‘‘And all of these union members plan to leave the Pullman cars on side tracks and not attach them to the trains? Across the entire country?’’
‘‘That is exactly what will happen unless the company will negotiate prior to midnight on the twenty-sixth. We will boycott all Pullman cars and equipment.’’ He spoke with conviction, but his chest tightened at the thought.
There was little doubt Olivia was shocked by the union’s decision. He hoped the Pullman officials would react with the same surprise and decide to negotiate.
Olivia glanced over her shoulder. ‘‘I have some news to tell you, also. Mr. Pullman has returned to Chicago. I heard Mr. Howard talking to several stockholders at the hotel. They say he returned earlier today. Do you think that may help the cause? Perhaps Mr. Pullman has decided to relent.’’
The news came as a complete surprise to Fred. No one in Chicago had mentioned the possibility of the company’s owner finally making a return to the city. Fred wondered if the newspapers had caught wind of it yet. ‘‘The boycott is likely inevitable, though Mr. Pullman may wonder if we’ll actually carry through with the threat. I suspect he’s returned to see for himself.’’
‘‘And will you?’’
‘‘Of course. We can’t give in now.’’
Fred explained exactly what Mr. Debs had outlined the night before: A boycott would catapult the strike into a matter of national concern. When passengers could no longer avail themselves of the comfort and services of the Pullman railroad cars, the union hoped the public would pressure the company into negotiation. Perhaps the loss of income would change Mr. Pullman’s attitude. Never before had the Pullman workers remained so firm in their convictions. Could it be that Mr. Pullman had accepted the depth of dissatisfaction among the workers and was now willing to arbitrate? Fred wanted to think so.
‘‘The stockholders and Mr. Howard are going into Chicago to meet with Mr. Pullman this afternoon. Mr. Howard said there was a plan to rally a group of businessmen to meet later today or tomorrow—at least I think that’s what he said.’’
Her comment set off an alarm. Had Mr. Pullman banded together with supporters beyond those in his own company? There had been talk such a possibility existed, although most of the delegation had chosen to ignore the idea. Now Fred wondered if they should have more fully deliberated the possibility. A bead of perspiration descended from his temple, and he swiped it away, unsure whether the June humidity or his nerves had been the cause.
‘‘Anything else you recall?’’ A train whistled in the distance, and his anxiety mounted. He must be on the next train to Chicago.
She furrowed her brow. ‘‘I don’t think so.’’ He scooted forward on the bench, and she grasped his arm. ‘‘Oh, wait! I do remember one of the stockholders said an association of some sort had been formed. Does that help?’’ Her eyes shone with expectancy.
‘‘I don’t know what it means, but I’m sure Mr. Debs will have it sorted out in no time. Thank you for your help, Olivia.’’
They stood and Fred looked across the lawn. His mother and Chef René appeared to be holding hands. Squinting his eyes against the sun’s glare, Fred craned his neck forward but jumped back when his mother spotted him. Just as quickly she appeared to yank her hand from the chef ’s. Fred uttered a hasty good-bye to Olivia, offered a halfhearted wave to his mother, and raced toward the train station as though his life had been threatened. And perhaps it had—at least life as he’d known it all these years.
Fred handed the conductor one of the train passes the union had acquired for delegates to use during the convention. Mr. Debs had made his wishes known: he didn’t want delegates hopping trains. Such behavior might bring condemnation upon the union and its representatives.
He dropped into one of the seats and stared out the window. Had the trees been barren of their leaves, he could have probably captured a glimpse of his mother and Chef René . He didn’t know which was more worrisome—Mr. Pullman’s return or the possibility of a budding relationship between his mother and the chef. Fred leaned back and rested his head against the back of the seat. He closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind.
Perhaps he’d have time to visit Bill Orland in the next few days. Fred grinned, remembering the first time he and Bill had traveled to Chicago to visit the glass etching shop. Bill had been frightened out of his wits, unable even to remember Mr. Lock-abee’s name. They had both laughed when Fred pointed to the signage on the window of the shop.
With the owner’s blessing, Bill had continued to run the business under the Lockabee name. Bill had proved to be a quick study, learning not only the etching but also how to run a profitable enterprise. Even during this time of depression, he’d managed to convince the wealthy they had need of his etched pieces. Bill Orland was a talented craftsman, of that there was no question. Along with his wife, Ruth, Bill and his three children had carved out a better life in Chicago—one where they weren’t required to worry over where their next meal would come from. During the next couple of weeks, Fred would make a point to spend some time with the Orlands.
