Olivia considered the staff at the hotel. Did they have unkind names for the cooks or maids? If so, she’d not heard them. ‘‘And do the porters have a name for the waiters?’’
Mr. Clayborn was silent until the waiter set their breakfast plates before them and retreated as quietly as he’d arrived. ‘‘A rather offensive term, but they’ve got one.’’
Olivia stared after the angular waiter for a moment. ‘‘With all these men working in such close quarters, it’s a shame they must resort to uncivil behavior.’’
Mr. Clayborn picked up a biscuit and slathered half of it with butter. ‘‘You are, Miss Mott, quite naïve. Do you not realize a pecking order exists among these men?’’
Mr. Howard had explained the hierarchy of the workers, but she’d paid little attention. There were, after all, superiors in every line of work. Unless, of course, you had attained the level of George Pullman, Philip Armour, or Marshall Field. Perhaps rank mattered more than she realized.
‘‘Let me explain.’’ Matthew withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and drew tiny squares. ‘‘Up here you have the conductor. He’s always Caucasian. Below that, you have the porter—always Negro, always dark-skinned, and usually tall and thin so he can easily reach the upper berths and make down the beds. The porters are required to use special blue blankets and pillows for themselves to guarantee they aren’t confused with those of the white conductors. At their district offices, two signin windows are maintained: an indoor one for conductors, an outdoor window for porters. More important, the work of the porters entails what you’ve already observed, as well as some things you likely won’t see. There’s the heavy lifting, caring for the sick and elderly, acting as nursemaid to undisciplined children, making down beds, polishing shoes, ironing, scrubbing toilets, escorting inebriated travelers to the rest room and cleaning up their messes—the list goes on and on. As for the conductors, they collect tickets and occasionally lift a bag, but mostly they issue orders to the porters. Much like a private in the army, the porter must follow his superior’s order without question.’’
Olivia recalled reading in the rule book that a porter must never question a conductor’s orders. She equated the concept to her years of employment at Lanshire Hall. She had been unable to question Chef Mallard’s authority, and he had taken advantage of his position. Likely some of the conductors did the same. Little wonder the porters grew increasingly unhappy.
Mr. Clayborn pointed back and forth between the squares he had drawn to represent the conductor and porter. ‘‘The disparity in pay is hard for the porters to accept. They must rely on their tips, while the conductors receive much higher wages. But the most difficult part is the fact that no matter how well a porter performs his duties, he’ll never achieve conductor status.’’
‘‘I can see where that would cause resentment.’’
Mr. Clayborn sipped his coffee. ‘‘Mm-hmm. And then there are times when only a couple of Pullman cars are attached to the train instead of ten or twelve. Rather than using a regular conductor, a porter is assigned as porter-in-charge. He takes over the duties of conductor, but his pay remains the same. Not particularly fair, do you think?’’
Olivia considered her instant promotion to Chef René’s position when he had suffered his heart problems. Though her pay hadn’t increased, she knew that the experience of assuming his duties might one day help her achieve her goal of becoming an executive chef. But that wasn’t the case for the porters.
‘‘Though the pay issue may be unfair, even greater inequality exists since the porters can’t be promoted to the position of conductor.’’ While they were finishing their breakfast, Mr. Clayborn continued with the explanation of the squares and lines that he’d drawn on the piece of paper.
Olivia didn’t find the chain of command in the dining car much removed from that of the hotel kitchen. ‘‘A great deal depends upon the person at the top of the chart, don’t you think? If the chef treats his assistants with dignity and value, the attitude flows downward. The same holds true with a conductor.’’
‘‘I believe that it really begins above what I’ve drawn on this chart, Olivia. In this instance, it depends upon Mr. Pullman and how much he values his employees. Is acquiring more wealth than one man can possibly need in a lifetime more important than paying workers a livable wage?’’
