The Coal War

by Upton Sinclair

  The little lady was sitting very erect, looking into the eyes of Old Peter with a haughtiness beyond the power of words to convey. “You understand me?”

  And she waited for an answer. “Yes, ma’am,” said Old Peter, obediently.

  “All right. And then let me mention one other thing about myself—that I’m a woman who can keep her own counsel. I shall not be overpowered by the fact that I have had a private interview with the Coal King. I read somewhere about a Greek philosopher who laid down a receipt for practicing self-control: to walk ten miles on a hot, dusty road, to come to a spring of water, and fill your mouth, and then spit it out without swallowing any; and finally—here’s the point—‘Go thy way and tell no man’!”

  For the first time there came a really human look upon the old monster’s face. But it was only for a moment. “I know what you’re after!” said he. “It’s that brother-in-law of yours.”

  “You are mistaken, Mr. Harrigan. Even though I brought him with me—”

  “What?” And Old Peter’s hands clenched and his lower lip was thrust out farther. “You brought that fellow to my home?”

  “You needn’t be afraid, Mr. Harrigan—”

  “Afraid? Who says afraid?” The old rhinoceros with the scaly hide and the deadly horns glared about him, snorting, scenting his enemy, ready to rush him, trample him to the earth, gore and mangle him!

  “Morally afraid of him, Mr. Harrigan,” explained Lucy May, gently.

  Old Peter sat up. “I’ll not go on with this, ma’am. I’ll not discuss that young puppy!”

  “I haven’t come to discuss him, Mr. Harrigan. Upon my word.”

  “What have you come to discuss?”

  “It’s a little hard to make it clear. I might say to discuss my three children.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “My children, and other children—”

  “Strikers’ children, I suppose!”

  “No, Mr. Harrigan, the children of the rich. I have three, and I sit and watch them while they sleep, they’re so innocent and lovely, and I think about the world outside—how they have to grow up and go out into it, and there’s something there that poisons them, destroys them. I look at my own little ones, and ask, Is it going to happen to them—in spite of everything I can do? Am I going to find myself a heart-broken parent? Shall I have a son who gets drunk, and throws a brick through the window of my home when I refuse to honor his checks—”

  Old Peter’s face turned scarlet; and the woman stretched out her hands to him imploringly.

  “Ah, Mr. Harrigan, we don’t change the facts by refusing to mention them! You must know that I know these things—you have publicly cast off one of your sons, and you call the other a nincompoop. And your daughters—they haven’t disgraced you, but you’ve no love for them, nor they for you; they spend your money in things you despise, in empty snobbery. This palace, and the art-junk in it, price-marked and advertised in the papers—”

  “It’s their mother!” cried the old man, with a gesture of fury. “She’s a damned fool!”

  “Was she a fool when you married her, Mr. Harrigan?”

  “How do I know? What does a man know about the woman he marries?”

  The little lady smiled, appreciating an epigram. But Old Peter did not smile; he was on a topic that stirred him to the deeps—fool women, and the fool notions they put into the heads of the young, and the idle, dissolute, addle-pated jackasses they made of them!

  [10]

  So Lucy May had got her probe into the soul of this lonely, embittered old man, and could ask him why he wanted so much money, which brought him no happiness; why he persisted in forcing his will upon tens of thousands of his fellow-creatures, filling them with terror and hatred, never by any chance with gratitude or affection.

  It was the same with industry as with women and children, said Old Peter. You gave jobs and homes to workingmen, but they were incapable of gratitude or understanding, they were self-willed, lazy, turbulent—a prey to self-seekers with glib tongues, to suggestions of jealousy, suspicion and greed. So there was nothing to do but drive them, to keep a strong hand upon them. And he, Peter Harrigan, would do it—they would find they could not cow him, by God—“I beg pardon, ma’am,” said the old rhinoceros, stopping in the middle of his charge.

