She stood with her hands straight at her sides and sang in a high clear voice that reached to the edge of the crowd.
There was a silence when she had finished. She stood, rather uncertain what to do next, on the stand. Then someone in the middle of the crowd called out, “Sing it again.” Others took up the words and from all sides came the demand, “Sing it again.”
“Now I will,” Bonnie agreed, “if you’ll all join in when you can. You all know the tune, for hit’s ‘Little Mary Fagan,’ so just listen to the words.”
Some joined in. Then it had to be sung again, and before long many were singing together the Mill Mother’s Ballad. When it began to grow dark the meeting broke up, and they went home to sleep or talk in preparation for the picket line next morning.
It was dark when they went home. And it was dark next morning when they gathered in the road outside the wooden store that had been rented for the union office.
Tom Moore met John at the door of the office. The light from the electric bulb in the store shone full on John.
“What’s that in your hand, John?” Tom Moore asked.
“Why,” John answered, “you can see. Hit’s my gun.”
“I thought,” Tom Moore said straight out, “John Stevens had made you understand better than that.”
“Hit’s a fight,” John insisted. “And this is the way I know how to fight.”
“Are all the men armed?”
“Most.”
“Come here,” Tom Moore pulled him into a corner of the store, for other people had come in.
Presently John laid his gun on the counter and remained beside it, while Tom Moore went out to the others who were standing in the darkness up and down the street.
“Bring me a chair,” he said to one of the boys.
He stood on the chair with the outside wall of the store behind him and spoke to the faces that he could not see.
“Some of our friends here,” he called out and his voice sounded hollow in the early morning air. It seemed to be going nowhere, for there was no light yet. “They have taken down their shot guns or their pistols, and have said, ‘Now I am ready to fight.’ I want to say to you, we can’t fight in that way now. We must use peaceful means to gain what we want. It isn’t that I want to keep you from fighting in the way you are used. But I know from experience we must fight with numbers. We must overcome with numbers and with spirit and determination. John McClure came this morning with his shot gun. Now he understands that it is best for him to leave it here. He is in there standing by the counter. And I want to ask all you men to go there and leave your weapons with him.”
Someone called out, “What about the Law? They’re armed.”
“They are, because they’re afraid of us. They have got as many weapons as a porcupine has quills, and if they should drive us back, which they won’t, they would speak of that as if it was a fine thing that they had subdued unarmed people. But we must go unarmed—first because we want the women and children along to help picket and don’t wish for them to get hurt, and second because it’s the best thing to do—and I’ll have to ask you to take my word for that.
“I hope all those with weapons will go into the store. John McClure will care for them all, and give them back when you come from the mill.”
He waited. One man stepped from the dark shadows of the crowd and went into the store. Others followed. They filed into the store and laid their weapons sorrowfully on the counter before John. He stood before them without a word. His head was bowed over, and he kept his eyes on the pile of guns and pistols and knives that were being heaped on the counter. When all had come he hid the weapons under the counter and left one of the boys on guard, for he had to help with the picket line.
As they neared the factory, marching two and two, John saw that the lights were on as if a whole force of workers was expected. Light had come, though it was only a pale glow from the east, and he could make out the forms of the deputies moving outside the wire fencing of the mill. He was watching them and did not see what was just before him. Something came across his belly and almost knocked the breath out, for he was walking fast. Frank said, “They’ve got a rope across the street.” And it was so. A thick rope, doubled, was strung from one side of the street to the other.
The line behind them came pressing on and spread out over the whole street against the rope. Ora was at the end.
“We’ve got t’ break it,” she called out, and pushed against the rope, until she stood out from the rest pushing. They were soon with her, until they made a semi-circle in the road pushing against the rope, but held back at the ends where it was fastened. The rope snapped at one end, suddenly, so that some at that end fell to the ground. They were soon on their feet, and formed in twos again, to keep up the march toward the mill.
At the mill gates the armed deputies with the butts of their guns forced the line into the road. They stood there, the people in the line, and called out to the deputies, most of whom were the higher-ups in the mill—people they knew very well.
Soon the workers began coming and they concentrated on these, for it was necessary to get all to leave the mill and stay together outside. The more who were out, the better chance there was to win.
Tom Thatcher came down the walk and Lillie stepped forward.
“Come with us, Tom,” she begged him. “Don’t go against your own.”
And Ed Thatcher who had lived in the mountains spoke to his son in a loud voice, “Be ye a coward, Son, that you can’t stand up for your own?”
But Tom went sullenly into the mill, guarded by two of the police with their guns, one on each side of him.
Lillie called after him. “Ye needn’t be so afraid, Tom. We ain’t a-going t’ hurt ye. We’re just sorry for ye.”
But there were many who turned right at the gate and joined the long line: and when they did, a shout went up, and they were welcomed by friends and acquaintances.
