The Coal War

by Upton Sinclair

  And meantime the Reverend Wilmerding was having scenes with his rector, and with the trustees of his church, and the host of his parishioners and friends. He was so desperate about the sights he had seen—he actually proposed to stand up in the pulpit of St. George’s and preach about conditions in the coal-country! In the presence of Peter Harrigan and Judge Vagleman, and other directors and leading stockholders of the General Fuel Company! As a result, he was not allowed to preach at all; and when he went about the city, seeking other ways to reach the public, he found that all ways had suddenly closed tight. Everywhere word had gone about that the assistant rector of St. George’s, hitherto such a favorite at Y.M.C.A. entertainments and church sewing-clubs and charity theatricals and Chamber of Commerce banquets and civic improvement conferences—that the said assistant rector had become possessed by devils, and turned suddenly into a firebrand and fanatic, an offender of good taste, a menace to law and order. Hearing about his plight, Hal wrote to his college-friend, Morris Lipinsky, who got up a Socialist mass-meeting, at which the clergyman was free to vent his insane emotions. And of course that finished the process of his social and clerical downfall; when decent people opened their newspapers and read that the once-popular assistant rector had delivered a harangue at a gathering of revolutionists and incendiaries—well, they set to work to let him know what it really meant to be ordained in the line of the prophets and apostles, who had been stoned and scourged and fed to lions and thrown into kettles of boiling oil!

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  At this time there fell in the coal-country what the strikers came to know as the “big snow”. There must have been two feet of it—the tents were buried, and men had to go out every hour or two while it was falling, and clear the roofs to keep them from being borne down. And this of course laid everybody helpless; the pickets could not get about on the roads, and their amazon auxiliaries could not get down to the depots. So General Wrightman saw his opportunity. He was still supposed to be enforcing the Governor’s “policy” of keeping out strike-breakers from the mines; but it was humiliating to a military commander to have to make pretences to strikers; so now the General announced that Governor Barstow had “modified” his orders over the telephone. When the perplexed Governor stated that he did not know of having done anything of the sort, the General said nothing, but went ahead with his own “policy”, which was to see that all men who wished to go to work were protected in their constitutional rights—the constitutional rights of men who did not wish to work being meantime suspended. That was not the way the General put it, of course; he merely said that if the strikers continued to resist his orders, he would herd them all into a stockade, and not let anyone out without a military pass.

  From that time on, the militia was frankly an agency for the breaking of the strike. The soldiers met all trains regularly and escorted them up to the coal-camps. All over the country hordes of ignorant foreign-speaking men were being hired, under the grossest misrepresentations, and brought to the mines and held for “debt”. So many escaped, so many circumstantial stories were sworn to, that there could no longer be any doubt about it. The deputies of the state commissioner of labor, endeavoring to protect these victims, were several times arrested, and finally barred from all the camps in the district.

  Such proceedings could of course not fail to have a weakening effect upon the strike. Everywhere the mines were filling up with workers, the newspapers were publishing statements to the effect that the strike was broken and the mines in operation. The strikers’ claims could with difficulty be presented, for most of their leaders were in prison, their headquarters had been raided, their papers suppressed. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising that a few of the weaker men lost heart and gave up.

  One of these was old Patrick Burke. As liquor was banned from the tent-colony, Patrick was accustomed to disappear each week when he got his union benefits, and not return until he had spent them. But one week he did not return at all, and a few days later came the report that he had gone back to North Valley a scab. It was a terrible humiliation to his three children; but there was nothing they could do about it, no way they could get to the old man to dissuade him from his shame. The sheep in paradise and the goats in purgatory were separated by no wider chasm than the strikers at Horton and the strike-breakers at North Valley!