  “That’s all right,” said Lucy May. “If we are really going to talk things out, you must be at liberty to swear. But can you honestly be sure, Mr. Harrigan, that there are no real grievances for these agitators to work upon? You see the difference that would make—if there were really something that ought to be changed, and you wouldn’t change it, or even hear about it.”

  “I’ve no doubt, ma’am, there’s plenty of things they’d like changed. They’d like to get double wages—they’d like to run the industry—”

  “They say they don’t get their weights, Mr. Harrigan.”

  “Well, they lie!”

  “You’re really sure of that?”

  “What rot—to imagine that a concern the size of the General Fuel Company could be run on a system of cheating!”

  “But mightn’t the bosses be doing it, Mr. Harrigan?”

  “I’ll not deny that might happen now and then. We have seventy-three properties to run, and many departments in each. I can’t get angels for all of them.”

  “No, not angels—just men, with men’s weaknesses and vices. And you pit them one against another—compare their returns each month, making them compete?”

  “Of course, ma’am; there’s not a big concern in the country that’s not run on that principle.”

  “But then—mayn’t that drive some of the bosses to take advantage of the men?”

  “If it does, ma’am, nobody wants to know it more than I do. If the men would bring me proof—”

  “But can they get to you, Mr. Harrigan?”

  “Of course they can! I’ll see any employe of mine at any time.”

  “But it’s a long way to Western City, Mr. Harrigan.”

  “Let them write me, then. I read all my letters.”

  “You have detectives among your men, to see if they’re organizing, don’t you?”

  “I do, ma’am. I’ve been driven to it.”

  “But have you ever had detectives among the bosses, to find out if they are cheating the men?”

  For a moment Old Peter was at a loss. Then a flush of anger came into his face. “I know what you’re doing!” he cried. “You’ve been listening to that brother-in-law of yours! An idle young scape-grace, with more money than is good for him, mixing himself up with labor agitators—playing with dynamite! Yes, ma’am, that’s what it comes to! Going into my properties to stir up strife—”

  “Oh, but that’s not what he went for at all, Mr. Harrigan!”

  “Maybe that’s not what he tells you—”

  “But I know all about it! I talked with him before he went! He had no idea in the world but to understand the industry, the labor-problem especially. That’s one of the things you must realize, Mr. Harrigan—so that you won’t feel so much bitterness.”

  And Lucy May rushed on, passionately, swiftly, bearing down interruptions, trying to make Old Peter hear the story of Hal’s experiences. Old Peter did not want to hear, of course; it was maddening to him, so that he got up and tore about, and swore frightfully, and without apologizing. But he did not put the little lady out; she had made that much impression on him—he had to defend himself, even while he shook his finger at her and cried that he cared nothing about her opinion, that she was a fool woman, who could not understand men’s affairs, and had no business messing with them! It was a world of realities, the coal-industry, and pretty ladies with their fine feelings had better not know about it. The ignorance of those low-down foreigners, their turbulence, their criminal impulses, that had to be so sternly repressed—

  “Why do you employ such people, Mr. Harrigan?”

  “Because they’re all I can get. Do you suppose I wouldn’t h
ire white men, if they were to be had?”

  “But if you made conditions better—if you paid better wages—”

  “I pay the wages I can afford to pay. Do you think I made this industry out of my head? I have rivals, and I have to meet their prices. That’s what I tell you about business—it ain’t for you women—”

  “Plenty of women have understood business, Mr. Harrigan; I think I understand all you’ve told me. I’m not here to blame you, but to see what we can do. You must know the present situation is impossible—”

  “I know one thing that’s impossible, ma’am—that’s these loud-mouthed agitators, that go in and stir up trouble in the camps! Men with no sense of responsibility—”

  “Oh, but I know that’s not so, Mr. Harrigan! I went to the convention and met a number of them. I had a talk with John Harmon, and he’s really a straight man—a man one could deal with—”

  “Harmon is better than the run of them, I’ve no doubt; but he hunts with the pack—if he didn’t they’d turn on him and eat him up. It’s the principle of the thing I’m fighting—my right to control my own business that I’ve built up. There’s a lot of things I’d do for my workers, if it would help; but it wouldn’t, because of these agitators, who’d rather see the industry ruined than have the men take a favor from the company!”

