Working Title

I feel like I’m running a marathon. I’m writing a novel. This historical fiction is set in Allegheny City/Pittsburgh in 1897. Major Taylor was coming to town for a race. Corrupt cops, gamblers, politicians, Germans, Irish, Blacks, society types, low class ruffians all against the backdrop of western Pennsylvania during the Golden Age of Cycling. Some of the tenses can get a bit tricky so this will help me a bit to get a few paragraphs out there for some input.

My father leaned against the railing in the pit. I assumed the only reason I hadn’t seen more of him around the track was that he had been spending time in Cleveland or maybe Cincinnati. Sometimes disappearing for a bit if you are a professional swindler is the best way to stay alive.
“I shouldn’t even be seen with you,” I said as I continued to examine my bicycle for routine maintenance issues. There are several methods of cleaning bicycle chains but probably the best way is washing in gasoline. It evaporates so quickly after use that the parts soon become dry. Bearings and axels can also be cleaned by flushing them with gasoline. Without having to tear apart everything I’ve found that it is best to remove the saddle post and then pour gasoline down into the frame until it runs clear. A healthy gob of Vaseline after everything is cleaned works best.
One of the gentlemen in my club was quoted recently in the Pittsburg Post Gazette regarding his method for cleaning a chain with a solution of cyanide of potassium. He neglected to give the proportions of the drug in his solution but did call attention to the poisonous nature of it. Any man who uses cyanide of potassium in any form is trifling with fate unless he is a skillful chemist and knows the proper procedures and measures. Cyanide of potassium is a blood poison which acts with fearful rapidity and has no known antidote. The active principle in the drug is the deadly prussic acid, which tears away the grime. But again, putting a healthy dose of gasoline in a can along with the chain and shaking it vigorously is just as effective and carries no danger to the man handling the solution.
I often find myself lost in the details of things when I want to avoid a situation. One of the appealing qualities of bicycle racing is the fact that I have nothing to avoid when I’m riding. It is me against everything and everyone else. And no matter why or how, the results were usually the same. I won. And that was why my crooked, son of a bitch father wanted me to lose.

This is a street/alley that is no longer there. It ran parallel with Madison Avenue. On the old maps it shows up as both Gerst Alley and Gerst Way. I had relatives who lived there. This photo dates from right around the turn of the century. The main character of this novel “lived” there.

I said nothing as I jumped back on my bicycle and left him standing there next to Kathryn. I heard him yell at me to stop, but I continued. Disobeying an order was not something to be taken lightly.

I knew my way and the less time I had to spend with Laughlin the better. Lieutenant Andrew Laughlin is an Ulster-Scot. He is of a stock who history says came to this country and made a garden out of a wilderness. Their influence and stature in society is without question. Regarding the presidents of these United States the men with this ancestry include Andrew Jackson, James Polk, James Buchanan, Andrew Johnson, Chester Arthur and the recently elected William McKinley from Ohio.
His great grandfather, William Laughlin came over in 1773 at the age of 16 during the second great migration. He landed in Philadelphia and fought for General Washington in the Cumberland Valley against the English. He and his ilk took pride in knowing that their ancestors took the necessary steps to tell King George III to go to hell during the Revolution. They were the ones who took up arms. They were the ones who fought in the trenches. They were the ones stricken with disease and starvation. They were the ones who died of musket ball wounds to the belly. It was their work, their suffering and their blood, sweat and tears that propelled this great land.
His fellow countrymen from Ulster were descendents of the men who held the walls of Derry during the great siege. This stern race would also go on and prove their unflinching valor as members of the Enniskillen Dragoons in “The Charge of the Light Brigade” at Balaclava during the Crimean War. Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote:

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred

By the 1790s the Laughlin’s were firmly established in western Pennsylvania. During the Whiskey Rebellion as the insurrection flared they took up arms, this time against Washington and his militia. Supposedly William Laughlin was killed during one of the riots when he was struck in the back of the head by an errant brick.
These Ulster Scots or Scotch-Irish laid claim to Pittsburg and the surrounding hills and they flourished. To speak of the true business, civic and religious leaders of this area and not mention names like Carnegie, Mellon and Oliver would be foolish indeed. Their place is secured as far as they are concerned. Yet with each passing year more and more of us pour into western Pennsylvania. We fight their Presbyterian bibles with our Catholicism and out allegiance to the pope and we battle their superiority with our numbers. This…this is why they struggle to hold on. This is why they hold us in contempt. They have no choice. Their very breed dictates they must try.

OK,

So the love interest of the hero is this bicycle riding independent woman. She takes care of peoples pets, especially birds. She is an independent business woman before there was such a thing as an independent business woman.

I just had the hero walk into a high end barber shop that catered to the white elites of the day and there were cages of singing birds hanging around the room. One cage in particular contained this extraordinarily beautiful bird. It was a Carolina Parakeet.

They were at one time very common but by the time the story takes place they are exceptionally rare. The birds were hunted for food and for their feathers.

