University of Virginia Library

14. FIGHTS AND FEUDS.

Being a few remarks and a story by William Bradley on the usefulness of bull courage in politics and the sores that come from the kind of man who feeds on fights and feuds and loves to display his nerve better than a pretty matron loves to show her dimples.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

Bull courage has its place in politics, but unless liberally served with brains it's a mighty dangerous commodity to have lying around loose in any political camp. The powder magazine or the dynamite cellar is the only safe place for the kind of political nerve that feeds on riot and rebellion and hungers for fights between meals.

If I am not mistaken, Ned, your chief lieutenant is richly gifted with this sort of capacity for trouble and I want to give you a jolt that'll open your eyes before you put him in a place where he'll make a magnificent display of his surplus courage and leave you with a feud on your hands that can't be lived down in the course of a natural lifetime.

There are some politicians—and some strong ones, too—who would rather stand pat in a wrong cause and bullyrag and face down a righteous majority in a convention, or a House, than to be right from the very start, and win out without any fight at all. And those are the men who, in a day, manage to infect a political camp with more sores than all the salves of diplomacy can heal in a quarter of a century.

When you find a politician who likes to display his steel-wire nerve better than a pretty matron loves to show her dimples, just cross him off your slate of possible campaign managers. The man who has a secret passion for playing the Mephistopheles of the Imperturbable Countenance will indulge in this piece of dramatics at the most expensive moment, so far as the interests of his associates are concerned.

Every man has his particular soft spot, and the special besetting weakness of the sort of politician who appears to be an intellectual marvel and an emotional immune is generally this tendency to make a show of his magnificent nerve. His only fear is that he may be thought capable of being afraid; his vanity is that of proving himself recklessly indifferent to the rights and opinions of others; his one vulnerable spot is his imperturbability.

A bag of wet sand is a soft and yielding thing alongside a stick of hard timber. But a lot of us old soldiers can testify that sacks of soggy sand will stop more bullets than a barricade of hickory logs. And in politics, the man who has enough "give" in his makeup to be thoroughly human is less liable to stir up eternal enmities than the man who wears his face like a mask and would sooner appoint an enemy to office than allow an emotion to show itself on the front side of his countenance.

Perhaps you think I'm harping pretty strong on the subject of belligerent nerve; but I once had this view of the matter rubbed into me in a way that was considerably illuminating. It was on the occasion of the first congressional convention I ever attended that this lesson was brought home to me in a way that raised my hair and made me think, for the time being, that life in a frontier army post in the Indian country would be safe and peaceful pastime compared with politics.

The row began, in the old district where I had been brought up, with the determination of a gritty young lawyer with green eyes and an ambition like Lucifer the Son of the Morning, to unseat old Gen. Harnsworth, who had been the representative for so long that he had become a statesman and fallen into the habit of forgetting to take care of the boys who were hungry for fat jobs.

These soreheads concluded that the time had come to elect a politician instead of a statesman, and so they started out to run a still-hunt in the town caucuses. The old general had held the whip hand so long that most of the stanch party men had been awed into the conviction that he was a sort of Gibraltar in a political landscape and could not be ousted by any sort of an earthquake; consequently they were in a position of a lot of unruly schoolboys who would like to throw out the schoolmaster, but didn't dare to tackle him.

Probably the revolt would have died out right at the start if it hadn't been for a few hot-heads who led the opposition at Blackberry Corners. The caucus was called in Cy Waite's little lumber office and Squire Sparks, the leader of the regulars, opened proceedings with a few facetious remarks that rubbed the fur the wrong way of the grain. Then a resolution was offered extolling the services of the distinguished statesman who had so long and ably represented the district in the national house of representatives and instructing the delegates to use "every honorable means" to secure his renomination.

Every man in the opposition had a mighty strong pair of lungs and used them to full capacity in trying to yell down the resolution. But the Squire declared it carried and then announced that the room would be cleared and the ballot box be placed in the open window to receive the ballots for delegates.

Before the boys of the opposition could fairly catch their breath they were shoved out of the office and the door locked behind them. This was too much for the fiery temper of Patrick Henry Huggins, editor of the local paper and head and front of the opposition forces. He rallied his braves in the harness shop and after three minutes of consultation he led a flying wedge that would have sent a modern football team to the hospital for repairs, drove through the crowd around the lumber office, kicked in the door himself, and grabbed the ballot box.

