Whispers Along the Rails

by Judith Miller

  Olivia swallowed a bite of the apple cake. ‘‘I’m assessing methods to save money and find ways to better serve the passengers.’’

  ‘‘Truly? Why doesn’t the company simply ask the passengers if the services are adequate? Mr. Pullman has enough spotters riding the trains to keep the waiters and porters on their toes. Those poor men dare not make an error, I’m told.’’

  Olivia shrugged and met his gaze. ‘‘I don’t know anything about spotters. Mr. Howard didn’t mention such a position. I can only tell you that Mr. Pullman wanted an assessment from a woman’s perspective. He thought my work in the hotel would permit me to judge food preparation as well as other amenities provided on his coaches.’’ She pointed her fork to the cake and turned toward Mrs. DeVault. ‘‘I believe this cake would be well received at the hotel if you’d be willing to share the recipe with me.’’

  His mother beamed at the compliment and nodded her agreement. She patted Fred’s hand. ‘‘Tell Olivia about Bill Orland’s good news.’’

  He tapped his finger across his lips. ‘‘I’m letting Bill and his wife have the pleasure of spreading the news—except to you, Mother.’’

  Olivia arched her brows. ‘‘I’ll look forward to hearing the news when it becomes common knowledge. How have you been, Fred?’’

  He dropped his gaze to the table. The warmth in her eyes made it difficult to concentrate. ‘‘Fine. A few more layoffs at the car works. Otherwise there’s nothing to report.’’

  His mother took a quick sip of her coffee. ‘‘Will you be required to make any more trips before the wedding, Olivia? Martha is in dire need of your help.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Mr. Howard said he would need to go over the notes I made and discuss them with Mr. Pullman. I did mention the wedding to Mr. Howard. I’m hopeful he’ll have an answer by week’s end.’’ Olivia pushed her chair away from the table. ‘‘I had best be on my way. I’m quite weary from the trip and must unpack. I hope to spend a few minutes visiting with Chef René and then go to bed.’’ She removed a small timepiece from her pocket and clicked the hasp. ‘‘And you must soon depart for work, Fred.’’

  He watched as she closed the timepiece and returned it to her pocket. ‘‘I didn’t know you owned a pocket watch.’’

  ‘‘Samuel gave it to—’’ She stopped midsentence and locked gazes with Fred.

  He broke eye contact and watched her shove the timepiece inside her pocket. Samuel? Olivia and Mr. Howard were now on a first-name basis? And he was giving her gifts? Fred’s armor tightened.

  ‘‘He said it was imperative I have a timepiece for my new position, so I may keep proper notes and be on time to meet my trains and to . . .’’ her voice drifted into a stammered silence.

  ‘‘I see,’’ Fred said with a brief nod. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me, I must go upstairs and take care of something before I depart for work. I’m pleased you made it home safely, Olivia.’’ He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he pushed away from the table and was down the hallway and up the stairs before his mother could object.

  He remained in his room while his mother escorted Olivia to the door. Once the front door closed he hurried back down the stairs. His mother stood in front of the door with her arms folded across her waist and a frown on her face. She was unhappy with his manners. Fred passed by her and headed toward the kitchen.

  His mother followed close on his heels. ‘‘There was no need for you to run upstairs. You could have given her an opportunity to explain.’’

  Fred had hoped to pick up his belongings from the kitchen table and make a hasty exit out the rear door. ‘‘She did explain— didn’t you hear? That fancy timepiece was a gift from Samuel.’’ His voice cracked.

  ‘‘Mr. Howard insisted she accept it,’’ his mother defended.

  ‘‘Did you not notice she slipped and called him by his given name? Tell me, have you ever heard me refer to any of my supervisors by their given names?’’

  ‘‘No, I haven’t. But have they ever insisted you do so?’’ When he didn’t respond, she shook her head. ‘‘Of course they haven’t. But Mr. Howard has insisted that she refer to him as Samuel when they are alone.’’

  Fred didn’t doubt that Mr. Howard had made such a request. The man’s behavior reinforced what Fred already believed: Samuel Howard had more than a passing interest in Olivia. What bothered him more was the ease with which she’d spoken Mr. Howard’s given name. It had slipped over her tongue without any sign of hesitation.

