An Uncertain Dream (32 page)
Fred chuckled. ‘‘I doubt he’ll come up with a list. He’ll probably consider himself fortunate if he’s able to conjure up one or two ideas.’’
Olivia knew Fred was correct. Locating jobs was difficult enough for able-bodied men. But Bill still possessed talent and intelligence. He should not waste either.
When she approached the hotel the following morning, Olivia couldn’t believe her eyes. There appeared to be more than a thousand strikers outside the main gate of the car works. They had formed orderly rows while they awaited a signal from one of the clerks or supervisors. Benjamin Guilfoyle, one of the men who had worked with Fred, stood in line.
He waved in recognition as Olivia approached. ‘‘Good morning, Benjamin. You’re going back to work?’’
‘‘Yes. My wife insisted that I reapply while the company is giving preference to former employees. I didn’t want to resign my membership in the union, but it’s the only way they’ll agree to hire us back.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘It seems our strike was for naught. We go back to the same job for the same wage, and our rent remains as high as ever.’’
Olivia watched one of the men step forward, sign his name in the ledger book, and add his tattered union card to the mounting pile.
‘‘What about Fred?’’ Benjamin asked. ‘‘I heard the union organizers won’t be considered.’’
‘‘He’s helping Bill Orland with his business in Chicago. I don’t know what the future holds, but he won’t be able to return to Pullman.’’ She nodded toward the hotel. ‘‘I had better get to work. Give my regards to your wife.’’
‘‘I’ll do that. Tell Fred I hope he won’t hold it against any of us for going back to work.’’
Olivia reassured Benjamin before she hurried back across the street to the hotel. Now she must face Chef René . She had considered waiting until later in the day, but she feared she would lose her courage. After donning her white jacket, she quietly made her request.
‘‘You want
what
?’’ The chef rested his beefy hands on his hips and stared into her eyes.
Olivia forced a feeble smile. ‘‘A letter of recommendation,’’ she whispered.
He pointed to the hallway. ‘‘Into my office, Miss Mott!’’
Every member of the staff had turned to look at her when he bellowed his command. She followed behind the chef, feeling like a disobedient child. He proceeded into the office and waited until she sat down before closing the door and wedging himself into the chair across from her.
‘‘I would like an explanation for this sudden request of yours.’’ He folded his arms across his chest and waited. She explained her conversation with Fred, and when she’d finished, he slowly shook his head. ‘‘Your Fred is an intelligent man.’’ The chef pointed to his head. ‘‘He knows how much the cooking means to you, and I can understand why he worries you will become a disgruntled wife. If you cannot continue to work and develop your cooking skills, I, too, worry you will be most unhappy. This would not be good.’’
‘‘Then since you agree with Fred, you’ll write a letter?’’
He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘‘A letter will serve no purpose for you. The chefs in Chicago’s fine hotels will not hire you.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
He held up his thumb. ‘‘One, because you are a woman.’’ He extended his index finger. ‘‘Two, because you are a woman who will soon be married.’’ With his next finger extended, he said, ‘‘Three, because there are many men seeking work right now, and you are a woman.’’
Olivia scooted forward and leaned across the desk. ‘‘I know I am a woman, but I am a fine chef—you’ve said so yourself. I don’t think it will matter once they taste my food.’’
‘‘I will write the letter, but you will see I am correct. You can go and ask those Chicago chefs to hire you; then you will return to my kitchen. There is no reason why you can’t work here and be married to your Fred. Once you are married, I will not discharge you.’’ His chest puffed like a giant balloon. He acted as though he were the only man who would do such a thing.
Obviously he didn’t understand the full depth of their situation. ‘‘If I marry Fred, do you truly believe Mr. Howard and Mr. Pullman will permit me to remain an employee of the hotel—or to work anywhere in Pullman? My Fred, as you call him, was a union leader. He helped organize and encourage the men to strike. Do you think they would permit Thomas Heath-coate— or his wife—to work for the company?’’
‘‘Did she work for them before the strike?’’
Olivia rested her forehead in her palm. The man simply did not understand the complexities of this situation. ‘‘No, she didn’t work for them, and they have moved from Pullman.’’
