Death at Pullman (2 page)

This sight brought our Mr. MacGregor to a halt as he moved back and forth on his feet, ruminating his next action. Meanwhile the woman's voice rang out and a feather jiggled on the tiny hat perched on her flamboyantly colored hair.

“And sure it's a fine thing for all of you to be making a show of it and talking to the papers and making your lists of grievances. Grievances. I'll show you grievances. It's in the face of my little brother and sister here.” She gestured and I noticed the little girl hiding behind her, clinging to her bustle, and the little boy at her other side that she thrust forward with a strong left hand in the small of his back. Both children were barefoot and looked dirty. “What about them? How will they live? How will they eat, while you go on with your speeches? It's a fine mess you've made. And how will you get out of it, then? Will you tell me that? It's pride it is, and you know what that comes before. You think he'll listen, sitting in his big fine mansion on Prairie Avenue? Do you? Do you think he's going without his own dinner then? He's laughing at you, you bunch of chumps. He doesn't have to do a thing, just sit there and let you starve. You're fools, you are. All of you.” The little feather was trembling with the woman's fury as she stopped for a break.

Mr. MacGregor attempted to get her attention by clearing his throat but when that made no impression he quickly called out, “Gracie.” His voice collided with hers as she took up her harangue again. The call was loud enough so that she swung around as if to defend herself from a rear attack and the sight of us stopped her, at least temporarily.

Before she could start up again, Mr. MacGregor stepped forward. “Gracie, we have visitors. Miss Addams, Miss Cabot, and Mr. Safer have come from the Civic Federation that has offered to arbitrate.” He turned back towards us. “Mrs. Foley grew up here. She lives in the city now, so I assume she's come for a visit.”

The woman had frozen at the sight of us, her eyes narrowed in a frown of suspicion. She was tall, buxom, and big boned, probably about my own age of twenty-four. The delicate embroidery and velvet insets of her dress appeared to be far too fine for a workman's daughter, yet it was perfectly modest. The fact that the cut and bustle were slightly out of fashion suggested that she might be in service and had received a cast-off from her mistress.

It was obvious that Mr. MacGregor hoped to silence her with his introductions, but she was having none of it. “Ian MacGregor, you should be ashamed of yourself. Come for a visit indeed. I've come to bring food so they don't starve out here.” She held up a large basket and I could see the little boy in front of her held another one. “How do you expect them to live now that you've all shut the place down? And you've got Brian and Joe in it. You know they're all the little ones have. Who's going to feed them when the boys are blacklisted, then? Will you?”

But then MacGregor put an end to it. He was a small man and seemed smaller with her looming over him, but he suddenly stamped a foot. “Gracie Foley, stop it, woman.” He glared at her. “You know perfectly well your father Sean O'Malley, if he were alive today, would be a stalwart supporter of our cause. His sons can do no less. You don't live here. You don't work here any longer. In the name of your dead father, who was my friend for all these many years, I tell you now to leave off. Be gone with you. Go about your business and leave us to ours.”

Gracie Foley appeared to shrink back at this blast from the little man. I thought she looked hurt. Somehow the invocation of her father silenced her and she grabbed the little girl's hand and pushed rudely through the crowd without a word more. Meanwhile, Mr. MacGregor stood for a moment with his eyes closed, as if recovering from a blow, but before the chatter could begin he opened his eyes and ran them over the group of men who stood before his house.

“And these are the representatives of the locals,” he told us formally. Then he proceeded to introduce each one, naming the number and type of local he represented. There was one woman, I noticed, but I soon lost track and wondered how I would ever remember all those names when it came to addressing them later. To my relief, it soon became clear that they would not be joining us for the meal. Mr. MacGregor dismissed them, apologizing but assuring us that they each had duties to attend to. I saw a knowing look pass between Miss Addams and Mr. Safer and realized that, unlike the company representative, Mr. Jennings, these workers probably did not have the resources to feed a large number of people. It occurred to me that even the addition of Mr. Safer to our meal was probably a strain. We mounted the steps and were led into the dining room of Mr. MacGregor's house where a tureen of soup, a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pot of weak tea were served to us by a pretty young girl with a braid of shiny blonde hair coiled around her head.

