The Coal War (49 page)

What this meant was that the power of the United States government was being used to hold down Peter Harrigan's slaves while he starved them into submission. The President sent ambassadors and would-be mediators, to try to persuade Old Peter to make at least a pretense of concession; but Old Peter stood firm as a rock, he would make no pretense. So there began a struggle for the public opinion of the country—into which struggle Hal threw himself with fiery ardor. He wrote articles and leaflets, he addressed meetings of all sorts, he started a citizens' league and a free speech association. One thing at least all his clamor accomplished—it broke down the indifference to public sentiment which up to now had been the most conspicuous fact about the Harrigan regime. For the first time in history, Old Peter issued statements to the newspapers; as things got hotter yet, he was forced to set up a regular publicity-bureau—a sort of journalistic fire-department, to put out the flames of popular indignation. He had congressmen making speeches in Washington, he had judges and society-ladies running to plead his cause with the President. He sent General Wrightman to tour the state and defend the militia; he sent Major Cassels to tour the whole country on the same errand.

Hal happened to be in Washington, having gone to see the President himself, when he heard that the Judge-Advocate was to speak in a church, and he went there and confronted his eminent legal friend, and gave him a most miserable half-hour. The kind of thing that Cassels was doing may be judged from his story of little Jennie Burke, who had testified under oath how she had laughed when General Wrightman fell from his horse, and how the General had mounted again and ridden her down and kicked her in the breast. Now, all over the country, at meetings of chambers of commerce and women's clubs and church congregations, Major Cassels was giving a sample of the falsehoods told about the militia—a girl had sworn that General Wrightman had jumped from his horse and kicked her in the breast! Was it likely that a person as elderly as an Adjutant-General could kick that high? And the audiences would laugh—being impressed by the Judge-Advocate's genial manner, as well as by his imposing title. What chance had they to find out about poor little Jennie, who was crippled for life, and might die of cancer in the end?

Confronting such things, it was hard for Hal not to become rabid. To see this elaborate conspiracy of falsehood and suppression—and back in the tent-colonies, the slow, relentless strangling of the hopes and lives of men! In the early days at North Valley, arguing with Jeff Cotton, the camp-marshal, Hal had pointed out the fundamental issue of this struggle—the question whether a ton of coal was to consist of two thousand pounds or three! The miners said two, Old Peter said three—and that his will might prevail, all the forces of a state had been set into motion; a thousand gunmen had gathered, the militia had been called out, a million dollars had been spent, men, women and children had been tortured and murdered! And now, to clinch the victory—here was the regular army of the United States, and a publicity-campaign to poison the mind of the entire country!

Old Peter had got a press agent, a highly trained person who was paid a thousand dollars a month. His name was Oakes, and as the strikers came to understand the character of his work, they gave him the surname of “Poison”. One of the first things he did was to get out a bulletin headed, “Why the Strike was Forced on the Miners”. He quoted from the report of the secretary-treasurer of the union, which showed that the national vice-president of the union, in charge of the strike, had received a yearly salary of $2,395.72, and a year's expenses of $1,667.20. “Poison” Oakes put these two together, calling it all salary, $4,062.92; then he added the expenses again, making a total of $5,720.12; finally he said that all this had been paid to the national vice-president for nine weeks' work on the strike—thus showing that he was paid over ninety dollars a day, or at the rate of $32,000 a year! By the same method “Poison” Oakes showed that another official was paid sixty-six dollars a day; that John Harmon had received $1,773.40 in nine weeks! Mother Mary was listed at forty-two dollars a day; the actual fact being that for her work as an organizer she had been paid $2.57 a day—and this not including any of the time that she had spent in jail! The bulletin of “Poison” Oakes, containing these falsehoods, was mailed over the country to the extent of hundreds of thousands of copies, and the union leaders received many letters of inquiry and denunciation. They exposed the false statements, and demanded that the operators correct them; but this was a detail to which “Poison” Oakes never got round.

