Grains
of sand showered upon the smooth iron rails, as the 30 ton hissing
beast desperately sought purchase.
Like a magician of old, with his gloved hands the engineer coxed the 7,000 horses of the Rodgers locomotive forward. As the sand was crushed beneath the 6 foot drive
wheels, the metal and wood millipede jerked at it's couplings, and
laboriously began to move.
Thirteen stories above, the tower clock
read 9:30pm, Tuesday, 26 June 1894. When the number seven train
pulled out of the Illinois Central Terminal (above) at Michigan Avenue and
12th Street, it was half an hour late.
Behind
the coal filled tender the locomotive pulled two dark green Pullman
cars, each 48 feet 4 inches long and 9 feet 3 inches wide, carrying
64 passengers, bound via the Main Line for St. Louis, Missouri, 260 miles and 6 hours away.
But on this night, the number seven
train would achieve only seven miles, getting only as far as the
Grand Crossing, at 75th street in South Chicago. What
would stop this iron age dragon was not magic, but the collision of
massive egos and the dreams of common men being crushed like those
grains of sand.
The
first ego was 63 year old George Mortimer Pullman, "The
Sleeping Car King". He was, says Brandon Weber, “...the kind of capitalist hated by his
employees, his staff, and even some fellow capitalist and government
officials." But, by 1880, his name
was synonymous with luxury rail travel. His company was worth $30
million, and regularly paid stock dividends of 9 ½ %.
His hand made chandler
graced Pullman Palace cars “floated” on “paper wheels”,
offering a ride so smooth the passengers slept soundly in their fold
down berths (below) while traveling at 40 miles an hour.
In 1880 George
Pullman consolidated his monopoly, building a new huge factory 12
miles south of Chicago. And he built a 100 acre town to house his
5,000 workers.
But
it was a pantomime. The “paper wheels” were compressed for 3
hours under a 650 ton press, then dried for 6 to 8 weeks. Bolted
between iron plates these cushions produced a marginal improvement.
But George Pullman's advertising convinced the public to willingly
pay a premium for not only his ubiquitous sleepers, but regular
passenger and freight cars as well, even intercity trolleys – all
emblazoned with the proud name of Pullman.
The
20,000 men, women and children of Mr. Pullman's town lived in attractive cottages, in neat
repetitive rows, with a town hall, grocery stores, a library, even
churches, all just across the railroad tracks from the factory.
But the “town” was another capitalist shadow play. It was built to make a profit. There was no city hall, only an Arcade building (above), filled only with Pullman approved shops. There were no elected officials, only Pullman managers. There was only one bar, for visitors and Pullman managers only. To the workers, beer was available only from street vendors. At a premium price, of course.
Workers were
required to rent the cottages (above), at premium prices, well above rents charged in surrounding cities. Amenities, such as
window blinds, were extra. Pullman even made $21,000 a year by
overcharging for tap water and natural gas. Pullman inspectors could
terminate an employee if the wife's housekeeping did not meet Pullman
standards. The offenders were evicted with 10 days notice.
The
village had no independent newspapers. Groceries offered credit, but
at usury rates. The library (above) did not loan books, it rented them.
And
as one critic pointed out, George Pullman, "...wasn't a man to
let you pray for free" - the churches rented only to Protestants
for $60 a month - and mostly stood empty.
As one worker explained,
“We are born in a Pullman house, fed from a Pullman shop, taught in
a Pullman school (above), catechized in a Pullman church, and when we die we
shall be buried in a Pullman cemetery and go the Pullman hell.”
And
then in 1893 the Argentinian wheat crop failed, which set off a
cascade of English banks calling in loans, including operating loans
made to American companies like Pullman. Pullman Vice President
Thomas H. Wickes announced 3,000 layoffs, and the income for Pullman
carpenters was cut from $13 to $7 a week.
However, the rent for a Pullman
cottage remained the same. The price for Pullman water and gas
lighting stayed the same. Worker Thomas Healthcoate swore under oath
that “...the average (pay after deductions)...was only 8 cents over the rent, and
a man would have to keep his family for two weeks on it.” Finally, on 11 May, 1894, some 2,500 workers in the Pullman plant peacefully walked away from their tools (above), As another desperate worker explained, “We struck at Pullman because we were without hope.” George Pullman, being an autocrat, then locked out the remaining 3,100 "loyal" workers who had stayed on the job.