William Brady had positioned himself perfectly. It’s been only three years since the first professional bicycle racer whirled around a track or down a country road. As bicycle racing transitioned from a gentleman’s amateur endeavor to a professional business, Brady and his fast talking theatrical style was perfectly suited to capitalize. I read about his exploits frequently in the Society pages. He had recently wagered and won a thousand dollars on a single cut of cards. He was a successful Broadway producer and had also managed the career of boxing champion Gentleman Jim Corbett until Bob Fitzsimmons took the heavyweight title from Corbett. Brady now had a new future star in Major Taylor and was looking to take him to the next level. He’d been working with him since last year’s Six Day Race in Madison Square Garden.
Several racers I knew from my club and from others had actually approached Brady to represent them, but he turned them down flat. No matter, there are a thousand smooth talking huckster types out there and for anyone willing to turn professional if you have the speed and the nerve, they will find you easy enough. Supposedly there are 600 professional bicycle racers in the USA today, with countless amateurs who are either unwilling to compromise their integrity or who still maintain that an athletic event should be held among men with nothing more than pride, athleticism and integrity. Some of these amateurs are just biding their time and accumulating enough wins so that the management types will indeed seek them out. Most of these amateurs simply don’t have the physical gifts or the time to train adequately. Men like Brady were always hanging around the Turnverein looking for the next bright star to latch on to.
When my father came to Allegheny in 1857 the Turner Societies were struggling to survive. The immigrants flooding the city from Ireland and from Germany most certainly would have caused a panic for the Protestant natives. I grew up hearing stories of riots and beatings in places like Baltimore and New York, but around here the intimidation was enough. At some point though, the realities of our numbers made them realize that there was no going back. What must they have thought when reading about and hearing stories of how their ancestors had driven the Iroquois savages to near extinction?

I situated my wheel against the pedestrian railing of the Mechanics Bridge and dismounted. Pittsburg and Allegheny was really an amazing place. In fact the Pittsburg district as many liked to refer to it stretched out nearly 50 miles in all directions. It reached up to Butler and down to Brownsville with countless factories supplying steel, pig iron, glass, hardware, leather goods and a thousand other products.
To say that the tracks of land around the foothills of Pittsburg were at one time the focus of western civilization would not be an overstatement. Indeed the French and Indian War pitted France against England and their native allies in the new world. This conflict occupied the hearts and minds of the greatest political minds of each respective country and their allies in Europe. The tentacles reached in and around every level of society from the top to the bottom. Powerful diplomats and dignitaries discussed options and alternatives. Monarchs and politicians comingled their motives and desires regarding this vast wilderness, the center of which was located at the confluence of the Allegheny, Monongahela and Ohio rivers.
The sound of industry was everywhere and it echoed up through the semi-enclosed bridge. Cutting, grinding, wheels turning, whistles blowing, the clip clop of horses moving people and things to and from market, steam hissing, hammers clanking, men yelling. A shiver went through my body, but I shook it off. I understood the place I occupied. This was indeed the center or the capital of the greatest industrial empire on the planet.
Engineers from all over the world arrive daily. The motion of it all was the only constant. The smoke from a dozen stacks on the old Iron Works across the river wafted up and mixed in with the smoke of three dozen other factories. The puddlers and their skill were being pushed out by the new processes of Carnegie. There is no room in this place for the old ways. The very nature of the prevailing industries creates a constant and extensive demand upon engineering skill. They build bridges, skyscrapers, foundries and boilers. They improve on electrical and mechanical methods and the manufacturing of durable goods. In fact they even improve the very factories themselves.
The cumbersome structures of the past are being replaced with lighter, less costly but still stronger and more elegant structures of the future. Skyscrapers reaching 20 stories high occupy the minds and drawing tables of these great thinkers. Very soon the tower of the Allegheny County Courthouse will be lost in a jumble of steel and concrete. The polite discipline of Architecture that at one time was deemed too non-utilitarian by the thrifty leaders in these parts is now leaping to the forefront. It was in fact the design of the courthouse and jail from the master hand of Richardson that opened the eyes of the people. Art could be functional.
I stretched out both arms and leaned forward on to the wood railing. A splinter sunk into the palm of my right hand, just below my index finger. The section of railing was new, like so much patchwork in the city. A coal barge drifted below as I plucked out the splinter with my left hand. I leaned a bit forward, over the railing and looked directly down on top of the crew. Four black men and two white men sat in an indiscriminate order on one side of the monstrous vessel. A new Age indeed. Separate but equal.