Olivia recalled a passage in the Bible that she and Mrs. DeVault had discussed several weeks earlier regarding a workman and his wages. The conversation had stemmed from Fred’s constant talk of the need for unions in order to gain better wages and working conditions. Although Mrs. DeVault hadn’t spoken ill of Mr. Pullman or the company, she had turned to Scripture and said she believed what it said. Olivia wondered if God would approve of the manner in which Mr. Pullman handled his enormous wealth. She doubted whether He would be pleased. ‘‘I agree that a fair wage should be paid, but I don’t think that you and I or even all of these workers combined can do anything in that regard. As you said, Mr. Pullman has the final say in such matters.’’
Their porter entered the dining car holding the hand of the disobedient child who’d been traveling in their coach. The dark-skinned man received a kick to the shins as he lifted the boy into his chair. Without a word, he brushed the scuff mark from his pant leg.
Mr. Clayborn tipped his head toward the porter. ‘‘That’s a prime example of what I’m talking about. No employee should be expected to suffer such treatment. If these giants of industry don’t change their ways, their employees are going to rise up against them. They’ll unionize and strike.’’
His warning reminded Olivia of Fred.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Pullman, Illinois
May 13, 1893
The smell of frying bacon wafted up the stairs, and Fred inhaled deeply. It had been some time since he’d forced himself out of bed so early on a workday morning. By seven o’clock this evening he’d likely be sorry, but right now he felt invigorated. He could almost think of himself as an employee who lived a normal life: one who rose early, worked the day shift, and came home to eat supper and enjoy the evening hours with family and friends. It hadn’t been so very long ago that he’d been one of those men living a normal life, yet it seemed ages since Mr. Godfrey had changed his shift. He remained on the list of employees seeking a return to the day shift, but from all he had heard around the department, that prospect seemed unlikely.
His silk tie brushed across the back of his hand as he flipped and twisted it back and forth to form a perfect knot. His mother had given him the tie for his last birthday. At first the checkered pattern had seemed out of place hanging alongside the solid navy blue and black ties in his closet, but it had soon become his favorite. He stared in the mirror and gave one final tug at the length before donning his navy blue suit jacket. There was a spring in his step as he entered the kitchen and greeted his mother.
She tipped her head to receive his peck on the cheek. ‘‘Don’t you look handsome this morning! You’re in good humor for someone who’s had so little sleep.’’
‘‘At least for the moment.’’ He picked up the coffeepot and helped himself. ‘‘Breakfast smells inviting. I’m glad I remembered to leave you a note saying I’d be up early this morning.’’
With a chuckle, she handed him a plate filled with crisp bacon, fried eggs, and warm biscuits. Fred waited while she filled a plate for herself and sat down opposite him. His mother nodded: his signal to give thanks for their breakfast. Neither of them would argue the point that his mother’s biblical knowledge surpassed his own, but she expected him to give thanks for their meals when he was present. The day after his father’s death, she had insisted Fred assume the empty chair at the head of the table. Along with that seat had come both the privilege and the responsibility of thanking God for their many blessings as well as for their meals. But that, too, had changed when he’d been switched to the late shift. Offering grace at breakfast this morning clarified how much he’d missed sharing this
morning ritual with his mother.
‘‘Are you going to keep me in suspense throughout breakfast or tell me what gets you out of bed so early this morning?’’ His mother wiped the corner of her mouth with one of the frayed cloth napkins she considered good enough for every day.
He had hoped she wouldn’t ask. ‘‘I’m going into Chicago.’’ Keeping his head lowered, he concentrated on his breakfast.
‘‘For?’’
‘‘For a few hours.’’
‘‘Don’t you play silly games with me, young man. You know what I’m asking.’’ She’d taken on that same tone she’d used when he was a boy, the one that never failed to intimidate him.
He forced himself to remember he was no longer a child. ‘‘I’m going for business. I’m not at liberty to reveal any more, so please don’t ask.’’ His mother was as tight-lipped as any woman he’d ever known, but telling her he planned to go into Chicago and discuss unionization or anything vaguely related to the topic would only send her into an ear-bending lecture. The less she knew, the better. If she should be questioned about his involvement in union activities, she could offer a forthright response.
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. ‘‘Not at liberty, or don’t want to tell me?’’