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In his efforts to rouse the public to the meaning of these events, Hal invented a phrase which covered the situation—that Peter Harrigan had murdered labor, and now was proceeding to loot the corpse! Everybody else had suffered loss—Old Peter alone had profited from the struggle! The union was out of pocket several millions of dollars, the consuming public was out several millions more, some of the smaller operators were in bankruptcy—but Old Peter had made a fortune! He had laid up enormous stocks of coal before the strike, and these he had sold to the public at a big advance, alleging scarcity. Now that the stocks were reduced, he was starting his mines again, with a fresh supply of slaves; and for this procedure he had not merely made the state pay the bill—he had made the country think of him as a philanthropist!

“Poison” Oakes gave out another statement, detailed and explicit, showing how for many years the common stock of the General Fuel Company had not paid a cent in dividends. Peter Harrigan was running his mines as a matter of charity, to keep ten or twelve thousand men employed! This statement was sent everywhere by the great press association, which served as an aqueduct for Old Peter's ideas, and as a concrete dam to the ideas of his opponents. How was anyone to know about the bonds of the General Fuel Company, which had earned regular interest right along? About the preferred stock, which had earned regular dividends? About the sums which had been spent in improving the property—so that the Coal King had doubled the value of his holdings within a few years! Or about the surplus which the company had accumulated—sufficient to have paid six per cent a year on its common stock if it had chosen! Old Peter was keeping his money in an inside pocket, so to speak!

All along the line was defeat and ruin for Hal's friends. Billy Keating had to flee the state in order to escape arrest; he went into Mexico, and the “Gazette” very kindly invented a report that he had been killed by bandits! Professor Purdue, who had acted as counsel for the strikers, was thrown out of Harrigan College; Will Wilmerding was driven to resign from St. George's. How could he remain in a church whose rector appeared at a meeting of the “Law and Order League” and declared the militia justified in all it had done, and that if he could have had his way, every miner's home would have been blown up with dynamite? Such being the mood of the ruling classes of the state, it was easy to get a jury to find John Harmon guilty of murder, and a judge to sentence him to prison for life. Jim Moylan was under indictment, expecting soon to be tried; so also were Johann Hartman, Jack David, Rovetta, Klowowski—everyone who had been active in the defense of the tent-colonies. Many were in jail—and those who were out on bail were in no better circumstance, for they were not allowed to leave the state, and yet, being blacklisted, could get no work within the state!

Some few Hal was able to help: poor old Mike Sikoria, with his damaged arm; Jennie Burke, with her injured breast; Rosa Minetti, dazed and hysterical by turns—these he could save from the full consequences of defeat. But he could not help all who were under indictment, he could not help all who were scattered to the four winds, impoverished and marked for persecution. They would pay for their effort after freedom a penalty proportioned to the courage they had displayed. In this war, as in all others, it was “Woe to the conquered”!

The time came when the inevitable admission of defeat had to be made; a convention of the strikers gathered, and the fourteen months' struggle was formally called off. The slaves would go back to their galleys—until they were driven by unendurable torment to another revolt. These great strikes came at regular periods of ten years; and the thought which goaded Hal to madness was of those next ten years. Ten years of life such as he had lived for three months at North Valley! Ten years of starvation and despair for thirty or forty thousand human beings!

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There was no way Hal could prevent it; it was life and he must face it. He must fight the battle in his own soul, to make wisdom out of his humiliation, resolution out of his despair. He must go over what had happened, and organize and order it in his own mind; he must work out a new program of action, testing it by new experiments, revising it to fit new facts; he must study the ideas of other men, weighing them and judging them, bringing order out of the chaos of their contentions. In other words, he must learn to think; and this is a slow and tedious process, which does not lend itself to picturesque narrative nor afford stirring and dramatic climaxes.

