King coal, p.9
King Coal, page 9
“Possibly,” ventured the other, “they’d have said you got what you deserved.”
“Yes, that seems to be their attitude. That’s the rule they apply to all the world—if anything goes wrong with you, it must be your own fault. It’s a land of equal opportunity.”
“And you’ll notice,” said the organiser, “that the more privileges people have had, the more boldly they talk that way.”
Hal began to feel a sense of comradeship with this stranger, who was able to understand one’s family troubles! It had been a long time since Hal had talked with any one from the outside world, and he found it a relief to his mind. He remembered how, after he had got his beating, he had lain out in the rain and congratulated himself that he was not what the guards had taken him for. Now he was curious about the psychology of an organiser. A man must have strong convictions to follow that occupation!
He made the remark, and the other answered, “You can have my pay any time you’ll do my work. But let me tell you, too, it isn’t being beaten and kicked out of camp that bothers one most; it isn’t the camp-marshal and the spy and the blacklist. Your worst troubles are inside the heads of the fellows you’re trying to help! Have you ever thought what it would mean to try to explain things to men who speak twenty different languages?”
“Yes, of course,” said Hal. “I wonder how you ever get a start.”
“Well, you look for an interpreter—and maybe he’s a company spy. Or maybe the first man you try to convert reports you to the boss. For, of course, some of the men are cowards, and some of them are crooks; they’ll sell out the next fellow for a better ‘place’—maybe for a glass of beer.”
“That must have a tendency to weaken your convictions,” said Hal.
“No,” said the other, in a matter of fact tone. “It’s hard, but one can’t blame the poor devils. They’re ignorant—kept so deliberately. The bosses bring them here, and have a regular system to keep them from getting together. And of course these European peoples have their old prejudices—national prejudices, religious prejudices, that keep them apart. You see two fellows, one you think is exactly as miserable as the other—but you find him despising the other, because back home he was the other’s superior. So they play into the bosses’ hands.”
28. They had come to a remote place in the canyon, and found themselves seats on a flat rock, where they could talk in comfort.
“Put yourself in their place,” said the organiser. “They’re in a strange country, and one person tells them one thing, and another tells them something else. The masters and their agents say: ‘Don’t trust the union agitators. They’re a lot of grafters, they live easy and don’t have to work. They take your money and call you out on strike, and you lose your jobs and your home; they sell you out, maybe, and go on to some other place to repeat the same trick.’ And the workers think maybe that’s true; they haven’t the wit to see that if the union leaders are corrupt, it must be because the bosses are buying them. So you see, they’re completely bedevilled; they don’t know which way to turn.”
The man was speaking quietly, but there was a little glow of excitement in his face. “The company is forever repeating that these people are satisfied—that it’s we who are stirring them up. But are they satisfied? You’ve been here long enough to know!”
“There’s no need to discuss that,” Hal answered. “Of course they’re not satisfied! They’ve seemed to me like a lot of children crying in the dark—not knowing what’s the matter with them, or who’s to blame, or where to turn for help.”
Hal found himself losing his distrust of this man. He did not correspond in any way to Hal’s imaginary picture of a union organiser; he was a blue-eyed, clean-looking young American, and instead of being wild and loud-mouthed, he seemed rather wistful. He had indignation, of course, but it did not take the form of ranting or florid eloquence; and this repression was making its appeal to Hal, who, in spite of his democratic impulses, had the habits of thought of a class which shrinks from noisiness and over-emphasis.
Also Hal was interested in his attitude towards the weaknesses of working-people. The “inertia” of the poor, which caused so many people to despair for them—their cowardice and instability—these were things about which Hal had heard all his life. “You can’t help them,” people would say. “They’re dirty and lazy, they drink and shirk, they betray each other. They’ve always been like that.” The idea would be summed up in a formula: “You can’t change human nature!” Even Mary Burke, herself one of the working-class, spoke of the workers in this angry and scornful way. But Olson had faith in their manhood, and went ahead to awaken and teach them.
To his mind the path was clear and straight. “They must be taught the lesson of solidarity. As individuals, they’re helpless in the power of the great corporations; but if they stand together, if they sell their labour as a unit—then they really count for something.” He paused, and looked at the other inquiringly. “How do you feel about unions?”
Hal answered, “They’re one of the things I want to find out about. You hear this and that—there’s so much prejudice on each side. I want to help the under dog, but I want to be sure of the right way.”
“What other way is there?” And Olson paused. “To appeal to the tender hearts of the owners?”
“Not exactly; but mightn’t one appeal to the world in general—to public opinion? I was brought up an American, and learned to believe in my country. I can’t think but there’s some way to get justice. Maybe if the men were to go into politics—”
“Politics?” cried Olson. “My God! How long have you been in this place?”
“Only a couple of months.”
“Well, stay till November, and see what they do with the ballot-boxes in these camps!”
“I can imagine, of course—”
“No, you can’t. Any more than you could imagine the graft and the misery!”
