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  The Coal War

  A Novel

  Upton Sinclair

  BOOK ONE

  THE

  SOCIAL CHASM

  [1]

  It was the last afternoon of the year, and in the sunlight the distant peaks of the mountains shone dazzling white. The houses of Western City made a frame for this snow-picture, and the young man who was walking down the street kept his eyes upon it so continually that he was hardly aware of the brown slush under his feet, nor of the unlovely neighborhood about him. This was characteristic of the young man, whose preoccupation with distant loveliness sometimes got him into immediate difficulties. He was twenty-two years of age, erect and keen-looking, with wavy brown hair and sensitive features, generally serious, but capable of lighting up with sudden humor. He was well-dressed, but in an inconspicuous way, as if it had happened by accident.

  He came to the number he was seeking, and rang the doorbell of a cheap lodging-house. Of the woman who opened the door he inquired, “Does Mrs. Minetti live here?”

  The reply was, Third floor, straight ahead at the back. Evidently the etiquette of the place did not provide for visiting-cards, so the young man climbed the stairs and knocked. Quick steps came, and the door was opened by a small boy, who gave one glance, and then a shout: “Joe Smith! Joe!” He made a leap, and the young man caught him and tossed him up so high that he almost bumped his head on the ceiling.

  “Hello, Little Jerry! How’s the boy?”

  The boy’s mother, a black-eyed Sicilian girl, had started from her chair. It was plain that she too was glad to see the distinguished-looking caller, but her shy welcome was eclipsed by the eagerness of the child. “Say! How you know we was here?” And then, “You heard about my father?”

  “The union wrote me,” said the visitor.

  “Say, ain’t it rotten?” cried the youngster. “Say, I wisht I was a man! Wouldn’t I go for them mine-guards!” Little Jerry added exclamations of a kind which would look disturbing in print.

  “But my father go back!” he declared. “He get into them camps again!”

  Hal asked for particulars of the elder Minetti’s fate, and Rosa sat with her hands clenched in her lap and a look of distress on her face, while he spelled out her husband’s Italian letter. Big Jerry had been doing organizing work in one of the “closed camps” of the coal-country, and the company guards had caught him, beaten him unconscious, and then, to get rid of him, had thrown him on top of an outgoing coal-car. It had been pretty bad, said the letter, but now it was all right, for he had been found by a section-man who was a union sympathizer, and while this man’s home was only a box-car on a siding, there were flowers in the windows, and a woman to take care of a broken head.

  Little Jerry took up the story in his eager, high voice. He and his mother and the baby had been living in the coal-town of Pedro, and at night three strange men had broken into their lodgings, and tumbled them out of bed. They had torn everything to pieces, searching for letters. From their remarks it was plain that Big Jerry had been caught at his perilous work; but that was all the family had known for more than a week. The union people had advised them to move up to Western City, where they would be out of danger. So now they were all right, said Rosa, except that it was so lonely.

  Hal looked about him at the cheerless lodging-house room, a hall-room with only one chair in it, upon which he himself sat. Rosa sat on the bed, which was hardly more than a couch, so that he wondered how she kept herself and Little Jerry and the baby from rolling off at night. There was a small chest of drawers, and a wooden box with a gas stove on it, and a sauce-pan boiling. One did not have to lift the cover to know what this sauce-pan contained.

  During his three months sojourn in the coal-camps, the young man had learned to put up with odors, so now he wrinkled his nose, and grinned at Little jerry and said, “Um! Um!”

  “Um!” said Little Jerry, and grinned back.

  Rosa added, “You stay supper with us?”

  “Sure, Joe!” cried the child.

  The mother put in quickly, “You say Mister Warner!”

  And the young man laughed. “Let him call me Joe. And you call me that, too.” Then, seeing Rosa look embarrassed, “I’m mighty proud of having been a miner. I still have my union-card, you know.” He was looking at the girl-wife as he spoke, and noted that she had lost some of her pretty color. It occurred to him that boiled cabbage is not a sustaining diet, especially when flavored with terror.

