She raised her chin. "There were many ladies here a few minutes ago."
Owen scoffed. "Women, yes, but no ladies." Easing his arm around her waist, he led her away from the broken fence that lay like discarded firewood. "Lisa, it breaks my heart to say this, but I don't want you here. It's dangerous for you. Please go back to Shadyside, for my sake."
She met his look with a single-minded purpose. "I'm not going back home. And don't be concerned about me. I can take care of myself."
"Can you?" he asked with a doubtful expression. "I don't want to put your statement to a test. Now, listen--"
"Owen! I want--I need!--to be here with you. That's why I came to the mill today."
"Well, I don't want you here, and there's nothing more to say. If you refuse to go home, then at least join the other, uh, ladies--" He pointed to a hill that overlooked the mill site--"who are headed for that hill."
She followed his gesture. Puzzled, she turned back to him. "They're not there now."
"No, but they soon will be. We won't permit unauthorized people by the mill landing. That's certainly no place for women and children."
Lisa sighed. "Very well. I'll do as you say, because I certainly don't want to cause you any more distress. I'll leave shortly." She hesitated, afraid to speak, then finally found the words. "Darling, what's going to happen today?"
"Trouble, that's all I can say . . . many people hurt, maybe killed. All of the union leaders, including myself, will do everything we can to prevent violence." He held her close to whisper in her ear. "Now, I want you to leave."
She nodded. "I intend to, but I'm not returning to Shadyside."
"Lisa, my Lisa." Owen drew her closer, cradling her head in his hand. He feathered kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, behind her ear. "I love you so much. Surely you know I can't live without you. Later . . . I must see you later." He gave her a long, lingering kiss, then released her.
Reaching up, she ran her hands through his hair, her fingers caressing the nape of his neck while she absorbed his body heat. "Owen, take care of yourself. If anything should happen to
you . . ."
"Nothing will happen to me." He placed a light kiss on her forehead. "Now, I have to join the others at the landing. I wouldn't be surprised if the Pinkertons make a move soon."
Lisa saw the pain of separation in his eyes, aware he saw the same expression in her look. With one final embrace, she turned and left him, trembling in fear for his safety.
* * *
A steep prominence on the Monongahela side of the mill led down to the river, where the barges, the Iron Mountain and the Monongahela sat side by side, stranded and dead in the water. The frightened young Pinkerton guards saw no escape. The older, experienced agents moved among them, attempting to calm them, telling them they had nothing to worry about. Hell, this was just another job for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. If there was nothing to worry about, John Holway wondered, why did many of the guards cower in fear?
* * *
Owen and the other mill workers looked down from their vantage point at the top of the hill to view the two barges. When would the Pinkertons make their move? Since he'd left Lisa a few minutes ago, all had been quiet, the Pinkertons staying inside their barges, the townspeople having deserted the mill to climb a hill that overlooked Homestead.
Bits of slag seeped into his shoes. Dirt from the mill caked his sweat-soaked shirt. His mouth was as dry as steel dust, as if he hadn't had a thing to drink in hours. Damn it, he fumed as he ran his tongue inside his parched mouth. It had been hours since he'd had anything to drink.
"Well, what do you think?" he asked Hugh O'Donnell. "Will they make a move soon or stay in their damned barges all day?"
Hugh threw him a sharp glance. "They'd better stay in their barges if they know what's good for them."
Owen's gaze swept from one mill worker to the next, his fingers tapping against his leather belt. Who could tell what any of these workers might do, these men who clutched their revolvers and carbines, many of the weapons dating to the Civil War? Old men and young shifted from one foot to the other, all of them silent. The Slavs, with Anton Hrajak as one of their leaders, stood apart from the others while they fingered knives and clubs, fierce hatred in their dark eyes.
Like a shroud, silence settled over the workers as someone from the Monongahela threw a gangplank down on the rocky ground. A Pinkerton captain stepped forward to address the workers atop the prominence.
"We are coming off the boat and up the hill, anyway." He looked from one worker to another, his expression defiant. "So just step back and let us through."
