THE CRIPPLE CREEK STRIKE
(1903)
The state of Colorado belonged not to a republic but to the Colorado
Fuel and Iron Company, the Victor Company and their dependencies. The
governor was their agent. The militia under Bell did their bidding.
Whenever the masters of the state told the governor to bark, he yelped
for them like a mad hound. Whenever they told the military to bite,
they bit.
The people of Colorado had voted overwhelmingly for an eight-hour day.
The legislature passed an eight-hour law but the courts had declared
it unconstitutional. Then when the measure was submitted directly to
the people, they voted for it with 40,000 votes majority. But the next
legislature, which was controlled by the mining interests, failed to
pass the bill.
The miners saw that they could not get their demands through peaceful
legislation. That they must fight. That they must strike. All the metal
miners struck first. The strike extended into New Mexico and Utah. It
became an ugly war. The metal miners were anxious to have the coal
miners join them in their struggle.
The executive board of the United Mine Workers was in session in
Indianapolis and to this board the governor of Colorado had sent a
delegation to convince them that there ought not to be a strike in the
coal fields. Among the delegates, was a labor commissioner.
I was going on my way to West Virginia from Mount Olive, Illinois,
where the miners were commemorating their dead. I stopped off at
headquarters in Indianapolis. The executive board asked me to go to
Colorado, look into conditions there, see what the sentiments of the
miners were, and make a report to the office.
I went immediately to Colorado, first to the office of The Western
Federation of Miners where I heard the story of the industrial
conflict. I then got myself an old calico dress, a sunbonnet, some pins
and needles, elastic and tape and such sundries, and went down to the
southern coal fields of the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company.
As a peddler, I went through the various coal camps, eating in the
homes of the miners, staying all night with their families. I found the
conditions under which they lived deplorable. They were in practical
slavery to the company, who owned their houses, owned all the land, so
that if a miner did own a house he must vacate whenever it pleased
the land owners. They were paid in scrip instead of money so that they
could not go away if dissatisfied. They must buy at company stores and
at company prices. The coal they mined was weighed by an agent of the
company and the miners could not have a check weighman to see that full
credit was given them. The schools, the churches, the roads belonged to
the Company. I felt, after listening to their stories, after witnessing
their long patience that the time was ripe for revolt against such
brutal conditions.
I went to Trinidad and to the office of the Western Federation of
Miners. I talked with the secretary, Gillmore, a loyal, hard-working
man, and with the President, Howell, a good, honest soul. We sat up and
talked the matter over far into the night. I showed them the conditions
I had found down in the mining camps were heart-rending, and I felt it
was our business to remedy those conditions and bring some future, some
sunlight at least into the lives of the children. They deputized me to
go at once to headquarters in Indianapolis.
I took the train the next morning. When I arrived at the office in
Indianapolis, I found the president, John Mitchell, the vice-president,
T. L. Lewis, the secretary, W. B. Wilson of Arnot, Pennsylvania, and a
board member, called “old man Ream,” from Iowa. These officers told me
to return at once to Colorado and they would call a strike of the coal
miners.
The strike was called November 9th, 1903. The demand was for an eight
hour day, a check weighman representing the miners, payment in money
instead of scrip. The whole state of Colorado was in revolt. No coal
was dug. November is a cold month in Colorado and the citizens began to
feel the pressure of the strike.
Late one evening in the latter part of November I came into the hotel.
I had been working all day and into the night among the miners and
their families, helping to distribute food and clothes, encouraging,
holding meetings. As I was about to retire, the hotel clerk called me
down to answer a long distance telephone call from Louisville. The
voice said, “Oh for God’s sake, Mother, come to us, come to us!”
I asked what the trouble was and the reply was more a cry than an
answer, “Oh don’t wait to ask. Don’t miss the train.”
I got Mr. Howell, the president, on the telephone and asked him what
was the trouble in Louisville.
“They are having a convention there,” he said.
“A convention, is it, and what for?”
“To call off the strike in the northern coal fields because the
operators have yielded to the demands.” He did not look at me as he
spoke. I could see he was heart sick.
“But they cannot go back until the operators settle with the southern
miners,” I said. “They will not desert their brothers until the strike
is won! Are you going to let them do it?”
“Oh Mother,” he almost cried, “I can’t help it. It is the National
Headquarters who have ordered them back!”
