A Message to Garcia
IN ALL THIS CUBAN BUSINESS there is one man stands out on the horizon of my
memory like Mars at perihelion. When war broke out between Spain and the United
States, it was very necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents.
Garcia was somewhere in the mountain fastnesses of Cuba — no one knew where. No
mail or telegraph could reach him. The President must secure his co-operation, and
What to do!
Someone said to the President, “There is a fellow by the name of Rowan who will find
Garcia for you, if anybody can.”
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the fellow by
name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it over his
heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared
into the jungle, and in three weeks came out on the other side of the Island, having
traversed a hostile country on foot, and having delivered his letter to Garcia — are things I
have no special desire now to tell in detail.
The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia;
Rowan took the letter and did not ask, “Where is he at?” By the Eternal! there is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this or that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies: do the thing – “Carry a message to Garcia.”
General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias.
No man who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands are needed, but
has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man—the inability
or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it. Slipshod assistance, foolish
inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man
succeeds, unless by hook or crook or threat he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or
mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel of Light for
You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office—six clerks are
within call. Summon any one and make this request: “Please look in the encyclopedia and
make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Correggio.” Will the clerk quietly say, “Yes, sir,” and go do the task? On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye, and ask one or more of the following questions:
Who was he?
Where is the encyclopedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don’t you mean Bismarck?
What’s the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself?
What do you want to know for?
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and explained
how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will go off and get one of the
other clerks to help him find Garcia—and then come back and tell you there is no such
man. Of course, I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average I will not.
Now, if you are wise, you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that Correggio is
indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile very sweetly and say, “Never
mind,” and go look it up yourself. And this incapacity for independent action, this moral
stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift—
these are the things that put pure Socialism so far into the future. If men will not act for
themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all?
A first mate with knotted club seems necessary; and the dread of getting “the bounce”
Saturday night holds many a worker to his place. Advertise for a stenographer, and nine
out of ten who apply can neither spell nor punctuate — and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?
“You see that bookkeeper,” said the foreman to me in a large factory. “Yes, what about him?”
“Well, he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him uptown on an errand, he might accomplish the errand all right, and on the other hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street would forget what he had been sent for.” Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the “down-trodden
denizens of the sweatshop” and the “homeless wanderer searching for honest employment,” and with it all often go many hard words for the men in power. Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long, patient striving after “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are, this sorting continues: only, if times are hard and work is scarce, this sorting is done finer—but out and forever out the incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. Self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best—those who can carry a message to Garcia.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of
his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to anyone else, because he carries with him
constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress
him. He can not give orders, and he will not receive them. Should a message be given
him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be, “Take it yourself!”
Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his
threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular firebrand of
discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the toe
of a thick-soled Number Nine boot.
Of course, I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical
cripple; but in our pitying let us drop a tear, too, for the men who are striving to carry on
a great enterprise, whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is
fast turning white through the struggle to hold the line in dowdy indifference, slipshod
imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude which, but for their enterprise, would be both
hungry and homeless.
Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world has gone aslumming
I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who succeeds—the man who,
against great odds, has directed the efforts of others, and having succeeded, finds there’s
nothing in it nothing but bare board and clothes. I have carried a dinner-pail and worked
for a day’s wages, and I have also been an employer of labor, and I know there is
something to be said on both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no
recommendation; and all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all
poor men are virtuous.
My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the boss is away, as well as when
he is at home. And the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive,
without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the
nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets “laid off,” nor has to go on
a strike for higher wages. Civilization is one long, anxious search for just such
individuals. Anything such a man asks will be granted. He is wanted in every city, town
and village—in every office, shop, store and factory.