by Peter Krass
19. Ibid., p. 46.
20. William Shakespeare, Macbeth, I, iii, l. 50, in David Bevington, ed., The Complete Works of Shakespeare, 3rd ed. (Glenview, Ill.: Scott, Foresman, 1980).
21. Carnegie, Autobiography, p. 7.
22. Ibid., p. 22.
23. David Robinson, ed., William Ellery Channing: Selected Writings (New York: Paulist Press, 1985), p. 23.
24. Hendrick, Carnegie, vol. 1, p. 15.
25. Carnegie, Autobiography, p. 22.
26. Wall, Carnegie, p. 38.
27. Henderson, p. 640.
28. Ibid., p. 642; Simpson, p. 24.
29. For a detailed account of the movement, see Richard Brown, Chartism (Cambridge, U.K.: Cambridge University Press, 1998).
30. Notes of James Shearer, ACLOC, vol. 244; Dunfermline Journal, February 26, 1841.
31. Simpson, p. 28.
32. Mackie, pp. 15–16.
33. Edinburgh Monthly Democrat, July 7, 1838.
34. Carnegie, Autobiography, p. 15.
35. Notes of James Shearer, ACLOC, vol. 244.
36. Carnegie, Autobiography, p. 14.
37. Simpson, p. 13.
38. Mackie, p. 36.
39. Carnegie, Autobiography, pp. 13–14.
40. Hendrick, Carnegie, vol. 1, p. 28.
41. Mackie, pp. 38–40.
42. Wall, Carnegie, p. 44.
CHAPTER 2
Odyssey to America
It didn’t matter that the economy improved in 1840. It didn’t matter that Margaret gave birth to a girl and named her Ann, after her sister. It didn’t matter that George Lauder and Tom Morrison considered their plans ill-advised and traitorous. Margaret’s younger sister Annie and her husband, Andrew Aitken, were finished with Dunfermline, and in 1840 they emigrated to Allegheny City, a suburb of Pittsburgh. They arrived in Philadelphia on July 2 and searched for Annie’s sister Kitty, who had emigrated there earlier with her husband, Thomas Hogan. The Aitkens and Hogans, including Thomas Hogan’s brother Andrew, then pushed on to Allegheny, otherwise known as Slabtown—a nickname less appealing and, perhaps, less inviting than Auld Grey Toun.
One of the first letters home suggested they had indeed made a mistake. In October 1840, Annie wrote, “My dear Margaret things being in such an unsettled condition in this country at present, it would be the height of folly to advise you . . . to venture out at this season at any rate, as it is very difficult for one to get employment of any kind, and more particularly weaving which is scarcely carried on here at all.”1 As evidence of their growing frustration with Scotland’s political and economic situation, Will and Margaret were obviously entertaining the idea of emigrating as well if Annie’s reports offered hope. But the United States was mired in a depression precipitated by crop failures, restricted bank credit, and a financial panic three years earlier. So what would they be escaping to? A town where the weaving trade was nonexistent and unemployment rampant? Abandon their beloved “toun” for that?
Then again, Andra’s baby sister, Ann, was born into a Dunfermline that was not the town of her parents’ youth. Smokestacks now pierced the skyline in a series of thrusts, and each year the soot hung heavier in the air. Filth slithered through window cracks and across doorsills. Disease, like a tireless parasite, sought more victims, including families living on Edgar Street. Death, which had so far been avoided by the Carnegie family, took its first victim in 1841—baby Ann—and the Carnegie-Morrison clan descended into depression, broken by innocent death, defections to America, and a dispirited Chartist movement following the defeat of the petition.2
The Carnegie-Morrison clan found renewed purpose in the economic downturn of 1842, during which more than eight hundred Dunfermline looms sat idle and some sixteen hundred weavers and other laborers, as well as their families, were in a state of destitution.3 The downturn reinvigorated the Chartist movement as a new call for reforms filled the air, especially when, in August 1842, the large, controlling linen manufacturers threatened to cut wages again. The average weaver had already witnessed a 50 percent drop in wages from 1810 to 1840, and they could take no more. Violence erupted. Men and boys and even women, faces blackened, clubs in hand, took to the streets, and they attacked the loom shops, warehouses, and homes of the reviled manufacturers—hurling stones, setting fires, and looting. Thomas Morrison threw himself into the seething mob, the moral-suasionist Chartist imploring the people to end their rampage. To no avail. Enniskillen Dragoons were ordered in to suppress the uprising, and the sheriff now had his excuse for making several highly visible arrests.
