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, 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 75th 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 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.
And that is how the Grand Crossing became the flash point in the Pullman Strike of 1894.
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