He swallowed the last piece of his biscuit. ‘‘Both.’’ He pushed his chair away from the table. ‘‘Sometimes the less you know, the better.’’ He carried his plate to the sink and returned to kiss her on the cheek. ‘‘If I don’t move along, I’ll miss the train. I should be home by two o’clock at the latest.’’
She followed him down the hallway and grasped his arm before he could depart. ‘‘Don’t jeopardize your future here in Pullman.’’
The fear in his mother’s eyes plagued him as he walked to the train depot. For a brief moment he considered returning home, but as the train belched and wheezed into the station, he knew he couldn’t—not even for his mother. Some things in life were greater than oneself or even than the desires of one’s mother.
He boarded the train and stared out the window as the train picked up speed. The iron behemoth quickly traversed the stretch of isolated prairie that divided the outskirts of Pullman from the burgeoning fringes of Chicago. In a short time the stubby grass and wild flowers would no doubt be replaced by numerous large buildings like those that lined Chicago’s bustling streets. His mother’s deep regard for the city of Pullman baffled him. While most of the neighborhood women wanted nothing more than to move into a home or apartment where they could plant a row of pansies along the front walk without first obtaining permission, his mother’s desire was to remain in the strict confines of Pullman. What he regarded as unwarranted control, she considered stabilizing. Amazing!
He realized her fears stemmed from having been evicted from their home after his father died. Being forced to live with relatives until he’d been old enough to support the two of them had been difficult, and he didn’t discount that fact. But he’d attained manhood years ago. Even if he lost his job and they were forced to move from Pullman, he could find employment that would pay more than enough to rent a suitable apartment. He’d welcome the opportunity to look for something else right now. But he wouldn’t. Unless terminated from his position with the company, he would yield to his mother’s wish and remain in the town she now called home.
The high pitch of the train’s whistle announced their imminent arrival in Chicago. Fred wiped his sweaty palms on his knees and wondered if he should have adhered to Ellen Ashton’s advice. His mother had always accused him of being much too impulsive as a boy. She thought he’d outgrown the trait, but he knew he’d likely never be one of those men who quietly weighed all the consequences of each decision before moving forward. He was prone to follow his instincts. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t, but he had only himself to blame when caught shortsighted. He fervently hoped this wouldn’t be one of those times.
Since leaving home he’d checked the address on Montrose Ashton’s business card several times. He had planned to hire one of the hansom cabs outside the station, but the kindly directions received from a fellow passenger changed his mind. He followed the man’s advice and turned left for two blocks and then made a right on Arundel Street. It was more an alleyway than a street, but he quickly located the building. Gold-leaf signage on the front window proclaimed the office of Montrose Ashton was located within. A harsh-sounding buzzer announced his entrance. An unoccupied wooden desk faced the front door, and several empty chairs lined the wall. He closed the door, approached the desk, and hoped Ellen would materialize from the adjacent room.
He cleared his throat and waited. No response. With a glance toward the door leading to the other room, he tugged at his collar. He should have made an appointment. ‘‘Anyone here?’’
‘‘Who’s there!’’
Fred started. The words were more of a command than a question. He edged a bit closer to the doorway. ‘‘Fred. Fred DeVault.’’ He waited for a response. Perhaps further explanation was needed. ‘‘I’m an acquaintance of Miss Ellen Ashton.’’
The sound of wood scraping on wood was soon followed by heavy footsteps. A long shadow fell across the floor, and soon Fred was face-to-face with a broad-shouldered, white-haired man holding an open book in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. The gentleman’s piercing blue eyes flickered with confidence. ‘‘Do I know you?’’
Fred extended his hand. ‘‘No, Mr. Ashton, but I met your daughter in Pullman. At a wedding.’’
‘‘How do you know I’m Montrose Ashton? I could very well be Mr. Ashton’s law partner or his clerk.’’ He tucked the tip of the cigar between his lips and waited.
‘‘I merely assumed that you—’’
The man removed the cigar from his mouth. ‘‘Assumptions are usually the first step to grievous error, young man. Better to ask questions than to make assumptions.’’ He obviously decided to take pity on Fred, for he waved his cigar in the air. ‘‘Oh, never mind. I’m Montrose Ashton. And you are Miss Mott’s beau.’’
