Judith Miller - [Postcards from Pullman Book 03] Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘‘Fred! I was hoping to locate you.’’

  Fred whirled around to see Albert Mott, Olivia’s cousin, pushing through the crowd. Albert grasped his hand in a firm handshake. ‘‘You know I didn’t want to strike, but I had no choice once the entire Glass Etching Department voted to walk out. I hope you fellows know what you’re doing.’’

  ‘‘I wish I could relieve your worries, but none of us knows exactly where this will lead. We’re going to have to place our trust in the Lord.’’

  There was little doubt Albert’s fear rose from the responsibilities incurred by his marriage. And now that Martha was expecting their first child, he didn’t want to endanger his family’s income. But all members of Albert’s department had pledged their support to the union after hearing Joseph Jensen give his inflammatory speech. The men had listened intently while the man declared George Pullman and his board of directors unconscionable capitalists who cared nothing for their workers. After all, wage cuts and freezing houses had become the norm in the city of Pullman throughout the winter.

  A single tear had rolled down Mr. Jensen’s cheek when he told how his youngest son had frozen to death while waiting outside the woodshop for shavings to heat the family’s flat. ‘‘I buried one son because I couldn’t afford a bucket of coal, but I’ll not lose another son without a fight,’’ he’d declared. When he’d raised his fist overhead, the men had joined in a rousing cheer and pledged their loyalty to the union.

  Albert doffed his cap and wiped his forehead. ‘‘I can’t afford to be without work, Fred. Martha had to quit her position at the hotel a month ago, you know. With my wages barely covering the rent, we’re going deeper into debt each day.’’

  ‘‘That’s been the case for most families throughout the winter. You’ve been more fortunate than most, what with Martha’s wages.’’

  ‘‘I know, I know. But that doesn’t keep me from worrying about what this strike is going to do. How are we supposed to pay rent or buy food? How long do you think it will last?’’

  ‘‘No one can answer that question, Albert. Most of the men feel certain there will be a quick return to work. I’m not so sure—we’ll have to wait and see.’’ Fred clapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me, Thomas Heathcoate is signaling me.’’

  ‘‘I hope when all is said and done, you won’t be sorry for your part in this matter.’’

  Fred pulled his hat low on his forehead. ‘‘Whatever happens, I believe I’ve made an honorable decision. I can live with that.’’

  He didn’t wait for Albert’s response. Fred had weighed his decision with much thought and prayer and knew the risks. He strode toward Mr. Heathcoate, the man who had been elected chairman of the Strike Committee at last night’s rally. The first action of the committee had been to form a rotating twenty-four-hour guard for the car works. The union members agreed this would prevent property damage and undue negative publicity. It would also establish a picket line to thwart the use of strikebreakers.

  ‘‘Well, we’ve done it, Fred. I wondered if the men would maintain their courage when the hands of the clock settled on ten thirty this morning, but they proved they’re men who abide by their word.’’

  ‘‘And women,’’ Fred commented while surveying the crowd.

  ‘‘We mustn’t forget the ladies. They have proved staunch supporters.’’

  Thomas nodded. ‘‘You’re absolutely right. We must remain unified if we are to gain Mr. Pullman’s attention.’’ He reached inside his jacket and retrieved a piece of paper. He carefully ripped the page in half. ‘‘After going home last night, I made up a schedule for the guards. I would be most thankful if you’d inform these men.’’ He handed Fred one of the pieces. ‘‘Tomorrow will tell us more. We’ll see if Mr. Pullman arrives in his private railcar and agrees to talk. In the meantime let’s continue our good work.’’

  Fred headed off with his list in hand, and one by one he advised each man of his assigned time of duty. All remained optimistic. Fred hoped their optimism would continue if the strike should last for more than a week or two.

  Chef René met Olivia at the kitchen door. ‘‘What did you discover? Do they plan to continue with the strike, or do they merely hope to frighten Mr. Pullman?’’

  ‘‘They appear determined,’’ she replied, taking up one of the meat mallets. ‘‘They hope Mr. Pullman will soon arrive and enter into serious negotiations.’’