  It was the Christmas season, and the young man had witnessed many festivities. But here, it seemed, was a family which had been overlooked by Santa Claus. He made inquiry and learned that Little Jerry had never made the acquaintance of the benevolent old gentleman of the rein-deer; perhaps North Valley had been too high up in the mountains for these creatures to climb. Had there never been a Christmas tree at the North Valley church? Yes, but Little Jerry did not go to it. His father had no use for churches.

  So Hal recalled that Minetti was a Socialist, and of the Italian variety; he spoke of priests as “black beetles”. Since he had come to America, and earned his living as a shot-firer in the feudal fortresses of the General Fuel Company, he had seen nothing to disabuse his mind of this hatred of religion. The General Fuel Company had taken fifty cents a month from his wages for the maintenance of the Reverend Spragg, and Jerry had paid this, as he paid all other charges, under protest; he had kept his family away, considering it an effort to steal their minds by the agency of General Fuel Company theology, baited with Christmas trees and Sunday school prizes.

  But now Big Jerry was far away, and had a broken head, and could not interfere; and the idea possessed Hal Warner—what a shame this Christmas-tide should pass entirely over the head of a Dago mine-urchin! He recalled the parties he had seen, the preparations for parties, the remains of parties. So many bright and shining faces, so many bright and happy homes, full of gifts and laughter and song; and all of it passing undreamed of over the head of a Dago mine-urchin!

  Ever since Hal had gone to North Valley, and made a practical test of the life of a coal-miner, his thoughts were continually being lured into experiments in social amalgamation. What a cruel thing was this chasm between the classes! Cruel to both classes—not merely to those who had too little, but also to those who had too much! To the smooth, comfortable, kindhearted, generous, blind people, who went to church on Christmas morning, and sang carols, and went home and ate turkey and plum-pudding, really believing that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world! What an education for these people, if one could bring them to this lodging-house room, full of the odor of boiling cabbage, and let them hear the story of this child-wife from Sicily, with her two babies, and another soon to be born, and a husband lying with a broken head in a far-distant box-car!

  Hal suddenly thought of one party that had still to be: a New Year’s day party at the home of Robert Arthur, the banker, a party for the old gentleman’s eleven grandchildren, and at least twice as many of their friends. An inspiration flashed over him. The Dago mine-urchin should go to that party!

  It was such a thrilling idea that he could not wait—not even till he had secured an invitation. “Little Jerry,” he said, “do you remember Miss Arthur, the pretty young lady who came to your house at North Valley?”

  “Sure I remember!” said Little Jerry. “Your girl!”

  “So you said,” laughed Hal. “Well, you know, her father is Santa Claus.”

  “Go on!” said the mine-urchin, who had learned the American way of speech.

  “Honest!” said the other. “He has a big house nea
r here, and he’s going to give a party tomorrow afternoon, a New Year’s party. I’m going to get him to invite you.”

  “Aw!” said Little Jerry. “He wouldn’t let no Dagos come!” Nevertheless, the black Dago eyes began to shine; and when Hal insisted that his prestige as “best feller” of the pretty Miss Jessie would enable him to get an invitation, a fountain of Dago questions was set flowing. What was a New Year’s party like? What did they do at it? Did they have grub? Plenty? Ice-cream? Santa Maria! All one could eat! Santissima! And a Christmas tree? And Santa Claus? How many children would be there? Girls too? Were they pretty, like Hal’s girl? Dressed up fine, like her?

  So came an important matter; Little Jerry must be dressed for this party—dressed as never a Dago mine-urchin had been dressed in history before. In the first place, he had to be scrubbed. Perhaps Rosa could borrow a wash-tub from the landlady; also soap, and a towel, and plenty of hot water. Little Jerry listened in dismay. Yes, hot water! Not too hot, not hot enough to imperil the skin, but hot enough to take off the dirt. There must be no mistake about it, every particle of dirt must come off; the whole body, even the feet; the backs of the hands, as well as the palms. The coal-dust must be mined from under the Dago finger-nails, and from out the ears, and from behind them. The Dago hair must be scrubbed—yes, even the hair; it would shine in lovely wavy black curls—but no oil, or pomade, or anything to make it smell good. Just soap and hot water! And then Hal would send a lot of new clothes, in which Little Jerry would be arrayed. What size suit did he wear? What was his chest-measure? What was the size of his foot? And of his hand? Yes, even his hand! He was going to have a pair of new kid gloves. “Jesus!” cried Little Jerry.

