by Robert Sobel
Coolidge undoubtedly knew of the Hansen situation, and he might have noted that talk of the vice presidential nomination stopped after a little while, perhaps because even then, no one campaigned openly for the second place on the ticket. In any case, by then the “Hansen Boom” had fizzled.
Other mayors and governors spoke out against strikes and radicalism. General Leonard Wood, the army chief of staff and a well-known national figure, brought out troops to prevent violence in the West Virginia coal fields, and did the same when a race riot erupted in Omaha. There was also a steelworkers’ walkout in Gary, Indiana, which he managed to quell. “I want to make one thing clear to the workers you represent,” he told the union leaders there. “The military forces are in Gary not in the interest of the steel operators and not in the interest of the strikers, but to maintain law and order.” Wood, too, was talked of as a presidential possibility. “Today Leonard Wood is the political man of the hour,” wrote influential journalist William Allen White on November 30. “He is the epitome of the need of America today.”
The situation in Boston that spring was somewhat similar to what it had been in Seattle. In April there was a brief strike of telephone workers. Coolidge asked the White House for authority to seize the company if the strike were not ended soon. After the strike was settled, Coolidge issued a statement: “It did not appear to me that the strike should ever have been permitted.”
There is another principle involved which has received very little attention, and that is the obligation that exists on those who enter the public service to continue to furnish such service even at some personal inconvenience. This obligation reaches from the highest officer or government official to the humblest employee. The public has rights which cannot be disregarded [emphasis added].
Shortly before the Coolidges left for Plymouth, workers on the Boston Elevated Street Railway engaged in a brief walkout, which prompted the governor to ask both sides to seek arbitration. They accepted, and the arbitrators agreed to a tidy increase in wages. Then there was a threatened strike at the Boston Fire Department, in which Coolidge again intervened successfully.
That same January that Hansen had acted in Seattle, Coolidge had been urged to intervene on behalf of management in the textile strike at the American Woolen Company in Lawrence. This wasn’t the first time Coolidge had to deal with a strike at that facility, having done so in 1912 when he was a member of the Massachusetts senate. This time he contacted F.F. Fuller, who was on the editorial staff of the Boston American, to ask him to go to Lawrence and report back. Fuller told Coolidge that he should know that he favored the strikers, but Coolidge knew Fuller to be honest, and urged him to accept the assignment, which he did. On the basis of Fuller’s report, Coolidge refused to send in the state troops, and talked the company into negotiating with the workers.
Now it was the policemen’s turn. The Boston police force complained of their lot to Commissioner Edwin U. Curtis, a man who once had been Boston’s youngest mayor. Curtis was close to the Brahmin class, which had ruled Boston throughout the nineteenth century, and he had seen the city “taken over” by Irish politicians. Curtis saw this in the election of Walsh. Men like John F. Fitzgerald—best known today as John F. Kennedy’s maternal grandfather but then renowned as the mayor who opened the path to municipal power for the Boston Irish—also provided their supporters with opportunities to win lucrative municipal contracts. And then there was James Michael Curley. Curtis deplored the likes of Walsh, Fitzgerald, and Curley. He had become commissioner in 1918, in the hope of stemming the Irish tide. Even so, he was a fair man, and, while he did not intend for the police to gain the upper hand over the city’s political leaders, he recognized they had legitimate grievances.
At the time the pay of the Boston policemen started at $1,100 a year, from which they had to lay out $300 the first year for uniforms and incidentals. They even had to pay for bullets fired in the course of duty. The maximum pay of $1,400 was hardly munificent. The policemen worked twelve-hour shifts, six days a week. Station houses were old, in ill repair, and crowded; men slept two in a bed in some precincts. They hadn’t had a raise since before the war, and the postwar inflation came down hard on them. Curtis was able to obtain a raise of $200 for them, but said there was no money for station improvements. Coolidge knew of the situation, and wrote to Mayor Andrew Peters, urging him to make the needed appropriations.
They managed to get by, because in those days, policemen who walked the beats—which is to say, most of them—had certain perquisites. One of the more important was shakedowns, especially of saloons eager to retain their licenses. The Prohibition Amendment had been ratified earlier that year, and, seemingly, an important source of policemen’s earnings would vanish when it went into effect on January 1, 1920. As it happened, Prohibition introduced much more graft than ever, and corrupt cops did very well as long as it lasted. In October 1919 no one could have anticipated what would happen under the “Noble Experiment.”
That summer the policemen edged cautiously toward unionization. The previous year they had organized themselves into a group they euphemistically called the “Boston Social Club.” Then-Commissioner Stephen O’Meara reacted by stating that he would not countenance a police union. The following year, when the police considered unionization, Commissioner Curtis issued an order similar in content and tone to the O’Meara reaction: “I desire to say to the members of the force that I am firmly of the opinion that a police officer cannot consistently belong to a union and perform his sworn duty. I am not an opponent of labor unions, and neither was Mr. O’Meara.”
