Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  Then began the slow mass exodus out of the winding canyon through the mud. The miners were in for a further shock when they arrived at the tent city: tents ordered from West Virginia had failed to arrive on time. The men and their families huddled together under wagons or makeshift cover as the rain turned to snow. When the tents finally arrived four days later, this inadequate shelter was all they had throughout that bitter winter of 1913-14.

  Then the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company hired professional strikebreakers who had proved brutally effective in breaking up a West Virginia coal strike. So many shootings and deaths followed that the Colorado state militia was called out. But the militia could not handle the situation either.

  Without warning on the morning of April 20, 1914, the massacre of Ludlow began. Machine guns and high-powered rifles, set up on the surrounding hills the night before by the strikebreakers, opened fire. The tents were riddled. As unarmed men futilely tried to protect their families, screaming women and children crawled into pits under the tent floors, lowered themselves into wells or fled toward the hills.

  That evening a strikebreaker crawled to the edge of the tent city, poured kerosene on nearby tents, then with an oil-soaked torch set them afire. The flames swept through the city, killing sixty-six, leaving some forty-eight severely burned.

  News of Ludlow appalled the nation. Pictures, cartoons, detailed reports, were distributed coast to coast. President Woodrow Wilson sent federal troops and mediators to the rescue. Incredibly, even with all the adverse national publicity, company management refused to meet with the government mediators.

  Early in December, facing a second winter with nowhere to live, their endurance and all their resources gone, the miners gave in and called off the strike. The company had won.

  Because it was such a hollow victory—for workingmen without hope, all spirit gone, make poor employees—company management hired Mackenzie King (who later became prime minister of Canada) to come up with a program to restore miners’ morale. It was his study of the situation that formed the nucleus of the Employee Relations Plan (ERP).

  John D. Rockefeller Jr. over the protests of his father, ordered King’s plan be tried in the mines and in their steel plant in Pueblo.

  I wondered if young Rockefeller was in somewhat the same position with his father as Tom McKeever Jr. was with his, with both younger men having more vision and flexibility.

  As my research on the labor-management problem grew, I was appalled at the abuses of human rights. Cheap labor was endlessly exploited. Terrible slums became an accepted part of America’s cities. At the same time, huge profits were amassed. Cornelius Vanderbilt, the Rockefellers, Andrew Carnegie, and others acquired large personal fortunes.

  My father had said that America could never have become the richest and most powerful nation on earth without the ambitious drive and the financial wizardry of these business tycoons. I was forced to agree, but one question still haunted me: why did this have to be at the expense of so many people?

  I typed my research, documenting it carefully—then, eager for his reaction, placed it on the Editor’s desk. Glancing in from time to time, I could see that he was reading it carefully. Finally Dad called me into his office.

  “Good job, Julie. I’m amazed you would do this on your own. But it makes dreadful reading, doesn’t it?”

  “Horrible. It was hard for me to believe that this Ludlow thing could have happened in America.”

  “We’ve come a long way in the twenty-one years since 1914.”

  “But have we really, Dad? I see the same mentality at work toward the steelworkers. Old Man McKeever doesn’t see them as people, but as figures on his profit-and-loss statements. He won’t even listen to his son or grandson.”

  The Editor raised his hand to stop me. “But there are progressive people in management today. And now with the Wagner Act, there will be even more. Of course they would prefer not to have unions, but they know they’re facing the inevitable. Unions are coming because of just such horrors as the Ludlow Massacre.”

  “Then why don’t we support the union idea in the Sentinel?”

  I almost shouted.

  My father’s shoulders sagged and his eyes closed. Instantly I regretted the vehemence of my words and ached for him. I knew what he must be thinking: “Am I living through just another version of Timmeton? Always between opposing forces? Must it always be so difficult?”

  Rand’s telephone call came later that week.

  “Remember that graduation gift I promised you?” he asked.

