Читать книгу Quest Biographies Bundle — Books 11–15 - Gary Evans - Страница 8

Colorado, United States

April 3, 1915

“No, no, don’t get up.” Willie protested. His brother Max sank down on the sofa. “You’re looking much better,” Willie noted. Max had moved to Colorado in an attempt to recover from tuberculosis – a dreaded and often fatal disease. “How’s the book coming?” King cheerfully asked the ill man.

“Wonderfully well,” Max replied. “I’m so glad, Billy, that you encouraged me. There is so much people can learn about how to beat TB.”

Max’s wife, May, came into the room, two boys, twins, toddling beside her. “Go see your uncle, Arthur,” she encouraged. “Lyon, it’s your Uncle Willie, the one you’re named after!”

King, on his knees, hugged his nephews.

He spent some time with the family, catching them up to date on how his work was going. One of the reasons he was in Colorado was related to some of the investigations of conditions in mines he was doing for his new employer, the Rockefeller Foundation. A huge benefit to this trip was that he could visit his dear brother.

King looked at Max, who with his curly hair and light blue eyes had inherited so much of Grandfather’s looks. He also seemed to have a lot of his fighting Scottish spirit. Yet, with a flush in his cheeks his little brother appeared so fragile.

They exchanged some stories about the times they had spent together in Ottawa. Then King lovingly embraced his brother, before returning to his hotel.

The next morning, King awoke to the sound of the telegraph boy knocking on the door. The message he delivered spun King into action. Bella was ill. They were summoning him home. King had checked the train timetables, contacted Max, and begun to pack by the time the second telegraph arrived. This telegraph caused him to sit down and cry. It was too late. Bella was dead.

“If only she had listened!” he told Max. “Her heart would not have worn out.”

“I tried to get her to rest more,” Max rued, “to give up the nonsense of working as a clerk at the bank. With Mother and Father to look after, and her heart as weak as it is – was–” Max corrected himself, “it was all just too much. Our poor, dear gracious sister.”

“She was such a good Christian, so loving to everyone. To Mother, to Father, to us, to the children she helped through St. Andrews Church. I simply can’t believe it,” Willie shook his head, “Why now? Just when I was beginning to earn enough to be able to help lift her burden substantially.”

King bade farewell to his brother and rushed to catch the train, thoughts flooding his brain. Dark and senseless the waves came, too fast and powerful to be stopped. My sister My big sister Dead. No children, no spouse. I have just said goodbye to my brother. My little brother. Ill as he is, he gathers strength in the loving arms of his wife and children. I am over forty. What sort of life will I find? What sort of end? Bella. Why did you have to be taken now?

Colorado, United States

September, 1915

There was war in Europe, but the mood in the hall on this spring evening was one of optimism. The fiddlers were pushing the tempo. Someone yelped “Yahoo!” and the dancers on the floor stepped up their pace.

A handsome, compact man, with devilish dark eyes and a wicked smile, whirled his partner around, laughing gaily. The man was John D. Rockefeller, Junior, the richest person in the United States of America. The woman was the wife of one of his employees.

The year before, women and children had died violently in Ludlow, Colorado. The problems had begun in 1913 when the miners started protesting the conditions and the lack of union recognition at the coal mines in which Rockefeller was the largest shareholder. The workers left the company town and installed themselves and their families in tents, watched by the state militia and company guards. On the morning of April 20, 1914, men shooting rifles and machine guns attacked the tent village. They threw paraffin onto the tents and lit them on fire. Eleven children and two women had been burned to death and three camp leaders shot. The American nation had been shocked and had demanded action.

At the dance, the man who had succeeded in bringing change, William Lyon Mackenzie King, sat on the sidelines, sipping punch and chatting with the dancer’s husband. Tonight he was enjoying one of his biggest successes.

