National Affairs: Cox’s Army

In 1894, when poor people walked, one Jacob Sechler Coxey—now the respectable Republican Mayor of Massillon, Ohio— marched a ragged army of 100 men from his hometown to Washington to get the Government to do something about hard times. Last month when Congress opened, 1,600 Red “hunger marchers” arrived at the Capital in trucks, tried to muscle their way into the Senate chamber and, failing, traipsed off yelling the “International” (TIME, Dec. 14). Last week another, far larger “army” invaded Washington. No handful of disgruntled partisans were they, but more than 10,000 orderly men who differed from the silent crowds that watched them pass only in that they were wet, hungry and out of work.

Two days prior they had assembled at Pittsburgh, in the streets’ outside old St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church, whose publicity-wise pastor, Rev. James R. Cox, had collected small sums for his tram’s food and gasoline. Accompanied by his mother, Father Cox stepped out on the portico of his church, consulted his lieutenants. Two were priests like himself, another a lawyer. Waiting to join him en route was prizefighting, pants-pressing Mayor Edward McCloskey of Johnstown (1889 flood town). Then Father Cox signalled for his motorcade of 1,000 trucks and cars to get underway, climbed into the lead lorry.

When the eight-mile-long parade started over the mountains to Harrisburg next morning it was accompanied by a car full of medical supplies donated by the people of Huntingdon. Nobody paid and nobody tried to collect the 10¢ toll at the Clarks Ferry bridge (over the Susquehanna River). From time to time wheezy motors gave out. Once the bread trucks were hours behind time, but somehow they kept on going. Troopers patrolling the march discreetly looked the other way when they saw a 1931 automobile license in the line. Governor Pinchot had ordered the stringent State law relaxed for the occasion.

That was not all the Governor did. When the army got to Harrisburg he made them a speech, told them he sympathized with their demonstration, fed them all, provided shelter for the night. Father Cox’s red truck rolled up to the outskirts of Washington in a torrential rain at 10:15 p. m. Pulling his black weeds about him, he picked his way into a drug store, ate a sandwich, drank a glass of milk, telephoned Washington’s chief of police that they were there. That night some of his men slept in the District National Guard Armory. The rest bedded down wet and without supper in blankets and gunny sacks in the trucks, which parked at the base of Capitol Hill. Father Cox & staff sought the shelter of the Continental Hotel.

Next morning rolling kitchens rolled out from Ft. Myer. The U. S. Army was host at a breakfast of apples, coffee, doughnuts—all they could eat. And after washing at filling stations and under fire hydrants, the marchers were gently gotten in line by a few policemen. Patrolling up and down the ranks, a loudspeaker on the roof of a car gave the orders: “Attention! Fall in line, men; eight abreast and ready to move. Act like gentlemen!” Waving soiled little U. S. flags, led by Father Cox and one E. R. Franc of Pittsburgh dressed as “Uncle Sam,” the quiet procession moved off behind their band.

Standing on the Capitol steps with Father Cox, Senator James John Davis and Representative Clyde Kelly of Pennsylvania received the army’s petition for “the God-given right to work,” heard them swear allegiance to the flag and sing “America,” “Keep The Home Fires Burning,” “Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kit Bag.” Their petition was read to House and Senate that afternoon.

After the Capitol review, Father Cox hurried to an appointment with President Hoover, to whom he read in a shrill voice (his throat is sensitive) the same appeal he made to Congress, apparently with the tacit consent of his superior, Bishop Hugh C. Boyle. Demands: a five-billion-dollar public works program to provide jobs; direct Federal appropriation for unemployment relief; “loans to re-establish the farmer”; gift taxation and inheritance tax increased to 70%. The President listened patiently, replied: “We are giving this question our undivided attention.”

After laying a wreath on the Unknown Soldier’s tomb at Arlington, Father Cox mustered his army, started on the 300-mi. trip back to Pittsburgh. (Expenses for returning 276 stragglers by train were defrayed by Pennsylvania’s richest citizen, Secretary of the Treasury Andrew Mellon.) Again, as they rumbled by, grave crowds watched them as though for the first time they were seeing a genuine sign of the times.