Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  Now there were no cheers. The men were silent. They looked at each other dubiously. It was one thing to join up; it was another to put themselves in the forefront of a battle which, if they lost it, would cost them their jobs and futures.

  “Are you sure the mines are bein’ taken over?” one of the men asked.

  Lewis nodded. “As sure as I’m standing here. We have information which leads us to believe that once it’s done, the owners will launch the biggest campaign in history to bring down the union and further enslave the workers.”

  “We never had no trouble at this mine,” another man said.

  “Thirty-four men dead and over a hundred men permanently injured in the last two years in this mine and you say you don’t have trouble? The worst safety record in the country, and all for the lowest pay scale in the industry, and you say you don’t have trouble? If you don’t consider that trouble, then I must say that you people don’t know what trouble is. Is there a man among you who owns his own home, is there a man among you who does not owe his next month’s wages to the stores for food and necessities, is there a man among you who if he should be injured and not able to work could continue to live in the house the company overcharges him for? Now to make it worse, when the mines are taken over you won’t even get paid in United States dollars. They’re goin’ to turn back the clock an’ pay you in company scrip. Then you’ll see how much further into the hole the mining bosses will shove you. You’ll be in so deep that you’ll never get out, because the only way out will be the grave.”

  Lewis waited for a moment before he spoke again. “Your only hope is speed. To organize quickly before the bosses become aware of what you’re doing. Next week may be too late. Tomorrow each of you men must go out and sign up every one of his brother workers before word has a chance to get back. Because once it gets back, all hell will break loose. Your only chance is for all of us to be together in the union.”

  Lewis opened the briefcase he had brought with him and took out a document. “I have here in my hand the articles of incorporation and the constitution approved by the general council of UMW, organizing you in this mine as Local 77 of District 100. Andy Androjewicz will be provisional president until you have a membership quota, at which time you will elect your own board and officers.” He took out another sheaf of papers. “Here are membership applications. I expect every man in this room to sign one before he leaves and afterward to sign up every other miner he contacts. The executive board has waived application and membership fees for the first three months, which gives you a chance to benefit before you pay and will place no hardship on the members. You show us you want us here by signing up one hundred men and we’ll send in an organizer from our own headquarters to help you. The rest is up to you. Support your brothers of the UMW and your brothers will support you.”

  He gave the membership applications to Andy, who began to pass them out. He went through the room quickly, followed by his thirteen-year-old son, a worker in the breaker shed, who handed out pencils. Almost without a word the men began to fill out and sign the forms.

  Daniel took the form that Andy gave him and looked at it. He didn’t speak. Andy went to the front of the room and joined Mr. Lewis. He held up a hand. “If any of you men have any questions, Mr. Lewis will answer them.”

  Daniel was the only one who held up his hand. Mr. Lewis nodded. “Yes, Daniel?”

  “I’m a clerk in the mine superintendent’s office. I don’t work in the mines. I don’t know if it’s proper fer me to sign this.”

  Lewis looked at Andy. Andy nodded. The big man turned back to Daniel. “You work for the mine?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t see any problem. The same things can happen to you that can happen to any of them. You need the same job protection as the rest.”

  “Mebbe that’s true, Mr. Lewis. But I’m privy to many things that concern the miners. I don’ see how I kin rightly do an honest job fer Mr. Smathers an’ at the same time be a member of the union when doin’ my job fer Mr. Smathers might be the contrary of what the union wants.”

  Lewis was silent for a moment. “You pose a delicate problem in ethics,” he said. “I’m afraid you have to decide on the basis of your own conscience what is right.”

  Daniel looked up at him. “I agree with what you said about workin’ in the mines, but the on’y way I see I kin join up is if’n I quit my job in the office. I cain’t serve two masters an’ be honest with both, an’ I won’t be a spy an’ a carrytale. My paw allus tol’ me that a man’s honor is all he got between hisself an’ his fellowman.”

