University of Virginia Library

12. LANDSLIDES AND STORM CENTERS.

Containing the observations of Bill Bradley on the delights and dangers of being a "committeeman" in high authority and bossing the fight in a big campaign. Incidentally he relates how a state captain of the party hosts scared a whole commonwealth full of complacent and self-satisfied politicians, collected a campaign fund and revolutionized results.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

Your letter saying that the boys have made you national committeeman from the old state gave me a heavy jolt. I feel a good deal like the old lumberman who stood on shore and watched his son go out on the logs to break a big lumber jam. It was the lad's first star performance, and the old man remarked: "He's a fine boy and it's a fine job—but if he don't hit it right this time he'll never get back to where he can be licked for his foolhardiness."

By exerting a little brute force and awkwardness a man in almost any kind of an office can manage to make a fool of himself, but when he takes the position of state captain for the party in a national campaign he can sit still and depend upon being made a monkey of by any one of a thousand energetic hustlers in the organization who are prancing around nights, apparently for the sole purpose of putting his foot in the situation. Compared to the opportunities open to a national committeeman, a legislator, a congressman, or even a governor, stands about as little chance to do himself harm as a boy with a bucksaw and a big wood pile.

The list of perils that pestered the Apostle Paul would look mild beside the array of pitfalls which wait for the feet of those who make straight the paths of party triumph. If the holder of an ordinary office keeps close tabs on one or two special enemies and watches his own weak points with particular care, he's comparatively safe; but the party general in a big campaign has got to dodge all the sharpshooters on the other side and give most of his time to keeping his fool friends from exploding the ammunition magazine in his own camp.

Then, again, he must have a scent for landslides and storm centers that approximates omniscience. Back in Busti I used to know a bee tree hunter who insisted that even in the dead of winter he could hear the hum of a swarm of bees in a hollow seventy feet from the ground the minute he clapped his ear to the butt of the tree. That's the kind of an ear for trouble you've got to have, Ned, if you get through with the job you've tackled without making a mess of your political future. And right on this point of locating storm centers I want to tell you a story that, in the language of the evangelist, will "bring you to a realizing sense of your imperiled condition."

I was back in the old state then, as you know, and taking considerable notice of what was doing on the inside of politics. Little Doc, as you'll recall, was the national committeeman from our state and also state secretary of the state central committee at the time when the first free silver campaign broke loose. He had his enemies, but none of them accused him of sleeping daytimes, and I knew he was like father's old clay-bank mare in one respect—there was no evidence that he had ever laid down in his stall, in the fills, or in double harness. He was keen as a fox and had thrown the dogs off a good many times by running on the top rail of the fence.

Those of us who were best acquainted with his habits felt mighty safe when he landed on the national committee and stood for our state in the chief councils of the party. But there were a good many of the boys down in the state who didn't take to him because his hair curled and he changed his shirt at least three times a week.

Well, anyhow, he was the captain of the party ship when the free silver flood came in. There wasn't a man in our party who didn't fairly ooze satisfaction. Our candidate had been nominated, our pet plank adopted in the platform, and the whole organization in the old commonwealth was as chesty as a peacock in Spring. One morning in June the faithful in the state were thrown into fits by an interview from our member of the national committee. The war horses of the party frothed at the mouth and pawed the air as they read the words of the Little Doc:

"Our state is the storm center of the national campaign, and we are right now in the Democratic column. If the election were tomorrow we would be beaten to the finish."

This from our member of the national committee and the general pilot of the campaign! As that interview percolated out through the state a tidal roar set towards the city and increased in volume with every passing hour. Telegrams began to pour in from the politicians in every part of the state—and a good many of them were actually paid messages. The fellows who were either big enough or little enough to speak out in meeting freed their minds, called him all kinds of "traitor" and "fool," and demanded his resignation from both national and state committees.

Inside of three days there was a bushel of letters and telegrams from all over the state, all of the writers frothing at the mouth and reaching for the scalp of the "fool committeeman" who had "disgraced the party with his blatant and cowardly nonsense." They had a great deal to say about Little Doc's suggestion that our state was the "storm center" of the national campaign. That stuck in the crops of the whole outfit, but it especially riled the members of the state and county central committees. Somehow they seemed to consider it as a personal slap at them and they laid it down hard and fast that their rows in the party vineyard had been tended to in a way that put a short crop out of the question, regardless of weather.