“But if the men should take to voting together—”
“How can they take to voting together—when any one who mentions the idea goes down the canyon? Why, you can’t even get naturalisation papers, unless you’re a company man; they won’t register you, unless the boss gives you an O. K. How are you going to make a start, unless you have a union?”
It sounded reasonable, Hal had to admit; but he thought of the stories he had heard about “walking delegates,” all the dreadful consequences of “union domination.” He had not meant to go in for unionism!
Olson was continuing. “We’ve had laws passed, a whole raft of laws about coal-mining—the eight-hour law, the anti-scrip law, the company-store law, the mine-sprinkling law, the check-weighman law. What difference has it made in North Valley that there are such laws on the statute-books? Would you ever even know about them?”
“Ah, now!” said Hal. “If you put it that way—if your movement is to have the law enforced—I’m with you!”
“But how will you get the law enforced, except by a union? No individual man can do it—it’s ‘down the canyon’ with him if he mentions the law. In Western City our union people go to the state officials, but they never do anything—and why? They know we haven’t got the men behind us! It’s the same with the politicians as it is with the bosses—the union is the thing that counts!”
Hal found this an entirely new argument. “People don’t realise that idea—that men have to be organised to get their legal rights.”
And the other threw up his hands with a comical gesture. “My God! If you want to make a list of the things that people don’t realise about us miners!”
29. Olson was eager to win Hal, and went on to tell all the secrets of his work. He sought men who believed in unions, and were willing to take the risk of trying to convert others. In each place he visited he would get a group together, and would arrange some way to communicate with them after he left, smuggling in propaganda literature for distribution. So there would be the nucleus of an organisation. In a year or two they would have such a nucleus in every camp, and then they would be ready to come into the open, calling meetings in the towns, and in places in the canyons to which the miners would flock. So the flame of revolt would leap up; men would join the movement faster than the companies could get rid of them, and they would make a demand for their rights, backed with the threat of a strike throughout the entire district.
“You understand,” added Olson, “we have a legal right to organise—even though the bosses disapprove. You need not stand back on that score.”
“Yes,” said Hal; “but it occurs to me that as a matter of tactics, it would be better here in North Valley if you chose some issue there’s less controversy about; if, for instance, you’d concentrate on getting a check-weighman.”
The other smiled. “We’d have to have a union to back the demand; so what’s the difference?”
“Well,” argued Hal, “there are prejudices to be reckoned with. Some people don’t like the idea of a union—they think it means tyranny and violence—”
The organiser laughed. “You aren’t convinced but that it does yourself, are you! Well, all I can tell you is, if you want to tackle the job of getting a check-weighman in North Valley, I’ll not stand in your way!”
Here was an idea—a real idea! Life had grown dull for Hal since he had become a buddy, working in a place five feet high. This would promise livelier times!
But was it a thing he wanted to do? So far he had been an observer of conditions in this coal-camp. He had convinced himself that conditions were cruel, and he had pretty well convinced himself that the cruelty was needless and deliberate. But when it came to a question of an action to be taken—then he hesitated, and old prejudices and fears made themselves heard. He had been told that labour was “turbulent” and “lazy,” that it had to be “ruled with a strong hand”; now, was he willing to weaken the strong hand, to ally himself with those who “fomented labour troubles”?
But this would not be the same thing, he told himself. This suggestion of Olson’s was different from trade unionism, which might be a demoralising force, leading the workers from one demand to another, until they were seeking to “dominate industry.” This would be merely an appeal to the law, a test of that honesty and fair dealing to which the company everywhere laid claim. If, as the bosses proclaimed, the workers were fully protected by the check-weighman law; if, as all the world was made to believe, the reason there was no check-weighman was simply because the men did not ask for one—why, then there would be no harm done. If on the other hand a demand for a right that was not merely a legal right, but a moral right as well—if that were taken by the bosses as an act of rebellion against the company—well, Hal would understand a little more about the “turbulence” of labour! If, as Old Mike and Johannson and the rest maintained, the bosses would “make your life one damn misery” till you left—then he would be ready to make a few damn miseries for the bosses in return!
“It would be an adventure,” said Hal, suddenly.
And the other laughed. “It would that!”
“You’re thinking I’ll have another Pine Creek experience,” Hal added. “Well, maybe so—but I have to try things out for myself. You see, I’ve got a brother at home, and when I think about going in for revolution, I have imaginary arguments with him. I want to be able to say ‘I didn’t swallow anybody’s theories; I tried it for myself, and this is what happened.’”
“Well,” replied the organiser, “that’s all right. But while you’re seeking education for yourself and your brother, don’t forget that I’ve already got my education. I know what happens to men who ask for a check-weighman, and I can’t afford to sacrifice myself proving it again.”
“I never asked you to,” laughed Hal. “If I won’t join your movement, I can’t expect you to join mine! But if I can find a few men who are willing to take the risk of making a demand for a check-weighman—that won’t hurt your work, will it?”