  “You gave me a rose and I loved it.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind. There’s a place I want to show you near Pittsburgh. Are you free on Saturday, July twentieth?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Good. You may know of my uncle, Munro Farnsworth. The Farnsworths are inviting both of us to spend that Saturday night in their home in Pittsburgh. Auntie will write to you. Oh, yes. I’ve already checked it out with your parents. They approve.”

  This was a bit too much. “I am over eighteen, Rand.”

  The voice on the phone chuckled. “So you are. I just wanted to do what was proper.”

  “What clothes should I bring?”

  “Pertinent question. We’ll motor to a nice place for dinner that night. On Sunday, chances are we’ll go to church.”

  With a thumping heart I stared at the receiver as I replaced it. This was a new stage in my relationship with Randolph Wilkinson. And such good timing too, with Graham Gillin gone with his family on a two-week trip to California. I raced to find Mother. “Rand just called. Wants to take me out a week from Saturday, then overnight with his relatives in Pittsburgh.”

  “I know, Julie. He asked our permission. Your father and I liked that.”

  “That part makes me feel like a fourteen-year-old. This isn’t exactly my first date, Mother.”

  “Randolph wanted to do it properly, especially since you’ll be gone overnight. That shouldn’t bother you.”

  She was right. I was overreacting. “Mother, what will I wear?”

  “I thought that would be next. Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”

  Saturday finally came—a sparkling day, sunny, delightful. I awakened with an upset stomach. Suspecting that it came from excitement, I did not mention it for fear of merciless family teasing. Well aware of the gap of eight years between Rand and me, it was important that I not act the part of the shy, overeager, and inexperienced girl.

  Rand arrived after lunch, looked approvingly at my white dress and took my arm as we left the house. Proudly he introduced me to his new Studebaker sports coupe, including a rumble seat and “floating power.” With a fine flourish he stowed my mackintosh, as he called it, and overnight case in the “boot” of his auto. Then, in a courtly manner, he opened the door of his car for me.

  At the outskirts of Alderton, Rand turned to me with a grin. “By the way, we’re not heading toward Pittsburgh.”

  “I see.”

  “No. Pittsburgh’s due west, perhaps a tad northwest. We’re heading almost north of Pittsburgh.”

  “I suppose you cleared this also with my parents.”

  “To be honest, no.”

  “Good. I don’t like my whole future being planned by others.”

  “Are you unhappy with me for checking things out with your parents?”

  “No-o. I guess it was the proper thing to do.”

  “And you are a proper girl.”

  “At least until I’m twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one, eh? Then what will happen?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I might go to New York City, live in Greenwich Village among the artists.”

  “To do what?”

  “Write books.”

  “You could at that.”

  “Do you think I could, Rand? I mean, become the author of a great novel?” Even at the thought, excitement rose in me.

  “If that’s your heart’s desire, I believe you
could do it.”

  “Thank you, Rand.” I sighed and leaned all the way back in the seat. “But for now, I may have to settle for writing articles and poetry for the Alderton Sentinel.”

  “I haven’t seen your poetry.”

  “I did a few for the Poetry Corner.”

  Rand turned, looked at me in surprise. “I recall some of those poems. They were rather good. But I don’t remember seeing your name under them.”

  “You didn’t and you won’t. I’m the mystery poet of western Pennsylvania.”

  “You’re twitting me, Julie.”

  “I’m dead serious. Miss Cruley found several of my poems, unsigned, in the filler file; she liked them and decided to establish the Poetry Corner as a regular feature. She’s very proud of it. I don’t dare let her know I wrote them. She doesn’t like me.”

  “Don’t mind her; she’s just an old biddy.”

  I laughed. “But she’s very impressed with you, Rand. Likes your correct English. It would surprise her enormously to know that you and I are off on a weekend together—and not in the direction of Pittsburgh at that. By the way, where are you taking me?” I hoped my nervousness wasn’t showing.

