Death at Pullman

by Frances McNamara

  There was a roar from the meeting room where MacGregor and the other strikers were assembled.

  “It must be another line that has joined the strike. Besides the Illinois Central, the Chicago and Northwestern; the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy; and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe have all had men strike. They are estimating there must be almost eighteen thousand.” I had been keeping track.

  “I know. I think even Debs is surprised. It’s already gone beyond what they planned for.”

  “It’s wonderful. It’s all in support of the workers here. Pullman will have to come down from his high horse.”

  “I hope you’re right, Emily. But I’ve heard from a number of my patients that some of these railroad men are striking because they have grievances of their own.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that? If they have grievances?”

  “It could complicate the solution. The strike is spreading like a rash and there’s some doubt as to how much control the ARU actually has of it.”

  “After the way Pullman’s behaved, I’m glad it’s happening. Someone has to do something to prove to him that he can’t just do anything he wants without even talking to anyone else. Here’s Johnny—I sent him for a copy of the Sentinel. I’ll bet Alden’s article is on the front page.” I grabbed the paper from the boy and couldn’t help letting out an exclamation of disgust. On the front page—instead of Alden’s article telling the truth about what had happened the night before, how the Pullman Company had used an agent provocateur to hire men with starving families to try to plant a bomb in the factory—there was a huge cartoon of Eugene Debs wearing a crown, titled Dictator Debs. I searched through the paper and finally found a small article on the fifth page. It merely reported that a bomb had been planted in the factory but that police—aided by a Pinkerton agent in the employ of the Pullman Company—had prevented any damage and arrested two strikers, charging them with the deed. “How could they? How could Alden let them?”

  Dr. Chapman read the article over my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sure your brother wrote it up as you described.”

  “But how could they not use it?” I protested.

  “They’re afraid of Debs and the ARU It was one thing when the strikers were only the Pullman workers down here—then there was sympathy for their plight.”

  “Sympathy, but no one would do anything. No one could make Pullman talk or arbitrate. He just kept saying there was nothing to arbitrate. It’s only by enlisting the other workers that they can do anything to make an impression on him.” I was really finding all this most frustrating.

  “But it’s not Pullman who is hurting. You said yourself that his contracts have a clause so that he loses nothing if there is a strike. It’s the railroads who are hurt by the ARU strike and it’s not the Pullman issues that they care about. It’s the ARU flexing its muscles. It’s the ARU proving their work actions can have an effect and then turning around and using that power to raise wages or address the other issues of their members. That’s what the railroad men want to fight and they have the newspapers behind them.”

  “This is so unfair!” I flung the paper across the room, but it just fluttered apart and drifted to the floor.

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  At that point there were footsteps on the stairs and then Gracie Foley appeared in the doorway, breathing a little heavily from her climb. “Miss Cabot, Dr. Chapman. I’m wondering now, have you seen my little brother or sister by any chance, or my brother, Joseph, who’s gone missing?”

  I shook my head and Dr. Chapman assured her that we had not seen the children. I’d told the doctor about Stark’s claim that Joe O’Malley was one of the conspirators, and Detective Whitbread’s belief that Joe had been the one to send me the note warning of the bomb plot.

  “Did you hear what happened last night, Mrs. Foley?” I asked.

  “That they found out that Stark was really a Pinkerton and they arrested those damn fools Allen and Devine? Of course I heard it, it’s all over. There’s no truth in that blackguard’s claim that my brother Joseph was involved, no truth at all, and he’ll never prove it. I’ve an idea the news of that is what caused him to go missing. But I’m afraid for the young ones. It’s all upside down outside, you know. They sure have made an impression with this ARU strike, I’ll say that for them. It’s thrown most everyone for a loop, it has. It’s like a holiday or something. People can’t get to where they need to, so they’re just walking around. And the rumors. You wouldn’t believe it. I met a union man downstairs. He was coming in from Rock Island and they told him the train couldn’t run because of riot crowds on the line. So he switched to another line. He got a few miles further on and they stopped the train, telling the passengers they couldn’t go any further for there were unruly crowds of strikers on the tracks making it unsafe. Well, this man, he’d had it by then. So he took his bag and walked the whole five miles but didn’t see a soul. They’re trying to start something is what it is.”

  “I would believe it after what I saw last night,” I agreed. Dr. Chapman looked amused.

  “So I said to Mooney, I said, we need to go find the young’uns because if there is any trouble they’ll be only too likely to find their way to the middle of it and I’m sure they’re hungry at any rate. So I brought down some baskets of food for them, but the young’uns aren’t at the Dens and they’re not here. And they say there really is a crowd gathered about a mile south. So what do you say, Miss Cabot, Dr. Chapman? Will you join us in Mooney’s surrey? We’ll go down and round them up and tell them there’s food for them, but not if they don’t come away with us right now. That’ll get ’em. And then we’ll find a spot and have a picnic. It’s a fine, warm day for it and time they thought of something besides this strike. Will you join us?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Foley, but I have patients coming in a little while,” the doctor told her.

  “God bless you, doctor. They all love you for it. What about you, Miss Cabot? Mooney is downstairs awaitin’.”

