They objected to the character of the members of the union, so the newspapers said; but Harmon pointed out that it was the operators who determined this. There could be no qualification for membership in a miners’ union, save that the man was a worker in the mines. It the union was not representative of all the workers, whose fault was it—considering the methods used with anyone who sought to increase the membership?
Harmon spoke of the murdered organizer. Hal knew Tom Olson, there was no need to say that he had not been a man of violence, that he had not been in Pedro for any purpose of violence. And as for Pete Hanun and Gus Dirkett, the coal-company detectives who had shot him down in cold blood—they were out on bail, roaming the streets and terrorizing the miners with the very same guns which had done the murder! There would be a trial, some day, but everyone knew the farce it would be. “Alf” Raymond, the sheriff, would be the man who selected the jury; they would put on the stand a couple of Mexicans, who had perhaps never been in the state before, but who would swear they had seen Tom Olson draw a weapon; and on that testimony the jury would acquit the gunmen. They had been doing such things for thirty years in that “Empire of Raymond”, as Pedro County was called.
No, said Harmon—and his voice trembled with feeling-there was no sincerity in the contentions of the operators. The reason they would not recognize the union was because they could make better terms with the individual man, could exploit his labor more effectively. They were doing it so effectively that the task of the union leaders was to stave off revolt; and it really seemed as if the other side must know this, and be bent on forcing the issue. Only that morning there had come a telegram from Jim Moylan, who was in the field, telling how thirty-seven men, with their families, had been thrown out of Castleton camp for having attended a union meeting in the canyon.
There was nothing to do but get ready for the struggle. The union had just lost a strike in West Virginia, and the same detective agencies which had crushed it, the same strike-breakers, even the same machine-guns, were being shipped to the West. The union had countered by shipping the tents in which the West Virginia strikers had been housed; but in this effort they had struck a snag. Gunmen and machine-guns had come through on time, but tents had been mislaid. They had been shifted from one railroad to another, from one siding to another, and no one seemed to know just where they were. Of course, said Harmon, with his quiet humor, everybody knew that freight sometimes got delayed, and that shippers sometimes lost their tempers; it would not do to make charges that one could not prove—but it was well known that Peter Harrigan was a director in several railroads, and so were other coal-company owners and officials. Hal found himself suddenly recalling Otway, of “Central Fuel”, and his experience with interlocking directorates!
[4]
Hal went for a call on Adelaide Wyatt, and told her about his parting with Jessie and Mrs. Arthur. Adelaide told him about the latest rumblings of Mount Vesuvius, which had been audible to many people in Western City. And then the revolutionary parlor-maid came in—and what a time they had, exchanging news! Mary had just had a letter from Mrs. Jack David, describing the reign of terror in North Valley. Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal, had been drunk all summer, it seemed, and his treatment of the men was atrocious. The company was getting in Japs and Koreans, and the decent men were going out in a stream. “Joe,” said Mary, suddenly, “how do Koreans talk?”
“I suppose there’s a Korean language,” said he. “I learned a few words from Cho, the ‘rope-rider’.” And then he laughed. “Are you wanting to study it?”
“I was just wonderin’ what we’d do, if they filled up the mines with people like that.”
“We’d find a way to reach them, never fear, Mary. There’s no kind of people in the world that don’t want freedom, and that don’t find out sooner or later about standing together.”
Mary had been reading a history of the trade-union movement, and also a pamphlet about industrial unionism, the wonderful new idea of “one big union” of all the workers in an industry. So she and Hal had many things to talk about; Mrs. Wyatt said she wished that every well-to-do person in Western City might be provided with a revolutionary parlor-maid, and have such interesting discussions in her home! Mary laughed—she could realize the strangeness of this situation as keenly as any well-to-do person. But then her brow clouded; it was so hard for her to stay here and be comfortable, when she read what was going on in the coal-country! She wanted to know what Hal thought about her going back.