Speaking moderately, the national committeeman found himself in the position of an "official forecaster," who would, on the balmiest day in June, hang out every black flag and alarm sign in the outfit and notify the public that inside of twenty-four hours there would be hail, sleet, and snow to beat Medicine Hat, and a higher speed of wind than ever swept Kansas, Missouri, or the South Seas. But all through this hubbub the Little Doc kept right on smiling—cool and happy as the cane ring fakir at a county fair. All he did was to call a meeting of the state central committee and to declare that he had been correctly quoted in the interview.

Up to that time a meeting of the state central committee had resembled a reunion of the Gladhand Brigade, at which the national committeeman figured as the guest of honor. But this time, when the wheel horses came in from the four corners of the commonwealth, they didn't pound the Little Doc on the back quite as hard as usual. He was just as bright and chipper as if he didn't know that they were going to ask his head on a salver in the course of the immediate proceedings. He represented the First district, and when the ball opened remarked:

"As I seem to have said too much already, you may pass right on to other brethren and hear their reports on the condition of the work. Perhaps some of them may wish to ask a few questions. Then I might like to make some inquiries of them. We'll all feel free to speak right out and unburden our souls."

Nick Snively, a banker from a country district, was the first one called on. He licked his lips and smiled as he grabbed the lapels of his coat and addressed the committee:

"Gentlemen: So far as my district is concerned, I am proud to give an emphatic denial to the strange and alarming rumors that have become current as to the condition of the party. You may rely upon the old Second district to roll up her usual majority for the party. She has never failed yet and with the splendid platform and candidate with which we go before the people, I regard the battle as already won."

A general smile passed round the long table as Snively sat down, and the lawyer from the Third was called on to give his testimony. There were several large manufacturing towns in his district, and only once in the history of the state had it gone Democratic. He was spoken of as a "bright man" and a "good talker."

"Friends," he said, as he slipped the fingers of his right hand in their accustomed place between the second and third buttons of his Prince Albert coat, "I have searched the Third district from Coon creek to Scrub Oaks hills, and from Prairie Center to Cottonwood Corners, looking for a storm center. There isn't one in the district unless it's in the icehouses on Clear lake." This brought a round of laughter, and the witty lawyer continued: "Down in our part of the state it has never been necessary to cry 'Wolf ! Wolf!' in order to get out the vote. We follow the even tenor of our way and come up with a solid front for the party when the polls open. This time will be no exception. The substantial men of the party, the leaders of public opinion, are enthusiastic for the candidates, and the principles with which we appeal to the voters."

"You don't think, then, that the free silver heresy has made any inroads into the party ranks in your bailiwick?" meekly inquired Little Doc.

"No, emphatically no!" responded the lawyer with smiling dignity.

Then the national committeeman turned to Snively and asked: "You don't feel that the people of your district are sitting up nights to worry about the crime of '73?"

"I should say not," he answered. "Calamity howlers are scarce down our way. We haven't gone stark crazy if—"

"If I have," interrupted the Little Doc. "Well, gentlemen, I'm going to make a few statements right here. If you go home and any of you find things different than what I say—then you can have my resignation from both the committees on which I am serving. Right in Nick Snively's district there are three Silver Republican clubs; one has 306 members, another 248, and another 160. Every member is pledged to vote for Bryan and free silver. Of course, they're secret organizations, but I'll give Mr. Snively a list of their meeting places and all the other vital statistics so that he can check me up and get my resignation."

Then the Little Doc turned to Lawyer Pratt and said: "You don't seem to have an eye for storm centers. Just go over your district with this list and you'll find seven good sized ones—and they're growing steadily. They're more Silver Republican clubs—and if you don't get busier than a boy killing snakes they'll make your election returns look like the report from a banner district in Mississippi. But there are other districts a whole lot worse than yours."

"I don't believe—" interrupted Snively, and the lawyer cut in with, "How do you know?"

"When we get all the testimonies in," answered the Little Doc, "I'll tell you—for you have a right to know. But I insist that every man shall make the report which he came into this meeting intending to make."

The others didn't put on the enthusiasm pedal quite so thick as the first ones, but they stuck to it that party sentiment was "strong and healthy," and that their districts could be "counted on to roll up good majorities for McKinley and sound money." Then the national committeeman told just how many weak spots he could put his finger on in that particular territory, and he closed the argument by telling the men who had joined in the cry for his resignation that if they didn't stir up things from one end of the state to the other the whole campaign would be lost and the responsibility would rest on their shoulders.