  “Go ahead, Emily,” the doctor told me. “You said you are out of supplies upstairs anyhow. I’ll look out for anyone who comes asking for you.”

  So I got my hat and gloves and joined Gracie Foley in Mooney’s open carriage. He sat up front driving us, and I sat in the back with Gracie, for all the world like a couple of Prairie Avenue matrons out for a drive. Three wicker baskets were stowed by our feet and I knew the O’Malley children would have the relief of a real meal that day.

  It was not long before a large, restive crowd appeared on our left. When I saw what they were doing I became alarmed. A train car—disconnected from others on the track—was surrounded by rows of people five or six deep on both sides, mostly men but with some women interspersed. They were chanting, and I realized that they were rocking the car back and forth, and from side to side. They threw up some lines, attached them to the corners, and then groups pulled down on the ropes as the car was rocked to their side. They were chanting, “One and two, one and two, one and two,” louder and louder until the car tipped towards our side of the track, hung for a moment, and fell with a great boom, as people scurried out of the way. A cheer went up, along with a cloud of dust, as it landed on its side. I saw then that another car had already been overturned.

  As they were cheering a whistle shrieked from an engine approaching very slowly from the south. Men with rifles and shotguns were perched all over the engine and the car behind it. All had their badges prominently displayed. It was only then that I noticed a few regular police officers at the edge of the crowd. They had been watching, helpless to disperse the large, angry mob. But the men on the train started yelling at the protestors, ordering them to disperse. They were greeted with jeers.

  I was becoming quite uncomfortable. What had seemed like a lark—while the crowd was happy with their actions—was fast beginning to feel very dangerous. Gracie stiffened beside me and bent forward to speak quietly to Mr. Mooney. He climbed down and began to saunter through the
crowd.

  “I told him to take a gander. See if he spots the young’uns . . . Look, there they are, he found them.” Sure enough, he’d located Patrick and Lilly and sent them hurrying towards us. We helped them up into the front seat and gave them each a slice of bread to eat.

  Gracie shielded her eyes, pointing at the engine. “God in heaven, I don’t believe it. The gall of that man. Look who’s over there.”

  Leonard Stark straddled the fender, wearing a badge and pointing a rifle at the crowd.

  “There he is, big as day, your Pinkerton man. Look at him.”

  It seemed he’d been recognized by some of the crowd, who were probably shouting insults at him, although we were still too far away to hear. Something nettled him as he jumped down from the engine, cursing at the crowd. They backed away from the rifle as he approached. We could see Mooney on the side, hands in his pockets watching the drama.

  Stark angrily fired into the air. Some of the crowd jumped away, but their verbal insults must have increased. Glaring at them, he did the most incredible thing. I was looking right at him, and it seemed as if the world stopped for a moment. He turned towards Mr. Mooney—who was standing, watching from a few yards away—aimed his rifle, and shot him in the head.

  I couldn’t believe it. Mooney was not threatening him, or even yelling at him. He was just watching from the sidelines. It was impossible. The whole scene hung there for a few moments, none of us able to comprehend it.

  Then Gracie growled in a low voice that rose in pitch and volume until she was screaming. “No, no, no! Nooooo. Mooooney.” She jumped down from the carriage and ran towards where he’d fallen.

  Meanwhile, the crowd broke into a roar, rushing as one body towards Stark. He was quickly surrounded by the men who were with him. (I later found out that they had all been appointed deputy marshals.) They closed in around him and retreated back towards the engine, guns raised to ward off the crowd. They yelled that they were taking him to the police station, where the wounded man should be brought, too. Soon Gracie was swept back to the carriage with a group of men carrying Mooney. She climbed into the carriage and the men handed Mooney up to us. We held him on our laps while one of the men took up the reins, urging the horses towards the police station, which was only a block away.

  The crowd ran along beside the carriage until we reached our destination. Gracie followed the men, who carried Mooney inside, while I stayed in the carriage with the children. I climbed into the front seat and wrapped my arms around them, for comfort and to keep them safe. The angry mob milled restlessly around the front of the station. Only a few minutes later, a cart came out of a nearby alley, driven by a tall, thin man I recognized as Detective Whitbread. “Out of the way. This man is injured, we must take him to the hospital, out of the way!” The back of the cart was covered by a tarpaulin and the crowd—when they heard it held the injured man—made way for the nervous horse being egged on by Whitbread. I couldn’t see who was in the cart as it sped away, but I suspected that Gracie wasn’t one of them. After making the children promise to stay in the carriage, I made my way into the station house to look for her. I found her just inside the entryway keening over Mooney, who was lying on a wooden bench. She was frantic with worry.

  A beefy police officer was turning away a group of angry strikers with the words, “He’s gone now, I tell you. He was in that cart that just left.” There was a roar of anger as this news was passed back to the others. They wanted Stark and they were furious at being tricked, but I don’t think any of them were as furious as I was when I realized what Whitbread had done.

  As the policeman cajoled the crowd into settling down and leaving, I screamed at a couple of men, grabbing them and forcing them to carry Mooney back to the carriage. Gracie was wild.