“That’s treachery,” I said, “quick, get ready and come with me.”
We telephoned down to the station to have the conductor hold the train
for Louisville a few minutes. This he did. We got into Louisville
the next morning. I had not slept. The board member, Ream, and Grant
Hamilton, representing the Federation of Labor, came to the hotel where
I was stopping and asked where Mr. Howell, the president was.
“He has just stepped out,” I said. “He will be back.”
“Well, meantime, I want to notify you,” Ream said, “that you must
not block the settlement of the northern miners because the National
President, John Mitchell, wants it, and he pays you.”
“Are you through?” said I.
He nodded.
“Then I am going to tell you that if God Almighty wants this strike
called off for his benefit and not for the miners, I am going to raise
my voice against it. And as to President John paying me ... he never
paid me a penny in his life. It is the hard earned nickels and dimes
of the miners that pay me, and it is their interests that I am going to
serve.”
I went to the convention and heard the matter of the northern miners
returning to the mines discussed. I watched two shrewd diplomats deal
with unsophisticated men; Struby, the president of the northern coal
fields, and Blood, one of the keenest, trickiest lawyers in the West.
And behind them, John Mitchell, toasted and wined and dined, flattered
and cajoled by the Denver Citizens’ Alliance, and the Civic Federation
was pulling the strings.
In the afternoon the miners called on me to address the convention.
“Brothers,” I said, “You English speaking miners of the northern
fields promised your southern brothers, seventy per cent of whom do
not speak English, that you would support them to the end. Now you are
asked to betray them, to make a separate settlement. You have a common
enemy and it is your duty to fight to a finish. The enemy seeks to
conquer by dividing your ranks, by making distinctions between North
and South, between American and foreign. You are all miners, fighting
a common cause, a common master. The iron heel feels the same to all
flesh. Hunger and suffering and the cause of your children bind more
closely than a common tongue. I am accused of helping the Western
Federation of Miners, as if that were a crime, by one of the National
board members. I plead guilty. I know no East or West, North nor South
when it comes to my class fighting the battle for justice. If it is
my fortune to live to see the industrial chain broken from every
workingman’s child in America, and if then there is one black child in
Africa in bondage, there shall I go.”
The delegates rose en masse to cheer. The vote was taken. The majority
decided to stand by the southern miners, refusing to obey the national
President.
The Denver Post reported my speech and a copy was sent to Mr. Mitchell
in Indianapolis. He took the paper in to his secretary and said,
pointing to the report, “See what Mother Jones has done to me!”
Three times Mitchell tried to make the northern miners return to the
mines but each time he was unsuccessful. “Mitchell has got to get
Mother Jones out of the field,” an organizer said. “He can never lick
the Federation as long as she is in there.”
I was informed that Mitchell went to the governor and asked him to put
me out of the state.
Finally the ultimatum was given to the northern miners. All support for
the strike was withdrawn. The northern miners accepted the operators’
terms and returned to work. Their act created practical peonage in the
south and the strike was eventually lost, although the struggle in the
south went on for a year.
Much of the fighting took place around Cripple Creek. The miners were
evicted from their company-owned houses. They went out on the bleak
mountain sides, lived in tents through a terrible winter with the
temperature below zero, with eighteen inches of snow on the ground.
They tied their feet in gunny sacks and lived lean and lank and hungry
as timber wolves. They received sixty-three cents a week strike
benefit while John Mitchell went traveling through Europe, staying at
fashionable hotels, studying the labor movement. When he returned the
miners had been lashed back into the mines by hunger but John Mitchell
was given a banquet in the Park Avenue Hotel and presented with a watch
with diamonds.
From the day I opposed John Mitchell’s authority, the guns were turned
on me. Slander and persecution followed me like black shadows. But the
fight went on.
One night when I came in from the field where I had been holding
meetings, I was just dropping to sleep when a knock--a loud knock--came
on my door. I always slept in my clothes for I never knew what might
happen. I went to the door, opened it, and faced a military chap.
“The Colonel wants you up at headquarters.”
I went with him immediately. Three or four others were brought in: War
John and Joe Pajammy, organizers. We were all taken down to the Santa
Fe station. While standing there, waiting for the train that was to
deport us, some of the miners ran down to bid me good-bye. “Mother,
good-bye,” they said, stretching out their hands to take mine.
