Death at Pullman

by Frances McNamara

  At her sobs, I sensed all the anger and antagonism of the surrounding crowd disappear in a single exhalation. A couple of the women moved forward in a sympathetic posture but, just then, there was a disturbance from the doorway.

  “Move aside, now, move aside. Get out of the way, if you please. We have the police with us. Move aside.” These commands came from Mr. Jennings. Two uniformed policemen, swinging clubs in a menacing way, preceded him and the people in the crowd parted for their advance, although they moved only as far as was absolutely necessary, then stood looking on with sullen faces. I was reminded of the tension the strike caused between the two groups as Jennings strode forward, impatiently followed by two men in suits and a half dozen more grim-looking policemen.

  “MacGregor, what’s going on here?” Mr. Jennings demanded.

  Ian MacGregor stood up to face them. “It’s Brian O’Malley, sir. We found him hanging here. He’s dead, sir. That’s why I sent Lennie Stark to get you.”

  “I see. Well, what happened? Did he do it himself, then? Is this the result of your strike, MacGregor? The man got so desperate he hung himself, is that it?”

  There was a murmur of protest from the crowd and the policemen turned towards the sound, swinging their clubs and catching them in their hands with a slap. They surrounded the company managers as if to protect them. Mr. MacGregor moved uneasily and I thought of the sign that had been around the dead man’s neck. He didn’t want to mention it. The air was trembling with anticipation already. “We don’t know what happened. We only just came and found him.”

  “Yes, well, move away. Move away. Let us see.” He put an arm out to push the smaller man out of his way, stepping forward with a frown on his handsome face. “I hold you responsible, MacGregor. You and the other agitators. This is what happens. We’ll have no violence here, I tell you. Any violence will be met with an iron fist. It won’t be tolerated. Miss Cabot, what are you doing here? I warned you the situation was dangerous. I must ask you to leave, for your own good. Who’s this? If it isn’t Gracie O’Malley. I thought you left Pullman, Gracie. Thrown out by your father, wasn’t it? What are you doing here?”

  “Here, now, it’s her brother was killed,” Mr. MacGregor told him.

  “Well, I’m very sorry, but you’d better step away and let the police handle this.” He spoke to Gracie’s back as she was still kneeling over her brother.

  “Really, Mr. Jennings,” I began, but Gracie stood up and turned around slowly to face the assistant manager of the factory. She was nearly as tall as he was and she looked him in the eye. I could see she was quivering slightly with rage.

  “It’s Mrs. Foley to you, Mr. Jennings. This is my brother and he’s been murdered. Murdered. Do you hear? This is my brother’s body and I will be taking it home for a proper wake and burial and I’m not asking your permission. So you can step out of the way yourself. Joe, you get a few of the lads and carry him back to the house now.” She stood eye to eye with Jennings and I stood up to move out of the way as Joe O’Malley and three other young men picked up the dead body. Jennings set his jaw and his face flushed with anger, but Ian MacGregor placed his short form between the two angry people.

  “Let them go, Mr. Jennings. Let her take the poor boy home for burying. It’s been a shock to all of us. I can tell you what we saw when we found him.”

  I saw Jennings draw his gaze away from Gracie Foley’s insolent stare and glance down at the small man, then around at the crowd of angry people.

  “Oh, for heavens sake, Mr. Jennings,” I pleaded. “Let them have him.”

  He frowned but nodded stiffly to a policeman standing in their way. “Let them go.”

  The small, sorry procession marched out with Gracie Foley following, back rigid and face frozen, as if carved in stone. The crowd made way for them and watched in silence as they went out the shed doors.

  Jennings shook himself and looked around. “We’ll need to talk to some of you at the police station,” he announced. “MacGregor, Stark, Connelly, Deriva, that one.” He pointed at Raoul LeClerc and one of the officers took him by the shoulder. It was obvious that he was picking out the men who were known organizers of the strike or who were connected to the unions. There was a murmur of protest from the crowd and I was suddenly aware that now there were several hundred people, mostly men, gathered in and around this big shed and there were only eight in Jennings’s party. But Jennings continued to harangue them as if unaware that he was outnumbered. “The rest of you, go home. Go now, or you’ll be arrested.”