“There’s nothing you can do just now,” he answered. “The money you send home is more important.”
“I might help to wake up the people, Joe!”
“They don’t need that—there’s enough bitterness and blind discontent. What they’ll need are ideas; and if you stay here a while, and study and think, you’ll be of more use later on.”
“I know,” said the girl. “Mrs. Wyatt tells me that. But ’tis so hard, when ye hear about all the sufferin’! It seems like ye could hardly bear to sit down to a table with plenty to eat on it!” She sat with her hands clenched, and there was a quiver in her voice, that went to the souls of both her auditors. Hal knew these qualms—they had brought him home from Europe and his sweetheart. As for Adelaide-she lived the life of her class, she did not want people to say that her interest in new ideas had made her into a “crank”; but when she got this thrill of Mary’s, she must have had moments of doubt about her costly clothes and her gracious home!
Hal asked about the Minettis, and learned that they had returned to Pedro, where Jerry was now working. Rosa had written a post-card; she had a new baby, which kept her busy. Another person who had written was John Edstrom. “The old gentleman’s been sick again,” said Mary. “If it hadn’t been for what ye sent him, Joe, he’d ’a starved!”
“I suppose they’d have fed him at least,” said Hal. “Or don’t they take miners into the poor-house?”
“I never heard,” said Mary. “When a miner gets too old to work, he generally drifts away to some other job. Mr. Edstrom says that cold weather’s coming, and he’s hoping to earn a bit tendin’ furnaces. He’s sure paid for the help he gave us at North Valley!”
Hal went away with the thought—how many thousands of other men there were all over the country, obscure, unheeded men, paying the same desperate price for loyalty to their class! And all the comfortable, kindly people Hal knew, who went about their affairs of pleasure and profit, leaving these obscure, unheeded ones to be rolled down by Peter Harrigan’s machine of greed! Comfortable, kindly people, who had no revolutionary parlor-maids, but who had formulas, whereby they justified themselves in leaving the world as it was. Religious formulas—they were having the poor always with them, they were rendering unto Caesar the things that were Caesar’s! And economic formulas—they were maintaining the beneficent system of freedom of contract, laissez faire and the “open shop”—while eleven thousand men, with thrice as many women and children dependent upon them, were bracing themselves in anguish and despair for a struggle against annihilation!
[5]
Hal did what one man could. He sought out the comfortable, kindly people he knew, arguing, pleading, adding to the reputation he had won as a fanatic. He went out to Harrigan; but the professor of economics to whom he appealed was reading the proofs of a book on the theory of value. He listened politely while his former student told him that he knew nothing at first hand about industry; but for some reason he did not feel inclined to drop his book and complete his education in Peter Harrigan’s coal-camps.
Hal went to St. George’s. Will Wilmerding, the assistant, was away; and Dr. Penniman, the rector, had no patience whatever with “agitators”. White-haired and dignified, polished and urbane Dr. Penniman was on the surface, but when you dug below you discovered a zealot out of the seventeenth century. There was a ritual and a system of salvation, and these were the things that mattered to erring and mortal man; if the ritual and the system were right, it made little differen
ce what wages a man got, or what kind of house he lived in. It was obvious, of course, that Dr. Penniman did not apply that doctrine to the clergy; his check came regularly the first of each month, and his house was warm and sanitary. But if you should venture, in the most tactful way imaginable, to point out that aspect of the matter, you would stir what seemed an unchristian set of emotions in the bosom of the white-haired and dignified rector.
Everywhere Hal went, these same unchristian emotions seemed to rise to meet him; at his club, at his father’s office, on the street. Arguments would be started, and people would show exasperation at the connecting of their ideas with their pocket-books. “Appie” Harding, Hal’s cousin, for example—a rising young lawyer who disliked labor leaders, and took coal-company cases when they came along! And if “Appie’s” angry dignity annoyed Hal, he might get his comfort from the cynical good-humor of “Bob” Creston, who grinned cheerfully when Hal suggested that his indifference to conditions in coal-camps might be influenced by his engagement to Betty Gunnison, Percy Harrigan’s pretty cousin.
