Raintree County

by Ross Lockridge

  The Perfessor leaned back, vastly satisfied with himself.

  —The trouble with you, Perfessor, Cash Carney said, is that you read too much.

  —The trouble with you, Professor, Mr. Shawnessy said, is that for you everything is growing old. For my part, I don’t think America will ever be either young or old. America is an Idea, and ideas are neither young nor old, they are simply—Ideas. It’s entirely possible for the laborer to improve his lot and for the State to own some of the agents of production without an invasion of the individual’s sacred rights.

  —Even a condition of that kind, Cash Carney said, would be completely alien to the American form of government and the spirit of the men who made America.

  —Alien to the spirit of the America we have known, Mr. Shawnessy said. But the Declaration of Independence, like the Constitution, has to be rewritten by each generation, to have any meaning. The Civil War was the second American Revolution. And unless I’m much mistaken, in 1877, a third American Revolution had its beginning in the coalyards and train stations of this republic. The Strike of 77 was the Sumter of a new Civil War for Liberty and Union, a confused War fought by an Army leaderless and lost in darkness. Nevertheless—

  —I don’t know where you expect to get with this talk of Revolution, Cash Carney broke in. Most Americans know they’re pretty well off, and like yourself, they sit on their tails and watch from the sidelines, while cheering a little for the so-called underdog. Meanwhile, by God, a few of us get out there and get the work of the Nation done. By Jerusalem, if some of us didn’t keep the mills humming and the railroads running, you’d soon find out about your Revolution. You’d find yourself in the power of a bunch of ignorant dagoes that can’t even talk good English, and you’d begin to wish you had back the good old America of Unlimited Opportunity for Everybody and the Protection of Home Industries.

  —What a Century! the Perfessor said, suddenly leaning back into one of his gentle, nostalgic moods. And when you stop to think of it, we were there. We’ve been in on everything. When I look back on the Great Strike of 77 now, it seems incredible. As you say, John, it was like a beginning, an obscure and terrible dawn, which hasn’t yet found its day. My God, where have we been heading, anyway? What did we think that we were doing? You remember, of course

  July 21-22—1877

  HOW THE GREAT STRIKE CAME UPON THE LAND IN THE FIRST YEAR

  of America’s second century as a nation. How it spread through the Republic in the summer of 1877, following the trunklines of the Nation’s railroads. How it smouldered in the smoky yards of the Republic’s mightiest cities. And how John Shawnessy saw the writhings of this belated Centennial monster, which the Exhibitors of Progress had wisely reserved until the other exhibits were dismantled and sent home.

  No one anticipated the Great Strike or the form that it would take, least of all the men who made it. But the immediate cause was clear enough. The big railroad combines agreed to reduce the wages of their workers, and the workers, already living on bare subsistence wages, refused to work the railroads or allow them to be worked. The Strike began in Baltimore and spread like wildfire along the trunklines of the Nation.

  Those days, America had made God in the image of a Locomotive. The people rebelled against God.

  In July of 1877, John Shawnessy was still in New York, living by himself in a rented room in one of the dense apartment regions of the City. For two months, he had been exchanging letters with Laura Golden, who had taken her troupe on a tour of the West. Her letters were curious, hasty documents written from many cities, footprints of a woman flying from theatre to theatre, from hotel to hotel, pushing herself and her troupe to exhaustion over the rail lines of the Nation to keep her engagements. These words of Laura’s were the first that he had met unaccompanied by her habitual smile and the veiled amusement of her heavily lidded eyes. He found in them a childlike, breathless quality, reflected even in the quaintly barbaric punctuation and spelling. The following letter, written late in the tour, was typical:

  Johnny dear,

  Well, here we are in Indianapolis. This is the hottest place we’ve hit yet—the theatre was packed tonight—balcony very restless. We were all tired from the trip down from Chicago.