Final…rough draft…

Saturday
July 2, 1887
My legs twitched with nervousness and anticipation. Paul, my brother and starter, noticed the spasm and looked up at me. Sweat glistened on his forehead probably more from nerves than from the temperature. I glanced down at him from the lofty perch of my 54 inch ordinary. He held the machine steady.
“You can do this,” he said.
I nodded and said nothing. We both looked straight down the cinder track. Four cyclists and their accompanying starters were positioned on each side of me. The smoke from my cigarette wafted in front of my face. Properly opening up your lungs with tobacco before a race was a practice shared with four of my eight competitors on the starting line. Each of us consumed in our own cocoon, left to ponder the pre race butterflies and strategy. In my mind the key to a top finish was to make it to the first bend in the lead. After that you just let the other guys try and catch up. My times against a watch were as fast if not faster than anyone on the line with me. But racing in a crowd is different than flying around a track at your own pace.
“Just stay out of my way and you won’t get hurt,” said the experienced looking fellow on my left. His wheel was indeed built for racing whereas mine was built for durability and touring. He wore several badges and pins on his freshly pressed uniform. The sneer on his face did little to hide his contempt for my presence in the race. Clearly he was a man of distinction who had raced here and elsewhere throughout the region. Indeed avoiding a crash in my first race since being invited to participate was high on my list of priorities.
“It seems they are letting anyone in these days,” said his equally smug looking starter. He wore the crest of the Keystone Bicycle Club on his jacket.
“Don’t pay any mind to them,” said Paul. “You just ride your own race.”
It felt like I had mice crawling inside my stomach and the sour taste came up in to my mouth and mixed with the taste of tobacco. I resisted the urge to lean over to my side and puke. I flicked the cigarette to the ground in front of me and as it tumbled and rolled a few burning sparks jumped here and there against the dark background of the cinders. I leaned down and tightened my grip on the bars and then relaxed my hands. I closed my eyes and thought of nothing but my legs turning the pedals making perfect circles. A train whistle screamed. The talk on the starting line went silent but the sounds of the city became more apparent. I opened my eyes and looked straight ahead. My path appeared lighter compared to the gloomy heaviness of the other lanes. I focused on nothing but getting to that first bend in first place.
“Gentlemen,” said the starter. “Ready yourselves. At the pistol, please begin.”
“May the best man win,” said an unknown voice from the small group gathered at the side of the track.
My jump at the crack of the pistol was good. Paul’s voice faded behind me almost instantly. The crowd of about 2000 was louder than I anticipated. They were close yet seemed far away. I saw or felt no other riders as I approached the first bend. My kick was strong and smooth and as I willed my legs and shoulders to settle down into a consistent rhythm, I felt fast; clearly the fastest racer this Independence Day.
This was the pace I needed. I negotiated the gentle arc of the quarter mile track with speed and with a cadence that I thought would be enough. As I straightened up for the back stretch of the track, I felt the existence of pursuit.
“Where you going?” grunted the racer who spoke with me briefly before the race. Even with the pace I wanted, he blew past me and in an instant a second and third rider did the same. These other two riders wore the uniform of the Allegheny Cyclers and one was my friend Henry who had invited me to the race in the first place. Cinders flew up from their wheels. My eyes fixed on one stone in particular that bounced off of my forehead.
The sun seemed to scratch and claw through the smog and steam and for an instant it felt a bit easier for me to move air in and out of my lungs. As I powered through the turn the excitement of the crowd grew louder. I glanced behind me as I exited the turn and noticed a long train of riders considerably behind. Several riders hadn’t even covered half the distance I had. The winner of this mile long race would be either me or one of the three riders in front. I was sure of it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Paul jumping up and down with sheer lunacy more befitting some sort of deranged idiot but his excitement did help me push on. One lap done.
My legs felt strained yet capable. I knew what I could do. I knew what kind of times in the mile I was capable of riding. My pace was quick yet I knew I could turn it on. The only question was whether the gentlemen riding ahead of me were also sitting on excess energy. I settled in to my pace and my body seemed to melt into the machine. Pistons and crank arms and exhaust moved in perfect precision as the control lever eased forward requesting more output. My breaths in and out coincided perfectly with my cadence. And suddenly, with half a lap to go, I found myself in a tight group with the other three riders.
As we rounded the last bend the Keystone rider leaned into Henry and extended his arm in a blatant foul. The nudge was just enough to make Henry and his machine collapse into the cinders. He went down fast and hard and as he yelled in anger and then in obvious pain I kicked in with the last of my strength. Being able to even stand up after the race left my mind as I tapped into any sort of reserve energy in my possession. Henry’s teammate sat up as the crash occurred and found himself out of contention. I leaned even further into the bicycle, locked my arms and gave no thought to balance or to control or to the potential of some arm or leg coming out of nowhere trying to force me from my machine. My focus was on the finish line.
Crossing first had been the plan, but I never really expected it. Paul was of course the first person to greet me as I laid in a crumpled mess of grass, cinders and machine. I did have enough energy to lift my head off of the ground but just barely. He had no concern on his face, only jubilation as he bent down to help me to my feet. The band kicked in and the music sounded sweet and satisfying.
Members of the Allegheny Cyclers Club surrounded me and offered many congratulations and pats on the back. We all toasted glasses of beer. Henry had recovered from his crash and gave me the heartiest handshake. The Keystone rider who had caused the crash in the first place simply turned his back and left the area.
All good sport indeed.

Chapter 11
The well dressed stranger walked in to Thoma’s with the small, peculiar looking dog under his arm. I turned to my left as he sidled up next to an empty spot at the bar closest to the door. There were only 5 other people in the place and hearing a conversation less than 20 feet away was no problem.

“What’ll ya have?”

