a sheeps

plaintive baas begun floating up to where I was.

By this time th Boatman had shored up his to th right of this procession which I

come to see was on an islands edge though northern parts of it was covered over in cloud.

I gaze back around my own head or at least back of behin’ where my head should be. He

got on out of th boat an walked up t where the old strange-coated man was. The two of

35

those characters conversed in a joking sort of way as they for sure had seen me by this

time. I couldna shake th feeling that they had known I was there from even th beginning

an from even afore that hatted boatman seen me. An it was then that I look back at th

flock as I float over th sheep tearing each other apart underneath an in disgust I turn

upward where I see what I only seen in previous times as a statue in some yards which is

t say a man who looked to be a Saint. His crook stretched down from th sun feeling out th

territory for a place t come down. Saint Patrick it was surely an he appeared to emanate

from that sun when comin down an reachin for what sheep there were left.

As th crook reach the worlds surface a stronger breeze than I could understand

struck me.

In that moment I was torn from that strange place to what I felt was th flesh and

bone world. Th wakening was anything but peaceful however for I jerk up my head and

see th train bouncing fast to its final stop which as I recalled was to be th Chicago station.

There would have been no way out of this final destination whether I was ready or not an

so I stumble out of th watchmans cabin.

In an instant the prophetic word of th Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers

comes to me. By God sometimes life does just grab you by th horns and as the saying

goes it throws you out to a place you do not want t be. As we pull in to th station I steal

many glances out th window as I can between my checking of th end of trip manifest an

at my pocketwatch. It appear t me that folks are milling about on th platform in a

tumultuous sort of unorganization. Some are shouting an some have even begun throwing

things around or at least it appears that way. That ole B&O train slowly settled to its final

36

rest as it first seemed th Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineersmen were all over this

place causing a ruckus. I was worried irrationally that th James Younger gang coulda

come that far East an was now mucking up th crowd outside th windows.

As railway watchman I am responsible for ensuring that the crowd inside my rail

cars disembarked in a safe fashion. Well they th Youngers had killed several railway

watchmen in Missouri an who knows how bold they may be a gettin. Well it was not my

time to join those defenders gone on before so I did strap on my gun-belt. I step from th

caboose across th clanking gap in-between cars. I enter my first passenger car with

everyone in their seats staring worried out th window same as I have been. As I paced

down th aisle on my way through to th front of the cars I pass by th Brotherhood Man

McFoley. But it was not th time for conversation any more so I pass on by McFoley who

is seated facing outward into th aisle. His face looks pained an normally he is stationed

back in th caboose lord knows why hes up here in with these passengers but mayhaps he

was goin up t see th conductor. Now he sits panicked looking an sippin at his flask for

one last bit of whisky.

Next car had all manner of folk reacting in many a way. One lady was sharpening

her nails an her daughter observing her face in some pearl handled mirror. I pass by a

couple who seem to be doin nothing but staring into each other’s eyes. I was wonderin

how some man and woman could fall to be that way as I often fervently hope for a family

but know a travelin man t not be th kind which can found any family worth staying off th

track for. As my job was at stake if I continue thinking this malarkey I go through to th

next car.

37

Now on this car there was a visible tumult hangin about in th air as passengers

look out their windows an I can see out through those same windows to th crowd

gathered in th station. Th glass cast a strange reflection of worried faces mix in with some

man throwing a burning cudgel at a car a few ahead. I check at my side if I have th baton

given to railroad watch men on this line an I am rightly assured these scenes are real so I

tear my eyes away from th window and move on. Just to be sure I take off that baton

from my belt loop an heft it. It does reassure what uncomfortable feeling lies in my gut

but truly its like drawing shut th curtains after a passenger already has seen raiders

gaining ground.

I step over th woodboard floor with shillelagh in hand an in my other hand I

occasionally grasp to th edge of a seat. Passengers run by with hats in hand pushing past

despite my calls to order for seats t be taken during this crisis. I cannot look into th eyes

of any person here for I feel I may see some other world of fear to which I do not want to

become accustomed. I seen enough of that world in dreams an dyspeptic rhetoric

grumbled by Mr. Donovan McFoley. After gaining back my wit I leap through to th next

car. I hope to God that crowd knows what it is doing.

All shades are drawn but in trying to see clearly what I perceive as cigar smoke in

this cabin stings my eyes. Now in this car a palpable feeling of dread sits down as though

it were a passenger itself. It is still some time before I manage to grope my way through

this black space to find a handhold to continue pulling myself forward to exit through th

lead car. Against th side I hear men being struck already by men an if my ears did not

deceive me I did just hear a bottle shatter an glass drip as a bit of rain might clap over a

tin roof. I cough out loud an when breathing in am stung by th smoke flowing in through

38

windows opened. I hear no sound other than what I have described which is to say a

mass of people banding and scurrying to attack some other people. Aye this car is slowly

catching fire an as I approach closer to its exit- behind me a few first licks of fire sprout

up. This has quickened worse than any attack by th James Younger clan.

I come out through th blackfire car an step down in to th space between it an th

coal-car.

Light on my feet in th space between I stand there catching my breath from that

smoky hell. I spy through th crack here an go prone. Ash floats about catching in my

eyebrows burning me. Men run past an cannot see where I hide though I crouch down all

th same lower an lower hoping I do not have t defend against this assault. Theres all

manner of shouts and objects thwacking against th side of th enormous black engine up

ahead about five yards. It sounded as though some horrible inventor made up glass

muskets and give em to these people. Then I hear shouts from that locomotive cabin an

reckon that there is an altercation between a leader of this ragtag crowds an Hollywood th

Conductor. He was using his cupped hands to louden his hoary voice.

Now I stand up on my own two feet an I head out towards this cacophonic

assembly. It is probably my job to make sure that Hollywood does not reach harm so I

trample my way through by that platforms edge trying my best t avoid th ugly writhing

crowd. I hear th conductor’s voice. But I plainly do not hear him as I normally would for

his voice became muffled out by th crowds. He really spoke! Th noisy human landscape

is spewing out invectives an curses. In that moment I enter into th center of th crowd up

on that platform an by God I feel as though a tempest surges round but a tempest of blood

39

an sweat and beards. Fists fly but at no one in particular. Suddenly I feel no compulsion t

using my night stick against these men but even though one turns t face me and we see

each other eye to eye.

I desperately glanced up above this chaos trying to gain my bearings an catch

sight of th conductor whose wavering voice now falls across th heads spattered all around

me. But I am now being enfolded into a terrible wall of human bodies an can no longer

refrain at em from smacking at these nameless people an so I swat at their arms an legs an

I am Samson fightin with th jawbone of an ox. I yell out for Hollywood but those arms

then start reaching to take away my weapon but I keep flailing. A body is tossed up in

front of me then it falls down to th crowd around me beneath feet an beneath cold

railroad track an finally beneath th engine out of sight.

Then on that black engine is th conductor batting away at all reachin up angry

toward his legs. He is demanding that crowd to disperse which is leading to no effect at

all an at th foot of that cow catcher which is to say th gargantuan steel grate pushing out

from the front of that locomotive I leaned back and had to beat off climbing rioters from

reaching th conductor. I began to climb up th locomotive myself.

“Clear out! Clear out! In the name of all that be holy disperse!”

Hollywood choked on his words when my hands cover my ears an I clearly did

understand that this man was th incarnation of th company man that th Brotherhood man

was talkin about an so took my hands across his face.

I tore into that face with my nightstick an felt th flesh ripple beneath my hands.

40

I beat that man an by God I beat him down to death an down into th pit of

screaming rioters.

1885

I am standing in th dirty Chicago market place an hay flutters all around

scattered on th wind like votes on voting day when th Carnegies and Rockefellers sit up

an handmake th ballots so they can stuff all of ‘em into a ballot box and so secure

41

Chicago for th rich man. I have come acrossed such reports in th papers such as in this

Tribune I find on th way to work. In days like this all papers take a tumble in th wind so

in that wind I let it go an it tumbles an work is where I gotta get to now. So I set on down

from this street past th dirty Chicago town where th cheapest housing I’s been able to find

is which is t say a small two room affair with torn wallpaper an no toilet an fires starting

due to poor-made houses frequently.

