Death at Pullman (17 page)

Jake and Pauley, the two men who brought me up from Pullman, were happy enough to stay the several days it took me to organize supplies. At least at Hull House they were fed, which was better than down in Pullman. When we finally loaded up the wagon I was disappointed at the paucity of the amount I had been able to purchase. It appeared to be so little, when I knew that the need that would meet us at the other end would be so great. But it would have to do. At any rate, it would be an improvement over the completely empty shelves I had left behind. I thought even the Hull House residents were happy to see me leave, so demanding had I become with my begging.

It was a hot and dusty ride back down to Pullman. We did not see any of the mobs so feared by the people who read the newspapers. When we arrived it was easy to recruit some of the weary men in the meeting room to help carry the supplies up to my relief station. They were only too quickly unloaded and I gave a small amount of food to my helpers to take home, saying the rest would be distributed the next day when I had managed to round up my committee, who would once again oversee the fair distribution of the goods.

I locked the doors and descended to the clinic on the second floor to let Dr. Chapman know that I had returned. His door was shut but in the corridor, on the hard bench, there was a single waiting patient. I felt a thrill of recognition.

“Raoul.”

He looked around as if in a fog. I was so glad to see him. I was so tired of being angry, of having to hammer at people to make them understand the crisis. I was so happy to be able to tell him that I had returned with supplies. Not enough, perhaps, but at least it was something. I longed to feel his arm around my shoulders in a confidential manner, as when we had last met. I was so excited to reconnect that I sat down close beside him and put a hand on his arm. I had worried I would feel embarrassed, seeing him after the kisses he had surprised me with the last time, but now my scruples seemed ridiculous to me. He had a warmth and an enthusiasm that I felt a great need for. He still had hope for success and I needed to feel that. It seemed that he was one of the few who felt the same passion for this situation as I did.

But he looked at me, as if I were a stranger, then looked down at my hand on his arm and moved away from me, pointedly sliding several inches to the side with a distinct frown on his face. I was mortified. It was such a forward thing I had done, sitting practically on top of him, touching him. I was so wrong about how I assumed he felt about me and it was all obvious to me in that second. I jumped to my feet in a useless attempt to hide my shame.

“Mr. LeClerc. I have just returned from the city. I have managed to bring back some supplies. Not much. Not enough, but some. Is there news of the strike? Is there any hope of it ending?”

He looked sullen. It was so unlike him. In the weeks since I had first met him, his hair had gotten longer and so had his moustache. He had let a small goatee grow on his chin. He looked more foreign than ever, I thought. More like the idea of a wild-eyed anarchist. But his eyes were not wild. They were dull under the lowering brow of his frown.

“I cannot say at this time. It doesn't matter what we do, they lie. They provoke trouble to blame the unions and Debs. They want to crush us but it will come at a cost to them. They want to gag us, but we will be heard. They are turning the full force of the government and the money people against us, but they will learn. They will find out that the workingman will fight back.”

At that moment the door to the office opened and Dr. Chapman ushered out a very ill-looking Fiona MacGregor. I realized Raoul was in the corridor because he was waiting for her. The doctor seemed angry. Fiona was very pale as she shuffled forward, leaning on his arm. Raoul leaped up and took over solicitously, with one arm around her as he gave her support.

“She needs bed rest. Complete bed rest,” the doctor said. “There is nothing else I can do for her. Take her home. I have nothing else to say to you.” Then he turned and went back into his office, closing the door with a bang. I jumped.

“Miss MacGregor, you're ill. I'm so sorry to hear it. I . . . I've brought back some supplies from Hull House. I was going to come and see you, to get our committee together.” She looked at me vaguely and slumped against LeClerc. “But don't worry. I will gather the others. You go home and rest, like the doctor said.” LeClerc was taking her to the stairs, ignoring me. Soon I was left alone in the corridor. It was the end of the day, dusk coming on, so all of the doctor's patients were finally gone. I stepped over and knocked on his door.

“Come in.”

I opened the door and left it open, as it usually was. He had his back to me, tidying up instruments on a table in the corner of the room.

“Dr. Chapman. I came to let you know that I've returned from the city . . . with some supplies.” I thought he would approve of my actions. “I saw Mr. LeClerc in the hallway. Poor Miss MacGregor. She's ill, it seems?”

He banged a metal instrument into a container, his neck red. It made me wonder whether he was angry that Fiona had gone away with Raoul LeClerc. It seemed to me that he had some affection for her. Was he disappointed by her so obvious admiration for Mr. LeClerc? The doctor and Fiona MacGregor? But she was so young, and so uneducated. Yet clearly he was moved by some strong emotion. It shocked me.