When the whistle for work blew the long line went back toward the office. There, with some words from John, they returned home. When the total was counted up they found that nearly all had come out. It was a great triumph. The Wentworth Mill was almost empty of workers. There were perhaps seventeen left in the mill.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
FOR two days the mill did not try to bring in anyone to take the places of the strikers. Months before they had selected the best workers and laid off the others. Now they wished, if possible, to keep these since it would hold back production to take on new hands, or those who were not skillful with the machines.
So they waited for the workers to come back of their own accord, and when they did not, but picketed the mill, succeeding in getting almost everyone out, they did some positive things toward bringing the strike to an end.
First they sent for the leaders separately. Mr. Burnett, in the office, made certain promises to each one. To John he said: “You are a fine worker and we want you back. If you will come we will give you two months rent free, and forget that you have ever been out.”
And John asked, “Can we keep the union?”
Mr. Burnett answered no. So John returned to his people. Each one who was called in was asked the same question, and asked the same one in return that John had asked, “Can we keep the union?” and was answered, “No.”
The third morning a truck arrived at the relief store. It was piled high with boxes and bags of food, and toward the front there were clothes. All had been sent by workers and others who were interested in the struggle that was going on. In the front seat of the truck were two young women who had come down to help with the food. They brought a message from those who had sent the truck of supplies. The message said to the strikers: “What we send is not charity. Because your fight is ours, in sharing what we have with you we are only helping our own.”
The news about the truck spread all over the village. Before it left people came to look at it as at a curiosity. Some even wanted to touch it, though it was empty of food and
clothing, for all bundles had been taken into the store.
The two relief workers who had come with the truck, along with Bonnie, Ora and Zinie, worked all morning getting the supplies put away on the shelves. When the friends from the North had gone to Mrs. Sevier’s boarding house where they would have a room, the three others sat down on bags of corn meal to rest. Bonnie had a blank book before her. She had been given the work of keeping accounts and was very proud. They were to begin giving out food the next day, and she was to put down everything taken in and everything given out.
A handbill lay on the counter near her. Copies of it had been left at the doors of all the houses in the village that morning. It said:
“YOUR UNION DOES NOT BELIEVE IN WHITE SUPREMACY. THINK ABOUT THAT, WHITE PEOPLE.”
They had read it over and over.
“It’s just going t’ get us in trouble,” Zinie said fearfully. “I told John back yonder that he ought not to countenance that.”
“The colored people work alongside of us,” Bonnie spoke up. “And I can’t see why they shouldn’t fight alongside us, and we by them.”
“It did worry me at first,” Ora admitted, “when we spoke of it at the secret meetings. But I’ve come to see that if people let colored folks tend their babies and cook their food, they really don’t think their color makes them dirty. A black hand can be as clean as my white one. And they’ve got souls the same as us.”
“And they are just the same.” Bonnie looked at Zinie. “The color don’t seem to make any difference when you see that.”
“Would you marry one of them?” Zinie asked spitefully.
“I’m not a-talking about marrying,” Bonnie said. “I’m a-talking about working together and fighting together. The marrying can take care of itself. We are all working people and I can see without looking very far that what Tom Moore says is true. That if we don’t work with them, then the owners can use them against us. Where would we be if they went over to Stumptown and got them in our places? It’s plain common sense that we’ve got to work together.”
“Are you going over to Stumptown like they want ye to?” Zinie asked.
“Yes, I’m a-going,” Bonnie said stubbornly, and added, “I offered to go.”
“I think it’s a shameful thing for ye to be going and speaking with niggers.”
“And it’s a shameful thing for ye not t’ know they’re human beings the same as us,” Ora said to her.
Jennie Martin came in looking for Zinie. She was trembling.
“I just came by the mill,” she said. “They’ve got the militia there, guarding the whole mill.”
“It’s what the Governor threatened to do,” Bonnie said.
“I didn’t think he would,” Jennie lamented. “I didn’t think he would.”
“Well, he’s only protecting his own, for he’s the same Heilman that owns stock in this mill. I know for when he was elected governor Granpap was so proud that he was the one that got him out of jail that time.”
“It looks like Granpap’s not the only one in the McClure family that will be a convict,” Zinie said, and got up to go.
They looked at her, and did not speak. Because she was to have a baby in a few months, they were trying to be patient with her. She wanted rest and peace, that they knew from their own experience, but when did they ever get it while working at machinery? This was what they could understand and Zinie could not, for John had kept her out of the mills, working extra time so that she might not be forced to go in. And Jennie, small Jennie Martin and the younger children had worked. Zinie was a little spoiled.
That evening the picket line went down to the mills and faced the militia. And it was only then that Ora learned that Young Frank was among the soldiers dressed up in uniforms, with their guns to fight against the strikers. She called out to him from across the road.
“Young Frank,” she said, “are you going t’ fight against your own?
“Look,” she said and walked toward him from out the ranks of the strikers. “Look, here I am. Why don’t you kill me?”