‘‘Then I don’t see the problem.’’
There was no use continuing this discussion. She doubted whether anything she said would clarify the issue. ‘‘You will write the letter?’’
‘‘I will write the letter,
if
you will agree to continue to work for me when you do not find other employment, and if I can convince Mr. Howard you should not be discharged when you and your Fred are married.’’ He offered an exaggerated wink. ‘‘He has not forced me to discharge Hazel.’’
Of course he hadn’t. Unlike Olivia, Mrs. DeVault had never rebuffed Mr. Howard’s advances or manipulated him to secure her position at the hotel. The chef was comparing apples with oranges and expected Olivia to consider his conclusion an unshakable truth.
She scooted her chair back and stood. ‘‘If I cannot secure employment elsewhere, and—’’
He held up his hand and interrupted. ‘‘Employment as a chef.’’
Olivia sighed. ‘‘If I cannot secure employment elsewhere as a
chef
, and if Mr. Howard agrees I may continue to work in Hotel Florence as a
chef
, then I will do so.’’ She turned and took the few steps to the door. With her hand on the glass doorknob, she glanced over her shoulder. ‘‘
If
you write a suitable recommendation.’’ That said, she hastened from the room.
‘‘Do not tell me what I must write, Miss Mott!’’
She hurried down the hallway with his declaration ringing in her ears. For a moment she considered returning to ask if he would prepare the letter by noonday. Her lips curved in a faint smile. No. She dared not push him too far.
Chicago, Illinois
Wednesday, August 22, 1894
A chair scraped across the wooden floor of the café , but Fred didn’t turn away from his meal until a chair clunked down beside him. ‘‘Mind if I join you?’’
He smiled up at Matthew and pointed to the plate of food. ‘‘Sit down. Hash is the special—not pretty but tasty and filling.’’
Matthew waved at the owner. Hank’s wide girth was covered with a stained white dish towel. No chef ’s jacket or apron for him. He tucked a towel around his waist, and when it got too dirty, he yanked it off and replaced it with another. Hank said his business was about efficiency and good food. If people were looking for more, he sent them to the fancy hotel restaurants, where they could spend a week’s wages on their meal.
‘‘I’ll take the special and coffee,’’ Matthew shouted over the din of lunching patrons. Hank waved in recognition, and Matthew sat down. ‘‘Didn’t expect to see you, my friend. Business slow over at Bill’s place?’’
Fred shook his head. ‘‘No. It’s on the upswing.’’ He rubbed his midsection. ‘‘They do give me time to eat.’’
Hank ambled across the crowded room with Matthew’s order. A buttered roll divided the hash from a serving of cottage cheese. Matthew turned up his nose at the sight. ‘‘Cottage cheese? Can’t stand the stuff.’’
Fred held out his plate, and Matthew quickly scooped the unwanted food onto his plate. ‘‘What’s today’s story? Are you sitting in on more of the Strike Commission hearings?’’
President Cleveland had ordered the hearings, using the Arbitration Act as his basis of authority. One portion of the legislation provided that a fact-finding commission could be set up for labor-management disputes if a governor or the president requested such a commission. The commission was meeting at the main Chicago post office and taking testimony from anyone who wished to come before them.
Matthew shoved a forkful of the hash into his mouth before removing several folded pieces of paper from his pocket. ‘‘No. I’ll not be attending the strike hearings today. From all appearances, the commission is going to have at least another full week of testimony.’’
Fred hadn’t attended any of the hearings, and he didn’t intend to, for he thought it would do little good at this juncture. However, when the commission said it would accept written statements from those who could not attend, he’d written a lengthy report. He had nothing more to lose, though the commission would undoubtedly consider his remarks tainted by his American Railway Union affiliation.
‘‘I’ll return to the hearings tomorrow,’’ Matthew continued. ‘‘At the moment I have a more interesting story to write. This should interest you.’’ He shoved the pages toward Fred. ‘‘I copied these word for word. Don’t ask how I gained access to them.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t think of it.’’ Fred unfolded the pages and took a sip of his coffee. The first page, dated August 19, and addressed to George M. Pullman as president of the Pullman Palace Car Company, was from Governor Altgeld. Fred glanced over the rim of his cup.