  There was an angry roar at this threat and suddenly the way to the door was blocked with bodies. Jennings got riled at that and shouted, “Out of the way, you.”

  There might have been blows exchanged but Mr. MacGregor stepped forward. “Do as he says, men. Go on home. We’re not being arrested. We are only going with them to tell them what we know about what happened to Brian O’Malley, and if any of you know anything you should come forward. There’s been enough violence today. Go and make sure his family has what they need. We’ll return soon and we’ll meet in the usual place. There will be no trouble here now.”

  With that, he led the way through the crowd, followed by the other union men and the police, who had to scurry to keep up with them. Jennings lingered to speak to me and Mr. Safer.

  “Where is Miss Addams? Is she all right?”

  “Yes. Mr. MacGregor’s daughter found the dead man. She was very upset and Miss Addams took her away, back to their home,” I told him. “I trust Mr. MacGregor will be all right. He will be, won’t he, Mr. Jennings?”

  He scowled at me. “I warned you it wasn’t safe here, Miss Cabot. I really must insist that you and Miss Addams leave on the next available train. I have already sent the rest of your delegation home. Things seem to have settled down here for the moment but there’s no telling when more violence will break out. I simply cannot be responsible for your safety.”

  “But you will let him go, won’t you? Mr. MacGregor, I mean?”

  “Really, Miss Cabot. That is not up to me. That is a police matter now.”

  I didn’t comment on how the police appeared to respond to his commands. I did not want to leave without making sure Mr. MacGregor would be treated fairly. “But Mr. MacGregor could not have been involved in what happened to that man. He was with us all afternoon, wasn’t he, Mr. Safer? We heard Fiona scream and followed him here. The man was already dead, hanging from that rope with that sign around his neck,” I told him, pointing to where the board fell when Gracie flung it away. “But Mr. MacGregor was with us every moment since we left you.”

  “That is quite true,” Mr. Safer confirmed. “He cannot have been involved.”

  Jennings bent to retrieve the sign and stood staring at it with a puzzled look on his face. Then he looked up, following the line of the rope to the pulley and across the ceiling and down to where it had been fastened to the wall. He put the sign under his arm and turned to us. “I really must get you out of here as soon as possible. I will arrange for a special carriage.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Mr. Safer told him. “I came in my own carriage. If you will have it sent to MacGregor’s house we can retrieve Miss Addams and I will take the ladies back to the city.”

  “Yes, sir. I will do that immediately. That would be very kind of you. I’m sorry your mission has been a failure. But maybe now you will understand what we mean when we tell you this is a very dangerous and vicious group of agitators we are facing here and there is nothing we can do but stand firm against them and their influence.” He turned smartly then and strode out the door.

  FOUR

  My racing heartbeat had slowed down to the rhythm of the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves by the time Mr. Safer’s carriage carried us back to the heart of the city. But we were not returning to Hull House just yet. We had discussed the situation thoroughly on the return trip and concluded that—even though our attempt to mediate had so far failed—the situation was so desperate that an
appeal directly to Mr. George Pullman himself must at least be attempted. We were all agreed that any reasonable person must understand the inequity of the situation in which the same company that found itself in the position of reducing its workers’ salaries would not, at the same time, reduce the rent those workers paid back to the company. Not to do so was ludicrous and could not be defended. The situation we found in Pullman was bad and would soon get much worse. Food was scarce and medical attention was nonexistent. But we had sensed clearly that the striking workers were shocked by the violent death of Brian O’Malley. Mr. Pullman had only to offer even a slight reduction in rent and everyone concerned would be relieved to see the end to this strike. We felt sure that he would be as appalled as we were by the violent turn of events and that he must want to seize this opportunity to put it all behind both himself and his workers.

