THE COMMISSION WON--IN A GENERAL STRIKE
The time spent as a soldier in the ranks passed by all too swiftly. The
service was pleasant, the duty easy, and the regiment one of the best in
the entire army. I don't know any two and a half years of my life that
have been as happy and peaceful as those spent in the ranks of the
American Army. When the proper time came my recommendations were all in
good shape and I was duly ordered to appear before an august lot of
officers and gentlemen at Fortress Monroe, Virginia, to determine my
fitness to trot along behind a company, sign the sick-book, and witness
an occasional issue of clothing. One warm June afternoon I bade good-bye
to the men who had so long been my comrades, and journeyed to the
eastwards. I was successful in the examinations, and on a Sunday morning
early in August, myself, in company with twelve other young chaps,
received the precious little parchment in which the President of the
United States sends greetings and proclaims to all the world:--
"That reposing especial confidence and trust in the valor, patriotism,
and fidelity of one John Smith, I have made him a second lieutenant in
the regular army. Look out for him because he hasn't much sense but I
have strong hopes as how he will learn after a while."
[Illustration: "... Dennis, lying under the telegraph line, his left
hand still grasped the instrument"]
The apprenticeship was finished and the chevrons gave way to the
shoulder straps.
This time I thought surely I had heard the last of the telegraph, never
again was I going to touch a key. I had been at my first station just
about two months when one morning I appeared before the Signal Officer
of the post and plaintively asked him to let me have a set of telegraph
instruments. He did, and it wasn't long before I had a ticker going in
my quarters. There was no one to practice with me, so I just pounded
away by myself for an hour or so each day, to keep my hand in. I have
yet to see a man who has worked at the business for any length of time
who could give it up entirely. It's like the opium habit--powerful hard
to break off. I have never since tried to lose sight of it.
In 189- one of those spasmodic upheavals known as a sympathetic strike
spread over the country like wild fire, and it wasn't long before the
continuance of law and order was entirely out of the hands of the state
authorities in about ten states, and once more the faithful little army
was called out to put its strong hand on the throat of destruction and
pillage. Troops were hurriedly despatched from all posts to the worst
points and the inefficient state militia in several states relegated to
its proper sphere--that of holding prize drills and barbecues.
Owing to the fact that the army cannot be used until a state executive
acknowledges his inability to preserve law and order, and owing also to
the fact that the executives in one or two of the states were pandering
to the socialistic element, saying they could enforce the laws without
the assistance of the army, this strike had spread until the entire
country except the extreme east and southeast was in its strong grasp,
and the work cut out for the army was doled out to it in great big
chunks. Men seemed to lose all their senses and the emissaries of the
union succeeded in getting many converts, each one of which paid the sum
of one dollar to the so-called head of the union. Snap for the aforesaid
"head," wasn't it? It was positively refreshing to the army at this time
to have at its head a man who did not know what it was to pander to the
socialists, and one who would enforce his solemn oath, "To enforce the
laws of the United States," at all hazards. United States mail trains
were being interfered with; the Inter-State Commerce law was being
violated with impunity, and various other acts of vandalism and pillage
were being committed all over the land--and the municipal and state
authorities "winked the other eye."
Way out in one of the far western posts was a certain Lieutenant Jack
Brainerd, 31st U. S. Infantry, serving with his company. Jack was a big,
whole-souled, impulsive chap, and before his entrance to the military
academy, had been a pretty fair operator. In fact, being the son of a
general superintendent of one of the big trunk lines, he was quite
familiar with a railroad, and could do almost anything from driving a
spike, or throwing a switch to running an engine. The first three years
succeeding his graduation had been those of enervating peace; all of
which palled on the soul of Lieutenant Jack to a large degree. The
martial spirit beat high within his breast, and he wanted a scrap--he
wanted one badly.
The preliminary mutterings of this great strike had been heard for days,
but no one dreamed that anarchy was about to break loose with the
strength of all the fires of hell; and yet such was the case. On the
evening of July 4th, a message came to the commanding officer at Fort
Blank, to send his command of six companies of infantry to C---- at once
to assist in quelling the riots. The chance for a scrap so longed for by
Lieutenant Brainerd was coming swift and sure. The next morning the
command pulled out. The trip was uneventful during the day, but at night
a warning was received by Major Sharp, the grizzled battalion commander,
who had fought everything from manly, brave confederates to skulking
Indians, to watch out for trouble as he approached the storm centre.
There were rumors of dynamited bridges, broken rails, etc. The major
didn't believe much in these yarns, but--"_Verbum Sap_."--and the
precautions were taken. The next morning at five the train pulled into
Hartshorne, eleven miles out from C----. This was the beginning of the
great railroad yards and evidences of the presence of the enemy were
becoming very apparent. A large crowd had gathered to watch the
bluecoats and it was plain to be seen that they were in full sympathy
with the strikers. "Scab" and a few other choice epithets were hurled at
the train crew, and when they were ready to pull out the train didn't
go. The conductor went forward and found that the engineer had refused
to handle his engine because Hartshorne was his home and the crowd had
threatened to kill him if he hauled that load of "slaves of Pullman" any
further. When Major Sharp heard of it his little grey eyes snapped and
he growled out:--
"Won't pull this train, eh! Well, damn him, we'll make him pull it.