One night, not long after the rioting, there was a tap at the back window of the Carnegie house. There were hushed whispers. Six-year-old Andra awoke to discover the sheriff had arrested Uncle Thomas for holding an illegal Chartist meeting, and he was now being held in jail, located above the town council chamber. The situation quickly became explosive as sympathizers marched on Town Hall and threatened to forcibly free their leader, which prompted the panicked provost to petition Tom to ask his supporters to go home. A riot was averted.4 After several days, he was released. Formal charges were never brought against Thomas—one of the more lucid decisions by the authorities, according to the Carnegie-Morrison clan. The incident was burned into Andra’s memory, however; his world, it seemed, was on fire. Years later, he framed a handbill describing the charges levied against his uncle, which he displayed proudly in his study and called his “title to nobility.”5
Carnegie would question whether his parents realized the impact those events had on him: “Along with the most advanced ideas which were being agitated in the political world—the death of privilege, the equality of the citizen, Republicanism—I heard many disputations upon theological subjects which the impressionable child drank in to an extent quite unthought of by his elders.”6 Peace and love were not the words whispered across his parents’ lips; Andra was anything but a cuddly, kilt-clad Scotsman. “It is not to be wondered at that, nursed amid such surroundings,” he reflected, “I developed into a violent young Republican whose motto was ‘death to privilege.’”7 This disciple of Wallace believed that he “could have slain king, duke, or lord, and considered their deaths a service to the state and hence an heroic act.”8
For all the brave talk and agitation, conditions in Dunfermline continued to deteriorate. For the first time, in 1843, the Auld Grey Toun had its own poorhouse—or “porridge house,” as it was unaffectionately known—and by December there were twelve pawnbrokers welcoming the destitute to part with their family heirlooms. Two years later, a new prison would be finished, with room for 262, and a police force of 12 would be established for night duty.9 The proliferating poverty and crime had to be eradicated from the streets. Will Carnegie struggled to find work as the great wave of the Industrial Revolution broke over him, his skills replaced by sophisticated looms in the steam-powered factories. Although Will’s income was shrinking, the size of the Carnegie family increased with the birth of a son, Thomas, in 1843. Not long after, Will was forced to dismiss an apprentice and sell one of his looms, and the next year the weaving trade was again depressed with five hundred unemployed.10 But there were also small victories for the reformers in the coming years: the 1844 Factory Act, which reduced hours for children and women, and provided for stricter factory sanitation; the hated Corn Laws were repealed on June 26, 1846, inspiring a grand jubilee in Dunfermline that transformed the town into a “fairy land”; and then Parliament passed the 1847 Factory Act, which ultimately limited the hours of weekly labor to fifty-eight—a real concession to the working class.11 Such acts, however, did nothing to alleviate the situation of the independent artisan like Will.
Finally, from America, there came a bit of good news. Annie, writing for the first time in over a year, reported: “Business here is much better now, as most individuals can find employment although some are out of a job yet, & wages are considerably reduced. . . . This country’s far better for the working man than the old one, & there is room enough & to
spare, notwithstanding the thousands that flock into her borders.”12 Margaret was both pleased and jealous—jealous because the better life she had dreamed of was slipping away. Will was forced to sell off his other two extra looms and dismiss the apprentices, and now degraded, the family moved back to a small cottage on Moodie Street. With more than ten years gone since Will and Margaret married, they were no better off—and their future prospects looked grim.
As the weavers soon realized, neither petitions nor violence were going to reinstitute higher wages because there were plenty of workers taking jobs for a pittance—namely, the Irish. When the potato famine struck Ireland in 1846, more than 346,000 left the country over the next two years, many traveling the short distance to England and Scotland. These people were escaping abject poverty and starvation, so a poor-paying job in the Dunfermline mills was a step up and readily accepted. However convenient it was to lay blame on the Irish, who became the easily targeted scapegoat, for handloom weavers there was a far greater force at work—the Industrial Revolution. With perfect retrospection, Andrew Carnegie wrote, “My father did not recognize the impending revolution, and was struggling under the old system.”13 James Watt had patented an improved steam engine in 1769; the power loom had been introduced in 1783; and the Jacquard loom had made its debut in 1825. Programmed by large punch cards, the Jacquard loom was able to make as intricate designs as the handloom weavers, so fewer men could now produce equitable products. Whatever work was left for handloom weavers, men like Will were last on the list to hire because they had alienated themselves by becoming radicals and by leaving the church. Essentially, Will the Chartist was campaigning against the very men he depended on to buy his webs.
