A March to Remember Read Free

hats and gloves, were most likely maids or shopgirls.
    â€œAnd did you see the row of ruby beads on her skirt? I heard they were a gift from the Viceroy of India,” one of the girls said.
    I finally took a place near Mrs. Smith, who acknowledged me with a smile but continued on in her conversation. I took a sip of my coffee, admired the Boston fern nearby, a large, lush specimen of the plant, and finished the shortcake before looking at my watch again. I listened to the women chatter on about a recent visit to an orphanage the Washington Wives Club had sponsored as I nibbled on my silver cake for a few more minutes, my impatience growing. When they turned to discussing the prehistoric look of the alligators at the National Zoo’s Carnivora House, I glanced at my watch again. Twelve o’clock. I couldn’t stand to stay any longer.
    â€œExcuse me, but I must go now, Mrs. Smith. Thank you for bringing me.”
    â€œAlready?” Mrs. Smith said, barely turning to look at me.
    â€œYes, I’m afraid so.” Which was an unabashed lie. I couldn’t wait to leave.
    â€œVery well. Glad you enjoyed yourself.” She immediately returned to the conversation I’d interrupted and never noticed my departure.
    As fast as decorum allowed, I shuffled through the crowd of women until I was in the Entrance Hall again. As I approached the door, two men crossed my path as they headed toward a back staircase.
    â€œAnd the Treasury Department has deployed dozens of additional revolvers and carbines to its security men,” one man read from a notebook as they walked.
    â€œBut why the Treasury Department?” the other asked.
    â€œThe march route is going right past there, isn’t it? They’re a rabble of desperate, unemployed men. Who’s to say the Treasury isn’t their real target? Who’s to say that after the marchers fail to gain the Capitol steps that someone doesn’t yell, ‘Here is the United States Treasury filled with money, while our families are starving’?” The second man nodded, agreeing with this logic. “If nothing else, we should not regard the invasion of Coxey’s Army as a joke.”
    As I watched the men turn the corner, their conversation too faint to hear, I paused in concern. It was one thing to have women idly gossip about bloodshed and violence; it was another to hear men who ran the government confirm some of the rumors were true.
    Through the daily newspaper accounts, I had the impression that Coxey and his men were peaceful, Christian men; I wouldn’t have concerned myself with a band of ruffians. But these comments gave me reason to pause. Were Coxey and his followers really intent on marching into the city, regardless of the cost? Were they willing to lay down their lives for their cause? Would the government kill unarmed Americans to prevent Coxey’s message from being heard?
    I hope not! Then I glanced at my watch again and banished all concerns of the marchers from my mind as I stepped back into the sunshine. I had a train to meet!

C HAPTER 2
    â€œI believe in bettering the condition of the workingman!” The shouting accosted me the moment I emerged from the White House. A clean-shaven young man in a dusty brown derby, standing in the carriageway beneath the columns, punched his fist into his open palm with each word to accentuate his point. Several women, still arriving for the reception, quickly shied away and gave him a wide berth. I stood my ground, sympathetic to his message, but not wanting to get any closer.
    â€œThat can’t be done by talk,” he yelled as two large policemen dashed past me. They confronted the fist-pounding young man, insisting he leave. He refused to budge.
    â€œThere’s only one way to do it, only one way of waking up the ‘soulless capitalists’ who own Washington,” the young man shouted, as the two policemen grabbed him by the arms and began dragging