Death at Pullman (14 page)

“Stop it. All of you,” commanded Detective Whitbread. “MacGregor, get a hold of yourself or I'll have them put you in handcuffs. Do that for the others,” he nodded, and his men put handcuffs on the three men. Stark was red in the face.

“I'm telling you I'm an agent of the company. I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency and I am assigned to the Pullman Company. I demand to speak to Jennings.”

Whitbread crossed his arms and regarded the red-faced Stark with raised eyebrows. MacGregor howled and had to be restrained from attacking. The detective turned to one of his men and quietly told him to go to the Florence Hotel and return with the Pullman manager. When he turned back, he said, “Mr. Cabot, I hope you are getting all of this down, then.”

To my amazement Alden began interviewing everyone and taking down names. Only Stark turned away in disgust when addressed. He got the names of the policemen and the Pullman men. MacGregor, practically in tears, provided background on the latter, while berating them as idiots for getting involved in a bombing plot. They admitted it had been for money promised by Stark.

Finally, Jennings came trooping in, followed by a dozen company men all sporting their little enamel flag pins. They looked outraged. “You see, Detective, it's just as I told you. Look at that. They were trying to blow up the clock tower. I told you, it's your duty to protect us from this kind of violence. It's up to the city to protect private property.”

“And I would point out that we have succeeded, so far, Mr. Jennings. However, this man—who is the main culprit in the crime—claims to be in your employ. Is that true?”

Jennings had the grace to blush but he didn't let embarrassment stop him. On the contrary he began to bluster. “This man is from Pinkerton. He is assigned to us. If you and the mayor and the rest of your department were doing your jobs the Pullman Company would not have to go to the expense of hiring protection such as Pinkerton. And I can tell you it is costing us a lot of money. Yes, he works for us. Let him go.”

“Let him go, Mr. Jennings? But this man has just been caught in the act of planting six sticks of dynamite at the base of your clock tower to blow it up. Why would we let him go?”

“Because he was working for us. He was working for the company. Tell him,” Jennings turned to Stark, who had a devilish grin on his face.

“Yes, sir. As per directions I engaged to determine the likelihood of an attack on the company property. It was suspected that some of the ARU men had engaged in such sabotage in the past and it was necessary to do a thorough investigation to forestall such an attack.”

“ARU men, you're mad,” MacGregor broke in. “These are no ARU men. These are Pullman men who have no money and families that are starving. They're no ARU men.”

“Exactly. They are your men and they are open to such plots,” Jennings shouted. “We have to protect ourselves. We have a right to protect company property from such plots. Tell them, Stark.”

“Yes, sir. So this one, Martin Allen, and George Devine along with Joseph O'Malley, participated eagerly and with full understanding in the plan to blow up the Pullman Company clock tower.”

“Joe O'Malley. There's no Joe O'Malley here, you lying, thieving traitor.” MacGregor would have lunged at Stark again, but Whitbread put a long arm out.

“I would assume Mr. O'Malley is the one who alerted us to the plot,” the detective suggested.

“He didn't show up, but the others did,” Stark sneered.

“Yes, well, we will be taking all of you down to the station for booking.”

“Oh, no, you don't,” Stark said. “The company won't press charges against me. I'm their agent. Ask Jennings.”

“That's right. Of course.” Whitbread looked at him sourly and MacGregor howled again. Jennings was insistent. “Let him go, Detective. I am telling you the Pullman Company will not press charges against this man. He is in our employ and I want to emphasize, once again, that if your department was doing its job protecting us it would not be necessary for the company to incur this extra expense.”

Whitbread signaled one of his men to release Stark, who smiled smugly. “I suppose the company
is
willing to press charges against these other two men?”

“What? Of course, that's the point. Oh, really, take them away. They would have blown up the building for God's sake.”

“Wait,” I yelled, unable to believe what I was hearing. “You cannot do this. These men were being paid by your agent, by you, to do this bombing and you want them arrested for it? You planned this bombing.”

Jennings was red-faced when he turned to me. “Miss Cabot, I cannot imagine what in the world you are doing in such a place, at such a time. Nor do I see what this could possibly have to do with you or Hull House. Furthermore,” he blustered, unable to think of what to say to me, “you are on restricted company property. Leave immediately, or you will be arrested for trespassing.”