After the move back to Moodie Street, Andra became aware of the family’s impending doom: “I remember that shortly after this I began to learn what poverty meant. Dreadful days came when my father took the last of his webs to the great manufacturer, and I saw my mother anxiously awaiting his return to know whether a new web was to be obtained or that a period of idleness was upon us.”14 Andra’s mother came to the rescue; her thin upper lip stiffened, she opened a small shop in their cottage, displaying cabbages, leeks, carrots, and sweets for the children in the front window.15 Come evening, she bound shoes for her brother Tom; and now, instead of assisting his father at the loom, Andra helped his mother by threading her needles. Years ago, Margaret’s father had written an essay on the importance of learning a craft to achieve self-reliance. “How is it that I enjoy health, competence, serenity, independence and even respectability,” he wrote, “in the best sense of that term? All these, and other enjoyments, I owe to handication. Blessed be God, I learned in my youth to make and mend shoes: the awls were my resource and they have not failed me.”16 Morrison belittled what was called “heddekashun”—education of the head, an education in the humanities, an education that created imbeciles, according to him. As Margaret and Andra bound shoes, she recalled the essay, emphasizing the importance of practical training and self-reliance. He would not forget the lesson.
During this period, Margaret, who was imbued with a more tenacious constitution than her husband, displaced Will as Andra’s hero, and he elevated her to a demigod status, a position she would forever retain. “I feel her to be sacred to myself and not for others to know,” he wrote in his autobiography.17 The idolatry knew no bounds, and Carnegie admitted that “I cannot trust myself to speak at length” of her. He strived to please her, to repay her, and to honor her.
Unemployment was widespread by the end of 1847 and deepened in early 1848, sparking food riots in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and several other towns. The Carnegie dinner table witnessed less cod, haddock, and kippers bought from the fishwife, and more oatcakes, porridge, and potatoes—oats and potatoes were easily grown in the northern climate and became their food staples. In the Hungry Forties, as this period became known, a pot full of potatoes was a feast, many a bowl of meal was sent to destitute neighbors, ever more children went to bed without supper, and even the street lamps were lit late and extinguished early to save a few pennies. Typhus became rampant, and the Dunfermline Journal warned its readers of the importance of clean living: “temperance, cleanliness, and breathing pure air, are three of the surest means of securing health, and preventing attacks of typhus fever, or any other diseases.” The article concluded with an harangue concerning whiskey:
Andrew Carnegie’s mother, Margaret Morrison Carnegie, saved the family from destitution. (Courtesy of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh)
“no drinker ever rises above the lowest poverty. Mark this, too, TYPHUS FEVER FINDS OUT THE DRUNKARD, AND FASTENS ON HIM.”18 To be sure, Andrew Carnegie never overindulged in whiskey or any other alcohol, any desire purged by what he witnessed as a boy.
Finally, the day came when Will trudged home and haltingly admitted to his boy, “Andra, I can get nae mair work.”19 Once considered the aristocrat of the working class, the handloom weaver was now obsolete. There had been approximately 84,560 handloom weavers in Scotland in 1840; there would be only 25,000 in 1850.20 Ten years had passed since Will wrote that buoyant letter to the Edinburgh Monthly Democrat in 1838, declaring a Chartist victory was at hand, but all that idealism and promise had gotten him nowhere—he had failed his boy Andra. Will’s fall had been slow and painful, and it ate at the family’s dignity like termites eating at their home’s foundation.
The family weighed its options: Will could apply at one of the factories to be a power-loom operator; or Will could break rocks for relief pay; or Will could drive stakes on the Dunfermline-Stirling railroad that was under construction. The handloom weavers, however, were a proud group and not readily willing to subject themselves to such manual labor. As they debated their dire situation, a line from Annie’s 1844 letter—“This country’s far better for the working man than the old one, & there is room enough & to spare, notwithstanding the thousands that flock into her borders”—was a refrain for every thought and consideration. There was only one option: to flee. To flee to America, where the citizens already had the charter and life would be better—if not for Margaret and Will, then most definitely for the boys. They would join Aunt Annie in Allegheny City, across the river from Pittsburgh, then known as “the Gateway West.” Having the funds for the flitting—Scottish for “moving house”—was another matter.
