Death at Pullman (18 page)

“Confronted by an unruly crowd on the tracks, the deputies attempted to move an engine through. When the crowd would not move, Mr. Stark descended from the train, had words with the crowd, and eventually discharged his weapon. There are a number of witnesses who say that the man killed by the bullet was not an agitator, he was only an onlooker.”

“He was. I saw it with my own eyes. Mr. Mooney was only standing on the sidelines when Stark just shot him. I saw it. Not only has he not been arrested, but you helped him get away. You pretended it was the poor wounded man and drove him away from the police station. How could you?” I turned on my old friend and mentor, Whitbread.

“Miss Cabot refers to a subterfuge we undertook to remove the man Stark from the local police station when the crowd followed us there. It was necessary when they threatened to take him by force.”

“And afterwards?” the Colonel asked.

“Sheriff Arnold insisted the man's action was taken according to his directive. He refused to allow us to charge him. The accusation is still outstanding. The intention is to press charges, but the sheriff has refused to give him up. He insists his deputies were in danger from the crowd and the action was in self-defense.”

“What about Brian O'Malley?” I asked. “How is knocking a man on the head and hanging his body from the rafters self- defense?”

Detective Whitbread considered this. “There is no proof at this time that Leonard Stark was responsible for the death of Brian O'Malley.” He looked at the colonel. “That death happened before the ARU strike. It is still an open investigation that has been set aside while we deal with the other disturbances.”

“Of course he did it,” I insisted. “Brian must have found out about the bomb plot and like his brother—who did eventually betray the scheme—he was going to give them up. Stark and Jennings found out about it and killed him to stop him from telling.”

“Miss Cabot, there is no evidence to justify your accusation. None at all.”

“But they were the ones who planned the bomb plot, you know it. And Stark was already pretending to be a striker when really he was working for the company all along.”

“Nonetheless . . . ”

“Enough,” Colonel Turner broke in. “Miss Cabot, these matters are for the local authorities to sort out. They are not what I am here for. The army has been brought in to stop the violence, to protect the property of the United States, and to reinstate the regular delivery of the United States mails. Until that is done, these other matters will have to wait. Tomorrow morning my men will begin the job of clearing the tracks and making sure the mail trains get through. We will not tolerate any disruptions. Until peace is restored and transportation is back on schedule, the police and sheriff's departments down here will be reporting to me. Their primary duty will be to arrest anyone who prevents restoration of the train service. Until we have completed that task, no other matters will get their attention. So you see, the sooner that task is completed, the sooner we will be able to withdraw and leave the administration of law and order to the local authorities.”

He had a booming voice. I suppose if you are used to dealing with ranks and ranks of men you must need that. He had an authoritative manner, as well, and it was obvious that he was used to being listened to and obeyed. But this time Dr. Chapman spoke up.

“If you wish to restore order, then you must do something about the people of Pullman,” Dr. Chapman told him. “The people here are sick and starving. They have been in this condition for so long now they are desperate and there is no way to pacify desperate men if they have nothing to lose.”

“Exactly, Doctor. That is why I have asked you to come down here. I understand you have been treating the people of Pullman for the last month. Tell me. What is the condition of their health?”

“Very poor. It is not just the strike. It stems from conditions before that, the very circumstances that led to the strike. For the past half-year most of them have not had sufficient money to eat well. As a result they have become weaker and weaker. Due to the dampness brought about by proximity to the lake, malaria has been spreading. There are also a significant number suffering from tuberculosis. The general weakness due to lack of food has led to some other fevers and even broken bones.”

“Malaria. You say the lake contributes to this. What of your medicines? You have quinine? Other medicines?”

“Our stores are very low. Originally we brought down supplies from the city. I have had to ask for resupply several times and lately have had to beg some surplus from the university.”

“Corporal, ask Captain Robinson to step in.” The young soldier was back almost immediately, delivering a white-haired man with an open collar and no hat.

“Dr. Chapman, this is Captain Robinson, our company surgeon. Captain, the doctor reports there is sickness down here and a lack of medicines. There's malaria for one thing. We want to guard against this spreading to the troops. I'll issue a general order telling them to keep away from the locals. Meanwhile, you take Dr. Chapman here and get him fixed up with supplies of quinine and whatever else he needs. We need to keep our men healthy, so we need to help him keep the local sicknesses from spreading.”