  His mother shot him a look of disapproval. ‘‘She assures me that she’s done everything in her power to discourage Mr. Howard’s advances and that she doesn’t care for him in the least. She can’t control his decisions. I fear you jump to conclusions because of what’s occurred in the past. Go and invite her to join us for dinner after church on Sunday.’’ His mother filled a basin with hot sudsy water and began to wash their coffee cups. ‘‘And if the Spirit moves you, you can apologize to her, too.’’

  ‘‘I suppose I should try to get the issue resolved.’’

  His mother wiped her hands on the frayed dishcloth. ‘‘Well, that sounds promising.’’

  He chuckled and pointed toward the clock. ‘‘I’ll stop and ask her on my way to work. If I leave now, I should have time.’’

  His mother’s smile was evidence he’d made her happy. He jogged down the front steps and wondered if his decision would please Olivia. After the way he’d rushed out of the kitchen only a short time ago, she might turn him down. He hoped she’d be at the hotel. Since she mentioned wanting to go to bed early, he wouldn’t want to disturb her at home. The thought of stopping at the Barneses’ house held little appeal, especially the possibility of coming face-to-face with Mr. Howard.

  He lengthened his stride. If Olivia had already left the hotel, he’d ask Chef René to deliver his message. Feeling unexpectedly lighthearted, he rounded the corner and stopped. Olivia and Mr. Howard were strolling arm in arm toward the entrance of the Arcade. As they turned to enter the building, Olivia glanced in his direction. He noted her look of surprise before he turned and walked away. So much for her weariness and going to bed early.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  March 23, 1893

  Fred glanced at the clock tower as he walked between the iron gates leading into the car works. No need to hurry. He had at least twenty minutes before he must report to his electroplating job in the iron machine shops. Whistling a soft tune, he strode alongside the steel tracks that carried flatbeds of lumber and supplies, as well as the partially assembled railroad cars, into the Pullman Car Works. Once inside, the shells moved from one department to the next for further assembly. At one shop, electrical wiring; at another, mahogany woodwork or silver cuspidors; at another, the etched-glass windows, until finally the car rolled out of the building a completed and luxurious Pullman sleeper car.

  The building stretched and yawned in a seemingly unending cavern that reverberated with the sounds of pounding machinery and shouting voices. Fred waved at several workers on his way through the bunk and sash division of the painting department. Odors of perspiration and varnish combined and filled the room with a scent all its own.

  Drying racks held the doors, blinds, sashes, and bunks that daily arrived from the woodshop after having received an initial coat of stain. Tomorrow the pieces would have shellac or varnish applied and then be left to dry for an additional two to four days. When he neared the far drying racks, Fred stopped short. Angry voices rose above the din of the machinery.

  There was no doubt that Mr. Vance had reached his boiling point. The shop supervisor’s face had turned as red as a beet. ‘‘If you don’t quit questioning my work assignments, you’re going to find yourself looking for work elsewhere.’’

  Mr. Vance’s angry warning didn’t deter Harlan Ladner, a long-time employee in the paint shop. Usually a quiet man, Harlan’s outburst surprised Fred, and he edged behind one of the drying racks.

  ‘‘What you’re doing isn’t fai
r. Since we’re being paid by piecework rather than daily wages, two or three of us shouldn’t always get the assignments that take the longest to complete. You give the jobs with a quick turnover to those same fellows every day. None of them been here near as long as us.’’ Harlan waved toward a group of men a few feet away who were rubbing shellacked blinds with pulverized pumice stone and water.

  Mr. Vance clenched his jaw. ‘‘Are you hard of hearing, Ladner? I said I decide who does what work around here.’’

  Harlan remained undeterred. ‘‘We got families to feed just like them, but they take home a third more in wages because you give them the jobs that need fewer coats of paint or less sanding.’’

  ‘‘Fred! What are you doing down here?’’ a voice hissed in his ear.

  Fred jumped and turned like he’d been jabbed with a hot poker. Mr. Howard! He’d not heard him approach.

