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THE PEOPLE OF THE ABYSS
Suddenly a change came over the face of things. A tingle of excitement ran
along the air. Automobiles fled past, two, three, a dozen, and from them
warnings were shouted to us. One of the machines swerved wildly at high
speed half a block down, and the next moment, already left well behind it,
the pavement was torn into a great hole by a bursting bomb. We saw the
police disappearing down the cross-streets on the run, and knew that
something terrible was coming. We could hear the rising roar of it.
"Our brave comrades are coming," Hartman said.
We could see the front of their column filling the street from gutter to
gutter, as the last war-automobile fled past. The machine stopped for a
moment just abreast of us. A soldier leaped from it, carrying something
carefully in his hands. This, with the same care, he deposited in the
gutter. Then he leaped back to his seat and the machine dashed on, took
the turn at the corner, and was gone from sight. Hartman ran to the gutter
and stooped over the object.
"Keep back," he warned me.
I could see he was working rapidly with his hands. When he returned to me
the sweat was heavy on his forehead.
"I disconnected it," he said, "and just in the nick of time. The soldier
was clumsy. He intended it for our comrades, but he didn't give it enough
time. It would have exploded prematurely. Now it won't explode at all."
Everything was happening rapidly now. Across the street and half a block
down, high up in a building, I could see heads peering out. I had just
pointed them out to Hartman, when a sheet of flame and smoke ran along
that portion of the face of the building where the heads had appeared, and
the air was shaken by the explosion. In places the stone facing of the
building was torn away, exposing the iron construction beneath. The next
moment similar sheets of flame and smoke smote the front of the building
across the street opposite it. Between the explosions we could hear the
rattle of the automatic pistols and rifles. For several minutes this
mid-air battle continued, then died out. It was patent that our comrades
were in one building, that Mercenaries were in the other, and that they
were fighting across the street. But we could not tell which was which—which
building contained our comrades and which the Mercenaries.
By this time the column on the street was almost on us. As the front of it
passed under the warring buildings, both went into action again—one
building dropping bombs into the street, being attacked from across the
street, and in return replying to that attack. Thus we learned which
building was held by our comrades, and they did good work, saving those in
the street from the bombs of the enemy.
Hartman gripped my arm and dragged me into a wide entrance.
"They're not our comrades," he shouted in my ear.
The inner doors to the entrance were locked and bolted. We could not
escape. The next moment the front of the column went by. It was not a
column, but a mob, an awful river that filled the street, the people of
the abyss, mad with drink and wrong, up at last and roaring for the blood
of their masters. I had seen the people of the abyss before, gone through
its ghettos, and thought I knew it; but I found that I was now looking on
it for the first time. Dumb apathy had vanished. It was now dynamic—a
fascinating spectacle of dread. It surged past my vision in concrete waves
of wrath, snarling and growling, carnivorous, drunk with whiskey from
pillaged warehouses, drunk with hatred, drunk with lust for blood—men,
women, and children, in rags and tatters, dim ferocious intelligences with
all the godlike blotted from their features and all the fiendlike stamped
in, apes and tigers, anaemic consumptives and great hairy beasts of
burden, wan faces from which vampire society had sucked the juice of life,
bloated forms swollen with physical grossness and corruption, withered
hags and death's-heads bearded like patriarchs, festering youth and
festering age, faces of fiends, crooked, twisted, misshapen monsters
blasted with the ravages of disease and all the horrors of chronic
innutrition—the refuse and the scum of life, a raging, screaming,
screeching, demoniacal horde.
And why not? The people of the abyss had nothing to lose but the misery
and pain of living. And to gain?—nothing, save one final, awful glut
of vengeance. And as I looked the thought came to me that in that rushing
stream of human lava were men, comrades and heroes, whose mission had been
to rouse the abysmal beast and to keep the enemy occupied in coping with
And now a strange thing happened to me. A transformation came over me. The
fear of death, for myself and for others, left me. I was strangely
exalted, another being in another life. Nothing mattered. The Cause for
this one time was lost, but the Cause would be here to-morrow, the same
Cause, ever fresh and ever burning. And thereafter, in the orgy of horror
that raged through the succeeding hours, I was able to take a calm
interest. Death meant nothing, life meant nothing. I was an interested
spectator of events, and, sometimes swept on by the rush, was myself a
curious participant. For my mind had leaped to a star-cool altitude and
grasped a passionless transvaluation of values. Had it not done this, I
know that I should have died.
