The Coal War

by Upton Sinclair

  Jim Moylan and his college-boy lieutenant were in charge of headquarters that Saturday, and it was an experience never to be forgotten by any man. It seemed that everybody arrived late in the afternoon. The union had hired a hall, and to this the throngs came; there must have been three thousand people packed into the place—it was hard to see for the steam of so many water-soaked bodies. If you had anything to do with the union, you were besieged by fifty men and women at once, trying to ask you questions in what appeared to be fifty different languages. The Tower of Babel was the only thing one could compare with it; but there could have been no such desperate haste in the Tower of Babel, for if a stone was not got into place until the next day, it would not matter so much—it did not snow or sleet in that neighborhood, and there were no shivering women and children to be got under shelter.

  Yet, incredible as it might seem, it was not for food and shelter that these people clamored first; it was for their souls they wanted food—their souls which had been starving for years in those lonely mountain fastnesses. Wet, shivering and hungry as they were, they were aflame with excitement and enthusiasm, and their cry was for “talk”. Jim Moylan had to “make talk”, in the kind of pidgin-English which passes in the coal-camps; and then he had to find men to “make talk” in various other languages. Because he did not always know these talkers and could not trust them, he had to find interpreters and act as censor to these floods of foreign oratory. Hal had had this same experience in the little strike at North Valley, and knew all about it. In one or two cases he even knew the orators—the Italian orator; the Bohemian orator, the little Greek orator who tore all his passions to tatters, fastening his fingers in his long black hair and tugging desperately, demonstrating the ancient lesson of solidarity. “Pull one hair, he come out; pull all hairs, no come out!”

  They worked out a system for handling the throngs, and when the oratory was over, Moylan gathered the interpreters around him. He asked one question, and each interpreter in turn shouted it aloud in his language. Everybody who had to have food must come to a certain part of the room; and when that had been supplied, there was a cry for everybody who had no place to sleep. The first tents from Western City were due to arrive in the morning, and the people from certain camps must be sent to certain places. So on through hours and hours, while the crowds thinned out; but meantime new crowds had been coming in, and they must hear new speech-making. All the while the rains continued without let-up, and water and mud and strikers poured out of the canyons in one turbid flood.

  [13]

  The little town of Horton had been selected as the site of one of the biggest of the tent-colonies. A tract of land had been rented, not far from the depot, and it had been arranged that the people from the Northeastern, from Barela, Greenough and North Valley should make their homes here. The lumber for platforms was already on hand, the tents were on the way, and one evening Hal and Jim went over to help get things started.

  When they got off the train they were met in the dark, ill-lighted depot by a Polish miner, Klowowski, who had been a member of Hal’s check-weighman group. He was a frail little man, or seemed so just then, hollow-eyed and haggard of aspect. His clothing was soaked through with rain, and his teeth chattered as he talked, which made his broken English still more difficult to understand. But his face lighted with pathetic delight when he saw the rich young fellow who had come to help the miners. There was a “big lot strikers” wandering about the streets, he explained; they were “very scared”, but now the union had come to them, they were saved!

  “No eat two days,” declared Klowowski. “No got place for sleep, sleep out two nights in rocks.” But he had not let the other strikers know this, for fear it might discourage them!

  Here again, however, it was not food and shelter that men wanted. Truly has it been spoken that man does not live by bread alone! The little Polack wanted to be told that he was right in defying the tremendous power which had been God and king as well as master to him. He and his friends wanted to be told about the “big union” that was back of them, and would stand by them. If only they were made to feel the reality of this “big union”, they would endure such things as rain and cold and hunger.

  So Moylan must “make talk” once more. Let the men gather in the vacant lot by the blacksmith’s shop, and he would come in an hour. Hal gave the little Pole a quarter and warned him to get some food if he did not want to be ill; but Klowowski had too much on his mind to think of food. While Hal and Moylan sat in an eating-room, a place crowded with strikers, the door was pushed open and the rain-drenched form of the little Pole appeared in the entry. He did not see the two, but lifted his voice and shouted: “Meeting by blacksmith shop! Big men from union come make talk! Ever’body come! Tell ever’body!” And away rushed this Paul Revere of the coal-camps!

