was taken up by Carnegie and other American steel manufacturers. It was highly cost effective for plant owners as its process for creating steel replaced the need for highly skilled puddlers—furnace workers whose skills had been essential in the process that made iron, and who had a history of industrial militancy. The Bessemer process allowed plants now to make steel cheaply by allowing them to employ less-skilled and cheaper workers than the redundant puddlers thus maximizing the owners’ profits.
33 Immediately after Berkman’s attempt on Frick, the August 1892 issue of the anarchist paper Der Anarchist portrayed him as Brutus who struck a blow against the “modern capitalist Caligulas and Caesars.” This idea of Berkman as Brutus was also a regular feature of speeches by Goldman. See, for instance, her speech at the South Place Institute, Finsbury during her UK visit of 1895 where she describes Berkman as “the Brutus of the 19th Century” (Liberty [London], No. 2, October 1895).
34 The word “equipages” refers to horse-drawn carriages that often are attended by servants—the “uniformed flunkies” of Berkman’s description. The horses drawing these carriages often wore decorative blankets or caparisons.
Chapter IV:
The Attentat
The door of Frick’s private office, to the left of the reception-room, swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and I catch a flitting glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of the room.35
“Mistah Frick is engaged. He can’t see you now, sah,” the negro says, handing back my card.
I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the reception-room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate separating the clerks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded attendant aside, I step into the office on the left, and find myself facing Frick.
For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me. I discern two men at the further end of the long table.36
“Fr—,” I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless. It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. “He understands,” it flashes through my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver. As I raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the chair, and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. “Perhaps he wears armor,” I reflect. With a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as I pull the trigger. There is a flash, and the high-ceilinged room reverberates as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm and possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. He is lying head and shoulders under the large armchair, without sound or motion. “Dead?” I wonder. I must make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. I take a few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man, whose presence I had quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks slender and small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with him. Suddenly I hear the cry, “Murder! Help!” My heart stands still as I realize that it is Frick shouting. “Alive?” I wonder. I hurl the stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck my hand,—I have missed! He grapples with me, and we wrestle across the room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and body, I thrust the revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click—but no explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger, still clinging to me, when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp pains shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of the weapon slipping from my hands.
“Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!” Confused voices ring in my ears. Painfully I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing on me. Now—it’s Frick’s voice! Not dead?… I crawl in the direction of the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger from my pocket—I have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain—there is much shouting and stamping—my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted bodily from the floor.37
Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick’s. He stands in front of me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With defiant hatred I look him full in the face.
“Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?”
Frick nods weakly.
The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly:
“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”
I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there is a peculiar sensation about my eyes.
“I’ve lost my glasses,” I remark, involuntarily.
“You’ll be damn lucky if you don’t lose your head,” an officer retorts.
35 Berkman had previously visited Frick’s office on the morning of Tuesday, July 19 and again on the morning of Thursday, July 21. On both visits Frick was unavailable.
36 The two men were Frick and John Leishman, vice chairman of Carnegie Steel.
37 Berkman first shot Frick twice—one bullet grazed Frick’s ear and went under his right shoulder blade, the other hit Frick on the side of the neck and lodged in his left shoulder. Leishman grabbed Berkman, and Frick also grappled with him. As they fell to the floor, Berkman stabbed Frick in the hipbone, lower back, and thigh. A carpenter, who was working elsewhere in the building, came in and hit him on the back of the head with his mallet. Others then rushed in and subdued him.
Chapter V: The Third Degree
I
The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone. Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and threats,—how disgusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench, running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep.
I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it night? My hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy touches my cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is damp and musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor, drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars. The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring. My throat is dry to cracking; I cannot swallow. “Water! I want water!” The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The sound rolls up; it rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and abruptly ceases.
“Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?”
The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the sound relieves me. Now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to
