The two men walked into the warmth of the summer evening. Children played in the waning light, catching fireflies and calling to one another with each successful capture.
Matthew spied a little boy sitting on his mother’s lap on a front porch. ‘‘I spent the day with Charlotte and Morgan,’’ he told Fred.
‘‘You’ve taken a liking to her, haven’t you?’’ Fred asked.
Matthew nodded. ‘‘I care for her very much, and little Morgan, too.’’
Pullman, Illinois
Tuesday, August 7, 1894
The final weeks of July had passed in a turmoil that melted into the heat of long August days. The residents of Pullman had been shocked when a notice was posted on the main gates of the car works on July 18 stating management was now hiring new workers. By early August hundreds of new employees from Chicago had been hired, and several hundred Dutch workers who had initially walked out with the strikers returned to work. The Hollanders had broken with the union early on and expressed no regret for their decision. Fred imagined they hadn’t felt any remorse over returning to work, either. Management reported that they had received numerous applicants from among Chicago’s unemployed and would soon fill three thousand positions.
A stir of restlessness and discontent spread among the workers. In a move that stunned the union membership, Thomas Heathcoate told reporters his men could no longer continue and he desired a peaceful cessation of the strike. The Pullman Strike Committee called for an immediate meeting, and with swift accord they issued a statement that repudiated Heath-coate’s comments to the press. They also removed him as chairman.
The discussions that day were as heated as the summer temperatures. A caucus had approached Fred with a proposal to elect him to the chairmanship, but he quickly declined. He thought the responsibility far too difficult for anyone who lacked the experience and temperament of Mr. Heathcoate. The conclave had expressed disappointment, but they quickly moved along to another possible candidate. Now Fred wondered if he’d made a mistake, for control of the strike had slackened under the leadership of men even younger and less experienced than Fred.
The daily meetings once held at the union hall in Kensington were now a random happenstance. Assignments to help accomplish union business were no longer issued, and the men found themselves with little to occupy their time. Fred’s mother had warned that idle hands were the devil’s workshop—one of her favorite sayings—and in this case, she’d been correct. Even Matthew had mentioned the prevailing atmosphere of hopelessness and lack of discipline exhibited by the men. Yet there seemed little Fred could do. Many of his days were occupied helping at Bill’s shop in Chicago. He’d given his word to help the Orlands until they arrived at some decision about their future, and Bill insisted upon paying him for his work. Fred had agreed to accept the money and had donated every bit of it to the relief fund, hoping the money would assist in some small way. Yet it wasn’t enough; nothing seemed to be enough. Only one thing remained unchanged in Pullman: the desperate circumstances of the town’s residents.
Fred stepped off the train in Pullman, weary from another day of working and managing Bill’s business. He was thankful for the busyness the work provided, and he’d even become accustomed to handling the orders and keeping financial records. What he hadn’t been able to endure was Bill’s anger. Not that the man wasn’t entitled to a period of reflection and even self-pity, but Bill’s rage continued to simmer beneath the surface. Both Fred and Ruth tiptoed around him, careful of every word they spoke. And the children maintained a safe distance from their father. If they weren’t needed to help with chores, they played outdoors until bedtime each night.
Late in the afternoon when Bill had exploded over a mistake in the bookkeeping figures, Fred had pulled him aside for a talk. He knew he would miss his usual train home because of their lengthy discussion. Fred didn’t know if anything he said would help, but he hoped Bill would read the Bible passages he suggested and prayerfully consider the future of his family. The admonition he delivered to his friend was harsh, but strong words were needed if Bill was going to change his attitude and dispel the anger he directed at those attempting to help him. Before Fred had finally departed, he’d suggested Bill read the book of Job and reconsider the fairness of his circumstances. Perhaps God’s Word would soften Bill’s heart, and he would then be able to make a decision about the future.
As Fred approached his house, he spotted Lydia and Hannah Quinter playing hopscotch in the waning daylight. Lydia waved in greeting. ‘‘You’re late. We’ve already finished supper.’’
Hannah offered a half grin, her attempt to hide the gaping hole that had been filled by her front teeth not long ago. ‘‘We get in trouble if we’re late. You think your momma will send you to bed early?’’