  You will be pleased to know—that I went out and asked the first inteligent person I saw if they were aquainted with Mr. John Shawnessy—and on being told—no—they never heard of him—I soundly berated them for their ignorence of Hoosierdom’s greatest author—who I assured them was making his mark in the great City of New York.

  Which I suppose is what you are still busy doing—dear. Do you still miss me? Your last letter was very sweet—I have it right here. I’m sorry to anser such beautiful letters with these dredful scrawls. Reading your letters I think I understand you better. If anyone can understand a man like you, dear.

  Are you really sending me the Play? I’ll get it in Pittsburg—can hardly wait and won’t mind if it isn’t finished. We’ll have a reading when I get back.

  All tired out and to bed—

  In haste—

  LAURA.

  P.S. Excuse slips and spelling—morning now—very pressed for time. Rehearsing new play “Belle of the Beautiful West.” Will open with it in New York I think. Sending out now to mail this atrocity—is that the way you spell it?

  Passionately and perpetually yours—

  LG

  This letter, with the others, he read with intense care like a scholar trying to decipher a whole era of human life from a stone fragment covered with hieroglyphs. It seemed to him that these little documents were rich with unguessed meanings and that if he could unravel their apparently simple motivations he would find his way to the heart of the labyrinth in which the secret of Miss Laura Golden resided. The most barbed phrases were the simplest, such as, ‘All tired out and to bed.’ During the past year, there had been rumors to the effect that Miss Laura Golden’s leading man, a rather large, gaudy actor named Mr. Timothy Duchet, was very high in her favor. Perhaps Mr. Timothy Duchet amused himself reading aloud in a stentorian voice the letters of Mr. John Shawnessy, just before retiring, all tired out, to bed. Or perhaps (and this was the most dreadful thought of all) Mr. Timothy Duchet and Laura would entertain each other with lines from Sphinx Recumbent before collapsing in mutual gales of laughter all tired out, in bed.

  It was an agonizing period for John Shawnessy before he received a telegram saying:

  JOHNNY AM STRANDED AT HOTEL ROMAN PITTSBURGH BY RAILROAD STRIKE STOP MR CARNEY HERE BUT TOO BUSY TO TAKE CARE OF LITTLE ME STOP CAN YOU TAKE CARE OF LITTLE ME STOP COME IF YOU CAN STOP EVERYTHING VERY EXCITING INCLUDING YOUR WONDERFUL PLAY STOP LAURA RECUMBENT

  Around nine o’clock in the evening of Saturday, July 21, when John Shawnessy arrived with Professor Stiles in the lobby of the Hotel Roman after a hectic trip, Miss Laura Golden was anything but recumbent. Instead, she was regally erect among a great many valises, her usually pale cheeks flushed with heat and excitement, her mouth curled with indignation.

  —Johnny, I’m so glad to see you! she cried. Things are in a dreadful state. All our props and costumes are in a car down at the yards, and they say no trains will move for days. I’ve got to get that stuff out and back to New York some way. You know I’m opening there Wednesday night at the Broadway, and I have a Ball scheduled after the show.

  Other members of Laura’s troupe, including Mr. Timothy Duchet, were standing helpless in the crowded lobby. Muffled explosions rumbled from the darkness of the City. The street outside was full of muttering throngs.

  —What’s the matter with Cash? the Perfessor said. I thought he owned the railroads in this country.

  —O, he can’t do a thing, Laura said. He says the strikers are very stubborn. There was a riot this afternoon down at the yards and the troops killed some people.

  She stamped her foot irritably.

  —After all, I didn’t start the Strike, she said. I’ve always managed to meet my engagements, and I mean to t
his time. Johnny, you’ll help me, won’t you, dear?

  Just then Mr. Cassius P. Carney came walking through the lobby followed by two other distinguished financiers. They were talking heatedly and consulting watches.

  —Just a moment, boys, Cash said, spying Laura among her valises. Hello, dear. Hello, boys. Well, all hell’s blown loose down at the yards. Those Bastards’ll stop at nothing.

  He looked strangely happy.