Here, Mr. Brainerd, you take some men and go forward and make that
engineer take us through these yards. If he refuses you know what to do
with him."
Do? Well, I reckon Jack knew what to do all right enough. He took
Sergeant Fealy, a veteran, and three men and went forward. The engineer,
a little snub-nosed Irishman, was at his post with his fireman, a good
head of steam was on, but nary an inch did that train budge. A big crowd
of men and women stood around jeering and laughing at the plight of the
bluecoats. Pushing his way through the crowd, Jack climbed up into the
cab closely followed by his little escort.
"Sergeant Fealy," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard a block,
"get up on that tender, have your men load their rifles, and shoot the
first d----d man that raises a hand or throws a missile. And you," this
to the engineer, "shove that reverse lever over and pull out."
"But, my God, lieutenant," expostulated the engineer, "this is my home
and if I pull you fellers out of here they'll kill me on sight--besides
look at the track ahead. I'd run over and kill a lot of those people."
"There's no 'buts' about it. This train is going in or I'll lose my
commission in the army; besides if these people haven't sense enough to
get out of the way let 'em die."
Mr. Engineer started to expostulate farther but the ominous click of a
.38 Colt's was incentive enough to make him stop and then he shoved her
over and gave her a little steam--just a coaxer.
"Here, you blasted chump, that won't do," and with that Brainerd reached
over and yanked the throttle so that she bounded away like a hare; at
the same time he gave her sand. It's a great wonder every draw head in
the train didn't pull out, but fortunately they held on. The crowd on
the track melted away like the mists before the summer's sun, and beyond
a few taunting jeers no overt act was committed. The engineer didn't
relish the idea of a soldier running his engine and became somewhat
obstreperous. Brainerd grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and landed
him all in a heap in the coal. Then he climbed up on the right-hand side
of the cab and took charge of things himself. There were myriads of
tracks stretching out before him like the long arms of some giant
octopus, but all traffic was suspended on account of the strike and the
main line was clear. The train flew down the line like a scared rabbit
and in thirty minutes reached the camp at Blake Park. I had arrived
there that morning from the south for special service and when I saw
Brainerd climb down off of that engine his face was smutty, but his eyes
twinkled and he came towards me with a broad grin and said,
"Hello, Bates, where in thunder did you spring from?"
There wasn't much time for talking because the great city was groaning
beneath the grasp of anarchy, and until that power was broken, there
would be no rest for the weary.
The situation that existed at this time is too well known to require any
explanation here. The state and city authorities were powerless; the
militia inefficient and many a citizen bowed his head and thanked God on
that warm July morning for the arrival of the regulars. Only twenty-one
hundred of them all told, mind you, against so many thousands of the
rioters, and yet, they were disciplined men and led by officers who
simply enforced orders as they received them. No matter where or what
the sympathies of the men of a company might be, when the captain said
"Fire," look out, because the bullets would generally fly breast high.
The situation resembled the Paris Commune, and but for the timely
arrival of the small body of bluecoats, another cow might have kicked
over another lamp, and the frightful conflagration of 1871 have been
more than duplicated. But the "cow" was slaughtered and the "lamp"
extinguished.
The morning after Brainerd arrived he was detailed on special service
and ordered to report to me, and together we worked until the trouble
was over. Just what this service was need not be recorded, but one thing
sure, railroads and the telegraph figured in it quite largely. In fact
the general superintendent of the Western Union Telegraph Company placed
the entire resources of the company at my disposal. A wire was run
direct to Washington, lines run to all the camps, and Jack and I each
carried a little pocket instrument on our person.
Although the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers did not go out in a
body, there was quite a number of them who would not pull trains for
fear of personal violence from the strikers. One old chap, Bob Redway,
by name, had known Major McKenney of our battalion, in days gone by,
when he was pulling a train on the N. P., and the major was stationed at
Missoula. Bob wandered into camp one afternoon to see his old friend and
just at that time a company was ordered to the southern part of the city
to stop a crowd that was looting and burning P. H. Railway property. As
usual the engineer backed out at the last moment. The major turned to
Redway, and said, "See here, Bob, you're not in sympathy with these
cutthroats, suppose you pull this train out."
"All right, major, I'll pull you through if the old girl will only hold
up. She's a stranger to me, but I reckon she'll last."