Five minutes later the soreheads were holding a caucus of their own in the tavern, where they elected a full set of delegates, who were sworn not to eat or sleep until they had "killed Paul." In other words, their dander was up to white heat, their war paint on, and they started out to ride the country and get the old General's scalp. This little scrap was the spark in the tinder box and fired an amount of opposition sentiment which had not been thought possible by the regulars.

One cunning old fox who had long nursed the feeling that his influence and importance had not been properly recognized by the old General told the boys to do the hustling and he would sit still in his office, do a little plain thinking, and see if he couldn't stack the cards in a way that would bring results.

After due deliberation he decided that there was just one man in the county who was equal to the job that the opposition had in hand, for the reason that his nerve was sublime and he loved to fight a hopeless majority better than an old hound loves to follow a trail.

This man was old Hiram Bonney, banker, note shaver, and professional philanthropist. He had been too busy for some years collecting interest and cutting coupons to take any active part in politics, but after the situation was carefully explained to him he decided that here was a chance for some tall fun, and an opportunity to show the people that he was not made of mush if he did devote a considerable part of his time to building hospitals and orphan asylums. Consequently he smilingly agreed to do the work cut out for him provided he should be made chairman of the convention.

Because of his social standing, his financial prominence, and his presumably neutral position in politics, the regulars readily agreed to the proposition that he should be named as temporary chairman of the convention. As the regulars composed fully three-fourths of the delegates they had not the slightest fear that they would fail to have their own way from start to finish.

The proceedings were as smooth as a rainy day session of a Sunday school until the committee on credentials brought in its report. As its chairman sat down the editor from Blackberry Corners arose to his feet, held up in his hand a paper, and began to stammer something which even those nearest him could not understand.

Right at that instant my eyes were studying the serene face of the philanthropic chairman. Except for a peculiar light that suddenly flashed up in his eyes and the shadow of a smile playing about the corners of his lips his countenance did not show the slightest change as he quietly interrupted the delegate with the question:

"Do you move that the names that you have read be substituted for those previously offered by the committee on credentials?"

"Yes," shouted back the delegate, who was answered by a second from another part of the hall.

With a smile on his lips and a gleam of hate in his eyes that made me think of Dore's picture of the devil, the chairman put the resolution to vote. The shout of the "nays" made the room shake and demonstrated that the regulars were in immense majority, but, in a voice as clear and serene as if he were leading family prayers, the chairman announced: "The ayes have it; the resolution is carried."

Instantly the convention was changed into a human cyclone. Every delegate was on his feet and the whole assemblage crowded forward toward the speaker. Big Tom Fairfield, who stood 6 feet 4 in his stockings and weighed about 300 pounds, made a dash for the chairman, swinging his fists and yelling: "Mob the scoundrel! Throw him out!" Dutch John, the boss of Little Germany, jumped into a chair and began to talk in English—but the words would not come fast enough, so he harangued the chair in his native tongue.

Just at that minute I chanced to notice that the sheriff, a brother-in-law of the chairman, stepped quickly to the platform, stood close to the distinguished philanthropist, and reached his right hand around to his own hip pocket. The mob in front of the chairman also noticed this ominous move and fell back a little.

The convention was still a howling rage; a dozen men near me were actually sobbing and cries of: "Kill him! Pound him! Mob him!" came from the frenzied regulars. The only man not beside himself was the chairman, who instantly put through a motion that the temporary organization of the convention be made permanent.

Well, Ned, to make it short, the man of the iron nerve made a new congressman, a new state senator, and a new machine, but not one of them lasted beyond a single term. He made something else, however, that has lasted more than twenty years. The party feud he started that day has never been healed and bids fair to survive unto the second and third generations. To be sure, the old man made party history with a vengeance and gave himself a notorious place in the political traditions of the district for time to come, but most of the men who were mixed up in that fight have ever since been busy trying to square themselves with the people and live down their indiscretion.

But just as sure as one of them shows his head in a hunt for office some one with a long memory comes forward and remarks that "the ayes have it." That settles him.

This, and a score of other expressions along the same line, make me a little cautious about giving full rein to a man whose vanity is along the line of his nerve. Just a simple little fight in politics is all right and adds spice to the game, but a feud that rankles for a quarter of a century is a good thing to steer clear of. So I repeat, don't give your belligerent lieutenant a chance to show off his bull courage at the price of perpetual enmity that will be visited upon your head instead of his own.

Yours, as ever, William Bradley.