  And he danced about, clamoring; his eyes shining, ready to pop out of his head. What time would the party be? And how long would it last? Would they eat all the time, or what? They played games? What sort of games? One might have to kiss the little girls? Santa Maria! No doubt that explained why you had to be so careful to be washed; but for God’s sake, why did you have to wash your feet?

  [2]

  Hal took his departure, and hastened to “Perham’s Emporium”, where he purchased a complete party outfit for a boy of seven, to be delivered at the Minetti lodgings that evening. And having thus committed himself, Hal called up the pretty Miss Jessie on the telephone and told her about it. He did not say he was preparing an experiment in social amalgamation; he merely reminded her of the cute little Dago mine-urchin, to whose home he had taken her when she had visited North Valley. Now the Minetti family was in Western City, in miserable lodgings, with the father away, ill; and they had had no Christmas at all, and it was a shame; could not Hal bring Little Jerry to the party—especially as he had already invited him, and bought his clothes, and arranged to have him made clean?

  Jessie was in a state of dismay. It was difficult to imagine what Little Jerry would look like made clean; it was difficult to imagine him among party-children. “Hal,” she said, “you know Papa’s so fussy. And he’s terribly cross with you! He talks about it all the time, the way you’ve behaved, getting mixed up with strikers, and all that!”

  “I know, dear,” said Hal. “But it’s going to be all right now, for I’m coming to the party, and I’ll bring Little Jerry with me, and he’s a winner, and your father will be taken captive completely. When he hears what happened to Big Jerry, he’ll want to call a strike himself.”

  But Jessie was not to be drawn into jesting. “Hal! The child’s language!”

  “I’m going to see to that, dear. You leave it to me! And by the way, there’s somebody else I want to interest in my Dago family—that’s Uncle Will. I wonder if you’d ask him to the party?”

  “Why, of course, if he’d come.”

  “Well, ask him. Tell him to drop in for a few minutes, anyhow. You see, the Minettis are in trouble, and that’s the sort of thing Uncle Will lives on.”

  So this remarkable experiment in social amalgamation came to a climax. Promptly at two o’clock next day the big maroon-colored touring-car of Hal’s father drew up in front of the Minetti home, and Hal climbed the stairs of the lodging-house again, and found Little Jerry waiting at the top, in excitement so intense that it was almost painful to witness. He had wanted to wait at the front door, but Rosa had held him back, for fear of some accident to his wonderful clothes. For two hours the little chap had been arrayed in all his glory, unable to sit still for anxiety. Was it sure Joe Smith was coming? What would they do if he failed to come?

  But here at last he was! And he drew the trembling Little Jerry into the room and inspected him; he inspected hands, wrists, ears, eyes, hair. Yes, they were all right! And the clothes were all right, the new grey suit without a crease in it, the snowy collar and silk tie, the black stockings and solid shiny shoes, the thick warm overcoat with cap to match, the shiny brown kid gloves, each with a round gold button! Yes, he was a regular little swell! He would pass at the party for the crown-prince of Italy!

  Rosa stood beaming with pride at Hal’s praise; sure, he was a fine kid! She came down to the front door with the baby in her arms, and stared in wonder at the monster automobile; the neighbors were staring, also—the windows of the other lodging-houses filled with faces. It was not often that an equipage of that splendor condescended to stop in their street.

  Little Jerry got in. He said a weak fare-well to his mother, and then, while the car rolled away, he sat in silence, awe-stricken. He was overwhelmed by that man sitting up so solemn in front, wearing a big coat of fur. Was that the owner of this car? Or was it the gentleman who was giving the party?

