Death at Pullman (13 page)

It didn't happen quite as soon as Raoul expected. I arranged for someone else to cover for me at the relief station and contacted Alden. But when we arrived at Twelfth Street Station at noon we saw no unusual activity. Alden found out that the Illinois Central Railroad had made up trains of cars ahead of time, including Pullman cars. Then they had chained, padlocked, and sealed the couplings. We did not see Mr. LeClerc and I felt badly for him that the action had not started as he had hoped. It was another disappointment and it did not bode well.

“Don't worry, Em,” my brother told me. “It'll happen all right. Just not so fast. You'll see. This is going to be really big.”

I decided to go to Hull House while in town and report on the problems down in Pullman. Miss Addams had received bad news about her sister, who was very ill. She welcomed my visit, as I could help her to put things in order before she left for what she feared might be a final visit. Her absence would make it even more difficult to resupply the relief station, but a death in the family waits for no other circumstance—something that I had learned with my mother's death in Boston a few months previously. My heart went out to Miss Addams—there is such a dread when going to see a loved one with the knowledge that it may be for the last time. One feels so inadequate.

I had already planned to return to Pullman later that day, but received a message from my brother saying that he would come and escort me after dinner. When he arrived, he was full of information about the suspense.

“Nothing yet,” he told me on the cab ride to Twelfth Street Station. “Your friend Jennings, and some of the others from Pullman, will be down there for the send-off of the Diamond Special for St. Louis. It leaves at nine. They're already calling the ARU action ‘ineffective'. We can get you on the nine-thirty local down to Pullman. We're here. Come on.”

He jumped out and I followed him into the new, modern terminal, which had been built for the World's Columbian Exposition the year before. The tall structure housed many tracks and was always bustling with travelers. I had been there many times during my two years in the city, but never before was I conscious of the men who actually ran and serviced the streamlined mechanical monsters we had come to take for granted. Where would the country be without the continual throb of these engines that pulsed in the air of the huge shed? The roads, as they were called, had become the arteries that carried the life-blood of the nation. Chicago itself had grown thick and prosperous as the crossroads where food and goods and people from the East and West passed through.

The crowded tenements of immigrants from Europe who surrounded Hull House on the West Side had all been delivered here by the railroads—coming from Eastern ports already overburdened with new arrivals. And Pullman had designed his palace cars to allow the privileged among us to ride along in style, cushioned from the noise and smells and sounds, in an atmosphere of luxury comparable to a Prairie Avenue parlor. And it was the carrying of just that small part of the whole that was going to stop. Looking around at the lines of sturdy metal boxes all preparing to depart, I could only think that the Pullman cars must be a very small part of this picture. If only George Pullman would have a little pity on the people of his town, there would be no need for even this comparatively minor disruption of the vast movement of goods and people across our continent.

Alden beckoned me towards a man in a worn tweed jacket who was slouching against a column. “Emily, this is Piper from the
Times
. He thinks there's going to be some action. Piper, this is my sister. She's at Hull House and she's been running the relief station down in Pullman.”

The man nodded, not bothering to remove his hands from his pockets. “Over there, that's the Pullman Company contingent. Track Eight.” I looked across and saw Jennings towering above some of the other men I was familiar with from the Florence Hotel. “That's the Diamond Special.”

“Are they palace cars?” Alden had his pencil and notepad out.

“Yeah, but made up ahead of time. They're gloating, but they may be in for a surprise. The ARU is here too, over there.” He nodded in the other direction. This time I recognized Raoul LeClerc. I took a step back so the pillar blocked my view. Somehow I did not want him to see me if this would be another demonstration of failure for the ARU. I thought it would gall him to see me there, and I had no wish for that. I also felt a little uncertain of how I would feel, meeting him for the first time after our encounter the night before. I feared my brother's ever-inquisitive eyes.

“But the men at the union rally last week were so firm,” I objected. “How can they not go through with it?”