“Miss MacGregor is ill and presumably she will recover if she rests. It is not something to be discussed. This miserable town and this miserable strike. They do nothing but drive people to awful choices. Men like Pullman and Debs are only too willing to sacrifice the ordinary people in their quest for power.”

“I believe that Mr. Debs and the ARU are trying to build a better future for all of the workers. How can they fight back against someone like Pullman without such an organization?” I thought he was more angry for the effect on little Fiona than for anything else. He really was angry on her account. But it was Raoul who was comforting her and taking care of her now. I felt the need to swallow my own disappointment about the feelings I'd thought Mr. LeClerc had for me. There was a greater good to be considered. The doctor was wrong about the ARU at least. “I'm sure Mr. LeClerc continues to want to help the people of Pullman.”

“LeClerc! He'll help them to hell if he can.”

He was jealous of Raoul. I would never have thought it of the doctor. So much was happening before my eyes without my understanding any of it. Of course, the doctor had proposed marriage to me before all of this began. I turned him down believing he made the offer only from pity. And I was mortified to find I was correct. Perhaps in Fiona MacGregor, he had found a woman who truly raised his affections, only to lose her to the union man. I felt a knot in my throat.

“Dr. Chapman.” Alden appeared in the doorway. “Oh, Emily, I didn't see you. I haven't seen you since the clock tower incident. I tried to write that up the way it happened, by the way, but they changed it . . . they edited it.”

“‘Dictator Debs', Alden? Instead of exposing how the Pullman Company used that Pinkerton man to trick those men, it becomes a condemnation of the strikers, as if they planted the bomb. It was all Jennings and Stark.”

“I know, Emily, but the newspapers are all against them. They were with the strikers while it was just Pullman, but once the ARU got involved, they turned against them.”

“Do you know what Stark did, Alden?”

“Shot Mooney? Yes, I heard.”

“And he still got away with it. Whitbread hid him in a wagon and drove him out of the police station so the crowd couldn't get him.”

“He had no choice, Emily. That's his job.”

“To save a murderer?”

“To protect him from a mad crowd. They would have torn him apart. You know Whitey couldn't let that happen. Stark has to be dealt with by the law—although that's not going to happen 'til this is all over. Right now he has the protection of having been deputized by Sheriff Arnold. But if he killed Brian O'Malley, you know Whitbread will get him in the end.”

“If he killed him. What else could have happened? Jennings and Stark planned the bomb plot. Brian O'Malley was going to tell on them, so they killed him and hung him up with the spy sign so they could blame the strikers.”

“Whitbread will have to prove it—but that will have to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For the end of this.”

“The strike? You see an end in sight? Well, good, because I don't. I don't see how any of this will end. What have you heard?”

“Same thing that you're hearing. Listen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen, don't you hear that?” He ran to the window and threw up the sash. There was a pounding noise and some shouting, but regular—not confused—shouting, then more pounding, tramping. I stepped over to stand beside him at the window.

There were rows of men in dark blue coats, with rifles on their shoulders, marching down the street. Stamp . . . stamp.

“It's the army,” Alden explained. “The president sent the army.”

 “President Cleveland ordered them in. It's supposed to be to protect the mails,” Alden told us. “Attorney General Olney got an injunction against Debs and the ARU. They haven't arrested them, but they can't talk to any of the unions or send messages. All communication is banned. If you see any ARU people, they're not supposed to be here.”

I remembered how distant Raoul LeClerc had seemed. He was not supposed to be here in Pullman. His presence would be taken as an effort by the ARU to communicate with the Pullman strikers. I tried to excuse his coldness to me with that thought. But, if that was the case, why had he come? For Fiona?

I could not believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. The files of men were stamping past below us. “But how can they do this? How can they bring the army into Chicago? By what authority?”

“They haven't called it martial law yet, but it's close. At first they had the police—Detective Whitbread, in fact—directing the local militia. But they were being sent out whenever there were problems at the railroad crossings. The Pullman Company people and the railroad managers complained. They want their property protected. They complained so much that General Miles came down, having ordered in the regular troops from Fort Sheridan. Now the police and sheriff all have to report to the local military man. City Hall is furious. We heard Governor Altgeld has protested, too. But what can they do? It was Olney in Washington. He had a federal judge issue an injunction based on interference with the U.S. mails and then they ordered the troops in. It was the general managers. They demanded it.”

“Excuse me, is Dr. Chapman here?”

We turned from the window and saw a very young-looking man in a dark blue serge uniform with a shiny black leather belt.

“I'm Stephen Chapman.”

“Sir, my commanding officer, Colonel Turner, requests that you come to headquarters. That's at the Florence Hotel, sir.”

“For what purpose?”

“I don't know, sir, but he wants to meet with you, as the representative of the clinic, and with the organizers of the relief station—a Miss Cabot from Hull House, I believe?”