In August the social club must have heard of the police strikes in London and Liverpool that ended when the policemen received raises and increased benefits. The social club applied to the AFL for a charter. Curtis then issued an addition to the department rules: “No members of the force shall join or belong to any organization, club, or body outside of the department.”
Boston was not alone. In New York a strike by the Brooklyn Rapid Transit (BRT) tied up businesses in that borough, and when arbitration resulted in a wage increase, the union announced it would seek to organize all workers on New York’s transportation system. Simultaneously, workers on the Interborough Rapid Transit (IRT) threatened a strike. Based on the generous settlement at the BRT, the IRT appealed to the city to boost the fare from five to eight cents to satisfy the wage demands. The IRT warned of radicals in the union movement: “If agitators are permitted to take advantage of this condition to disorganize business, inconvenience the public, intimidate and injure faithful employees, and destroy property, these warnings will have been in vain.”
At the same time, shopmen at the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad struck and tied up that railroad, and there were signs that the engineers and trainmen would join them. Their counterparts in Chicago and Minneapolis were also on strike. It was infectious. Keystone Wire & Steel in South Bartonsville, Illinois, struck and closed down all communications with the town, leading the governor to call out the State Guard. An actors’ strike had closed down several theaters in New York, and was spreading to others. By mid-August the Chicago theaters had started to close, all of which resulted in George M. Cohan’s quitting both the Friars and the Lamb Clubs, famed for their associations with actors, while David Belasco announced he would never produce plays featuring members of Actors Equity. Meanwhile, the four thousand member Brotherhood of Painters, Decorators, and Paperhangers went on strike in Brooklyn. The Mason Builders’ Association ran an ad in several newspapers pinning the blame on “a radical element in the Union, who had temporarily inflamed the more conservative workers.”
On August 14 the New York Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association “requested” consideration of an increase in wages from $1,650 to $1,800. The policemen had received a boost from $1,400 in the last four years, but had to spend $300 for uniforms and other necessities previously provided by the department. If rejected, the association planned to take its case to the Board of E
stimate. There was no talk of a strike, which New York policemen presumably did not believe was appropriate behavior.
Not so their Boston counterparts. On Saturday, August 11, the AFL issued a charter to the social club, which became the Boston Police Union. The following day, the Central Labor Union of Boston passed a resolution offering the policemen “every atom of support that organized labor can bring to bear in their behalf.”
These moves were not unusual for Boston. Several months earlier, Boston firemen had formed a union that affiliated with the AFL, and there had been no reaction from City Hall. Curtis now charged the police union’s leaders with insubordination and prepared to conduct a hearing on possible dismissals. The union responded that if the men were punished, they would go on strike. Curtis found the men guilty, but, not wishing to push the matter too far, he suspended the sentences, indicating all would be forgiven if the relationship with the AFL was dissolved. He gave the men until September 4 to act.
Mayor Peters was more conciliatory. For one thing, he was a Democrat, as were most of the policemen. He had won the primary election against the flamboyant Curley, with the support of the reformist Good Government Association. Peters was wealthy enough not to be open to bribes, and in any case was an honest, decent person. But he was a clumsy politician who often seemed baffled by what was going on around him. Peters had run for the mayoralty out of genuine concern for the city’s well being. The problem was he hadn’t much of an idea how to be an effective mayor. As a result, this well-meaning dilettante presided over an administration every bit as corrupt as those of Fitzgerald and Curley—but those mayors, unlike Peters, had been effective.
Peters and Curtis came from the same social background, but otherwise were quite different. Peters was what today might be considered a typical Social Register type who sympathized with the “lower orders,” and wanted more than anything else to ameliorate their conditions, but not if this required him to socialize with them. Curtis feared the new dispensation, and hoped to prevent the newcomers from taking more power than they already had. That they would have opposite views regarding a police union was evident. More than anything else, Peters wanted a solution to the problem the strikers could accept. Curtis considered the strikers dupes, and would not yield an inch to them. For the time being, Governor Coolidge was content to wait on the sidelines and watch. After all, this was an affair for Bostonians to deal with, not the governor.
Probably no governor in the nation had more experience with strikes than had Coolidge in 1919, and he was considered pro-labor. As far back as 1908, when he ran for reelection as mayor of Northampton, he had had the support of several unions. “Mr. Coolidge is entitled to the thanks of the wage laborers of his district for his manly defense of their interests,” editorialized the Northampton Daily Herald. Then, as governor, he had to deal with the telephone strike, the strike at Boston Elevated, and the Lawrence strike. The streetcars in Salem were being challenged by jitneys, small buses that were taking some of their passengers. Because the jitneys operated in violation of an order by the municipal government, Coolidge came down on the side of the streetcar companies, whereupon one of the jitney supporters threatened, “If you do that, the labor people will go into every town in the state and crucify you politically.” According to one of his early biographers, Coolidge listened calmly, and then dryly replied, “Don’t let me deter you. Go right ahead.” At the same meeting one member of the committee dealing with the situation remarked, “Well, about all we have done so far is to pass the buck.” Coolidge stared at the man: “Try it on me. I won’t pass the buck.”
