A Million Tears (38 page)

Before I could say a word though, the angry voice of Thorgood started; ‘You clumsy fool, why don’t you look where you’re going? For two pins I’d give you the hiding of your life. You stupid old goat.’ He showed me his empty whisky glass. ‘Look what you did. You made me spill my drink all over the floor.’

A few people at the bar turned to look, taking notice, amused. I became angry.

‘I did no such thing. You,’ I pointed my finger at him, ‘purposely bumped into me, making me,’ I touched my chest, ‘spill my beer.’

‘Why, you stupid old man,’ said Thorgood, through his familiar sneer, ‘I did no such thing. You’re so senile you don’t even know when you do something stupid.’

Perhaps he was right because my next words showed just how stupid I could be.

‘Not so stupid or senile,’ I was nearly shouting now, ‘so I couldn’t catch you cheating last night at poker.’

I was aware of the gasps of the men nearby but my eyes were on Thorgood. Theatrically he pushed his coat to one side, showing the gun strapped there.

‘I don’t care how old you are, no man calls me a cheat and gets away with it. You all heard,’ he said to the saloon in general, stepping back a pace.

I did not move. I couldn’t. Christ, I was about to die, stupidly. ‘I’m unarmed,’ I said in a loud and I hoped, steady voice.

‘Then go and get a gun. I’ll give you ten minutes. If you don’t come back by then I’ll shoot you down like the cowardly dog you are.’

It was all so silly, so theatrical and corny I wondered if it was for real. I shook my head, partly to clear it and partly to refuse Thorgood. ‘No, I’m not going for a gun. If I do, you’ll kill me. If I don’t and you kill me it’ll be murder and they hang murderers.’ I turned my back on him, trying to stop my hand from shaking when I picked up my glass again. If I had been ten years younger I would have gone for him. Oh, not with a gun, but with my hands. Win or lose I could have taken the punishment then, but not now.

The hand that dropped onto my shoulder made me stagger. I was pushed around and Thorgood grabbed my shirt.

‘If you won’t go for a gun, you coward, then try this.’ He brought his arm back and as he did two things happened. Firstly, I threw my beer into his face prior to hitting him with the glass and secondly a hand took hold of his and Evan’s voice broke in.

‘Okay, Uncle James, leave him to me.’

Thorgood’s hold on my shirt was broken by Evan. My fear was gone and I felt a surge of joy. Believe me, I’m not cold-blooded or bloodthirsty. I dislike violence but after the situation I had been in a saint would have enjoyed it. Thorgood’s jaw dropped in surprise and the startled ‘What?’ was suddenly a scream of anguish as Evan hit him as hard as he could in the stomach. The blow doubled Thorgood over, gasping, his face a sickly white. Thorgood would have collapsed if Evan hadn’t held him up by his hair. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ Evan said to the people in the saloon, ‘this man did indeed cheat last night when I was playing poker with him. My friend here saw him and foiled his attempt to steal the rest of my money from me.’ Evan saw two of the other players from his game. ‘O’Grady, Samuels, he cheated you, as well. You saw him pick on this old man,’ I wasn’t sure I liked that reference to my age or not, but then like they say, only the truth hurts, ‘for calling him a cheat. Well I call him a lousy, cheating, cowardly dog of the lowest kind. A . . .’ Evan ran out of things to call him. Thorgood was recovering a little from the blow.

‘What did you say?’ Evan pretended Thorgood had spoken. ‘He just challenged me. Did you hear that, O’Grady?’ Evan glared at the man.

As he did so Evan lifted Thorgood by the hair, almost raising him off the floor and hit him three times, each blow as hard as the first. Thorgood was hardly conscious by the third blow. The agony ripping through his guts must have been unbearable. Evan kept his grip on Thorgood’s hair and lifted his face back. The blow to Thorgood’s nose spread it across his face, blood gushing down his clothes. Evan let go and he collapsed. Evan took hold of his feet and dragged Thorgood across the saloon.

‘Open the door,’ he said to no one in particular and a man jumped to obey. Evan walked out, down the two steps and into the street, Thorgood’s head bumping hard on the steps as he did. Evan took him to the rails and stood him up carefully so as not to get any blood on his coat.

‘Get me some water,’ Evan said. Somebody handed him a glass of beer. ‘That’ll do.’ Evan thanked the man and poured the beer over Thorgood’s face, talking to him coaxingly. Slowly Thorgood came round. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a slight commotion and somebody pushed through the crowd. It was the marshal.

‘What’s going on here?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing with that man?’

Evan looked at him with feigned innocence. ‘Me? Why nothing. I was just trying to bring him round. How are you, Thorgood, old chap?’ Thorgood was beginning to groan, slowly recovering.

Thorgood now appeared to be able to stand without help. He could not have realised who he was talking to for he gave a half groan, half nod. Evan grabbed him by his belt and before anybody knew what was happening he had lifted Thorgood over his head, dashed the few paces across the street to the bank of the river, and thrown him in. Evan ignored the gasp from the crowd and watched as Thorgood splashed in the water.

Evan started to go back into the saloon. I followed, the marshal right behind.

‘I demand an explanation,’ the marshal was spluttering.

‘You’re entitled to one at that, Marshal. The people here will bear witness that the man is a cowardly cheat and tried to fight Mr Price. I just happened along in time to stop it. He cheated me at cards last night. If you care to join me for a beer I’ll tell you all about it,’ he smiled, at his most affable. ‘Ahh, Uncle James, the marshal is just about to join us for a drink.’

28

We were sitting in a restaurant in town having finished dinner when a man I recognised but couldn’t place came over to greet us. ‘Ah, Meg, Evan and . . . Mr Price, isn’t it?’ He held out his hand to me.

I said: ‘I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage. I recognise you but can’t remember your name.’

