Those were their thoughts at the Great Gate. A few steps later, black workers saw the fate that awaited them. A little way down the road, a crowd of whites was assembled—men, women, children even—waiting in the heavy humid heat of the day, swiping hands across red faces to stanch the flow of sweat, white-knuckled fists clenched around the handles of switchblades and baseball bats. The mob included craftsmen and laborers, salesmen and tradesmen, mothers and schoolchildren. But most were young men who belonged to gangs.
Blacks and whites board the streetcar at the end of a workday in the Union Stock Yard.
There was an instant when eyes met, when the danger became clear, when black minds frantically reached for an exit strategy. Someone in the waiting crowd shouted, “Get the niggers!” Then all hell broke loose. The mob surged forward. Black workers going home on foot ran helter-skelter down streets and alleys, ducking into doorways, jumping walls, crawling into cellars, the stampede of footsteps behind them. Some were lucky and gave the mob the slip. Others were caught from behind, pulled from their hiding places, beaten, stabbed, and left to die. Here and there, a white man intervened on behalf of those being hunted down but quickly pulled back when the mob turned its vicious eye on the peacemaker.
Those blacks on streetcars may have thought they were safe as they pulled away from the Yard. But the crowd was not to be denied. Forming a human barrier, they stopped the streetcars in their tracks. A few young men, the leaders, showed off their physical prowess, detaching the cars from their wires. Those blacks on the streetcars now joined their brethren in the streets. Neighborhood police stood by and watched.
One of the black men under attack on a streetcar was relieved to see police coming to his rescue. But instead of expressing sympathy, one police officer yelled, “Come out of there, you big rusty brute, you. I ought to shoot you,” and then smacked the man on the head, pushed him into the police wagon, and threw him into jail for a week, without allowing him to let his wife know he was alive. None of the attackers was arrested.
Arrival of the police after the stoning of a black man.
Back in the Black Belt, rumors of violence spread. Four thousand people gathered in the streets, becoming more and more agitated as news of the day circulated. An elderly Italian peddler on his way home for the evening, unaware of the rising emotions, wandered into the swirling mob. A gang of black boys pulled the man from his horse and cart, stabbed him to death, and left his body in the street. A white laundryman who worked a shop in the black community was later held up by three black men, robbed, stabbed, and left to die.
In the heart of the Black Belt, residents at the all-white Angelus apartment building were anxious. They could hear the hum of a disgruntled crowd rising from the street below. Blacks were gathering. The word on the street was that a white person at the Angelus had aimed a gun out of a fourth-floor window, downing a black boy walking below. The story spread and the crowd swelled. There looked to be a thousand angry black people milling around outside. As a black policeman recalled, blacks were pointing up at one window, shouting, “He shot from that window. . . . That is the window over there.” Frantic, the tenants called for police protection that arrived in short order, a hundred uniformed men, some on foot, some sitting high on the backs of police horses. The crowd called for justice. The police searched the Angelus but returned empty-handed. This only made the people gathered outside angrier. It looked to them like another case of police refusal to arrest whites for attacking blacks. Out of the crowd, a brick flew. A policeman was hit. Officers returned fired, killing four, injuring many more.
People were panicked. Mayor Thompson mobilized the state militia, but the city’s police chief did not want their help, and Mayor Thompson let him have his way. Six thousand militiamen were put on standby in nearby armories. All they could do was wait.
EIGHTEEN
Ratcheting Up
DAYLIGHT FADED TO DUSK and then to night. Many residents of the Black Belt were reluctant to retire into their stifling-hot homes, choosing instead the cooling breezes blowing across their front porches and steps. This proved to be a dangerous decision. Under cover of darkness, the gangs ratcheted up the action. Once again taking up the stashes of guns from their clubhouses, they piled into cars, revved up their engines, and sped across the deadline into the Black Belt. They tore up one street and down another, windows rolled down, guns pointed out, spraying bullets toward the darkened homes and anything that moved. From the shadows, shots rang out in response as black snipers took up position in yards, on porches, and behind windows.
At 8:30 p.m., a group of white toughs met up on a street corner. The plan was to take in a movie. A passing taxi driver leaned out of his cab window, alerting them to a group of rowdy white youths massing nearby, which sounded like a lot more fun to them. Abandoning the movie idea, they joined the mob in a night of roving violence.
At two a.m. they crossed paths with three couples walking together. Two of the men were lieutenants Washington and Browning, recently returned from military service overseas as members of the all-black Eighth Regiment. At this late hour, the officers would have preferred to take the streetcar, but at midnight, public transportation workers had followed through on a threat to walk out on strike, and so the officers were forced to make their way on foot. As they crossed Grand Boulevard, they heard a shout, “One, two, three, four, five, six,” then a raucous cheer. The officers turned around and saw the toughs moving toward their group of six. A few came alongside while the rest got in front of them, cutting off any escape. Then they attacked.