  —What’s wrong with giving them their demands? John Shawnessy said. Anybody ever think of that solution?

  —We can’t afford to pay ’em the old wage. Only way to treat ’em is with cusswords and cold steel. We got more troops coming in tonight. Christ, you’d think the railroads of this country were being run for Those Bastards!

  —Who are they being run for? blandly asked the Perfessor.

  Cash ignored the question. He was licking his lips and weighing his watch. It was evident that he had a plan. John Shawnessy felt sorry for the Strikers, who in all probability didn’t have a plan.

  —See you later, dear, Cash said. Maybe we can get your stuff out some way later on. If it isn’t burnt up.

  —Burnt up! Laura cried.

  —Yep. They say the Strikers are burning up all the property of the railroad, dear, and—

  —And you just stand there, you great booby, fingering your watch?

  —Honey, I can’t do anything right now. Want me to go down there and get killed?

  —Yes.

  Cash was apologetic.

  —When more troops come in, dear, why—

  —Johnny, Laura said, striding to the door and stopping actress-wise just before her exit, you’ve got to help me!

  Cash was already on his way out by another door. He stopped and whispered,

  —Take care of her, John. Damn female’s crazy. Been that way all day. Can’t do a damn thing with her.

  —On with the show! the Perfessor said.

  They caught up with Laura, who was walking with an undulant, unhurried stride straight toward the Union Depot of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

  —I mean to get my props to New York if the whole world goes hang in the process, she said pleasantly enough.

  It was a little after nine o’clock. In the direction of the yards, a flower of fire put scarlet petals into the night. The air had an old familiar smell to John Shawnessy, the smell of disaster, a stench of burning coal, wood, oil, the dead strong stench of hot metal, the stink of burning paint. A hot wind fanned his cheeks.

  They cut over to where the railroad tracks flowed through the City in a broad band of rails, beaded with switches, engine houses, signal towers. But instead of getting free of the crowds, they found hundreds of people advancing in little squads slowly toward the fire. The fire seemed blossoming and spreading into a cluster of fires. Boxcars, sheds, buildings were ablaze. The tracks looked like the scene of a weird battle fought with huge, clumsy clubs. A wave of carnage had swept by, leaving corpses of boxcars, baggage cars, burst engines, gutted sheds. The ground was strewn with carwheels, couplings, brakes, twisted rods, blackened remnants of freight ripped out of cars and piled for burning.

  Laura stopped and asked a group of men if they knew where any baggage cars for New York were.

  —Ma’am, a man said, there ain’t going to be any cars to New York.

  —We’ll see about that, she said calmly.

  Closer to the depot, they found themselves mingled with an army of destruction. Strikers hammered on freight cars with great sledges. Men ran about with torches setting fire to everything combustible. Explosions ripped the darkness. The air rained fragments of fire.

  —Who’s in authority around here? Laura asked a man who seemed to be in charge of operations.

  —There ain’t any authority, he said. We’re just tearin’ the hell out of everything, Ma’am.

  There was a burst of laughter. She tried wheedling him.

  —If a lady wanted to get some personal things—of no value to anyone—out of a car that was going to New York—stage things—how would she do it?

  —I don’t know, Ma’am, the man said. What can you offer?

  The men guffawed again. Something exploded in the darkness.

  —Laura, the Perfessor said, ducking instinctively, you’ll get us all killed, dear. For Christ’s sake, go back to the hotel. John and I’ll do what we can about your stuff.

  As the scene had become more convulsed, Laura had become more poised and disdainful. She now looked proudly at the Perfessor.

  —Go back yourself, dear, if you want to. I’m going to save my stuff.

  A little farther on, they walked out from behind a line of boxcars into a clear space, in the middle of which stood the great roundhouse, squat, dark, and defiant.

  —Now, see, Laura said. It’s quieter here. Now if we can—

  There was a blast of sound, and something hailed against a near-by boxcar. John Shawnessy grabbed Laura by the waist and pulled her down, rolling behind a low embankment.