  It was impossible to tell how many people attended the meeting. It was pitch-dark, and they had only two pit-lamps, turned upon the face of the speaker. Beyond beat an ocean of human sound, murmurs of indignation, cries of resolution, long salvos of applause. And this in a drizzling rain, with mud and slush underfoot, utter darkness everywhere, and half a dozen gunmen, armed with “thirty-thirty” rifles, prowling about on the outskirts of the crowd!

  After the meeting Hal went into a saloon, where he found a group of his old North Valley friends, trying to dry out around a stove. There was Wresmak, the Bohemian miner, and “Big Jack” David, the Welshman, with his wife and their two young children; also Tommie and Jennie Burke. Hal had been inquiring for the children, having promised Mary that he would look after them. He had written to North Valley, and now he learned that his letter had not been received. Could it be that the power of the Schultz Detective Agency affected even the United States mail?

  A crowd had been turned out of North Valley that morning, because there had been a union meeting in Jack David’s home, and a spy had got in. Mrs. David had refused to leave without her belongings, and had given the camp-marshal a tongue-lashing; there had been a mix-up, and “Big Jack” had nearly got a broken jaw. It hurt him to talk; but the condition of his black-eyed and hot-tempered little wife was such that it would have hurt her not to talk. There were more than seventy men in North Valley, she declared, who wanted to quit work and were being held inside the stockade. The bosses were turning out the active and intelligent men, from whom they had things to fear; they were holding the ignorant and defenseless, on the pretext of debt to the company. Most of them had been in debt ever since they had come to the camp—and what chance would they have to pay it off while there was a strike? Being non-English speaking men, for the most part, they believed what the bosses told them—that they would be sent to prison for long terms if they tried to get away without paying what they owed the company.

  “What chance have we if such things are allowed?” cried the little Welshwoman. “If they can work their mines with slaves, the whole strike will go to pieces.”

  “The men will get out somehow,” said Hal. “They’ll not be able to hold them long.”

  “But they’re doing it! They’re doing it everywhere!” insisted the other. “Up in Barela they won’t let anybody out, only those they think have been agitating! There’s a Greek fellow here who was fired yesterday—hear what he says!”

  So Hal had his first meeting with “Louie the Greek”, a man of whom he was to see much. Louie had been a teacher in Western City, but seeing in this situation a chance to uplift his fellow-countrymen, he had come down and gone to work in a coal-mine. He was a man about thirty years of age, quiet and rather shy, but having under his scholarly appearance unflinching resolution, which showed itself in times of trial.

  Louie substantiated all Mrs. David had said. He had seen women and children thrown bodily from their homes, and all their belongings flung out into the mud and slush. He had seen families crouching out in the open, not knowing where to turn, because the doors of their homes had been locked behind them, while at the same time access had been refused
to wagons to take them away. The object of these proceedings was to intimidate those who were still wavering. They were notorious at Barela for cruelty to their workers; it was in this mine that more than five hundred men had been killed during the past three years. And now they had a machine-gun mounted at the gate, and a fellow named Stangholz would handle this gun, turning it about and aiming it at the strikers, jeering at them and telling them how with this “baby” of his he would wipe them out.

  Among Louie’s countrymen Hal encountered the breaker-boy, Androkulos, who had been one of the first of his acquaintances in North Valley. “Andy” was an ardent striker, and had been “shipped” the week before, together with his old mother and his two young sisters. They had been all this time without shelter, without blankets or even a change of clothing. And when at last the young fellow had got a wagon, and had made the long trip up the canyon to get his property, Jeff Cotton had refused him admittance to the camp.

  The boy had just got back, almost beside himself with rage. “I pay eight dollars for that wagon!” he cried. “And I got to pay it just the same for nothing! What right they got to keep my things, hey? What right they got?”