Half a mile of the mob had swept by when we were discovered. A woman in
fantastic rags, with cheeks cavernously hollow and with narrow black eyes
like burning gimlets, caught a glimpse of Hartman and me. She let out a
shrill shriek and bore in upon us. A section of the mob tore itself loose
and surged in after her. I can see her now, as I write these lines, a leap
in advance, her gray hair flying in thin tangled strings, the blood
dripping down her forehead from some wound in the scalp, in her right hand
a hatchet, her left hand, lean and wrinkled, a yellow talon, gripping the
air convulsively. Hartman sprang in front of me. This was no time for
explanations. We were well dressed, and that was enough. His fist shot
out, striking the woman between her burning eyes. The impact of the blow
drove her backward, but she struck the wall of her on-coming fellows and
bounced forward again, dazed and helpless, the brandished hatchet falling
feebly on Hartman's shoulder.
The next moment I knew not what was happening. I was overborne by the
crowd. The confined space was filled with shrieks and yells and curses.
Blows were falling on me. Hands were ripping and tearing at my flesh and
garments. I felt that I was being torn to pieces. I was being borne down,
suffocated. Some strong hand gripped my shoulder in the thick of the press
and was dragging fiercely at me. Between pain and pressure I fainted.
Hartman never came out of that entrance. He had shielded me and received
the first brunt of the attack. This had saved me, for the jam had quickly
become too dense for anything more than the mad gripping and tearing of
I came to in the midst of wild movement. All about me was the same
movement. I had been caught up in a monstrous flood that was sweeping me I
knew not whither. Fresh air was on my cheek and biting sweetly in my
lungs. Faint and dizzy, I was vaguely aware of a strong arm around my body
under the arms, and half-lifting me and dragging me along. Feebly my own
limbs were helping me. In front of me I could see the moving back of a
man's coat. It had been slit from top to bottom along the centre seam, and
it pulsed rhythmically, the slit opening and closing regularly with every
leap of the wearer. This phenomenon fascinated me for a time, while my
senses were coming back to me. Next I became aware of stinging cheeks and
nose, and could feel blood dripping on my face. My hat was gone. My hair
was down and flying, and from the stinging of the scalp I managed to
recollect a hand in the press of the entrance that had torn at my hair. My
chest and arms were bruised and aching in a score of places.
My brain grew clearer, and I turned as I ran and looked at the man who was
holding me up. He it was who had dragged me out and saved me. He noticed
"It's all right!" he shouted hoarsely. "I knew you on the instant."
I failed to recognize him, but before I could speak I trod upon something
that was alive and that squirmed under my foot. I was swept on by those
behind and could not look down and see, and yet I knew that it was a woman
who had fallen and who was being trampled into the pavement by thousands
of successive feet.
"It's all right," he repeated. "I'm Garthwaite."
He was bearded and gaunt and dirty, but I succeeded in remembering him as
the stalwart youth that had spent several months in our Glen Ellen refuge
three years before. He passed me the signals of the Iron Heel's secret
service, in token that he, too, was in its employ.
"I'll get you out of this as soon as I can get a chance," he assured me.
"But watch your footing. On your life don't stumble and go down."
All things happened abruptly on that day, and with an abruptness that was
sickening the mob checked itself. I came in violent collision with a large
woman in front of me (the man with the split coat had vanished), while
those behind collided against me. A devilish pandemonium reigned,—shrieks,
curses, and cries of death, while above all rose the churning rattle of
machine-guns and the put-a-put, put-a-put of rifles. At first I could make
out nothing. People were falling about me right and left. The woman in
front doubled up and went down, her hands on her abdomen in a frenzied
clutch. A man was quivering against my legs in a death-struggle.
It came to me that we were at the head of the column. Half a mile of it
had disappeared—where or how I never learned. To this day I do not
know what became of that half-mile of humanity—whether it was
blotted out by some frightful bolt of war, whether it was scattered and
destroyed piecemeal, or whether it escaped. But there we were, at the head
of the column instead of in its middle, and we were being swept out of
life by a torrent of shrieking lead.
As soon as death had thinned the jam, Garthwaite, still grasping my arm,
led a rush of survivors into the wide entrance of an office building.
Here, at the rear, against the doors, we were pressed by a panting,
gasping mass of creatures. For some time we remained in this position
without a change in the situation.