  So they were launched upon a mighty ocean, an ocean of controversy which the wisest economists and social philosophers find difficult to navigate. And here was one little lady, pleading for kindness and mercy—like a cockle-boat tossed about in a tempest of hatred and prejudice and fear!

  [11]

  They argued until Lucy May had convinced herself that she was not getting where she wanted; and then she said: “Mr. Harrigan, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or to make you angry; but on the other hand I don’t want to let you have a contempt for my intelligence, so I must tell you that I understand you’re not telling me the truth. You know there are evils in your industry—monstrous evils that have grown up like weeds, while you’ve been meeting your rivals’ prices and keeping your credit good. It’s an old story to me, because I’ve had to wrangle it out with my husband—”

  And Old Peter burst out: “Why the hell don’t you stay at home and reform your husband?”

  “It happens to be you that have the strike, Mr. Harrigan—”

  “So that’s it? Well, maybe if you want one for your husband, we can accommodate you!”

  “What does that mean, Mr. Harrigan?”

  “Never mind!” growled the old monster—realizing that perhaps he had gone too far.

  “In plain words, you mean that while you denounce labor agitators, you might be willing to use them to get an advantage over your rivals.”

  “They’ve done it to me, ma’am—not once, but many a time.”

  “There you are giving me the true answer, Mr. Harrigan. Every wrong you do—you have to do it first! So you go into politics and buy officials—”

  “A bunch of skunk politicians, black-mailers that want to skin me alive—”

  “One more device to get at your money, Mr. Harrigan! Enemies around you, everywhere you turn—hating you, plotting against you! And you shut up here, lonely, afraid—not even daring to indulge in the luxury of saying what you think!”

  There came such a queer look upon the face of the old monster that Lucy May could not keep from laughing. “I know, Mr. Harrigan—it sounds strange to you! You think that by swearing and blustering, you can pass for a plain-spoken, blunt old martinet. And all the time you’re hiding from the facts, cowering in a corner, like a frightened child in the dark.”

  “So that’s the way I seem to you!”

  “You see this dreadful situation heaping up—you’re confronting it aghast. You know something has to be done, but you don’t know what it is; and people are trying to force you, and before you’ll be forced, you’ll let yourself be torn limb from limb. That’s your main trouble, Mr. Harrigan—you’re so stubborn, a perfect mountain of obstinacy and self-will. You’ve set your teeth together and shut your eyes, you’re driving yourself to destruction. Oh, I’m so sorry for you—”

  “You can save your pity, ma’am!”

  “Ah, don’t make that cheap answer! When a person comes to offer you friendship—a person who really wants to help, who hasn’t a selfish motive—”

  “What do you want?” shouted Old Peter. He had started up, and stood glaring at the tormenting little witch-lady. “You ask me to give up to these agitators? To let them get in and ride my business to ruin? Is that what you ask?”

  “What I ask, Mr. Harrigan, is for you to meet me fairly—to talk to me straight. And I ask you to hear my brother-in-law—what he’s seen with his own eyes, what he knows about your working-people, about the bosses you put over them.”

  “I’ll not hear him!” raged Old Peter. “You had no business bringing the young scoundrel to my house!”

  “You’re using words without meaning, Mr. Harrigan. You can’t possibly think that Hal’s a scoundrel.”

  “He’s one of your fine phrase-makers. I know them—I’ve read their stuff, they’re more dangerous than the anarchists. They’re going to make the world over in a night, and we’re to go to school to them—we old fellows that have spent our lives learning our job. No, ma’am, I’ve got my hands full, solving this problem—”

  “But that’s the trouble, Mr. Harrigan—you’re not solving it!”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  “You’ve had half a year to solve it, and all you can do is to bring on a civil war.”