For the soldiers, it was not an altogether unfamiliar experience, not unlike battle overseas—always having to be on the lookout for the enemy and ready to fight back to defend themselves. Now, here on Grand Boulevard, the soldiers responded to the attack. Gunshots rang out, and one of the white boys hit his mark, wounding Lieutenant Browning in his leg. Another of the young toughs lurched toward Lieutenant Washington, aiming to bring him down with an axe handle. But Lieutenant Washington was ready. He quickly drew a pocketknife, and as body met body, Lieutenant Washington drove the knife into his attacker, killing him. The mob moved on.
By night’s end, 229 were injured and eighteen lay dead.
The morning light on Tuesday did nothing to slow the rioting. A pack of nearly one hundred young white men—many of them just returned from the war and proudly wearing their sailor and soldier uniforms—had pushed beyond the residential neighborhoods during the middle of the night and still roamed the city’s downtown at daybreak. Marauding through railroad stations, bursting into hotels and restaurants, they smashed windows and tables, snatched up property that happened to catch their attention, looked for blacks to attack. Private security guards warned business owners of the danger to their property, urging them to get downtown to their stores and offices as quickly as possible, but the mob was not stopped until ten a.m. By that time, two more black men had lost their lives to the rioters’ murderous attacks.
Most blacks did not go to work that day. With the streetcars down, the only way to get to the Stock Yard was on foot, and being out and about was just too dangerous. Only twenty-three of the twenty-five hundred blacks working for Louis Swift made their way to the Yard. Stranded at home in yet another day of oppressive heat, many took to the open air, sitting out on porches.
Blacks protected by police and militia bought provisions during the riot.
The Chicago Tribune reported that two-thirds of the dead were white. In truth, as the official riot report later verified, the numbers in the Tribune were reversed—two-thirds of those dead were black. The Tribune reported on the killing of a white woman and child. The Defender reported on the killing of a black woman and child. In fact, no women or children were killed. But the reports raised the panic level all around.
Without work, many blacks were dangerously close to running out of money for food. T. Arnold Hill led the Urban League’s efforts to help, conducting a food survey and setting up a food station to
distribute donated groceries. Churches contributed what they could. The union, still preaching peace and unity, also lent a hand.
The city’s police chief stubbornly continued to resist assistance from the militia. The gangs continued to ignore his orders. They felt protected by their own.
As night fell, another round of car raids started up unchecked. Bullets sprayed the streets. A speeding car careened out of control, smashing into a police wagon. The cop, unharmed, exited his vehicle and walked toward the offender. As he came up alongside the reckless driver, a hand was thrust out of a passenger window flashing a police badge and ID. That ended the matter. Four-fifths of the entire police force was stationed in the Black Belt. No raiders were arrested.
By night’s end, 139 more had been injured and eleven more lay dead.
NINETEEN
Point-Counterpoint
WEDNESDAY MORNING, only sporadic outbursts punctuated quiet in the streets, but many were not convinced the trouble was over. Voices clamored for activation of the militia. Illinois’s attorney general took a not-so-veiled swipe at Mayor Thompson, declaring, “I am convinced that these riots are the result of a plan carefully laid by a certain vicious Negro element which has been encouraged by a group of City Hall politicians.” A Democratic alderman elected by the residents of Packingtown threatened escalated violence if the mayor did not take action: “We must defend ourselves if the city authorities won’t protect us.” Black leaders, including Ferdinand Barnett, concluded a two-day conference on the matter with a public statement calling on both the mayor and the governor to send in the soldiers. Louis Swift and the other packers added their voices, expressing frustration over the ineffectual government that was keeping black laborers away from work.
Bowing to the mounting pressure, Mayor Thompson toured the riot area. The quiet he beheld reinforced his belief in his decision to hold the militia at bay. Instead of bringing in soldiers, the police chief petitioned the city council for a supplemental cadre of special policeman.
Back in the Black Belt, living conditions were fast becoming desperate. Neither city nor business services had been able to get into the neighborhood while the uncontrolled violence was occurring. Garbage had not been picked up and was now overflowing in the streets. Grocery shelves were empty, grocers unable to restock. Church leaders and the Chicago Defender urged blacks to remain calm.
A wrecked house in the riot zone.
A new rumor was spreading: The gangs were hatching a plot to burn black families out. That evening, it started to look like the rumor was true. Rioting spilled over into previously white communities south of the Black Belt where blacks had recently been moving in. Roving these streets, gangs picked out the black homes, kicked in doors and smashed windows, then combed through the houses, ripping apart tables and chairs, tossing the broken shards of furniture into the streets, dropping oil-soaked rags to send them all up in flames. To a neighborhood white man who tried to intervene, the gangs spat out a warning: “If you open your mouth against ‘Ragen’s’ we will not only burn your house down but we will ‘do’ you.” Police did nothing.
Shortly before ten thirty p.m. on Wednesday night, the mayor reversed his decision. The nearly six thousand troops got orders to move out into the streets. As later recounted in a report on the riot, the commanders’ instructions were simple and to the point: “They were to act as soldiers in a gentlemanly manner; they were furnished with arms to enable them to perform their duties; they were to use the arms only when necessary; they were to use bayonet and butt in preference to firing, but if the situation demanded shooting, they were not to hesitate to deliver an effective fire. Above all, the formation of mobs was to be prevented.”