“Oh, they'll go through with this. You wait and see. The union hasn't declared a strike on the railways, see. They want to make sure that is clear. They are only refusing to handle Pullman cars. All they want the railroads to do is to leave those in the yards, that's all. It's a small number of cars. By delaying the action, they are trying to make that clear.”

“So, will they just move the trains without the Pullman cars?” I asked. “The rest of the trains will continue. Surely the railroads can agree to that.”

“You would think so, and most of the railroad men don't care for Pullman.”

“That's what they told us at the General Managers',” Alden said.

“But they've laid it down. The General Managers put out a statement yesterday that the proposed refusal to hook up the Pullmans is an action in support of something they have nothing to do with—the Pullman Company isn't even a railroad. So, they say any employee who refuses to hitch up a Pullman car will be discharged, even if he'll do every other duty. Most likely the first ones will be the switchmen. If one of them refuses to switch a palace car onto a train, then he'll be fired, right there. They tell someone else to do it, and he's fired for refusing. They fire a switchman, and the other unions come into play and the others—engineers, etcetera—all walk off. Like dominoes falling. But the managers say they'll just hire others in their places. It's a poker game. Got to see who's holding and who's bluffing. Look, there goes the Diamond.”

I looked as the steam from the engine filled the shed and the wheels started turning. The crowd around Jennings clapped and whooped. I peeked out to see where LeClerc was standing with some workingmen. He showed no emotion.

“Was that one made up ahead of time?” Alden asked.

“Not sure.” Piper stood up from the column he had been leaning against. “Here it comes, watch this now.”

As the Diamond Special slowly moved out of the station, the track beyond it was revealed. I heard a yell and saw one of the men in LeClerc's group trudge away and take a ladder down to the tracks. He stood beside a box on the ground and folded his arms.

“Switchman,” said Piper.

A man with a clipboard shouted down to him from above. The switchman looked at him, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head.

“That's it, he's firing him for refusing.”

Sure enough, the man quietly climbed the ladder and walked back towards LeClerc. The men around him were silent. They did not seem angry or surprised. They expected this. Jennings and his crowd had started to leave but they stopped and watched now, frowning. The man with the clipboard shouted again. I couldn't hear the exact words, but the whole station had gotten unusually quiet. There was still the clatter of wheels, and the occasional shriek of a whistle, and the pounding of the engines, but people seemed frozen like statues.

Another man shook his head, was fired by the man with the clipboard, and walked away. A shout from the departing man started an exodus of others. We saw the engineers from another train walking away. The man with the clipboard was shaking his head angrily and shouting out their names. He was writing down names as he recognized the men. As a group they walked to another track further down. There they joined a parade of men quietly walking away from their jobs.

“Oh, boy, the Pullman crowd is unhappy.”

I looked across and sure enough, Jennings was getting redder in the face every minute. The men in his group shook their heads and talked loudly, although I couldn't hear what they said. Jennings found Raoul LeClerc in the crowd of workingmen and glared at him. LeClerc merely nodded, then spoke a few words to the men around him and they dispersed.

“The ARU doesn't want trouble,” Piper commented. “Here comes their man.”

Raoul came over to us.

“So it has begun?” Piper asked. “How many do you expect to walk off?”

“It depends on the workers,” LeClerc told him. “All types of workers have been urged to participate, whether they are ARU or not.” We all watched as the walkout quickly spread to other tracks. There was a quiet and orderly parade of men just walking away. “It seems that many of the workers want to participate. We'll see.”

“Look at that, would you?” Piper whistled. “I wouldn't have believed it. That's a few hundred already. I need to go get some numbers, and some reactions.”

“Me, too. Emily can you catch your train down to Pullman without me? I need to go.” Alden was clearly eager to pursue the story.

“I'll take her to Track Two,” Raoul offered. “There are no Pullman cars on that local, Miss Cabot. And I happen to know that it will continue to run, despite the action.”

Things were beginning to stir as passengers realized they might be delayed or even be unable to make their trips. Raoul took my elbow and led me to the train.

“I'm glad things happened so smoothly for you,” I told him. “I know the people of the town of Pullman are very grateful for the support of the ARU and the railway men. It will make such a difference to them. I hope above all that this will bring Mr. Pullman to his senses and that he will make a just settlement with his workers.”