  Chef René lifted his arm in an exaggerated motion and pinched his nose. ‘‘I hope they don’t hold their breaths. They will die waiting. I have witnessed these walkouts in the past.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Never are they successful.’’

  ‘‘But there’s never been a strike of such magnitude. In the past it’s been only one or two departments—not the entire car works.’’ She waved the meat mallet toward the window. ‘‘Look out there. They are united.’’

  ‘‘What do I know? Perhaps you are correct.’’ He shrugged and his crisp white jacket lifted from his shoulders and then dropped back in place. ‘‘For now, we must complete the noonday preparations. The luncheon is going on as planned.’’

  ‘‘Guests are no doubt enjoying the spectacle across the street.’’ Olivia had noticed the hotel visitors gathered on the spacious hotel veranda. They would have quite a tale to tell when they returned to their homes. ‘‘With all this commotion, I’d think they would desert the place like mice fleeing a sinking ship.’’

  ‘‘I have a feeling the hotel will be filled to capacity by tomorrow. Mr. Howard sent word that the board of directors will be dining with us tomorrow evening.’’

  ‘‘And Mr. Pullman?’’ Olivia inquired.

  ‘‘No mention was made of Mr. Pullman. To me, that means he will not be present. To you, that may mean something entirely different.’’ He leaned over and peeked inside the oven. ‘‘What do you think? Shall I add a taste of mint to the potatoes?’’

  ‘‘Mint jelly for the lamb is sufficient. Too much mint will overpower the meal.’’

  He laughed. ‘‘I have taught you well, Miss Mott.’’

  She arched her brows. ‘‘That was a test?’’

  ‘‘But of course! Do you think I would truly add mint to two of my dishes?’’ He pursed his lips and closed his eyes while shaking his head. ‘‘Non. Never would I do such a thing.’’ He nodded toward the dining room. ‘‘Did you put the vase in the dining room, Miss Mott?’’

  In all the commotion she’d completely forgotten. She averted her eyes. ‘‘No.’’

  A deep V formed between his wide-set dark eyes. ‘‘Where is the vase?’’

  ‘‘Broken.’’ Her response was a mere whisper.

  He tilted his head toward her and cupped his hand behind his ear. ‘‘What did you say, Miss Mott? I know I didn’t hear you correctly.’’

  ‘‘A group of young men were shoving through the crowd.’’ She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. ‘‘The vase shattered when one of them grabbed my arm.’’

  The chef studied her. ‘‘Please say you are jesting.’’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘‘I wish that were the case. You will find the shattered pieces on the brick walkway inside the gates.’’

  The chef massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘‘Who gave you the vase? Mr. Mahafferty or Mr. Howard?’’

  She didn’t know what difference it made, but with her future hanging in the balance, she dared not ask. ‘‘Mr. Mahaf-ferty.’’

  ‘‘Good. Then perhaps we are safe. Mr. Mahafferty believes in using the duplicate vase.’’

  ‘‘Duplicate? I thought the queen presented only one vase to Mr. Pullman.’’

  ‘‘Oui. But Mr. Pullman had a copy made. He feared the original might be broken.’’ The chef tapped his finger on the counter. ‘‘I want you to concentrate. Did you notice the royal insignia on the vase?’’

  Olivia tried to picture the vase. She truly hadn’t taken a close look. Howev
er, while living in her homeland of England, she’d worked in the kitchens of Lanshire Hall and was familiar with the royal coat of arms. Surely she would have noticed it.

  ‘‘I remember seeing only a Pullman car etched into the glass and a date. Perhaps some other words below. I don’t believe it bore any insignia, but I can’t be certain.’’

  His frown eased but only by a slight degree. ‘‘I hope you are correct. Later this afternoon, I will go and speak with Mr. Mahafferty. Until then, you may want to offer up a prayer or two.’’ The chef walked toward one of the open windows and surveyed the open expanse. ‘‘The workers appear to remain in high spirits. I wonder how long that will continue.’’