  Mary Burke shed tears of shame in secret; but she went on with her work, trying to make up for the treachery of her father by extra diligence on behalf of the sufferers. There was a constant stream of wounded men provided by the militia, and Mary assisted these at all hours of the day and night. For weeks she would not leave the tent-colony at all; she had no pleasure outside, on account of the militiamen, who made her life a burden. It had come to be the generally accepted idea among these men that “Red Mary” was Hal’s “girl”; and they did not see why she should be so exclusive with her favors. They made advances to her, and when she spurned them, they never lost an opportunity to insult and terrify her. They would walk behind her, discussing the flaming splendor of her hair and the shape of her healthy body. They would speculate aloud as to her price, and make her offers. Several times they caught hold of her and kissed her, and once three drunken ruffians in khaki seized her and tried to drag her into an alley.

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  And then still more trouble fell upon Mary. By way of protest against the violence of the soldiers, it was decided to have a procession of the strikers’ women in Pedro. A number from Horton went to attend, among them Mary and her young sister. A parade started, with American flags and printed signs; but when it reached the post-office, there was cavalry barring the way, and when the paraders refused to turn back, the General rode in at the head of his troopers, driving women and children pell-mell before him. Some were trampled by the horses; one woman had her cheek cut open by a sabre, another had an ear slashed off. In the midst of the excitement, the General fell off his horse and landed on his back on the side-walk; and little Jennie Burke laughed aloud—would not any child laugh aloud to see an old red walrus fall off a horse? The General, wild with rage, climbed upon his steed again, rode into the crowd, and as the child was trying to back away, kicked her savagely in the breast.

  Now “Red Mary” was Irish, and had an Irish tongue, and in that moment of stress she made use of it. “Arrest that woman!” cried the General; and the woman was dragged away, and herded into an alley-way with eighteen others—among them Mrs. Jack David.

  The little Welshwoman had had nothing to do with the parade, so she claimed. She had her two children with her, one three years old and the other four, and they had been standing in the doorway of a store, watching the soldiers driving the women down the street. “Move on!” one of the troopers had commanded her, and she replied—somewhat indiscreetly, perhaps—“I don’t have to.” Whereupon he seized her, twisted her arm behind her back, and beat her with his fist. “Shame! Shame!” cried the spectators; and Mrs. David assailed him with a new and ferocious weapon, her muff.

  Now came General Wrightman, riding up to inspect the round-up.

  “That’s Mrs. Jack David,” said one of his subordinates.

  “Oh, indeed!” said Wrightman. Perhaps she had been too free in public discussion of “tin willies” and “scab-herders”; or perhaps her husband’s title of “general” was regarded as a challenge. “Take her to jail,” said Wrightman. “That red-headed one too!” And so Mary and Mrs. David and the two children were “military prisoners”!

  And prisoners they remained, day after day. There was no way to tell how long they would remain, nor even what was the charge against them. It was at this time that Major Cassels, in a habeas corpus proceeding in Judge Denton’s court, explained the theory upon which he was proceeding. “The question of the guilt or innocence of these people is a matter of no importance. It was deemed necessary, for purposes known to General Wrightman, to lock them up, and they will remain locked up until General Wrightman orders them released.”

  But if the Gen
eral thought that he could tame the spirit of either Mary Burke or Mrs. David, he miscalculated. The freedom of woman’s tongue is an institution which has managed to survive many different kinds of despotism. They were in the second story of the jail, in adjoining cells, and they would stand at the windows, and when they saw strikers passing, they would sing the union song in chorus. Mrs. David clamored to see her husband, and finally this permission was granted, on condition that a militiaman should be present during the interview. It gave the little woman keen delight to circumvent this order by conversing with her husband in Welsh!

  Mrs. Olson made an effort to visit Mary, but was turned back. As for Hal, he knew that he could do nothing; he would only add fuel to the flame of slander—and possibly get himself shipped out of the district again. He went to Captain Harding, to try to persuade that officer to intervene—but in vain. There was a vehement dispute between the two, for Hal told his cousin exactly what he thought of him, and the opinion was not flattering.

  Eleven days passed, and Mary came out, with her Irish complexion faded, but her Irish tongue as sharp as ever. It was a sorrowful home-coming, for little Jennie’s breast was swollen, with a big black bruise, corresponding to the shape of the toe of an Adjutant-General’s boot. The doctor took it seriously—such things often turned into cancer, he said. Poor Mary almost fainted when she heard this; for she had seen old John Edstrom’s wife die of cancer, up in North Valley, and in her mind was the memory of a ghastly stench.

