Summer 1880
John Patrick Hopkins stretched a crick out of his back and wiped his neck with his kerchief. At ten in the morning, the air was already close and hot as Hades, with barely a breeze coming off the lake.
He didn’t mind hard work, especially down in Pullman where the air was so clean. South of Chicago, on the banks of Lake Calumet, men and machines were transforming that former swampland into a fine modern city and a brand-new factory. This work would do for him for the present, but he had no intention of doing manual labor forever.
This new town was conceived by George Pullman, of Pullman Palace Car Company fame. Just the type of place where an ambitious young man could make a name for himself. Not slinging lumber, of course, something better. He’d read that George Pullman had a knack for spotting talent, so John intended to get himself noticed in this town.
Clyde Hershner, a catspaw of the lumberyard foreman, had been hanging around all morning, watching John. Whether he’d been ordered to supervise, spy for the foreman, or just enjoyed tormenting him with insults was anybody’s guess.
John came out from behind a shack, only to encounter Hershner, holding a very familiar lunch pail, his big ugly mouth filled with the pork sandwich John’s sister Anna had made for him from last night’s dinner. John said a silent thanks to Saint McGinty that Hershner hadn’t come upon him while he was relieving himself a moment ago. Still, that greasy grin was no welcome sight. John had managed to get himself on the wrong side of Sidney Greene, the lumberyard foreman, and Hershner was making damn sure he wouldn’t forget it.
“Hand it over,” John said.
Hershner held up the sandwich as if to make sure it was what John meant, then let the bread and meat fall to the ground. He turned the lunch pail over, letting the apples, cheese, and biscuits tumble to the dirt. Then he stomped them into mush.
John could have walloped that weasel Hershner. He could have lifted him by his ankles and shook the loose change out of his pockets without breaking a sweat. But he promised his ma he would keep out of trouble. There was too much riding on John’s chances here, so he didn’t dare take up Hershner’s challenge.
He'd only gotten the job a month ago. But just last week, after a summer thunderstorm had drenched the lumberyard toward the end of the day’s shift, word had passed around that they could quit for the day. John attempted to lift the spirits of his soggy fellow workers, regaling them with stories of the Irish kings of old, while they slipped and slid up the muddy track to the train station and home.
It was his own fault, after all. There was no earthly reason for him to needle his boss. He could have been smart that rainy night like the Irish heroes. It’s just that there’s times when the devil sneaks up and dares ya to flick the cat’s nose. Just to see the look on its face.
It happened that two of the young lumbermen were arguing about which one was the strongest as the workers hiked up the muddy hill. The argument turned to shoving, and on that slippery path, they could have caused a pile-up, so John intervened.
“Now, boys, don’t you know it’s better to be smart than strong?” John told them. “Like the famous Finn MacCool.”
“Who?”
“Well, son,” he said, separating one of the boys from the other, proceeding up the hill. “The story goes, Finn MacCool hears the giant Benandonner has come to kill him. Finn knows he can’t fight a giant, so he’ll have to outsmart him. His wife dresses Finn like a baby and he hides in the crib. In comes the giant, busting stones with his little finger. She feeds that greedy giant a griddle cake, baked with iron on the inside, and he breaks a tooth. Why, then she offers another cake to the baby, who gobbles it right up. ‘Ooh, me husband eats these cakes every day, so he does,’ says she, ‘so strong is my Finn MacCool.’ With that, the giant figures if his little kid is that strong, he won’t try the father, so he runs away, in fear for his very life.”
The young fellow started to laugh, in spite of himself, the argument forgotten. Cresting the hill, they were met by the lumberyard foreman, Sidney Greene, accompanied by his three dimwit assistants. Hershner was holding an umbrella over Greene’s head. “All right, you men, break it up,” Greene said, waving an arm. “Go on home. There won’t be any more work tonight. And don’t think I’m paying you for this lost hour.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Greene,” John said, doffing his hat. Greene turned away toward his shack, a temporary office at the top of the hill.
Whether inspired by Finn MacCool, or just plain ordinary foolishness, John decided to approach the boss. “Say, Mr. Greene, I’ve been wondering something. Have you ever noticed when they build the Pullman cars, how they roll them on tracks from one workshop to the next?”
Greene grimaced. “Yeah?”
The other lumbermen gathered around to take in the interaction. “Well, you see,” John continued, “I was wondering if it wouldn’t be more efficient if we moved the lumber from station to station like that. Keeping it on the cart while the carpenter does his work. Seems like the work would get done faster that way.” John turned to his fellow workers for affirmation.
Greene looked him up and down as if for the first time. He spat on the ground. “None of your goddamned business. Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, sir,” John said with a smile. “Just a suggestion.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your suggestions to yourself.” Greene turned away to get himself out of the rain, muttering, “Goddamn stupid mick.”