"Don't come up the hill," Owen shouted. "Stay where you are." He darted a glance at the bloodthirsty Slavs behind him. "Better stay where you are," he repeated.
"Yeah, stay there," other workers echoed. "All the Pinkertons better stay on the damned boats, if you know what's good for you."
The captain threw them a withering glance and walked down the gangplank, his glance shifting from one striker to the next. Other Pinkertons followed him, eyes wide with fear as they stared up at the strikers above them.
A shot rang out. The captain fell to the plank, writhing in pain.
A Pinkerton raised his arm. "Get 'em, men!" A score of Winchester rifles answered, mowing down over thirty Homestead men. Rifle fire crackled in the air. One murderous shot followed another.
Men clutched their wounds, screaming in agony.
"God, no!" Owen stared at the carnage. The acrid smell of gunpowder burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. Dead and wounded fell around him.
"Ah!" Anton crumpled to the ground. Blood spurted from his arm and stained the soil. Darting venomous looks at the Pinkertons, several of his countrymen knelt beside him and carefully carried him away.
Owen rushed to the nearest felled striker, Silas Doherty. They'd both grown up in Homestead, had gone to school together, courted the neighborhood girls. He crouched beside his old friend and saw the blanched face, the blood seeping from his chest. Aware there was nothing he could do, he closed Silas's eyes, then got to his feet.
"Jesus Christ!" Weaponless, Owen shook his fist at the workers. "Stop the damned shooting!" Fierce anger slammed through his gut. "Let 'em go back to their barges."
The strikers looked at Owen, then at the guards, and finally at each other. They drew back, a look of indecision on their faces.
As suddenly as it had started, the firing stopped, each side taking stock of its chances as the Pinkertons hurried back to the barges.
Joe Murphy cupped his hands, yelling at the others. "Come on! Let's put up some barricades. They killed our men, damn 'em to hell! Are we going to let 'em get away with that?"
"Hell, no!" another striker answered. "Collect all the scrap and pig iron lying around. Just what we need for barricades."
The men worked with feverish haste as they dragged and shoved the scrap iron into place, giving themselves plenty of room to maneuver their rifles. They flopped down on the slag-covered dirt as they fingered their weapons, casting vicious glances at the Pinkertons on the barges.
"We're going to get every one of them bastards!"
One of the strike leaders tapped another on the shoulder, jerking his head in the direction of the barges. "Mike, how much d'you want to wager the Pinkertons will give up before the end of the day?"
Mike Flanagan spat onto the dusty ground, grinning with fiendish delight. "No bets, Alan. Hell, they can't last more than a couple more hours, if that long." He nodded toward the strikers behind him. "Just look at all the help we have. How can we lose?"
The strikers squinted in the glaring sunlight, their bodies soaked with sweat and aching from their prone position. Wives and friends brought them lunches and a brief respite from the firing. After this welcome interlude, they gradually moved nearer to the shoreline, as if to close in for the kill.
"Get rid of the damned Pinkertons!" they cried. "Kill 'em all!"
Pacing up and down among the work
ers, Owen struggled to end the stalemate. Most of the Amalgamated men and the semi-hysterical Slavs ignored him, bloodlust in their eyes. "Kill 'em! Kill the damned Pinkertons!"
How could he change their minds? Owen stood with his hands on his hips, staring all around him. No matter what, they couldn't go on like this.
Throughout the scorching day, armed non-strikers from Braddock and Duquesne joined them, lifting their spirits. More arms and ammunition arrived from Pittsburgh. Time and numbers were on their side, they convinced themselves. The Pinkertons couldn't last much longer.
* * *
A cold lump settled in Lisa's stomach as she looked around at the mass of five-thousand men, women, and children who'd gathered on the hills that rose above the steelworks and the borough of Homestead. From her safe vantage point on the promontory, she had a clear view of all that happened on the riverbank and the other side of the river--the Braddock side.
She edged past the crowds and eased down on the grass, asking herself if she really wanted to see what else might transpire between the steelworkers and the Pinkertons. After the shooting and killing she'd already witnessed, did she really want to see any more action? She had no choice, not when Owen meant everything in life to her.