At more than forty years of age and too old to fight in the war in Europe, King had had to find a job after the Liberals had lost the last election. He was looking after an increasing number of the bills for his parents and even for Max. His work at the Canadian Liberal and other small jobs didn’t cover expenses. Nor did money from his friends. King had found a sympathetic patron, Violet Markham, an intelligent and wealthy British woman with a social conscience. He’d impressed Violet when he met her in 1905 and in the correspondence they’d established since. She was quite willing to help Rex financially while he was out of Parliament, in hope that he would soon return to power and advance the cause of the underprivileged. But King needed more money so that he could help his family. He felt it was necessary to take the well-paying job in the United States. As director of industrial investigations for the Rockefeller Foundation, he started at a $12,000 per year salary that in 1914 seemed sent from heaven. More importantly, King was not just carrying out an academic study of labour relations. He believed he could make a difference in the lives of many people.

He had several goals in mind when he took his New York job: one was remaining Canadian. He even conducted some business on letterhead that gave his Ottawa address. King did not want to jeopardize his aspirations for having a position with the Dominion government at some future date when the Liberals would return to power.

In his present post, King had to accept some of the restrictions of his employer. Despite public outcry, Rockefeller and his associates were not prepared to recognize the United Mine Workers of America. But Willie succeeded in having the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company recognize a union organized from within the company. Communication between the miners and their bosses was resumed, and the tension of the year before eased.

Rockefeller had re-established his reputation in the eyes of the public. He had even impressed Mother Jones, a well-known eighty-three-year-old labour activist. Moreover, he had impressed King as “one of the best men and most welcome of friends” and a fine Christian, someone who sincerely tried to help other men. However, King mused privately, as he watched his employer across the floor, he’s not the best dancer.

“Not bad for a city slicker,” the miner laughed, taking his wife’s hand from Rockefeller.

“Mr. King taught me everything I know!” the industrialist joked. “Well, maybe not how to dance. But I certainly needed an education in labour and he gave it to me. I am but his mouthpiece.”

The miner nodded his approval and led his wife onto the dance floor.

“You coming back with us to New York, old man?” Rockefeller asked between gulps of punch. “Or are you going to get some rest like the doctor ordered?”

Ignoring the comment about his state of fatigue from overwork, King replied, “Now that business is all but concluded, I think I’ll see my brother.”

“How is he?”

“Much better. The Colorado air has done him good. He’s been able to move out of the sanatorium and is living nearby with his family in a small house.”

“Sounds like he’s on the road to recovery!” Rockefeller said.

King could not respond. When Max had first entered a sanatorium in Montreal, the doctor had confided to William that his brother would not recover from the deadly tuberculosis. He had not shared the news with Max. King told Rockefeller enthusiastically, “He’s writing a book for other TB patients called TB and How to Beat It!”

“That’s the spirit! You Kings – the harder you’re hit, the higher you bounce.”

King raised an eyebrow. That was exactly the phrase his brother had used when King had lost the 1911 election.

Queen’s Park, Toronto

September, 1916

King realized that he’d been walking around Queen’s Park for some time – hours even. Now it was growing quite late. He sat down on a bench and tried to get hold of himself.

What day was it? What month? What year? 1916, the year. He couldn’t figure out the exact day, but it must be one of the first days of September. His father had died August 30. His mother had left to stay with his sister Jennie that morning. It suddenly dawned on King that for the first time since he was a young man, he had no home in Toronto.

It seemed so impossible. Only a few short weeks before, his parents had been at Kingsmere. King remembered with regret, he had been sharp with his father. He didn’t recall what it was over, but now he was filled with remorse. His father was but an old man. Though nearly blind he’d bravely gone off to teach classes until he had retired just last year. After Bella’s death, John King had done his best to fumble through the streets doing the errands she had once done. His father did not deserve impatience, but that was how Willie had treated him the last time he saw him.

The last time he saw him. King moaned aloud.

How had it happened? Father had eaten something and apparently contracted food poisoning that quickly developed into unbearable pain. He’d died the next day.

It was unbelievable he was gone. Everyone was shocked. John King, the mentor of many – senator and professor at Osgoode, who had instructed over seven generations of law students; author and journalist admired by many editors; lawyer and expert in libel law, lauded by some of the best thinkers in the Dominion.

“And me?” King asked himself. He looked around but could see nothing save a blur before him. Father had steered him throughout his career – advised him to build his connections, to reach further and further. He had edited Willie s book about Bert and was helping him with his new manuscript. He was always thinking of me, sacrificing for me and so proud. Such a good, moral person. King began to cry, not caring whether people or pigeons saw his tears. Dear, dear Father. I owe you more than I can express. King looked at the darkening sky. You, Father, gave me an example of the perfection of manhood. It is an example I will strive to follow.