  Yes, these were black days for the Burke family. Mary had worked so hard for her young brother and sister—pinching and scraping, sewing, scrubbing, scheming. She would pull them through, and when they grew up, her life would be free from its heaviest burden. But now they were both of them to be cripples! Tommie was up again, but had to have a crutch, and would never be able to run and play like other boys.

  Hal’s heart was wrung with pity; and the “poetry-books”, as Mary called them, record the psychological subtlety that “pity moves the soul to love”. The clouds of despair which overhung Mary Burke’s life would be shot through with sunshine—if only Hal were to follow the impulse which was now seldom quiet in him. He would find himself alone in a tent with the girl, and would want to put his arms about her, and let her cry out her grief upon his shoulder. Why should he not do it? Why should he pay heed to warning voices which could be only survivals of old prejudices, old cruel instincts of caste?

  The world outside, Hal’s world of culture and “refinement”, would say that he was slipping into a pit, that he was becoming demoralized, here in this intimacy with low people. But what did he care what his world thought about him? Was he not bracing himself in a furious struggle against it? How long would it be before he was ready to cast the die, to burn his bridges behind him, to take the final plunge—to do whatever mixture of metaphors might express the awfulness of the temptation which beset him—to clasp to his heart in the intimacy of love a low-caste woman, the daughter of a drunken miner!

  It was a fire smouldering inside his heart, and threatening to burst into conflagration. He would speculate about Mary, what she was thinking and feeling. Did she smell the smoke? What would she do if suddenly the flames were to leap out and seize her? He would have an impulse to go and find out; but instead he would turn in a fire-alarm, and a whole department would respond with hurry and clamor—the great water-tower of Brother Edward, with its powerful stream of worldly counsel, and the chemical engine of religious asceticism driven by the Reverend William Wilmerding, and the hook and ladder rescue-truck with Jessie Arthur lashing the horses to a gallop!

  But this rescue-truck was far away, and might not always arrive on time. Letters from Jessie came to him frequently, pitiful and touching—the protests carefully veiled, nothing expressed but gentle pleading. If they failed of their effect upon Hal, it was because of the distrust of his own world which was storing itself up day by day in his heart. He was coming to believe in nothing in this world any more. He could not ever see it as it wanted to be seen, a place of ease and graciousness and charm; he saw it only as it appeared to striking coal-miners—a club that came down on one’s head, a bayonet that was plunged into one’s vitals.

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  What saved Hal from these passionate allurements was hard work: the burdens that kept falling upon his shoulders, the new efforts that clamored to be made. No sooner was Wilmerding’s pamphlet printed and sent out than John Harmon came with a new plan. In their campaign to break down the conspiracy of silence of the news agencies, the miners sought to persuade Congress to appoint a committee to investigate the strike. Would Hal go to Washington and try his luck in the role of lobbyist? It was unfortunate, but true, that members of Congress would be more impressed by one member of the leisure class than by any number of working-people.

  So Hal took the three-day journey, and appeared before the “House Committee on Mines and Mining”. Partly as a result of his testimony, and partly of the statements which he read from Wilmerding’s report, the resolution was carried, and a sub-committee of five members of Congress set out for the West.

  Here was a great opportunity! In Western City, Wilmerding got busy and persuaded a friend of his, a professor at Harrigan, to represent the miners as counsel. This was Professor Purdue, the “authority on constitutional law” whom the clergyman had been so bold as to cite to General Wrightman. He came to Pedro, arriving only the day before the congressmen, so that he had to put his witnesses on the stand without having a chance to talk with them in advance: which any lawyer must admit was a severe test for the most learned “authority upon constitutional law”!

  The coal-operators were represented by Bernard Vagleman and Judge Evans, an eminent statesman of Pedro. At the beginning of the strike Hal had found himself horrified at the idea that gentlemen who had been to college, and held high rank in the honored legal profession, could be guilty of “framing up” evidence against low-down, pitiful coal-strikers. But now Hal was on the inside, where he could see Messrs. Vagleman and Evans at work day by day. And when he had got through with this investigation-battle, nobody could ever talk to him about the ethics of corporation-attorneys!