An I go on down West 31th Street an on down th road or I suppose th sidewalk. Th

market place is far behin’ me now but straw keeps whiskin past my ears an stinging when

it hits my face. I have come t notice th hay is on fire in places. It was in th early dawn

hours an I hoped no fire should be rushing at this hour. It all seemed like an otherworldly

prank of sorts. I think on a certain bitter level fire just has th same sort of godhead as

does a boss or general an what is certainly more t say it has th same sort of appetites for

fuel just like th Great Fire that had its cause found in a single cow. I lost all prior

thoughts of that kind as well as supposing on what was to be done about this whole

ordeal when a suddenly burning clump of straw or grass grazed my beard which alerted

my nose to a dreadful smell of burnt hair. I realized I had a terrible singe to my beard but

it was not th same kind of fire that had burned th whole city of Chicago but could still

burn me. A fiery hay that caused me t slap my own face until th smoke stopped its

smoking.

Then I look down th street an then up at th mountainous buildings surrounding

my body. Over in th distance loomed th new bases of what is t be called a sky scraper.

Well I’m walking towards th meat packing district at Armour & Company. Th place

boasts itself as th most productive livestock slaughterer in th world an I was on th

42

livestock detail. I roped th animals an took them down to th killing rooms in with th sharp

knives of th butchers. More than once I had thought on it that we were all chained on this

conveyor going towards a great sharp hole despite different clothes an taking different

manners of habit. But right at at that moment of realization I come out onto th

intersection where the trees stand upon th corners as though they were soldiers retiring

from active duty an movin in to collect their pensions. Then I seen that figure in a tree.

Was it only some kind of morning mist perhaps coalesced into a mans shape? As I

moved into th street an as more of that damned fiery straw blew past an I still smelled

from my own beard fires stench. So it took awhile before I realized it was truly a man. But

this man I felt was someone I had known even before my fathers father’s father had

arrived from over th Atlantic Ocean. Aye this man wore a breeched coat with an

assortment of handmade buttons of no kind producible by any mass factory in Chicago

nor in any city I had known. At first I took that shape t be new leaves bursting forth from

upper branches was a man in a scarecrows cap sitting on th middle branch of a tree to th

upper left of my sight. His back was curved downward looking at me an I could have

sworn he looked haggard as an old dockhand. In th morning dark it was nigh impossible

t see him by th eyes but his head was so inclined as to be staring straight into me if he

had any sense to him.

I called out,

“How did you come t get up there?”

At th beginning I received no response from this stranger. That face was deep in

shadow. It looked down on me from a height of about sixteen feet an both hands were in

43

th pockets of that great breeched coat. I did see by this time that th sun was beginning its

crest over from the east from in th direction of Lake Michigan where boats crews must be

awakening an goin out onto decks t secure cargoes bound for all manner of godforsaken

places. Th light got in my eyes and did force me to squint some what. Well I took it as a

trick of th light but take shape in those piercing rays from th mornings rising sun I started

seeing a queer procession up there in th sky. I had not gotten on with much sleep in some

time which I accord t overwork so all of my observations must of course be taken with a

natural caution. But I swear I saw a holy man leading heifers down into th city from th

direction of the sun. An as each one touched th street I heard there be let out a long

human groan which did unsettle me a great amount. For what it means I have no

presumption however as th beef cows approached with that ugly murmur I saw th man in

th tall brown cap turn his face direct t me an suddenly I knew his name was Finn.

Once th final cow touched ground it let out its terrible insides all on to th

surrounding streets. Mick Finn stirred on his branch. I perceived him t be bending th

branch which he sat upon up an down as though he were testing its ability t bow before

breaking off complete. This was th last thought I had before that branch finally did snap

an Mick Finn dropped right down to th sidewalk an I stepped towards him of my own

volition though I knew full well that I was late an in danger of losing my job which is to

say my livelihood an my only means of surviving in this entrail-filled city. To tell it true

this place can be as cold as th English.

Mick Finn took th shorn branch he had drop down from and stood it up on one

end as I approached. At th same time from behin’ a creaking tenement on his right side

came th man who had herded th cows who looked like an elder priest but in th wrong

44

epoch an rightly I thought perhaps I am not turning insane after all for this cleric could

be from some order which aims t reduce th suffering in this crowded an smoking ruin of a

city. Well he took to Finn’s right side at any rate. Neither of them ever spoke up when I

told them I must go off an be on my way t work. An then th most frightening of anything I

had ever perceived or felt in my life emerged straight from that tree trunk behin’ Finn an

th cow shepherd. Finn twisted off a thin offshoot from his former perch an gripped it

tight.

It was as though some terrible abomination from a novel had just emerged from

that trunk an that thing had these full moon eyes which pierced me surer than th sun had

minutes ago. Seein it was like swallowing knives through th gullet of my skulls eye

sockets. I realized it was Mr. Richmond. This was beyond fright as I may have felt in th

stockyards. Time was not passin as it should have been in an ordered world. This bastard

walked as a man but wore only one pants leg for th other side had been torn asunder

from th hip down an by God that leg was raw red bone with wee gibbets of meat stitched

on. Its top portion was composed of slats of assorted flesh from bulls an pig an every

piece to every animal I had ever had seen killed an men I had ever seen butchered an

digested in th innards of Armour & Co. From my eyes corner I seen that heavy brown

robed cleric mouthing a prayer or a curse unto God or perhaps I was who done this. I

swear by that morning light I seen African fingers an hands reaching out from that

demented monster’s rib cage. But it seem that every time th white eyed creature took a

sharp intake of air those hands would get drawn in along with breath. On its bloodcandy

head it wore a stove-pipe top-hat.

45

I could not take my eyes off this. I was compelled to it. I put down roots in that

roads center. With a cantering affected walk that give it an alien feel it drew nearer.

Mick Finn asked one question an I was rooted to that spot thinking myself in an

ungodly profane place. An yet like th boulder in front of Christ’s tomb I could not be

moved by human hands. Mick Finn asked me one question however an his beast was

almost at my throat so I answer it in as succinct a possible way as I could. Mick whipped

that branch an leaned forward as he ask th question

“Pardon an old man do you know how to get on to Jefferson and Desplaines? I

‘ave a shipment of Men I need unlatched waiting on th Canal...”

I nodded towards th direction I was going prepared t be added to this gory

abominations hide.

It was th monk who embraced me.

May 2nd, 1886

So its begun I s’pose that is t say my work shift at Armour & Company doing the

killing and general hog tying of all th meats t be produced on the days shift. I know

definitely that what I had experienced this morning was not some mind trick but was an

honest to God apparition of some kind. Haints are th last thing I need at this time as many

men had been stomping roundabout th city raising a ruckus for months calling out “eight

46

hours of work for ten hours of pay”. Well that sounded all right an even luxurious but that

hog killin line would not kill itself so as long as I was a line worker thats what I would do

despite my need for a better life for my wife an our younger one on his way into th world.

My wife an I was very much in love an her name was Mary. Th child we just didn’t know

of what t call yet although it was in th old tradition of my Catholic ancestry from Ireland

to wait until th christening to bestow that important marker of maturity.

That melancholic madness that one can get after a long night without sleep now

was my ever present companion or at least it did feel that way. I stepped up to th steps of

th buildings front an pushed open that door an prepared t relate in simple terms that there

was some sort of macabre procession that had happened on that cold street that morning.

Upon my entry to th slaughter room th floor boss glided on over t me. He went by

th name of Samuel McCall and had migrated over to Chicago from th eastern seaport of

Quincy that is very close to th city of Boston an was of th Northern Irish originally before

his great grandfather set out against th Atlantic. His buttonless copper-color coat was

drooped over his shoulder like some bird of prey such as a jayhawk that had died upon

him an his mustache seem to be the rat or rabbit that had been that bird of preys final kill.

Now th jayhawk had much in common with the Northern Irish man and more especially

this Northern Irish man for the jayhawk flies about in th dark stealing th eggs of all birds.