He gave a small smile. “We can only wish it will be as simple as you propose. However, we will have to see.” There was a blur of activity behind him as we said goodbye. There was tension in the air and uncertainty about the future. I was glad the strike had come off and the workingmen were standing together. But I was uneasy as we pulled out of the station and I saw several engines stopped with wisps of smoke lingering around them. I had heard that once an engine was cold, it would take a long time to get it going again. Certainly some of the engines would go cold that night. How long would it last? And how long would it take to get this mighty surge going again, once it had come to a halt?

And now that it had started, I couldn't help wondering when I would see Raoul LeClerc again. The memory of our walk by the lake lingered in my mind.

 “And you brought the letter to Mr. MacGregor first of all, is that correct, Miss Cabot?” Detective Whitbread was obviously not happy with me about that fact, but I could only admit it.

“Well, yes. You see it was slipped under the door when I arrived here this morning.” We were in the relief station with the door firmly closed—Detective Whitbread, Mr. MacGregor, and myself. I was especially hoping not to rouse the curiosity of Dr. Chapman, downstairs in his clinic. He would be unhappy with this turn of events and sure to scold me. “It seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances, and Mr. MacGregor was the one who insisted, he absolutely insisted that we bring you into it immediately.”

Mr. MacGregor was sitting in a hard-backed chair looking small and uncomfortable. The lanky detective was tipped back in his chair, balanced on the two hind legs in a manner I found alarming. He was reading the scrap of paper that had been folded and forced under the door. The words were carefully, almost painfully, spelled out in rounded letters, printed in pencil.

“I know it is important to report such a threat to the authorities . . . to you . . . ”

“Miss Cabot.” Detective Whitbread landed all four legs of the chair on the worn, wooden floor with a bang. “This letter threatens a bomb. A bomb, Miss Cabot. How could you even consider withholding it?”

“I never meant to do that. I mean, of course I knew we would spread the alarm. It's just that, well, you know how difficult the struggle has been down here. This letter makes it seem like the striking workers will set off a bomb. But it's really a trick; it's not legitimate.”

“But a bomb, Miss Cabot. Exactly what did you hope that Mr. MacGregor could do about this?”

“Call you, just as he has done. But won't it be better, much better, if he and the other strikers help you to foil this plot?”

“Ah, I see, you expected Mr. MacGregor to find the assassins, expose them, and save the day?” I blushed then because I had had something like that in mind. “And what of the bomb, Miss Cabot? How did you expect Mr. MacGregor to deal with that, may I ask? At least the man has the common sense not to try to handle this without police help. I'm sorry I cannot say as much for you. What did you think would happen? Two groups of men fighting, a bomb blast, and people killed? Of course the very strikers you wish to help would be blamed. Have you no sense at all?”

“Of course, I . . . Listen, Detective, I know that the very idea of a bomb is just terrifying, especially here in Chicago. I know that ever since Haymarket it has been the thing most feared of all. And I know they never really found out what happened there. Look at what they did—they arrested, and even convicted, men who were later proven not to have been in the city at the time. The governor pardoned some of the men because it was so obviously unjust. To this day people still believe what they want to believe and the truth about what happened is still not known.”

“Exactly the danger in allowing this type of incendiary device to go off, Miss Cabot. Exactly why this must be prevented—
not
allowed to happen and
then
proven to be the result of some conspiracy that justifies the actions of one side or the other. This is extremely dangerous and it is essential to use this intelligence to stop it.” He waved the scrap of paper that threatened a bombing at seven o'clock that evening. It indicated that the intruders would enter by the east door of the factory.

Mr. MacGregor coughed and moved in his chair. “Miss Cabot did come to me, and I know this is a great danger to us all. It is something we have feared all along. It is why we have scheduled the men to patrol. We know our men would not do anything to harm the works, but if the company could make it seem like we would, then people might believe it. So we have been afraid of something of this sort all along.”