I glared at him. Whitbread's men were hiding grins as they moved around, getting the prisoners ready for removal. The detective himself was standing in the middle of the room shaking his head with a raised eyebrow. “Alden,” I shouted, “are you getting all of this down? Be sure to mention how Mr. Jennings was going to have me—the Hull House representative to the relief station down here—arrested for trespassing after witnessing his agent provocateur trying to plant a bomb in his clock tower. By all means include that.” And, realizing we had lost, and that there was nothing to be gained if Whitbread had to release Stark, I stalked out of the room and over to the Florence Hotel, up to my room to go to bed with no supper. When I saw my brother later in the week I learned that only two of the six sticks of dynamite had been recovered. Detective Whitbread was furious when he realized that, in the confusion, someone had walked away with the other four.

So they took those two men away and let Stark go. I couldn't believe it. Jennings refused to press charges against Stark but he insisted they arrest the other two men, and they had only done it for the money. If the Pullman Company hadn't given their Pinkerton agent the money to bribe those men they never would have tried to blow up the clock tower. It was all Stark's idea.”

“They went along with it, though. They were the ones who brought in the dynamite, from what you said.” Dr. Chapman was being obtuse again. I'd been forced to wait until he was free of patients to get his attention. It was the following day and once again I'd quickly run out of supplies at the relief station upstairs and I was at loose ends. I was still absolutely incensed at how the evening had ended.

“But that's not the end of it. At least Alden was there and he rushed out to make sure he got the last train so he could make the newspaper deadline—he took down the whole story. When people see how the company has acted, when they know the truth about it, Pullman will be so disgraced. How could he not give in after such nefarious, felonious, reprehensible behavior is exposed? You'll see, he'll have to give in now.”

There was a roar from the meeting room where MacGregor and the other strikers were assembled.

“It must be another line that has joined the strike. Besides the Illinois Central, the Chicago and Northwestern; the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy; and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe have all had men strike. They are estimating there must be almost eighteen thousand.” I had been keeping track.

“I know. I think even Debs is surprised. It's already gone beyond what they planned for.”

“It's wonderful. It's all in support of the workers here. Pullman will have to come down from his high horse.”

“I hope you're right, Emily. But I've heard from a number of my patients that some of these railroad men are striking because they have grievances of their own.”

“Well, what's wrong with that? If they have grievances?”

“It could complicate the solution. The strike is spreading like a rash and there's some doubt as to how much control the ARU actually has of it.”

“After the way Pullman's behaved, I'm glad it's happening. Someone has to do something to prove to him that he can't just do anything he wants without even talking to anyone else. Here's Johnny—I sent him for a copy of the
Sentinel
. I'll bet Alden's article is on the front page.” I grabbed the paper from the boy and couldn't help letting out an exclamation of disgust. On the front page—instead of Alden's article telling the truth about what had happened the night before, how the Pullman Company had used an agent provocateur to hire men with starving families to try to plant a bomb in the factory—there was a huge cartoon of Eugene Debs wearing a crown, titled
Dictator Debs
. I searched through the paper and finally found a small article on the fifth page. It merely reported that a bomb had been planted in the factory but that police—aided by a Pinkerton agent in the employ of the Pullman Company—had prevented any damage and arrested two strikers, charging them with the deed. “How could they? How could Alden let them?”

Dr. Chapman read the article over my shoulder. “I'm sorry. I'm sure your brother wrote it up as you described.”

“But how could they not use it?” I protested.

“They're afraid of Debs and the ARU It was one thing when the strikers were only the Pullman workers down here—then there was sympathy for their plight.”

“Sympathy, but no one would do anything. No one could make Pullman talk or arbitrate. He just kept saying there was nothing to arbitrate. It's only by enlisting the other workers that they can do anything to make an impression on him.” I was really finding all this most frustrating.

“But it's not Pullman who is hurting. You said yourself that his contracts have a clause so that he loses nothing if there is a strike. It's the railroads who are hurt by the ARU strike and it's not the Pullman issues that they care about. It's the ARU flexing its muscles. It's the ARU proving their work actions can have an effect and then turning around and using that power to raise wages or address the other issues of their members. That's what the railroad men want to fight and they have the newspapers behind them.”