The colonel struck their hands and yelled at them. “Get away from
there. You can’t shake hands with that woman!”
The militia took us to La Junta. They handed me a letter from the
governor, notifying me that under no circumstances could I return to
the State of Colorado. I sat all night in the station. In the morning
the Denver train came along. I had no food, no money. I asked the
conductor to take me to Denver. He said he would.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t want you to lose your job.”
I showed him the letter from the governor. He read it.
“Mother,” he said, “do you want to go to Denver?”
“I do,” said I.
“Then to Hell with the job;” said he, “it’s to Denver you go.”
In Denver I got a room and rested a while. I sat down and wrote a
letter to the governor, the obedient little boy of the coal companies.
[Illustration: Mother Jones Heading Protest Procession of Strikers at
Denver]
“Mr. Governor, you notified your dogs of war to put me out of the
state. They complied with your instructions. I hold in my hand a
letter that was handed to me by one of them, which says ‘under no
circumstances return to this state.’ I wish to notify you, governor,
that you don’t own the state. When it was admitted to the sisterhood of
states, my fathers gave me a share of stock in it; and that is all they
gave to you. The civil courts are open. If I break a law of state or
nation it is the duty of the civil courts to deal with me. That is why
my forefathers established those courts to keep dictators and tyrants
such as you from interfering with civilians. I am right here in the
capital, after being out nine or ten hours, four or five blocks from
your office. I want to ask you, governor, what in Hell are you going to
do about it?”
I called a messenger and sent it up to the governor’s office. He read
it and a reporter who was present in the office at the time told me his
face grew red.
“What shall I do?” he said to the reporter. He was used to acting under
orders.
“Leave her alone,” counselled the reporter. “There is no more patriotic
citizen in America.”
From Denver I went down the Western Slope, holding meetings, cheering
and encouraging those toiling and disinherited miners who were
fighting against such monstrous odds.
I went to Helper, Utah, and got a room with a very nice Italian family.
I was to hold a meeting Sunday afternoon. From every quarter the men
came, trudging miles over the mountains. The shop men were notified
not to come but they came anyhow. Just as the meeting was about to
open, the mayor of the little town came to me and said that I could not
hold a meeting; that I was on company ground. I asked him how far his
jurisdiction extended. He said as far as the Company’s jurisdiction. He
was a Company mayor.
So I turned to the audience and asked them to follow me. The audience
to a man followed me to a little tent colony at Half Way that the
miners had established when they had been evicted from their homes.
When the meeting closed I returned to Helper. The next day, although
there was no smallpox in town, a frame shack was built to isolate
smallpox sufferers in. I was notified that I had been exposed to
smallpox and must be incarcerated in the shack. But somehow that night
the shack burned down.
I went to stay in Half Way because the Italian family were afraid to
keep me longer. Another Italian family gave me a bare room in their
shack. There was only a big stone to fasten the door. No sooner was I
located than the militia notified me that I was in quarantine because
I had been exposed to smallpox. But I used to go out and talk to the
miners and they used to come to me.
One Saturday night I got tipped off by the postoffice master that the
militia were going to raid the little tent colony in the early morning.
I called the miners to me and asked them if they had guns. Sure, they
had guns. They were western men, men of the mountains. I told them to
go bury them between the boulders; deputies were coming to take them
away from them. I did not tell them that there was to be a raid for I
did not want any bloodshed. Better to submit to arrest.
Between 4:30 and 5 o’clock in the morning I heard the tramp of feet on
the road. I looked out of my smallpox window and saw about forty-five
deputies. They descended upon the sleeping tent colony, dragged the
miners out of their beds. They did not allow them to put on their
clothing. The miners begged to be allowed to put on their clothes, for
at that early hour the mountain range is the coldest. Shaking with
cold, followed by the shrieks and wails of their wives and children,
beaten along the road by guns, they were driven like cattle to Helper.
In the evening they were packed in a box car and run down to Price, the
county seat and put in jail.
Not one law had these miners broken. The pitiful screams of the women
and children would have penetrated Heaven. Their tears melted the
heart of the Mother of Sorrows. Their crime was that they had struck
against the power of gold.
The women huddled beneath the window of the house where I was
incarcerated for smallpox.