That night, a cool rain began to fall. Heated emotions simmered down. Violence took a brief rest.
On Thursday, some black laborers returned to work. But it turned out to be too soon. White workers in the Stock Yard still seethed with resentment and hatred toward the blacks they blamed for undermining the union. One white laborer struck a black man with a hammer. A mob of laborers then chased the black worker through some sheep pens, beating him with shovels and brooms until he keeled over dead.
Ida Wells-Barnett and the committee of black leaders were outraged at the absence of police protection. Ida reported on an eyewitness statement that police “stepped aside” and “didn’t raise a club” as they watched the attack in the Yard. She also condemned the discriminatory approach her committee observed being taken by police with respect to confiscation of arms: “Homes of white people are not searched but the constitutional right of citizens to bear arms is violated without compunction in the case of colored people.”
Police protection was provided for blacks removing their belongings from damaged buildings.
In the Black Belt, there were signs of life returning to normal. Trucks were venturing back into the neighborhood, delivering a much-needed supply of fresh vegetables, milk, and ice. That evening, there was more reassuring news. The public transportation workers had voted to end their strike. Streetcars were to begin running at five o’clock on Friday morning.
As day dawned on Friday, streetcar service resumed. A communal sigh of relief was exhaled. Thousands of black packinghouse workers made their way across the streets of the Black Belt to the Urban League, the Wabash YMCA, and Jesse Binga’s bank, where they stood patiently in line, exchanging the latest news, as they waited for distribution of emergency pay at stations set up by Swift and the other packers.
Black packinghouse workers received emergency wages at the YMCA.
Blacks working on behalf of the company-sponsored Efficiency Clubs could be seen walking through the neighborhood, posting signs on trees declaring the riot to be over. The packers were promising security guards for protection on public transportation. The flyers urged blacks to return to work on Monday after a weekend of rest.
Union leaders were furious and scared at the same time: furious because the packers were making themselves out to be heroes to the black workers as the providers of both economic and physical security; scared because a return to work might be premature and disastrous. For months, even as they saw and heard the tensions and distrust on the shop floor and on the streets, union leaders had preached unity, urging blacks to trust them and their fellow Irish, Polish, and Lithuanian union men and women. They knew the seeds of goodwill had not yet taken root. They needed more time. And the riot had set them back; this they also knew. Just as surely, they knew that the men were still raw and not ready to make peace. A union representative tried to sway the packers: “These men will be on the killing floor of the packing plants. They will have cleavers and knives.” Envisioning a bloodbath, he declared, “You must be insane to attempt such a thing.”
The union leaders’ plea fell on deaf ears. The packing company owners, the governor’s staff, and the deputy chief of police met to put together a return-to-work plan for the twelve thousand black employees.
TWENTY
Moment of Truth
AT 3:35 A.M. ON SATURDAY, an orange light burst into the inky black sky over the Lithuanian section of Packingtown. Sparks peppered the air. A thick gray smoke mushroomed up and slowly spread over the neighborhood rooftops and church steeples. Below, forty-nine frame homes were in flames. Nine hundred and forty-eight people were left homeless. A quarter million dollars of hard-earned money that had been invested in house and home was gone.
As people poured into the streets, rumors flew. A truck filled with black men had been seen near the site of the fires. An early milkman saw what he thought to be black figures coming out of a barn immediately before it burst into flames. But something about these stories didn’t gel. When the milkman grabbed a nearby policeman to arrest the men, the policeman shrugged him off, saying he was “too busy” and “it is all right anyway.” Firemen later confided to a Packingtown social services director, Mary McDowell, that there were no blacks involved. As the facts were pieced together, it appeared that the gangs were at work
again, this time smearing on blackface and burning out the Lithuanians in an effort to create a further appetite for vengeance against blacks—to keep the riot going.
Men surveying the burned-out Lithuanian community while the fire still smoldered.
With emotions running high, the packing company owners and the governor agreed that the potential for reignited violence was too great to risk throwing the races together. Union leaders welcomed the reprieve. It was safer for blacks to stay home. And the emergency pay they had received the previous day would keep them fed for another week. For now, blacks would not return to the Stock Yard.
Lithuanians wandered in shock through the rubble of their homes, finding the rumors hard to sift through. The Tribune was quick to report on witnesses who placed blame on blacks. The Lithuanians’ fearless union leader, John Kikulski, pointed a finger at the packinghouse owners. The Polish newspaper accused the bosses of orchestrating the fires to further racial divisions among the workers. A popular Polish Catholic priest urged calm, calling the riots a “black pogrom” and hinting that the Irish were the culprits, trying to draw the Lithuanians into the battle. The union newspaper, the New Majority, pleaded for solidarity across racial lines: “Right now it is going to be decided whether the colored workers are to continue to come into the labor movement or whether they are going to feel that they have been abandoned by it and lose confidence in it.”
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