  Hal tried to comfort him. “I’ll help you find some place for your people,” he said. “We’ll get you dry clothes—”

  “But I wany my clothes!” protested the boy. “By Christ, I kill them fellers inside that fence! If I had gun, I kill Jeff Cotton yesterday.”

  “No, Andy, don’t kill him, that won’t do you any good. They’d only hang you.”

  “They might as good hang me as treat me like they do! My father work in that mine ten year, he get blowed to pieces in that mine, and what I got for it? Only some old things in that house, and I can’t get them! I tell you I get a gun and go back there, if I don’t get my things I send somebody to hell!”

  Louie broke in, speaking his own language. There was a voluble argument between the two, from the gestures and tones of which Hal gathered that it was another such controversy as he had heard between Edstrom and Little Jerry. The older man was gentle and persuasive—and gradually Hal saw the storm die down. Without having understood a word of Louie’s utterance, Hal was brought to realize that here was a remarkable man, a personality to count upon in time of trouble.

  Presently the Greek turned to him, and shook his head sadly. “It will be dif-fi-cult,” he said—(he pronounced the word very carefully, even if not correctly). “It will be dif-fi-cult to man-age our people.” Hal noticed that Louie used many book-words, and did not always get them straight; the reason being that he had taught himself most of the English he knew. He was a man of reading, had studied medicine in the University of Athens.

  [14]

  Hal got Billy Keating on the telephone, to talk the matter over with him. Billy urged him to come to Sheridan and try to get some satisfaction from the sheriff of the county; Jim Moylan, who stood by, backed up the suggestion. Hal could perhaps accomplish more than one of the strike-leaders, because he was the son of a well-known millionaire.

  So Hal took the morning train to Sheridan, and visited the courthouse, which was like a military camp, with men carrying rifles everywhere. They glared at him as he went in—evidently having “spotted” this son of a well-known millionaire. He sent in his card to Alf Raymond, the Emperor of Pedro County, and without delay was ushered into the throne-room.

  Hal had heard much about this sheriff-emperor, but had never seen him before. He was a large man, with sandy hair and a red face with many freckles; pot-bellied and gross—you could see that he was in the wholesale liquor business in more than one sense of the phrase. He was a man of no education, but his eyes revealed animal cunning.

  He was polite at the start. His wealth and power had been got by serving the rich, and this young man belonged to the class he was accustomed to defer to. He listened to the young man’s stories, and then began to explain the difficult position he was in. How could he get the truth about anything, when both sides were so busy telling lies? But of course it was absurd on the face of it that the companies should attempt to force men to work. You might drag a man down into a coal-mine, but you couldn’t make him dig. Moreover, the sheriff had made inquiries about matters at North Valley and was satisfied there was nothing to the tales. He knew Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal, and had written him a letter.

  Hal answered that he had seen the letter—a very polite communication, calling the camp-marshal’s attention to the fact that he ought not to keep people from getting their belongings. The communication had got into the papers, and had made some talk.

  Yes, replied the sheriff-emperor—there was a newspaper-fellow by the name of Keating, who had got hold of a copy in his office. The sheriff-emperor made it clear that newspaper-fellow would not get into his office again!

  Hal had before his mind a vision of women and children without blankets and clothing; so he was not to be put off with empty words. He insisted that the sheriff should go up to the camp without delay, and see that every person who wanted to come out was allowed out, and that every person who wanted his property was allowed to have it. But the sheriff had no idea of taking any such steps, and as Hal continued to push him, he became annoyed; when finally Hal began threatening him with public opinion, he turned red in the neck and brought his fist down on his desk. No “outside agitators” were going to come in to run this strike! When Hal inquired as to whether the head of the Schultz Detective Agency was regarded as an “outside agitator”—“Young fellow,” said the sheriff, “you get this through your head: you needn’t think because your father’s got a lot of money, you can come into these here camps and stir up trouble! Take my advice and quit this game; you may get in too deep, even for the stakes your old man can put up!”

