Book VI: Chapter I

by Sherwood Anderson

　　The Marching Men Movement was never a thing to intellectualise. Foryears McGregor tried to get it under way by talking. He did notsucceed. The rhythm and swing that was at the heart of the movementhung fire. The man passed through long periods of depression and hadto drive himself forward. And then after the scene with Margaret andEdith in the Ormsby house came action.

　　There was a man named Mosby about whose figure the action for a timerevolved. He was bartender for Neil Hunt, a notorious character ofSouth State Street, and had once been a lieutenant in the army. Mosbywas what in modern society is called a rascal. After West Point and afew years at some isolated army post he began to drink and one nightduring a debauch and when half crazed by the dullness of his life heshot a private through the shoulder. He was arrested and put on hishonour not to escape but did escape. For years he drifted about theworld a haggard cynical figure who got drunk whenever money came hisway and who would do anything to break the monotony of existence.

　　Mosby was enthusiastic about the Marching Men idea. He saw in it anopportunity to worry and alarm his fellow men. He talked a union ofbartenders and waiters to which he belonged into giving the idea atrial and in the morning they began to march up and down in the stripof parkland that faced the lake at the edge of the First Ward. "Keepyour mouths shut," commanded Mosby. "We can worry the officials ofthis town like the devil if we work this right. When you are askedquestions say nothing. If the police try to arrest us we will swear weare only doing it for the sake of exercise."

　　Mosby's plan worked. Within a week crowds began to gather in themorning to watch the Marching Men and the police started to makeinquiry. Mosby was delighted. He threw up his job as bartender andrecruited a motley company of young roughs whom he induced to practisethe march step during the afternoons. When he was arrested and draggedinto court McGregor acted as his lawyer and he was discharged. "I wantto get these men out into the open," Mosby declared, looking veryinnocent and guileless. "You can see for yourself that waiters andbartenders get pale and stoop-shouldered at their work and as forthese young roughs isn't it better for society to have them out theremarching about than idling in bar rooms and planning God knows whatmischief?"

　　A grin appeared over the face of the First Ward. McGregor and Mosbyorganised another company of marchers and a young man who had been asergeant in a company of regulars was induced to help with thedrilling. To the men themselves it was all a joke, a game thatappealed to the mischievous boy in them. Everybody was curious andthat gave the thing tang. They grinned as they marched up and down.For a while they exchanged gibes with the spectators but McGregor puta stop to that. "Be silent," he said, going about among the men duringthe rest periods. "That's the best thing to do. Be silent and attendto business and your marching will be ten times as effective."

　　The Marching Men Movement grew. A young Jewish newspaper man, halfrascal, half poet, wrote a scare-head story for one of the Sundaypapers announcing the birth of the Republic of Labour. The story wasillustrated by a drawing showing McGregor leading a vast horde of menacross an open plain toward a city whose tall chimneys belched forthclouds of smoke. Beside McGregor in the picture and arrayed in a gaudyuniform was Mosby the ex-army officer. In the article he was calledthe war lord of "The secret republic growing up within a greatcapitalistic empire."

　　It had begun to take form--the movement of the Marching Men. Rumoursbegan to run here and there. There was a question in men's eyes.Slowly at first it began to rumble through their minds. There was thetap of feet clicking sharply on pavements. Groups formed, men laughed,the groups disappeared only to again reappear. In the sun beforefactory doors men stood talking, half understanding, beginning tosense the fact that there was something big in the wind.

　　At first the movement did not get anywhere with the ranks of labour.There would be a meeting, perhaps a series of meetings in one of thelittle halls where labourers gather to attend to the affairs of theirunions. McGregor would speak. His voice harsh and commanding could beheard in the streets below. Merchants came out of the stores and stoodin the doorways listening. Young fellows who smoked cigarettes stoppedlooking at passing girls and gathered in crowds below the openwindows. The slow working brain of labour was being aroused.

　　After a time a few young men, fellows who worked at the saws in a boxfactory and others who ran machines in a factory where bicycles weremade, volunteered to follow the lead of the men of the First Ward. Onsummer evenings they gathered in vacant lots and marched back andforth looking at their feet and laughing.

　　McGregor insisted upon the training. He never had any intention ofletting his Marching Men Movement become merely a disorganised band ofwalkers such as we have all seen in many a labour parade. He meantthat they should learn to march rhythmically, swinging along likeveterans. He was determined that the thresh of feet should comefinally to sing a great song, carrying the message of a powerfulbrotherhood into the hearts and brains of the marchers.

　　McGregor gave all of his time to the movement. He made a scant livingby the practice of his profession but gave it no thought. The murdercase had brought him other cases and he had taken a partner, a ferret-eyed little man who worked out the details of what cases came to thefirm and collected the fees, half of which he gave to the partner whowas intent upon something else. Day after day, week after week, monthafter month, McGregor went up and down the city, talking to workers,learning to talk, striving to make his idea understood.