Captain Robinson led Stephen away to the other room while the colonel called for a Corporal Fellows. A thin young man with wire-rimmed spectacles appeared immediately.

“Miss Cabot,” Colonel Turner continued, “I understand there is a problem with food supplies in the town. Exactly what is the situation?” Before I could answer, he stepped over to Alden and took the notebook he had been scribbling in from his hands. “And what is this?”

Alden looked at me with alarm. “My brother is a newspaper reporter.”

“I see. What newspaper, may I ask?”

Alden grinned. “
The Sentinel
 . . . ah . . . sir.”

“And you are down here to get a story?” Without waiting for an answer he bellowed, “Giles!” Our escort appeared in seconds. “Corporal Giles, it seems Mr. Alden Cabot is not down here for the relief station his sister operates. On the contrary, it seems he is a reporter looking for a story.” The corporal looked dismayed. The colonel handed Alden back his notebook. “Never mind. Take him around the camp. Show him the preparations. Be sure to impress on him the number of men and the readiness of every company. It will be a good thing to get out the word on how large the force is. The hooligans will think twice when they know what they're up against. Go along, show him all of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, Colonel Turner,” my brother said with a wave as he left.

“Now, Miss Cabot. You were telling me about the state of food supplies.”

“Very bad, Colonel. We have been out of supplies for several days and what we had has been very limited for the past two weeks. In fact, I have only returned today with a wagonload of supplies that we plan to distribute tomorrow. But it is much less than I had hoped. We have a list of seven hundred families now, in very desperate circumstances. They have no money and, while the businesses down here had been very good about extending credit, there is no credit left now. In fact, the most common source of food in the last weeks has been leftover scraps from the tables here at the hotel where there is never a shortage.” Suddenly I realized that I had given away that secret. “Oh, please. Do not prevent them from sharing that. I should not have told you about it. Please, Colonel.”

“Nonsense, Miss Cabot. I don't know what you are going on about. Let me tell you, while we are camped here no one in Pullman will starve. This is Corporal Fellows, our quartermaster. Now our supplies are intended to feed our men and keep them up to snuff. But we certainly can't have them eating their meals while starving civilians look on. We really would have a riot then. No, no. There's nothing fancy about our meals, Miss Cabot. You will find our staples are beans and rice. I believe there is some powdered milk we could share with the children, eh, Fellows? I'll let the corporal take you away, then. He can talk numbers with you.” He actually patted me on the back to encourage me to follow the young soldier. “Don't worry, Miss Cabot. No one is going to starve. I promise you that. Not while the army is camped here.”

He quickly turned back to bark out more orders and meet with more people, while I followed Corporal Fellows to a corner table where he sat me down and questioned me on the amounts and types of supplies needed and I described what I had originally brought from the city and what I had brought in the most recent load. I told him of the oversight committee, the list we had compiled, and the process we used to distribute food fairly.

“Very good, miss. That is exactly what the colonel wanted as a method of distribution. Now, I've taken into account what you told me and what you were able to do at the beginning, and here's what I think we can do.” We discussed a very long and generous list he had compiled of flour, sugar, rice, coffee, and beans. It was incredible to me. It was as if a huge, heavy block that had been on my shoulders was suddenly gone, removed. “No one will starve in Pullman.” The colonel had said that as if it were the easiest thing in the world to accomplish. It was only after sitting with the young corporal, with his fast hand figuring the amounts and the sun gleaming off his spectacles, that I realized what it meant. The colonel was not bragging. It was true. No one would starve in Pullman for as long as the army was camped in their yards. It was a huge relief.

“You're sure you don't think it would be a good idea to post a guard?” the corporal was asking.

“Oh, no. Really. We've never had any trouble. I don't think it's necessary.”

“Well, we will see. We will be by with these stores tomorrow afternoon. We'll let you distribute what you brought back from the city in the morning and then we'll restock your shelves. As the colonel said, it's not fancy, but what's good enough to keep an army moving should be plenty to help the local population.”

