LABOR DAY Chapter Two

 

It was nearing 10:00pm, on Tuesday, 25 June, 1894, when the number seven Illinois Central overnight train to St. Louis approached the Grand Crossing. After heavy thunderstorms earlier, the evening skies were partly cloudy, warm and humid. The Number seven had paused at 39^th street to pick up a few additional passengers. Then, at Hyde Park station on 53^rd street, the train switched to express tracks and angled southwest for seven miles until the headlamp illuminated the boom barriers at the Grand Crossing (below).

All trains, passenger and freight, were required to stop a the Grand Crossing (above). The engineers would sound the locomotive's whistles to request clearance to proceed. The switchmen would confirm the crossing was clear and then release the gates to swing back, to allow the train to proceed. It had happened hundreds of times every day over the last 30 years. But tonight a crowd of perhaps 5,000 had gathered to witness the opening and closing of those gates. The expectation was that this time something dramatic was about to happen.

Chicago newspapers had been reporting on the miserliness of George Pullman for the last decade, until even the New York Times was forced to admit,, “It has been the policy of the Pullman Palace Car Company to reduce the salaries of its employees until the starvation point is reached”.  In 1884 Pullman managers showed up unannounced at the front door of the widow of a Pullman mechanic and her three daughters, and tossed “...their belongings out onto the street”.

A Pullman seamstress reported her father had the misfortune to survive a few weeks after being injured on his Pullman job. After his death, Pullman had docked her pay until his back rent had been paid.  Complained another Pullman worker, “One fine morning a number of men will knock on your door...” The company decided when to paint your home, and when to fix your roof or your plumbing, And “....all charges for repairs will be deducted from your wages next pay day...” As early as 1892 almost half of Pullman residents had been forced to take in a boarder at $3 to $5 a week, just to make ends meet. All of this while things were still “normal”.

After the pay reduction, another worker testified under oath he had seen men crying over their paychecks, because, “...they only got 3 or 4 cents after paying their rent.” By the strike, rents in Pullman were $70,000 in arrears, and workers had begun to collapse on the job, “...for want of food.” Upon hearing such complaints a Pullman foreman told his workers, “If you cannot live...go out and hustle for more.” And there can be little doubt some woman were forced to sell their bodies, although Victorian morality forbid admitting wives and mothers would do such things to feed their children. Besides, the Pullman company would consider such behavior grounds for instant expulsion. This was why the workers struck. With the resulting lock-out, the poverty and starvation got only worse.

Chicago Mayor and ex-railroad man Roswell B. Mason – not exactly a bleeding heart - had written George Pullman, “...sixteen hundred families including women and children, are starving...they cannot get work and have not the means to go elsewhere...Some of them worked for your company for many years. They must be people of industry and character or you would not have kept them. Many of them have practically given their lives to you....” The railroad man turned politician explained, “The relief committee on last Saturday gave out two pounds of oat meal and two pounds of corn meal to each family.” But that effort had exhausted the committee's resources. 

Pullman vice-president Thomas Wickes responded with the empty platitude, “...it is a man’s privilege to go to work somewhere else.” Of course, during the austerity program, the officers, managers and superintendents of the Pullman Palace Sleeping Car Company had not suffered any pay reductions, nor had the stockholders been denied their dividends.

The public anger at the arrogance of George Pullman explained the crowd at the Grand Crossing (above).  No public announcement had been made. No manifesto had been issued. But rumors in Chicago's environs had whispered that five Switchmen had visited the offices of the American Railway Workers. By the estimate of one journalist, there were perhaps 1,500 railroad men in the crowd. But the remaining 3,500 or so were wives and children of workers, and the curious, and, it must be assumed, a scattering of railroad company spies. And when the number seven train sounded it's short whistle, anticipation reached it's peak.

A reporter noted, “The mob began to gather at Grand Crossing at 7:00 o'clock, and by 8:00 0'clock became strong enough to interrupt traffic...Everything, whether it carried a Pullman or not was halted by the mob... Another attempt was made to get an Illinois Central train through, but a man in the crowd threw himself down on the rails in front of the engine and the engineer refused to move the train. The aid of police was requested and the blockade was continued until a detachment of blue coats prevented any further interference with the raising of the gates.” 

The term “mob” was a gross exaggeration, since no railroad equipment was damaged, and no workers physically assaulted. And there were no arrests by the police on the ground.   But there was never any doubt was to where the sympathies of the crowd lay. The small Grand Crossing police force had even donated $44 to feed the Pullman children.

Watching over the Grand Crossing  (above) this night was the ultimate company man, Superintendent Thomas Collins. He had started as an office boy in the late 1860's, then worked 3 years as a telegrapher in Peotone, Illinois, then a supply agent, a dispatcher in Champaign, and then an assistant to the Superintendent building the 40 mile spur line to Dodgerville, Wisconsin. Since 1889 he had been in command of the Grand Crossing. His eldest son Walter worked as the ticket agent in the station there, and his son youngest son Howard expected to also work for the Illinois Central Railroad as soon as he had reached 12 years old.

Seeing the Switchmen were not moving the booms in response to the Number Seven's whistle, Collins walked over to the Switchman. We do not know what Collins said, but reports say “...he expostulated with him but it was of no avail”.   As long as the train carried Pullman cars, the booms would not move.   And if Collins had moved the booms himself, he would have personally been responsible for any accident which resulted. So the booms remained blocking the rails, and the number seven train did not move one inch closer to St. Louis. In fact no further trains passed through the Grand Crossing that night. It was the beginning of the complete shutdown of the American rail system.

Ray Baker, of the Chicago Record testified under oath, “At the Grand Crossing there was never much disturbance...The strikers and their sympathizers...did not exactly stop the trains, but the gate men had struck, and the engineers refused to cross over until the gates were open, and there was no one to open them, and for that reason the trains were blocked for the evening. There was no physical obstruction at all. No destruction of property took place at all.”

About ninety-minutes later the tower man who controlled the switches at 43^rd street simply walked away from his position, leaving two suburban trains without Pullman cars stranded. Shortly thereafter, a freight train, the Michigan Central Fast Mail Train and another Illinois Central passenger train were caught, unable to cross the same unmanned switches. Finally, about 1:00am, a supervisor occupied the 42^nd street tower and threw the switches, but that emergency fix was not going to solve the problem George Pullman had created.

By dawn, on Wednesday, 26 June, 1894, all 24 rail lines into and out of Chicago were at a stand still. The Chicago Times praised the strikers for their “...rapidity of conception and execution...”, and noted the action was “...carried on with strict conformity to law and order. With the exception of a crowd attracted out of a curiosity...there was no boisterous talking, no threats were made, and the few squads of police officers sent there to preserve order, had nothing to do”. Four railroads immediately took themselves out of the fight – the Chicago Great Western, the Baltimore & Ohio, the Chicago and Northern Pacific and the Wisconsin Central all agreed to drop Pullman cars from their trains.

The ball, as they say, was again in George Pullman's court.

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LABOR DAY Chapter One

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 12^th Street, Chicago, Illinois, it was already 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 75^th street in South Chicago. What would stop this iron age dragon was not magic, but the collision of one massive ego and  the dreams of common working 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, was “...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 and fired 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 just $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 ticket office was in the Mezzanine, and the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad ticket office faced Clark Street (above, left). The five switchmen, all employed by the I.C. rode the elevator to the 4^th 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 53^rd street angling westward. Then, less about a mile after the Woodlawn Street station at 63^rd street, boom barriers required all trains to halt before the Grand Crossing at 75^th 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 75^th 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.

And that is how the Grand Crossing became the flash point in the Pullman Strike of 1894.

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