Hal happened to run into Miss Betty, coming out of a confectioner’s; and what a snapping of black eyes there was! She could not quite refuse to speak to him, and he thought it proper to make friendly inquiry after Percy; he was very anxious for a chat with Percy!
“Percy’s where you can’t get hold of him!” was Miss Betty’s response.
“Where’s that?” queried Hal.
“You find out!” the young lady replied, as she stepped into her electric. He helped her in, as he was duty-bound to do, but she did not thank him—she started up the smooth-running, aristocratic machine, and glided haughtily away. And Hal made inquiry and learned that Percy was indeed quite safe. He was traveling with his mother and sisters—just now taking his ease where palm-branches rustle and ukuleles charm the air!
On one of the busiest corners of the business district of Western City stood a tall brown office building, and if you went in and studied its directory, you discovered that the eleventh and twelfth floors were occupied by the General Fuel Company. The “G.F.C.” had no need of flaring signs to advertise its presence—it was the master, and if you wanted it, you found out where it was. So Hal came; outwardly calm, but inwardly trembling, he entered the elevator and ascended to the twelfth floor, and walked along the corridor to a door with the sign: “Office of the President.” He turned the knob, and entered the Coal King’s ante-chamber.
A page took his card, and pretty soon a smooth and decorous young chamberlain appeared—a chamberlain having the modern title of secretary. Mr. Warner desired to see Mr. Harrigan personally? What was the nature of his business? Mr. Warner reminded the secretary that he was known to Mr. Harrigan; and would the secretary kindly present the card? The secretary answered that he would do so; although Mr. Warner must realize that Mr. Harrigan was extremely busy at this time.
Hal took a chair; and presently the secretary came back. He was sorry to have to report that Mr. Harrigan was too busy to see Mr. Warner. He was so very busy that he feared he would not be able to make an appointment to see Mr. Warner. Could not Mr. Warner explain his business to the secretary? The young man said this with perfect politeness, and without a quiver of an eyelash; Hal answered, with the same politeness, and the same absence of quiver, that he would not be able to explain the matter to anyone but Mr. Harrigan. He went out, and retraced his steps to the street; John Harmon’s letters were still unanswered!
[6]
The convention of the miners was to meet in Sheridan on Monday morning, and Billy Keating was going down on Friday, to report the situation for the next day’s paper. He had suggested that Hal go with him; it would be safer travelling in pairs. So they set out—in the smoking-car, where there was education to be got.
The car was crowded with passengers, of a type easily recognized by one who had lived in the coal-country. Rough, evil-faced fellows with revolvers and whiskey-bottles bulging their pockets, they sprawled over the seats, filling the air with the odors and sounds of the bar-room; they leered at the women passengers, making jests and singing ribald songs. There went a load of them every trip, said the conductor. There had been a fight on the last trip, and two had been thrown off the train.
Billy Keating knew more than one of these “huskies”. In his capacity as reporter he had frequented their haunts, and could tell anecdotes about them. They were in the pay of the Schultz Detective Agency. The great Schultz himself had come to Western City, and made his headquarters in a basement-room of the Empire Hotel, where the “tough” citizens of the West were welcome; there were free cigars, and to a limited extent, free liquor. The ward politicians, who marshalled the gangs to stuff the ballot-boxes and slug the reformers on election-day, were now recruiting for Schultz, and no man who was handy with his gun need go thirsty. From top to bottom, the political machine was being got ready for service; even up to the Governor, a gentleman who had been given his nomination at a secret dinner conference in Old Peter’s home, and who would now have a chance to pay for that costly dinner.
