for American Woolen and for Lawrence. Mayor Scanlon was urged to break the strike, and though he stated that his aim was “to break the strikers’ head,” it was nothing but grandstanding, for he did nothing. An incredulous Floyd Russell raged against the mayor’s impotent response. “How long are you going to let this continue? Your city is going bust! No one is working! No one is making any money. You’ve got millions of dollars’ worth of international contracts going unfulfilled because of what’s happening under your fucking windows. You’re destroying Lawrence with your inaction!”
“Not my inaction—their action!” Scanlon shouted back. “They won’t compromise! You heard Haywood. What am I supposed to do? Shoot the women?”
“Yes,” Floyd said instantly. “That’s how Napoleon did it.”
“He shot the women?”
“He ordered the strikers to be shot, yes.”
“Not women!”
“Listen,” the lawyer said defiantly, “they want to work like men, live like men, get paid like men? Fuck like men? Then they should accept being shot like men.”
American Woolen tried again to negotiate. With Gompers and his AFL long gone, William Wood came to the table with Haywood and offered 54 hours and $8.76 a week. Big Bill walked out. He loved the attention. He refused to let the women back down. Though he said the fight was about wages and hours, it was a well-known fact, which he didn’t attempt to hide, that his IWW held union-written contracts in disdain because they encouraged workers to become complacent and abandon the class struggle. He and Smiling Joe continued to advocate for violence as a means to an end, supporting not only a general strike, but the overthrow of American capitalism itself. “Let the workers own the textile mills and set their own wages and hours,” Joe yelled from the podium when Bill grew tired in the late afternoons and Harry stood and watched nearby. “Until that happens, nothing is going to do the trick!”
With Harry’s help, Haywood raised the funds to feed the strikers. Gina volunteered at the soup kitchen. As long as she didn’t leave the basement of the Corpus Christi Church where she prepared the food, Harry agreed to accept her mild contribution to the war effort. Not Angela. “What do you expect?” Mimoo said to Harry. “Two Sicilian women butting heads like mules. Cooler heads can’t prevail because no one in this town’s got one.”
Gina baked bread and cooked beans in molasses while the law enforcement and business heavyweights of Lawrence joined in daily condemnation of Big Bill.
Haywood kept his demands deliberately outrageous and William Wood continued to respond in kind: he said he would go broke before he was blackmailed.
“Behind raised wages, resumed work, vanished militia and the whirring looms is the most revolutionary organization in the history of American industry,” thundered the District Attorney on the pages of the Tribune. Floyd Russell, having given up, left town like Gompers.
The mayor was staying quiet. He was running for reelection the following November. He didn’t want to further incense the public.
“First in violence, deepest in dirt, lawless, unlovely, ill-smelling, irreverent, new; an overgrown gawk of a village, the ‘tough’ among cities, a spectacle for the nation,” wrote Lincoln Steffens, a reporter, in The Shame of the Cities.
The town of Lawrence was crumbling—no work, no orders filled by American Woolen, no retail sales. The town was sliding into anarchy and bankruptcy, with no end to the impasse.
Something had to give. But what Gina felt as she cooked the beans, and begged Angela to stop marching in the streets, and accompanied Mimoo on the bus to clean their few remaining homes, was that nothing good could possibly come from this.
Six
LATE ONE MORNING, at the end of January, Gina was helping the Sodality sisters at St. Vincent’s organize the incoming donations when Big Bill walked into their little mission house across from St. Mary’s rectory. He frightened the nuns and they wouldn’t glance up at him. It took a lot to frighten the nuns. In their spare time they cared for lepers. He scared Gina too, but she was the one he addressed, so she had no choice but to respond. He said it was freezing outside and the marching women were so miserable they were thinking of packing it in for the day and heading home. He couldn’t allow that. Were there any coats or waterproof shoes he could take to keep the women warm and keep them on the streets?
Gina and the sisters hurried to collect a few dozen warm coverings. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.
“Can you help me cart them?” Bill asked. “You’re Harry’s wife, aren’t you?” He brazenly appraised her with his one good eye.
She nodded as she helped him put the coats and boots into a wheelbarrow.
“Why is he hiding you? Why are you never by his side? He’s out there every day busting his hide, helping the righteous cause. Why aren’t you supporting the women?”
Gina didn’t want to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him nothing.
“I work here,” she replied tersely. If Harry hadn’t told Bill about the baby, she certainly wasn’t going to. If Harry hadn’t told Bill she worked in the soup kitchen making lunch for the strikers, she wasn’t going to.
“Are you not on our side?” He glared at her with his one eye.
“I’m on your side,” she replied in her smallest voice.
He forgot to turn his good profile to her, such as it was, and left her staring at him full on. She muttered something vapid about looms and missions and her work for the church. All her bravado had left her. She began to understand why her husband couldn’t say no to this man. She was pregnant. She was hardly going to provoke him into argument. He was completely intimidating.
“Come and help me,” he said. “It’s nearly lunchtime.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I make the food. Hot beans. Bread.”
“Ah. Very good. But today you can help me serve them.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. My regular girl is out sick. The nuns can spare you for an hour or two, can’t they?”
“They can’t.”
The sisters assured Gina they could.
“I have to speak to Harry first,” Gina muttered.
“Come, we’ll find him together. Put on your coat.”
She left with Bill, trying very hard not to stare into the vacant horror show of a socket that once housed his eye. Rumor had it that he had punctured it with a knife while whittling a slingshot when he was eight. She tried to walk on his right side, so he would walk closer to the curb, but Bill had suddenly become less self-conscious about his ocular deficiency. It was windy and cold and ice was falling. Bill wore a tailored gray wool overcoat and didn’t want the mud and slush to spatter it as cars and horses passed by. He kept talking to Gina in an endless harangue, but she pulled her hat over her ears and eyes so she wouldn’t hear him or be forced to look up into his dead milky deformity. She was drowning in her anxiety over heading straight to Union Street after promising Harry she would keep away. Surely he wouldn’t be upset when he learned his boss made her do it. Madame Camilla indeed! The only real money they had was the money this man was paying her husband. From blocks away she could hear the mob, even through her hat and over Bill’s booming voice.
The crowds were impassable; it was only because she was with him that they were able to push through. He could push through a stone barricade. They distributed the meager coat donations to some women in the picket line in front of Wood Mill and walked through the low iron fence of the Corpus Christi church to the lunch tent.
“Bill,