She was introduced as MacGregor's daughter, Fiona, who worked in a department of the Pullman factory where they made draperies and linens for the cars. She looked about sixteen years old with blue eyes, delicate bones, and a small turned-up nose. She wore a dress in a flowery print and an apron gaily decorated with needlework. I felt guilty when she excused herself after laying out the meal for us. I couldn't help wondering if she was absenting herself because there wasn't enough food to go around. But when I opened my mouth to protest I received a firm nudge under the table from Miss Addams and I remembered how she had explained that commenting on any perceived lack on such an occasion was always taken as an insult. I held my tongue as Fiona left us and I heard a door close somewhere in the background.

I think I managed to hide my own ravenous appetite as I forced myself to savor each spoonful of the soup and bite of the bread. The meager meal did more to convince us of the seriousness of the food situation than any of the talk that followed. I don't think MacGregor planned it that way, and that was all the more reason the point was brought home sharply to the three of us who would return to the city and remember this meal later, as we dined on plates of food that would be heaping in comparison.

The dining room was at the back of the house and two windows were open wide, overlooking the tiny yard and alley. There was a slight breeze in the warm air and I could hear the shiver of leaves in a tree and the twittering calls of birds. It all seemed so peaceful compared to the noise and dirt and hurry around Hull House at this time of day.

Mr. MacGregor apologized for the outburst from Gracie Foley that we had witnessed. He explained that her father, who had worked for Pullman since the beginning, had died the previous spring and her two brothers were left supporting two younger children. She herself left when she married and she was now a widow and a laundress in the city. I thought that explained her attire but there was something else about her history not spoken, something that made him uneasy. Apparently he had been a longtime friend and comrade of her father's.

When we had consumed our portions and refused additional helpings, Mr. MacGregor rose and went to the next room, returning with two other men who joined us in a cup of the weak and lukewarm tea.

One, introduced as Mr. Leonard Stark, was a middle-aged man, like MacGregor. But he was thicker around the waist and looked softer and less muscular than the metalworker. He had brown hair cut very short and a large moustache and thick eyebrows. It soon became clear that he was MacGregor's right-hand man for running errands and carrying messages.

The second man was younger, in his thirties I guessed. He had a swarthy complexion, a thatch of very dark hair with one piece that frequently fell down onto his forehead, heavy sideburns, and large brown eyes fringed with long lashes. Of medium height but with muscular shoulders and arms, his calloused hands were large and he frequently used them to emphasize what he was saying. From the very first, there was about him a sense of vigor that evoked a raw masculinity. It was not that he was threatening, but he seemed to hold a reserve of energy in his springy walk and ease of motion. He gave the impression that he was like a cat poised ready to jump. He was not at all like the men of my previous acquaintance—my father, my brother, or the men at the university.

Mr. MacGregor introduced him as Mr. Raoul LeClerc and explained that he was a representative of the American Railway Union, or ARU, and its leader, Mr. Eugene Debs. I noticed Mr. Safer fumble with his napkin and push his chair back from the table at this introduction. There was a lot of suspicion about that new labor union and the ambitions of Mr. Debs and the other organizers. Memories of the Haymarket bombing during a labor protest eight years before were still vivid and there was an embedded fear that labor agitators were determined to wreak havoc at the least provocation. Miss Addams acknowledged the introductions but then briskly brought the conversation back around to the Pullman situation, stating frankly that it was that local situation alone, and the hope of finding a peaceful solution to it, that had brought the delegates from the Civic Federation down to the company town. I saw Mr. Safer raise his eyebrows in surprise when she went on to ask the ARU representative to excuse us while we continued our discussions in private with Mr. MacGregor. I could tell that Miss Addams was not impressed by the charisma of LeClerc. I saw him flush slightly but he bowed his head politely and assured Mr. MacGregor that he understood the need for discretion. He asserted that the desire of the ARU was only to see a just conclusion to the strike. He left graciously but MacGregor had to invent an errand to get rid of Mr. Stark, who appeared to be oblivious to Miss Addams's request for privacy and determined to remain until actually ordered away.