  “What you’re saying, then, is that you won’t sign the application?”

  “That’s right, sir. I don’t honestly feel I could.”

  A low, angry murmur swept through the room. A few of the men moved threateningly toward Daniel. Lewis stopped them by holding up a hand. “Daniel!” he said sharply. “I respect your honesty. If you leave this meeting, do I have your word that nothing that transpired here will be told to management?”

  Daniel met his scowling gaze. “I already said that I was no carrytale and no spy. If they hear anything, it won’t be from me.”

  Lewis looked around the room. “I, for one, am willing to take Daniel’s word. I know his brother-in-law, Jimmy Simpson, up Fitchville way, who is now representing the textile workers there and is helping us to organize the mines. Jimmy says that Daniel is the straightest lad he ever met. I say we should permit Daniel to withdraw from this meeting and hope that the future will give us the opportunity to work and be together. Anybody second that?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Andy spoke up. “I’ll second that, Mr. Lewis. It’s my fault Daniel is here. When I spoke to him this afternoon he tol’ me exactly what he said right now. I should have taken him at his word then. But I trust him. I worked side by side with Daniel in the mine, an’ I know in his heart he’s with us an’ will do nothin’ to hurt us. I say let him go.”

  The men looked at each other for a moment, then murmured a reluctant assent. Daniel put down the application blank on a table and slowly walked to the door. He could feel the weight of their eyes on his back. He closed the door behind him and through it could hear the sound of voices begin again. He went out toward the street. For a moment he shivered; the night had turned cold. He looked up at the sky. The moon was high. It was nine o’clock.

  He hesitated a moment, then began walking rapidly, his mind made up. If the lights were still on in Miss Andrews’ house, he would explain to her why he hadn’t shown up this evening.

  Chapter 14

  Silently, Molly Ann watched him break open the revolver and check the cylinder carefully to see that each chamber was loaded. Satisfied, he snapped the cylinder shut and stuck it in his belt. He turned to her and saw the expression on her face. “Don’t worry,” he said.

  “I cain’t he’p it,” she said. “Guns is fer killin’. Somehow the idee you carryin’ a gun lak that ever’ day, it gives me the shivers.”

  “They shot at me twice already,” he said. “What am I s’posed to do? Jes’ stand there an’ let ’em kill me?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “They killed more’n ten men. Men who had nothin’ to shoot back with.”

  “What’s goin’ to happen today?”

  “You know well as me. They’re goin’ to try to open the mills today. Fitch got hisself an army of Pinkertons to march the scabs into the mills. If we let ’em git in there, it’s all over. They’ll never come out. He’ll send in food, supplies, ever’thing they need until we’re starved out an’ beaten.”

  “The miners comin’ out to he’p you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. The miners fell right into the trap. They took the ten-percent raise the owners offered ’em without even figgerin’ that changin’ to scrip instead of money took it all back with interest. If the UMW’s got more’n ten members left in the whole valley, I’d be surprised.”

  Her voice wa
s bitter. “I tol’ you not to trust that man Lewis.”

  “It’s not his fault. There’s that ol’ sayin’. ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you cain’t make him drink.’”

  “Dan’l was smarter’n all of you,” she said. “He stayed out of it.”

  He didn’t answer, but she knew he had been deeply hurt when he heard that Daniel had not followed his lead.

  “Oh, Jimmy. I’m scairt!” she said, running into his arms and placing her head against his chest. “We was so happy, an’ you was doin’ so good with yer bootleggin’ an’ all. Why did you have to go an’ git yourse’f caught up in all this?”

  He held her tightly. His voice was somber. “Comes a time when a man has to stop talkin’ an’ start doin’. These people—the farmers, the mill workers—they all my friends. I grew up with ’em. What was I goin’ to do? Stan’ by an’ let Sam Fitch turn ’em all into slaves fer his own benefit?”

  She began to cry. Softly he stroked her head. “Stop frettin’,” he said. “It’s not good fer a pregnant woman to carry on so.”

