Living My Life - Emma Goldman [176]
The pale horror staring at me out of Ben’s eyes made me realize the meaning of fear as I had never seen it before. “Let’s get out of town,” he whispered, trembling. “We can’t hold the meeting anyway. Chief Wilson2 promises to get us away safe. Please say yes.”
I had completely forgotten our meeting. It was my objection to leaving under police protection that made me urge Ben to go himself.
“It is your life that is in danger,” I said; “they don’t want me. No harm will come to me. But in any case I can’t run away.”
“All right, I’ll stay too,” he replied determinedly.
I struggled with myself for a moment. I knew that if I let him stay, I should jeopardize his life and possibly also the safety of the other comrade. There was no other way out; I should have to consent.
No play was ever staged with greater melodrama than our rescue from the San Diego jail and our ride to the railroad station. At the head of the procession marched a dozen policemen, each carrying a shot-gun, with revolvers sticking in their belts. Then came the Chief of Police and the Chief of Detectives, heavily armed, Ben between them. I followed with two officers on each side. Behind me was our young comrade. And behind him more police.
Our appearance was greeted with savage howls. As far as the eye could reach, there was a swaying, jostling human pack. The shrill cries of women mingled with the voices of the men, drunk with the lust of blood. The more venturesome of them tried to make a rush for Ben.
“Back, back!” shouted the Chief. “The prisoners are under the protection of the law. I demand respect for the law. Get back!”
Some applauded him, others jeered. He proudly led the procession through the phalanxes of police, accompanied by the yelling of the frenzied crowd.
Automobiles were waiting us, gaily bedecked with American flags. One of them had rifles posted at every corner. Police and plain-clothes men stood on the running-board. I recognized the reporter among them. We were piled into this armed citadel, Chief Wilson standing over us like a stage hero, with a shot-gun pointed at the mob. Cameras from houses and tree-tops began to click, the sirens screamed, the riot call boomed again, and off we dashed, followed by the other cars and the angry bellowing of the mob.
At the railroad station we were pushed into a Pullman, six policemen crowding around Ben. Just as the train was about to start, a man ran in, shoved the officers aside, and spat full in Ben’s face. Then he rushed out again.
“That’s Porter,” Ben cried, “the leader of last year’s attack on me!”
I thought of the savagery of the mob, terrifying yet fascinating at the same time. I realized why Ben’s previous experience had so obsessed him until it had driven him back to San Diego. I felt the overwhelming power of the crowd’s concentrated passion. I knew I should find no peace until I had returned to it, to subdue it or to be destroyed.
I would go back, I promised myself, but not with Ben. There was no relying on him in a critical moment. I knew he had imaginative flights, but strength of will he had not. He was impulsive, but he lacked stamina and a sense of responsibility. These traits of his character had repeatedly clouded our lives and made me tremble for our love. I grieved to realize that Ben was not of heroic stuff. He was not of the texture of Sasha, who had courage enough for a dozen men and extraordinary coolness and presence of mind in moments of danger. [ ... ]
The train sped on. Ben’s face was close to mine, his voice whispering endearments, his eyes gazing pleadingly into mine. As so often before, all my doubts and all my pain dissolved in my love for my impossible boy. [ ... ]
Upon our return to New York Ben urged a larger house to give us better living-quarters and also enough room for a combination office and book-shop. He was sure he could build up a good trade to help make Mother Earth independent of tours. Ben was anxious to have his mother under the same roof with him, especially now that she was not well.
We found a place at 74 East One Hundred and Nineteenth