"I did it beautifully," Garthwaite was lamenting to me. "Ran you right
into a trap. We had a gambler's chance in the street, but in here there is
no chance at all. It's all over but the shouting. Vive la Revolution!"
Then, what he expected, began. The Mercenaries were killing without
quarter. At first, the surge back upon us was crushing, but as the killing
continued the pressure was eased. The dead and dying went down and made
room. Garthwaite put his mouth to my ear and shouted, but in the frightful
din I could not catch what he said. He did not wait. He seized me and
threw me down. Next he dragged a dying woman over on top of me, and, with
much squeezing and shoving, crawled in beside me and partly over me. A
mound of dead and dying began to pile up over us, and over this mound,
pawing and moaning, crept those that still survived. But these, too, soon
ceased, and a semi-silence settled down, broken by groans and sobs and
sounds of strangulation.
I should have been crushed had it not been for Garthwaite. As it was, it
seemed inconceivable that I could bear the weight I did and live. And yet,
outside of pain, the only feeling I possessed was one of curiosity. How
was it going to end? What would death be like? Thus did I receive my red
baptism in that Chicago shambles. Prior to that, death to me had been a
theory; but ever afterward death has been a simple fact that does not
matter, it is so easy.
But the Mercenaries were not content with what they had done. They invaded
the entrance, killing the wounded and searching out the unhurt that, like
ourselves, were playing dead. I remember one man they dragged out of a
heap, who pleaded abjectly until a revolver shot cut him short. Then there
was a woman who charged from a heap, snarling and shooting. She fired six
shots before they got her, though what damage she did we could not know.
We could follow these tragedies only by the sound. Every little while
flurries like this occurred, each flurry culminating in the revolver shot
that put an end to it. In the intervals we could hear the soldiers talking
and swearing as they rummaged among the carcasses, urged on by their
officers to hurry up.
At last they went to work on our heap, and we could feel the pressure
diminish as they dragged away the dead and wounded. Garthwaite began
uttering aloud the signals. At first he was not heard. Then he raised his
"Listen to that," we heard a soldier say. And next the sharp voice of an
officer. "Hold on there! Careful as you go!"
Oh, that first breath of air as we were dragged out! Garthwaite did the
talking at first, but I was compelled to undergo a brief examination to
prove service with the Iron Heel.
"Agents-provocateurs all right," was the officer's conclusion. He was a
beardless young fellow, a cadet, evidently, of some great oligarch family.
"It's a hell of a job," Garthwaite grumbled. "I'm going to try and resign
and get into the army. You fellows have a snap."
"You've earned it," was the young officer's answer. "I've got some pull,
and I'll see if it can be managed. I can tell them how I found you."
He took Garthwaite's name and number, then turned to me.
"Oh, I'm going to be married," I answered lightly, "and then I'll be out
of it all."
And so we talked, while the killing of the wounded went on. It is all a
dream, now, as I look back on it; but at the time it was the most natural
thing in the world. Garthwaite and the young officer fell into an animated
conversation over the difference between so-called modern warfare and the
present street-fighting and sky-scraper fighting that was taking place all
over the city. I followed them intently, fixing up my hair at the same
time and pinning together my torn skirts. And all the time the killing of
the wounded went on. Sometimes the revolver shots drowned the voices of
Garthwaite and the officer, and they were compelled to repeat what they
had been saying.
I lived through three days of the Chicago Commune, and the vastness of it
and of the slaughter may be imagined when I say that in all that time I
saw practically nothing outside the killing of the people of the abyss and
the mid-air fighting between sky-scrapers. I really saw nothing of the
heroic work done by the comrades. I could hear the explosions of their
mines and bombs, and see the smoke of their conflagrations, and that was
all. The mid-air part of one great deed I saw, however, and that was the
balloon attacks made by our comrades on the fortresses. That was on the
second day. The three disloyal regiments had been destroyed in the
fortresses to the last man. The fortresses were crowded with Mercenaries,
the wind blew in the right direction, and up went our balloons from one of
the office buildings in the city.