I say of course Northern in th sense that he was a Yankee an it seem to be that

Yankees still harbored a resentment of sorts for my race. Well without th God-damned

English none of us would be here would we now? However as portions of my stock did

come from Richmond an as that thief king Hayes had stolen th election I did see some

47

enmity between ourselves on that point for McCall was a Massachusett Irishman through

an through an so supported Hayes. Well it was fact that th jayhawk was known to kill

other birds for th reason of acquisitioning th property of those other birds. So I s’pose I

cannot blame him for his eyes which had a hungry razor-bound look about them that only

served to boost that carrion feeder image of him. When he opened up his ponderous beak

it was like a face staring back out at you in those horrid stained teeth. He inhaled damn

near all th poisonous air in th kill shack for the whole morning and when he spoke bloody

splashes were fixed all across his mustache due to his being on the line. In truth it just

gave him more menace than he was worth. McCall spoke up.

“I can hardly excuse ye for such an impertinence in attending to the kill fields but

as it is the first offence ye have made on this an on account of how many years ye have

been here I feel some mercy in my heart. Were it not fer the amount of damn street

parades and happenings about city involving the cursed anarchist element we been having

to hear all week I may been less generous but as it stands Mr. Dooley I will leave ye to

yore slaughtering for I must go over to the foreman’s office for the day.”

I did watch him float past me with his feet squashing light in his leather boots of

terrible make all sopped with th blood of th floor that even now was swishing up against

my own.

This was th beginning of a days labor which I would have no recollection for my

mind was taken up by th question Mick Finn asked of me about where th corner of some

streets was. Where was that place I directed him to? Might have been th old Market. I

stepped on out to th enclosed field which had filaments of wire guarding all animals

48

within from hurting themselves for that was my job. Th line of dead and dying hogs

affected us all in equal measure. But Mick Finn’s inquiry from that morning was surely

what gave me a trembling sort of emotion right then. Mick Finn had asked where could

he unload his human cargo? I felt a lump growing in my throat an thinking back to th

Southern ways gone twenty years past Th upper crust of society had indeed profited from

it or used it to spring themselves into th upper reaches of class. Had we not as Dooleys

been part of that system as hungry merchants? We too was responsible for putting the

strap to th hand of th black man. Well perhaps I am gettin what I had comin to me but

slaves fought back too an so shall I. As I walk down th aisleway to get to my proper work

of this day which is t shear off hogs skins I feel a little like both slave an master.

A block of stone was set outside th entryway for employees as a step t get down

safely from th upraised doorway. Well I felt my boots slip up in th mud on that first step

down anyway. I coulda busted my damn ankle but saved myself though I did

overcompensate an so dig my other heel deep into mud an pig slop. I extricated myself

from that muck an wiped off that mud on th side of that stone block which shifted slightly

in th mud upon my foot’s contact all th while hearing around me th squalling of hogs an

th snuffling of their noses gouging out their own holes in th mud. Then I look at my boot

an an tried to wipe off th mud which was in a sense pointless as th whole yard was awash

in th stuff. All hogs in th yard was even covered even their eyes. I slid about in it but still

kept my balance as th pigs started massing an runnin through th yard like a crowd

dispersing. But I tell you it was a slow motion. It was as if there were a great tremor in th

yard an so I decided to get a move on.

49

But due to that tremor I felt a bit of th older wary soul in myself an tried knockin

upon th wood of th door thrice for that was my own great grand-fathers way of ceasing th

activity of any evil around him. Knocking on wood or so it was he had called it. Then

going on through th door I strode th wooden floors of the slaughterhouse where on great

chains above our caps dripped th guts of several hogs a minute each with his scrubby

snout an mud spackled back which various standers on th line first had t clean before any

further operations such as skinning an knifing with as much effort as five minutes could

muster up. Now it came on my conscience that each of the hogs killed up on that chain

may as well been th fellow workers I seen come an gone through that same door for

many years. An as I take up my knife t carve up th still writhing pigs which have not all

been killed as deep as they should have been I think wire was wrapped all around all of

us. We are all them smashed brains or else th entrails pulled fresh from th belly an

slopped in th drainage gutter on th floor.

I stood on that killing floor carving up those damn beasts an it was thoughts of

Mick Finn’s world came back on me. If a boatman he truly be then that was th world of

the old Richmond an the old Mississip. All over in those days they had canals that pull

down th boats an on em stood th river men. They pulled themselves and their cargo along

by th hoisting of poles into water some of which could reflect a mans true soul in th sense

that it reflected a man’s honest toil against th elements. All day he would work at getting

by much like myself but in those days still there were times for merrymaking and loafing

on th banks of th river dragging on a well-packed cob pipe. I had learned all of this up

from my father Jack who had been a rail way man out West somewhere.

50

There was a sort of socialist thinking I knew was present down in Bridgeport

where I lived an it was talked of in meetings throughout the South Side. It had been near

on a decade since th Battle of th Viaduct which had occurred down near my small

lodgings which was a frightful affair of gunfire from the police on to honest working

men. Come t think upon it it there were a various number of scuffles going on throughout

this city as recently as this past night on account of this combination of thinking an

reaction of th authorities against it. I heard there was some sort of a commotion down on

near to th McCormick plants earlier in th week.

“Heard true,” said a fellow toil-man living down in Bridgeport th Irishman’s part

of this here city of wind, “Heard true that many a man was killed by th coppers in that

skirmish which was outside of that plant. An ya know true too that damn Cyrus is not th

least like his old man an he is all for th greenback dollar an does not care one bit about

his men some of whom been working on those reapers since before his own wretched self

even came into existence. Truth be told I think all this may just be about th presence of

new machines because they can control machines but they cannot tame mans soul at least

not in such an easy way.”

Now this man I should mention is both my fellow working-man and my closest

ally here. Ever since I moved on up from where my ancestors come from (who did some

time in Virginia where an altogether different sort of wage was paid to th working man)

an ever since from th time before that when th patriarch come over from th emerald

island over th ocean (where th working man was an honest man an so it went with even th

shopkeep) I had always felt less an inclination to rebel an more of a simple sense of

justice an Lord let me say unto my dark cold grave that this was no justice. This friend of

51

mine was named Blackie for he was th one who went up lock stock an barrel into th

reapers for th oiling of th individual parts. But I had not the slightest clue where that sort

of name come from other than a passing fact which Blackie himself threw out in

conversation one day that th Irishman in th mines out in Pennsylvania was called as such.

That was that.

There was agents in th street in those days an by God they pulled both th billy

club an th th handle of th gun on any man or woman whom they thought might give them

guff. Even to a child would these mercenaries stoop down to club. They was named

Pinkertons an in my estimation th name conjured up flashing images of gun fire lodging

into faces all paled up from death. McCormick had hired the Pinkertons t stand all

guarded outside of his reaper works where th farm machines were soon to be made by

other machines that may as well a-been running over men an children in th process for all

he cared. On account of them workin for less the company brought in poor negroes from

th outer belt of th city to work instead of white men. I did not feel the blacks was given a

fair shake to begin with but at th hands of both striking men an putting up with th

McCormick men an also having to go on through th ranks of Pinkertons these poor

fellows were taken for a terrible spin. An even th lower class of whites McCormick got in

there to boost along production an they were of Bohemian stock an none had any sort of

clue that they were killing off their own jobs by setting it all up so th machines could take

it all on instead. For those Bohemians was th ones installing them machines. An we was

all workin for Cyrus McCormicks Junior.

Blackie ministered all these goings-on to me as we walked along that night on

Archer Avenue. All along on that street were th cries of children forced out from

52

underneath trash barrels an slops of food hung off from their typhoid lips all miscolored

like th children of Israel besotted with flies in th desert of Jordan somewhere back then.

Now I was no man of regular faith but I attended to my upbringing at times when a mans

life was in just this kind of danger. Times like these try a mans soul down to th quick an

no more had I any excuse for Pinkertons were going to come on in to th killing house of

Armour an kill men instead of beasts if I did not join up in some assembly to stop it. Th

crowd outside of McCormick’s Reaper Works thinned never in face of threat but only

from lead an brunt force. I call a pox on them private dragoons hired by the worst of th

Royal Houses of Chicago- th spoiled Prince Cyrus Junior. An so to resolve my questions

that night I am off to learn all I can. An so I head off down Lake Street to th saloon

Zepf’s Hall.