  She looked up into his face. “You’ll be careful? I couldn’t stand it if’n somethin’ happened to you.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “I don’ want nothin’ to happen to me neither.”

  ***

  It was not yet daylight when he arrived at the store on Front Street that served as union headquarters. Several men were already there, waiting in the street for him. He took the keys from his pocket and opened the front door. They followed him inside. It was damp and dark. Quickly they lit a few oil lamps. The electric company had refused to give them power. The flickering golden light shone on the picket signs and boards lining the walls. He walked behind the battered table that served as his desk and sat down.

  “Okay, Roscoe,” he said. “You first. What’s goin’ on out at the new mill?”

  Roscoe Craig shifted the wad of tobacco in his mouth. “They got about fifty Pinkertons out there an’ maybe about a hundred scabs.”

  Jimmy nodded and turned to another man. “What about the city mill?”

  The man cleared his throat. “They got a reg’lar army there. More’n a hundred Pinkertons an’ maybe three hundred scabs. They been comin’ in by truck all night.”

  Jimmy was silent for a moment. They were hopelessly outnumbered. He could count on perhaps seventy men at the very most. There were several hundred women and girls who could be used for picket duty, but on a day like this he was reluctant to put them out there where they could be hurt. And hurt they would be. The Pinkertons were armed and under orders to let nothing keep them from getting into the mill. He drew a deep breath. He dreaded the coming of daylight.

  “What time will our men get here?” he asked.

  “Any minute now,” Roscoe answered. “They’ll all be here by six o’clock.”

  “They ready?”

  Roscoe nodded. “They comin’ with shotguns an’ rifles. The Pinkertons ain’t goin’ to jes’ walk in.”

  “We’re goin’ to have to make up our minds,” Jimmy said. “We cain’t beat ’em in both places. We got to decide which one we want to keep ’em out of.”

  The men were silent.

  “I vote we make up our minds to let ’em have the new mill. Ain’t but ten percent of the machinery hooked up. They cain’t produce beans once they in there.”

  “I don’ lak it,” Roscoe said flatly. “Two people in my family died to keep ’em off our lan’. The idee of ’em jes’ walkin’ in—”

  “They won’t jes’ walk in,” Jimmy said. “We put ten sharpshooters in the forest an’ the hills aroun’ the entrance, an’ they’ll git mighty cautious about walkin’ up that road.” He paused for a moment. “But the city mill, that’s another story. If’n they git in there, they kin produce full blast. Then we’re finished. If that mill begins rollin’, it’s all over but the shoutin’.”

  ***

  Jimmy stood on the corner looking at the mill on the other side of the street. Already the pickets, most of them women, were walking four abreast in front of the closed gates. From inside the gates and along the wire fence that ran along the sidewalk in front of the mill, the guards stared silently at the signs carried by the chanting pickets.

  “Lincoln freed the slaves. How come we’re still here?”

  They shouted back their own answer: “Nobody tol’ the textile mill!”

  Then another shout: “Freedom!”

  A man came running down the street toward Jimmy just as the seven o’clock whistle blew. At the same moment, the rain began to fall. “Three truckloads of scabs!” he shouted. “Just turnin’ down High Street!”

  Jimmy looked across the street. The pickets were still marching. The Pinkertons inside the fence began to move toward the gate. There was a scraping sound of an iron chain being pulled, and the gate began to swing open.

  Jimmy felt the pain knot his stomach, as real as any pain he had ever felt. He turned to the men around him.

  Suddenly it all came home. It was him they were watching. It was him they were waiting for. It was him they looked to for leadership in the midst of this madness. He felt old, so very old. Molly Ann was right. What was he doing here? He was no hero.

  Then the feeling was gone. He held up his hand and started toward the picket lines. Silently the men followed him. He stopped in front of the line. “All right, you ladies,” he said in a strong voice. “Time fer you to go home.”

