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"You must make yourself over again," Ernest wrote to me. "You must cease
to be. You must become another woman—and not merely in the clothes
you wear, but inside your skin under the clothes. You must make yourself
over again so that even I would not know you—your voice, your
gestures, your mannerisms, your carriage, your walk, everything."
This command I obeyed. Every day I practised for hours in burying forever
the old Avis Everhard beneath the skin of another woman whom I may call my
other self. It was only by long practice that such results could be
obtained. In the mere detail of voice intonation I practised almost
perpetually till the voice of my new self became fixed, automatic. It was
this automatic assumption of a role that was considered imperative. One
must become so adept as to deceive oneself. It was like learning a new
language, say the French. At first speech in French is self-conscious, a
matter of the will. The student thinks in English and then transmutes into
French, or reads in French but transmutes into English before he can
understand. Then later, becoming firmly grounded, automatic, the student
reads, writes, and THINKS in French, without any recourse to English at
And so with our disguises. It was necessary for us to practise until our
assumed roles became real; until to be our original selves would require a
watchful and strong exercise of will. Of course, at first, much was mere
blundering experiment. We were creating a new art, and we had much to
discover. But the work was going on everywhere; masters in the art were
developing, and a fund of tricks and expedients was being accumulated.
This fund became a sort of text-book that was passed on, a part of the
curriculum, as it were, of the school of Revolution.*
* Disguise did become a veritable art during that period.
The revolutionists maintained schools of acting in all their
refuges. They scorned accessories, such as wigs and beards,
false eyebrows, and such aids of the theatrical actors. The
game of revolution was a game of life and death, and mere
accessories were traps. Disguise had to be fundamental,
intrinsic, part and parcel of one's being, second nature.
The Red Virgin is reported to have been one of the most
adept in the art, to which must be ascribed her long and
It was at this time that my father disappeared. His letters, which had
come to me regularly, ceased. He no longer appeared at our Pell Street
quarters. Our comrades sought him everywhere. Through our secret service
we ransacked every prison in the land. But he was lost as completely as if
the earth had swallowed him up, and to this day no clew to his end has
* Disappearance was one of the horrors of the time. As a
motif, in song and story, it constantly crops up. It was an
inevitable concomitant of the subterranean warfare that
raged through those three centuries. This phenomenon was
almost as common in the oligarch class and the labor castes,
as it was in the ranks of the revolutionists. Without
warning, without trace, men and women, and even children,
disappeared and were seen no more, their end shrouded in
Six lonely months I spent in the refuge, but they were not idle months.
Our organization went on apace, and there were mountains of work always
waiting to be done. Ernest and his fellow-leaders, from their prisons,
decided what should be done; and it remained for us on the outside to do
it. There was the organization of the mouth-to-mouth propaganda; the
organization, with all its ramifications, of our spy system; the
establishment of our secret printing-presses; and the establishment of our
underground railways, which meant the knitting together of all our myriads
of places of refuge, and the formation of new refuges where links were
missing in the chains we ran over all the land.
So I say, the work was never done. At the end of six months my loneliness
was broken by the arrival of two comrades. They were young girls, brave
souls and passionate lovers of liberty: Lora Peterson, who disappeared in
1922, and Kate Bierce, who later married Du Bois,* and who is still with
us with eyes lifted to to-morrow's sun, that heralds in the new age.
* Du Bois, the present librarian of Ardis, is a lineal
descendant of this revolutionary pair.
The two girls arrived in a flurry of excitement, danger, and sudden death.
In the crew of the fishing boat that conveyed them across San Pablo Bay
was a spy. A creature of the Iron Heel, he had successfully masqueraded as
a revolutionist and penetrated deep into the secrets of our organization.
Without doubt he was on my trail, for we had long since learned that my
disappearance had been cause of deep concern to the secret service of the
Oligarchy. Luckily, as the outcome proved, he had not divulged his
discoveries to any one. He had evidently delayed reporting, preferring to
wait until he had brought things to a successful conclusion by discovering
my hiding-place and capturing me. His information died with him. Under
some pretext, after the girls had landed at Petaluma Creek and taken to
the horses, he managed to get away from the boat.
Part way up Sonoma Mountain, John Carlson let the girls go on, leading his
horse, while he went back on foot. His suspicions had been aroused. He
captured the spy, and as to what then happened, Carlson gave us a fair
"I fixed him," was Carlson's unimaginative way of describing the affair.
"I fixed him," he repeated, while a sombre light burnt in his eyes, and
his huge, toil-distorted hands opened and closed eloquently. "He made no
noise. I hid him, and tonight I will go back and bury him deep."