The Carnegies decided to auction off all of their household items and furniture to raise money for their flitting. As Will made preparations, he sang:
To the West, to the West, to the land of the free,
Where the mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea;
Where a man is a man even though he must toil
And the poorest may gather the fruits of the soil.21
Hundreds of miles to the south, in London, future U.S. labor leader Samuel Gompers would learn the same song. “It was typical of the feeling among English wage earners of my boyhood days,” he recalled, “that the two most popular songs were ‘The Slave Ship’ and ‘To the West.’ I learned both and sang them with such fervor in which all my feeling quivered and throbbed.”22 Gompers and Carnegie would be buried in adjoining lots in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Tarrytown, New York, some eight decades later—an ironic twist of fate.
The proceeds from selling their furniture and Will’s last loom were severely disappointing and left the family £20 short of what was needed. Fortunately, Margaret’s best friend, Ailie Henderson, who had helped deliver Andra, offered the difference.
The Carnegie family, accompanied by Andra’s uncles Tom and Lauder and his cousin Dod, boarded the horse-drawn omnibus that would take them the five miles to Charleston, a seaport on the Firth of Forth. Dreamy Will was forty-three and defeated; proud Margaret was thirty-seven and humiliated; effervescent Andra was twelve and fearful; innocent Tom, with white hair and beautiful black eyes, was five and mercifully oblivious. As the omnibus pulled out of town, the last sight was the magnificent abbey tower with all the glory it invoked; and then it, too, disappea
red.
In Charleston the family took a rowboat out to a steamer sailing for Edinburgh. When they pulled along the steamer, Andra clung to Uncle Lauder, who urged him to go and pressed a sovereign into his hand. “I cannot leave you! I cannot leave you!” Andra cried. For so long a child observer, he was now an innocent victim, forced to leave his extended family: Uncle Lauder, his surrogate father, Dod, his cousin/brother, Mr. Martin, his beloved mentor; and Dunfermline, with its rich heritage. His parents had rejected the traditional church, refused to adapt to the changing economy, brought indignities upon the family, and now it seemed they were rejecting Scotland, a country Andra had been taught to be so very proud of. There was only one person—his father—to blame for their flight from Scotland with nothing but some clothes, a few household essentials, and assorted mementos. Their destination: a town where the weaving trade was nonexistent. Their lives would have to be reinvented.
Andy, the name he now assumed to facilitate his assimilation into American culture, was but one of 188,233 British emigrants who journeyed to the United States in 1848, a year that witnessed a surge in emigration due to Ireland’s Great Potato Famine, as well as tumultuous political events and depressed economic conditions in Europe.23 For the confidence men and the corrupt emigration agents waiting on the shores of America, it proved to be a windfall year. The first concern for the Carnegie family, however, was simply making it to the United States alive. The voyage across the Atlantic was slow, unpredictable, and extremely hazardous.
On the first leg of what would become a four-thousand-mile odyssey by water, the Edinburgh steamer cut almost directly across Scotland to Glasgow, the journey permitted by a canal linking the two coasts. It took the day, the landscape changing from farmfield to the dismal Glasgow slums to the city’s bleak harbor, the Broomielaw on the Clyde, where the Carnegie family was immediately transferred to the ship Wiscasset, to depart the next morning for America. Ten years earlier, a transatlantic competition was held between the steamers Sirius and Great Western, the latter recording a blistering time of fifteen days and five hours from Bristol, England, to New York City.24 The event ushered in the era of the deluxe ocean liner. There was no such luxury for Andy and his family, however. Accommodations consisted of thin mattresses strewn across the cargo holds, with each family assigned their space— steerage was the only option. And the Wiscasset was a large, three-masted, square-rigged schooner that was not built for speed; it was a whaling ship built in Wiscasset, Maine, designed to spend years at sea.25 Joining the Carnegies were other weavers and their families, but the majority were farmers and laborers hailing from all parts of Scotland. They would live together for the next fifty days.
