With the destruction of the Granger states, the Grangers in Congress disappeared. They were being tried for high treason, and their places were taken by the creatures of the Iron Heel. The socialists were in a pitiful minority, and they knew that their end was near. Congress and the Senate were empty pretences, farces. Public questions were gravely debated and passed upon according to the old forms, while in reality all that was done was to give the stamp of constitutional procedure to the mandates of the Oligarchy.
Ernest was in the thick of the fight when the end came. It was in the debate on the bill to assist the unemployed. The hard times of the preceding year had thrust great masses of the proletariat beneath the starvation line, and the continued and wide-reaching disorder had but sunk them deeper. Millions of people were starving, while the oligarchs and their supporters were surfeiting on the surplus.* We called these wretched people the people of the abyss,** and it was to alleviate their awful suffering that the socialists had introduced the unemployed bill. But this was not to the fancy of the Iron Heel. In its own way it was preparing to set these millions to work, but the way was not our way, wherefore it had issued its orders that our bill should be voted down. Ernest and his fellows knew that their effort was futile, but they were tired of the suspense. They wanted something to happen. They were accomplishing nothing, and the best they hoped for was the putting of an end to the legislative farce in which they were unwilling players. They knew not what end would come, but they never anticipated a more disastrous end than the one that did come.
* The same conditions obtained in the nineteenth century
A.D. under British rule in India. The natives died of
starvation by the million, while their rulers robbed them of
the fruits of their toil and expended it on magnificent
pageants and mumbo-jumbo fooleries. Perforce, in this
enlightened age, we have much to blush for in the acts of
our ancestors. Our only consolation is philosophic. We
must accept the capitalistic stage in social evolution as
about on a par with the earlier monkey stage. The human had
to pass through those stages in its rise from the mire and
slime of low organic life. It was inevitable that much of
the mire and slime should cling and be not easily shaken
** The people of the abyss—this phrase was struck out by
the genius of H. G. Wells in the late nineteenth century
A.D. Wells was a sociological seer, sane and normal as well
as warm human. Many fragments of his work have come down to
us, while two of his greatest achievements, “Anticipations”
and “Mankind in the Making,” have come down intact. Before
the oligarchs, and before Everhard, Wells speculated upon
the building of the wonder cities, though in his writings
they are referred to as “pleasure cities.”
I sat in the gallery that day. We all knew that something terrible was imminent. It was in the air, and its presence was made visible by the armed soldiers drawn up in lines in the corridors, and by the officers grouped in the entrances to the House itself. The Oligarchy was about to strike. Ernest was speaking. He was describing the sufferings of the unemployed, as if with the wild idea of in some way touching their hearts and consciences; but the Republican and Democratic members sneered and jeered at him, and there was uproar and confusion. Ernest abruptly changed front.
“I know nothing that I may say can influence you,” he said. “You have no souls to be influenced. You are spineless, flaccid things. You pompously call yourselves Republicans and Democrats. There is no Republican Party. There is no Democratic Party. There are no Republicans nor Democrats in this House. You are lick-spittlers and panderers, the creatures of the Plutocracy. You talk verbosely in antiquated terminology of your love of liberty, and all the while you wear the scarlet livery of the Iron Heel.”
Here the shouting and the cries of “Order! order!” drowned his voice, and he stood disdainfully till the din had somewhat subsided. He waved his hand to include all of them, turned to his own comrades, and said:
“Listen to the bellowing of the well-fed beasts.”
Pandemonium broke out again. The Speaker rapped for order and glanced expectantly at the officers in the doorways. There were cries of “Sedition!” and a great, rotund New York member began shouting “Anarchist!” at Ernest. And Ernest was not pleasant to look at. Every fighting fibre of him was quivering, and his face was the face of a fighting animal, withal he was cool and collected.
“Remember,” he said, in a voice that made itself heard above the din, “that as you show mercy now to the proletariat, some day will that same proletariat show mercy to you.”
The cries of “Sedition!” and “Anarchist!” redoubled.
“I know that you will not vote for this bill,” Ernest went on. “You have received the command from your masters to vote against it. And yet you call me anarchist. You, who have destroyed the government of the people, and who shamelessly flaunt your scarlet shame in public places, call me anarchist. I do not believe in hell-fire and brimstone; but in moments like this I regret my unbelief. Nay, in moments like this I almost do believe. Surely there must be a hell, for in no less place could it be possible for you to receive punishment adequate to your crimes. So long as you exist, there is a vital need for hell-fire in the Cosmos.”
There was movement in the doorways. Ernest, the Speaker, all the members turned to see.
“Why do you not call your soldiers in, Mr. Speaker, and bid them do their work?” Ernest demanded. “They should carry out your plan with expedition.”
“There are other plans afoot,” was the retort. “That is why the soldiers are present.”
“Our plans, I suppose,” Ernest sneered. “Assassination or something kindred.”