  Miss Addams and I, at least, were convinced that Mr. Pullman would welcome this opportunity to end the strike. I noticed that Mr. Safer did not directly contradict us, but he appeared to have a much less optimistic expectation of how Pullman would react to the news. Nonetheless, the banker firmly agreed that the next step must be to approach the man directly.

  So it was that we found ourselves trotting along Prairie Avenue on the near south side of the city. Here Pullman’s mansion stood alongside the huge new homes of people such as Marshall Field and John Glessner. I was curious to see the home of the inventor of the Pullman Palace Cars.

  When my father was alive, we took Pullman cars a number of times to visit an aunt in Albany. I remembered how amazed we had been to walk into a decorated drawing room with red plush chairs, chandeliers, and varnished wood siding. The ceilings were painted like those of a French chateau and curtains hung in the windows. But most clever and curious had been the way the room was transformed at night into tiers of sleeping berths separated by hangings. My brother and I had our own little room that way. The dining car was even more lavish, with delicate china and cut glass decanters. Never would any other train trip measure up after that and I often remembered that comfort when I later travelled west in less luxurious compartments. The Palace Cars had introduced a standard of comfort to travel that changed the way people thought about long trips. It was George Pullman who recognized that desire in the public and exploited it.

  As we slowed to turn, I glimpsed the striking stone house of my friends, John and Fannie Glessner, just across from the drive of the Pullman mansion. Mr. Safer assured us that as an old friend, or at least familiar acquaintance, of George Pullman he felt no compunction about arriving without an appointment on an errand of such importance.

  Mr. Safer was recognized and greeted by a dignified butler who led us into a drawing room to wait while he went to see if Mr. Pullman would see us. It was only a short while before we were joined by the man himself.

  “Louis, how are you? This is a surprise.” Pullman heartily shook Mr. Safer’s hand and the banker introduced us, apologizing for the intrusion and briefly explaining our errand. At this, the millionaire’s expression turned sour.

  He was a man of large frame with short graying hair, dark eyebrows, and a spade-shaped brush of white beard on his chin. He looked displeased when he heard what we had come for and cut off the explanations by abruptly turning and leading us to his study. We followed him across the broad foyer to a book-lined room where he took his place behind a massive mahogany desk, gesturing to chairs facing him. When we were seated he leaned back in his armchair, regarding us with a grim expression. I noticed Mr. Safer was already shaking his head with disappointment but Miss Addams took up the argument.

  “Mr. Pullman, we have just returned from a visit to your company town. As part of a committee of the Civic Federation we were asked to attempt to arbitrate the dispute between you and your workers, which has led to this strike and lockout. We have news of a most terrible tragedy there.”

  “If you refer to the man found hung in the brick shed, I have been informed,” he interrupted. “Mr. Wickes, the plant manager, telephoned me. I can only say I am not surprised by further evidence of violent methods used by these union agitators in their attempts to intimidate and dictate to the working men. I hold Mr. Debs and his union responsible. Such violence was unheard of before they made their unwelcome appearance.”

  “Exactly who is responsible is not yet known and must be left to the police,” Miss Addams told him. “But it is clear that all of the people are terribly shocked by this act. We have come to encourage you to take advantage of this horrible tragedy by bringing this strike to an end. Having spent the afternoon speaking with a representative of the strike committee we are very confident that it would be possible in this hour of grief to fulfill our mission and to arbitrate a just agreement that will end this strike. We are sure that a minor adjustment to lower the rents during this time of economic distress is all it would take to get the workers to agree to return to the works by next week at the latest.”

  “There is nothing to arbitrate,” Pullman pronounced from across his vast desk, without moving a muscle, beyond the stiff up and down of his jaw to form the words.

  “But, Mr. Pullman, surely you see that they cannot live so. Their demand is for an increase in pay by a third which would return it to the levels of one year ago, but after hearing them out we are convinced that they would settle for a reduction in rent which is comparable to the reduction in wages they have experienced.”