  That mischievous look was back in his eyes. “I suppose you’re wondering how a proper Englishman could tell your parents we’re going to Pittsburgh when in reality we’re headed for my secret cabin in Catsutawney.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ve never heard of Catsutawney?”

  “I’ve heard of Punxsutawney.”

  “Catsutawney is much more remote. It’s also one of the loveliest spots in western Pennsylvania.”

  I looked at the passing scenery, at the road markers, then at the map, all the time wondering how to handle this. “Rand, I never would have suspected you of kidnapping.”

  He laughed, then reached over and touched my hand. “Seriously, I think you’ll be impressed with the place I’m taking you.” I felt relieved, but didn’t want him to notice.

  An hour later we entered the outskirts of a tree-shaded town and drew up in front of a sprawling white clapboard building with dark red shutters and window boxes overflowing with red and white petunias. A swinging tavern-type sign read The Caledonian Inn.

  A young man approached the car. “May I park it for you, sir?”

  “You certainly may.” Rand bounded around to my side of the Studebaker and helped me out.

  “You’ll probably want to freshen up,” he said as he took my elbow and steered me to the front door of the inn. “I’ll show you the cloakroom, then wait for you in the lobby.”

  “Cloakroom?” I said in amusement. “But I left my raincoat in the car.”

  “Oh, sorry! I should have said ladies’ room or that other term—oh, yes, powder room. My anglicisms do keep cropping up.”

  The large sunny lobby was furnished with American antiques—mellow wood interspersed with painted Pennsylvania Dutch pieces. Beautifully framed old prints and maps graced the walls. Bouquets of fresh garden flowers were everywhere in copper or delft vases.

  When I returned to the lobby, Rand took my arm. “Come, I want to show you the garden.”

  A spacious, wide verandah running the full width of the building across the back was furnished with cushioned white wicker chairs. Hanging fuchsias, ferns on stands, and canaries in ornate white Victorian-looking cages added to the charm.

  Before us was a gently rolling landscape with the mountains on every side as a backdrop. The plantings and gardens fitted into the contours of the land itself. Graveled walkways wound through stretches of smooth emerald-green turf; in the center was a natural pond with graceful willows overhanging its banks. Here and there were beds of roses, old-fashioned floribundas, and the most colorful perennial borders I had ever seen.

  As Rand led the way past head-high delphiniums, he grew more and more animated. “Perhaps you can guess why I’m so fond of this place. So many features of it remind me of home. Ever hear of a man named Capability Brown?”

  I shook my head. “What a name to live up to!”

  Rand laughed. “You’re right. Ridiculous. Anyway, that really was his name! He was an English landscape designer—eighteenth century. This place is done in the best Capability Brown tradition.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, y’see, Capability Brown’s talent was for planning around what nature had already put there. His emphasis was on form and shape, with the greens of grass and trees predominating. Today you meet his landscape work all over England.”

  “And how did you find this place?”

  “Through the manager. I knew his sister back in England.” He headed for the lobby. “Now there’s something waiting for us in front of the inn.”

  Outside stood a shiny one-seater horse-drawn buggy with large wheels and a yellow top. In it, dressed in heavy twill pants held up by suspenders over a gray pullover shirt, was a man with a black beard.

  “Mr. Wilkinson?” he asked. “He pronounced his “W” like a “V.”

  “Yes. Thank you for being so punctual. Mr. Stoltzfur, I want you to meet Miss Julie Wallace. Julie, Mr. Josiah Stoltzfur has very kindly agreed to trust us with his buggy and this high-stepping trotter for a couple of hours.”

  “Glad to lend you my courtin’ carriage.” Mr. Stoltzfur climbed down from his seat, nodded pleasantly to us, then sauntered off.

  “Ever ridden in one?” Rand asked me.

  “No, never.” Then I couldn’t resist. “Did I hear the farmer call this a courting carriage?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Stoltzfur is Amish, I believe. That’s the name they use for single-seated buggies.” Despite Rand’s studied nonchalance, an unmistakable trace of red was creeping up his neck.