All eyes turned to John. He could feel it. To a man like Greene, any person with Irish blood– no matter if he’d been born in Buffalo, New York, and was as goddamned American as anybody else–to a man like Greene, an Irishman was no better than a bug under his shoe. Greene was an ignorant man. And ignorant men ought to be taught a lesson.
Just then, Greene’s skinny limbs splayed out in all directions as if somebody’d just pulled his strings. John reached out to catch his boss and set him to rights. “Whoa, there,” John said. “You want to watch where you step, boss. In those shiny shoes, this mud’s slicker than a wet ice chute.”
Greene gave John a look of reluctant gratitude. Noting that all eyes were on him, he straightened his vest and nodded. “Obliged.” Greene continued up the path to his office.
John knew better. Sure, he did. Just let the man go about his business. Nothing to do with him.
Like hell.
“Hopkins,” John said, good and loud, so everybody heard him.
Greene turned back. “What?”
“My name, sir. Seems you got me mixed up with some other fellow. Somebody named Mick?” John stepped up, level with his boss under the umbrella, emphasizing he was a half-head taller. “My name’s John. John Hopkins.” He thrust out a friendly hand. “Pleasure.”
Outside of the pattering rain, nobody made a sound. Greene’s jaw grated. He pushed Hershner and his umbrella out of the way. He accepted John’s hand and pulled him in close. “I don’t need no smart mouth around here, Hopkins.”
“Oh, no sir,” John reassured him, brushing the rain off his boss’s shoulders. By that point, Greene’s minions had slid and skidded their way back to the boss to offer their assistance. Dropping the umbrella and taking hold of the boss’s elbow, Hershner lost his footing and landed smack on his ass.
John immediately turned back toward the workers with a finger to his lips, to keep them from laughing. He was in enough trouble already.
* * *
John figured his boss would forget the slight eventually, but no such luck. He learned later of a story going around that Greene had been holding back lumber, hiding it somewhere, so the building managers, squeezed by tight deadlines, would be forced to pay him bribes to “find” them the materials they needed. Greene was getting fat on the scarcity and resented John for attracting attention to the scheme. For weeks, his boss missed no opportunity to make his life difficult, but John was determined to rise above the abuse. He was here for a reason, and not even a pie card like Sydney Greene was going to stand in his way.
This was John’s chance to move up in the world, not just for himself, but for his little brother, Jimmy. John’s only brother. Eleven sisters and one brother.
Jimmy was the baby of the family, now ten years of age, and everybody’s favorite. But he wasn’t spoiled by the attention, not one bit. You never met a sweeter kid. Loved to read, loved maps. Whenever John met somebody new, Jimmy always demanded to know country of origin, state or province, and hometown, so he could check the spot on the atlas in the library. One year, John and his sisters pooled their money to buy Jimmy a map of the United States to put up on the wall above his bed.
But Jimmy was sickly and getting worse. Too weak to walk to school anymore, the family couldn’t afford to pay someone to take him there and back. Jimmy never complained, but Ma went against their father and called in a doctor, who told her Jimmy would never come brave in that cold, drafty house. If they wanted to help the boy, they’d have to move to a better place. Their father wouldn’t hear of it. “No more doctors!” he growled.
Da loved Jimmy, though. Was closer with the boy than he ever was to his first-born son. But he was proud and wouldn’t take criticism from anyone about how to look after his own. Doctor or no.
That was when John got the idea to try for a job in Pullman. He could stay with his eldest sister and her family in Chicago at first. All it would take was for him to get noticed by one of the company men. Not a low-level manager like Greene, but somebody higher up, somebody with real power. Then he could afford to help his family, to help Jimmy. Ma knew the plan, but they didn’t tell anyone else. If John got himself established with a good-paying job at Pullman, he’d be able to claim one of those beautiful new homes. His sisters and ma would help with the rent, bringing in what work they could. His father would want to start up a new saloon in Pullman, but John had read that there would be no drinking establishments allowed in the town. Da wouldn’t like that, but what could he do? Maybe he would decide to stay behind, in Buffalo. There was a thought.
John sighed and set to work unloading the first of several carts full of wood just arrived from the mill. He whistled to an errand boy and said, “Eh, Ralph.”
The kid came closer. “How’d you know my name?”
John continued to move the pile of lumber. “I know everybody’s name.”
“You don’t.”
“Sure, I do. For instance, I know your da is called Ralph, too. He’s a carpenter.”
“You’re guessin'.”
“Nope. Ask him yourself. My name’s John Hopkins. I got a job for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Every morning, you come find me. I want you to hide my lunch pail, somewhere no one can find it. You think you could do that?”
“Sure, I could.”
“I’ll pay you ten cents a week. But you gotta make sure nobody sees where you hid it.”
“Easy.”
It wasn’t going to be easy on John, working a ten-hour day with no lunch. Some of the men walked to the nearby town to one of the saloons, where if you bought a beer, you could help yourself to sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, pickles, and such. But John didn’t drink alcohol and damned if he was going to order a lemonade so he could get some grub. He’d just have to go without today.
