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“There aren’t any beginnings,” Burton said. “Nor any ends. It seems to me that man has engaged in a blind and fearful struggle out of a past he can’t remember, into a future he can’t forsee nor understand. And man has met and defeated every obstacle, every enemy except one. He cannot win over himself. How mankind hates itself.”
Jim said, “We don’t hate ourselves, we hate the invested capital that keeps us down.”
“The other side is made of men, Jim, men like you. Man hates himself. Psychologists say a man’s self-love is balanced neatly with self-hate. Mankind must be the same. We fight ourselves and we can only win by killing every man. I’m lonely, Jim. I have nothing to hate. What are you going to get out of it, Jim?”
Burton put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know; I’m lonely, I guess. I’m awfully lonely. I’m working all alone, towards nothing. There’s some compensation for you people. I only hear heartbeats through a stethoscope. You hear them in the air.” Suddenly he leaned over and put his hand under Lisa’s chin and raised her head up and looked into her shrinking eyes. Her hand came slowly up and pulled gently at his wrist. He let go and put his hand back in his pocket.
London eyed him cautiously, as though his mind slowly circled Mac’s mind. “What do you get out of it?” he asked.
“Money, you mean? Not a damn thing.”
“Then what do you do it for?”
“Well, it’s hard to say—you know how you feel about Sam an’ all the guys that travel with you? Well, I feel that way about all the workin’ stiffs in the country.”
“Guys you don’t even know?”
“Yes, guys I don’t even know. Jim here’s just the same, just the same.”
“Sounds crazy as hell,” said London. “Sounds like a gag. An’ you don’t get no money?”
“You don’t see no Rolls-Royces around, do you?”
“But how about after?”
“After what?”
“Maybe after this is over you’ll collect.”
“There ain’t no after,” Mac said. “When this one’s done, we’ll be in another one.”
Mac lowered his voice. He moved close and put his hand on London’s knee. “Listen,” he said. “I guess we’re goin’ to lose this strike. But we raised enough hell so maybe there won’t be a strike in the cotton. Now the papers say we’re just causing trouble. But we’re getting the stiffs used to working together; getting bigger and bigger bunches working together all the time, see? It doesn’t make any difference if we lose. Here’s nearly a thousand men who’ve learned how to strike. When we get a whole slough of men working together, maybe—maybe Torgas Valley, most of it, won’t be owned by three men. Maybe a guy can get an apple for himself without going to jail for it, see? Maybe they won’t dump apples in the river to keep up the price. When guys like you and me need a apple to keep our God damn bowels open, see? You’ve got to look at the whole thing, London, not just this little strike.”
London was staring painfully at Mac’s mouth, as though he tried to see the words as they came out. “That’s kind of reva—revolution, ain’t it?”
“Sure it is. It’s a revolution against hunger and cold. The three guys that own this valley are going to raise hell to keep that land, and to keep dumping the apples to raise the price. A guy that thinks food ought to be eaten is a God damned red. D’you see that?”
London’s mouth was open. “Jesus, what a hell of a way to look at it. Don’t you guys get no pleasure?”
“Damn right,” said Mac. “More than most people do. It’s an important job. You get a hell of a drive out of something that has some meaning to it, and don’t you forget it. The thing that takes the heart out of a man is work that doesn’t lead any place. Ours is slow, but it’s all going in one direction. Christ, I stand here shooting off my face. I’ve got to go.”
It’s a long story, Jim. You can read it if you want to.” He turned the page. “Oh boy, oh boy. Listen to this editorial:
We believe the time has come to take action. When transient laborers tie up the Valley’s most important industry, when fruit tramps, led and inspired by paid foreign agitators (That’s us, Jim), carry on a campaign of violence and burning, bringing Red Russia into peaceful America, when our highways are no longer safe for American citizens, nor their homes safe from firebrands, we believe the time for action has come!This county takes care of its own people, but these strikers do not belong here. They flout the laws, and destroy life and property. They are living on the fat of the land, supplied by secret sympathizers. This paper does not, and has never believed in violence; but it does believe that when law is not sufficient to cope with these malcontents and murderers, an aroused citizenry must take a hand. The incendiary deserves no mercy. We must drive out these paid trouble-makers. This paper recommends that citizens inquire into the sources of luxuries these men have been given. It is reported that three prime steers were slaughtered in their camp yesterday.”
“Sure. That editor used some dollar-an’-a-half words, all right. ’Paid foreign agitators.’ Me, born in Minneapolis! An’ granpaw fought in the Battle of Bull Run. He always said he thought it was a bull-fight instead of a battle he was goin’ to ’til they started shootin’ at him. An’ you’re about as foreign as the Hoover administration. Oh, hell, Jim. That’s the way it always is. But—” he brought out the last of his tobacco—’’it’s closing in, Jim. Sam shouldn’t of set that fire.”
redbaiting
Mac said sharply, “You think we’re too important, and this little bang-up is too important. If the thing blew up right now it’d be worth it. A lot of the guys’ve been believing this crap about the noble American working-man, an’ the partnership of capital and labor. A lot of ’em are straight now. They know how much capital thinks of ’em, and how quick capital would poison ’em like a bunch of ants. An’ by Christ, we showed ’em two things—what they are, an’ what they’ve got to do. And this last little ruckus showed ’em they could do it. Remember what the ’Frisco strike did to Sam? Well, all these guys’ll get to be a little like Sam.”
“But do you think they’ve got brains enough to see it?”
“Not brains, Jim. It don’t take brains. After it’s all over the thing’ll go on working down inside of ’em. They’ll know it without thinking it out.”
“Well, what do you think; had we better just fade, or put up a fight?”
“Fight, if we can make the guys do it,” said Mac. “If they sneak off, they get a bad feeling out of it, but if they fight and get licked, well, they still fought; and it’s worth doing.”
Jim settled down on one knee. “Look, if they come through with guns they’re going to kill a lot of our guys.”
Mac’s eyes grew slitted and cold. “We keep switching sides, Jim. Suppose they do kill some of our men? That helps our side. For every man they kill ten new ones come over to us. The news goes creeping around the country and men all over hear it and get mad. Guys that are just half-warm get hot, see? But if we sneak off and the word gets around, and men say ’They didn’t even put up a fight,’ why all the working stiffs will be unsure of themselves. If we fight, an’ the news gets around, other men in the same position’ll fight too.”
Jim asked, “Mac, do you s’pose we could get a leave of absence some time and go where nobody knows us, and just sit down in an orchard?”
“’Bout two hours of it, and you’d be raring to go again.”
“I never had time to look at things, Mac, never. I never looked how leaves come out. I never looked at the way things happen. This morning there was a whole line of ants on the floor of the tent. I couldn’t watch them. I was thinking about something else. Some time I’d like to sit all day and look at bugs, and never think of anything else.”
“They’d drive you nuts,” said Mac. “Men are bad enough, but bugs’d drive you nuts.”
“Well, just once in a while you get that feeling—I never look at anything. I never take time to see anything. It’s going to be over, and I won’t know—even how an apple grows.”