  Even in the warmth of the kitchen, Olivia shivered. She wondered the same thing. The union leaders said they would prevail through sheer numbers and unity. But given the formidable power of Mr. Pullman and his board of directors, Olivia feared the accord of the workers would prove fruitless. From what she’d seen in the past, she doubted the workers could outmaneuver the likes of Mr. Pullman or even Mr. Howard, but she dared not give voice to her fears. Like the others, she wanted to believe the workers would triumph. Yet Chef René’s comment that there had been no mention of Mr. Pullman’s attending tomorrow’s meeting seemed an indication that the company’s owner had little interest in negotiations. She fervently hoped that was not the case.

  Olivia paced across the black and white kitchen tile. She hadn’t expected Chef René would wait until so late in the day to see Mr. Mahafferty. After glancing at the clock for the fifth time in the past half hour, she decided to prepare the food baskets on her own. The rest of the staff had already left for the evening, and even though Olivia was eager to speak with Fred, she must await the chef ’s return. ‘‘No need to sit and idle the time away,’’ she muttered.

  With quick, precise cuts, she sliced the leftover loaves of bread, divided thin pieces of lamb from the noonday meal, and located extra fruit and pound cake. There appeared to be enough for six baskets. If more of the guests had departed as she’d expected, more baskets could have been filled.

  Her palms grew damp when she looked up to see Chef René enter the kitchen. ‘‘Did you speak to Mr. Mahafferty?’’

  ‘‘I did. Your prayers have been answered. He didn’t give you the original vase. However, you must pay to have the broken vase replaced.’’

  ‘‘But I—’’ The chef ’s stern look was enough to halt her objection. ‘‘Thank you for speaking to Mr. Mahafferty. I will make arrangements to pay for the vase.’’

  ‘‘No need. He will have it withheld from your pay.’’ Without further discussion, the chef checked the baskets and gave a firm nod. ‘‘Let’s go and deliver these.’’

  ‘‘I had planned to meet with Fred.’’

  ‘‘Then we must hurry. You deliver three and I will deliver three. I’m sure your Fred wouldn’t want us to quit helping those in need merely because the strike has begun.’’

  The chef was correct. How could she argue with such logic? Many of the families had come to depend upon the goodwill of the chef, and all recipients had been sworn to secrecy. Soon after the closing ceremonies of the Columbian Exposition, layoffs at the car works had commenced. Shortly thereafter, a decrease in employee wages had taken effect throughout the company—except for supervisors and managers, of course. The affected families were now without adequate funds to purchase groceries. Yet fine dining had continued at Hotel Florence, where the wealthy remained unmoved by the depression plaguing the common man. Economic downturn or not, the capitalists and their families expected fine cuisine.

  Several months earlier, during the preparation of some of those fine meals, Olivia and Chef René had devised a plan whereby each of them contributed a portion of their pay toward the purchase of food. With this method, they could prepare extra food and distribute the leftovers to families with hungry children each evening. Though what they offered was little in comparison to the need, Olivia had successfully developed a rotation plan to feed as many of the children as possible. At the end of the day, all of the luncheon and supper leftovers, along with any remaining baked goods, were divided and packed for individual families.

  Balancing the food baskets on her arm, Olivia bid the chef good-night. The homes she would visit tonight were located nearby, so her deliveries shouldn’t take too long. Apparently the union meeting had not yet ended, for she saw few signs of life in the park as she approached. Just a few women and children were out enjoying the evening. The town seemed far too quiet.

  Olivia hurried to the end of the street and entered the alley behind the row of brick houses where the Barker family resided. She and Chef René never delivered to the front door. Too many prying eyes and loose lips might see and report their visits. Mrs. Barker welcomed Olivia with an effusive gratitude that embarrassed Olivia.

  ‘‘I was praying you would come today, and God has answered my prayer,’’ the woman said while ushering Olivia into the tiny kitchen. Mrs. Barker tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. ‘‘Do sit down.’’

  Olivia settled the baskets on the wooden table. ‘‘I can’t stay. I have other deliveries to make.’’

  Marilee, the oldest of the Barkers’ five children, leaned against the doorjamb. A tattered plaid dress hung from her thin frame. She offered a faint smile, but her hollow eyes reflected a sadness that caused Olivia to look away.