  He helped me up onto the rugged black leather seat, climbed up beside me, took the reins of the impatient trotter—and we were off, rolling easily along the country lanes, through pleasant patches of shade, past sturdy red or white barns and neatly checkered, almost manicured fields. From time to time we crossed little bridges of rattling boards over rushing streams. Everywhere there were fat bumblebees and floating butterflies and bird songs, as well as the pervasive fragrances of new-mown hay and clover and honeysuckle, along with the good honest smells of leather and of horseflesh.

  The trotter was enjoying himself, and so were we. On what appeared to be straight stretches, Rand would give him his head. Then suddenly the buggy would roll around a curve, causing me to be thrown against him. He would put one arm around my waist to steady me, and I would feel the lean hardness of his body.

  It was turning into a magical afternoon with a timeless quality, almost the feel of fairy dust scattered over everything. The rest of the world had been left behind. Rand and I were alone, with the golden sunlight shimmering over the countryside and the benediction of its warm, slanting fingers on our heads.

  Later, as Rand turned the trotter back toward the inn, the sunlight deepened to twilight.

  The surprises were not over. After freshening up for dinner, Rand and I were shown to a table in the dining room overlooking the garden. What I saw at my place made me gasp. There were five tiny vases in a semicircle around my plate, each filled with a different wildflower; the center vase held one of those rare Scottish harebells.

  “Rand! How did you ever—I mean, how could you possibly have arranged this?”

  “You’re not supposed to know how I did it,” he retorted, flashing me a pleased, boyish grin. “But I remembered your wildflower garden, Julie. The little vases are part of your graduation present. Mr. MacAlistair will see that they’re properly packed for you after dinner.”

  “They’re exquisite.” What was dawning on me was not so much the charm of the gift itself, but rather how much thought and care had gone into the planning of every detail of this trip. I wondered, how could I, with my limited background, hope to impress such a man?

  The dinner was an amazing meld of Pennsylvania Dutch dishes and British ones, like the sherry trifle for desse
rt. Each course was served unobtrusively without interrupting our conversation. Since there had been no presentation of a menu, I realized that Rand must have ordered the dinner ahead of time.

  He leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching me out, contentment written on his face. “I should be honest, Julie, and tell you I had some qualms about bringing you here.”

  “Why, Rand?”

  “Because of your strong feelings toward, well, upper-class wealth and all that.”

  “But I’ve always loved beauty and I often dream of going to nice places. In my imagination I once pictured myself in a spot very much like this.” I paused a moment to temper my enthusiasm. “I guess I would want to see the loveliness of a place like this made available to more people, not just the few.”

  Randolph nodded, still thoughtful. “Well expressed. I love this inn because for a few hours I’m back in my homeland. Which reminds me of a subject I promised to deliver on and never did.”

  “Yes, those strange-looking unicorns on your family crest.” He chuckled. “You did surprise me with your research on the Wilkinsons, Julie. Let’s see now, where to start? As a little tyke I learned that the unicorn was a horselike creature with a single horn in its forehead. There’s a bouncy nursery rhyme that goes like this:

  The Lion and the Unicorn

  Were fighting for the Crown;

  The Lion chased the Unicorn

  All around the town.

  Some gave them white bread,

  Some gave them brown,

  Some gave them plum cake

  And drummed them out of town.”

  “I like it. Does it have a tune?”

  “Not that I know of. Years later I found that the nursery rhyme went back to the seventeenth century—about the same time the unicorns were put on our Wilkinson family crest.”

  “But why three of them?”

  “A story’s come down in our family about three Wilkinson brothers who undertook daring exploits for James the First on the continent of Europe, and so were awarded on their crest three unicorns.” He grinned at me. “They’re supposed to stand for valor, virtue, and purity. I hope you’re impressed.”