Now Biedenbach, after he left Glen Ellen, had invented a most powerful
explosive—"expedite" he called it. This was the weapon the balloons
used. They were only hot-air balloons, clumsily and hastily made, but they
did the work. I saw it all from the top of an office building. The first
balloon missed the fortresses completely and disappeared into the country;
but we learned about it afterward. Burton and O'Sullivan were in it. As
they were descending they swept across a railroad directly over a
troop-train that was heading at full speed for Chicago. They dropped their
whole supply of expedite upon the locomotive. The resulting wreck tied the
line up for days. And the best of it was that, released from the weight of
expedite, the balloon shot up into the air and did not come down for half
a dozen miles, both heroes escaping unharmed.
The second balloon was a failure. Its flight was lame. It floated too low
and was shot full of holes before it could reach the fortresses. Herford
and Guinness were in it, and they were blown to pieces along with the
field into which they fell. Biedenbach was in despair—we heard all
about it afterward—and he went up alone in the third balloon. He,
too, made a low flight, but he was in luck, for they failed seriously to
puncture his balloon. I can see it now as I did then, from the lofty top
of the building—that inflated bag drifting along the air, and that
tiny speck of a man clinging on beneath. I could not see the fortress, but
those on the roof with me said he was directly over it. I did not see the
expedite fall when he cut it loose. But I did see the balloon suddenly
leap up into the sky. An appreciable time after that the great column of
the explosion towered in the air, and after that, in turn, I heard the
roar of it. Biedenbach the gentle had destroyed a fortress. Two other
balloons followed at the same time. One was blown to pieces in the air,
the expedite exploding, and the shock of it disrupted the second balloon,
which fell prettily into the remaining fortress. It couldn't have been
better planned, though the two comrades in it sacrificed their lives.
But to return to the people of the abyss. My experiences were confined to
them. They raged and slaughtered and destroyed all over the city proper,
and were in turn destroyed; but never once did they succeed in reaching
the city of the oligarchs over on the west side. The oligarchs had
protected themselves well. No matter what destruction was wreaked in the
heart of the city, they, and their womenkind and children, were to escape
hurt. I am told that their children played in the parks during those
terrible days and that their favorite game was an imitation of their
elders stamping upon the proletariat.
But the Mercenaries found it no easy task to cope with the people of the
abyss and at the same time fight with the comrades. Chicago was true to
her traditions, and though a generation of revolutionists was wiped out,
it took along with it pretty close to a generation of its enemies. Of
course, the Iron Heel kept the figures secret, but, at a very conservative
estimate, at least one hundred and thirty thousand Mercenaries were slain.
But the comrades had no chance. Instead of the whole country being hand in
hand in revolt, they were all alone, and the total strength of the
Oligarchy could have been directed against them if necessary. As it was,
hour after hour, day after day, in endless train-loads, by hundreds of
thousands, the Mercenaries were hurled into Chicago.
And there were so many of the people of the abyss! Tiring of the
slaughter, a great herding movement was begun by the soldiers, the intent
of which was to drive the street mobs, like cattle, into Lake Michigan. It
was at the beginning of this movement that Garthwaite and I had
encountered the young officer. This herding movement was practically a
failure, thanks to the splendid work of the comrades. Instead of the great
host the Mercenaries had hoped to gather together, they succeeded in
driving no more than forty thousand of the wretches into the lake. Time
and again, when a mob of them was well in hand and being driven along the
streets to the water, the comrades would create a diversion, and the mob
would escape through the consequent hole torn in the encircling net.
Garthwaite and I saw an example of this shortly after meeting with the
young officer. The mob of which we had been a part, and which had been put
in retreat, was prevented from escaping to the south and east by strong
bodies of troops. The troops we had fallen in with had held it back on the
west. The only outlet was north, and north it went toward the lake, driven
on from east and west and south by machine-gun fire and automatics.
Whether it divined that it was being driven toward the lake, or whether it
was merely a blind squirm of the monster, I do not know; but at any rate
the mob took a cross street to the west, turned down the next street, and
came back upon its track, heading south toward the great ghetto.
Garthwaite and I at that time were trying to make our way westward to get
out of the territory of street-fighting, and we were caught right in the
thick of it again. As we came to the corner we saw the howling mob bearing
down upon us. Garthwaite seized my arm and we were just starting to run,
when he dragged me back from in front of the wheels of half a dozen war
automobiles, equipped with machine-guns, that were rushing for the spot.
Behind them came the soldiers with their automatic rifles. By the time
they took position, the mob was upon them, and it looked as though they
would be overwhelmed before they could get into action.