“That would be me,” I said, equally surprised.

“Oh, very good, ma'am. I am to escort you both to head-quarters, please.”

“Headquarters is at the Florence?” Alden took out his notebook and pencil.

“Yes. We took over some rooms a few hours ago. And you are . . . sir?”

“Well, I'm . . . ”

“This is my brother, Mr. Alden Cabot,” I interrupted. Dr. Chapman raised an eyebrow but did not contradict my attempt to give the impression that Alden was also running the relief station. I thought it better not to mention that he was a member of the press. I suddenly felt that such a witness might be useful. I wanted him to come with us.

“Well, if you would all come along with me then.”

I looked at Stephen and Alden and shrugged. It seemed a way to find out what was really happening. We followed the soldier out the door.

The four of us walked over to the hotel, seven or eight blocks away. The troops were still marching in the middle of the street. The public had come out to watch, as if it were a parade. But there was none of the holiday spirit of a parade. There was wonder and unease. More than one man I passed on that walk removed a hat to scratch his head as if trying to decide what to think of it all. More than anything the march of the men in the middle of the street seemed menacing.

When we reached the Florence, we saw that the lawn in front, and surrounding grounds, had been turned into a campground. Tents were laid out in rows and fires were being set under iron kettles and skillets. Amidst all the activity there was no question of using the ladies' entrance. We followed our escort up the stairs of the main entrance through which I had gone on my earlier visit with Detective Whitbread.

“Miss Cabot, Miss Cabot.”

Before we entered I heard Mr. MacGregor's voice calling. I turned and saw that he and several other men were being held back by a group of soldiers at the base of the steps.

“It's all right,” I told our escort, “I know Mr. MacGregor.” I stepped back down the steps. The soldiers still blocked the Pullman strikers from getting any closer.

“Miss Cabot, they won't let us in to see the man in charge. They won't let us do our patrols. They've stopped us from doing anything. You have to tell them. You saw what the company did, how they tried to make it look like we were causing damage. We must protect the works or they could sabotage it again.”

“Can't you allow him to come in with us?” I asked our escort.

“No, ma'am. Colonel's orders. No strikers in headquarters.”

I turned back and talked across the impassive forms of the soldiers blocking the strikers. “Don't worry, Mr. MacGregor. I will tell them what I know.”

At that I had to return to my companions and enter the hotel lobby. It looked just as it had on my previous visits, but the smoking and billiard room to the right had been turned into the military headquarters. I could see that one of the billiard tables had been pushed under the windows and maps were spread across its surface. Others had been moved against walls and at least two typing machines had been set up at smaller tables, with chairs I recognized from the dining room. They were manned by uniformed soldiers. Other men in uniform milled around and I could see that a telephone and telegraph had been set up on another table.

We weren't the only people waiting in the lobby when our escort left us to find out if the colonel was ready to see us. At the far end of the hallway Mr. Jennings was arguing with an officer with epaulets on his shoulders and a sword at his side.

“But I must see the colonel,” he was telling the officer. “You don't seem to understand. We are officers of the Pullman Company. We own this hotel and this town. You cannot just take over rooms like this.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but the colonel is not free at the moment. He asks that you wait in the north parlor. He will send someone for you when he is available.”

“But that's the ladies' parlor,” Jennings protested in frustration. Then he saw us standing there and his face reddened. He became even more agitated. “This is ridiculous. I demand to see your commanding officer. We are the ones who have demanded protection for the property of the company. By what right do you move in and take over here?”

The officer signaled several soldiers who calmly surrounded Mr. Jennings and the two men at his elbows. “I'm sorry, sir, but we have had to commandeer these rooms as part of our deployment. The town of Pullman falls under our control, sir. I must ask you to retreat to the parlor, sir, or I will have to tell these soldiers to take you into custody. We would prefer not to have to do that, sir, but I cannot allow you into the colonel's presence until he calls for you.”

“Mr. Pullman will hear of this. And you can depend on it that he will contact the attorney general personally to protest this treatment.”

“Yes, sir. That is as it may be. Now, if you will wait in the parlor . . . ” Alden snickered as the soldiers quietly followed a defeated Jennings down the hall to the ladies' parlor.

There were several other groups of civilians standing around the lobby waiting to be called. Dr. Chapman suddenly turned to me and took me by the shoulders. “Emily, listen. This is a serious situation.” He looked around and spoke in a lower tone. “I don't know why the colonel summoned us, but we are here as representatives of Hull House, the clinic, and the relief station. This is no time to be speaking up for the cause of the strikers or anything else. We are here to try to tend to the well-being of the people down here and not to take sides in this conflict. I know it has been difficult to get supplies but, however meager the stores we can offer, it will be disastrous if the army were to close us down. Do you understand? For the good of the people we are trying to help, we must try to keep the relief station and the clinic open.”