“Oh…nothing,” said the stranger. “I’m down here from New Castle for the day. I have an important business meeting in an hour and I’m looking for some help.”
“This is a tavern, mister. I serve drinks or I can have a sandwich made for you.”
“Well…it’s about Buck here. You see he is a show dog of the terrier variety. I was going to take him to the breeder before my meeting but the man cancelled on me. Now I’m stuck.”
“Well what do you want me to do?” asked Hans, the day time bartender and the owner’s brother.
I’d heard about this scam before but I’d never seen anyone try to pull it off. Hans had no idea what he was dealing with.
“See, it’s like this. I don’t have time to make other arrangements so I’m counting on you to recognize a good situation when you see it,” said the stranger.
Hans finished wiping the glass in his hand and placed it on the shelf below the bar. He stood up straight and flung the towel over his left shoulder. He placed both hands on the bar and leaned in to the stranger.
“What are you talking about?”
“See, it’s like this. If you’ll just keep an eye on Buck here for the next few hours I’ll pay you ten dollars. I can’t take him to my meeting.”
“I can’t be watchin’ no mongrel hound here. I’m tryin’ to run a business.”
“OK, look. Twenty five dollars. But I need to know right now because if you can’t do this for me I have to find someone else,” he said as he pulled out his expensive looking wallet and placed the money on the bar. He pushed the money a few inches closer to Hans, but said nothing.
“Twenty five dollars? For three hours, right?”
“I’ll be back no later than 3 o’clock. You will keep close tabs on him, right? He is no mongrel, I assure you.”
“Sure, I’ll do it,” said Hans as he folded the bills and placed them in his vest pocket.
“Excellent! I expect great news at my meeting. When I return for Buck I’ll have that sandwich and a glass of your finest rye as well. I may even have to buy a few drinks for your regulars. Thank you for your help.”
With that the stranger turned and left.
Hans placed the small dog on the floor behind the bar and it quickly found a quiet spot out of the way and laid down.
It was a few minutes after 1 o’clock when another stranger entered Thoma’s. He wore an expensive three piece suit and his shoes were recently polished. I’d been expecting him. The dog noticed the new patron right away and walked over toward Hans. The stranger ordered a mug of beer and pulled a cigar out of coat pocket.
“Do you have a match?” he asked Hans.
After his cigar was lit he suddenly noticed the little dog wagging his tail at the feet of Hans.
“Well sir, that is indeed a fine specimen!” exclaimed the stranger as his exhaled smoke wafted up to the ceiling.
“Oh…ah…you mean the dog?
“Of course I mean the dog. That is the finest example I’ve ever seen of a White English Terrier!”
“Well, this is Buck,” said Hans as he bent down to pick up the dog so the stranger could get a closer look.
“Extraordinary! My friend…this is a valuable dog indeed and I’m sure you’re aware of its value,” said the stranger as he stroked the dog behind the ears.
“I’m just watching it actually,” said Hans as he put the dog back down on the floor. “This stranger, actually I didn’t even catch his name, came in here a bit ago and left him for me to watch.”
This time the dog stood there at his feet instead of retreating out of the way.
“What? That’s preposterous! Only a fool would leave as valuable of an animal with a stranger. Either that or he doesn’t know the value. Or…” The stranger paused.
“Or what?” asked Hans.
“Or he isn’t the dogs rightful owner. Listen, my father breeds these animals. I know a quality specimen when I see it. How would you like to sell it?”
“What? I couldn’t sell something that doesn’t belong to me.”
The conversation was progressing just as I had expected. I swallowed the remainder of my beer and put the mug down hard on the bar. Hans turned to me when he saw the empty mug.
“Another?”
“Sure,” I said.
Hans poured me another beer and slid it down to me.
I put a dime on the bar.
Just then Seamus walked in. As he walked toward me he looked over at Hans and ordered a beer. He had grease all over his hands. He reached behind the bar and grabbed a wet towel.
“Let me borrow this, will ya?”
The conversation about the dog continued.
“I am prepared to give you $300 for that dog right now,” said the stranger. He pulled the money out of a billfold he carried in his coat pocket. He placed the money on the bar but he kept his hand on top of it.
Hans maintained that the dog was not his to sell.
“Good Lord! Tell this person when he comes to retrieve his dog that it ran out into the street. Four hundred dollars,” he said as he reached into his billfold for an extra hundred.
“What’s this?” asked Seamus to me. He kept his voice low and acted as if he hadn’t been listening but he too was familiar with the scam.
“Just watch,” I said.
You could tell that Hans was disturbed by the conversation. He was clearly torn over what he should do.
“I’m telling you. The dog is not mine to sell. If it was I’d hand ‘em over to you and call it a day.”
“Fair enough,” said the stranger. He smiled as he put his money back into his billfold and returned it to his coat pocket. He finished his drink, thanked Hans for the conversation about pedigree dogs and left.
“How about detaining our friend there?” I said to Seamus. “I’ll wait here for his partner. Make sure you do it around the corner.”
Seamus poured the rest of his beer down his throat and smiled.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said as he left.
It was close to half past 3 when the first stranger walked back in to the tavern. Only this time the man looked dejected. He appeared to carry the weight of the world on his sagging shoulders. I noticed the gold chain of his watch that he had displayed in his vest pocket earlier in the afternoon was missing. There were a few more people in Thoma’s at this point but there was still plenty of space up at the bar. He leaned in just a few feet to my left. When Hans returned from the back room he saw the dejected looking stranger and asked if everything was alright.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “How could things have turned out any worse?”
He explained that his business meeting had gone horribly wrong. Instead of now being flush with a new contract and cash in his pocket he had to go so far as to put his watch down for collateral. He didn’t even have the money to get back to New Castle let alone buy that sandwich and rye.
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said.
Hans had an idea.
“How about Buck, here? Ever think about selling ‘em?” he asked.
“Sell Buck? How could I do that? He’s been like a part of my family for several years now. My wife would miss him so.”
“In your condition I’m not sure what choice you have,” said Hans. He turned to the cash register and opened it up. He pulled out $100 and offered it to the stranger.
“I couldn’t,” he said.
Hans pulled out another hundred dollars and put it on the bar.
“OK,” said the stranger. “But here’s the deal. I’ll take your money on one condition. You need to give me the chance to come back within the next month and buy him back from you.”
I knew what Hans was thinking. He’d try and sell the dog for a profit and if this stranger did return a month from now he could just say the dog ran off. Just as the stranger put his hand on the money I slammed my right fist down on top of his hand and grabbed him by the collar with my left hand. He yelled in shock and in pain. His hand clenched around the wad of cash and I threw him to the floor.
“Give me that money!” I yelled as I kicked him in the ribs.
He noticed the police badge on my coat for the first time and handed the money over to me. I motioned like I was going to kick him in the face and he covered his head with his arms. I stopped short before delivering another blow. I slammed the money down on the bar.
“Hans, put this money back in the til before your brother finds out how fucking stupid you are,” I said.
He thanked me as I escorted the stranger out the door. I turned him toward me and shoved him up against the wall. Seamus came from around the corner of the building. As he got closer I noticed the bloody knuckles of his right hand.
“Look here,” I said. I tightened my grip on his coat. The fear in his eyes was real. “Your partner is bleeding in some alley right now. Don’t let me see you in Allegheny again without permission.”
I let go of his coat and he took off running in the opposite direction of Seamus.
“He got off easy,” said Seamus. “His partner…not so much.”
Considering the blood on his knuckles and the spatter on his shirt it was unlikely the stranger he had apprehended would be playing the part of the refined gentleman anytime soon, if ever. The mutt for a pedigree show dog scam was worked with regular efficiency at several establishments I was aware of and could be pretty lucrative. These clowns just thought they could come in and set up shop right under our noses.
“He won’t measure up so good after dealin’ with me,” continued Seamus. “His ears and nose is pretty broken up and his lower lip is half way torn off.”
Typically these characters would be hauled in to the station and registered into the Bertillion System. Swindlers and con men have thin, straight lips. Detective Leon Einstein handles the science of anthropometry for Allegheny and is considered one of the best photographers in the city. He’s been at it for years and his methods and organization are second to none. He measure’s the head length, head breadth, length of the middle finger, length of the left foot and length of the forearm from the elbow to the end of the middle finger. After stripping the suspect naked he will also record any distinguishing marks or tattoos. Eye color is of course noted. This information along with the criminals name and offenses are recorded on one side of a card and the other has multiple photographs at different angles.
Our efficiency as a police force has improved dramatically since the system has been put in place. By having the desk sergeants only show photographs of known criminals of a particular specialty to their victims, we have been able to more effectively capture re-offenders. As a citizen recovers from the trauma of being robbed of their wallet at gunpoint, there is no need in showing them photographs of known swindlers or confidence men. A man who boldly uses a gun to obtain his booty rarely uses his fingers to lift a wallet. This way we are able to do away with the necessity of having the victim needlessly look through hundreds or even thousands of photographs which has a tendency to bewilder and confuse rather than arrest and convict.