  “I will tell you, Miss Addams, what I have told them. A year ago the works employed some five thousand eight hundred. Due to the general economic depression contracts were down and it was necessary to lay off many men. By November of last year there were only two thousand on the payroll. In order to employ as many men as possible it has been necessary to bid on contracts at a rate much lower than we have ever done before. And this was done only with a view towards providing employment for as many as possible. To do this we bid for contracts at a loss, even eliminating use of capital and machinery costs from the estimates. By doing so we have managed to keep four thousand three hundred on the payroll although it has had to be done at a lower rate. Even so—as I have offered to show them in the books—the current contract for Long Island cars is being done at a loss of twelve dollars a car.” He carefully straightened several items on his desk before he continued. “Furthermore, we have expended an additional one hundred and sixty thousand dollars on improvements to the town itself since last August, which would have been spread over several years were it not for the desire to provide employment.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Pullman, the rents have remained what they were a year ago. With less work at a lower pay scale you must see that the people are inevitably falling into debt. They cannot pay the rents.”

  “These are hard economic times, Miss Addams, as Mr. Safer, a banker, can tell you. The Pullman Loan and Savings showed over four hundred and eighty thousand dollars in workers’ savings at this time last year. By November that had fallen to three hundred and twenty-four thousand but since then it has been rising slightly, which shows an overall improvement in situation for them.”

  “But, sir, the individual situations are quite dire. I have seen evidence of an elderly woman facing eviction and a man with eight children who, after paying back rent, was left with two dollars to feed them. The report is that on average there is only eight cents per meal available. Don’t you see? You must lower the rents, sir.”

  “Excuse me, madam, I must do nothing of the sort. The capital invested in the building of the town is being repaid via the rents. The investment was very heavy and the return on that investment is currently below four percent. No reduction is possible.”

  At this, the banker, Mr. Safer, spoke up. “You must extend the return over a longer term and lower it. Good God, man, the company paid dividends this year higher than any comparable company in the country.”

  This criticism caused Pullman’s dark eyebrows to lower and a pronounced frown to appear on the millionaire industrialist’s face. “That is no b
usiness of yours, sir. It is my company. It bears my name. It will be run according to my orders and no others. I tell you there is nothing to arbitrate. We took contracts at a loss in order to keep the men employed. We would better have closed the shops for the winter and lost no money that way. We will lose nothing by this and, as in the strike of eighty-six, they will soon come to their senses. At that time they stayed out ten days before they voluntarily returned to their places. This time they will have to wait until we reopen the works. Then Mr. Debs will see what will happen.”

  I stared at him, appalled. So that was his plan. He wanted them to starve. Then, when they were most desperate, he would reopen the works and see how many of them would stay faithful to their pledge to strike and how many would return on the same conditions, having gained nothing but debt. It was diabolical.

  “But, Mr. Pullman,” I couldn’t help asking, “surely you will lose money by leaving unfinished the work for which you have already signed contracts.”

  “We will lose nothing. There are strike clauses in all of the contracts. The company will lose nothing by this.”

  I was dumbfounded. I had no idea such things existed.

  Jane Addams took up the fight. “Mr. Pullman, it is clear that you have every right and duty to preserve the company which you have worked so hard to build. But what of the people? Surely they are your people under your care. We all admire the town you built for your workers. We have thought it the best, the most exemplary, plan for a modern industry. Surely you do not want to see the people of your model town in such dire straits. The children are hungry.”

  He sat up in his chair, his shoulders twitching like a bear bothered by a wasp. “You are mistaken, madam, if you think the town of Pullman was at any time planned as an exercise in philanthropy. It was not. It was, and remains, a business proposition. The town of Pullman was built for productivity and it must produce. In building it far from the noise and dirt of the city it was my intention not only to increase productivity by providing healthful surroundings, but to prevent the infiltration of these foreign agitators with their unions and demonstrations. I will not have it, Miss Addams.” His fist came down on the desk. “I will not be dictated to by the likes of Debs and his union. It is absurd for the Pullman workers to even be included in a railway union. The Pullman works are not a railway. It is only by a technicality, and because the company owns the line from the city to the town, that they dare to unionize here. I will not have it.”