  ‘‘Pa-passing through on my way upstairs,’’ Fred stammered.

  ‘‘You weren’t passing through anywhere. You were standing in the shadows eavesdropping. What is it you find so interesting?’’ Mr. Howard’s voice had escalated, and the tables turned. Instead of Fred listening to Mr. Vance argue with Harlan, the workers were now listening to Mr. Howard’s invective. The company agent lifted his gaze toward the other men. ‘‘Get back to work! This doesn’t concern you.’’ The men instantly turned away.

  Fred tightened his fingers around his lunch pail and felt the metal handle cutting into his palm. He shouldn’t have stopped. ‘‘I’m going to be late for my shift if I don’t get over to the elevator.’’

  Mr. Howard grasped Fred’s arm. ‘‘There’s no reason for you to be in the paint department unless your supervisor sends you down here. Do I make myself understood?’’

  Fred nodded.

  Mr. Howard released his arm with a thrust. ‘‘Get on upstairs and count yourself lucky I’m not reporting you to your supervisor.’’

  Fred didn’t know why he should count himself lucky; what was there to report? He’d not committed any offense. However, he’d not argue the point with Mr. Howard. The sounds of snapping belts and whirring machinery greeted him when he stepped off the elevator on the third floor. He didn’t chance stopping until he arrived in the electroplating department.

  Fred nodded to Mr. Godfrey on his way to the closet at the far end of the room. He hung his cap on one of the hooks and shoved his lunch pail onto the shelf. He made a mental note to advise Harlan Ladner about next Sunday’s union meeting. Fred had never seen any of the men from the paint shop at their meetings. There was little doubt that the men performing piecework had an additional set of unresolved issues.

  ————

  Fred waited outside the gate early the next morning. He wouldn’t attempt to walk through the paint department again today. He’d jotted down the union meeting details, and when Harlan approached, Fred pulled him aside and slipped the paper into his hand.

  ‘‘I know you don’t have time to talk, but this is about a union meeting. Read it and talk to some of the other men—just be certain you can trust them. See if they’d like to attend, too.’’ Fred patted Harlan on the shoulder. ‘‘We’d like to see you there.’’

  Harlan gave the paper a fleeting look before shoving it into his pocket. He didn’t indicate whether he’d attend or not, but Fred had done what he could. Having men from the paint department who were dealing with unfair work assignments could only help to strengthen their cause—especially since there had been recent talk of switching all departments to the piecework method.

  ————

  Amidst his mother’s protests, Fred hurried her out of church immediately after the Sunday morning service. If he was going to arrive at the training center before the rest of the men, he didn’t have time to wait until she completed her usual after- church visiting. She continued to object while they walked home, but he knew that in spite of her protests, she’d have his noonday meal on the table soon.

  Long ago he had explained his Sunday afternoon meetings as nothing more than one way the men could come together and discuss ways to improve the training center and to help one another. She’d accepted his explanation without question, yet sometimes he wondered if she suspected there was more to them than that.

  While his mother donned her apron, Fred raced upstairs and changed his clothes. As expected, his meal was waiting when he returned downstairs. He ate much too hastily to suit his mother, but she finally ceased her warnings.

  ‘‘Just remember that if you end up with a stomachache, it’s due to your poor eating habits and not my cooking,’’ she said.

  Fred grabbed his hat and walked down the hallway. ‘‘You are absolutely right. I won’t place an ounce of blame on you,’’ he called over his shoulder.

  He was the first one to arrive at the building a short time later, but soon the training center filled with many men interested in bettering their working conditions at the car works. At two o’clock sharp, Fred shouted above the laughter and talking and called the group of men to order. Except for the sound of chairs scraping across the concrete floor, the noise subsided and the men turned their attention toward the front of the room. The turnout was better than expected. Fred was pleased to see that Harlan and several other new faces were among those in the crowd. He thought they were all from the paint department. He’d ask Harlan later. For now, he requested the men address their grievances.

  Several men aired complaints regarding the recent hiring practices. Then a man sitting beside Harlan waved to be recognized. Fred nodded to him and he stood.

