Authors: Shirley Martin
"Wow! Did
ya
see that?" Maggie screamed, clapping her hands.
The next shot beheaded a worker who'd innocently watched the action.
"Oh, no!"
Lisa spun away as the crowd released a collective gasp, and the remorseful Braddock men wheeled the cannon out of sight. Afraid she'd
vomit,
Lisa bent her head and fought for control. Dear God, would this day never end?
Fear and disgust tempted her to go back to the hotel, but worry about Owen froze her movements. Strands of hair hung limply about her face and down her shoulder. Her body ached with tension--every bone, every fiber, every muscle. In spite of her misery, hunger pangs shot through her, a reminder that she hadn't eaten breakfast. The scorching heat tormented her as perspiration ran down her back and lodged between her breasts. What agony the heat must be for the workers.
A hush came over the crowd, everyone exchanging glances. What now? After loading a raft with oil and greasy scraps, the strikers set the raft aflame. Hands pressed to her cheeks, Lisa watched in horrified fascination. To cheers from fellow workers and spectators, they shoved the raft toward the
Iron
Mountain
. As the raft drifted toward the enemy, Lisa's heart beat faster. At the last minute, Lisa closed her eyes, sickened by the sight, afraid to see anymore.
Within a few seconds, a low moan of disappointment issued from the onlookers. She opened her eyes and saw the raft drift by harmlessly, never touching the barge.
A lull set in, broken by an occasional dry, echoing crack of rifle fire.
Maggie tapped her arm. "Things
is
gettin
' boring,
don'tcha
think? Everyone's
makin
' bets about how much longer them
Pinkertons
can hold out. 'Course, it would be fun if the strikers killed them all, but if not--" Tilting her head, she shrugged her shoulders-- "if not, then I guess surrender would be the next best thing."
Yes, surrender. If the Pinkerton guards simply gave up, the strikers could end this impasse, and everyone could go home. But above all, she'd be with Owen again.
* * *
The sun shone like a fiery disc in a clear, blue sky, its blistering heat a constant torture to the strikers on the firing line. Men coughed and spat onto the dirt. Licking dry lips, they made desultory talk, waiting to spot a Pinkerton guard foolish enough to show himself. The Amalgamated men held their rifles at the ready, hell-bent on killing every Pinkerton.
Striding up and down among the men, Owen noted their faces set with a single-minded determination. Events couldn't continue like this much longer. That appeared as plain as the look of murder in their eyes. Runnels of sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping onto his shirt. He ran a dirt-caked arm across his forehead and stretched his legs as he scanned the mill landing for Hugh O'Donnell.
As Hugh caught
Owen's
approach, he met Owen halfway, worry and tension written on his face.
Owen cleared his dry throat to speak, every word an effort. "Hugh, it's obvious we can't do anymore here. Just look around you," he said, spreading his arm in a wide arc. "You can see 'murder' in the eyes of all these men. What
d'you
say
we get all the members of the Advisory Committee together and arrange to meet inside the
Bost
Building
next to the mill?" After several days with so little sleep, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open, but he spoke with determination. "We must work out a solution. We can't go on like this." He scuffed his shoe in the gritty dirt. "Let's see if we can end this deadlock."
Hugh nodded, his eyelids drooping.
"My thoughts exactly.
Useless to try to control these men."
He sighed, looking around him at all the steelworkers lying prone along the Monongahela shoreline, rifles aimed at the barges. He faced Owen again. "Now, I think it's time for some action, and I
don't
mean more shooting." Hugh nodded thoughtfully. "Let's pass the word around and meet at the
Bost
Building
. . . say in fifteen minutes. . . “
Shortly after, at the impromptu headquarters inside the building, the entire Advisory Committee, a very concerned group of men, deliberated. Owen stared around him, gauging frazzled tempers. A few, such as he and Hugh, were willing to let the
Pinkertons
surrender.
"No surrender!" the workers shouted.
William
Weihe
, president of the Amalgamated, rose to speak. Seven feet tall and a dedicated steelworker, he spoke with urgency, but no one could hear him above the shouting.
"No
Pinkertons
!"
"Kill them all!"
"Burn the boats!"
"No quarter for the murderers!"
After the catcalls had died down, Owen scraped his chair back and stood. He looked out over the heads of all the workers who stood shoulder to shoulder, talking and arguing among themselves.
"Look," Owen said, "eight of our men have already been killed and over thirty wounded. Next time the
Pinkertons
show the white flag, let's take '
em
up on it."
"They'd be crazy to show the flag again," Mike Flanagan shouted. "Our men shoot '
em
down whenever they raise the damn thing."
"The whole country's been
talkin
' about our battle," a worker yelled. "Newspaper reporters have been here all day. Haven't you seen '
em
? The people are with us! Why stop now?"
"Yeah!" other strikers echoed. "Why stop now?"
The conference continued for a long time, with no one making any headway.
"Let's permit the
Pinkertons
to surrender," Hugh finally said amid the noise. "What other choice--?"
Catcalls drowned out his voice. Throwing up his hands, he returned to his seat.
Owen tapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go back to the landing and see if we can accomplish anything there," Owen said. "Time is running out!"