This place lay on th corner of 122nd Street an Lake. Many a man versed well in

labor disputes an their ultimate causes an even knew such a thing as a book read in

earnest for pleasure rather than a book utilized for purpose. In appearance it looked like

any other bit of town which us Irish was known t inhabit. Blackie led me here once back

when my family had first come up from th bays on th East coast back in th time when I

had first scrambled for a job of any sort an that was oh near ten years ago. Yes around th

time of th Battle of th Viaduct an th men being cast off from that viaduct to their watery

ends in th Chicago River by cops. A pox on em all.

Zepf’s Hall was in reality a German sort of place. It had many a Dutchlander

imbibing even during th day; it stood tall made of brick an mortar though th men inside

had an inkling of things gone deeper. I gaze up at th sign outside that mortal place an feel

a breeze blowing but what was strange is that it was much like th wind I had felt on th

53

morning of my Finn encounter which is to say a warm wind. In truth it was May an I

scratch onto my mind that this is normal. However th religious portion of my soul felt it

uneasily.

An I enter through its sagging doors an my lungs fill up with th stench of th great

unwashed. Tobacco stained heads some balding some in slouch- hats of brown or black

an some with hair of white an some with an unkempt shock of burgundy or flame or used

tea leaf brown I known from my own sort. All were listening to a man up on th bar who

had a sort of small goatee an a day or twos worth of stubble on his reddish neck. I could

see it from my place standing beneath th bar as I strode on up to take in his words. An he

had a high part in his hair which did resemble a bread-line. An his fist came down like a

hammer on that spilt-beer yellow countertop. An I known all this due to th whispers of th

men beside me who had heard this man speak before.

His name was August Spies.

“Workingmen, held down by the buyers of flesh, the capitalist bloodhounds! Your

bones are not your own, and never have they been! When your grandfathers worked in

ceaseless labor on the land, the landowner lorded it over you, and where the freed black

man stands before you in this place you see a physical being evincing a time when the

enemies of free labor were not so modest in their aims. These leeches seek to take what

honest work they can from the working men who power their never ending conveyor belt

of flesh, whether it be lost on the line, or in the very signing of the contract that binds him

to the factory- to the land as in the case of the sharecroppers- or to the gallows, if he be a

carver of wood!”

54

An as he spoke he gestured roundabout taking in all th men assembled all of us

rapt up in his vitriol. One of Spies’ hands sought refuge in th’ coat pocket an I couldn’t

help but have known that same mannerism from another time. But for th most part I stood

linked to that man’s angry soul- angry on behalf of wronged men such as myself. I feeled

a kindred for him an though it was true he held a Germanic name I considered that no

man wronged stood different from any other before th Highest Authority of em All.

Spies moved t talk.

“Working men, the events of the past days have shown us with a clear head, even

when under the duress of an entire social class bent on breaking down our wills, and

grinding our hard gains into dust. Will it be as it was in the days of 1866 when the first of

these laws, these laws which the pernicious crucifiers of labor and self-styled persecutors

of a free wage oppose with every fiber of their consumptive being, though the slave be

free not even an entire year? It will not and shall not be gentlemen! Likewise, it shall not

be as in the headstrong days of 1877! The railroad barons quaked before the power of the

engineer and the porter and even began to apportion to him what was due before the

cursed dogs of capital, Jay Gould and his hench-men Pinkertons, struck from behind at

the heart of the noble coal slingers and even the unaffiliated railway watch men-

employed at his own request but to be thrown down into the crowds with wounds all the

same!”

As he said the Pinkerton name aloud an audible bit of violence escaped up

through th mouths of th men seated beneath him at the bar.

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An then Mr. Spies turned down his hardtack face to th crowd an declared it t be th

appointed time. “Gentlemen” is one word I notice he used continually though I think he

would rather court that animal instinct which I known man was capable of an it was a

horrible thing. At least I know that animal instinct in myself having on th line an roping

up those mud addled hogs an uncoiling their innards which Mr. Armour bragged of

having a use for in just about every product we sold. Animal instinct was being called up

this night an Mr. Spies with his delicate bristly head of black an I felt he shared some

more kinship with those animals of Mr. Armours. Just like men with knives an bombs

hogs had tusks an teeth an just like men they had no compulsion against eating their own

kind.

In hindsight if we see backwards into our smelly behinds this was t be th realness

of th flesh of discontent. August Spies poured out fire I admit he poured fire an vitriol an

laid out on th heads of many a working man in this bar- Irish an not Irish an German an

not German Norwegian an not Norwegian Polish an not Polish American yes all of us

even th mongrels such as myself. By this point I am not even sure that I can be called an

Irishman for so mixed my blood is in with this soil none can see no more. Overhead there

was an old sort of lantern swinging in th breeze comin in off th street where to be sure

men were comin off from th midnight shift down th street from th Square that they called

Haymarket. According to Spies a meeting was t be held there shortly. I turn away from

that man as he got down off of th bar top an excuse himself hastily.

Then everyone roared out an I turned out with em toward th street an th street had

many types striding down th sidewalk of Desplaines. Men an women in black an gray an

beige even some with cravats which was a rare thing. Perhaps they was clerks in some

56

office downtown come to see th trouble brewing here in this part of this city we called

our own. Suits of many colors but all dull like animals dying an this I knew th color of

quite well for keep it in your mind I am a slaughter man. I follow down a man in a small

folded over cap of poor make an it had a hole over th eyes on th brim probably from

grasping it so many times. A darker frame of mind might suggest it was a bullet hole.

Well its not such a distant thing t have a bullet in a hat nowadays.

We walk down th road in tight procession he with his black frayed woolen coat an

me in my blood stained working apron which for th life of me I had forgot to take off

after my shift today. A great babbeling of language clotted over my ears as we all shifted

grim in through th mud pushing ever toward a man on a wagon raising hell an going

down on capital an big business. By his side beneath that wagon stood two men willing to

add in their two bits. Already there was a gathering out front bigger than I had ever seen

an rain began fallin in a coarse sort of way. I cannot say it was a comfortable dousing at

all for it felt like fire more than water. An th man in front of me with th bullet hole in his

cap got lost in th crowd yet I think on him no more.

A man in a black suit stamping on top of hay in th year our Lord 1886 on a small

wagon open to th winds which were picking up speed. They were warm- an occurrence or

an omen I know not which. Workingmen seem to be at arms though no weapons was

drawn out or even present in the marketplace square. Well many of them were shouting

capitalist this- government that! Y’wouldn’t know it from the mill-abouts but half these

men seem t be Dooley stock an I was among them. All of us stood in that square listening

to th man on th podium as he shook his vengeful fists around. His name I believe was

Sam Fielding. His beard shook a bit an his fists shook more t compensate for what seem t

57

be a lack of word planning. At least his loud denunciation of th shooting yesterday down

at McCormicks gave off that effect. For his words were unrehearsed. He pointed down

Jefferson Street an th crowd turn an look t see some procession which I earlier took t be a

funeral but I suddenly realized that no funeral took up that whole street not even when

Abraham Lincoln himself or rather th body of him crossed this ground.

So it was that th 152nd Regiment of th Chicago Police Dept come marching up

with us t the muddy market grounds. Seven had targets on their heads an would perish

but who an where an why they had targets on their heads was th domain of historians an

the ghosts that go along with his trade. Pools of what I perceive as scalding dark

rainwater gathered round our feet an we kept up listening to Sam Fielding who smiled an

we were giving shouts when it seemed appropriate an nodding our heads all at once.

Workers kept on working somewhere off in th distance both at McCormick’s Reaper

Works an at th Armour Plant I’m sure while beef cows kept right on marching through

dark pools sinking lower into the ground in places they couldn’t avoid. I felt much th

same as the steers so I joined in the cacophony an th general muttering. The days in

Bridgeport where I had laid fallow of ideas on improving my condition were as the mist

had been this morning. Those days joined in to the swirl around my head along with the

words Sam Fielding on the podium was shouting an forthwith th words surrounding us

clustered together as the voices of the spirits did in the forests once upon a time to my

forefathers. I have forgotten th names of those forefathers. They are forgotten somewhere

I imagine in th logbooks kept by th men on th platforms in ports. My cousins told me

their tales. Knock on wood so th fairies forget- but I ask you is it good for a mans nation t

forget where it is he come from an forget that he is a man?