“They will be so very grateful, Corporal. You have no idea.”

“Very good, miss. We'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I'll bring men to move things.”

I left him to his tasks, stunned by how easily all my worries had been relieved. I felt light-headed. I couldn't bear the thought of staying at the hotel. Obviously the military men had no idea I was a resident. Nor could I bear to run into Mr. Jennings and the others from the company. Luckily, I saw that Stephen was just finishing with the company surgeon and I left with him. He, too, seemed stunned to find out how much help he would get from the army. We walked through the rows of tents without speaking.

“It's not right, though,” he said when we finally reached a corner that was beyond the camp boundaries. He stopped and looked back. “They are being generous with the medicines they can spare. I suppose with the food, too?”

“Oh, yes. Beyond what I could ever have hoped for. The colonel said no one would starve and now no one will. I don't know why I'm not happier about it. I feel like someone has a strong hand on my shoulder and they will never let go. It means I won't fall down as I walk, but I can't get loose from it either.”

“Yes. It feels wrong. Ours is not a country where the army can occupy a city and have it feel right. They usurp the local authorities. They may mean well, but it is so dangerous. They can impose so much. They are too strong.” He shook his head. “This may solve the quinine problem and put beans on the table, but I fear that it will bring far more serious problems, Emily. I fear that very much.”

Colonel Turner's hope that the troop deployment would bring the strike to a speedy close was not fulfilled. On the contrary, the presence of the army exacerbated the situation. In the following days the soldiers were assigned, along with police and deputy sheriffs, to clear the tracks and allow the trains to get through. But the people—not just the strikers, by any means—did not cooperate. There were plenty of unemployed men, and just plain troublemakers, who saw the opportunity for chaos, so there were always people available to block the way. They overturned cars on side lines to block the tracks being used or set fire to older cars in various places. When we saw a column of smoke it was sure to be a boxcar set afire by a crowd. They learned to move away when the train bearing soldiers came along, but then they filled in behind it, or went on ahead to block the passage, while the soldiers protected men clearing the tracks behind. Trains began to move, but it was a slow process. I could imagine the frustration of the military men unable to command the crowds of civilians.

The newspapers were completely behind the president and attorney general. They continued to refer to the union leader as “Dictator Debs”, claiming he was orchestrating the violence of the roaming gangs. They accused the local police of being sympathetic towards the strikers. They reported that the police stood by as the crowds overturned cars and blocked tracks. The headlines sneered at Mayor Hopkins's effort to bring the two sides to the table to talk. The editorials approved of the general managers resolve not to sit down with the ARU, even though Debs was willing to acquiesce to the mayor's request for a meeting. They reported the ARU leader's speech accusing the railroads of hiring thugs to cause trouble and blame the strikers, but they questioned the accuracy of the statements.

And the strike was by no means limited to Pullman, or even the greater Chicago environs. The newspapers promptly reported its spread, especially out West. In California, federal troops moved in to try to deal with strikers. As close as Indiana and Blue Island, south of the city, there was a mixed response. Local restaurants and businesses refused to serve military or sheriff's men, so strongly did they support the local strikers. There were reports of men arrested for refusing to report to their state militia duties because they were in favor of the strikers, and of train engineers cajoled or threatened into leaving their cabs when confronted by crowds. After one confrontation Sheriff Arnold claimed the cause was lost because of the defection of cowardly deputies.

Meanwhile, the ARU had purportedly begun to use men on bicycles to pass on information. It was said that they were on the point of recruiting some of the powerful city trade unions of carpenters and gas men to join the boycott. It was hoped this would force the railroad men to the bargaining table where they would have to promise to restore all the strikers to their jobs. The general managers vowed not to give in and claimed they were bringing in men hired in the East—in New York and Baltimore—to take the jobs of anyone who had walked off.

At least my job was easier now, as Corporal Fellows had lived up to his promise. Boxes of stores were brought to the relief station, easily moved up the stairs, and unpacked for me by vigorous young soldiers. He did insist on placing a guard, despite my objections, but I could hardly hold it against the red-cheeked young men who were set the boring task of standing outside the storeroom.