One thing Hal had come to see quite clearly: that beautifully simple formula of syndicalism which he had brought back from Europe did not fit the situation. The Syndicalist might wish ever so hard to ignore the state—but the state would not let itself be ignored. It would come in and smash your labor organization, no matter how strong you might be; it would smash you before you had a chance to become strong! So inevitably, by automatic reaction, your labor organization was driven into politics, the strike-war became a war of ballots.

Then—because some men have room for only one idea in their heads—you would have another beautifully simple formula, that of the pure and simple politician, the orthodox Socialist, who preached that salvation was found in the ballot alone. What would happen if you followed that formula was obvious enough; the labor men had seen it happen in this very state, having duly elected a radical governor, and stood by helpless while he was barred from office! When that happened to Socialist candidates, the pure and simple politicians would be the first to come to the unions, to ask for “direct action”.

You needed the strike to back up the ballot, and the ballot to reinforce the strike. Thus Syndicalism and Socialism were two feet, and the wise man did not hop on either foot, he walked on both—and he kept his eyes open in addition! The worst thing any man could do was to adopt a formula, making it as a bandage over his eyes, so that he fell into the traps which his cunning enemy planted. And here was the service which a young man of the leisure class could do for groping labor; he had time to think, he was independent of all ties; so, if he kept true and steadfast, he could be, as old John Edstrom had said, a watcher on a hill-top, spying out the pathway ahead, and giving signals to the marching host of labor.

In fulfilment of this function, Hal would travel about the state, addressing meetings of whoever would come to hear him. And Mary Burke would go along, and speak at these meetings. It seemed to Jessie a shocking thing that Mary should travel about with Hal and appear on the same platform with him—considering what had been said about them, and might continue to be said. Surely one must pay some attention to what other people thought! But Jessie found that it was not wise to argue about this with Hal, who was so wrapped up in his propaganda that he did not care what even his wife thought; so, in order to keep things respectable, the wife would make it a point always to accompany her husband on these pilgrimages, no matter what the sacrifice of convenience and comfort. In order that all the world should know that the wife was present, Jessie would sit upon the platform while the speech-making was going on; in order that people might understand that she had a proper wifely sympathy with her husband's activities, she would smile at the interesting places in his speech, and when the meeting was over she would shake hands with all sorts of strange and uncomfortable people; workingmen who wore no collars, or worse yet, celluloid collars; ranchmen with big calloused hands; angular young women with prominent teeth and short hair; queer old ladies with fervent convictions; poetical young men with Windsor ties; pale, harassed-looking agitators who had been in jail, and must be treated with especial deference on that account. All this was a part of the process which the Russians term “going to the people”; and Hal would explain to Jessie that the process was unavoidable—it was a burden upon progress caused by the blocking of the ordinary channels of information, the corrupting of newspapers and magazines. There were things that the people must know, and there was no way to teach them save to tell it by word of mouth.

So both Hal and Mary developed into orators: quite as a matter of course, and without thinking about it especially. The first time that Mary walked out on a platform and faced an audience deliberately and in cold blood, she was frightened so that her knees shook visibly; but presently her theme took hold of her—she was telling the story of life at Horton, and she would be back in the tents, taking care of the wounded, or on the street in Pedro, arguing with General Wrightman's troopers, or shut up in jail, singing the union song from the window, or leading the women and children over the plain, with machine-gun bullets knocking off the heel of her shoe and cutting holes in her dress. It was a story of varied adventure, with humor and pathos and terror; and Mary soon found out what parts of it moved her audiences, made them laugh or shed tears or cry out with horror.

Old Patrick's daughter became “Red Mary” in a new sense of the word; a sinister figure, a name of terror and reprobation throughout the state. She worked incessantly, with ceaseless energy; for she could see that she was accomplishing something, and so hope came back into her heart, and purpose into her life. It was a different thing, meeting human beings face to face in this way—quite different from sitting helpless through the agony of a strike, suffering wrongs heaped upon wrongs, and crying to that blank and deaf and lifeless thing which was called “the public”.