　　One evening in September he stood in the shadow of a factory wallwatching a group of men who marched in a vacant lot. The movement hadbecome by that time really big. A flame burned in his heart at thethought of what it might become. It was growing dark and the clouds ofdust raised by the feet of the men swept across the face of thedeparting sun. In the field before him marched some two hundred men,the largest company he had been able to get together. For a week theyhad stayed at the marching evening after evening and were beginning alittle to understand the spirit of it. Their leader on the field, atall square shouldered man, had once been a captain in the StateMilitia and now worked as engineer in a factory where soap was made.His commands rang out sharp and crisp on the evening air. "Fours rightinto line," he cried. The words were barked forth. The menstraightened their shoulders and swung out vigorously. They had begunto enjoy the marching.

　　In the shadow of the factory wall McGregor moved uneasily about. Hefelt that this was the beginning, the real birth of his movement, thatthese men had really come out of the ranks of labour and that in thebreasts of the marching figures there in the open space understandingwas growing.

　　He muttered and walked back and forth. A young man, a reporter on oneof the city's great daily papers, leaped from a passing street car andcame to stand near him. "What's up here? What's this going on? What'sit all about? You better tell me," he said.

　　In the dim light McGregor raised his fists above his head and talkedaloud. "It's creeping in among them," he said. "The thing that can'tbe put into words is getting itself expressed. Something is being donehere in this field. A new force is coming into the world."

　　Half beside himself McGregor ran up and down swinging his arms. Againturning to the reporter who stood by a factory wall--a ratherdandified figure he was with a tiny moustache--he shouted:

　　"Don't you see?" he cried. His voice was harsh. "See how they march!They are finding out what I mean. They have caught the spirit of it!"

　　McGregor began to explain. He talked hurriedly, his words coming forthin short broken sentences. "For ages there has been talk ofbrotherhood. Always men have babbled of brotherhood. The words havemeant nothing. The words and the talking have but bred a loose-jawedrace. The jaws of men wabble about but the legs of these men do notwabble."

　　He again walked up and down, dragging the half-frightened man alongthe deepening shadow of the factory wall.

　　"You see it begins--now in this field it begins. The legs and the feetof men, hundreds of legs and feet make a kind of music. Presentlythere will be thousands, hundreds of thousands. For a time men willcease to be individuals. They will become a mass, a moving all-powerful mass. They will not put their thoughts into words butnevertheless there will be a thought growing up in them. They will ofa sudden begin to realise that they are a part of something vast andmighty, a thing that moves, that is seeking new expression. They havebeen told of the power of labour but now, you see, they will becomethe power of labour."

　　Swept along by his own words and perhaps by something rhythmical inthe moving mass of men McGregor became feverishly anxious that thedapper young man should understand. "Do you remember--when you were aboy--some man who had been a soldier telling you that the men whomarched had to break step and go in a disorderly mob across a bridgebecause their orderly stride would have shaken the bridge to pieces?"

　　A shiver ran over the body of the young man. In his off hours he was awriter of plays and stories and his trained dramatic sense caughtquickly the import of McGregor's words. Into his mind came a scene ona village street of his own place in Ohio. In fancy he saw the villagefife and drum corps marching past. His mind recalled the swing and thecadence of the tune and again as when he was a boy his legs ached torun out among the men and go marching away.

　　Filled with excitement he began also to talk. "I see," he cried; "youthink there is a thought in that, a big thought that men have notunderstood?"

　　On the field the men, becoming bolder as they became less self-conscious, came sweeping by, their bodies falling into a long swingingstride.

　　The young man pondered. "I see. I see. Every one who stood watching asI did when the fife and drum corps went past felt what I felt. Theywere hiding behind a mask. Their legs also tingled and the same wildmilitant thumping went on in their hearts. You have found that out,eh? You mean to lead labour that way?"

　　With open mouth the young man stared at the field and at the movingmass of men. He became oratorical in his thoughts. "Here is a bigman," he muttered. "Here is a Napoleon, a Caesar of labour come toChicago. He is not like the little leaders. His mind is not sickliedover with the pale cast of thought. He does not think that the bignatural impulses of men are foolish and absurd. He has got hold ofsomething here that will work. The world had better watch this man."

　　Half beside himself he walked up and down at the edge of the field,his body trembling.

　　Out of the ranks of the marching men came a workman. In the fieldwords arose. A petulant quality came into the voice of the captain whogave commands. The newspaper man listened anxiously. "That's what willspoil everything. The men will begin to lose heart and will quit," hethought, leaning forward and waiting.

　　"I've worked all day and I can't march up and down here all night,"complained the voice of the workman.

　　Past the shoulder of the young man went a, shadow. Before his eyes onthe field, fronting the waiting ranks of men, stood McGregor. His fistshot out and the complaining workman crumpled to the ground.

　　"This is no time for words," said the harsh voice. "Get back in there.This is not a game. It's the beginning of men's realisation ofthemselves. Get in there and say nothing. If you can't march with usget out. The movement we have started can pay no attention towhimperers."

　　Among the ranks of men a cheer arose. By the factory wall the excitednewspaper man danced up and down. At a word of command from thecaptain the line of marching men again swept down the field and hewatched them with tears standing in his eyes. "It's going to work," hecried. "It's bound to work. At last a man has come to lead the men oflabor."