Lisa cringed whenever she heard a shot. She couldn't believe the carnival atmosphere that pervaded the crowds, the shouts of glee every time a Pinkerton was hit. Has the whole world gone crazy? she agonized as she stretched her aching leg out and wiggled her cramped foot. Her head pounded from the heat and tension, her dress plastered to her body. Lacking a handkerchief, she surreptitiously raised the hem of her dress to dab across her brow, then quickly smoothed the dress back around her ankles.
A gap-toothed woman with a bovine face and gray, straggly hair flopped down beside her. "I'm Maggie," she said, cracking her knuckles. "What's yer name?"
"Lisa Enright," she replied, well aware the woman would realize she wasn't one of them. A sudden understanding hit her like a rifle shot. Now she realized why these people acted as they did. The mill was their livelihood, their life! The men were fighting for their jobs, for what they believed in.
What if she were married to Owen and they depended on the mill? Would she feel any differently than these people? Wouldn't she cheer for those steelworkers taking pot shots at the Pinkertons? She supposed she would, much as she hated to admit it.
"Ain't this great!" the woman cackled, turning a merry grin on Lisa. "Why, this is more fun than the Fourth of July!"
She chattered on for an interminable amount of time while Lisa smiled and tried to answer politely. "Gotta see what's happenin' closer to the river!" Maggie sprang to her feet. "Wanna join me?"
"No, thank you. I think I'll stay here for awhile," Lisa said, relieved to be free of the woman's company.
"I'll be back," Maggie yelled behind her as she clasped her skirt and shoved through the crowd.
Let's hope not. Lisa leaned her elbows back on the grass, asking herself when this dreadful day would ever end. Her stomach churned with fright and exhaustion. Her throat was so dry and scratchy she could barely swallow. Maybe Owen was right; maybe she should return to the hotel. No, she couldn't leave this hill, fearful a bullet might fell Owen.
Shouts burst around her, prompting her to struggle to her feet.
"Coward!" a woman screamed as a Pinkerton guard waved a white flag of surrender. The strikers shot the flag to ribbons, while the onlookers on the hillside squealed with delight, jumping up and down, hugging each other.
Lisa watched warily as Maggie hustled back up the hill to join her again.
"You gotta see this!" Maggie pointed across the river from Homestead, to the Braddock side of the Monongahela. "Look what they're bringing out now--a cannon!"
Afraid of what she'd see yet reluctant to turn away, Lisa pushed herself to her feet and gazed at a hill across the river. Molly was right! The Braddock men were mounting a cannon behind a cluster of bushes. She held her breath, pressing a hand to her heart. Within seconds, a cannon ball zoomed across the river and tore a hole in the Iron Mountain.
"Wow! Did ya see that?" Maggie screamed, clapping her hands.
The next shot beheaded a worker who'd innocently watched the action.
"Oh, no!" Lisa spun away as the crowd released a collective gasp, and the remorseful Braddock men wheeled the cannon out of sight. Afraid she'd vomit, Lisa bent her head and fought for control. Dear God, would this day never end?
Fear and disgust tempted her to go back to the hotel, but worry about Owen froze her movements. Strands of hair hung limply about her face and down her shoulder. Her body ached with tension--every bone, every fiber, every muscle. In spite of her misery, hunger pangs shot through her, a reminder that she hadn't eaten breakfast. The scorching heat tormented her as perspiration ran down her back and lodged between her breasts. What agony the heat must be for the workers.
A hush came over the crowd, everyone exchanging glances. What now? After loading a raft with oil and greasy scraps, the strikers set the raft aflame. Hands pressed to her cheeks, Lisa watched in horrified fascination. To cheers from fellow workers and spectators, they shoved the raft toward the Iron Mountain. As the raft drifted toward the enemy, Lisa's heart beat faster. At the last minute, Lisa closed her eyes, sickened by the sight, afraid to see anymore.
Within a few seconds, a low moan of disappointment issued from the onlookers. She opened her eyes and saw the raft drift by harmlessly, never touching the barge.
A lull set in, broken by an occasional dry, echoing crack of rifle fire.