Dr. Chapman continued to worry. He began to see injuries from the confrontations between the crowds and the authorities. The deputies were quick to bludgeon and the soldiers used their bayonets. There had not been any more gunshot wounds, but I heard in the dining room of the Florence that General Miles had issued an order countermanding earlier standing orders. It was now up to the commanding officer, and purely a tactical decision, whether or not to fire into an unruly crowd. When I told the doctor, he groaned and proclaimed that catastrophe was imminent.

On a particularly warm afternoon, I decided to close the relief station early, after turning away the last few people. There would be more supplies the next day, but it was still difficult to see the disappointment in those faces. I gritted my teeth and told myself I would keep back just a little bit for the end of the day the next time.

I knew that I should lock the door behind me as I left, but the key was sticky in the humidity and I found myself nearly cursing as I struggled with it. Really, what was I learning down here? What was I becoming? I hadn't even known the words I nearly uttered before all this started. The young soldier on guard beside the door tried hard not to grin, as if he guessed what had almost passed my lips. It irked me. Just as I managed to extract the key, I heard my name called from the floor below.

“Emily, are you up there? Come down. I want you to meet someone,” my brother's voice bellowed. “Emily!”

“All right, all right. I'm coming. Honestly.” As I hurried down the stuffy staircase, the young soldier relaxed and slumped against the wall.

Alden was in the doorway of the clinic, beckoning. Beyond him a young woman in a long, dusty, checked travel coat stood talking to Dr. Chapman.

Alden grabbed my arm. “Emily, do you know who that is?”

I pulled away. “Let go. It's stifling in here and no, I don't know who she is.”

“It's Nellie Bly.” When I looked blank, he shook his head. “Oh, Emily, you are so thick. Nellie Bly . . .
Around the World in Seventy-two Days
 . . . don't you know?”

“She's the newspaper reporter?” I looked across to the pretty-faced brunette of medium height with a trim waist who was talking to the doctor with a great deal of animation.

“Yes. She's the one who went round the world, and she met Jules Verne, too. Come on.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me over. “Nellie, this is my sister, Emily. She's here running the relief station for Hull House.”

The young woman shot out her hand and I shook it. “Pleased to meet you. I've come to find out the truth about the strike.”

“Really. And if you find that truth, will you write about it? And will your paper publish it? Because most of the papers are publishing lies about it.”

“Emily,” Alden protested.

“The proprietor of
The World
hires people to find out and publish the truth about everything, regardless of all other consider-ations, and if the truth is not given it is the fault of the writer, not the paper,” she told me.

“Yes. There you are,” Alden said, gazing at her with immense admiration. It made me worry for my friend Clara, who had been the object of his affections for some time. “Nellie's here to find the truth. Do you know she once pretended to be mad to get herself admitted to an insane asylum, just to report on the conditions?”

I had heard that. “I don't think that kind of stunt will help you here.”

“No, but our readers want to know the truth about this strike, and I'm here to find it. I had quite a time just getting here, let me tell you. I took one rail line and five different streetcars. They wouldn't come far into the neighborhood because they are afraid of the rioting crowds.”

“I found her walking a couple of blocks away,” Alden told us.

“So, where is this town of Pullman? And why are these workers striking when they have a model town to live in? Why, they're better off than most of the working people in the country. Are they really under the influence of anarchists and union agitators? Where are these rioters and bloodthirsty strikers and what is their excuse for the havoc they're causing? That's what I've come to find out.”

I was disgusted. “Bloodthirsty strikers? For heaven's sake, what we have here are sick and starving people. What do you think we are doing here with the clinic and relief station? Do you know I've just had to turn people away hungry? I had to tell them to come back tomorrow. And this has been going on for months. Tell her, Dr. Chapman.”

He was looking at us with speculation. “Perhaps it would be better to show her. What Miss Cabot says is true, Miss Bly. The people I am seeing are sick from many months of poor nutrition. But why don't you see for yourself? It's only a few more blocks to Pullman.”

“Yes, that's it. Lead me to it. I want to see for myself, and for my readers. A lot of them would like to live in a model town like Pullman, so they certainly don't understand why these people are striking.”