“Among a large class, there seemed to be a dependence upon the government for every conceivable thing. The members of this class had little ambition to create a position for themselves, but wanted the federal officials to create one for them. How many times I wished then and have often wished since, that by some power of magic, I might remove the great bulk of these people into the country districts and plant them upon the soil – upon the solid and never deceptive foundation of Mother Nature, where all nations and races that have ever succeeded have gotten their start – a start that at first may be slow and toilsome, but one that nevertheless is real.”

― Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery

The century just closed has surpassed all others in material progress ; in art, science, and the general advancement of mankind toward a brighter, better and more perfect future. With the birth of the 2oth century “man’s inhumanity to man”—the spirit of prejudice against an accident of birth, race color or previous condition is fast disappearing, like the morning mist, as the bright sun of civi- lization rises toward its zenith, and man learns through a broader education, and better mental vision, that often his less favored fellow man, given the same start in the race of life and progression, would be his equal ; that we all have a common heritage of virtues and failings, no mat- ter from what branch of the human race we may descend.

I’m trying to get inside the head of people who were born right around the time the Civil War ended. Notions of right and wrong and what was and wasnt appropriate are a challenge whenever you are writing historical fiction. The ironic part is I’m drawing my dialogue and point of view from first person accounts of what the 1890s were like. I’m not getting this information from a textbook written last year. If you want to know how a black man felt in 1890 you read the words of men and women from that period in history. If you want to learn about social norms you scour periodicals and look at advertisements and you read newspapers from those days. I’m confidant that I will produce an accurate description of the period yet I’m also confident that there will be readers who look at this book and say that Conventional Wisdom dictates that I’m not being accurate.