Having cleared the decks, as it were, there followed an intense discussion between MacGregor and Miss Addams of the particulars of the situation to which Mr. Safer and I mainly provided an audience. During the morning tour Miss Addams had asked some pointed questions of the company representatives, so pointed that someone unfamiliar with her methods, such as Mr. Safer, might have judged her to be prejudiced in favor of the workers. But no one would think that now, listening to her catechize Mr. MacGregor with equal force concerning the company's claims. I saw Mr. Safer sit back and listen and I could tell his respect for my mentor was growing.

Mr. MacGregor explained that, fine as the surroundings of the town of Pullman might seem, people couldn't afford to live there. But it was worse than that, much worse. The people down here were falling deeply into debt as their salaries were lowered, while rents were kept at the same levels. The company itself was sending them into an impossible spiral of self-destruction.

He told us that when the Pullman works were originally opened, the company built a rail line from the city and freely allowed workers to use it. Once the town was built, however, workers were expected to live there and the cost of the train fare became prohibitive. All buildings in the town were owned by the company and subject to the rules laid down by them. Rents were high compared to nearby towns and while supposedly you could choose to live anywhere, in practice those who did not live in Pullman were more likely to suffer when there were layoffs.

The previous year brought an economic recession to the whole country. At Pullman this had amounted to a slash in the workers' wages. MacGregor himself had been making thirty cents an hour a year before. By the time the strike began his pay was cut to twenty and one-half cents per hour, which amounted to one dollar and fifty-one cents a day. Meanwhile, the rent for his house had been, and remained at, seventeen dollars a month and he was charged seventy-one cents a month for water. He told us the company made a profit of thirty-two thousand dollars on water and I heard Mr. Safer's chair scrape against the floor. The charge for gas was more than MacGregor could afford so he just did without it. I imagined the little house must be very cold and dark in the winter months and shivered at the thought. He told us most workers had experienced a reduction of twenty-five to fifty percent of their pay. Only managers had not received any pay cuts and rents had remained the same for all of them.

The manner in which rent was collected was even more disturbing. Mr. MacGregor explained that paychecks were issued by the Pullman Bank in the Arcade Building. At one time the company had withheld rent and given a check for only what was left over. When this was ruled illegal by a court challenge the bank began to issue two checks, one for rent owed and the other for the balance. They would then pressure the worker to sign over the rent check. With rents so high and the cut in wages it was only too easy to get behind. He told us stories of workers who had been pressured into endorsing the rent checks and then were left with less than a dollar to live on until the next payday.

Despite these pitiful and all too believable stories, Miss Addams was relentless in presenting the company's claims. Wasn't it true that the company suffered from a reduction in the number of orders? Wasn't it preferable for the company to reduce the wages but continue employment for more people as opposed to downright layoffs? Wasn't it in the interest of the workers for the company to continue in a strong financial position?

“Of course, we all of us want the company to prosper,” MacGregor burst out at last. “We don't want to bring it down and it's not possible to believe that Mr. Pullman—who designed such a fine town for his workers—would not want the best for them.”

I heard Mr. Safer moving restlessly beside me but I was mesmerized by the story I was hearing. MacGregor went on. “But it's not working. We cannot pay the same rent when the wages go down. I think, I truly believe, Miss Addams, that if we the workingmen could only talk directly to Mr. Pullman, could lay our case before him, then together we could find a solution. But the managers, like that Mr. Jennings, they won't let us near him. So that's the root of it. That's what's behind it all, forming unions and all. To talk to Mr. Pullman directly, you see.