“Oh Mother, what shall we do?” they wailed. “What’s to become of our
little children!”
“See my little Johnny,” said one woman, holding up a tiny, red
baby--new born.
“That’s a nice baby,” I said.
“He sick. Pretty soon he die. Company take house. Company take my man.
Pretty soon company take my baby.”
Two days after this raid was made, the stone that held my door was
suddenly pushed in. A fellow jumped into the room, stuck a gun under my
jaw and told me to tell him where he could get $3,000 of the miners’
money or he would blow out my brains.
“Don’t waste your powder,” I said. “You write the miners up in
Indianapolis. Write Mitchell. He’s got money now.”
“I don’t want any of your damn talk,” he replied, then asked:
“Hasn’t the president got money?”
“You got him in jail.”
“Haven’t you got any money?”
“Sure!” I put my hand in my pocket, took out fifty cents and turned the
pocket inside out.
“Is that all you got?”
“Sure, and I’m not going to give it to you, for I want it to get a jag
on to boil the Helen Gould smallpox out of my system so I will not
inoculate the whole nation when I get out of here.”
“How are you going to get out of here if you haven’t money when they
turn you loose?”
“The railway men will take me anywhere.”
There were two other deputies outside. They kept hollering for him to
come out. “She ain’t got any money,” they kept insisting. Finally he
was convinced that I had nothing.
This man, I afterward found out, had been a bank robber, but had been
sworn in as deputy to crush the miners’ union. He was later killed
while robbing the post office in Prince. Yet he was the sort of man who
was hired by the moneyed interests to crush the hopes and aspirations
of the fathers and mothers and even the children of the workers.
I was held twenty-six days and nights in that bare room, isolated for
smallpox. Finally with no redress I was turned loose and went to Salt
Lake. During all those days and nights I did not undress because of
imminent danger.
All civil law had broken down in the Cripple Creek strike. The militia
under Colonel Verdeckberg said, “We are under orders only from God and
Governor Peabody.” Judge Advocate McClelland when accused of violating
the constitution said, “To hell with the constitution!” There was a
complete breakdown of all civil law. Habeas corpus proceedings were
suspended. Free speech and assembly were forbidden. People spoke
in whispers as in the days of the inquisition. Soldiers committed
outrages. Strikers were arrested for vagrancy and worked in chain gangs
on the street under brutal soldiers. Men, women and tiny children were
packed in the Bullpen at Cripple Creek. Miners were shot dead as they
slept. They were ridden from the country, their families knowing not
where they had gone, or whether they lived.
When the strike started in Cripple Creek, the civil law was operating,
but the governor, a banker, and in complete sympathy with the
Rockefeller interests, sent the militia. They threw the officers out of
office. Sheriff Robinson had a rope thrown at his feet and told that if
he did not resign, the rope would be about his neck.
Three men were brought into Judge Seeds’ court--miners. There was
no charge lodged against them. He ordered them released but the
soldiers who with drawn bayonets had attended the hearing, immediately
rearrested them and took them back to jail.
Four hundred men were taken from their homes. Seventy-six of these were
placed on a train, escorted to Kansas, dumped out on a prairie and
told never to come back, except to meet death.
In the heat of June, in Victor, 1600 men were arrested and put in the
Armory Hall. Bullpens were established and anyone be he miner, or
a woman or a child that incurred the displeasure of the great coal
interests, or the militia, were thrown into these horrible stockades.
Shop keepers were forbidden to sell to miners. Priests and ministers
were intimidated, fearing to give them consolation. The miners opened
their own stores to feed the women and children. The soldiers and
hoodlums broke into the stores, looted them, broke open the safes,
destroyed the scales, ripped open the sacks of flour and sugar, dumped
them on the floor and poured kerosene oil over everything. The beef and
meat was poisoned by the militia. Goods were stolen. The miners were
without redress, for the militia was immune.
And why were these things done? Because a group of men had demanded an
eight hour day, a check weighman and the abolition of the scrip system
that kept them in serfdom to the mighty coal barons. That was all. Just
that miners had refused to labor under these conditions. Just because
miners wanted a better chance for their children, more of the sunlight,
more freedom. And for this they suffered one whole year and for this
they died.