By the time the train arrived in Chicago, his thoughts had returned to the news of Mr. Pullman’s arrival. He moved down the aisle with a determined step, detrained, and hurried toward Uhlich Hall. He must get word to Mr. Debs.
Fred panted as he raced up the front steps of the meeting hall. Matthew stood inside the front door and grasped him by the arm. ‘‘Have you heard the news?’’
‘‘About Pullman’s return?’’
Matthew nodded. ‘‘We’ve been notified that the General Managers Association has been contacted. I’m sure it was either Mr. Howard or Mr. Pullman who called on them, but nobody is offering further information. My guess is that they are going to do their best to block the boycott.’’
Fred silently chided himself. He should have realized the association that Olivia mentioned was the General Managers Association. The group had never amounted to much until last year, when word had leaked out that the association was forming committees to aid railroads in the event of a strike. The management of twenty-four railroads that either centered or terminated in Chicago had banded together; they apparently were going to stand united against the proposed boycott. At least that’s how it appeared to Fred. And Matthew quickly concurred.
Matthew patted his jacket pocket. ‘‘I received some inside information that the association is setting up a temporary headquarters in the Rookery.’’
It didn’t surprise Fred that management would choose to meet in the architecturally acclaimed building situated in the heart of Chicago rather than in some modest site. The magnificent towering building had replaced a temporary city hall and water tank. A favorite roost for pigeons, the old structures had been dubbed the Rookery, a nickname that had transferred to the new building. Fred doubted pigeons would be welcome to roost on the fine new edifice.
‘‘Obviously Mr. Pullman is taking the union’s letter of intent seriously. My guess is that he’s going to remain in the background and convince railroad management to wield a heavy hand when the boycott takes effect.’’
‘‘Is that what Mr. Debs thinks?’’
Matthew shrugged. ‘‘Haven’t heard what he thinks, but I don’t know how he could figure any different. Right now, I’m trying to find some way to get the inside scoop on what goes on in the management meetings.’’ He tucked his notebook into his pocket. ‘‘Unfortunately, there’s no way I can get in there. They’ve banned reporters from the place.’’
Fred wasn’t surprised. Railroad management would be required to walk a fine line. They wanted to maintain good relations with the public, which continued to sympathize with the workers, yet if they refused to honor their contracts with George Pullman’s company, they could be sued for breach of contract. Neither option held much appeal. And they wouldn’t want a roomful of news reporters listening as they hammered out their plans.
Matthew rested against the doorjamb, his focus darting about the room. He slapped his hat against the side of his pant leg. ‘‘I’ve got it.’’ He pointed to the messenger boys posted around the meeting hall who were expected to be at the ready when needed to deliver a note, fill water pitchers, or purchase sandwiches at a nearby restaurant. ‘‘They’ll have messengers in the meetings.’’
Fred laughed. ‘‘And what type of disguise did you have in mind? I don’t think they’ll be fooled by a pair of knee pants.’’
‘‘Nor do I, or I’d try it.’’ He thumped Fred on the shoulder. ‘‘But there may be a messenger who’d be willing to share some information with me.’’
‘‘For a price?’’
‘‘I can’t divulge all my secrets, but I don’t usually pay for my information. I think we’re in for a hard-fought battle, my friend, and I had better be on my way.’’ With a wave, Matthew hurried out the door and down the front steps.
Fred watched until Matthew was out of sight and then strode into the meeting hall. All of the exciting news he had planned to deliver to Mr. Debs had arrived before him. Probably just as well. This way, there was no possibility he would jeopardize Olivia’s position at the hotel. Mr. Heathcoate called Fred’s name and waved him forward.
‘‘Didn’t take long to gain a reaction to our letter of intent. Have you heard that Mr. Pullman is back in town? He supposedly arrived during the wee hours of the morning. Either he doesn’t want us to know he’s in Chicago or he’s afraid someone’s going to do him harm.’’ Mr. Heathcoate lifted his water pitcher in the air and waited until one of the messenger boys hurried toward him to fetch the pitcher. ‘‘I figure it’s a little of both—and rightfully so.’’
Fred arched his brows. ‘‘I do hope it won’t come to that. The members need to mind Mr. Debs’s instructions. We don’t want the union getting a black eye.’’
Pullman, Illinois
Sunday, June 24, 1894
Thunder rumbled overhead, and a wall of dark clouds rolled across Lake Calumet, heading directly toward the center of town. Fred glanced heavenward and then picked up his pace.
‘‘Not so fast. My legs aren’t nearly as long as yours.’’ His mother tugged on his arm, chiding him.