Chapter 24

I am not a Know-Nothing. That is certain. How could I be? How can anyone who abhors the oppression of negroes, be in favor of degrading classes of white people? Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that “all men are created equal.” We now practically read it “all men are created equal, except negroes” When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read “all men are created equal, except negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics.” When it comes to this I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty — to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocrisy.
Abraham Lincoln in a letter to his friend Joshua Speed
August 1855

St. Peter’s Roman Catholic Church basement
June xx, 1897

“Thank you all for coming this evening.”
As I spoke I looked out over a crowd of some of the most important religious and civic leaders in the city. The number of people identifying themselves as “Reformers” continues to grow every day including upper and middle class housewives, doctors and nurses, college students and teachers, and labor and business leaders. I called the meeting because several of us decided it was time for a better organized effort.
I was never completely comfortable while I delivered a sermon, but I eventually settled down into a rhythm. Maybe it was something Divine that helped me along or maybe it was recognizing my place in the world of my flock. I recognized it as a duty and something that had to be done. They looked at me for guidance and inspiration. They looked at me for answers. They looked at me to explain the gospel and to show them how they could turn words into actions.
On Sundays those initial first words were always delivered with a certain amount of nervous anticipation. It was the same here as I spoke to those gathered in the basement of St. Peters. Several members of my congregation were in attendance, and I was comforted by this fact. There were many people who looked impressive, but unfamiliar. The Episcopalians have been stepping up and are leading the charge in this battle for the soul of our country and that is a good thing, provided they are willing to go all the way.
“Many of you I know on a personal level,” I said as I swallowed. I smiled and paused. Returning to a more serious delivery I continued. “Several of you are familiar to me in reputation only. Father Wilhelm here is of course well known to many of you and has done yeoman’s work gathering Catholics for our cause. Thank you, sir.”
A few people offered some polite applause, but that was outweighed by the contemptuous glances and eye expressions.
“Gentleman…ladies,” I said as I smiled at several members of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. “This is the sort of disagreement that we must overcome. Even though I am the one who has called you all to this meeting, we are all called upon to fight in this battle for our very country. May I remind you that we are meeting in the basement of a Catholic church? Yes, a Roman Catholic church. If we are to successfully battle for the future of our country then we must first cast aside any preconceived notions and prejudices against people of a different allegiance.”
I found my footing.
“There is much to discuss and even more that needs organized. Each of us brings a unique perspective to the discussion. We will not all agree on every method or course of action. Some of us won’t even agree on what is or isn’t a problem, but I implore you all to listen with an open mind and an open heart. Some of you may see perfect logic regarding potential solutions while some of you will put up walls because of your faith. I’d just like to remind you all of the seriousness of our mission. The very fate of our nation is in our hands, just as it is in the hands of citizens like us in New York or San Francisco or Cleveland. So please keep your questions until after each speaker makes their remarks and we should cover quite a bit of ground this evening,” I concluded.
I took my seat off to the side of the podium and looked out over the small group. There were about 50 people in the room. If everyone here could go out and influence 50 people and if those people could go out and influence another 50 and it continued and continued, within my lifetime we would see substantial change. We would see lives saved and society transformed. It would be one more step toward creating God’s Kingdom on earth.
The first speaker after my introduction was Elizabeth Turnbull, who was instrumental with the day to day operations of Kingsley House on Penn Avenue. More recently she continued with her Settlement House work here in Allegheny and that was to be her topic of discussion this evening. She came from immense wealth, her family having interests in several large lending institutions in Pittsburg. She was raised in a Methodist household along with three other sisters. She was unmarried and college educated, having graduated from Vassar with a degree in nursing.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot agree with your actions,” commented a grey haired, prosperous looking man of about 60 years of age at the conclusion of Turnbull’s remarks. He was unfamiliar to me, but he sat near Ernest Johnson who was a member of my congregation.
“It seems obvious to me that conditions shape the man,” said Turnbull.
“Well, it seems obvious to me that what you are doing is inviting the lowest forms of society into our city. I mean where are these people from? For God’s sake we have to monitor the train station to catch the typhoid cases coming in to the city. Is it my fault they were born with a set of values different from mine? I thought we were here to discuss the vice problems that are killing this city.”
“How do you expect these people to participate in the American political process if you don’t assimilate them? You leave them all vulnerable to the boss who happened to be born with the same blood and speech. These political bosses keep their power based on the block of votes he is able to deliver on Election Day. As long as this condition persists no real change can ever occur?” I said as I stepped in to answer the question myself. I stood at the podium next to Elizabeth. I could tell that several members of the audience still looked at poverty as an outward sign of someone who lacks character.
“Look at the numbers. They don’t lie. Who ends up in the poor house? Who ends up on the work farm? Who ends up in prison? They are prone to pauperism. It’s as simple as that. Every day more and more of these people from God knows where flood our city,” said a different man from the other side of the room. He stood as he spoke. I’d seen this man before at one of our Temperance meetings.
“These immigrants you so disparagingly reference all chose to come to this country. More often they come because of political unrest or religious persecution you or I would never tolerate. They come here because of an opportunity for a better life and the first thing they hear about is equality. They are no longer subjects, but citizens. He is unconstrained by any sort of rigid social structure, but what does he face every day?” I asked. I had their attention.
“He sees a wealthy man ferried about the city in a brougham more befitting a king while he shares stale bread with his family. Then he hears stories in his native tongue about members of his own neighborhood crossing the vast chasm into prosperity and he knows that with hard work and perseverance he too can make that great leap, never even dreamed about when he lived on his native soil,” I continued.
“But where does that wealth come from?” I asked. “In the old days a man learned a craft and then after serving his apprenticeship he took his skills and turned them into a livelihood. Better yet, on the farm on his own property a simple man with a healthy dose of gumption and God fearing humility could thrive. His prosperity depended only on his work ethic. He owned his ability to provide for his family. Now, this same man ventures into the city and is expected to assume a position as a nameless cog on a factory line and he no longer owns his skills. His prosperity and even the very survival of his family is dependent on the whims of these titans of industry,” I said as I grew more forceful, my hands pounding on the table for emphasis and my voice filling the room. I stopped and the room went silent, but outside the ever present sounds of the railroad filtered in through the window along with a pleasant and mostly odor free breeze.