But at the word “assassination” the uproar broke out again. Ernest could not make himself heard, but he remained on his feet waiting for a lull. And then it happened. From my place in the gallery I saw nothing except the flash of the explosion. The roar of it filled my ears and I saw Ernest reeling and falling in a swirl of smoke, and the soldiers rushing up all the aisles. His comrades were on their feet, wild with anger, capable of any violence. But Ernest steadied himself for a moment, and waved his arms for silence.
“It is a plot!” his voice rang out in warning to his comrades. “Do nothing, or you will be destroyed.”
Then he slowly sank down, and the soldiers reached him. The next moment soldiers were clearing the galleries and I saw no more.
Though he was my husband, I was not permitted to get to him. When I announced who I was, I was promptly placed under arrest. And at the same time were arrested all socialist Congressmen in Washington, including the unfortunate Simpson, who lay ill with typhoid fever in his hotel.
The trial was prompt and brief. The men were foredoomed. The wonder was that Ernest was not executed. This was a blunder on the part of the Oligarchy, and a costly one. But the Oligarchy was too confident in those days. It was drunk with success, and little did it dream that that small handful of heroes had within them the power to rock it to its foundations. To-morrow, when the Great Revolt breaks out and all the world resounds with the tramp, tramp of the millions, the Oligarchy, will realize, and too late, how mightily that band of heroes has grown.*
* Avis Everhard took for granted that her narrative would be
read in her own day, and so omits to mention the outcome of
the trial for high treason. Many other similar
disconcerting omissions will be noticed in the Manuscript.
Fifty-two socialist Congressmen were tried, and all were
found guilty. Strange to relate, not one received the death
sentence. Everhard and eleven others, among whom were
Theodore Donnelson and Matthew Kent, received life
imprisonment. The remaining forty received sentences
varying from thirty to forty-five years; while Arthur
Simpson, referred to in the Manuscript as being ill of
typhoid fever at the time of the explosion, received only
fifteen years. It is the tradition that he died of
starvation in solitary confinement, and this harsh treatment
is explained as having been caused by his uncompromising
stubbornness and his fiery and tactless hatred for all men
that served the despotism. He died in Cabanas in Cuba,
where three of his comrades were also confined. The fifty-
two socialist Congressmen were confined in military
fortresses scattered all over the United States. Thus, Du
Bois and Woods were held in Porto Rico, while Everhard and
Merryweather were placed in Alcatraz, an island in San
Francisco Bay that had already seen long service as a
As a revolutionist myself, as one on the inside who knew the hopes and fears and secret plans of the revolutionists, I am fitted to answer, as very few are, the charge that they were guilty of exploding the bomb in Congress. And I can say flatly, without qualification or doubt of any sort, that the socialists, in Congress and out, had no hand in the affair. Who threw the bomb we do not know, but the one thing we are absolutely sure of is that we did not throw it.
On the other hand, there is evidence to show that the Iron Heel was responsible for the act. Of course, we cannot prove this. Our conclusion is merely presumptive. But here are such facts as we do know. It had been reported to the Speaker of the House, by secret-service agents of the government, that the Socialist Congressmen were about to resort to terroristic tactics, and that they had decided upon the day when their tactics would go into effect. This day was the very day of the explosion. Wherefore the Capitol had been packed with troops in anticipation. Since we knew nothing about the bomb, and since a bomb actually was exploded, and since the authorities had prepared in advance for the explosion, it is only fair to conclude that the Iron Heel did know. Furthermore, we charge that the Iron Heel was guilty of the outrage, and that the Iron Heel planned and perpetrated the outrage for the purpose of foisting the guilt on our shoulders and so bringing about our destruction.
From the Speaker the warning leaked out to all the creatures in the House that wore the scarlet livery. They knew, while Ernest was speaking, that some violent act was to be committed. And to do them justice, they honestly believed that the act was to be committed by the socialists. At the trial, and still with honest belief, several testified to having seen Ernest prepare to throw the bomb, and that it exploded prematurely. Of course they saw nothing of the sort. In the fevered imagination of fear they thought they saw, that was all.
As Ernest said at the trial: “Does it stand to reason, if I were going to throw a bomb, that I should elect to throw a feeble little squib like the one that was thrown? There wasn’t enough powder in it. It made a lot of smoke, but hurt no one except me. It exploded right at my feet, and yet it did not kill me. Believe me, when I get to throwing bombs, I’ll do damage. There’ll be more than smoke in my petards.”
In return it was argued by the prosecution that the weakness of the bomb was a blunder on the part of the socialists, just as its premature explosion, caused by Ernest’s losing his nerve and dropping it, was a blunder. And to clinch the argument, there were the several Congressmen who testified to having seen Ernest fumble and drop the bomb.
As for ourselves, not one of us knew how the bomb was thrown. Ernest told me that the fraction of an instant before it exploded he both heard and saw it strike at his feet. He testified to this at the trial, but no one believed him. Besides, the whole thing, in popular slang, was “cooked up.” The Iron Heel had made up its mind to destroy us, and there was no withstanding it.