‘‘I can only hope so.’’
The girl’s smile was replaced by a look of utter confusion. ‘‘My daddy’s unhappy, but I don’t think it’s ’cause you were late to supper.’’
Fred tousled the girl’s blond curls and proceeded up the steps. Paul Quinter was unhappy a great deal of the time, and he didn’t fail to make his discontent known at every opportunity. Fred hoped he wouldn’t be subjected to hearing about it this evening. His talk with Bill was enough for one day.
‘‘Finally home! Come and have your supper,’’ his mother called from the kitchen when he entered the front door.
Both Paul and Suzanne were in the kitchen, Paul drinking a cup of coffee while Suzanne and Fred’s mother washed the supper dishes, a task generally assigned to Lydia and Hannah.
‘‘I fixed you a plate and put it on the stove. Chicken potpie. It should still be warm.’’ His mother turned her cheek for a kiss. ‘‘Did you have a good day? I didn’t know you would be late.’’
He lifted the plate from the stove, picked up a fork and knife, and joined Paul at the table. ‘‘I apologize. Bill and I needed to have a talk, and it took longer than expected. His business is growing.’’
‘‘Business must be on the upswing for Mr. Pullman, too,’’ Paul said.
Fred shoved a forkful of the potpie into his mouth. There was a distinct absence of chicken in the dish, but he didn’t comment. His mother and Suzanne did their best to stretch the household allowance. ‘‘How so?’’ Fred asked once he’d swallowed the food.
‘‘They hired between two and four hundred men today, all for the Construction Department.’’
Fred arched his brows. ‘‘But the Construction Department hasn’t reopened.’’
‘‘That’s just it—they’re going to reopen as soon as they hire enough men. They announced they’ll fill all vacancies by the fourteenth and start work on the sixteenth. There’s a rally scheduled to begin in half an hour. If you hurry and eat, we can get there before it begins.’’
Fred glanced at the clock. He wished he could simply complete his supper and go to bed. His entire day had been filled with pressure and strain. Now he must gobble down his supper and rush to a meeting that would probably last until late into the night. The men cared little about the lateness of the hour. Unlike him, they could sleep late tomorrow or rest during the heat of the afternoon. Free time was in abundant supply in Pullman.
Paul gulped the remainder of his coffee and soon was tapping his spoon on the table in an annoying rhythmic click while Fred continued with his supper.
When he could bear the sound no longer, Fred pointed toward the door with his thumb. ‘‘Why don’t you go ahead to the rally? I’ll meet you there once I’ve finished my supper.’’
Paul pushed away from the table and jumped to his feet. ‘‘I’ll tell the men you’re coming. They’ll be pleased to see you.’’
Though Fred should have been flattered by the remark, there was an undercurrent to the words. Paul was forcing Fred’s attendance with that statement to the men. He could have stopped him, but it would have given Fred even less time to complete his meal. Once Suzanne followed her husband down the hall, Fred motioned for his mother to sit down with him.
‘‘We’ve had little time to talk these past weeks. Have you been busy at the hotel?’’
A hint of amusement played at the corner of her lips. ‘‘Are you seeking information about the hotel kitchen or about René ?’’
His mother knew him well. He hadn’t fooled her for even a minute. ‘‘I have more interest in you and Chef René than in discovering how many pies or rolls you prepared this week.’’
She leaned across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘‘I thought so. We have become very good friends. Does that news distress you, Fred?’’
He scooped the last of the potpie onto his fork and shook his head. ‘‘No. If you enjoy his company and he treats you with the kindness and dignity you deserve, then I am pleased.’’ He grinned and carried his plate to the sink. I believe he’s an honorable man who has good intentions. I did note that he hasn’t been at church lately. Is that not a problem for you?’’
‘‘His lack of attendance is not of his own doing—at least not entirely. With the troops to feed, he agreed to work in order to permit others an opportunity to worship. He enlisted the help of soldiers to assist him in the kitchen.’’
‘‘That’s generous of him.’’