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Well now I am washing off in the rain an words keep slipping from my lips

unbidden while slander likewise crossed th lips of lined-up cops jus waiting for a shot at

this man. I shout affirmatively when th man asks,

“Have you been oppressed here?”

Yes by God. I shout even more so in the affirmative when he asks,

“And have you worked your honest share? Have you put in fourteen hour days,

twelve hour days without resting?”

Yes by my God yes!

An I know there is more to life than struggle no matter what the Holy Church

Fathers said in their treatises with th first Christians. I see because the man on the podium

has th know-how t speak it right as we know it and hes got th support of no bosses which

is easy t tell because those blue guttersniping police keep up their grumbling down

Jefferson Street a-ways. Coppers is always on bosses sides much as Protestants is always

at Englishmens sides. Loyal lapdogs all. Well Fieldings keeping on point as a bloodhound

asking questions to us an th more positives we respond with th more th policemen nudge

each other an wink an carry on an the more of them unholsters their weapons an load

bullets in. This I seen by glints of silver on their persons in th rain slowly givin out.

Well by this time th rain was ceased falling an most listeners had gone on home. I

stayed to hear the climax of th man’s speech an received something else entirely. Now as

th drops cling to buildings tall above us falling fat upon th sidewalk plain a policeman

59

with th trace of a grin I feel sure I saw somewhere long time ago looks up at th man an

interrupts,

“If we’re so similar Mr. Anarchist what reason have ye that we stand over in blue

making sure you lot don’t take us over? If we’re all oppressed workers oughtn’t we be by

your side? “

“Well yore listneng aren’t You?!” scuttled out Fielding.

And the policeman does not wait for an answer he thumbs the side of his trousers

and theres a flash of heat lightning off outside the city limits. The man on the podium

glanced from his iron-spectacled eyes to th lined up cops. Here we seen a union of a

different sort which is t say th union of scalawags an I cannot help feelin proud to be up

against bluecoats much as my grand-uncle John Dooley was once even though it was a

cause for doom in his case. Well Richmond was striking too during this time as it was

then like a flint starting a Great Eight Hour bonfire ready to swallow up th whole of these

United States. At this time I realize we were in the same boat regardless of if we

recognize the fact. I seen th commander of these police silence his companions an turn

back to Fielding.

That cop raised up his right hand like some honest man an he identified himself as

Captain William Ward.

“I command you; in the name of the people of the state of Illinois, immediately

and peaceably to disperse!”

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Some man shoveled us over here an now we’re fighting th same battles against

each other if we realize or not. I step forward an I do believe both men which is t say

Fielding an th cop Ward look to see my approach. The officers in the lineup are nervous

and thumbing their nightsticks around their fingers. My voice was meant to cut into th

two of those men one standing high and mighty the other on cold earth like a curse but I

had no time before th end of our pitiful battle of words. At th moment I opened my mouth

t speak lightning struck the ground in front of me an seven lined-up souls tore apart in a

blinding flash. Some workman was screaming out that dynamite was ripping into his

bursting cows but they was not bursting natural an they was not cows they was not pigs

they was seven coppers an a workingman torn down like ragged bedsheets blown off th

clothes line in Bridgeport. A racket like I had never heard before nor since assaulted my

ears with terrible force. An then the shots started washing out against those cows an

people alike. Marketplace oxen were barreling down on the fray unknowing of where

they belonged but dying all the same in the crossfire.

Later th Tribune would scream out that Sam Fielding had chucked up from his

trousers a six-shooter or revolving gun of some kind an had shouted out

“Workingmen! At arms to defend yoreselves!”

Well I know better than that. I tell you he said no such thing but some man did.

Chaos was piercing into th eyes of th steers an they was loose for all brittle iron shackles

had shattered apart in that blast. Those cows was loose an they were stampeding an they

was running over men an men was running over th bodies of policemen. Mud sopped into

th face of a man holding a hat with a hole in its brim an I had no time t see if that was th

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man I had followed before. Then Fielding rushed down from th wagon an herded a few

men off to th side an they was tryin to cut a swath through th mangle of th Haymarket th

living an the dead gettin cut open by bullets though they was carcasses attended to by a

dunderhead butcher an it was his first day on th job an he was makin a damn fool of

himself. I tell it clear that dunderhead should have been a police man. For remember I am

a slaughter man an I seen some damn fool butchers an truth be told those police was

doing a terrible butchering.

I come to my senses an leaped out for to hide behin smoking hay bales come

loose off that wagon which no more than a minute ago Sam Fielding had topped. Bullets

slapped into th side of that wagon causing great holes to form up an knotting th wood

with human force taken over for natures job. I prayed out loud

“Dear Merciful God let me live an let me work but let me not perish on this shit

field in some forsaken marketplace as a dumb sacrifice. Amen.”

An as I finish up that entreaty a man with a brilliant grin an a scarecrows cap like

a farmer might wear hopped over th fiery bale I hide behind. His mug looked pained an

elderly an on his hands he bore lashed scars such as one might get carrying cargoes. But

it still retained traces of picaresque character. This man had in his hands a piece of piping

or perhaps some sort of stick made of clay an he was ready it seem to throw it into that

maelstrom. He was wearin a strange brown breechcoat an in his mouth there was a corn

cob pipe stuffed up with old ashen tobacco. He took a bit of fiery hay off from th bale in

front of us an lit up th remnants of his pipe with it then turned t me an wished me

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godspeed. Then he took th pipe to his clay stick an he made t light a spiral fuse on that

clay stick which I realize now was dynamite.

In th span of a moment Captain William Ward officer of th ordered world of law

crested our short embankment an there in between that mans eyes lodged a bullet.

I tore up out of that hiding spot an ran an feared a bullet would find its mark

inside my ribs afore I could reach for a store front or get behind some wagon holding its

cargo safe as I hoped t be. Th sound was like some thunder storm striking every tree in a

forest an setting off fires as it hit. I stop out of breath an I had managed t clamber up into

th awning of Morelands Goods on Jefferson Street for I was beyond sense an then as I

clamber up th awning detached with a shriek of metal an covered me up as I fall down to

hard stone steps out front an it knocks me cold. As bullets fly on down th street I notice I

am losin blood an could not tell if I had indeed been struck by some malignant force

other than stone an mud or if some Officer having discharged himself all over th crowd

was now looking for sport an I had given over t shock an passed like a knife into a gut

from my consciousness an for now life was black.

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Th last of yon smoke has vanished. Bodies with legs an bodies without legs lie

down in th streets of Haymarket Square. Cloth stretchers unfold without no mourning

except for in th sense of what comes after night. Tell it true boy that shrapnel sang

through th buildings of th city of Chicago an for one day words was bested by guns.

------------

EPILOGUE

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-----------

November 11

Date of th Executions of th Convicted “Haymarket Four”

George Engel Adolph Fischer Albert Parsons August Spies

Year of Our Lord 1887

We set out from Haymarket Square all three of us. My saint companion Patrick (th

one on whom all th animals leaned he was a respectable man an a shepherd to boot) an

Mr. Richmond we had took along all sixty four sheep an them sheep had bizarre human

like expressions. Well th sheeps was a part of us three for among them was th number of

all those humans who had gone on in th explosives an gunfire of th haymarket an

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afterward those executions. Yea we even collected up police men for they see in death too

that theys just another worker. We was settin out of that square that is to say th

Haymarket Square in downtown Chicago city of wind. It was unnecessary cruelty t show

these men where they died said Saint Patrick but th four who just been executed insisted

on it an so rightly we showed em.

Mr. Richmond had made a bandage up in order to plaster th side of his mug. He

had ate up enough body parts over th months I spose t fix himself right proper from his

former beastly state an only a network of railroad shaped scars delineated where his bits

would never heal back in full. Most like he was pleased for he smiled a joyful smile at th

fact that wage slavery was not a casualty of this struggle in th market. Well all th same we

kept trudging on over th city sidewalks made of loosened stone an mud an in some places

where th fire man had not torn em up oaken planks. In addition t my life as river boat

man in those days on down through th Chicago River I have been a rebel a railroad watch

man an now in this recent time even a butcher of hogs. I pulled down barrels of peach

brandy an I shot at bluecoats an I slipped in mud an got shot myself. Not a bad couple of

lives for some haint if I say so.