Kingsmere, Quebec

August, 1917

“How much,” King questioned the nurse, “can one person suffer?”

“Sh!” Nurse Petrie ordered. “She might hear you. Let her sleep now.”

Willie bent near, kissed her forehead, and smoothed her beautiful white curls with a gentle hand.

“Rest, Mother. The doctor will be here later.”

King retreated to the next room and returned to the manuscript in his typewriter. Watching his mother suffer in his tiny rooms at the Roxborough apartment building through the winter of 1917 had nearly driven him mad. After her stroke, the doctor had diagnosed a condition he called atherosclerosis. The doctor had become a regular visitor, coming to drain away the putrid fluids that caused Mother to swell. Yet she seemed to get no better, so he had taken her to the country for a change of air.

What do the doctors know? Let Mother he at Kingsmere, nearer the flowers in the fields, the birds in the trees, the peace of nature she so enjoys. Why, I even carried her to the lake and had her christen the new wharf after Father and the new boathouse after herself, the Isabel Mackenzie King Boathouse. I will see to it that she will rally, gather her strength, and be fit for fall after a summer’s idyll.

A search for personal peace was the second reason King had decamped from the city. When Rockefeller’s business was not tapping at his shoulder, King was engaged in writing a book on labour relations. He needed quiet as he threw his soul into finishing Industry and Humanity. The pages had to contain all his thoughts on the relations between labourers, capital, management, and community. His experiences had led him to believe that government could have an increased role in helping to establish favourable relations between all parties. As the war drew to a close, the book preached a message of industrial peace and harmony that the world was so aching to hear. That was what King wanted –globally and at home: peace, harmony, and healing.

A few days later Isabel appeared much better.

“I knew the country air would set you right, Mother!” King crowed.

“Dear Willie, you always know what’s best,” Isabel demurred.

King squeezed his mother’s hand. His heart swelled with love. “I only want the best for you, my dear. You are so brave.”

He took the spoon from the nurse and finished feeding Isabel her applesauce.

“Mother, dare I speak again to you of my plans, my dream, my vision? You know that I have been called to be the voice of the Liberal party in North York – Grandfather’s riding. I think they’re soon to call an election… in the fall, but…” He looked into the dimming eyes, and was sure he saw a spark burning yet. He had to get back into Parliament. Public service was his life – but so was his mother.

“Billy…” She paused a moment, letting a little sigh of pain and weariness escape her lips. Then she smiled her reassurance and said, “I will be glad if you speak in your grandfather’s voice.”

Roxborough Apartments, Ottawa

December 19, 1917

Grumpily, King paid the driver, arranged his baggage, and entered the Roxborough. He willed himself to change his disgruntled look to one of joyful homecoming. The Laurier Liberals had lost the election. The Liberal Party had split on the conscription issue. King had stayed with Laurier, stayed with the Liberals and the anti-conscription stance that ensured their loss. Borden and the Conservatives had used the Wartime Elections Act to pump up the pro-conscription vote and entered the House to form a coalition government with the Union Liberals.

December 17, 1917 – Election Day. King would never forget it. What a way to spend his birthday!

The day after, he’d telephoned to let Mother, and Jennie, who was looking after her in Ottawa, hear the news from his own lips. He’d wished he had something more cheerful to tell them – Mother deserved to hear only good news.

Resolved to show his best face, he turned the door handle.

“Hello! Mother! I’m home!” he boomed.

Jennie came to the door. King immediately noticed the dark circles under her eyes.

He saw Nurse Petrie scuttling quickly away, carrying what appeared to be a box. Something was wrong.

King smelled the air. The heavy sickroom smell was still about – but it had changed. There was a melancholy note missing and a curiously, unidentifiably upsetting one in its place.

Something was very wrong. King charged towards his mother’s bedroom, but Jennie stopped him.

“Mother?”

“She’s… gone.”

“When, Jennie, when?”

“The day after the election.”

King crumpled with grief. Bella, Father, Mother One man can suffer immeasurably.