  The battle was hottest about the question of “peonage” in the camps. The American public does not care so much what is done to strikers, but the “scab” is a sacred personage; has not a revered college-president hailed him as the “true American hero”? So now the strike-leaders wished to prove the fact that hundreds of these true American heroes from Russia and Bohemia and Italy and Greece were being kept by force in coal-camp stockades, and worked practically as slaves. But the difficulty with these heroes, as you found when you came to deal with them, was that they were terrified by their heroic experiences; they were hard to get hold of, and still harder to keep. Also, alas, they sometimes consented to take bribes, and to repudiate their affidavits at a moment’s notice; even when they were sincere, they were so ignorant that they could hardly make themselves understood.

  The strikers presented a Roumanian who had been “shanghaied” in Pittsburg, brought to North Valley in a locked steel car with an armed guard, and put to work at the point of a revolver in the hands of Hal’s old pit-boss, Alec Stone. The man had worked for two months, and his total credit for this time had amounted to twenty-two dollars and eighty-seven cents—applied onto his transportation from Pittsburg! Four times he had attempted to make his escape, and been driven back by militiamen.

  And now came Vagleman and Evans, to discredit this testimony. They put on the stand a Russian strike-breaker who swore that Tim Rafferty, Johann Hartman and two of the strikers had met him in a room at union headquarters and paid him money to give false testimony in this matter of “peonage”. It happened that at the time the testimony was given all four of the accused men were in the room; Tim Rafferty was seated on the platform within ten or fifteen feet of the witness, and he signalled to Hal, who saw the opportunity, and tipped off Professor Purdue. The Professor announced to the committee that the accused
men were present, and suggested that the witness should confirm his story by identifying them.

  Vagleman of course made objection, but the chairman of the committee insisted upon the test, and Hal stepped across the room and deliberately placed himself in front of the lawyer, making it impossible for him to give signals to the witness. So the poor fellow sat there, gazing blankly at the rows of faces in the room, unable to pick out a single one of those he accused.

  “I protest against this!” cried Vagleman, excitedly. “The lights are bad, the witness cannot see the people.”

  “Very well,” said Professor Purdue. “Let the lights be raised.”

  While this was being done, Vagleman moved a little to one side; but Hal followed suit, standing within three feet of the lawyer, and looking at him. The lawyer knew quite well what he was there for, and was white with rage. “This is a farce! “he cried. “The witness can’t see the men! They’re too far away.”

  “Let him move towards the audience, if he wishes to,” said Professor Purdue. “The men are in plain sight. The committee can see every one of them. We shall point them out afterwards.”

  The little drama went on for several minutes. Another of the operators’ attorneys attempted to signal to the witness, but Professor Purdue appealed to the chairman, and there was a lively scene, at the end of which the accused attorney sat still. The result was that the “frame-up” collapsed completely, and the committee declared the witness discredited.

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  So the eminent lawyers had to arrange something else. At the request of Professor Purdue, the committee was keeping the “peonage” witnesses in a separate room, and the counsel for the operators brought down the camp interpreter from North Valley, and smuggled him into the room where the committee’s witnesses were kept. It happened that Hal got a glimpse of the man and recognized him—his old enemy Jake Predovich! He told Professor Purdue about it, and the Professor brought the matter to the attention of the committee, and there was a great to-do. At first Vagleman attempted to deny all knowledge of it, then he pleaded that no harm had been intended. The chairman expressed his indignation in no uncertain terms, and they paid Vagleman back by putting Predovich on the witness-stand, and forcing him to testify concerning his treatment of strike-breakers. Whenever these charges of “peonage” were brought, the operators were always ready to prove that the victim had signed a paper declaring that he came with the full knowledge that he was to work as a strikebreaker. It had been noticed that these signatures were somewhat alike, and now the Galician interpreter was forced to admit that he had written over fifty signatures himself!