Perhaps no one in the labor movement has seen more brutality
perpetrated upon the workers than I have seen. I have seen them killed
in industry, worn out and made old before their time, jailed and shot
if they protested. Story after story I could tell of persecution and of
bravery unequalled on any battle field.
There was Mrs. M. F. Langdon of Cripple Creek. “The Victor Record,” a
newspaper giving the miners’ side of the strike, had been arbitrarily
suppressed by the militia, as were all journals that did not espouse
the cause of the coal operators. Her husband had been arrested because
he was the editor of The Record.
The military were surprised when the morning after the suppression of
the paper and the jailing of the editor and his helpers, the paper came
out as usual. Throughout the night Mrs. Langdon, working with a tiny
candle, had set the type and run the sheets out on a hand press.
On November 19, 1903, two organizers, Demolli and Price, were going to
Scofield when a short distance from town, a mob composed of members
of the “citizens’ alliance” boarded the train armed with high-powered
rifles, and ordered the train crew to take the organizers back.
In December, Lucianno Desentos and Joseph Vilano were killed outright
by deputy sheriffs at Secundo. Soon after their killing, the home
of William G. Isaac, an organizer, was blown up. He was in Glenwood
Springs when it occurred. Part of the house was wrecked by the
explosion, the part in which his two little children usually slept. The
night of the explosion, however, they slept in the back room with their
mother. The family was saved from being burned to death in the fire
that followed the explosion by crawling through a broken window. Isaac
was arrested and charged with attempting the murder of his wife and
children.
And so I could go on and on. Men beaten and left for dead in the road.
The home of Sherman Parker searched without warrants, his wife in her
nightclothes made to hold the light for the soldiers. And no arms found.
On Sunday in February of 1914, Joe Panonia and myself went to a camp
out in Berwyn to hold a meeting, and William Farley and James Mooney,
national organizers, went to Bohnn. Both settlements lay in the same
direction, Berwyn being a little further on. As we drove through Bohnn
after our meeting, three women ran out from a shack, waving their long,
bony arms at us and shrieking and whirling around like witches. They
jumped right in front of our automobile in the narrow road.
“Come in! Come in! Something bad!” They put their hands to their heads
and rocked sidewise. They were foreigners and knew little English.
“Joe,” I said, “we’d better drive on. They may have been drinking. It
may be some sort of hoax to get us into the house.”
“No! No!” shrieked the women. “No drink! Something bad!” They climbed
on the running board and began pulling us.
“Come on, Mother,” said Joe. “Let’s go in. I think there has been
trouble.”
We followed the three lanky women into the shack. On a wretched bed
covered with dirty rag-ends of blankets and old quilts lay Mooney,
bleeding profusely and unconscious. Farley sat beside him, badly beaten.
Joe raced into Trinidad and got a doctor but although Mooney survived
he was never quite right in the head afterward. Farley, however,
recovered from his terrible beating.
He said that as they were returning from Bohnn, seven gunmen jumped out
from the bushes along the road, had beaten them up, kicked them and
stamped their feet upon them. All seven were armed and resistance was
useless.
Organizers were thrown into jail and held without trial for months.
They were deported. In April fourteen miners were arrested at Broadhead
and deported to New Mexico. They were landed in the desert, thirty
miles from food or water. Hundreds of others were deported, taken
away without being allowed to communicate with wives and children.
The women suffered agonies not knowing when their men went from home
whether they would ever return. If the deported men returned they were
immediately arrested by the militia and put in jail. All organizers and
leaders were in danger of death, in the open streets or from ambush.
John Lawson was shot at but by a miracle the bullet missed him.
The strike in the southern fields dragged on and on. But from the
moment the southern miners had been deserted by their northern
brothers, I felt their strike was doomed. Bravely did those miners
fight before giving in to the old peonage. The military had no regard
for human life. They were sanctified cannibals. Is it any wonder that
we have murders and holdups when the youth of the land is trained by
the great industrialists to a belief in force; when they see that the
possession of money puts one above law.
Men like President Howell and Secretary Simpson will live in history.
I was in close touch with them throughout this terrible strike. Their
descendants should feel proud that the blood of such great men flows in
their veins.
No more loyal, courageous men could be found than those southern
miners, scornfully referred to by “citizens’ alliances” as
“foreigners.” Italians and Mexicans endured to the end. They were
defeated on the industrial field but theirs was the victory of the
spirit.