The
irony is that the 39 year old founder of the American Railroad Union,
Eugene Victor “Gene”Debs (above), disliked strikes, “...except as a
last resort...”. He warned his members, “...if you are looking
for a Moses to lead you out of this capitalist wilderness, you will
stay right where you are...You must use your heads as well as your
hands, and get yourself out of your present condition..” So in the
spring of 1894, when George Pullman refused to submit the worker's
complaints s to arbitration, Debs still counseled compromise. But on
21 June, a majority of union members voted to issue an ultimatum. Unless
Pullman agreed to arbitration in five days all ARU men were to respect the strike by Pullman workers - even tho barely a third of Pullman workers were ARU members.
Early
on the afternoon of that Tuesday, 26 June, five members of the The
Switchmen Mutual Aid Union, walked
into the red brick and terra-cotta Ashland Block (above), at the corner of
North Clark and West Randolph streets in Chicago.
Sitting as it did,
catty-cornered from the Cook County Court House, the Ashland Block
was filled with lawyers (including Clarence Darrow) and corporations, including railroad offices. The ground floor Illinois Central ticket
office faced Randolph Street (above right), the Pennsylvania Railroad was in the
Mezzanine, and the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad ticket
office faced Clark Street (above, left). The five switchem, all employed by the I.C. rode the elevator to the 4th floor and entered
suite 21, headquarters of the American Railway Union.
They
had come to ask the union officers just what they were authorized
to do when ordered to switch a train carrying a Pullman Car. The
Switch Men were willing to support the Pullman factory workers and their starving families. But
if they were fired – as they surely would be – would the American Railway Union support the members of the smaller Switchmen
Mutual Aid Union, with "strike pay" ?
The elected officers of the ARU , including
Eugene Debs (above, right), gathered in conference. It was, as the saying goes,
“Crunch Time”, time for the ARU to put their money and the future
of their union on the line - to pledge their lives, their fortunes
and sacred honor, to paraphrase the Declaration of Independence –
to support their fellow workers, even if they were not members of their union. Were they willing to do that?
The
answer, when it came, was a thunderclap. Yes. If ordered to allow any
train including Pullman Cars, to cross any switch point, ARU members
nationwide were to refuse. ARU engineers were not operate any
locomotives pulling Pullman cars, until the Pullman Company ended the lockout and agreed to
submit worker complaints to arbitration. Although Union
President Eugene Debs might be opposed to direct confrontation with
railroad management, the union he had created just a year ago, was
now committed to it. And it would happen first on the Illinois
Central Railroad.
The
I.C. was crucial because it leased it's tracks to Cornelius
Vanderbilt's New York Central Railroads as well as his Michigan and
his St. Louis lines. These 4 pairs of tracks ran south along the edge of
Lake Michigan, before at 53rd
street angling westward. Then, less about a mile after the Woodlawn
Street station at 63rd
street, boom barriers required all trains to halt before the Grand Crossing at
75th
street.
The
Grand Crossing had come into existence after The Michigan Southern
Railroad merged with the Northern Indiana and Chicago Railroad, in
1850. The purpose of this corporate merger, and the completion of the new
line's terminal at South LaSalle Street Station (above), was to
block the expanding Central Illinois from reaching downtown Chicago.
But the Construction Chief for the I.C. was a 53 year old bull headed man named Roswell B. Mason. (above) Mason kept his crews laying track until, in April of 1852, they were within a hundred yards of the four parallel Michigan Southern's tracks at 75th Street and Woodlawn Avenue. The M.S refused to negotiate with the I.C. for a right-of-way.
So, after the sun set one night, thugs
kidnapped the sole guard posted along the Michigan right of way. And
when the first Michigan Southern train arrived the next morning they
discovered the Illinois Central tracks now passed right through the
Michigan rails, on junctions called frogs.
They
called what followed a frog war, but it was really a year long game
of Russian roulette played with other people's lives. As soon as the
I.C. had built it's new station (above) both railroads began to run trains
through the 90 degree crossing at speed, with no warning between the companies.
Then on the Monday evening of 25 April, 1853, the game
ran out when two passenger trains collided at the Grand Crossing,
killing 18 out right and injuring another 40 souls.
The political
reaction was regulations which required wooden gates - "boom barriers"- blocking access to the crossing from all four directions. All trains now had to stop short of the Grand Crossing and wait until switchmen - hired by both
railroads - could verify the crossing was
clear before lifting the barriers and allowing each train to safely
continue.
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