“Yes, and that Jennings was at the General Managers' in the Rookery claiming someone would try to bomb the clock tower. How do we know he didn't set it all up?”

“There is no proof of anything of the kind, Miss Cabot. Have you considered that this note, itself, might be a trap? It could be an attempt to lure you to the place so that you would be harmed. Or it might be to dupe you into believing the company is behind the action, when it is actually the ARU They have some very suspicious characters in their ranks.”

“Oh, how can you say that? They are just standing with their fellow workers to help the people of Pullman get a just wage. And why is it that—just when the ARU is taking action, an action that is much more liable to have effect than anything the poor workers down here can do—suddenly there is a bomb plot to blow up the clock tower? Never.”

“Detective,” MacGregor broke in. “I have an idea that the one who wrote the note may be one of our men. I'm thinking he was coerced by money, maybe, to be a part of this but he had second thoughts. I'm thinking he sent the note to Miss Cabot here because if the company men are in on it, then there's some in the police down here are owing to them. And if we reported it to them, you see, then it would get right back to the company—if the company men were behind it. I'm very much afeared some of our men may be involved,” he sighed. “It's lacking money for food that would do it. But, if one of them has exposed this plot, I'm thinking they may feel Miss Cabot here and the ladies of Hull House would stand firm and not be swayed by the company, unlike many others down here, if you see what I mean.”

Detective Whitbread frowned. “It is a concern. MacGregor is right. If it turns out it is the company, then if we used the men from the station down here, well, they've all got an interest in helping Pullman, I've seen that.”

“I could get some of my men I know would never have been corrupted.”

“No. You cannot be sure of that. Any of them could be involved.”

“There's the ARU man—LeClerc—he could get some men from in town.”

“Never. How do you know the ARU is not behind this, Mr. MacGregor? And what do you think the Pullman Company would say if we were to expose a plot and we were to have ARU people in the room? Impossible. No, I'll go to town and return with some men from the Harrison Street station. They have no contacts down here and are beholden to no one. It will be a small number, but it should suffice. Meanwhile, you will tell no one. I will recruit Miss Cabot's brother. The two of them will be external, impartial witnesses who we can be confident will not alert anyone in the company ahead of time. They, too, will accompany us. At five o'clock we'll meet near the Florence Hotel.”

“But Detective Whitbread, surely you won't have the young woman come along on such a dangerous assignment. What if we don't stop the bomb in time? There could be injuries.”

“I am willing to come,” I insisted.

“It will be an object lesson, Mr. MacGregor. If Miss Cabot is going to take a matter like this into her own hands, I think she must learn exactly how dangerous it will be. I will attempt to ensure no one is harmed, of course. But if she will mix herself into such matters, she must take her chances like the rest of us.”

* * *

So it was that I found myself sneaking into the east door of the Pullman factory after Whitbread and several plainclothes detectives shortly after five o'clock in the evening. I had not returned to the Florence for a meal, unsure of my ability to keep my excitement at the prospect of the evening's activities to myself. I made do with some bread and cheese from the relief station.

It was warm, with a wind whipping up. As we approached the factory, from a wooded section between it and the lake, I looked sideways and thought I saw a figure. One minute I could have sworn it was Raoul LeClerc, and the next I realized it was my memory of walking with him that other evening that was tricking me into feeling his presence. The next moment I felt a tap on my shoulder from Alden and took my turn hurrying into the factory.

MacGregor had shamefacedly admitted he had access to a key to the east door. That probably explained why the conspirators also planned to come that way. Whitbread had brought half a dozen men—silent, hard-faced men—who took his orders without question. I had a feeling they were used to dealing with much rougher characters than any of the Pullman strikers.

With very little conversation, and a single lantern, Whitbread stationed his men around the building and locked, or boarded, doors until there was only one means of approaching the base of the clock tower in the center. The ground floor was made up of a warren of fairly large-sized workrooms with wooden floors and bare brick walls. They were careful to padlock any doors to the sheds where they worked on the cars, and to the stairs up to the offices on the second and third floors. Whitbread located a large closet, opposite a broad table at the base of the clock tower, and opened the wide door, gesturing for us to go in. Mr. MacGregor found a stool for me to sit on, while he, Alden, and Whitbread would have to make do with the floor. Before he joined us in the closet, the detective lit a small gas lamp mounted on the wall above the table in the hall. We had seen such lamps set around the building. Perhaps there was a watchman who came through.

