When the steel age walked across the ocean from Europe a dilemma was
created. The will and mentality were here; the labor was there. Until
then labor in American mills had been made up of British, Irish,
Welsh, Germans, Swedes and, choicest of all, Buckwheats, meaning young
American brawn released from the farm by the advent of man-saving
agricultural implements. The steel age widened the gap between brain
and muscle. It required a higher kind of imagination at the top and a
lower grade of labor below. There was no such labor here,--at least,
nowhere near enough. Hence an inpouring of Hungarians, Slavs, Polacks
and other inferior European types,--hairy, brutish, with slanting
foreheads.
Nobody thought of the consequences. Nobody thought at all. The labor
was needed. That was enough. There was no effort to Americanize or
assimilate it. There wasn’t time. It had to be fed raw to the howling
new genie. It lived wretchedly in sore clusters from which Americans
averted their eyes. Where it came from life was wretched, even worse,
perhaps; but here were contrasts, no gendarmes, freedom of discontent,
and a new weapon, which was the strike. These men, bred with sullen
anger in their blood, melancholy and neglected in a strange land,
having no bond with the light, were easily moved to unite against the
work bosses who symbolized tyranny anew. Their impulse to violence was
built upon by labor leaders and the steel industry became a battle
ground. Strikes were frequent, bloody and futile, save for their
educational value, which was hard to see then and is not at all clear
yet.
This was all in the way of business,--big business. We imported labor
and exported steel. We flung Slavs into our racial melting pot and sold
rails and bridges in Hungary. One can easily imagine an invisible force
to have been at work, a blind force, perhaps. The centers of power were
shifted in the world. Greatness was achieved. The rest is hidden.
One advantage the Breakspeare mills had was almost complete immunity
from labor troubles. In every reign of terror destruction passed them
by. For this there was Thane to thank. He handled all labor problems.
In disputes between the workers and the steel companies the question
of wages was seldom the basic matter, even when it seemed to be. The
trouble was much more subtle, or more simple, as you happen to see
it, turning upon the ways and hungers of humanity. Thane knew men, he
knew what drudgery costs the soul and how little it takes beyond what
is due to overcome its bitterness. He knew, besides, how and in what
proportions to mix different kinds of men so that the characteristics
of one kind would neutralize those of another kind by a sort of
chemistry.
Seven miles down the river from the Agnes plant had been built a
magnificent new plate mill, called the Wyoming Steel Works. It had
every element of success save one. The manager had no way with labor.
He was continually engaged in desperate struggles with the Amalgamated
Unions and the plant for that reason had involved its New York owners
in heavy loss. These troubles, becoming chronic, culminated in a strike
that spread sympathetically over the whole eastern steel industry.
At the Agnes plant the men went out for the first time. They had no
quarrel of their own. That was made very clear. But they felt obliged,
as all other union workers did, to take up the quarrel of the men at
the Wyoming Works and settle it for good; they would if necessary tie
up every steel plant in the country in order to bring pressure to bear
upon their arch enemy, the Wyoming manager, to whose destruction they
had made a vow.
Not only did the strikers seize the Wyoming Works, as was the first
step in hostilities; they took possession of the town that had grown
up around the plant and organized themselves on a military basis. An
Advisory Committee of workers declared martial law, mounted a siren on
the town hall to give signals by a secret code, put sentinels around
the works, around the town, up and down the river front, and held a
mobile force of eight hundred Hungarians, Poles and Slavs in readiness
for battle at any point. No one could enter the town on an unfriendly
errand. Trains were not permitted to stop. The telegraph office was
seized. The Advisory Committee announced that any attempt on the part
of the owners to retake possession of their property,--say nothing
of trying to work it with non-union labor,--would mean an abundant
spilling of blood.
This was the situation when Thane received a telegram from John in New
York, as follows:
“Can buy Wyoming Steel Works for a song. Will close transaction at once
if you will say labor trouble can be straightened out with the plant in
our hands.”
Almost without reflection Thane answered:
“Yes. Go ahead.”
He had no doubt that the mere announcement of their having bought the
works would end the violent phase of the strike. The rest would be a
matter of peaceable negotiation. He might have made the announcement in
Pittsburgh. The strikers there would have communicated it fast enough.