In the course of the day’s ride, Hal got into a chat with half a dozen of these “huskies”. There was no shyness about them, they were entirely willing to tell about themselves, their histories, and their intentions. One could gather wild tales of adventures in every corner of the world; there was an ex-policeman from South Africa, discharged for drunkenness; an ex-soldier, who had demonstrated the “water cure” upon Filipinos; an adventurer from Central America, who had fought wherever there was loot; a pickpocket from the “Barbary Coast” of San Francisco; a couple of gangsters from “Hell’s Kitchen”, in New York-men who had not been out of prison long enough to grow their hair. Only one question was asked by the Schultz Detective Agency: “Do you know how to shoot?”
Arriving in the evening at Sheridan, the travelers found the station crowded with outgoing parties. There was no reason why any man should stay and face the coming trouble, if he had the price of a ticket to some other job; so here were miners and their families, natives of a score of lands, with huge bundles on their heads or slung upon their backs; there was pushing and jostling, messages of farewell in many tongues, crying babies, shouts of hack-drivers. Not far away was a street-meeting, with an Italian orator haranguing a cheering throng.
Hal and Billy drove to the headquarters of the union, where they found another Babel; swarms of people who had been turned out of their homes and had no place to go, with distracted union officials trying to make them understand why the union had not provided a place. Old Johann Hartman, secretary of the Sheridan “local”, and Tim Rafferty, his assistant, were besieged. They had not slept for the last four nights, said Tim; the telephone never stopped ringing—and they had reports to make out, letters and telegrams to answer, a hundred organizers to keep in touch with, and twice as many spies and detectives to dodge.
Hal sought out Jim Moylan, the district secretary, a long, tall, black-haired Irish boy, who had come to take charge of this chaos and bring it to order. Eager and sensitive, Moylan was a fountain of news, poured out in a torrent. He made you see it and feel it—the enthusiasm, the pent-up energy, the thrill in the souls of these toilers, who were hoping, daring for the first time in their lives. His black eyes would blaze as he told of some fresh outrage; but then he hastened to add a word of caution—one must not believe everything, for there were no end of spies posing as miners, and they too had stories to tell. Now and then one would come in to headquarters, declaring that he had been robbed or beaten, and must have a gun to protect himself. Would not the union give him a gun? Or perhaps he had discovered a cache of weapons belonging to the operators, and wanted some of the miners to form a raiding-party to take possession of this treasure!
[7]
Billy Keating made notes, and then with Hal went out to wander about the streets. There were meetings on every block, it seemed—the ordinances of the town of Sheridan had been temporarily forgotten. A man stood upon the tail of a truck, addressing a lit
tle group in some strange tongue, and as Hal came near and made out the orator’s face, he exclaimed: “It’s Mike Sikoria!”
They stood and listened to the flood of Slovak eloquence. All Hal knew of the language was its commoner swearwords, but he had heard Old Mike discuss short weights and coal-company graft in English, so he had no trouble in imagining the speech. Presently at a pause, he hailed the orator—and then what a time there was! The old fellow clambered down from his platform, and gave Hal one of his grizzly-bear hugs, and half a dozen of his tickling, hairy kisses. “My buddy! My buddy!”
He shouted something to his fellow-countrymen; and again Hal could imagine the words—here was the rich young fellow who had come to North Valley and got a job and helped the miners! The other Slovaks grinned, and Mike patted Hal on the back, and would have had him make a speech—he was so proud of his American “buddy”! But the “buddy” lured him away by the suggestion of a lunch room. Was Mike hungry? Pluha biedna!
Billy Keating went to the hotel, to lock himself up in a room and get his story ready; and meantime Hal and his old instructor sat gossiping away. Mike heard with amazement that Hal had been abroad, and had come back for the strike. So that was the way these rich fellers did—running about over the world! Mike had done some travelling himself—but after the fashion of poor fellers. It was the old story, he said; he could not keep his tongue still while he was being robbed. But now was the chance of his life—he could talk about his grievances all he pleased, and there were throngs on the street to listen. “And I talk to them, you bet!”
The Coal War Page 8