  “I’m going to break that strike!” stormed the old man. “I’m going to drive those agitators out of my camps! I’m going to have law and order in that coal-country! They’ve put their tent-colonies down on the roads to my properties, they’re terrorizing honest workingmen that want to earn their livings, and there’s a white-livered little son-of-a-fool up here in the State House that won’t use the power of the law and move them—”

  “Mr. Harrigan, you must know what that would mean—wholesale murder!”

  “Murder? Who says murder? If the law had been enforced from the first day there’d have been no talk of murder.”

  “What’s the use of talking that newspaper talk to me, Mr. Harrigan? The law can’t be enforced, because you’ve broken its back; you turned over the government of that coal-country to a private detective agency, and if you don’t know what they did, you’re the only person concerned that’s ignorant. Haven’t you even looked at Mr. Wilmerding’s report?”

  [12]

  The mention of the Reverend Wilmerding was like a spark to a powder-magazine. That ecclesiastical viper that Old Peter had nourished in his bosom! After all he had done for St. George’s—the mission he had built for it, the ten thousand dollar organ he had donated! Old Peter clenched and unclenched his hands, his face turned from purple to white and back again, he said things truly shocking for a daughter of colonial governors to hear.

  “But Mr. Harrigan,” she persisted, “you didn’t think all these things about Mr. Wilmerding until he opposed you.”

  “I didn’t know them about him!”

  “You don’t know them now, Mr. Harrigan—you don’t know a single thing, except that he’s opposed you. You’ve given him no chance to defend himself—any more than you’ve given Hal Warner. It’s just one more proof of what I tell you—that you’ve set your teeth and shut your eyes, and you’re driving yourself to destruction. You’re driving me, along with you—”

  “You? What am I doing to you?”

  “Mr. Harrigan, do you suppose I can see my brother-in-law risking his life—”

  “Then get the damned young fool out of my coal-camps!”

  “I tried to do that; my husband went there and tried, and failed. I have come to see the reason—the boy’s moral sense is involved, he has seen things there that are not to be tolerated. If you and your associates won’t see, won’t care—why, somebody has to throw his life away to make
you care—”

  “I’ll not care, even so!” shouted Old Peter.

  “Mr. Harrigan,” said the little lady, “you try your best to seem a wicked old man, but you aren’t in the least—you’re just pitiful and tragic. You’re trying to run away from your conscience—and you’re perplexed and bewildered, because wherever you run, your conscience is there waiting! You’re fighting me as hard as you can—and all the time knowing that I’m right, that you’d like to win my regard—to talk out your heart—”

  Old Peter sank back in his chair. “There’s no use arguing with you, ma’am—you know more about me than I know about myself!”

  “I know that every man likes to have a woman to tell his troubles to. And since I’ve met you, I’d so much rather be your friend than your enemy. And of course, I have to be one or the other. Things have got to a pass where I can’t let Hal fight alone; if I can’t move you, why then, I’ve got to go out in the world and use my tact and my social position to raise up an insurrection of women against you. —Yes, I see you get ready for another fight! Let all the women in the state come on, you’ll meet them! But you won’t have to, Mr. Harrigan—because I’m going to help you.”

  Old Peter sank back again. “Yes, ma’am,” said he. “What will you be pleased to do, ma’am? Grant the men’s demands tonight?”

  “I’m going to ask you to press a button and call a servant.”

  “I’ll not see that boy, I tell you!”

  “He’s waited so long, Mr. Harrigan—”

  “You can take him away, ma’am. I’m not keeping him.”

  “He can be so valuable to you, Mr. Harrigan! Just think of it—he has seen your industry from the other side, the side you’re not allowed to see—”

  “I’d not believe a word he told me!”

  “All you’d have to do, Mr. Harrigan, is to meet him, and you’d realize that he’s an absolutely truthful man. It would no more occur to you that he was lying than it would that I am lying.”

  “I’ll not see him, I tell you!”