“Then what? He sees the shiny trinket in the showcase and has to have it. His desire to obtain objects grows faster than his wages. He feels deceived as if this opportunity exists for everyone but him. What are his choices? He looks to his son or daughter and he sends them out to the mines or the factory. He has his wife take in sewing or washing or worse and venture outside of the home. It’s unnatural I tell you! This individualism that suited his ancestor on the farm now only seems to work for the man who owns the factory or who controls the bank,” I said. There were at least two bankers I knew of in the room.
“So every day he goes about his business. As he walks past the shop window he feels more and alienated. His disgust and disgruntlement festers in his gut like an open syphilis pustule. On the farm a man’s hard work is rewarded with money. In the city a man may be rewarded by a lucky toss of the dice or a midnight raid on the jeweler. Mind you the storekeeper care’s not where the money comes from. The temptation is too great and without even realizing their actions these people turn to crime. Yes, their very environment breeds a criminal element. I know this sounds foreign to many of you, but you cannot argue with facts. I’ve heard the arguments about breeding and how that is the only factor in how a person develops. Is there really anyone in this room who would think that a newborn from the Oliver family, or an Astor or Vanderbilt- if they were placed in a destitute situation, that they wouldn’t turn out as some sort of a thieving street urchin? Do you find it so hard to believe that an infant of royal lineage if raised in a room above a saloon would turn out differently from the brother or sister who stayed behind on the estate?” I asked. Every eye in the room was fixated on me.
These are basic things I thought…yet many in the room remained skeptical.
“Now, I know this may make many of you uncomfortable. Believe it or not, that’s a good thing. We need to be roused from our slumber. We need to be shaken to our senses. We need to be pushed and prodded. We need to have the whip brought down across our backs. It is only then that we can break free from the shackles of our 19^th century sensibilities. People…we are poised at the precipice of a new age. Think about the great leaps that have been made in just the last 20 years. Walk down the street and look around you. These advancements we now take for granted to make our lives more convenient and safer continually build on each other. But I ask you – has our moral progress kept pace with our material development? These shiny trinkets…these things that fill our lives. Do we master them or do they master us?” As I asked this last question I scanned the room looking for answers.
“You act as if it’s my fault,” said the man who originally challenged Elizabeth’s comments. He appeared to gather his thoughts as he looked at me and then around the room. He remained seated. His eyes turned back on me as he spoke. “My family settled here, no more than two blocks from this very building, back in the 20s. My name is Michael Robinson. I lost the top half a this here finger in a sawmill accident when I was no more than 10. I walk with a limp because of a bullet I took from Johnny Reb at Antietam. And I made it back here and worked my way up until I owned that sawmill. I took the pledge when I was still a young man and I don’t tolerate it in my family or anyone who works for me. Now listen to me. I don’t buy into this business about one race being superior to another, but I do have a problem with how you’re taking all a the responsibility away from the drunkard himself. A man chooses to crawl inside a bottle a booze, or a man chooses to avoid it.”
“What’s your solution to the liquor problem?” I asked. I seriously meant no disrespect. Our eyes met. I could tell he wanted to answer.
“We need these men to embrace salvation from within.”
“I would say that we need to do both. Yes we need men to see the evil that comes from drinking, but I believe we also need to close the purse strings of the man who sells the liquor. Christianity can be the answer if utilized properly. Think of oil in the ground. If it is never pumped to the surface and refined for use, what good is it? The same can be said of our churches. Those who do nothing but bide their time until someone else offers a solution are doomed to the ash heap of humanity. Those who choose to lead will find themselves at the forefront of this new age,” I said. After a brief pause I continued.
“Look at the teachings of Jesus. You are all familiar with them,” I said as I looked around the room. “There are three laws which are fundamental to Christianity. These laws when announced seemed nothing less than absurd, so utterly counter did they run to the convictions and habits of men. The first is the law of service. No less binding is the second great law of sacrifice. The third great law is that of love. This is the most fundamental law of Christianity. Love thy neighbor. Love is the antidote for selfishness. The love of Christ and your fellow man, no matter what color, or no matter what nationality is to be the great organizing power in this new era. It seems obvious to me that the religion of Jesus is profoundly social and as such is perfectly adapted to save our society.” (footnote..strong..city)
“For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat. Two Thessalonians, chapter three, verse ten,” said Mr. Robinson.
“He who shuts his ear to the cry of the poor will also cry himself and not be answered. Proverbs twenty one, thirteen,” I replied. “We could trade quotes from the bible all night long, but in the end I’m not convinced we will gain anything by it. Mr. Robinson, what is the point you are trying to make?”
“I made two choices. I decided to work for what I want and I decided that the only way I could get anywhere was if I kept alcohol out of my life. It really is as simple as that,” he said. He looked energized. He looked like he could debate this all night long and he looked like he wanted to explain himself to the room.
Elizabeth Turnbull sidled next to me at the podium as if she wanted to speak.
“Mr. Robinson. A few minutes ago you looked around the room and asked if these conditions were somehow your fault? How would you respond if I said they were?” she asked.
Several people gasped at the accusation. I turned myself to Elizabeth and motioned for her to take her seat.
“That is probably something we can discuss at another time,” I said to Elizabeth, slightly under my voice. By the time I turned to face the crowd several people were on their feet and two were headed out the door. The crowd grew loud as seemingly everyone in the room was talking to the person next to them.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. Please,” I said. “Please be seated,” I repeated several times. As I looked around the room a few people were smiling curiously, but they were in the minority. The clamor continued. I returned to my seat and just sat and looked at the faces in the room. Some were clearly agitated while others looked pleased. After several minutes the talking subsided completely until the room was silent. There were at least ten fewer people in the room than when we started. All eyes fixed on me. I got up from my seat and stood at the podium. Obviously many in the room were committed to the Reform Movement currently taking place. They would follow to places a mere ten years ago never thought of. These weren’t the people I needed to convince.
“Clearly, many Reformers don’t agree with Miss Turnbull’s sentiments regarding the upper ten. In fact I’ve heard just the opposite from some the wealthiest members of our city. Their claim is based on the fact that God has chosen them through providence to be the leaders of society and they will …. no…strike that…work in dialogue