  ‘‘If you think you got it bad now, just wait ’til you switch over to piecework.’’ He looked around the crowd as he spoke. ‘‘I’m telling you, the supervisors play favoritism, and some of us can’t make anywhere near the same wages we was getting on weekly wages. It’s going to take a strike to settle what’s going on inside the car works.’’

  Fred didn’t fail to note the looks of alarm from several quarters. Mr. Rose jumped up from his chair and lifted a fist overhead. ‘‘Don’t go talking strike. It’ll get us nowhere. We tried to get the company to make concessions back in 1886, and we got nothing to show for that one but more debt. A lot of you fellas wasn’t around then, but let me tell you what happened: The company locked them iron gates and wouldn’t even talk to us. Pullman and his board of directors was prepared to keep them gates locked instead of meeting even one of our demands.’’ He looked around the crowd. ‘‘We was just like you fellas that are raring for a strike. But they knocked the wind out of our sails. When they finally unlocked the gates, we returned with the same work conditions, the same pay, and more debts. Took us a long time to dig outta that hole.’’

  ‘‘One thing’s certain, whatever we decide, we need to be united,’’ Fred replied.

  One of the more recent employees jumped to his feet. ‘‘We hear what you’re saying about previous attempts to bargain, Mr. Rose, but there comes a time when we have to stand up for ourselves, too. The company has proved its loyalty is to the stockholders, not to the employees.’’

  Fred permitted the men time to speak their minds, and though they’d not arrived at any decisions or remedies, the workers appeared thankful to have the opportunity to be heard. If not by company officials, at least by one another. He asked for volunteers to assist in the training center and was pleasantly surprised when several men agreed to lend their services several evenings a week. As had become their practice, they passed a hat to collect funds to help those who had recently been laid off and were struggling to make ends meet. Though the collections were never enough to meet the needs of all those affected, each family was thankful for help, no matter how small the gift.

  Once the meeting dismissed, most of the men remained to visit for a few minutes. Fred cut through the crowd to shake hands with Harlan. He hoped to gain more information about piecework assignments in the paint department. ‘‘Thanks for coming, Harlan.’’ Fred shook Harlan’s hand. The man had a firm grip.
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  ‘‘Several of us wanted to see what you had in the way of organization, so we decided to check things out.’’ Harlan grinned at the semicircle of men surrounding him.

  Fred nodded toward the back of the room where a stranger stood in a far corner. ‘‘That one of your fellows, too? I’ve never seen him before.’’

  Harlan turned his head and followed Fred’s line of vision. ‘‘Nope. Never saw him before.’’ He turned toward his fellow workers. ‘‘Any of you know who he is?’’

  Only one man nodded. ‘‘Ain’t that Mr. Vance’s cousin that he brought to the shop last week?’’

  The rest of the men narrowed their eyes and looked again. ‘‘Might be,’’ one said. ‘‘Yep. I think it is. What’s he doing here? You think he’s taking a job in the car works?’’ The question was posed to no one in particular.

  ‘‘Naw. Didn’t Mr. Vance say he lived back east and was here for a visit?’’

  ‘‘How would I know? Mr. Vance don’t talk to me.’’

  ‘‘Well, he don’t talk to me neither except when I do something wrong. But I heard him talking to Mr. Howard when they was walking through the department.’’

  Fred’s stomach churned, and he grasped Harlan by the arm. ‘‘Who all did you tell about this meeting?’’

  ‘‘Just these men that are with me.’’ Harlan glanced around the semicircle. ‘‘You fellows tell anyone else about this meeting?’’

  Fred saw that he’d likely offended several of the men with his question. ‘‘Sorry, men, but we can’t be too careful. We take care to keep information about our meetings quiet, but word sometimes trickles back to management. We try to close any gaps as soon as possible. There have been too many men involved with union organization who have lost their jobs.’’

  Panic shone in Harlan’s eyes when he withdrew an empty hand from his jacket pocket. ‘‘I’ve lost the note you gave me. I had it right here in my pocket. I know I did.’’ He tried the other pocket and then the pants pockets. ‘‘Maybe it’s at the house.’’