“Sure not!” said the other. “Just the opposite—it’ll give me an object lesson to point to. There are men here who don’t even know they’ve a legal right to a check-weighman. There are others who know they don’t get their weights, but aren’t sure its the company that’s cheating them. If the bosses should refuse to let any one inspect the weights, if they should go further and fire the men who ask it—well, there’ll be plenty of recruits for my union local!”
“All right,” said Hal. “I’m not setting out to recruit your union local, but if the company wants to recruit it, that’s the company’s affair!” And on this bargain the two shook hands.
BOOK TWO — THE SERFS OF KING COAL
1. Hal was now started upon a new career, more full of excitements than that of stableman or buddy, with perils greater than those of falling rock or the hind feet of mules in the stomach. The inertia which overwork produces had not had time to become a disease with him; youth was on his side, with its zest for more and yet more experience. He found it thrilling to be a conspirator, to carry about with him secrets as dark and mysterious as the passages of the mine in which he worked.
But Jerry Minetti, the first person he told of Tom Olson’s purpose in North Valley, was older in such thrills. The care-free look which Jerry was accustomed to wear vanished abruptly, and fear came into his eyes. “I know it come some day,” he exclaimed—“trouble for me and Rosa!”
“How do you mean?”
“We get into it—get in sure. I say Rosa, ‘Call yourself Socialist—what good that do? No help any. No use to vote here—they don’t count no Socialist vote, only for joke!’ I say, ‘Got to have union. Got to strike!’ But Rosa say, ‘Wait little bit. Save little bit money, let children grow up. Then we help, no care if we no got any home.’”
“But we’re not going to start a union now!” objected Hal. “I have another plan for the present.”
Jerry, however, was not to be put at ease. “No can wait!” he declared. “Men no stand it! I say, ‘It come some day quick—like blow-up in mine! Somebody start fight, everybody fight.’” And Jerry looked at Rosa, who sat with her black eyes fixed anxiously upon her husband. “We get into it,” he said; and Hal saw their eyes turn to the room where Little Jerry and the baby were sleeping.
Hal said nothing—he was beginning to understand the meaning of rebellion to such people. He watched with curiosity and pity the struggle that went on; a struggle as old as the soul of man—between the voice of self-interest, of comfort and prudence, and the call of duty, of the ideal. No trumpet sounded for this conflict, only the still small voice within.
After a while Jerry asked what it was Hal and Olson had planned; and Hal explained that he wanted to make a test of the company’s attitude toward the check-weighman law. Hal thought it a fine scheme; what did Jerry think?
Jerry smiled sadly. “Yes, fine scheme for young feller—no got family!”
“That’s all right,” said Hal, “I’ll take the job—I’ll be the check-weighman.”
“Got to have committee,” said Jerry—“committee go see boss.”
“All right, but we’ll get young fellows for that too—men who have no families. Some of the fellows who live in the chicken-coops in shanty-town. They won’t care what happens to them.”
But Jerry would not share Hal’s smile. “No got sense ’nough, them fellers. Take sense to stick together.” He explained that they would need a group of men to stand back of the committee; such a group would have to be organised, to hold meetings in secret—it would be practically the same thing as a union, would be so regarded by the bosses and their spotters. And no organisation of any sort was permitted in the camps. There had been some Serbians who had wanted to belong to a fraternal order back in their home country, but even that had been forbidden. If you wanted to insure your life or your health, the company would attend to it—and get the profit from it. For that matter, you could not even buy a post-office money-order, to send funds back to the old country; the post-office clerk, who was at the same time a clerk in the company-store, would sell you some sort of a store-draft.
So Hal was facing the very difficulties about which Olson had warned him. The first of them was Jerry’s fear. Yet Hal knew that Jerry was no “coward”; if any man had a contempt for Jerry’s attitude, it was because he had never been in Jerry’s place!
“All I’ll ask of you now is advice,” said Hal. “Give me the names of some young fellows who are trustworthy, and I’ll get their help without anybody suspecting you.”
“You my boarder!” was Jerry’s reply to this.
So again Hal was “up against it.” “You mean that would get you into trouble?”
“Sure! They know we talk. They know I talk Socialism, anyhow. They fire me sure!”
“But how about your cousin, the pit-boss in Number One?”
“He no help. May be get fired himself. Say damn fool—board check-weighman!”
“All right,” said Hal. “Then I’ll move away now, before it’s too late. You can say I was a trouble-maker, and you turned me off.”
The Minettis sat gazing at each other—a mournful pair. They hated to lose their boarder, who was such good company, and paid them such good money. As for Hal, he felt nearly as bad, for he liked Jerry and his girl-wife, and Little Jerry—even the black-eyed baby, who made so much noise and interrupted conversation!
“No!” said Jerry. “I no run, away! I do my share!”
“That’s all right,” replied Hal. “You do your share—but not just yet. You stay on in the camp and help Olson after I’m fired. We don’t want the best men put out at once.”
So, after further argument, it was decided, and Hal saw little Rosa sink back in her chair and draw a deep breath of relief. The time for martyrdom was put off; her little three-roomed cabin, her furniture and her shining pans and her pretty white lace curtains, might be hers for a few weeks longer!