‘Charles DeFort. We met once some time back when I called into the warehouse to see Evan. Oh, it must be a year or so ago.’ He was a pleasant man, about Evan’s age, brown hair and brown eyes with a friendly smile and a firm hand shake. ‘Please call me Charlie, everybody else does.’

‘Call me James. Mr Price makes me feel about seventy,’ I replied.

‘If you’ve finished your meal perhaps you’ll join me at my hotel for a drink?’ suggested DeFort. ‘We’ve set a bar up in a private room and afterwards we’re going to the theatre to listen to Bryan.’

The private room was the banqueting suite and held about a hundred or so people but the room was far from full.

We stood for a while, drinks in hand, greeting people some of whom we knew and many we didn’t. I was beginning to get bored with the conversation, which was mostly about William Jennings Bryan and his proposal that silver should be the basis of our currency. I did not mind politics, far from it – I quite enjoyed a good argument. An hour later we left for the theatre which had only opened the previous month. We were to meet DeFort and his wife Susanne and another couple whose name I had forgotten. That’ll teach me to pay more attention, I thought. I asked Meg their names.

‘Not really. It’s just that they went on and on about our new Moses, leading the country into world politics and all that. I just stopped listening after a while,’ I confessed.

‘Me too,’ said Meg ‘But I did catch the bit about us going around to a side entrance. Evan says he knows the way. Don’t you, darling?’

‘Sure. Just down here and along the alleyway.’

We edged around the crowd who seemed to be in a good mood.

We showed our cards at the door and went up a few rickety steps and along a badly lit corridor. Through another door and we were in the main theatre. It was an imposing building with three tiers of plush velvet seats and ornate walls decorated with large paintings.

Some of the private boxes next to the stage were already occupied though the general public had not yet been allowed in. I thought it was an unusual place to hold a political rally, but then American politics were unusual at the best of times, what with their bands and cheer leaders and what I felt amounted to a childishness in the whole business. I never thought they had the same dignity as British politics.

We had seats near the front. A few minutes later the doors opened and the crowd flooded in. A swarm of humanity, talking, laughing, pushing, waving and finally finding seats and sitting. For the next half an hour or so they thronged in, the noise level gradually increasing.

The newfangled electric lights went out one by one until the theatre was in gloom and a hush gradually descended.

There was a movement behind the curtain and a man stepped onto the stage. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. I won’t bore you with a long introduction. It’s not me you’ve come to listen to, but the man I believe will return the American government to the people, for the people. He is the man to lead us from the depression we find ourselves in. Indeed, he is the next President of these here United States – that is with God’s help and a little encouragement from the voters,’ his voice was building up to the final words. ‘William Jennings Bryan.’

As Bryan came onto the stage the applause grew and grew until it was thunderous. I had to admit that he had a certain presence as he strode across the stage, head high, hand waving, a smile fixed in place. I swear that for the first time in my life I knew what charisma meant. He held up his hands until the noise died down.

I don’t remember all he said but two passages from his speech stuck in my mind for a long time.

He said: ‘We do not come as aggressors. Our war is not a war of conquest; we are fighting in the defence of our homes, our families, our posterity. We have petitioned, and our petitions have been scorned, we have entreated, and our entreaties have been disregarded; we have begged and they have mocked when our calamity came. We beg no longer; we entreat no more;’ his voice rose, rising to the rafters, ‘we petition no more. We defy them.’

At his words the people broke into a frenzy of clapping and cheering. The theatre shook with the applause and yells and screams and whistles and feet stamping. It was many minutes before it was quiet enough for him to continue with any chance of being heard.

‘If they dare to come out in the open field and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we will fight them to the utmost. Having behind us the producing masses of the nation and the world, supported by the commercial interests and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand for a gold standard by saying to them: You shall not press down upon the brow of labour this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.’

The people went crazy. They went wild and screamed for him to come back when he bowed and walked off the stage. He returned, like a performer taking his bows, five, six times while the crowd screamed itself hoarse. Meg, Evan and I screamed right along with them.

I will never understand what happened though there were many theories for why it did. The one that I favoured the most was the need for wide coverage in the newspapers. Who was going to write about a political speech no matter how good it was when there was a riot to report instead?

First a number of hecklers started and then before we knew it punches were thrown. The fight spread like wild fire. It was a localised incident one minute and the next everybody was taking a swing at his neighbour. It was so utterly, stupidly senseless. Quickly we edged our way to the exit. Who ever had organised it had done their job well. We were in the middle of the centre aisle of seats and though a number of people around us were also only interested in getting out we ended up having to hit, push, kick and claw like the rest of them.

Evan was leading, Meg following and me behind. Evan was pushing men and women left and right to make way for us but as he pushed through others came between climbing over the seats knocking people over and screaming at the tops of their voices. Meg was further separated from me. She looked back and I gave her an encouraging smile. We were halfway to the exit when I either tripped or fell.

Meg had been looking back again and the last thing I saw was her look of horror as I went down. Feet trampled over me bruising my back and legs and when I tried to get up as soon as I reached my knees I was pushed down again. It was very frightening. The others told me later what happened next.

Meg turned and fought the tide of the crowd trying to get to me. She was kicking, screaming and punching for all she was worth, and giving a good impression of a woman gone mad. She lost her purse when she swung it at somebody’s head and all she had to use were her hands . . . and her nails. She reached me and managed to fight for enough space so I could stand. I stood there, leaning on Meg, regaining my breath. All over the theatre people were suddenly coming to their senses and the fighting and panic was subsiding. Clothes were torn, faces were bleeding and women were crying.

There were still one or two isolated fights going on but most of it had ceased now. We got to the door to find Evan waiting for us. He had been on his way back but seeing us approaching he stood where he was.