Rocks slipped from under our boots as us three glided through passerby struttin

on in their top Sunday coverings oblivious to these three souls one gone centuries before

one gone on about a century before an one gone just these past thirty years of struggle an

that struggle Mr. Richmond had known all right for it was back after th war that he parted

with those chattel men he owned. I had felt it all an now th train was taken over my

former canal transport just as Yankees took over th South an just as th Pinkertons took

over policing rail roads an just as th machine separator has taken over for hog butchers.

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The man Saint Patrick swiffed through th mud present on th side walks of th city

of wind shepherding his flock from among th shifting crowds just gotten off from a day

of wage slavery or at least as far as he could see. Those sheep was representative of th

souls gone on before much like th cargo Mick Finn had hauled before was representative

of their companions in 1820. Patrick held close to his wood carven staff with which he

held back his horde of unwashed animals that had human faces an made a terrible sort of

bleating that rightly made them sound as though they endured a whip crack at every step.

Mr. Richmond’s black equestrian boots of solid make kicked heavy onto th back of th

slowest of th herd an Mick Finn in his slouch brown cap an leather breeches an holding

up his own staff of solid make (that is to say his river guide stick which allow him to

gauge th depth of water an guide th boat to a gentle rest up near th dock).

Well by this point they was outside th city limits an had been following th

Chicago River in a southwestern direction an all sixty score of them sheep follow behind

us that is me an Saint Patrick for Mr. Richmond was way behin’ in back kickin on those

sheep. We was coming up on th banks of th River Chicago now an mud splattered up our

legs on past to th ankles as cold water splashed against th stone beach some of it flecking

my cheek with its kiss. I hated t say it then but them sheep was on their way out an th

cool water wanted to keep at our faces but that city lost behind us was now on fire with

human lives fleeting every moment. An those human faces joined to th sheeps faces is

what made up our flock for we was of another world which was not quite heaven nor was

it a hell though it could be considered a purgatory of sorts. On inside th river yea on

down in that swirling current was th direction in where hell lay. Richmond an I stared

deep at what we seen reflected. Our monk come up from behin’ and we expected it.

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Saint Patrick tore down into that river. An every goddamned soul of sheep which

is t say former man followed him down into that steel gray water.

Amen.

Critical

Introduction

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The initial idea for my Independent Study Project came, not as Oscar Neebe, the

famed Haymarket Square anarchist would have it- which is to say, all at once, but rather,

“by inches”. The summer before I began the project was spent deep inside of books, and I

indulged myself knowing that I would have to focus my reading significantly once I

began my project later that season. In reading so widely, I managed to come across a

Civil War journal from one second-generation migrant to America’s shores, who was,

interestingly enough, a captain in the Confederate States of America’s Army during the

Civil War.

I have always been interested in seemingly contradictory characters, both real and

imagined. John Dooley, the man I have just described, was both fighting for a

discriminatory system and being discriminated against, perhaps a bit more openly than he

would admit. As an Irishman, he stood higher than the black man on the American

Southern racial hierarchy, but as an immigrant, he was considered inferior to native-born

whites. In the national racial hierarchy of discrimination, Irish were notoriously banned

from jobs and seen as a separate “lower” race of whites altogether. How could Dooley

fight for a system that had grown controversial enough to spark war? Reading through his

journal on my summer binge, I could see that he was taken advantage of as much as he

felt himself to be empowered within the CSA. Another detail which hooked my interest

in Captain Dooley’s life had to do with what lay in the future for Irish-Americans: their

concentration into urban centers in the North.

Politically, I raised myself Communist, receiving most if not all of my news from

the small but still functioning American Communist Party, specifically the Communist

Youth League. This led to both my political development and the beginning of my taste

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of the tortured relationship between American laborers and their employers at various

points in history, though admittedly the YCL distorts that history for its own ends, just as

wider mass media outlets have, from MSNBC and Al-Jazeera to Fox News and beyond.

Of course, as a genre of literature, magic realism distorts history for its own ends, too-

though for reasons antithetical to modern media outlets’.

I was first introduced to magic realism through Mikhail Bulgakov. I had written

my Junior Independent Study on his flagship work, The Master and Margarita, and as I

continued editing the project over the summer between my Junior and Senior year, the

idea to treat real history with the same magical realist lens that Bulgakov used took root

in my mind. I wasn’t sure what historic period to write about until I realized that, aside

from a few fictional elements here and there, anything I wrote would be as valid as some

of the “historical accounts” given by eyewitnesses at the time of the events in question,

and even since then. The chosen genre would make a statement about the ways in which

the living fetishize, and distort, the stories of the dead- as well as serving to facilitate rich,

layered imagery. Harkening back to my early days as a student of Sam Webb, the

octogenarian chairman of the American Communist Party, I gradually decided to tackle

one of the most open-ended happenings in American history: the Chicago Haymarket

Square bombing of 1886.

Oh, and before I go any further, I should mention that I am not Irish. I am

American, and that takes into account numerous European, African, and Native American

races. As such, I wrote this story from the American perspective. I do not have recent

ancestors who were immigrants. I only have the perspective of history, American blood

(and all that entails), and a penchant for narrative.

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The Dooleys as Irish-Americans

John Dooley’s experience as a second-generation Irishman living in the

antebellum American South should have given him an idea of the prejudiced government

he took up arms to defend. His devotion to his home came partly from young bravado; in

his own words, “I resolved at once to enter the field where I considered it the imperative

duty of every young man to be” (Dooley 2). This dedication came also from his father,

who had sailed to Virginia in 1832 from Limerick, Ireland aboard a boat with other

immigrants and who served with the First Virginia Regiment during the Civil War.

Like many Irish living in the South at the time of secession, John Dooley Senior

and his son felt a need to demonstrate their allegiance to their new homeland which was

under a new government but was still the same Richmond the family had lived in for

almost thirty years. As Joseph T. Durkin notes in his Introduction to Dooley’s war

journal, “John Dooley was obviously a sound practical man of business; for he came to

America a poor immigrant, yet, within twenty years, his family occupied a place in the

upper society of Richmond” (Durkin xi). The Dooleys had indeed profited handsomely

working as furriers and hatters for the elite. It seemed like the family had accomplished

the prototypical American Dream.

America’s collective Irish heritage is lost in the mists of time. The entire nation

celebrates St. Patrick’s Day and claims Irish ancestry, though it often comes in the form

of an unproven assertion. Still, we have a deeply rooted sense of shared heritage with the

Irish, even if it is not necessarily rooted in blood. In my novella, Ireland plays a

subconscious role in the protagonists’ lives due to their forebears’ recent immigrant

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status. Despite massive waves of Irish immigration in the 19th century playing such a

huge role in developing the United States of America, today the Irish-American is not

readily associated with the American Civil War in the popular consciousness. Similarly,

Irishmen often fail to be given their fair credit for helping to develop the West, which

they did by canal and by railroad. One of my primary intentions in telling this story was

to give a voice to just a few of the “great unwashed” masses of these Irish.

Developing The “Idiolect” of the Characters

In order to do this, a proper narrative voice had to be found. My first ideas

centered around having the entire novella written in a proletarian 19th century voice, such

as one might aggregate out of the collective narrative voice of soldier’s letters written

home during the American Civil War. This voice quickly took on a life of its own, as in

the process of reading Dooley’s journal and contemporary accounts in Howard Zinn’s A

People’s History of the United States I synthesized a style which incorporated common

spelling mistakes made by proletarian letter writers, which often included accents,

stressed and unstressed syllables, and dropped vowels. Almost every occurrence of the

word “the” has the “E” dropped for this reason, as does every occurrence of the word

“and” have a dropped D.

This colloquial narrative voice gives the “great numbers of unwashed” Irishmen

who would go on to become our ancestors a memorable presence. American history is

seen far too often in the eyes of those who write the history books. It is hardly ever told in

in the terms of the people who lived through these events, who may not be able to write

perfectly in a foreign tongue, or they may not be educated enough to do so. By using this

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developed voice, I hope the reader is able to get a sense of how history looks from the

ground up.