Young Frank stood sullenly in the line of soldiers and looked straight in front.Ora spoke to them all. “Boys,” she said. “Why don’t you go home and stop fighting against women and children? Air we not your people? Don’t you have mothers that have worked themselves to the bone for ye, and fathers that have slaved? And don’t you slave in mills and other places for low wages? Go home, and don’t fight your own people any more.”
Others spoke to the boys. And during the rest of the week when the mill was bringing in truck loads of workers from other states and the strikers persuaded them not to go in, the soldiers did not advance once toward the strikers. If any came too near the gate they held out their bayonets, but did not advance a step.
Ora tried to see Young Frank but they would not allow her to go in, and he never came to the house. John saw him later under curious circumstances. But before that night something was done that made everyone feel the power of the mill.
Handbills were distributed through the village which spoke in no uncertain terms:
“TO THOSE OF OUR EMPLOYEES WHO HAVE PARTICIPATED IN THE LATE HAPPY HOLIDAYS—GREETINGS:
THOSE OF YOU WE CONSIDER RELIABLE MAY RETURN TO WORK BY WEDNESDAY NOON OR INDICATE YOUR DESIRE TO DO SO.
TO THOSE WHO DO NOT WISH TO REMAIN IN OUR EMPLOY: YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT YOU CANNOT CONTINUE TO OCCUPY OUR HOMES, NOR REMAIN ON THE PREMISES OF THE COMPANY.”
THE WENTWORTH MILLS.
John spoke to the strikers. “If they force us out of our homes,” he said, “we will put up tents. And there will be food. Do not go back.”
He said much more. Yet on Wednesday at noon the picket line was noticeably smaller, and before the quarter of one whistle blew many of the strikers, with faces averted, went through the gates protected by the drawn bayonets of the militia. Some turned at the gate and came back to join the line, but most of them walked through and entered the door of the mill. They could not bear the thought of being put out on the streets with their young. Some of them had sick people at home, and there were others who were timid and frightened.
Their return to work was a great blow to the rest, for it had been a heartening thought that the mill could not go on without them: that the great building was closed and dark. For if it was kept so, sometime in the near future the owners would say to them, “Come back, and we will do as you wish.” They were not asking for much. What they asked for was entirely reasonable. But they could see that the mill had power to hurt them and force them to their knees.
And the next day they felt the power more. For on that day men went to the houses of those who had not gone back into the mill, emptied them of furniture, and locked the doors of their own homes against them. They came to Ora’s about eleven in the morning, and though it was raining they took everything she had and piled it out in the mud.
“You, Dewey Fayon,” Ora said. “You’d better not do this. Hit’s against the law. I’ll get the law to you.”
“Just try it,” Dewey Fayon said. “I’m the Law,” and he spat some tobacco juice on one of the mattresses.
When Bonnie came from Stumptown the furniture was still there in the rain, and Ora with her own, Sally’s and Bonnie’s young was standing on the porch of the house.
Next door they heard Sara Smith crying. Her husband was with her. He had been in the strike and would not go back, but he had been sorely tempted to do so, for his wife had a two days’ old child. He had brought a mattress from the street back on the porch and laid his wife and baby there. Ora had helped to make her comfortable, then returned to the young ones on her porch.
Bonnie said, “John and Tom Moore and the rest are getting tents put up in the hollow north of Company land.”
“Ain’t it terrible?” Ora said.
“Yes. But we’ve got to work and not cry,” Bonnie was almost downed to see that Ora had lost her grit for once. “I saw Sally Thomas’ two young ones with small pox put right out on th
e street, in the wet and rain.”
Fifty families were put out of their homes that day, and there were many sick among them. The furniture stayed on the streets in the mud. Fortunately the rain stopped about evening.
Some of those who had been evicted had oil stoves, and in the early evening the smell of kerosene mixed with the odor of food that was being cooked on these stoves for the families evicted. Many were still wet from the rain, and after supper fires were built in the streets, where people gathered to dry out, and to talk about what was to be done. All night they kept up the fires. The men who were striking made up watches, and walked the streets, watching the fires and those who were trying to sleep on the hastily made up beds. The fires flickered up and shone on the closed houses and the scraggly dark piles of furniture in front of them.
Toward midnight John and some of the other men went to the union hall, for that needed a guard. Yet they felt almost helpless without firearms. What could they do if the mill decided to make any sort of raid on the hall? Later in the night they found out what could be done when the mill decided to use all its forces to bring them to their knees.
Tom Moore was in Sandersville with John Stevens, for in that place as in several other mills people were wishing to strike. John took the first watch in the hall, and the others lay on the floor and on the counters to get some sleep. He sat on the one chair in front of the table where they took in the names of the strikers. He was not sleepy and could have taken the watch for the whole length of the night, but knew that later he must try to get some rest. That there was danger he knew, for the mill was now roused like a beast that has been disturbed in its pleasant slumbers, and comes lumbering forth to kill or maim what has disturbed it. Everything that could be done to break them would be done.
To Make My Bread Page 38