“And now,” Whitbread said in a low voice. “I must ask for silence and meditation. We have come ahead of time so as not to risk detection. They will undoubtedly send someone in to make sure all is clear. No talking. And when they come it is especially important to maintain silence. Nothing will happen until I blow this.” He held up a silver whistle on a line around his neck. He had left the door ajar, providing just enough light to see by. “It is especially important that our impartial witnesses, Mr. and Miss Cabot, hear the voices and it is essential that we capture the bomb-making materials. Otherwise, they will run away and strike again when we are unaware and unwarned.”

So we sat. After a while it was painful to remain perched on the stool in the dark, without the possibility of conversation. I could hear my brother twitching—he had never been much good at staying still. The detective and Mr. MacGregor seemed to have much more self-control than either of us. I thought the wait would never end.

Finally, I heard a soft shushing sound from Detective Whitbread. Sure enough, in the flickering gaslight, a shadow passed across the opposite wall. But then it was gone. Alden moved to stand and I heard Whitbread push him back down. Footsteps shuffled in the hallway and a voice softly counted, “That's two, three . . . where are you . . . four and five . . . and six. That's it.”

MacGregor moved then and I saw the shadow of Whitbread's long arm move swiftly and silently to cover his mouth. I, too, had recognized the voice. It was MacGregor's second in command, Leonard Stark. I put a hand to my own mouth to keep from exclaiming. This was the worst possible thing. Stark? How could he be involved? He was one of the main organizers of the strike. I realized how this would end—it was not good, not good at all. It would turn out that some of the strikers had decided on violence, on destruction of the property of the company that was treating them so cruelly. But who had warned us with the note?

Could it be that the company had found out and planned to have us discover this? I was deeply disappointed. Why had I been the one to bring about this discovery? It would go very badly for the striking men and women of Pullman, the people I so wanted to help. It would be a huge embarrassment to the ARU and all its representatives would suffer.

“When I light this, you want to scram,” Stark said, and I heard the swish of a match. At the same moment, MacGregor stumbled and knocked against the wall. I heard Whitbread and my brother both swear. There was a sizzling sound outside, then the earsplitting screech of the detective's whistle, and all was pandemonium.

There was shouting and grunting and banging. I held back in the closet but could see Whitbread jump up and scrape along the floor with his shoe to put out the lit fuse. He pulled out another lamp, and lit it so that we could see more clearly what was happening. Meanwhile, his men had reappeared from their hiding places and dragged Stark's followers to the center of the room. Mr. MacGregor was doing a painful little jig as he recognized them.

“Martin Allen, how could you? How could you, man? And George Devine, I might have known you'd be a fool. Where's Stark? Where is that lying, thieving, double-crossing son of a bitch? I'll kill him.” Suddenly, a body came flying from the hallway to land on top of them. It was Leonard Stark, who quickly rolled to one side and jumped to his feet with his arms out and a knife in one hand. MacGregor faced him, squatting as if to attack.

“Here, here now, it's over,” Whitbread told them, nodding to his men. They grabbed Stark and MacGregor, while the others lay on the floor, as if afraid to move. Another of Whitbread's men looked in from the doorway. “Did we get the third one?”

“Yes, yes. That's all of them? Three is it?”

Stark was struggling, trying to shake off the men who held him. Whitbread stepped over and twisted Stark's hand until he let go of the knife. “Jennings. I want to see Jennings. The Pullman Company. I work for them.”

“Not any more you don't, you liar,” MacGregor was still restrained by the policemen.

Stark struggled again. “Let me go. I'm an agent of the Pullman Company. Let me go. I demand to see the general manager.”

“You LIAR!” MacGregor screamed. The two men on the floor flinched.