Magic Realism as a Storytelling Device

Magic realism provides the vehicle to bring the present into the past. Though

originally a South American literary genre, transporting its usage to the United States of

the nineteenth century allowed me to fuse it with the tall tales tradition so prevalent in the

United States’ Western frontier, while simultaneously penetrating deeply into the

metaphysical and spiritual experience of Irish laborers just trying to make ends meet.

From there it was a series of small leaps as I went first from post-bellum Richmond, to

riding the Baltimore & Ohio Rail Line through the 1870s Midwest, and on to Chicago in

the days of the anarchist scare of the 1880s. Though there are no present events

happening which directly analogue this past, I hoped through using the time-capsule

appeal of magic realism to shadow current events. Dooley coming home from war to find

the country changed mimics the Iraq war veteran returning to find a country that cares

little for their sacrifice and indeed wants to profit from it while failing to provide any

support for those being taken advantage of.

The Protagonists: John, Jack and Michael

In crafting my three protagonists, I decided to link each together through a series

of parallels in addition to having them share a last name. Although the John Dooley of the

historical record lent his last name to the other two characters, I was also inspired by

Finley Peter Dunne’s Mr. Dooley, a late nineteenth-century satirical portrait of the

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Chicago Irish community. The last name “Dooley” has long been associated with Irish

stereotypes, Dunne’s being the most prominent. However, as I fleshed out my Dooleys, I

made a conscious effort to rebut any stereotypes that the name might summon to mind by

showing each character in all their human complexity- including their contradictions.

John Dooley is the first protagonist, and through his eyes we are introduced first

to the spiritual world of Mick Finn, Mr. Richmond, and Saint Patrick, and then to

Richmond, Virginia as the former Confederate States of America are swallowed up by the

victorious North. As a second-generation Irishman, Dooley still feels a connection to the

Emerald Isle despite his adoption of the States, and through him the reader begins to

understand the ways in which workingmen are both profiting from economic and social

systems while being taken advantage of by said systems. The historic Dooley, who wrote

the war journal I based much of his character upon, ended up going on to the Georgetown

Seminary after the Civil War and devoting his life to the Catholic church before dying of

illness on May 8th, 1873.

As a traditional Irish Catholic, and one personally interested in matters of the

spirit to boot, Dooley muses often on such affairs, and it is through him that the reader

learns of the concept of “transfiguration”- the transformation, or in some cases migration,

of one person’s soul into another’s. The unified narrative voice which John begins the

story with stays consistent despite later changes of protagonist, and in staying so, keeps

the reader aware that these three men- and perhaps all the workmen in the novella- share

a piece of the same kindred spirit.

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The second section begins in 1873 with the introduction of Jack Dooley, a newly

relocated Southerner in the middle of Washington, D.C. and a relative of John. In a daze,

he acquires a job with the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad as a railroad watchman. It is in his

section that we begin to learn of the various labor organizations that have begun to pop

up throughout the United States in order to combat oppressive business interests, such as

the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers- which his co-worker McFoley is a member

of.

Though he is not completely ignorant of his mistreatment by the B&O, Jack is

more concerned with keeping his job, and as such makes it a point to discredit McFoley

whenever he can. Though he resists organization, he does demonstrate an empathy with a

Pullman Porter named John Abraham, showing that racial lines were not as sharply

divided when common interests collided. As Howard Zinn notes in A People’s History of

the United States, during the mass strikes in the summer of 1877, racial differences faded

into the background as workers’ rights took the forefront:

“At another huge meeting of the Workingmen’s party a black man spoke for those

who worked on the steamboats and levees. He asked “Will you stand to us regardless of

color?” The crowd shouted back, “We will!” (Zinn 250).

Despite his desire not to get involved, during the Chicago Railroad Strike Jack

eventually snaps under pressure, unleashing his pent-up anger at the unequal treatment he

has received on the conductor, Hollywood. Jack’s fate is left uncertain as he chucks

Hollywood into the crowd of rioting strikers, and when the story picks back up, we find

ourselves established in Chicago proper.

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Michael Dooley is the third and final protagonist, and he is the first of them all to

have a family of his own as well as a stable home in Bridgeport and job at the meat

processing plant of Armour & Company. As a result, he is far more keen to correct his

situation. By 1886, the year we find Michael, he is tired enough of his station in life to

seek out Zepf’s Hall, a famed haunt of August Spies- the rabble-rouser anarchist who

had, for years, been helping to organize laborers in Illinois.

Unrest was widespread in Chicago during the 1880s, and on the night Michael

catches Spies making a speech in Zepf’s, it reached its apex. Michael ends up caught in

the crossfire of the Haymarket Square riot, and after seeing the ultimate end of Mick

Finn, he is struck down himself- and his soul, the soul of the Dooleys, escapes.

This single soul shares a plane with Finn, Richmond and St. Patrick as well, and

in the final chapter it is finally transfigured into the new Mick Finn, as the old Finn

finally passes away in his blaze of glory in the Haymarket. Finally, the dead are given

permanent rest on the day that the convicted Haymarket Four are executed- though the

rest cannot be called peaceful or warm by any means. Michael, now transfigured into the

next incarnation of Mick Finn, will watch over the age of industry until it fades away as

the previous Finn’s age of canals did.

The Coterie: Finn, Richmond and Patrick

“The Coterie”, as I call them here, are the trio of otherworldly figures who

introduce the novella and interact with the protagonists at pivotal moments wherein the

borderline between the real “flesh and blood world” is blurred with the “Purgatory”

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which they inhabit. I wrote them purposely with opposing goals in order to show the

chaotic nature of interactions between capital (Mr. Richmond), labor (Mick Finn), and

religion (St. Patrick). Characteristics of each of these three spirits manifest to varying

degrees in each of my protagonists, an effect meant to foreshadow the eventual

transfiguration of the narrator’s soul into the new Mick Finn in the end.

Mick Finn fills the story’s need for a wise overseer who can both explain and

introduce elements of the story that are unknowable by the protagonist. He fills the

leadership role in this triad, and was actually developed from a character in American

folk mythology named Mike Fink. According to the Encyclopedia Brittanica, “…Fink

won fame as a marksman and Indian scout around Fort Pitt. Later, when keelboats

became the chief vessels of commerce on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, he became the

“king of the keelboatmen”, renowned as a marksman, roisterer, and champion rough-and-

tumble fighter”. Historically, Fink’s ethnicity has been doubted, and scholars believe he

could have been German, Scotch-Irish, or French-Canadian. Since I intended to show the

role of Irish-American laborers throughout United States history, I permutated Mike into

Mick, a famed Irish-American river boatman whom is even more of a tall tale than his

historic counterpart.

Mr. Richmond was a character of my own devising, and is modeled after a

Confederate version of Uncle Sam- personified at various times as “Mr. Washington”.

Mr. Richmond functions as a stand-in for Southern economic powers, and gradually

comes to embody, quite literally, any power holding down the oppressed. Throughout the

nineteenth century, rising economic powers began to dominate and subjugate workmen in

the United States. Most obviously, the explosion of slavery in the South brought on a

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newly richened class of plantation owners and economic beneficiaries from the trade.

Meanwhile, expanding business interests in the North increasingly moved away from the

artisanal production of goods towards big business and factory labor. Mr. Richmond

stands as the archangel of unfettered capital, and his interest lay chiefly in keeping

business booming at the expense of humans. This becomes especially prevalent later in

the nineteenth century, when in many cases whites and blacks alike came to be mistreated

nearly equally by companies, and is what I intended to show in the final chapter in the

depths of Armour &Company. As W. E. B. DuBois commented,

“God wept; but that mattered little to an unbelieving age; what mattered most was

that the world wept and still is weeping and blind with tears and blood. For there began to

rise in America in 1876 a new capitalism and a new enslavement of labor” (Zinn, 210.)

The final member of the Coterie, Saint Patrick, is there to show just how much

God wept. Without taking into account the “realness” of God within the world of the

story, his followers still populated classes of all kinds in the 19th century, whether they

were slave masters, robber barons, factory workers or Confederate captains. In this work,

Patrick is based less on the famed historical saint and more upon the Christian shepherd,

a mainstay of religious imagery. In addition, he takes on the role of an archangel in

ferrying off workers’ souls to the Purgatory in which the Coterie resides. I intentionally

gave him no lines, and opted instead to show his character through his actions.

