Death at Pullman (15 page)

With the help of young Patrick we made it to the clinic over the grocery store. The men standing outside did not need any urging to carry Mooney up the stairs for us.

It was only when I saw the grim look on the doctor's face, as he directed them to lay Mooney on the table, that I realized it was all for naught. He was already dead.

Lace curtains drifted in a very slight early morning breeze. I woke to the sound of birds and the smell of frying bacon. My room at the Florence Hotel was over the kitchen. As I was an unchaperoned woman, I was required to enter and leave the hotel through the ladies' entrance. My room did not have a private bath, so I had to travel down the hall to the water closet. I always waited for complete quiet in the corridor before making the trek. And arrangements for a bath were tedious, so I hadn't indulged very often.

My limbs felt heavy, as if it would take a great effort to move that morning, and my head was already starting to ache. I kept seeing that moment when Stark shot Mr. Mooney, perhaps hoping that eventually it would fade or somehow the action would change. It made staying in bed a torture, so I pulled myself up. I had offered to stay with Gracie the night before, as she kept vigil over Mr. Mooney's body in the clinic, but I was soon elbowed out by women from the town. They may have shunned her when her father threw her out, but in her time of trouble they surrounded her like a picket fence. Dr. Chapman told me plainly to go home. But I had no home to go to, only my room at the Florence. I would not call that home. I longed for Hull House where I could have had companions to talk to. Here I was neither fish nor fowl. I was not, after all, part of the town of Pullman, nor did I have anything in common with the men from company management who were staying at the hotel. The place was permeated with the stench from the pipes and cigars they smoked late into the night in the front rooms where women were not allowed. The tramp of feet and sound of male voices was somehow a threatening background music, although they all treated me with the utmost politeness.

It was a warm day for my dark clothes of mourning but certainly they fit my mood. They reminded me of my mother's passing, which had left me and my brother so alone in the world. It seemed death was inescapable that year.

A freshly laundered blouse had been hung from a peg on the wall. At Hull House we sometimes dispensed with a corset. That morning it would have been a relief in the warm weather to escape its rigidity. But as the only woman in the hotel, and as the representative of Hull House and the Civic Federation at the relief station, I knew it would be inappropriate. With a sigh, I used the washstand to perform my morning ablutions, then dressed to meet this very unfortunate day.

Descending the steep staircase by the front desk, I realized that the men bustling around the lobby had either not heard of the tragic events of the day before or were unmoved by them. I turned into the dining room. My head pounded and my stomach was unsettled, but I seemed only capable of following my daily routine. The waiter led me to the small table by a window that they kept for me and quickly returned with a plate of fried eggs, tomato, hash browns, and thick slices of bacon. He plopped it down before me and filled my cup from a teapot, which he left on the table. My stomach turned, but I attempted to eat a little, dividing up the portions with my fork.

At the next table, a group of men debated the situation. “There's rioting all over the city. They've turned over boxcars and set them afire. The authorities have got to do something to stop it or the city will burn.”

“People are afraid to go out their doors. There are packs of them roaming like animals.” This man sounded pleased. “This will show them what Debs is really up to. They'll see what we're up against now.”

“I heard there was a crowd with bats that attacked the sheriff and his men on one of the Rock Island lines. They barely escaped with their lives.”

“And the women are worse than the men. They're yelling all sorts of nasty things trying to provoke them, the hags. They'd pull down everything and murder us all in our sleep if they got the chance.”

“You heard about how they tried to blow up the clock tower, didn't you? What do Hopkins and Altgeld have to say about that? They are worse than useless. If the roads didn't hire their own men to protect their property the politicians would let it all be destroyed.”

“I hear the general managers are documenting everything. They're on the line to Washington, warning them that the whole thing will blow up and there'll be a massacre if they don't do something.”

“What can they do? The city police stand by and let these mobs run rampant. They're standing right there while the mob pulls over cars, tears up the tracks, and blocks the engines. They are worse than useless. Sometimes I think they're in league with the strikers. At this rate Debs will be running the country, calling the shots for everybody. It's a revolution. If they don't put a stop to it, it's going to be a bloody revolution.”