  And that was all the satisfaction Hal got in his first and last interview with the sheriff-emperor. The truth was the monarch had abdicated; it was Schultz who was running the empire now, and all the sheriff had to do was to swear in deputies. He had sworn in some four hundred so far, and there were four hundred more waiting for commissions. Later on, when these events became the subject of government investigation, “Alf” Raymond admitted that he had known nothing about any of these men, and had made no effort to find out anything about them.

  Billy Keating was waiting outside to hear the results of the interview. He had telephoned to Pringle, and been told to get a camera and a rig, and go up to North Valley and see for himself how matters stood. Of course he wanted Hal to go with him, and to figure in the story. So far, at Hal’s request, the “Gazette” had printed nothing about the presence in the coal-country of the son of a well-known millionaire; the other newspapers had also kept silence, for a different reason—they were reporting things from the point of view of the operators, and if they mentioned Hal’s presence, they would have to give more of the strikers’ side. The situation was a trying one for reporters and editors; for if there is anything that American newspaper readers wish to hear about, it is the doings and sayings of the sons of well-known millionaires.

  Hal was willing to accompany Billy, but predicted that they would not get much of a story, because they would not be allowed near the North Valley camp. And sure enough, about half way up the canyon, just above the fork to the Northeastern, they came upon three men in a shelter-tent by the roadside. The men had rifles in their hands, and one of them stepped out and held up his hand. “Got a pass?” he inquired.

  “What sort of a pass?”

  “Company pass.”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t go by.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Company orders.”

  Keating started to argue. “This is a public road! It’s a United States mail-route; it leads to a United States post-office.”

  “You can’t go by,” said the man.

  “I have business in North Valley, and I have a right to travel on this road. I’m a reporter from the West
ern City ‘Gazette’.”

  “I don’t care if you’re God Almighty, you can’t pass this place without a permit from the ‘G.F.C.’.”

  “And suppose I insist on going?”

  The man swung forward his rifle, and laid it in the crook of his arm. The two in the buggy could see the round black eye of the muzzle, looking at them unwinkingly. There was no other reply, and no need of any.

  [15]

  Hal and Billy consulted, and were about to turn and make their retreat, when there came a diversion from up the canyon. Some figures appeared round a curve in the road—a procession of men and women walking; with the familiar bundles of bedding and other belongings a-top. At the end of the procession came two men on horse-back, wearing ponchos, and carrying rifles. Hal and Billy backed the buggy out of the way; the sentry watching them meantime, never once taking his eyes off them.

  It was still pouring rain, and the figures and the bundles were soaked through and dripping. The scene was one for a painter—a painter who, like Hal, had been up to the head of the canyon and knew what was to be found there, and could read the story of each individual face and figure.

  There came Charlie Ferris, the big miner whose steam-siren voice had supported Hal on the night of the North Valley uprising. His face was now set and desperate; he looked, and saw Hal, and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it and marched on. There was a bandage about Charlie’s forehead, with a splotch of blood showing through. Behind him plodded his wife, a stoutish woman with three children at her mud-draggled skirts; the children slipping and staggering in the mud, which in places was over their knees.

  Then came—of all people—“Blinky”, a young fellow whom Hal had come to know as the vaudeville specialist of North Valley; a lad from the East Side of New York, with sandy hair and merry eyes, and a mouth organ always in his trouser-pocket. Nothing ever seemed able to repress his high spirits; he could execute amazing fancy steps, and everybody and everything in sight was the butt of his wit. He was horribly obscene, of course, but Hal had been able to forgive this, for the wonder of seeing laughter upon the faces of the underworld men. The children would gather round “Blinky” like flies about a honey-comb, and even the bosses were not proof against his spell. They would curse, and bid him be off to his work; but they would grin while they said it, and he dared to answer them back, for all the world like a court-jester to a king.