During that period I used to marvel at my own metamorphosis. At times it
seemed impossible, either that I had ever lived a placid, peaceful life in
a college town, or else that I had become a revolutionist inured to scenes
of violence and death. One or the other could not be. One was real, the
other was a dream, but which was which? Was this present life of a
revolutionist, hiding in a hole, a nightmare? or was I a revolutionist who
had somewhere, somehow, dreamed that in some former existence I have lived
in Berkeley and never known of life more violent than teas and dances,
debating societies, and lectures rooms? But then I suppose this was a
common experience of all of us who had rallied under the red banner of the
brotherhood of man.
I often remembered figures from that other life, and, curiously enough,
they appeared and disappeared, now and again, in my new life. There was
Bishop Morehouse. In vain we searched for him after our organization had
developed. He had been transferred from asylum to asylum. We traced him
from the state hospital for the insane at Napa to the one in Stockton, and
from there to the one in the Santa Clara Valley called Agnews, and there
the trail ceased. There was no record of his death. In some way he must
have escaped. Little did I dream of the awful manner in which I was to see
him once again—the fleeting glimpse of him in the whirlwind carnage
of the Chicago Commune.
Jackson, who had lost his arm in the Sierra Mills and who had been the
cause of my own conversion into a revolutionist, I never saw again; but we
all knew what he did before he died. He never joined the revolutionists.
Embittered by his fate, brooding over his wrongs, he became an anarchist—not
a philosophic anarchist, but a mere animal, mad with hate and lust for
revenge. And well he revenged himself. Evading the guards, in the
nighttime while all were asleep, he blew the Pertonwaithe palace into
atoms. Not a soul escaped, not even the guards. And in prison, while
awaiting trial, he suffocated himself under his blankets.
Dr. Hammerfield and Dr. Ballingford achieved quite different fates from
that of Jackson. They have been faithful to their salt, and they have been
correspondingly rewarded with ecclesiastical palaces wherein they dwell at
peace with the world. Both are apologists for the Oligarchy. Both have
grown very fat. "Dr. Hammerfield," as Ernest once said, "has succeeded in
modifying his metaphysics so as to give God's sanction to the Iron Heel,
and also to include much worship of beauty and to reduce to an invisible
wraith the gaseous vertebrate described by Haeckel—the difference
between Dr. Hammerfield and Dr. Ballingford being that the latter has made
the God of the oligarchs a little more gaseous and a little less
Peter Donnelly, the scab foreman at the Sierra Mills whom I encountered
while investigating the case of Jackson, was a surprise to all of us. In
1918 I was present at a meeting of the 'Frisco Reds. Of all our Fighting
Groups this one was the most formidable, ferocious, and merciless. It was
really not a part of our organization. Its members were fanatics, madmen.
We dared not encourage such a spirit. On the other hand, though they did
not belong to us, we remained on friendly terms with them. It was a matter
of vital importance that brought me there that night. I, alone in the
midst of a score of men, was the only person unmasked. After the business
that brought me there was transacted, I was led away by one of them. In a
dark passage this guide struck a match, and, holding it close to his face,
slipped back his mask. For a moment I gazed upon the passion-wrought
features of Peter Donnelly. Then the match went out.
"I just wanted you to know it was me," he said in the darkness. "D'you
remember Dallas, the superintendent?"
I nodded at recollection of the vulpine-face superintendent of the Sierra
"Well, I got him first," Donnelly said with pride. "'Twas after that I
joined the Reds."
"But how comes it that you are here?" I queried. "Your wife and children?"
"Dead," he answered. "That's why. No," he went on hastily, "'tis not
revenge for them. They died easily in their beds—sickness, you see,
one time and another. They tied my arms while they lived. And now that
they're gone, 'tis revenge for my blasted manhood I'm after. I was once
Peter Donnelly, the scab foreman. But to-night I'm Number 27 of the
'Frisco Reds. Come on now, and I'll get you out of this."
More I heard of him afterward. In his own way he had told the truth when
he said all were dead. But one lived, Timothy, and him his father
considered dead because he had taken service with the Iron Heel in the
Mercenaries.* A member of the 'Frisco Reds pledged himself to twelve
annual executions. The penalty for failure was death. A member who failed
to complete his number committed suicide. These executions were not
haphazard. This group of madmen met frequently and passed wholesale
judgments upon offending members and servitors of the Oligarchy. The
executions were afterward apportioned by lot.
* In addition to the labor castes, there arose another
caste, the military. A standing army of professional
soldiers was created, officered by members of the Oligarchy
and known as the Mercenaries. This institution took the
place of the militia, which had proved impracticable under
the new regime. Outside the regular secret service of the
Iron Heel, there was further established a secret service of
the Mercenaries, this latter forming a connecting link
between the police and the military.