Finally, as the one member of the Coterie who has no dialogue, I hoped that the

reader would make a connection to the historical record in that we know very little, if

anything, of the words many thousands of Irish arriving on American shores uttered.

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Although we know nothing of what they said, we know they existed and that their

experiences were every bit as important to them as the fictional accounts of the Dooleys’

are to themselves.

Imagery

My novella draws its imagery from Irish folklore, American tall tales, religious

iconography, historical events, and American mythology. This was done partially in order

to connect the reader to a little-known and quickly fading aspect of an American

experience that raised so many of the men and women come before- the folk tales of the

early nation. While many of these stories were thinly veiled excuses for Manifest Destiny,

such as the stories of brave pioneers heading west to do battle with Indian “savages”, and

many more than that contain outright falsehoods (the story of George Washington and the

cherry tree comes to mind- which is also applied to Abraham Lincoln on occasion), these

tales represent an authentic slice of Americana which has been left behind on country

roads somewhere to rot. I hoped to help repatriate and repackage stories like this into a

form that could delight the reader and, at the same time, engage the reader with some of

the atrocities and divisions which the American people have experienced, especially

during the 1800s.

Certain images connected multiple themes, allowing me to say more with less.

Cows are a recurring image in the work due to their significance in pastoral Ireland, and

their domestic, controllable nature is a parallel for the way that workers were treated-

which comes to a head in the Haymarket when both cows and men scatter and are cut

down equally. Similarly, in the afterlife, specifically the liminal spiritual space in which

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the Coterie reside, workmen are symbolized as sheep following Saint Patrick- making use

of the livestock/workingmen parallel to show the economic and social powerlessness

which they felt as well as taking advantage of the Christian iconography of the sheep

following their shepherd in order to show the religious powers involved in their

subjugation and, eventually, liberation- though this is not always a guaranteed positive.

The Dooleys also seem to have a preoccupation with noting the hats worn by

other characters. Of course, Captain John Dooley’s father was a hatter in the old South,

and so it could be chalked up to a funny tic that passed down through the generations,

migrations, and transfigurations. Or, it could just be a ham-handed image of the diversity

of the people they encounter on their travels. I leave it to the reader to make their own

mind up.

The Novella as Literary Form

Unlike history texts, wherein the necessity of keeping an objective view of events

forces writers to dehumanize those they write about, and unlike the majority of popular

literature, which seeks to glamorize the lifestyles of the well-to-do, I aimed to create a

proletarian work easily digestible, but deep enough to warrant a close reading. As a

format of literature, the novella is unique in that it is short enough to be read in one go.

However, this often means that the novella is more thematically dense and as such

requires more than one reading to grasp fully.

Initially, I intended to write a fully fleshed-out novel. Multiple factors served to

temper that enthusiasm as time went by. For one, the themes I wished to touch upon

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expanded quite a bit from my initial ideas, and in order to ensure that I would be able to

finish on time, I had to make a tough choice between sacrificing important themes or

sacrificing quality writing. Furthermore, as my narrative voice came into its own, I came

to see that a full-length novel written in such an ungainly, rambling voice would be

unfeasible for both the reader and the writer- at least for an Independent Study project.

After setting down in stone that I would feature three different protagonists and

three different decades, I grew attracted to a three-part novella as a natural consequence

of the pattern. Whereas a novel or short story collection would need to be organized

around the various chapters and stories, a novella could incorporate three “parts” and still

remain a cohesive full work. I must admit that I was influenced by Brian Friels’ play,

Translations, as well. The play functioned on a similar literary level to what I envisioned

my project would. Act divisions are certainly more significant than chapter breaks, but

even as they divide, they keep the same narrative while propelling the action forward. By

adapting the philosophy behind these act divisions for my novella, I was able to

effectively stretch the time span over three protagonists, multiple locations, and twenty

years while keeping my narrative flowing and intact.

Conclusion

The opportunity to test my writing skill to the limit by adapting from various

forms of literature and literary genre has stretched my sense of creativity and widened my

horizons. By taking my time and surgically editing this novella over the course of

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months, I have greatly improved my patience in turning out a quality piece. I feel I have

also been given a valuable chance to appreciate just how much work goes into producing

literature of any kind, let alone high quality works.

In the realm of hard facts, I have come a long way in sorting fabrications and

stories with spin from historic fact and objective reports. Although this novella didn’t call

for it due to the proletarian focus, James Green’s Death in the Haymarket: A Story of

Chicago, The First Labor Movement and the Bombing that Divided Gilded Age America

provided me with the truthful opinion-less historic backdrop of the infamous Haymarket

Square bombing where final protagonist, Michael Dooley, and Mick Finn himself, are

slain, only to meld and continue the spiritual cycle. On that note, the fantastic magic

realism of Mikhail Bulgakov and his Master and Margarita heavily influenced my

characterization of the Coterie, as well as providing inspiration for ways in which their

otherworld could interact with the “real world”.

The most important fact to take away from this novella is that those without a

voice ought to have one, even if it comes too late, and even if it may not be historically

accurate. I tell it to you true, tall tales are borne of stuff as fine, and even less so, than

this.

A Note on the Title

The title of this novella is adapted from lines excised from a flier distributed the

night of the Haymarket Square bombing, May 4th, 1886, advertising the worker’s meeting

that preceded said bombing. In English, and beneath, German, the flier read:

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“Attention Workingmen!

MASS MEETING

To-night, at 7.30 o’clock,

HAYMARKET, Randolph St., Bet. Desplaines and Halsted.

Good Speakers will be present to denounce the latest

atrocious act of the police, the shooting of our

fellow-workmen yesterday afternoon.

THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE.”

Spies distributed the fliers around the city, using the printing press he owned to

churn out hundreds of copies. Adolph Fischer, Spies’ compositor, added a single line to

less than 100 of the copies which attracted the angry attention of the 152nd Regiment of

the Chicago Police Department immediately. Set in motion now was the chain of events

that ended in over a dozen deaths- eight of them policemen, and over 100 wounded.

“Working men, arm yourselves and appear in full force!”

I have shortened it in consideration of length.

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Daniel Bourne, my advisor, for his unceasing encouragement throughout this projects’ course. Without his coaching and narrative suggestions, this

novella would never have become so developed.

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I would also like to thank Mazen Naous, formerly of the College of Wooster’s English Department, for his role in allowing me to rediscover creative writing.

I would also like to thank my family for their support throughout this endeavor: my father, stepmother, stepsister, my brothers, my grandmother, and my aunt and uncle.

It means a lot to know some folks have your back, which is why I would also like to thank my friends in the Poverty Outreach Program- especially Gabrielle Barrera, who

kept me sane…to a degree.

Finally, I would like to thank the one true God.

Works Consulted

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2013.

Babel, Isaac. The Complete Works of Isaac Babel.

New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc, 2002. Print.

Bulgakov, Mikhail. The Master and Margarita.

Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions Limited, 2011. Print.

Dooley, John. John Dooley, Confederate Soldier His War Journal.

Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1963. Print.

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Friels, Brian. “Translations”. Modern and Contemporary Irish Drama. Ed. John P.

Harrington. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2009. Pages 255-308. Print.

Green, James. Death in the Haymarket: A Story of Chicago, The First Labor Movement

and the Bombing that Divided Gilded Age America.

New York: Anchor Books, 2007. Print.

Kosinski, Jerzy. The Painted Bird. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1976. Print.

Marx, Karl. The Communist Manifesto. W. W. Norton & Company, 1988. Print.

McCarthy, Cormac. Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West.

New York: Vintage International, 1992. Print.

Pynchon, Thomas. V. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1999. Print.

Sandburg, Carl. Chicago Poems. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1994. Print.

Sclosser, S. E. americanfolklore.net.

Globe Pequot Press/Random House/S.E. Schlosser, 1997-20--. Web. 23 March 2013.

Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 2003. Print.

Updike, John. Pigeon Feathers And Other Stories.

New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1980. Print.

Zinn, Howard. A People’s History of the United States: 1492-Present.

New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2001. Print.

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