  ‘‘This strike is going to provide the answer for us, don’t you think?’’ Mrs. Barker asked while she unpacked the basket.

  Olivia noticed the spark of hope in the woman’s eyes. ‘‘I surely hope so, Mrs. Barker.’’

  ‘‘Lamb! Look, Marilee. What a treat to have meat to feed the children. These baskets you bring contain the only fruit and meat the children get.’’ She pulled an apple from the basket and rubbed it on her apron. Fear clouded the woman’s eyes when she looked at Olivia. ‘‘With all the folks on strike, we’re not going to be receiving the food baskets as often, are we?’’

  ‘‘You need not worry. I believe many others will come forward to help. You may receive more than the occasional basket Chef René and I deliver. I’m certain the union will make every attempt to locate resources to feed all those in need.’’

  The older woman glanced at the open door. ‘‘I do wish Mr. Barker would return from the meeting. I want to know exactly what the union has planned. Everything has been such a secret up until now. Why, I didn’t even know they were going to strike this morning, did you?’’

  Olivia shook her head. ‘‘No. I hadn’t been told, either. I imagine the men decided secrecy was best because they didn’t want members of management to know their plan ahead of time.’’

  Mrs. Barker ruffled the blond curls of the young boy who entered the kitchen and hungrily eyed the apple in his mother’s hand. ‘‘Let’s pray Mr. Pullman will listen to reason and the men are soon back to work and earning a livable wage. Our rent continues to accumulate, and each day I wonder how I will feed these children.’’ As tears began to form in her eyes, she swiped them away with the corner of her apron.

  Two more gaunt children clattered into the kitchen and hurried toward the food on the table. Mrs. Barker held up her hand. ‘‘You must wait until I have finished speaking with Miss Mott.’’

  Olivia gathered the empty basket together with those still requiring delivery. ‘‘I’ll be on my way. I know you are all eager to have your supper, and I must complete my rounds.’’

  Delivering the remaining two baskets proved just as heartrending as the first. Both Mrs. Landers and Mrs. Wilson were grateful, but seeing their emaciated children made Olivia’s effort seem futile. How many children in this town went to bed hungry every night? She prayed there would be much more leftover food tomorrow. They must fill more than six baskets each day.

  When Olivia finally left the Wilsons’ flat, she saw a group of men returning from the union hall in Kensington, the small town located a mile and a half outside of Pullman. Regulations forbade un
ion meetings within the town of Pullman, but Kensington had welcomed the workers’ presence—and their money—with open arms. Although the union leaders discouraged drinking, many of the men consumed liquor while in Kensington, yet another prohibition in the town of Pullman.

  Olivia searched the crowd for Fred and soon found him in the park, surrounded by a group of workers and their wives. She approached the edge of the gathered residents and listened while he attempted to answer their many questions. Olivia could hear the fear in the women’s voices as they inquired how they were expected to withstand the strike.

  ‘‘We remain certain those who live in Pullman will not be evicted from their houses,’’ he was telling them. ‘‘You’ve had near nothing to live on all winter. Though our wages have decreased, our rent has remained the same and Mr. Pullman continues to withhold it from our pay. However, we believe aid will be offered to us in our time of need, and we’re hoping for swift negotiations.’’

  Murmurs of assent filtered through the crowd. Then Fred signaled to Olivia. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve promised to escort Miss Mott to visit my mother.’’ Fred edged his way through the group and offered his arm.

  Taking hold, she offered him a smile. ‘‘It appears some of the wives are frightened by the prospect of the strike. I do hope their husbands discussed their intentions beforehand.’’

  ‘‘I imagine some did, but after hearing a few wives’ angry questions just now, it appears there are many who didn’t.’’ They turned the corner, and he rolled his fingers into a fist and poked his thumb back in the direction of where he’d been standing a few minutes earlier. ‘‘I wonder if some of those men now wish they were single—at least for a fleeting moment.’’

  ‘‘So that’s why you’ve never married. You’re afraid you’ll be no match for a wife!’’

  He suddenly grew serious. ‘‘I believe I could be a good match for you, Olivia.’’