‘‘I’m sorry. I’m hoping to have you safe inside the church before the rain begins.’’ As if to emphasize his comment, two fat raindrops landed on the sidewalk in front of them.
‘‘You’re correct. We need to hurry,’’ she said. His mother now pulled him toward Greenstone Church, obviously concerned the feathers on her hat would be ruined by a downpour. ‘‘I understand the church board has decided to offer Reverend Stanhill a permanent position.’’
‘‘He’d be a good choice. Unlike Reverend Oggel, he doesn’t use the church as a place to promote his personal beliefs.’’
Fred hadn’t been the only member of Greenstone who had raised objections to Reverend Oggel’s sermons. Days after the preacher’s mid-May sermon, the church board suggested he take a vacation. He took their advice, and two weeks later Reverend Oggel sent a letter stating that he didn’t plan to return, which was good news so far as Fred and the other workers were concerned. The only ones who lamented the man’s decision were Samuel Howard and the other members of management who attended the church.
Hoping to spot Olivia, Fred glanced toward the street corner. He inhaled deeply and unconsciously squeezed his mother’s arm.
She followed Fred’s gaze, and he watched his mother’s features immediately soften with pleasure. ‘‘What an unexpected surprise.’’
Fred arched his brows. ‘‘Truly?’’
‘‘Yes. Why would you question me? Had I known that René planned to attend church, I would have told you.’’ Without awaiting Fred’s response, his mother released her grasp and motioned the rotund chef forward.
As of yet, Fred hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss this newly formed friendship with his mother. Each time he had planned to broach the subject, either Paul or Suzanne Quinter had been close at hand, and he didn’t want to discuss such a personal matter in front of either of them. Perhaps he should have pushed aside his concerns and spoken up. Likely Suzanne already knew his mother had befriended the chef.
‘‘Why are you standing out here? You’re going to get wet.’’
Olivia’s question disrupted Fred’s thoughts, and he glanced at the church steps. His mother and Chef René had apparently already gone inside. Olivia clutched his arm in a possessive hold and beamed at him—much the same way his mother had greeted Chef René .
‘‘I do appreciate the fact that you waited, however.’’
A raindrop plopped onto Olivia’s hand, and Fred hurried her up the steps. Once they’d entered the vestibule, he led her to the far end of the foyer. ‘‘It’ll be a few minutes before services begin. I need to speak with you in private.’’ Fred didn’t fail to see the anticipation in her eyes. She likely expected an invitation to dinner. Perhaps he should begin with that. ‘‘I thought we might have dinner together today. There are no union meetings this afternoon.’’
‘‘That would be lovely.’’ She giggled. ‘‘Your mother invited me yesterday. I suppose she failed to tell you.’’
He could feel the heat rise beneath his collar. ‘‘We’ve seen little of each other lately.’’ He nodded toward the sanctuary. ‘‘Did my mother know Chef René planned to attend church this morning?’’
She shrugged. ‘‘When I left work last evening, he didn’t mention his plans. And your mother said not a word.’’ Olivia raised up on tiptoe and craned her neck. ‘‘Where are they sitting?’’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘‘How exciting!’’
‘‘So you didn’t know?’’
‘‘Of course not.’’ Olivia stepped toward the doors leading into the sanctuary and scanned the crowd. ‘‘Oh, there they are!’’ She pointed toward the right side of the church. ‘‘Let’s go sit with them.’’
‘‘I’m certain they’d prefer their privacy,’’ he said.
‘‘Privacy? Don’t be silly. This is church.’’ She didn’t permit time for further discussion. She tugged on his arm. When he didn’t move, she yanked him forward and frowned. ‘‘What is the matter with you? If the chef feels unwelcome, he may never return.’’
Fred didn’t comment. It would be improper to say he wasn’t sure he wanted the man to return. His stomach roiled with emotion. Certainly his mother deserved happiness, but he had never considered the possibility that she would remarry after all these years. Any number of men had expressed interest in her since they’d moved to Pullman, but she’d always turned them away. Why this Frenchman? He’d heard that the French were romantic—perhaps that was it. Had the chef beguiled his mother with fancy words and deeds? In Fred’s opinion, the chef didn’t seem the type who could capture a woman’s heart so quickly, especially his sensible mother. Yet he’d long ago won Olivia’s allegiance. There must be something of substance beneath the man’s hefty exterior; otherwise his mother and Olivia wouldn’t be drawn to him. Yet Fred couldn’t help but wonder if the chef ’s appearance in church was merely an effort to impress his mother rather than because he’d developed a sudden desire to worship God.