Maggie tapped her arm. "Things is gettin' boring, don'tcha think? Everyone's makin' bets about how much longer them Pinkertons can hold out. 'Course, it would be fun if the strikers killed them all, but if not--" Tilting her head, she shrugged her shoulders-- "if not, then I guess surrender would be the next best thing."
Yes, surrender. If the Pinkerton guards simply gave up, the strikers could end this impasse, and everyone could go home. But above all, she'd be with Owen again.
* * *
The sun shone like a fiery disc in a clear, blue sky, its blistering heat a constant torture to the strikers on the firing line. Men coughed and spat onto the dirt. Licking dry lips, they made desultory talk, waiting to spot a Pinkerton guard foolish enough to show himself. The Amalgamated men held their rifles at the ready, hell-bent on killing every Pinkerton.
Striding up and down among the men, Owen noted their faces set with a single-minded determination. Events couldn't continue like this much longer. That appeared as plain as the look of murder in their eyes. Runnels of sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping onto his shirt. He ran a dirt-caked arm across his forehead and stretched his legs as he scanned the mill landing for Hugh O'Donnell.
As Hugh caught Owen's approach, he met Owen halfway, worry and tension written on his face.
Owen cleared his dry throat to speak, every word an effort. "Hugh, it's obvious we can't do anymore here. Just look around you," he said, spreading his arm in a wide arc. "You can see 'murder' in the eyes of all these men. What d'you say we get all the members of the Advisory Committee together and arrange to meet inside the Bost Building next to the mill?" After several days with so little sleep, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open, but he spoke with determination. "We must work out a solution. We can't go on like this." He scuffed his shoe in the gritty dirt. "Let's see if we can end this deadlock."
Hugh nodded, his eyelids drooping. "My thoughts exactly. Useless to try to control these men." He sighed, looking around him at all the steelworkers lying prone along the Monongahela shoreline, rifles aimed at the barges. He faced Owen again. "Now, I think it's time for some action, and I don't mean more shooting." Hugh nodded thoughtfully. "Let's pass the word around and meet at the Bost Building . . . say in fifteen minutes. . . “
Shortly after, at the impromptu headquarters inside the building, the entire Advisory Committee, a very concerned group of men, deliberated. Owen stared around him, gauging frazzled
tempers. A few, such as he and Hugh, were willing to let the Pinkertons surrender.
"No surrender!" the workers shouted.
William Weihe, president of the Amalgamated, rose to speak. Seven feet tall and a dedicated steelworker, he spoke with urgency, but no one could hear him above the shouting.
"No Pinkertons!"
"Kill them all!"
"Burn the boats!"
"No quarter for the murderers!"
After the catcalls had died down, Owen scraped his chair back and stood. He looked out over the heads of all the workers who stood shoulder to shoulder, talking and arguing among themselves.
"Look," Owen said, "eight of our men have already been killed and over thirty wounded. Next time the Pinkertons show the white flag, let's take 'em up on it."
"They'd be crazy to show the flag again," Mike Flanagan shouted. "Our men shoot 'em down whenever they raise the damn thing."
"The whole country's been talkin' about our battle," a worker yelled. "Newspaper reporters have been here all day. Haven't you seen 'em? The people are with us! Why stop now?"
"Yeah!" other strikers echoed. "Why stop now?"
The conference continued for a long time, with no one making any headway.
"Let's permit the Pinkertons to surrender," Hugh finally said amid the noise. "What other choice--?"
Catcalls drowned out his voice. Throwing up his hands, he returned to his seat.
Owen tapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go back to the landing and see if we can accomplish anything there," Owen said. "Time is running out!"
Back at the landing minutes later, Owen and the other strike leaders moved among the workers, determined to convince them that further bloodshed would only hurt their cause.
With slow, purposeful strides, he moved among the workers, trying to persuade them that their best hope lay in reaching an agreement with the guards. After a while, he, Hugh, and other responsible union men managed to talk some sense into the workers, persuading them that more shooting and killing would accomplish nothing. By late afternoon, the peace faction held control. There remained only the problem of resolving the surrender terms.
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