‘‘I think so, too. I’ve done my best to prepare the bread and desserts in sufficient quantities to help ease the burden, but it’s been difficult. Since management’s fear of any further uprising has now subsided and the troops have been ordered to leave the city, I believe the worst is over. In fact, I’ve heard that the balance of the militia is scheduled to depart before week’s end.’’
‘‘Let’s hope so. I thought the troops would all be gone by now.’’
His mother stood and met Fred’s gaze with a look of anticipation. ‘‘So you truly have no objection to René ?’’
‘‘No.’’ He hesitated and turned. ‘‘Is there something more you wish to tell me?’’
A blush colored her cheeks, and she shook her head. ‘‘Not at the moment, but you should bear in mind that neither of us is as young as we used to be. We will likely make a decision more quickly than some would consider prudent.’’
He wrapped her in a fleeting hug. ‘‘I know you will give great thought and much prayer to any decision. It goes without saying that I would not want you to suffer a broken heart. If that should happen, I would be forced to take the chef to task.’’
‘‘You may set your mind at ease. I will carefully weigh any decisions about the future. And you must do the same.’’ She looked toward the street. ‘‘I know you have always supported the union, and I have done my best to remain silent. But you need to give thought to your own future. You’ve asked Olivia to marry you. Keep that thought in mind as the men gather to bolster their morale and commitment to the strike. Sometimes it is best to give in to defeat.’’
There wasn’t time to discuss the merits of her warning. He knew she spoke the truth, yet he couldn’t initiate such a discussion with the strikers. They already believed Mr. Heathcoate had betrayed them. If other members of leadership did the same, they would be completely disheartened. He could only hope that a contingent would broach the topic and an honest debate would ensue. Armed with facts, the men could then make rational decisions.
Many union members greeted him with loud cheers when he arrived at the rally, and Fred could smell the odor of beer and whiskey on the breath of some. He wondered where they found money to spend in the local saloons when most couldn’t afford to put bread on the table. He waved to several of the men and was surprised when Bernie Dunphy, a man younger than Fred by several years, took to the stage to lead the rally.
Fred sat down and tipped his head toward Paul. ‘‘When was Bernie elected to office?’’ Fred had missed several union meetings during the past weeks, but he hadn’t heard about any elections.
Paul shrugged. ‘‘I don’t think he was ever formally voted upon. One night when none of the elected officers appeared, he took over. Since then, he’s been taking charge more and more. Nobody seems to care enough to question him.’’ He nudged Fred in the side. ‘‘You could go up there and take his place. I’m sure he’d relinquish the podium and gavel.’’
One of the other men leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. ‘‘I’m not so sure of that. Bernie enjoys his newfound importance, especially after he’s tipped a few—like tonight.’’
‘‘Then I don’t believe I’ll attempt to challenge him.’’ Fred leaned back in his chair, content to relinquish leadership. Heathcoate’s dismissal as their spokesman and Fred’s long hours working for Bill Orland in Chicago had combined to prevent his constant participation. He’d been present back in mid-July when the men gathered in a show of solidarity for Eugene Debs after his indictment and arrest for contempt. But Fred’s attendance had waned after that, and he’d slowly begun to accept that the workers might lose their battle with management.
Although their gathering tonight had been touted as a rally, the meeting eventually turned into a debate between those who favored accepting defeat and returning to work and those who wanted to emphasize their determination by entering the car works and removing their personal tool chests. ‘‘They’ll know we mean business if we remove all of our belongings!’’ Bernie shouted from the podium.
John Harkins waved and stood up. ‘‘They don’t care if we come back or not, Bernie. There’s plenty of out-of-work men willing to take the jobs we left without the company making any concessions. Either we go back to our jobs now or we pack up and leave town. The men they hire to take our jobs are gonna have the right to rent the houses. They ain’t gonna let us live in company housing forever.’’
The validity of John’s statement struck a chord. Beyond the ramifications of losing their jobs, these men needed to consider where they would live, and so did he. They would all need to make serious choices in the days to come.
During a brief recess in the meeting, Fred slipped out the back door. The rally would change nothing, for the union had lost its power when President Cleveland ended the boycott. Facts were facts, and whether or not the members wanted to admit defeat, there was little to be gained by sitting in the union hall arguing. Instead, he would put his time to better use. Or at least he hoped so.