“What right do they have to stop the whole transportation system? Debs just wants to be able to dictate terms to everyone. If they let that happen, it'll be the end of our system of government. They need to do something. They need to do whatever it takes to break this strike and get the trains moving again.”

My head throbbed with the noise, and I wanted to yell, “What do you want them to do, shoot innocent people? Like Mr. Mooney?” Did they think that would somehow improve things? Mooney wasn't even a striker, nor was he part of the railroads. He was just trying to find the children to keep them safe. I couldn't eat the food and pushed the plate away. But I dreaded going to Kensington. There were no stores left at the relief station and I didn't know when any would come. Much as I disliked it, I had to find Mr. Jennings to ask for the use of his telephone.

“Certainly, Miss Cabot, come to the office.” He led me to the room where we had talked when I was with Detective Whitbread.

“Mr. Jennings, did you hear about the shooting yesterday? It was Mr. Stark, that Pinkerton man who was working for you. He shot Mr. Mooney. He just shot him without provocation, right in front of everyone.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Cabot, I hardly think it was without provocation. From what I heard, there was a huge crowd blocking the line. Stark was surrounded and outnumbered and he shot in self-defense.”

“I was there, Mr. Jennings. Mr. Mooney was not threatening anyone. He was just standing there. Mr. Stark shot him for no reason. The Mr. Stark who you let go after he tried to plant a bomb in your factory. The very same man.”

“You should not have gone to that area yesterday, Miss Cabot. Perhaps this will show you how very dangerous it is. In any case, Mr. Stark is no longer in our employ. He has been deputized by the sheriff. With all of these troubles, they've had to add men to help get the lines opened up. He was working for the sheriff, not the Pullman Company.”

“What have we come to, Mr. Jennings, when we have criminals in charge of our law enforcement?”

“You must ask your detective friend, Miss Cabot. But if Debs and his union had not provoked the situation, none of this would have happened. Here is the telephone, you can connect to the exchange.” With that advice, he stomped out of the office.

I managed to get through to the pharmacy near Hull House and they got Miss Giles to come to the line.

“I'm so sorry, Emily, but Miss Addams is in Milwaukee. She's trying to reach her sister, who is very ill, but with the train stoppages she has been unable to get there. We are all very worried about her.”

“Oh, I see. I am so sorry to hear that. But, Miss Giles, we have run out of supplies down here and the people are in a very bad state. They have had nothing from us for three days now and there is no other source of supply.”

“Yes, well, with all of the disturbances people are afraid to go out into the streets, although I must say we have not seen any actual trouble here on the West Side. Nonetheless, some of our most dependable volunteers have had to stay at home due to concerns about travel. I am afraid there is no one to solicit donations. In any case, many people are not in favor of the strike now, due to the unrest that's been the result. I am not at all sure how successful any solicitation would be right now.”

“But, you don't understand. The people are really on the verge of starvation. There is no food down here.” I thought of the full breakfast plate I had pushed away. How cruel that the managers in the hotel had full plates while the children went to bed with empty bellies. It was an impossible situation. It made no sense at all. “I'd hoped something might be managed. I hoped a wagon might be on the way. I don't know what to tell people.”

“I'm very sorry, Emily. I'll call a meeting of anyone who is here today, but I cannot promise anything. You might think of returning yourself, to try to organize something. I will do my best, but we'll have to see.”

I had to be content with that, but I still dreaded returning to the relief station where I knew there would be people waiting in hopes that we would get in some more supplies. I had nothing to tell them.

It was a beautiful day. The trees were lushly green and the flowerbeds around the little artificial lake were brimming with colors. It was a day for a picnic. I stifled a sob as I thought of the picnic baskets Gracie brought from town just the day before. On such a gentle, warm summer day the people of Pullman were suffering from hunger gnawing at their stomachs and grief clawing at their minds. It was quite cruel to see the contrast.