Mr. Ashton continued to hold the book and cigar. Not knowing what to do and feeling somewhat the fool with his hand hanging in midair, Fred slowly lowered his arm. ‘‘Not exactly.’’
‘‘Humph! Then I don’t know who you are, and I haven’t time for unscheduled appointments.’’ He snapped the book shut and turned to leave.
‘‘Wait!’’
The lawyer skewered him with a fiery glare. A tactic the older man had likely developed while passionately arguing cases to a jury.
‘‘Excuse me?’’ The question cut through the air like an unsheathed sword.
Fred’s shoulders slumped. ‘‘I am well acquainted with Olivia—Miss Mott, that is. We are friends, but I’m no longer her beau.’’
Mr. Ashton looked him up and down and dropped his book onto the desk. ‘‘My daughter says otherwise. Which of you is correct?’’
‘‘I am averse to disputing your daughter’s word. I will merely say that I am well acquainted with Miss Mott.’’ Fred took a step forward and hoped Mr. Ashton wouldn’t toss him out on his ear. ‘‘I do hope you will agree to see me, even if only for a brief visit.’’
Mr. Ashton grabbed his book and waved Fred forward. ‘‘Oh, come on in here. Ellen told me you’d likely darken my doorway before a month had passed. She said you’re the impatient sort. She was right.’’
Fred dropped into the chair opposite Mr. Ashton’s desk. He hunched forward. ‘‘Did your daughter tell you about my interest in the unionization of Pullman workers?’’
He shoved the cigar into the corner of his mouth and leaned back in his chair. ‘‘She told me the two of you talked.’’ He clenched the cigar between his teeth as he spoke. The thick Havana bobbed up and down like an unwieldy baton.
‘‘I think I’d be a good contact for you, Mr. Ashton.’’
‘‘Do you? And why do you think I’d need some sort of contact in George Pullman’s thriving utopia?’’
Mr. Ashton
didn’t seem nearly as intelligent as Fred had anticipated. The man should surely understand the advantage of having men willing to help organize from within the company. He laid out his plan as simply and succinctly as possible. Though Ellen hadn’t mentioned any such problem, he wondered if her father had begun to lose his edge.
The older man yanked the cigar from between his lips and stuck it into the narrow opening of a silver bud vase that seemed strangely out of place on his cluttered desk. He leaned forward until his chest rested atop the desk, and Fred wondered if he was going to pillow his head on his arms and take a midmorning nap.
Instead, Mr. Ashton arched his neck and peered directly into Fred’s eyes. ‘‘You, Mr. DeVault, are a very dangerous young man. If my daughter hadn’t vouched for you, I would have thrown you out of my office the moment you mentioned George Pullman and unionization in the same breath.’’
Fred reeled at the remark. Wasn’t this the man who had staunchly defended the rights of workers to unionize? The man who made speeches about downtrodden immigrants and traveled the country speaking in public forums? ‘‘I . . . I don’t understand.’’
‘‘No, of course you don’t. You’re young and impetuous. Didn’t my daughter warn you about visiting this office so soon after the two of you were seen together in Pullman? Did you even bother to take heed of your surroundings or ascertain if you were being followed?’’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘‘No, you did not. And why didn’t you? Because you are an impulsive young man. And, of even greater concern, you are impatient.’’ He flattened his palms on the desk and pushed until his torso returned to an upright position.
Fred didn’t understand. Nobody had followed him—at least he didn’t think so. ‘‘Why the concern? Everyone knows of your involvement with the unions.’’
Mr. Ashton slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘‘It is not me I worry about, Mr. DeVault. It’s you and all of the other men and their families who live in Pullman. If you have no concern for yourself, please remember you place others in jeopardy by your impulsive behavior. My daughter tells me you have a mother. Did you think of her welfare when you boarded the train this morning? Does she support you in a unionization movement?’’
Whispers Along the Rails Page 16