“This is so unfair!” I flung the paper across the room, but it just fluttered apart and drifted to the floor.

“I'm afraid it is.”

At that point there were footsteps on the stairs and then Gracie Foley appeared in the doorway, breathing a little heavily from her climb. “Miss Cabot, Dr. Chapman. I'm wondering now, have you seen my little brother or sister by any chance, or my brother, Joseph, who's gone missing?”

I shook my head and Dr. Chapman assured her that we had not seen the children. I'd told the doctor about Stark's claim that Joe O'Malley was one of the conspirators, and Detective Whitbread's belief that Joe had been the one to send me the note warning of the bomb plot.

“Did you hear what happened last night, Mrs. Foley?” I asked.

“That they found out that Stark was really a Pinkerton and they arrested those damn fools Allen and Devine? Of course I heard it, it's all over. There's no truth in that blackguard's claim that my brother Joseph was involved, no truth at all, and he'll never prove it. I've an idea the news of that is what caused him to go missing. But I'm afraid for the young ones. It's all upside down outside, you know. They sure have made an impression with this ARU strike, I'll say that for them. It's thrown most everyone for a loop, it has. It's like a holiday or something. People can't get to where they need to, so they're just walking around. And the rumors. You wouldn't believe it. I met a union man downstairs. He was coming in from Rock Island and they told him the train couldn't run because of riot crowds on the line. So he switched to another line. He got a few miles further on and they stopped the train, telling the passengers they couldn't go any further for there were unruly crowds of strikers on the tracks making it unsafe. Well, this man, he'd had it by then. So he took his bag and walked the whole five miles but didn't see a soul. They're trying to start something is what it is.”

“I would believe it after what I saw last night,” I agreed. Dr. Chapman looked amused.

“So I said to Mooney, I said, we need to go find the young'uns because if there is any trouble they'll be only too likely to find their way to the middle of it and I'm sure they're hungry at any rate. So I brought down some baskets of food for them, but the young'uns aren't at the Dens and they're not here. And they say there really is a crowd gathered about a mile south. So what do you say, Miss Cabot, Dr. Chapman? Will you join us in Mooney's surrey? We'll go down and round them up and tell them there's food for them, but not if they don't come away with us right now. That'll get 'em. And then we'll find a spot and have a picnic. It's a fine, warm day for it and time they thought of something besides this strike. Will you join us?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Foley, but I have patients coming in a little while,” the doctor told her.

“God bless you, doctor. They all love you for it. What about you, Miss Cabot? Mooney is downstairs awaitin'.”

“Go ahead, Emily,” the doctor told me. “You said you are out of supplies upstairs anyhow. I'll look out for anyone who comes asking for you.”

So I got my hat and gloves and joined Gracie Foley in Mooney's open carriage. He sat up front driving us, and I sat in the back with Gracie, for all the world like a couple of Prairie Avenue matrons out for a drive. Three wicker baskets were stowed by our feet and I knew the O'Malley children would have the relief of a real meal that day.

It was not long before a large, restive crowd appeared on our left. When I saw what they were doing I became alarmed. A train car—disconnected from others on the track—was surrounded by rows of people five or six deep on both sides, mostly men but with some women interspersed. They were chanting, and I realized that they were rocking the car back and forth, and from side to side. They threw up some lines, attached them to the corners, and then groups pulled down on the ropes as the car was rocked to their side. They were chanting, “One and two, one and two, one and two,” louder and louder until the car tipped towards our side of the track, hung for a moment, and fell with a great boom, as people scurried out of the way. A cheer went up, along with a cloud of dust, as it landed on its side. I saw then that another car had already been overturned.

As they were cheering a whistle shrieked from an engine approaching very slowly from the south. Men with rifles and shotguns were perched all over the engine and the car behind it. All had their badges prominently displayed. It was only then that I noticed a few regular police officers at the edge of the crowd. They had been watching, helpless to disperse the large, angry mob. But the men on the train started yelling at the protestors, ordering them to disperse. They were greeted with jeers.