From Chapter 17

These brittle pigs are placed on a hearth in a closed oven and worked from outside through large doors by a man wielding a long bar. Any stranger viewing the process would be struck by the strange, weird scene a forge presents at this time. Gaunt, semi dressed figures darting here and there through the redish shadows seemingly playing with molten globs of iron. They pound and roll and beat the impurities out of the iron and poke and prod the semi liquefied metal around the mill from one part to the other. Mind you the slightest touch of your hand or arm to these steaming balls would rip the skin and flesh away in an instant. They use metal tongs, shears, hammers, rollers and iron bars for tools, only stopping for a cool drink of water. It would appear to the stranger that in an instant the men handling these duties would just as easily melt away like any other impurity.

The men who tame these flaring blast furnaces usually work in two relays or sets of twelve each. As a rule their task never ceases. These mighty cauldrons blaze from sun up until sun down and every other hour of the week from Sunday through Saturday from year’s beginning to year’s end; never being allowed to die out. If they are allowed to cool the cost may exceed a thousand dollars to get the cauldron operational again.

This is of course the old way of doing things. Instead of bothering to look for a solution, the steady progress of industry tramples over top of the craftsman puddler. The movement away from the days of the highly skilled worker has of course been fostered by men such as Carnegie, Schwab and Frick. Their importance. Their power. Their wealth of course…all of it has driven the skilled craftsman out of the process. In their place are Negros and men from eastern European countries with names like Janczewski, Svicik, Kaniecki and Walensa. These new, semi skilled workers have come in and positioned themselves to be placed anywhere along the system that requires a warm body. There is no skill in this work. There is only dehumanization, and all for a couple of dollars less per day than their predecessors.

There is no better illustration of the differences between the classes than how a steel mill is organized or for that matter any sort of wage labor situation. From the very beginning the members of the upper class are taught the virtues of competition, of individuality, of republicanism if you will. If Carnegie got to where he is by separating himself from the pack then we would do well to do the same. Distinguishing yourself from your fellow boarding school classmates is most certainly taught as a cardinal rule.

On the other hand wage laborers are continuously reminded how important it is for them to stick together. From the union hall to the beer hall their worth is always based on being part of a collective. The evils of competition are frequent topics from the pulpit these days. According to many the ills of society are driven by the fact that a family is splintered in a dozen different directions with the father needing to work here and the sons and daughters needing to work over there. The elite own and control virtually everything. This notion of individualism has indeed pushed us to the top of the mountain yet it has also created a system where the few men at the top live in splendor while the men who toil in the factories barely survive.

The different classes live in different worlds, each having their own problems and neither one comprehending the other. From my vantage point, as an American with German heritage and as a Roman Catholic I see it all. When I’m on my rounds and at the track I may interact with the man one step out of the work farm just as easily as the elite industrialist. We know so much from just a few short years ago. Yet in many ways the solutions seem beyond our grasp.

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