By and by, he noticed Sidney Greene watching him from a distance like a cat on the prowl. As soon as John set down the last piece, Greene told him to move the stack twenty feet.
“Sir, I just unloaded that cart. You want me to move that pile twenty feet?”
Greene sneered, “If you don’t like the work, Hopkins, you’re very welcome to move along.”
Thankfully, John’s brain got a head start on his mouth, for once. He agreeably began to move the lumber a pointless twenty feet, until something sharp hit his shoulder. He looked up at the carved-out hill above him and saw two little boys, laughing.
It wasn’t so much a natural hill, rather a huge pile of dirt. The entire construction site had to be filled in before any building could take place. They’d left the lumberyard to be regraded after the summer months, so they could supply the building materials for the first wave of construction and make use of the existing dock. In the fall, they would use that enormous pile of dirt to fill in the lumberyard and build a new dock. At any event, that hill was no safe place to play.
John shook his head and returned to his work. Then he felt a rock hit his back. Shading his eyes with his hand, he could see these were no ruffians, but well-dressed little brats, probably belonging to one of the company men. There was a young woman with them, but she didn’t appear to be stopping the boys.
He returned to his task, but then a rock hit his neck. That one hurt, goddammit. He considered swiftly returning the rock to its owner, when one of the boys slipped and went tumbling and skidding down the hill, sending scree down ahead of his flailing body.
John knew if he left the lumberyard during his shift, likely he’d lose his job. But doing a favor for a big man? Those kinds of debts got repaid with interest.
The foreman, who was some ways off, started toward them, but no way John was going to let Greene take the credit. The boy recovered his balance and seemed none the worse for wear, so John scooped him up and carried him like a rag doll, back up the hill to the young governess, leaving Greene to howl after him amid the dust and falling debris.
John surveyed the other little larrigan, a tin-type copy of the one in his arms. The boy on the ground seemed like a hare on the brink of escape, a look of astonishment mixed with fear on his grimy face. It was one thing to throw rocks at a man, quite another to have to face him down afterwards.
“Miss, who do these two young squires belong to?”
“Mr. Pullman.”
“Pullman himself?” John gave silent thanks to old Saint McGinty. He could just about laugh out loud, for the serendipity of it. “Don’t you think we ought to get these boys home?”
“I’m sorry about all that.” She kept her gaze down at the ground as if fascinated by his feet. Long eyelashes feathered over her cheekbones. Blue eyes or brown? he wondered. Rosy cheeks, dark hair. He figured brown.
“I really can’t get these boys to do anything I say,” she said, twisting her handkerchief. “But if their mother finds out they were throwing rocks, I’ll get the blame.”
“What’s your name?”
“Julie Morton.”
“Now, listen here, young lads,” he said in the voice of one who had wrangled many a rascal in his past, “Miss Morton here, she’s the boss. If I hear about you two giving her any guff, the band’s gonna play for sure. You understand me?”
At that, Miss Morton looked up at him. Yup, brown.
“No need to worry about a thing, Miss Morton. My name’s John Hopkins. Believe me, getting you into trouble is the furthest thing from my mind.” He winked. She blushed. The scamp he was carrying squirmed to get away, but John wasn’t about to put his prize down just yet.
He knew he was taking a risk. His ma called it “leapfrogging.” Taking the easy way instead of patiently waiting his turn. But he had to believe even she couldn’t walk away from the brass ring, not if it was dangling right there in front of her face.
They walked the few blocks to the Pullman home, one of the first and finest to be completed on elegant Watt Avenue. By that point, the town was little more than a gridwork of macadamized streets with wood sidewalks. Believe it or don’t, but the whole area was already piped for gas lighting, steam heat, and indoor plumbing to serve those future homes. After the swamp had been filled in the previous autumn, the next installation was a brickwork factory, operating 24 hours a day, pumping out the first of the millions of bricks that would be needed for the town’s construction.
Mr. Pullman insisted on brick buildings, not wood. The Great Chicago Fire was still fresh in his mind, and despite the jeering press, he wasn’t about to build his model town twice. Brick was much more expensive than wood, though he saved a fortune by dredging Lake Calumet to provide the material. He ignored the insults from reporters and editors who boldly declared his lunacy in newsprint from one end of the country to the other.
Pullman had put his reputation on the line for his model city, and John understood why. Unlike other manufacturers, who could easily replace one unskilled laborer for another, Pullman was vulnerable to the threat of strikes. To produce his luxury train cars, those elegant hotels on wheels, required skilled craftsmen, from iron workers to cabinet makers and lace weavers. If his workers decided to go on strike, he wouldn’t be able to grab any unskilled laborer off the street to take their place.
So, ignoring the howls of abuse from the nation’s press, Pullman stuck to his guns and continued his construction, considering he’d hit on the solution to the country’s labor crisis,