Here and there a soldier was discharging his rifle, but this scattered
fire had no effect in checking the mob. On it came, bellowing with brute
rage. It seemed the machine-guns could not get started. The automobiles on
which they were mounted blocked the street, compelling the soldiers to
find positions in, between, and on the sidewalks. More and more soldiers
were arriving, and in the jam we were unable to get away. Garthwaite held
me by the arm, and we pressed close against the front of a building.
The mob was no more than twenty-five feet away when the machine-guns
opened up; but before that flaming sheet of death nothing could live. The
mob came on, but it could not advance. It piled up in a heap, a mound, a
huge and growing wave of dead and dying. Those behind urged on, and the
column, from gutter to gutter, telescoped upon itself. Wounded creatures,
men and women, were vomited over the top of that awful wave and fell
squirming down the face of it till they threshed about under the
automobiles and against the legs of the soldiers. The latter bayoneted the
struggling wretches, though one I saw who gained his feet and flew at a
soldier's throat with his teeth. Together they went down, soldier and
slave, into the welter.
The firing ceased. The work was done. The mob had been stopped in its wild
attempt to break through. Orders were being given to clear the wheels of
the war-machines. They could not advance over that wave of dead, and the
idea was to run them down the cross street. The soldiers were dragging the
bodies away from the wheels when it happened. We learned afterward how it
happened. A block distant a hundred of our comrades had been holding a
building. Across roofs and through buildings they made their way, till
they found themselves looking down upon the close-packed soldiers. Then it
Without warning, a shower of bombs fell from the top of the building. The
automobiles were blown to fragments, along with many soldiers. We, with
the survivors, swept back in mad retreat. Half a block down another
building opened fire on us. As the soldiers had carpeted the street with
dead slaves, so, in turn, did they themselves become carpet. Garthwaite
and I bore charmed lives. As we had done before, so again we sought
shelter in an entrance. But he was not to be caught napping this time. As
the roar of the bombs died away, he began peering out.
"The mob's coming back!" he called to me. "We've got to get out of this!"
We fled, hand in hand, down the bloody pavement, slipping and sliding, and
making for the corner. Down the cross street we could see a few soldiers
still running. Nothing was happening to them. The way was clear. So we
paused a moment and looked back. The mob came on slowly. It was busy
arming itself with the rifles of the slain and killing the wounded. We saw
the end of the young officer who had rescued us. He painfully lifted
himself on his elbow and turned loose with his automatic pistol.
"There goes my chance of promotion," Garthwaite laughed, as a woman bore
down on the wounded man, brandishing a butcher's cleaver. "Come on. It's
the wrong direction, but we'll get out somehow."
And we fled eastward through the quiet streets, prepared at every cross
street for anything to happen. To the south a monster conflagration was
filling the sky, and we knew that the great ghetto was burning. At last I
sank down on the sidewalk. I was exhausted and could go no farther. I was
bruised and sore and aching in every limb; yet I could not escape smiling
at Garthwaite, who was rolling a cigarette and saying:
"I know I'm making a mess of rescuing you, but I can't get head nor tail
of the situation. It's all a mess. Every time we try to break out,
something happens and we're turned back. We're only a couple of blocks now
from where I got you out of that entrance. Friend and foe are all mixed
up. It's chaos. You can't tell who is in those darned buildings. Try to
find out, and you get a bomb on your head. Try to go peaceably on your
way, and you run into a mob and are killed by machine-guns, or you run
into the Mercenaries and are killed by your own comrades from a roof. And
on the top of it all the mob comes along and kills you, too."
He shook his head dolefully, lighted his cigarette, and sat down beside
"And I'm that hungry," he added, "I could eat cobblestones."
The next moment he was on his feet again and out in the street prying up a
cobblestone. He came back with it and assaulted the window of a store
"It's ground floor and no good," he explained as he helped me through the
hole he had made; "but it's the best we can do. You get a nap and I'll
reconnoitre. I'll finish this rescue all right, but I want time, time,
lots of it—and something to eat."
It was a harness store we found ourselves in, and he fixed me up a couch
of horse blankets in the private office well to the rear. To add to my
wretchedness a splitting headache was coming on, and I was only too glad
to close my eyes and try to sleep.
"I'll be back," were his parting words. "I don't hope to get an auto, but
I'll surely bring some grub,* anyway."
And that was the last I saw of Garthwaite for three years. Instead of
coming back, he was carried away to a hospital with a bullet through his
lungs and another through the fleshy part of his neck.