After that he explained how he found out that Coin Harvey's book had supplanted the family Bible in thousands of Republican homes, and that the crime of '73 and the doctrine of redemption by free silver had crowded out the old orthodox plan of salvation. Without consulting any one he had sent out to every county of the state a picked man whose ostensible business was to gather up crop statistics, but who talked politics with every man he came across. These men made daily reports, mailing them to a certain lock box in the city.

In a few days he found that the deep chested satisfaction of the faithful was blind belief and had no connection with observation of actual conditions. After he had heard from every county and knew that enough Republicans had "gone silver" to spell defeat the Little Doc gave out his famous interview.

When that meeting broke up the members were a well scared bunch, but the fright didn't strike clear in until they began to dig into the holes the Doc had marked and verify his statements. Most of the committeemen found the Silver Republican clubs had grown in numbers and membership.

Before, it had been impossible to raise a campaign fund, and many had said: "What's the use? It's simply throwing it away to spend it for what's a cinch anyway." After the scared committeemen had carried the news of the storm center among their people you couldn't keep the contributions away with an army with banners. The money rolled in. But the Little Doc had the same fight to arouse the members of the national committee that he had in his own state. Finally, however, he got them on the run, and whenever they could see a storm center they went after it hard. And instead of being called upon to resign the Little Doc was the king pin in the situation and the man to whom Uncle Mark Hanna went when he suspected that the mists of prejudice or complacency were obscuring his vision and preventing him from spotting a storm center moving down from the Medicine Hat of political obscurity.

And so, Ned, if you're going to run the national campaign in your next year don't let the assurances of the country members lull you into complacency; keep both eyes and both ears open for the signs of the times; put your ear to the butt of every tree that could possibly hold bees and listen for a buzzing sound from higher up; take a crop census and find out for sure what kind of scheme of salvation is being warmed over at the family stove-hearth of the common people.

All this is only another way of saying: Look out for landslides. The uncertainty of their appearance is as sure as that of the coming of the Lord—they are bound, as I've said before, to drop in "at a moment when ye think not," and "like a thief in the night."

I have been dug out of the edge of one or two landslides, and I can testify that nothing in my experience ever gave me anything like the same feeling excepting being hit in the stomach with a baseball batted by a black-smith's apprentice. And as far as that goes, Ned, the red schoolhouse issue put you on the shelf for a term—at least that's the way you look at it.

Perhaps you never heard the true inwardness of that campaign which precipitated the worst landslide in the history of the old state. There was some apparent dissatisfaction with a school bill that the Governor had signed, but none of the politicians paid any attention to that for the reason that every religious denomination touched by it had been represented in the commission that prepared the measure. Of course, the Governor had signed it and thought that he would never again hear from it, as it was an agreed bill. But when he was renominated the parochial school teachers camped on his trail and made it some hot for him.

But, on the other hand, I never saw such meetings as the Governor had that campaign. When we struck the city we had fairly to blindfold him in order to make him take in all the meetings scheduled. His old army wound got to hurting him after he had done about so much and he'd balk right in the shafts and refuse to budge. "All right," we'd say, "this is your campaign. If you don't care about being Governor again we'll be glad to call the campaign off right here. But if you'd like to go back to the mansion there are several thousand men with votes waiting to see you at the meetings ahead of us. Better drop in and see them."

This brought him to his senses and he greeted the boys like a lost brother just returned from the war.

When the votes were in, we felt that the count was a good deal of a formality, and we put in more time figuring out how the patronage in the state would be parceled out than we did in worrying over the result. But when the returns began to come in we felt as if the top of Pike's Peak had landed us. Everybody shouted: "The little red schoolhouse did it!" And they have kept up that cry ever since, without stopping to figure that the Governor ran far ahead of our national ticket. He simply got in the way of a landslide that started at the Homestead mills instead of a red schoolhouse.

So far as I've been able to learn, the geological experts of politics haven't given out any authoritative work on "The Law of Landslides," and the campaign weather department is a little behind on the handbook of "How to Locate Storm Centers."

When these two things are figured out to a cocksure scientific certainty there'll be about as little fun in playing politics as in shaking with loaded dice. Without an occasional upheaval in the midst of a calm, politics would become a business instead of the greatest game that an American gentleman and others are privileged to play.

The campaign manager who can't see trouble coming across several states is as poor a politician as he who thinks that nothing of great consequence, good or bad, can start in his own commonwealth.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.