‘‘Go ahead. Read them. You’ll find each one quite interesting. If my editor won’t let me print them word for word, I plan to at least give readers the primary message each letter contains.’’
The first letter mentioned that the governor had received a formal appeal for aid from the residents of Pullman, stating that sixteen hundred families were starving and they could not get work because the car works was bringing in men from all over the country to take their places. The letter avowed that the governor had no wish to interfere in the company’s business but asked Mr. Pullman to consider the fact that the state was without sufficient resources to further aid the town’s residents. The governor went on to say that he would travel to Chicago that night to make a personal investigation before taking official action. He requested that Mr. Pullman call on him at ten o’clock the next morning.
Matthew held his cup overhead and caught Hank’s eye. ‘‘After receiving that letter, you’d think any man would bow to the governor’s request, wouldn’t you?’’
‘‘Any
reasonable
man. We must remember we’re speaking of George Pullman.’’
Matthew thanked Hank for the coffee and tapped the papers. ‘‘Read the next one.’’
The second sheet was a subsequent letter from the governor to Mr. Pullman dated August 21. The letter had been written after Governor Altgeld’s inspection of Pullman and stated two representatives of management had accompanied the governor on the visit. The letter confirmed the suffering and waning charity for the town’s residents. Fred was pleased to see that the governor had managed to review the records listing employee names and the number of those who remained unemployed.
While management touted they were hiring any man who had previously worked for the company, Fred knew that assertion to be false. And these numbers proved that fact. Prior to the strike, there had been over three thousand employees, but on August 20 there were only two thousand, and of that number over six hundred were new employees. Only fourteen hundred of the old employees had been taken back, leaving over sixteen hundred out of work. Altgeld went on to state the men verified they had applied for work but were told they were not needed.
The governor suggested that Pullman cancel rental fees for the town’s residents until the first of October to give families an opportunity to use their wages for food and other urgent needs. And Altgeld recommended that the company hire as many people as possible on at least a half-time basis.
Matthew tapped the page. ‘‘What do you think of the governor’s proposed solution?’’
‘‘It might work, but I have no doubt Mr. Pullman will throw the letter in the trash—if he even bothers to read it.’’
‘‘I think he’s a fool if he doesn’t make some attempt. He’s part of the problem, so he should help with the solution.’’ Matthew swallowed another gulp of coffee.
Fred didn’t disagree. But he also didn’t believe that George Pullman would let any other man dictate how he should address the problems within his company.
At the end of his letter, once again the governor requested a response or personal meeting with Mr. Pullman. This time Mr. Pullman replied. A missive was hand-delivered to the governor while he was still in Chicago. The third sheet was the governor’s response to Mr. Pullman’s letter.
Fred riffled through the pages. ‘‘You don’t have a copy of the letter Mr. Pullman wrote the governor?’’
Matthew shook his head. ‘‘No. But there’s enough in that last letter from the governor to let you know exactly what was written.’’
Apparently Mr. Pullman had attempted to place the moral responsibility for the strike upon the workers and had alleged that the men and their families were not suffering. However, Altgeld’s response chastised the company owner for permitting the starvation of former employees, many of whom had been in his employ for more than ten years.
Fred pointed to a sentence near the end of the letter. ‘‘I must say, the governor’s words should have given Mr. Pullman pause. But it doesn’t appear he’s going to shoulder any of the responsibility. He’s going to leave it to the state of Illinois and its citizenry.’’
‘‘I wonder if he’ll be embarrassed when people discover the governor has upbraided him for asking the state to expend large sums of money to protect his property while he will do nothing to help the starving residents of his town.’’
Fred wiped up the remnants of his hash with a bite of roll and popped it into his mouth. ‘‘Little seems to bother Mr. Pullman’s conscience. And it appears there is nothing that will convince him to spend any of his profits to help the residents of his town, either.’’ Fred swiped his napkin across his mouth and dropped it onto the table. ‘‘Good food. Glad you told me about this place.’’
‘‘Not as good as the food Olivia prepares, I’m sure. And what of Olivia? Have the two of you set your wedding date? I’ve not received an invitation.’’