When I reached the offices above the S & H Grocery, there was quiet. I expected angry wailing at the uncalled for death of Mooney. But then I realized that he was not a striker. He wasn't even a Pullman resident. This was not his fight, and his death had made no impression on the people locked in this battle. Except for Gracie. I went up to the relief station and gave the bad news to the half a dozen workers waiting for me. I looked over our wonderfully systematic arrangement for carefully distributing supplies, now useless with empty shelves. There was nothing to distribute. I found a few small caches of flour and coffee and distributed all that I had to the volunteers, then I sent them home. I went to lock the door, but what was there to steal? I shook my head as I locked it up anyhow.

As I descended, I heard voices coming from the clinic. Recognizing the doctor first, I realized the other voice was Detective Whitbread. Suddenly resolute, I flew down the remaining steps and through the clinic door.

“Detective Whitbread, how could you do that? How could you allow that man to escape? He shot Mr. Mooney!” I cringed as I looked at the sheet-covered body on the stretcher in the middle of the room. I was glad Gracie was not there to hear my outburst, but I could not restrain myself. I had thought so highly of Whitbread that I could not believe he had helped Stark escape the crowd the day before.

“Miss Cabot. What would you have me do, allow the mob to tear him limb from limb? Because that is what would have happened. The death of Mr. Mooney was a tragedy, but there was no need to compound it by another killing. In any case, you should not have been there. If you and Mrs. Foley had only avoided such a dangerous scene, this would not have happened.”

“We were only there to find the children and bring them away. Gracie had a picnic . . . ” I suppressed a sob.

“It's true, Whitbread. Mrs. Foley asked Miss Cabot to accompany her to find the O'Malley children.”

“In any case, Mr. Mooney did nothing to deserve to die. Stark just aimed his gun at him and shot him in the head. Have you arrested him, at least? You haven't let him go, have you?”

I saw Whitbread exchange a look with the doctor. “It is not as simple as you think, Emily,” Dr. Chapman told me. “He was an authorized deputy sheriff when it happened.”

“Authorized? Authorized for what? Authorized to shoot an innocent man who was just standing there?”

“According to him and the other deputies, there was a large crowd,” Whitbread told me. “He was outnumbered and surrounded. The crowd surged towards him and he fired in self-defense. The fact that he hit Mooney was a tragic accident.”

“They lie. I was there. Didn't you talk to anyone besides the deputies? I saw the whole thing. He just aimed at Mooney and shot him. It was murder, out-and-out murder. Surely you won't let him get away with that?”

“Miss Cabot, the man is currently employed and vouched for by the sheriff. Unfortunately, the sheriff has recruited a force of somewhat questionable, unsavory characters. But in the face of the roaming mobs and general unrest, there is no way to control the actions of such an authority. The incident with Stark yesterday was by no means the only occurrence of questionable legality, I assure you. In ordinary circumstances a full investigation would be pending, but at the moment the police are stretched to their limit just responding to the many calls that are coming in.”

“You let him go! You saved him from the crowd and then you let him go on the word of the other men who were with him. He murdered Mooney, and you are letting him get away with it.”

“Emily,” Dr. Chapman interrupted me, “Whitbread is only doing what he can. He has no authority to override the sheriff. And when the situation is this unstable, innocent people get hurt. What did you think would happen in a strike? Did you think it would all be rallies and speeches? This is what happens. This is your strike that you so whole-heartedly support. No matter who wins this struggle, there are many who will only be hurt by it. Whitbread is doing his job. He has come to allow me to release Mooney's body to Mrs. Foley so she can bury him.” He waved some papers in his hand. “He has a cart to move the body. What are
you
doing? Where are the supplies for the relief station? Every day I see more and more people weakened by lack of food. They are getting sicker and sicker. Instead of telling the police what they should be doing, why don't you attend to your duties? And where is Miss MacGregor? Isn't she helping you with relief? She is a very young, inexperienced girl. Couldn't you use your influence to help her?”