  “We have to take him to Dr. Chapman,” I told her. “It’s not far. They’re not helping him, Gracie, we have to do it.”

  They lifted him up into the carriage, laying him with his bleeding head in her lap. She had tied a handkerchief with lace edging on the wound, but it was deeply soaked with blood already. He was still breathing at least. Furious with all of them, I climbed up to take the reins. I had only driven a carriage of this size a few times, but I trusted no one else. I yelled at little Patrick to show me the way. He reached over to help me with the reins and even pulled out a whip to get the horse moving through the crowd. One man wanted to stop us to make sure they weren’t being fooled again, as they had been by the first cart, but hands reached out and pulled him out of my way. It was as well for him because I had no intention of pulling up the horse for any more foolishness. I would have run him down.

  With the help of young Patrick we made it to the clinic over the grocery store. The men standing outside did not need any urging to carry Mooney up the stairs for us.

  It was only when I saw the grim look on the doctor’s face, as he directed them to lay Mooney on the table, that I realized it was all for naught. He was already dead.

  NINETEEN

  Lace curtains drifted in a very slight early morning breeze. I woke to the sound of birds and the smell of frying bacon. My room at the Florence Hotel was over the kitchen. As I was an unchaperoned woman, I was required to enter and leave the hotel through the ladies’ entrance. My room did not have a private bath, so I had to travel down the hall to the water closet. I always waited for complete quiet in the corridor before making the trek. And arrangements for a bath were tedious, so I hadn’t indulged very often.

  My limbs felt heavy, as if it would take a great effort to move that morning, and my head was already starting to ache. I kept seeing that moment when Stark shot Mr. Mooney, perhaps hoping that eventually it would fade or somehow the action would change. It made staying in bed a torture, so I pulled myself up. I had offered to stay with Gracie the night before, as she kept vigil over Mr. Mooney’s body in the clinic, but I was soon elbowed out by women from the town. They may have shunned her when her father threw her out, but in her time of trouble they surrounded her like a picket fence. Dr. Chapman told me plainly to go home. But I had no home to go to, only my room at the Florence. I would not call that home. I longed for Hull House where I could have had companions to talk to. Here I was neither fish nor fowl. I was not, after all, part of the town of Pullman, nor did I have anything in common with the men from company management who were staying at the hotel. The place was permeated with the stench from the pipes and cigars they smoked late into the night in the front rooms where women were not allowed. The tramp of feet and sound of male voices was somehow a threatening background music, although they all treated me with the utmost politeness.

  It was a warm day for my dark clothes of mourning but certainly they fit my mood. They reminded me of my mother’s passing, which had left me and my brother so alone in the world. It seemed death was inescapable that year.

  A freshly laundered blouse had been hung from a peg on the wall. At Hull House we sometimes dispensed with a corset. That morning it would have been a relief in the warm weather to escape its rigidity. But as the only woman in the hotel, and as the representative of Hull House and the Civic Federation at the relief station, I knew it would be inappropriate. With a sigh, I used the washstand to perform my morning ablutions, then dressed to meet this very unfortunate day.

  Descending the steep staircase by the front desk, I realized that the men bustling around the lobby had either not heard of the tragic events of the day before or were unmoved by them. I turned into the dining room. My head pounded and my stomach was unsettled, but I seemed only capable of following my daily routine. The waiter led me to the small table by a window that they kept for me and quickly returned with a plate of fried eggs, tomato, hash browns, and thick slices of bacon. He plopped it down before me and filled my cup from a teapot, which he left on the table. My stomach turned, but I attempted to eat a little, dividing up the portions with my fork.

  At the next table, a group of men debated the situation. “There’s rioting all over the city. The
y’ve turned over boxcars and set them afire. The authorities have got to do something to stop it or the city will burn.”

  “People are afraid to go out their doors. There are packs of them roaming like animals.” This man sounded pleased. “This will show them what Debs is really up to. They’ll see what we’re up against now.”

  “I heard there was a crowd with bats that attacked the sheriff and his men on one of the Rock Island lines. They barely escaped with their lives.”

  “And the women are worse than the men. They’re yelling all sorts of nasty things trying to provoke them, the hags. They’d pull down everything and murder us all in our sleep if they got the chance.”

  “You heard about how they tried to blow up the clock tower, didn’t you? What do Hopkins and Altgeld have to say about that? They are worse than useless. If the roads didn’t hire their own men to protect their property the politicians would let it all be destroyed.”

  “I hear the general managers are documenting everything. They’re on the line to Washington, warning them that the whole thing will blow up and there’ll be a massacre if they don’t do something.”

  “What can they do? The city police stand by and let these mobs run rampant. They’re standing right there while the mob pulls over cars, tears up the tracks, and blocks the engines. They are worse than useless. Sometimes I think they’re in league with the strikers. At this rate Debs will be running the country, calling the shots for everybody. It’s a revolution. If they don’t put a stop to it, it’s going to be a bloody revolution.”

  “What right do they have to stop the whole transportation system? Debs just wants to be able to dictate terms to everyone. If they let that happen, it’ll be the end of our system of government. They need to do something. They need to do whatever it takes to break this strike and get the trains moving again.”