There is a saying that truth will out. I have come to doubt that saying. Nineteen years have elapsed, and despite our untiring efforts, we have failed to find the man who really did throw the bomb. Undoubtedly he was some emissary of the Iron Heel, but he has escaped detection. We have never got the slightest clew to his identity. And now, at this late date, nothing remains but for the affair to take its place among the mysteries of history.*
* Avis Everhard would have had to live for many generations
ere she could have seen the clearing up of this particular
mystery. A little less than a hundred years ago, and a
little more than six hundred years after the death, the
confession of Pervaise was discovered in the secret archives
of the Vatican. It is perhaps well to tell a little
something about this obscure document, which, in the main,
is of interest to the historian only.
Pervaise was an American, of French descent, who in 1913
A.D., was lying in the Tombs Prison, New York City, awaiting
trial for murder. From his confession we learn that he was
not a criminal. He was warm-blooded, passionate, emotional.
In an insane fit of jealousy he killed his wife—a very
common act in those times. Pervaise was mastered by the fear
of death, all of which is recounted at length in his
confession. To escape death he would have done anything,
and the police agents prepared him by assuring him that he
could not possibly escape conviction of murder in the first
degree when his trial came off. In those days, murder in
the first degree was a capital offense. The guilty man or
woman was placed in a specially constructed death-chair,
and, under the supervision of competent physicians, was
destroyed by a current of electricity. This was called
electrocution, and it was very popular during that period.
Anaesthesia, as a mode of compulsory death, was not
introduced until later.
This man, good at heart but with a ferocious animalism close
at the surface of his being, lying in jail and expectant of
nothing less than death, was prevailed upon by the agents of
the Iron Heel to throw the bomb in the House of
Representatives. In his confession he states explicitly
that he was informed that the bomb was to be a feeble thing
and that no lives would be lost. This is directly in line
with the fact that the bomb was lightly charged, and that
its explosion at Everhard’s feet was not deadly.
Pervaise was smuggled into one of the galleries ostensibly
closed for repairs. He was to select the moment for the
throwing of the bomb, and he naively confesses that in his
interest in Everhard’s tirade and the general commotion
raised thereby, he nearly forgot his mission.
Not only was he released from prison in reward for his deed,
but he was granted an income for life. This he did not long
enjoy. In 1914 A.D., in September, he was stricken with
rheumatism of the heart and lived for three days. It was
then that he sent for the Catholic priest, Father Peter
Durban, and to him made confession. So important did it seem
to the priest, that he had the confession taken down in
writing and sworn to. What happened after this we can only
surmise. The document was certainly important enough to
find its way to Rome. Powerful influences must have been
brought to bear, hence its suppression. For centuries no
hint of its existence reached the world. It was not until
in the last century that Lorbia, the brilliant Italian
scholar, stumbled upon it quite by chance during his
researches in the Vatican.
There is to-day no doubt whatever that the Iron Heel was
responsible for the bomb that exploded in the House of
Representatives in 1913 A.D. Even though the Pervaise
confession had never come to light, no reasonable doubt
could obtain; for the act in question, that sent fifty-two
Congressmen to prison, was on a par with countless other
acts committed by the oligarchs, and, before them, by the
There is the classic instance of the ferocious and wanton
judicial murder of the innocent and so-called Haymarket
Anarchists in Chicago in the penultimate decade of the
nineteenth century A.D. In a category by itself is the
deliberate burning and destruction of capitalist property by
the capitalists themselves. For such destruction of
property innocent men were frequently punished—“railroaded”
in the parlance of the times.
In the labor troubles of the first decade of the twentieth
century A.D., between the capitalists and the Western
Federation of Miners, similar but more bloody tactics were
employed. The railroad station at Independence was blown up
by the agents of the capitalists. Thirteen men were killed,
and many more were wounded. And then the capitalists,
controlling the legislative and judicial machinery of the
state of Colorado, charged the miners with the crime and
came very near to convicting them. Romaines, one of the
tools in this affair, like Pervaise, was lying in jail in
another state, Kansas, awaiting trial, when he was
approached by the agents of the capitalists. But, unlike
Pervaise the confession of Romaines was made public in his
Then, during this same period, there was the case of Moyer
and Haywood, two strong, fearless leaders of labor. One was
president and the other was secretary of the Western
Federation of Miners. The ex-governor of Idaho had been
mysteriously murdered. The crime, at the time, was openly
charged to the mine owners by the socialists and miners.
Nevertheless, in violation of the national and state
constitutions, and by means of conspiracy on the parts of
the governors of Idaho and Colorado, Moyer and Haywood were
kidnapped, thrown into jail, and charged with the murder.
It was this instance that provoked from Eugene V. Debs,
national leader of the American socialists at the time, the
following words: “The labor leaders that cannot be bribed
nor bullied, must be ambushed and murdered. The only crime
of Moyer and Haywood is that they have been unswervingly
true to the working class. The capitalists have stolen our
country, debauched our politics, defiled our judiciary, and
ridden over us rough-shod, and now they propose to murder
those who will not abjectly surrender to their brutal
dominion. The governors of Colorado and Idaho are but
executing the mandates of their masters, the Plutocracy.
The issue is the Workers versus the Plutocracy. If they
strike the first violent blow, we will strike the last.”