I glared at him until he remembered himself and released his grip, patting my shoulder as if to apologize.

“Uh, oh,” said Alden. “That was the wrong thing to do, Doctor. I know that look.” I turned my glare on him. “It's stony. It's the sphinx gaze, the one that turns you to stone.”

Too late, the doctor realized his mistake and there was a look of alarm on his face as our escort came up behind him. “Colonel Turner will see you now, if you will follow me, please.”

He led us through the men in uniform scurrying around the first billiard room and into a room at the far end of the building. I had never been there before. The man in charge had chosen to position himself behind the barriers of lesser men as a good demonstration of military tactics. Jennings and the other Pullman men might lay siege, but they would be hard put to reach the man in the inner sanctum. He was a broad-shouldered man, in a double-breasted dark blue uniform with gleaming brass buttons. He had short, clipped hair but a full beard and moustache. He looked about forty-five years old, bronzed and bitten by the sun. The troops had probably been out West fighting red Indians before being called to the wilds of Chicago.

“This is Miss Cabot, Mr. Cabot, and Dr. Chapman, Colonel. Ma'am, gentlemen, this is Colonel Turner.” Our escort looked relieved to have completed his duty and stepped aside. For a moment I was distracted as I recognized the large table behind which the colonel stood as one from the dining room. I could not imagine how it had fit through the doors, as it was so large. An armchair, also looted from the dining room, was pulled out behind it. It gave me a hint of the power the commands of such a man held. Let there be a desk commanded, and no mere doorway could stand between the order and its completion.

He spoke. “Miss Cabot, gentlemen, I am here to establish order and protect the property of the United States.”

“Excuse me, Colonel Turner,” I purposely interrupted, “there are men outside who wish to speak with you. Mr. MacGregor, who is well known to us as a leader of the peaceable strikers in this town, is trying to get an audience with you. He has important information.”

The colonel glanced at our escort as if to blame him for delivering such a noisy package and grimaced. “Madame, it is not the policy of the United States Army to negotiate with people who are out to disturb the peace.”

“But Mr. MacGregor and his men have been trying to prevent violence and the destruction of property ever since the strike began. After the incident here last week in which the Pullman Company itself hired men to plant a bomb—in order to implicate the strikers in a treacherous manner—they have every right to be concerned and to want to talk to you. Are you aware that the man Leonard Stark was used as an agent provocateur by the company? And are you aware that Mr. Stark is guilty of the out-and-out murder of an innocent man, and was implicated in the hanging murder of another man before the strike even began? Yet this man, Stark, is allowed to go free. But you will not speak to Mr. MacGregor? I protest, Colonel Turner. I fail to understand how you intend to protect anyone if this man Stark is allowed to roam around shooting people.”

The colonel's frown had deepened during my speech. “Miss Cabot, if you please. I have heard something of this person.” He turned to our escort. “Corporal Giles, go and get that policeman. Tell him I need him immediately.” He held up a hand to me as the man quickly left. “Please wait, Miss Cabot.” A moment later, the young corporal marched in smartly, followed by Detective Whitbread.

“Detective Whitbread, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Detective, this young lady complains of a certain Leonard Stark who she says has been guilty of murdering various people. Is this the man you told me about?”

Whitbread avoided my gaze. “Yes, Colonel. Mr. Stark is a Pinkerton agent. He was employed by the Pullman Company to ferret out a conspiracy to blow up the clock tower.”

“Ferret out! He created the conspiracy,” I objected.

“Miss Cabot, be quiet,” the colonel demanded. Before I could point out to him that I was not a soldier and thus not required to take his orders, Whitbread continued.

“Miss Cabot is probably correct in her description. She and her brother were present when we foiled the plot. However, as she knows, the company as represented by Mr. Jennings refused to press charges against Mr. Stark, but insisted on doing so against the other two men.”

“Who only did it for the money Stark and Jennings paid them,” I pointed out.

“Quite possibly true. Nonetheless, they did take part in the attempt and have been arrested. They await trial in the county jail.”

“While Stark is allowed to roam around shooting people.”

Detective Whitbread looked grim. “Miss Cabot refers to a shooting that took place on the Rock Island line several days ago.”

“Ah, yes. I believe I heard of that.”

“I was not present. However it would seem that a large crowd had gathered. Mr. Stark, along with a number of other men of questionable character, had been deputized by Sheriff Arnold. I have warned you that the sheriff has been unwise in his recruitment of men who are untrained and irresponsible. Some are no more than ruffians.”

“Yes, yes, you have made the point before. Go on.”