  They stood watching him, not moving.

  He spoke again, his voice more urgent this time. “You heard me, ladies. It’s time to go home!”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then one of them called out, “We’ll stay right here, Jimmy. It’s our fight too!”

  “But ladies,” he shouted, “there might be shooting!”

  “They’ll have to shoot us too, then!” one of them shouted back. “We’re not goin’ home!”

  The women began to lock arms, and in a moment they formed a living chain in front of the open gates. They began chanting again. “Freedom. Bread and butter, not chains!”

  The trucks rounded the far corner and headed down the street toward the mill. They were halfway down the block and the lead truck showed no sign of slowing up. Jimmy moved out in front of the picket line and faced them. Suddenly there was silence behind him. The trucks kept moving toward them.

  “Out of the way!” a guard yelled from behind the wire fence. “You’ll all get killed!”

  No one moved.

  The lead truck jammed on its brakes and rolled to a stop just a few yards short of the picket lines. Men began to jump out of the backs of the trucks. Pinkertons, big, ugly and menacing. They formed a line facing the pickets, each of them holding a club or an iron pipe in his hand, their bowlers sitting squarely on their heads. At a signal, they began to move forward.

  Jimmy held up a hand. “I warn you, men. There are women here. I won’t be responsible for your lives if even one of them gits hurt!”

  The Pinkertons stopped uncertainly. “Hiding behind their skirts won’t save you!” one of them shouted. “Come out an’ fight like men!”

  “We’re here to stay whether you scabs like it or not!” a woman shouted from the picket lines.

  The other women picked it up. “Scabs! Scabs! Scabs!” they chanted.

  An iron pipe came hurtling through the air. Jimmy heard a woman’s scream behind him. He glanced back quickly and saw a woman falling, blood streaming from her head. He swung back to face the Pinkertons. “I’ll kill the next man who does that!” he yelled, pulling the gun from his belt.

  Jimmy saw the man with the rifle on the top of the truck almost before he heard the bullet hiss past his ear. There was another scream. This time Jimmy didn’t turn to see who was hurt. He fired. The man fell crazily from the top of the truck into the street. He lay there, blood oozing into the round hole in his bowler, which somehow still clung to his head.

  “Let’s git ’im!” one of the Pinkertons shouted. He pulled a gun a
nd fired at Jimmy.

  Jimmy’s shot caught him in the chest, blasting him backward, just as another Pinkerton fired with both barrels of a shotgun. Jimmy heard the screams and fired again. The shotgun fell from the man’s hands as he clutched at his throat. He started for Jimmy, the blood welling through his fingers, a horrible growling sound coming from inside him. Then he fell forward, rolled over and lay face up in the street, the blood leaping up from his severed jugular like a pulsing red fountain.

  The strikers and the Pinkertons stared at each other without a word. Jimmy motioned with his hand. Quietly, the men came from behind him and placed themselves on either side, forming a long line in front of the women. Shotguns and rifles suddenly appeared in their hands. These men, with their grim faces, were mountain men and farmers, and it was their women who had been fired upon and hurt.

  Slowly Jimmy unlatched his revolver and replaced the three bullets that had been fired. He snapped the chamber shut and turned back to the Pinkertons. His voice was low, but they could hear him clearly through the lightly falling rain. “Pinkerton pay y’all a bonus for dyin’?”

  Without answering, the Pinkertons slowly began to move away. A few minutes later, the trucks started back down the street. Except for the three dead men lying on the cobblestones, the street was empty when they heard the big iron gate creak closed.

  A cheer came up from the strikers. “We beat ’em!” “We won! We won!”

  Jimmy’s face was somber. He glanced at the bodies in the street, then back at the triumphant strikers. “No,” he said, a strange foreboding knowledge within him. “We lost.”

  And he was right. Two days later, the National Guard marched into Fitchville and all they could do was watch silently as the scabs entered the mill under the protection of the government.