6
The Boston Police Strike
In August I went to Vermont. On my return I found that difficulties in the Police Department of Boston were growing serious and made a statement to reporters at the State House that I should support Commissioner Edwin U. Curtis in his decisions concerning their adjustment. I felt he was entitled to every confidence.
The Autobiography of Calvin Coolidge
ON SEPTEMBER 13, after the Boston police strike had transformed the man whom many considered the insignificant governor of Massachusetts into a national figure, an imaginative reporter for the New York World filed a story from Boston introducing his readers to the new marvel.
To one who has never seen Governor Calvin Coolidge of Massachusetts, he is a sphinx or an enigma. He talks little. It is his silences which seem to speak loudest, for when one ventures to put a question to him, the answer comes in a tightening of the governor’s lean face and the closing of his lips. He has a lean and hungry look, and the Policemen’s Union and the Central Labor Union of Boston discovered that such men are dangerous.
Contrary to the accepted characteristics of the usual sort of politicians, “Cal” Coolidge seldom smiles, hardly ever does any hand-shaking, and has a reputation that his word is as good as gold.
Ethnologists in search of specimens to be preserved in bronze or marble as a reminder of the type of true New Englanders for future generations should come to Beacon Hill and take the measure of this governor. He is the type of New Englander one sees on the stage—long and thin. He has red hair tinged with gray. A pair of pale-blue eyes pierce the veil of silence that usually envelops his face. Where other men may smile, “Cal” Coolidge is grave. Where home folks pretend to effervesce with enthusiasm for a visitor or the possessor of a vote, the governor is aloof and forbidding.
Generally speaking, Governor Coolidge is a living contradiction of that school of politicians anxious for a career. Massachusetts politicians, [do] not do him homage, but few, if any, have ever discovered the secret of his success. Politicians say it would be impossible to beat Coolidge in an election with a baseball bat. He is regarded as unbeatable, and has proved himself so from the moment he entered politics. He has passed without threat or fear from member of the legislature, president of the senate and lieutenant governor to governor of the state. The governor is a Republican, but it is said that the Democrats would do anything for him, many of them as much as vote for him.
The reporter might have added that seldom had a state elected a governor better qualified by virtue of experience than Calvin Coolidge in 1918. Coolidge knew the drill when it came to handling strikes. He had the experience to know when to act, but more important, when not to intrude.
Mayor Peters had no idea of how to deal with the strike threat. Casting about for a proper response, he did what politicians in his position often do to duck responsibility—he appointed a Citizen’s Committee, headed by banker James J. Storrow, to investigate the situation.
The Storrow Committee met frequently with the police representatives from August 29 to September 2 and then came up with suggestions. While rejecting the notion of an AFL affiliation, it recommended compromise in all other matters. This was more than Commissioner Curtis was willing to grant, and on September 3 he rejected Storrow’s request for a delay in acting against the union leaders. But Mayor Peters intervened, and asked Curtis to put off his action until Monday, September 8, which the commissioner reluctantly agreed to do.
What of the governor? When Coolidge arrived back at his office on August 19, he called in several aides to learn what was happening. Shortly thereafter he issued a terse statement: “Mr. Curtis is the police commissioner invested by law with the duty of conducting the office. I have no intention of removing him, and so long as he is the commissioner I am going to support him.” That was that. It was a curious statement, however, because until then no one had suggested Curtis be removed. It was typical of Coolidge’s indirect way of talking and writing.
Coolidge remained silent while the police union situation reached its boiling point. He monitored the situation carefully, which was easier for him to do than it might have been for most other governors. Massachusetts was one of those states whose capital was also its central city. The governor of New York, sequestered upstate in Albany, would have to learn about doings in Manhattan by means of newspaper, telephone, and telegraph. Washington�
�s ailing Governor Lister had to follow the Seattle strike from his perch in Salem, more than sixty miles from the scene, but Coolidge was only a few city blocks away from those discussions.
He appeared calm and assured, but later there were reports that Coolidge had written a morose letter about the matter to his stepmother, in which he purportedly sketched his probable response—which was to support Curtis strongly—and indicated it might mean the end of his political career. He expected to be in a tough political race against Democrat Richard H. Long, the colorful and contentious Framingham shoe manufacturer who had lost narrowly to him the previous year, and his position on a strike might carry him to defeat.
Had Coolidge actually written the letter? The following month, after the crisis had passed, Coolidge wrote to Edwin Grozier of the Boston Post, saying, “I understood perfectly that my attitude in the police matter greatly endangered what at the time appeared my certain election. What I did then had to be done. It was of more consequence than my success at the polls. I should not have done otherwise had I known that it would bring about my certain defeat.” Similarly, in his Autobiography, Coolidge wrote, “I fully expected it would result in my defeat in the coming campaign for reelection as governor.”
Was his comment to Grozier the communication of a shrewd politician who, knowing how popular he had become, wanted to portray himself as a man of strong convictions, willing to risk all for principles? Or was this actually the case?