In fact, the business that brought me there the night of my visit was such
a trial. One of our own comrades, who for years had successfully
maintained himself in a clerical position in the local bureau of the
secret service of the Iron Heel, had fallen under the ban of the 'Frisco
Reds and was being tried. Of course he was not present, and of course his
judges did not know that he was one of our men. My mission had been to
testify to his identity and loyalty. It may be wondered how we came to
know of the affair at all. The explanation is simple. One of our secret
agents was a member of the 'Frisco Reds. It was necessary for us to keep
an eye on friend as well as foe, and this group of madmen was not too
unimportant to escape our surveillance.
But to return to Peter Donnelly and his son. All went well with Donnelly
until, in the following year, he found among the sheaf of executions that
fell to him the name of Timothy Donnelly. Then it was that that
clannishness, which was his to so extraordinary a degree, asserted itself.
To save his son, he betrayed his comrades. In this he was partially
blocked, but a dozen of the 'Frisco Reds were executed, and the group was
well-nigh destroyed. In retaliation, the survivors meted out to Donnelly
the death he had earned by his treason.
Nor did Timothy Donnelly long survive. The 'Frisco Reds pledged themselves
to his execution. Every effort was made by the Oligarchy to save him. He
was transferred from one part of the country to another. Three of the Reds
lost their lives in vain efforts to get him. The Group was composed only
of men. In the end they fell back on a woman, one of our comrades, and
none other than Anna Roylston. Our Inner Circle forbade her, but she had
ever a will of her own and disdained discipline. Furthermore, she was a
genius and lovable, and we could never discipline her anyway. She is in a
class by herself and not amenable to the ordinary standards of the
Despite our refusal to grant permission to do the deed, she went on with
it. Now Anna Roylston was a fascinating woman. All she had to do was to
beckon a man to her. She broke the hearts of scores of our young comrades,
and scores of others she captured, and by their heart-strings led into our
organization. Yet she steadfastly refused to marry. She dearly loved
children, but she held that a child of her own would claim her from the
Cause, and that it was the Cause to which her life was devoted.
It was an easy task for Anna Roylston to win Timothy Donnelly. Her
conscience did not trouble her, for at that very time occurred the
Nashville Massacre, when the Mercenaries, Donnelly in command, literally
murdered eight hundred weavers of that city. But she did not kill
Donnelly. She turned him over, a prisoner, to the 'Frisco Reds. This
happened only last year, and now she had been renamed. The revolutionists
everywhere are calling her the "Red Virgin."*
* It was not until the Second Revolt was crushed, that the
'Frisco Reds flourished again. And for two generations the
Group flourished. Then an agent of the Iron Heel managed to
become a member, penetrated all its secrets, and brought
about its total annihilation. This occurred in 2002 A.D.
The members were executed one at a time, at intervals of
three weeks, and their bodies exposed in the labor-ghetto of
Colonel Ingram and Colonel Van Gilbert are two more familiar figures that
I was later to encounter. Colonel Ingram rose high in the Oligarchy and
became Minister to Germany. He was cordially detested by the proletariat
of both countries. It was in Berlin that I met him, where, as an
accredited international spy of the Iron Heel, I was received by him and
afforded much assistance. Incidentally, I may state that in my dual role I
managed a few important things for the Revolution.
Colonel Van Gilbert became known as "Snarling" Van Gilbert. His important
part was played in drafting the new code after the Chicago Commune. But
before that, as trial judge, he had earned sentence of death by his
fiendish malignancy. I was one of those that tried him and passed sentence
upon him. Anna Roylston carried out the execution.
Still another figure arises out of the old life—Jackson's lawyer.
Least of all would I have expected again to meet this man, Joseph Hurd. It
was a strange meeting. Late at night, two years after the Chicago Commune,
Ernest and I arrived together at the Benton Harbor refuge. This was in
Michigan, across the lake from Chicago. We arrived just at the conclusion
of the trial of a spy. Sentence of death had been passed, and he was being
led away. Such was the scene as we came upon it. The next moment the
wretched man had wrenched free from his captors and flung himself at my
feet, his arms clutching me about the knees in a vicelike grip as he
prayed in a frenzy for mercy. As he turned his agonized face up to me, I
recognized him as Joseph Hurd. Of all the terrible things I have
witnessed, never have I been so unnerved as by this frantic creature's
pleading for life. He was mad for life. It was pitiable. He refused to let
go of me, despite the hands of a dozen comrades. And when at last he was
dragged shrieking away, I sank down fainting upon the floor. It is far
easier to see brave men die than to hear a coward beg for life.*
* The Benton Harbor refuge was a catacomb, the entrance of
which was cunningly contrived by way of a well. It has been
maintained in a fair state of preservation, and the curious
visitor may to-day tread its labyrinths to the assembly
hall, where, without doubt, occurred the scene described by
Avis Everhard. Farther on are the cells where the prisoners
were confined, and the death chamber where the executions
took place. Beyond is the cemetery—long, winding galleries
hewn out of the solid rock, with recesses on either hand,
wherein, tier above tier, lie the revolutionists just as
they were laid away by their comrades long years agone.