He might have telegraphed it to the Advisory Committee. He might have
done it in one of several ways. But his natural way was to go himself
and see to it. He knew the strike leaders; he talked their language. An
hour after answering John’s telegram he was in a launch going down the
river.
There had been no news from the scene of passion since the afternoon
before. No one knew what was taking place in the Wyoming Steel Works
town.
In the night two barge loads of Pinkerton men, recruited in
Philadelphia, had silently drifted down the river past Pittsburgh. The
manager was resolved to get possession of the plant by force. The plan
was to land the Pinkerton men before daylight on the river bank. Once
inside the works they could stand siege until the state authorities
could be persuaded to send the militia in. But the barges were sighted
by the Advisory Committee’s sentinels a mile above the town. The siren
blew an alarm. Men, women and children tumbled out of bed. The armed
battalion was rushed to receive the Pinkerton men.
In the darkness a running fire was exchanged between the strikers on
shore and the barges; however, the barges did land at the works and
the leader of the Pinkerton men signalled for a parley. He told the
strikers he had come to take possession of the works and meant to do
it. The strike leaders dared him to try. He did. He formed his men and
started them off the barges. They were stopped by a volley from the
Slav battalion entrenched behind piles of steel in the yard,--and fled
back to the barges. Daylight came. The Pinkerton men, unwilling to
venture forth a second time, hoisted a white flag. The strikers scoffed
at it and went on firing at the barges. They became discouraged. They
could see the holes their shots made in the planks; they couldn’t be
sure they were hitting the men inside. So they floated burning oil
down the river and sent tanks of burning oil down the bank against
the barges. That was ineffective. Pinkerton men would not burn on
earth. Someone thought of dynamite. Cases of it were brought, and
the lightest of arm among the strikers calmly attached fuses to the
sticks of dynamite, lighted them, and hurled them at the barges, like
firecrackers. Once in a while they made the target, tearing a great
hole in the barge planking. Then there would be a volley of shots at
the Pinkerton men suddenly exposed. Two cannons were brought. They were
handled so awkwardly that they did little damage to the barges and took
off one striker’s head. The use of dynamite increased. In some fashion
the Pinkerton men fought back. When a striker fell groans were heard.
When a Pinkerton man was hit cheers went up from the strikers and were
repeated by the spectators,--women, children and noncombatants,--who
gorged the spectacle from afar.
And that was what had been going on for hours when Thane’s launch
appeared, speeding down the middle of the river. He was steering it
himself; his boatman lay flat on the bottom. Having recognized him
the sentinels above the town passed word down their line, so that the
strikers at the works knew who he was before he had come within rifle
range. Firing ceased. He steered the boat in, shot it high on the bank,
and stepped out.
At that instant there appeared from behind one of the steel piles the
figure of frenzy personified. This was not a striker. It was one of
those weak, anæmic creatures who are intoxicated by participation in
the lusts and passions of others and go mad over matters that do not
concern them. He was a clerk in a dry goods store and taught a Sunday
School class. It must be supposed that the cessation of firing made him
think the strikers were weakening. He brandished a rifle, shrieking:
“Citizens! There are the men who wreck our homes, assault our women,
take away our bread. Kill them! Kill them without mercy!” He was
unnaturally articulate. “Cowards!” he cried. “Follow me!”
He levelled his rifle at the barges. The only man in sight was Thane,
walking up the bank. The insane neurotic fired and Thane fell in a
crumpled heap.
Several men together leaped at the assassin and disarmed him. He
disappeared.
Thane was unconscious. There was no doctor, no ambulance. They took him
to Pittsburgh in the launch.
John arrived the next morning. He looked once at Agnes and knew the
worst.
Thane lived through that day and into the night. Shortly before he died
he wished to be alone with John. They clasped hands and read each other
in silence. Once the doctor opened the door and softly closed it again.
Thane beckoned to John to bring his head nearer.
“Take ... Agnes,” he said. “That’s ... all ... everything.... Let
her ... come back ... now.”
Only Agnes knew when he died. At daylight the doctor went in and she
was still holding his form in her arms.