Back at the landing minutes later, Owen and the other strike leaders moved among the workers, determined to convince them that further bloodshed would only hurt their cause.
With slow, purposeful strides, he moved among the workers, trying to persuade them that their best hope lay in reaching an agreement with the guards. After a while, he, Hugh, and other responsible union men managed to talk some sense into the workers, persuading them that more shooting and killing would accomplish nothing. By late afternoon, the peace faction held control. There remained only the problem of resolving the surrender terms.
* * *
"Oh, no, not this!"
Owen gazed at the women and children who charged toward the landing. Even if the workers could be controlled--a doubtful prospect--what about all these vengeful women or unruly children? What would happen now? Reluctant to think about it, he realized all the union leaders would have to deal with this problem.
Most of all, what about Lisa? He scanned the crowd but didn't see her. Where was she? Back at the hotel, he hoped, but knew that was a hollow wish. He felt sure she'd be here, waiting for him. He winced, worried about the violence she must have witnessed. Lisa, Lisa, he murmured. Scanning the rabble again, he wondered where she was and wondered, too, how they could ever find happiness.
Hugh came to stand beside him, clutching an incongruously small flag. "Here goes. Let's see what happens now."
Hugh eased among the workers and headed down the hill toward the barges. "There's been enough killing," he shouted to the
Pinkertons
. "On what terms do you wish to capitulate?"
A Pinkerton met him halfway, his face lined with exhaustion. "No violence toward my men!"
"Agreed," O'Donnell said, keeping a wary eye on the other steelworkers who crowded
beside
him.
Hot, weary, and furious, steelworkers clustered by the gangplank. They motioned toward the guards who left the barges and plodded up the hill. "Move it, move it!"
As each guard emerged from below the deck, the steelworkers grabbed and pocketed their pistols. Tightlipped, they jerked the jackets from the guards and tossed them into the river. One by one, over three-hundred guards were shoved across the gangplank. They huddled in groups on the shoreline, some of the younger men crying.
After dousing the barges with oil, the workers put the torch to them. Hot, dry as dust, they blazed immediately, the process accelerated by a light northerly breeze. The smoke of the burning barges drifted along with the breeze, soon filling the air with the smell of smoke. On the shore, the women and children laughed with delight, cheering at the leaping flames and billows of smoke.
At the edge of the crowd, Lisa tasted ashes on her tongue, and cinders layered her clothes. Smoke burned her eyes, the tears streaming down her face. Faint and worried sick about Owen, she looked around for something to lean on but saw nothing to ease her exhaustion. Thirst drove her crazy. Her stomach roiled with hunger and fear.
Brushing her hand across her eyes, she looked in all directions, but she still didn't see Owen. Didn't see him anywhere! Oh, God, where could he be? Not wounded, no, please no! And please,
not . . . not
. . . God, she prayed, please take care of Owen.
After the longest time, Lisa saw him, all her fears forgotten.
Thank you, God. Thank you
for taking care of him
. She opened her fists and flexed her fingers, only now aware of how tightly she'd clenched them. Observing the nail marks on her skin, she forced her body to relax as she watched Owen and the other mill workers escort the guards up the hill. He looked so tired and troubled, but so wonderful. Her heart burst with pride for her man, and she wanted to cry to the world
all that
he meant to her.
The smoking barges had distracted the onlookers for a while, but now they turned their hard, collective attention to the prisoners who plodded up the hill. The workers marched them around to the western edge of the mill about a half mile away, where they'd wait at the
Homestead
depot. Deliverance! The workers sneered and laughed at the
Pinkertons
. Some even threatened them. Still, as the guards stumbled up the long slope, no one attacked them.
The
Pinkertons
reached the halfway point up the hill.
Then--pandemonium! Screaming and snarling, the women slapped the guards across the face. One woman, her face contorted with rage, jabbed her umbrella in a guard's face, poking his eye out.
Whack! Whack! Whack! With a vicious single minded purpose, the women and children swung clubs at the prisoners and pelted them with rocks. Every blow sickened Lisa. She spun away as nausea churned in her stomach and bile rose in her throat.
"Stop it!" Rushing toward the attackers, the union men grabbed and shoved at the rabble, determined to protect the
Pinkertons
. "We promised them no violence!"
The women and children paid no attention. "Nobody's
gonna
tell us what to do!"
Lisa held her breath. She'd never seen such mean-spirited viciousness. She covered her ears against the sound of the clubbing, the screaming of the prisoners. Blood spurted onto the
slaggy
soil, not ten feet from her. Faintness washed over her. Taking a deep breath, she bent forward, forcing herself to remain conscious. She would not succumb to weakness.
A teenaged boy raised a club over a Pinkerton's head.
"No!" Owen yelled. "Put that down!" He moved quickly to protect the guard, raising his hand to stop the boy. Not quick enough! The club crashed down on his head and sent him staggering. Owen fell sideways to the ground with a hard thud. He lay motionless in the dirt.
"No!" Lisa screamed.
"Oh, God, no!"
Shoving through the crowd, she reached him in seconds. She knelt down in the dirt beside him. The crowd moved aside for her, muttering among
themselves
. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming. Her hand shook as she touched him.