I was becoming quite uncomfortable. What had seemed like a lark—while the crowd was happy with their actions—was fast beginning to feel very dangerous. Gracie stiffened beside me and bent forward to speak quietly to Mr. Mooney. He climbed down and began to saunter through the crowd.

“I told him to take a gander. See if he spots the young'uns . . .  Look, there they are, he found them.” Sure enough, he'd located Patrick and Lilly and sent them hurrying towards us. We helped them up into the front seat and gave them each a slice of bread to eat.

Gracie shielded her eyes, pointing at the engine. “God in heaven, I don't believe it. The gall of that man. Look who's over there.”

Leonard Stark straddled the fender, wearing a badge and pointing a rifle at the crowd.

“There he is, big as day, your Pinkerton man. Look at him.”

It seemed he'd been recognized by some of the crowd, who were probably shouting insults at him, although we were still too far away to hear. Something nettled him as he jumped down from the engine, cursing at the crowd. They backed away from the rifle as he approached. We could see Mooney on the side, hands in his pockets watching the drama.

Stark angrily fired into the air. Some of the crowd jumped away, but their verbal insults must have increased. Glaring at them, he did the most incredible thing. I was looking right at him, and it seemed as if the world stopped for a moment. He turned towards Mr. Mooney—who was standing, watching from a few yards away—aimed his rifle, and shot him in the head.

I couldn't believe it. Mooney was not threatening him, or even yelling at him. He was just watching from the sidelines. It was impossible. The whole scene hung there for a few moments, none of us able to comprehend it.

Then Gracie growled in a low voice that rose in pitch and volume until she was screaming. “No, no, no! Nooooo. Mooooney.” She jumped down from the carriage and ran towards where he'd fallen.

Meanwhile, the crowd broke into a roar, rushing as one body towards Stark. He was quickly surrounded by the men who were with him. (I later found out that they had all been appointed deputy marshals.) They closed in around him and retreated back towards the engine, guns raised to ward off the crowd. They yelled that they were taking him to the police station, where the wounded man should be brought, too. Soon Gracie was swept back to the carriage with a group of men carrying Mooney. She climbed into the carriage and the men handed Mooney up to us. We held him on our laps while one of the men took up the reins, urging the horses towards the police station, which was only a block away.

The crowd ran along beside the carriage until we reached our destination. Gracie followed the men, who carried Mooney inside, while I stayed in the carriage with the children. I climbed into the front seat and wrapped my arms around them, for comfort and to keep them safe. The angry mob milled restlessly around the front of the station. Only a few minutes later, a cart came out of a nearby alley, driven by a tall, thin man I recognized as Detective Whitbread. “Out of the way. This man is injured, we must take him to the hospital, out of the way!” The back of the cart was covered by a tarpaulin and the crowd—when they heard it held the injured man—made way for the nervous horse being egged on by Whitbread. I couldn't see who was in the cart as it sped away, but I suspected that Gracie wasn't one of them. After making the children promise to stay in the carriage, I made my way into the station house to look for her. I found her just inside the entryway keening over Mooney, who was lying on a wooden bench. She was frantic with worry.

A beefy police officer was turning away a group of angry strikers with the words, “He's gone now, I tell you. He was in that cart that just left.” There was a roar of anger as this news was passed back to the others. They wanted Stark and they were furious at being tricked, but I don't think any of them were as furious as I was when I realized what Whitbread had done.

As the policeman cajoled the crowd into settling down and leaving, I screamed at a couple of men, grabbing them and forcing them to carry Mooney back to the carriage. Gracie was wild.

 “We have to take him to Dr. Chapman,” I told her. “It's not far. They're not helping him, Gracie, we have to do it.”

They lifted him up into the carriage, laying him with his bleeding head in her lap. She had tied a handkerchief with lace edging on the wound, but it was deeply soaked with blood already. He was still breathing at least. Furious with all of them, I climbed up to take the reins. I had only driven a carriage of this size a few times, but I trusted no one else. I yelled at little Patrick to show me the way. He reached over to help me with the reins and even pulled out a whip to get the horse moving through the crowd. One man wanted to stop us to make sure they weren't being fooled again, as they had been by the first cart, but hands reached out and pulled him out of my way. It was as well for him because I had no intention of pulling up the horse for any more foolishness. I would have run him down.