John Passos - 1919

They took him to the jail and threw him on the floor of a cell. Meanwhile they were putting the other loggers through the third degree.

That night the city lights were turned off. A mob smashed in the outer door of the jail. “Don’t shoot, boys, here’s your man,” said the guard. Wesley Everest met them on his feet, “Tell the boys I did my best,” He whispered to the men in the other cells.

They took him off in a limousine to the Chehalis River bridge. As Wesley Everest lay stunned in the bottom of the car a Centralia business man cut his penis and testicles off with a razor. Wesley Everest gave a great scream of pain. Somebody has remembered that after a while he whispered, “For God’s sake, men, shoot me… don’t make me suffer like this.” Then they hanged him from the bridge in the glare of the headlights.

The coroner at his inquest thought it was a great joke.

He reported that Wesley Everest had broken out of jail and run to the Chehalis River bridge and tied a rope around his neck and jumped off, finding the rope too short he’d climbed back and fashioned on a longer one, had jumped off again, broke his neck and shot himself full of holes.

They jammed the mangled wreckage into a packing box and buried it.

Nobody knows where they buried the body of Wesley Everest, but the six loggers they caught they buried in the Walla Walla Penitentiary.

The pinnacles and buttresses of the apse of Nôtre Dâme looked crumbly as cigarash in the late afternoon sunshine. “But you’ve got to stay, Richard,” Eleanor was saying as she went about the room collecting the teathings on a tray for the maid to take out. “I had to do something about Eveline and her husband before they sailed… after all, she’s one of my oldest friends… and I’ve invited all her wildeyed hangerson to come in afterwards.” A fleet of big drays loaded with winebarrels rumbled along the quay outside. Dick was staring out into the grey ash of the afternoon. “Do close that window, Richard, the dust is pouring in…. Of course, I realize that you’ll have to leave early to go to J.W.’s meeting with the press…. If it hadn’t been for that he’d have had to come, poor dear, but you know how busy he is.” “Well, I don’t exactly find the time hanging on my hands… but I’ll stay and greet the happy pair. In the army I’d forgotten about work.” He got to his feet and walked back into the room to light a cigarette.

“Well, you needn’t be so mournful about it.”

“I don’t see you dancing in the streets yourself.”

“I think Eveline’s made a very grave mistake… Americans are just too incredibly frivolous about marriage.”

Dick’s throat got tight. He found himself noticing how stiffly he put the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled the smoke and blew it out. Eleanor’s eyes were on his face, cool and searching. Dick didn’t say anything, he tried to keep his face stiff.

“Were you in love with that poor girl, Richard?”

Dick blushed and shook his head.

“Well, you needn’t pretend to be hard about it… it’s just young to pretend to be hard about things.”

“Jilted by army officer, Texas belle killed in a plane wreck… but most of the correspondents know me and did their best to kill that story…. What did you expect me to do, jump into the grave like Hamlet? The Hon. Mr. Barrow did all of that that was necessary. It was a frightfully tough break…” He let himself drop into a chair. “I wish I was hard enough so that I didn’t give a damn about anything. When history’s walking on all our faces is no time for pretty sentiments.” He made a funny face and started talking out of the corner of his mouth. “All I asked sister is to see de woild with Uncle Woodrow… le beau monde sans blague tu sais.” Eleanor was laughing her little shrill laugh when they heard Eveline’s and Paul Johnson’s voices outside on the landing.

Eleanor had bought them a pair of little blue parakeets in a cage. They drank Montracher and ate roast duck cooked with oranges. In the middle of the meal Dick had to go up to the Crillon. It was a relief to be out in the air, sitting in an open taxi, running past the Louvre made enormous by the late twilight under which the Paris streets seemed empty and very long ago like the Roman forum. All the way up past the Tuileries he played with an impulse to tell the taxidriver to take him to the opera, to the circus, to the fortifications, anywhere to hell and gone. He set his pokerface as he walked past the doorman at the Crillon.

Miss Williams gave him a relieved smile when he appeared in the door. “Oh, I was afraid you’d be late, Captain Savage.” Dick shook his head and grinned. “Anybody come?” “Oh, they’re coming in swarms. It’ll make the front pages,” she whispered. Then she had to answer the phone.

The big room was already filling up with newspaper men. Jerry Burnham whispered as he shook hands, “Say, Dick, if it’s a typewritten statement you won’t leave the room alive.” “Don’t worry,” said Dick with a grin. “Say, where’s Robbins?” “He’s out of the picture,” said Dick dryly, “I think he’s in Nice drinking up the last of his liver.”

J.W. had come in by the other door and was moving around the room shaking hands with men he knew, being introduced to others. A young fellow with untidy hair and his necktie crooked put a paper in Dick’s hand. “Say, ask him if he’d answer some of these questions.” “Is he going home to campaign for the League of Nations?” somebody asked in his other ear.

Everybody was settled in chairs; J.W. leaned over the back of his and said that this was going to be an informal chat, after all, he was an old newspaper man himself. There was a pause. Dick glanced around at J.W.’s pale slightly jowly face just in time to catch a flash of his blue eyes around the faces of the correspondents. An elderly man asked in a grave voice if Mr. Moorehouse cared to say anything about the differences of opinion between the President and Colonel House. Dick settled himself back to be bored. J.W. answered with a cool smile that they’d better ask Colonel House himself about that. When somebody spoke the word oil everybody sat up in their chairs. Yes, he could say definitely an accord, a working agreement had been reached between certain American oil producers and perhaps the Royal Dutch-Shell, oh, no, of course not to set prices but as proof of a new era of international cooperation that was dawning in which great aggregations of capital would work together for peace and democracy, against reactionaries and militarists on the one hand and against the bloody forces of bolshevism on the other. And what about the League of Nations? “A new era,” went on J.W. in a confidential tone, “is dawning.”

Chairs scraped and squeaked, pencils scratched on pads, everybody was very attentive. Everybody got it down that J.W. was sailing for New York on the Rochambeau in two weeks. After the newspapermen had gone off to make their cable deadline, J.W. yawned and asked Dick to make his excuses to Eleanor, that he was really too tired to get down to her place tonight. When Dick got out on the streets again there was still a little of the violet of dusk in the sky. He hailed a taxi; goddam it, he could take a taxi whenever he wanted to now.

It was pretty stiff at Eleanor’s, people were sitting around in the parlor and in one bedroom that had been fitted up as a sort of boudoir with a tall mirror draped with lace, talking uncomfortably and intermittently. The bridegroom looked as if he had ants under his collar. Eveline and Eleanor were standing in the window talking with a gauntfaced man who turned out to be Don Stevens who’d been arrested in Germany by the Army of Occupation and for whom Eveline had made everybody scamper around so. “And any time I get in a jam,” he was saying, “I always find a little Jew who helps get me out… this time he was a tailor.”