Chapter One Hundred and Thirty One – Many Types of Dissent
‘I can think of no greater disaster for this country than to have its voters divide on religious lines’
Al Smith
The bullet that killed President Palmer struck him just below the left eye socket, jerking his head backwards and spraying the leather interior of the open-topped vehicle with blood. Miraculously, at least for the other passengers, though it was the only bullet of the five that caused serious damage. Pope Urban was shot in the left hand as he tried to shield the President from harm, the bullet piercing his palm but missing his body, and Vice President Jackson’s forehead was grazed by a ricochet. It was only Palmer, though, pronounced dead on the DC sidewalk minutes later, that had been killed. ‘I fear for humanity’ a stunned Holy Father was recorded as muttering by the throng of reports as President Palmer’s body was led away covered by a blood-stained sheet.
Within hours the situation got worse. The assassin, captured at the scene, was a Croatian Immigrant. Luka Horvat was twenty three, a former steel-worker out of work, who believed that it had been his god-given duty to kill President Palmer. The man was clearly unhinged, investigating officers quickly came to believe, considering how close his wild firing had come to killing the head of his own church. But the news that Horvat was a Catholic Immigrant spread like wildfire. The evening of the 23rd saw a series of attacks on Catholic businesses and clubs across the Eastern Seaboard and the Mid-West. 832 windows were smashed in Youngstown, Ohio, by anti-Catholic mobs and in Delaware Governor Robertson called out his National Guard after Klansmen staged a series of torch-lit marches that culminated in window-smashing and the overturning of cars. A steady rumble of discontent and anger continued through the coming days as Vice President Jackson, refusing to meet with the Pope despite the Holy Father’s valiant attempt to discharge himself from hospital and walk across DC to the Whitehouse, was sworn in.
An anti-Catholic mob attacks an Irish worker, Columbus Ohio 1926
For the first few days it was only the yellow-press that screamed for war with Catholic Mexico, but the Sacco and Vanzetti arrests changed all of that. Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti were Italian Immigrants who worked a series of odd-jobs in Brooklyn, in the 1920s, and had met at a communal series of political gatherings in the New York district. Both men were Garbists, inspired by the mixture of social reform and traditionalism the ideology promised, and like many across the developed world had gravitated to the meetings out of a desire to find a political home that did not challenge their catholic faith. The discovery by the Police that their local branch had also been attended by Horvat saw both men dragged in for questioning and, quickly, charged with conspiracy to murder. The evidence was flimsy – Sacco had joined the group the month that Horvat left and claimed not to know the man whilst Vanzetti couldn’t speak English or Croatian – but in the fevered atmosphere of the early Jackson presidency they were subversive aliens and guilty by association.
The Sacco and Vanzetti case polarised the country, argued out in mass meetings and across the opinion pages of newspapers. It was, for their defenders, an atrocious miscarriage of justice whilst for their accusers it was proof of the creeping tendrils of anti-Americanism in society, particularly in the big cities. It also split the socialists. Many in the newly defined Labor Party, looking to the election of 1928 as a major chance, wanted to swim with the mood of the country. As American soldiers mobilized for the Mexican Border, with President Jackson declaring war in late October, many urged the young party leader, the 36 year old James P Cannon, to condemn the Italians. Even in his small coterie of young radicals, that had propelled his dynamic leadership campaign to the chairmanship the previous year, there were divisions. ‘Just condemn the Wops [sic]’ wrote Benjamin Gitlow, former editor of the
Voice of Labor (although he would later go on to deny such comments). Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, though, stood for many in both the inner circle and the wider movement when she stormed into Cannon’s office.
‘If we don’t stand up for these innocents then, James, just what in the hells are we doing here?!’ she shouted, and then added the dissenting turn of phrase she has become famous for ‘Progress means progress – so get out of your god-damned chair and act!’. Cannon, ever the political weather-vain, hedged, going so far as to slip out of the back entrance of a hall to avoid reporters in Boston.
Al Smith's was the lone, clarion, voice in condemning the rabid anti-Catholicism sweeping America
Socialist silence, though, opened another door. Behind it was a very different man who, in another life, could have been a socialist. Al Smith, the Republican Governor of New York, had been no-one’s first choice for state leader. He had been voted in, a compromise candidate, to avoid a Labor victory. “Hold your nose and vote Smith!” had been one mock campaign slogan. The child of poor Irish migrants, and a devout Catholic, Smith’s career seemed doomed in the Americanism craze of the 1920s. Perhaps that is why, with nothing to lose, he stepped into the fray. A keen amateur actor and prized political battler, Smith had an oratorical style both rugged and honed and now he turned it on the status-quo.
He put the New York Police Department out on the streets in force. ‘A hyphenated American is still an American’ he announced, to rapturous applause at a speech on the Lower East Side ‘Irish-American, German-American, Italian-American, French-American, we are all
something-American’. Despite a series of death-threats Smith continued his full-blooded defence of the America he knew and loved, and, at least in New York, it worked. New York Labor Party officials reports hundreds of members and thousands of potential voters bolting the party for Smith’s local Republican branch. Cannon’s inability to take a position was causing the local party to haemorage. ‘Just remember – you did this’ wrote an infuriated Max Schactman, aide to Cannon, in a memorandum. Suddenly the upcoming Party Conference in January 1927 seemed less of a coronation and more of an arena to the erstwhile young prince of the socialist movement.
Members of the Arizona National Guard march for the Mexican border. The USA had not fought a war since 1898.
America, though, was facing its own arena as the bloodletting on the southern border began.