Brainerd and I were to go along and do some special work around the
stock-yards, and soon we were shooting down the track like a flyer. At
62nd street we passed a sullen looking crowd and when we reached 130th
street, we were flagged by the operator in the tower, and informed that
the mob in our rear was starting to block the track by overturning a
standard sleeper. They were going to cut us off. We cut the engine
loose, put fourteen men up on the tender, and Brainerd and I started
back with them. The engine was going head on, having backed out from the
city, and Bob let her put for all she was worth. Just at 62nd street
there is a long sweeping curve and we were coming around it like a
streak of blue lightning, when all at once we saw the crowd just in the
act of pulling the sleeper over on our track. There was no time to lose
and the command "Fire" was sharply given. "Bang," rang out the
Springfields, one or two of the mob dropped to the ground, the rest let
go of the ropes and ran like scared cats, and the car tottered back in
its original place. Redway had shut off steam and was slowing down under
ordinary air, when all at once there was a dull deafening roar, and then
for me--oblivion. I was only stunned and when I regained consciousness
looked around and saw the men slowly regaining their feet. Redway was
not killed, but the shock and concussion of the detonation of the
dynamite made him lose his speech and he was bleeding profusely at the
nose and ears. The cowcatcher, headlight and forward trucks of the
engine were blown to smithereens, but fortunately the boiler did not
burst and there she stood like some powerful monster wounded to the
death. The mob, imagining that their fiendish work had been complete,
became emboldened and rapidly gathered around the little body of
bluecoats. It began to look rocky, and Brainerd came limping over to me
and said, "Bates, I'm pretty badly bruised about the legs, and can't
climb, but if you're able, for God's sake climb that telegraph pole and
cut in and ask department headquarters to send us down some help. I'll
form the men around the bottom of the pole and shoot the first damned
man or woman that throws a missile. We're in a devilish bad box."
I took the little instrument, nippers and wire and up I went. There were
side steps on the pole so the ascent was easy. What a scene below! Five
or six thousand angry faces, besotted, coarse and ill-bred looking
brutes, gazing up at me with the wrath of vengeance in their hearts; and
held at bay by a band of fourteen battered and bruised bluecoats, a
wounded engineer and fireman, commanded by an almost beardless boy. Well
did that mob know that if those rifles ever spoke there would be a
number of vacant chairs at the various family boards that night. The
wire was soon cut, the main office gave me department headquarters and
in thirty minutes' time that mob was scattering like so much chaff
before the wind, and with a ringing cheer, two companies of the --th
Infantry came down among them like a thunderbolt. We were saved and took
Redway back to camp with us. That evening the major came over to see
him. Poor chap! he couldn't speak but he motioned for a pencil and
paper and this is what he wrote:--
"Don't worry, major, I'm all right. My speaking machine seems to have
had a head end collision with a cyclone, but if you want me to pull any
more trains out my right arm is still in pretty good shape." Bob hung to
us all through the trying weeks that followed and in the end some of us
succeeded in getting him a good position in one of the departments in
Washington.
Far up in the Northwest things were in a very bad shape. Everything was
tied up tight; mail trains could not run because there were no men to
run them; "Debsism" had a firm grasp; and even though many of the
trainmen were willing to run, intimidation by the strikers caused them
to go slow.
At one place, call it Bridgeton, there was an overland mail waiting to
go out, but no engineer. Here's where the versatility of the American
soldier came in. Major Clarke of the --th Infantry, had four companies
of his regiment guarding public property at Bridgeton and he sent word
by his orderly that he wanted a locomotive engineer and a fireman. Quick
as a flash he had six engineers and any number of men who could fire. He
chose two good men and then detailed Captain Stilling's company to go
along as an escort. Orders were procured at the telegraph office for the
train to run to Pokeville, where further orders would be sent them. When
the crowd of loiterers and strikers saw the preparations they jeered in
derision. They had the engineer and fireman corralled, but their laugh
turned to sorrow when they saw a strapping infantry sergeant climb into
the cab and after placing his loaded rifle in front of him, he grasped
the throttle and away they went--much to the disgust of Mr. Rioter. They
didn't like it worth a cent, but as one striker put it, "What's the use
of monkeyin' with them reg'lars? When they gets an order to shoot,
they're just damned fools enough to shoot right into the crowd. Milish'
fire in the air, because as a rule they have friends in the crowd and
don't care to hurt 'em."
Pokeville was one hundred and two miles from Bridgeton and the run was
carefully made and without incident. When the volunteer engineer and
Captain Stillings, who was playing conductor, went to the office for
orders, they found the place deserted. A sullen-looking crowd was
looking on and appeared to enjoy the discomfiture of the soldiers. They
had put the operator _away_ for a while. Pressing up near the sides of
the train they became somewhat ugly and Captain Stillings brought out
his company, and lining them up alongside of the track he turned to his
1st lieutenant and said:
"Mr. Mitchell, I'm going into this telegraph office. If this crowd gets
ugly I want you to shoot the first damned man that moves a finger to
harm anybody."
But without an operator orders could not be procured, and without orders
the train could not go. Captain Stillings was in a quandary, but all at
once he stepped out in front of his company and said in a loud tone, "I
want an operator."
"I'm one, sir," said Private O'Brien, quickly stepping forward and
saluting.
"Go in that office and get orders for this train."
"Yes, sir," replied O'Brien, and in a minute another bluecoat was
helping the train on its way. If Captain Stillings had wanted a Chinese
interpreter he could have gotten one--any old thing. The train had no
further mishaps, because everything necessary to run a railroad was
right here in one company of sixty-two men belonging to the regular
army.
July slipped away and it was well into August before we returned to our
posts and the old grind of "Fours right," and "Fours left."