“I wondered that, too, when I first came here,” I told her. “But you have no idea how much they are suffering. They aren't bloodthirsty, they're hungry. And they are poor, more poor and in debt than your readers can imagine. They cannot feed their children.”

Nellie Bly stared at me, then gave a little shake of her head. “Well, then, what are we waiting for? I need to get the story, the real story, and get back to town to file it.”

Dr. Chapman stayed at the clinic while Alden and I took Miss Bly the few blocks to Pullman. The newspapers had turned against the strike and I did not have much hope that even Nellie Bly would be able to portray the true state of things in Pullman. I could see that my brother was hopeful, though, so I went along. With the food gone for the day, there was nothing else for me to do.

“Well, we certainly have the army. But where are these strikers?” she asked. We were walking briskly through the army camp around the Florence Hotel. There were troops of men marching and stacking weapons. We had to scurry out of the way of some, and wait for another group to pass. Officers were self-importantly slapping each other on the back as they came down the hotel steps replete from a plentiful lunch. We could smell the cooking and hear the dishes rattling as we passed. “Where are these bloodthirsty strikers?” Nellie asked again, as we skirted a group of men and got whistles from them.

Alden was ahead of us and he turned back to hurry us on. “It's up here, Fulton Avenue. That's what you want.”

A few blocks further on we were beyond the army encampment and the streets were quiet and empty. “You'd think it was the Sabbath,” Nellie said. Then she spotted a woman hanging clothes out on a line in her backyard. Nellie walked right up to her. “Can you tell me, please, where I can find the poorest strikers?”

The woman wiped her hands on her clean apron. “Across the street is the letters. They mostly don't speak English. They're not in the unions, most of them, but they are suffering the worst.”

“What do you mean by the letters?”

“That row there, they're known by letters rather than numbers,” she said, pointing to the Fulton Avenue tenements we had visited in the past. Nellie asked the woman her feelings about the strike.

“It's not our fault it's only a few of them wanted to strike. My husband is not in the union. I have to be careful what I say. Only sometimes I just have to speak out and say what I think. They talk too much, is what it is.”

“So, are the unions to blame?”

“Not entirely. There hasn't been work. There was no work and they finally got some orders, only a few though. But Mr. Pullman couldn't put them to work if he had no orders.”

“Was that the main cause of dissatisfaction?”

“Not entirely. They put them out of work, but they kept the rents high. And people can't pay them. Then, they had other complaints and a committee went to talk to the managers, but the company laid off three of them from the committee. So they strike. But what good does that do? I told them it doesn't hurt Mr. Pullman's vacation. He doesn't go hungry. I know all about strikes and workmen and I know there are wrongs on both sides. But striking and destroying property and killing rich men isn't going to help the working men.”

She directed us across to the tenements and there Nellie heard the same kind of stories we had heard before. They showed her leases with rents they couldn't afford and told of nights of going to bed hungry. By the time we reached the end of the block, I could see that her opinion had changed. She came to see, as I had, that Pullman himself was most to blame.

We were in a doorway when I felt a tug and looked down to see Lilly O'Malley, Gracie's little sister. I bent down to hear her whisper, “My brother, Joe, he must see you. He said it's about the bomb.” With a shock I realized she meant he knew something about the dynamite that had disappeared from the clock tower. Joe was still wanted by the police for the attempted bombing, even though they had let Leonard Stark go. Four sticks of dynamite had disappeared that day. The last thing I needed was for Nellie Bly to ask about Joe O'Malley. I stood up and announced I needed to go. “I must check on one of the families who could not come to the food distribution,” I lied.

Nellie shook my hand again. “Thank you, Miss Cabot, and I promise you
The World
will print the truth. Anarchists and firebrands, pooh! Why these are poor hardworking folk being ground beneath the heel of that heartless coward Pullman!”

I turned away, hopeful that at least one newspaper would carry a story that supported the people of Pullman. As I reached the street, I saw Joe O'Malley beckoning from a nearby alley and hurried over to meet him.

“Miss Cabot, it's LeClerc and Fiona. They're building a bomb, I fear.”