  [3]

  Hal began telling about the place they were going to, and how Little Jerry must behave. He would be polite to Miss Arthur, of course, and to all the ladies at the party; and he must be especially nice to two gentlemen he would meet—one of them the old gentleman, Mr. Arthur, who was giving the party, and the other a middle-aged gentleman, Mr. Wilmerding, who was a particular friend of Hal’s. Little Jerry, who was used to strange names among the polyglot hordes at North Valley, pronounced the name very carefully—“Mis-ter Wil-mer-ding”. This gentleman was a priest, Hal went on to explain, but of a sort they did not have either in Italy or in the coal-camps. He was called an Episcopalian; Little Jerry said this name very carefully—“An-ny-pis-co-pa-ling”.

  He was a good man, who had been Hal’s friend since Hal was a boy like Little Jerry. Hal called him “Uncle Will”, though he was not really Hal’s uncle. Now he was distressed because Hal went away and lived with working-people, and got mixed up in strikes like other working people. It was not that Mr. Wilmerding didn’t care about such people—it was that he didn’t know about them. He had never met a miner in his life, and he used coal to keep his house warm without thinking of the sufferings of those who toiled to dig it out of the ground. Some day Hal intended to take Mr. Wilmerding to meet Big Jerry, and hear what had happened to him—not merely since he had become an organizer for the union, but since he had come to this country, which Mr. Wilmerding thought was a good country, a land of freedom. Little Jerry must watch out, and if he got a chance, must tell this gentleman something about the lives of coal miners.

  It was almost the same with Mr. Arthur, Hal went on. Mr. Arthur was a very rich man, and a lot of people thought he must be a selfish man, but it wasn’t really so—it was just that he didn’t know. He was cross with Hal because he wanted Hal to stay at home like other rich men’s sons, and not go off stirring up the working-people and making trouble for the owners of mines. Mr. Arthur was a friend of Mr. Peter Harrigan, who owned the General Fuel Company, and was making fortunes out of the misery of the people in the coal-camps; but Mr. Arthur had no real idea about the way Mr. Harrigan ran his mines—he actually thought that miners were men who wanted to loaf and get drunk, and had to be driven and made to obey their masters. Little Jerry would be helping the union if he would tell this old gentleman a little of the truth. “You know what I mean,” said Hal.

 
“Sure, I know!” replied Little Jerry. And a calm, firm resolution took possession of his bosom. In early life he had meant to be a shot-firer, that had seemed to him the highest destiny of man; but recently a new vista had opened, to be a union organizer, a teacher of working-class solidarity—and here was the first step to that thrilling career!

  There was one thing more, Hal said; Little Jerry must be extra careful not to swear. The people he was to meet were different from mining-camp people in this respect, they had peculiar notions about the most every-day cuss-words. Had Little Jerry ever heard the story of the beautiful young lady who was bewitched, so that every time she opened her mouth there hopped out a toad or a snake? Well, that was the way these people at the party would feel about the simplest “damn”. Little Jerry must be very, very careful.

  “You won’t forget?” said Hal.

  “Hell, no!” answered Little Jerry.

  So Hal had to explain in detail just what he meant by “cuss-words”. Perhaps the safest way would be for Little Jerry to say his exclamations in Italian; then nobody at the party would understand. Of course, he must shake hands politely with everyone he was introduced to; and when he was given things to eat, he must eat carefully, and not spill things on his fine new suit, nor on his host’s carpets or chairs.

  “Sure, I know that!” said Little Jerry, reassuringly.

  “And you’ll remember the old gentleman’s name—Mr. Arthur.”

  “Sure, I got it. Mr. Otter.”

  And then, Hal’s instructions being completed, the floodgates of Dago questions rolled open! Was it a very big house? As big as the superintendent’s at North Valley? And the pretty Miss Otter lived there? When she and Hal got married, would he live there? And this ottermobile? Did it belong to Hal? How much did it cost? Would it go very fast? Could Hal ride in it all he wanted to? Holy Smoke! (That wasn’t swearing, was it?)