  With a silent, determined fury she turned on him, thrust him back, clawed at his arms, forced her way up to one knee. Her face, which he had never seen with any but a stage passion, was convulsed with real anger. There was no time to argue, as another blast came from the same source. Taking unscrupulous advantage of his strength, he seized her arms, hugged her and threw her down ungently. She writhed furiously beneath him.

  —Damn you! Let me up!

  —Give up, Laura, he said. That’s gunfire.

  The Perfessor crawled across her legs.

  —Got you, dear, he said.

  She made stifled sounds, twisting and panting under the two men.

  —I’ll have you both arrested! she panted.

  After a while, she stopped.

  —All right, you two great big cowards.

  —Promise to stay down.

  —All right.

  They let her go. She sat up cautiously, panting, her hair dishevelled, her dress dirty. Her halfbared bosom heaved, shining with sweat.

  Yelling, hundreds of men began to run out from behind overturned cars, sprinting toward the great roundhouse of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Spurts of fire came from the roundhouse. A confused shouting rose under its walls. Apparently the troops were inside, and the Strikers had made a breach. After a while, they fell back. There was a continuous rattling sound.

  —Poor bastards! the Perfessor said. The soldiers have a Gatling.

  A boxcar came careening down the tracks. Soaked with petroleum, spouting fire, it rolled solemnly against the barriered gates of the roundhouse. Another and another car followed flaming and the building began to burn.

  —Doesn’t it occur to you, Laura dear, the Perfessor said, that there are more important things at stake than your mouldy little props?

  She ignored the question. In an interval of the firing, the two men pulled her up and ran to a safe place.

  —What a story! the Perfessor said. I got to get a dispatch to my paper right away. Embattled Workers Defeat Troops! Unarmed Strikers Charge Into Concentrated Fire! Hundreds Killed!

  At the hotel, the Perfessor tried to file some dispatches. Laura paced restlessly in the lobby, her face flushed, her eyes set. The Perfessor came back consulting his notebook, on which several names were scribbled.

  —Been a lot of people killed, he said.

  —Martyrs, John Shawnessy said.

  —Small-print martyrs, the Perfessor said. Backpage martyrs.

  He read aloud:

  —John Fabrizio, a worker.

  Henry Fisher, a plumber.

  John Rowe, a young man.

  Mrs. E. Keener, shot through the arm while standing in a doorway.

  A little girl.

  He flipped some pages.

  —Suppose we go and call at one of these addresses I have listed here and get a human-interest story on the thing.

  Maintaining a stony silence, Laura followed the Perfessor to the door.

  John Shawnessy was appalled by the neighborh
ood through which they passed that night. Above the swamplike darkness, he saw the ragged shapes of factories. There was a palpitation in this darkness. It sighed with the respiration of the Workers, those who existed only that they might work. And passing, he saw their many faces, pale flowers in the fetid dark, colored with the fire that poured wavering tides of light over the whole industrial region. He remembered another dispossessed race whom Corporal Johnny Shawnessy (that brave young soldier defunct in battle) had seen in another burning city. The torch had been set again to the City of the Masters.

  They found their address in a street of frame houses all alike and crammed together touching.

  —This where the Fabrizio family lives? the Perfessor asked.

  —Yes, sir, a little girl said. Johnny’s dead. They brung him in about an hour ago.

  As they went up the stair to the Fabrizio flat, John Shawnessy was ashamed of himself and his friends in their city clothes. His shame increased as they met the grieving mother, a stocky Italian woman, and stood in the stale, crowded flat. The Perfessor asked some routine questions. It appeared that the dead boy was only eighteen years old. He had simply been with the crowd at the railroad tracks and had been shot in a blind volley from the troops.

  There was an appalling lack of privacy in this death. People kept entering and leaving. The room where the body lay was full of women weeping. When the visitors approached the bed, a sheet covering the head and shoulders of the dead boy was pulled back.