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The Great Railroad Strike of 1877 spread like wildfire through the mid-Atlantic states. Strikers looted and burned. They fought the authorities with their fists and available objects. The President of the United States called in the armed forces. Governors called in the national guards of the states. Panic was a mild term for the chaos. Visions of France in flames in the rising of 1871 were emblazoned in the press. The longest depression in US history was winding towards its conclusion in explosions, fire and smoke.
Corporal Nate Johnson received the call from his colonel. Not since the Civil War had his skills been required in battle. His uniform did not quite fit him anymore. He had grown comfortable managing a carriage repair shop in the outskirts of Pittsburgh. He drove one of his specially-fitted, two-horse rigs to the armory to collect the weapon. His company’s reporting area was near the train depot where the protesters were thickest. Nate shook his head about what must come next.
During the later stages of the War Between the States, Nate had served in the Union Army. He mastered the art of the Gatling Gun, whose complex mechanical crank and gears fed ammunition through a chute to revolving barrels which cooled as they rotated. He knew how to shoot the weapon either tethered to the ground or fastened in a wagon. Of all the machine gunners in the war, he was the most feared and most decorated. He was not promoted above corporal because the army needed a man who could be counted on to produce a high enemy body count. His promotion to sergeant would have jeopardized his purpose.
A dozen years after the surrender at Appomattox, Johnson was, through regular practice, still capable of directing withering fire. He knew he would be assigned Private Joel Winslow as his weapon feeder. Winslow and he always worked as a smooth-running machine. Half way to the armory, he picked up Winslow at his home.
“Well, Nate, it looks like this is no drill.”
“Hi Joel. You’re right. This is for real. I haven’t been so psyched since the war. How are you feeling?”
“I surely hoped we’d not have to use our skills against our countrymen again.”
“Me too, but this is a different kind of war, and it’s spreading fast.”
“President Hayes has called up the army.”
“There’s no telling how big this fight is going to be.”
“You can’t really blame the strikers after suffering their third wage reduction.”
“Destroying railroad property and fighting against the authorities is no way to express their grievances.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. Look how the smoke is rising from the train station. It’s like a beacon.”
“I hope we can make it to our rendezvous. Hell, I hope we can reach the armory. Do you think the protesters might seize the weapons there?”
“There’s no telling what they’ll do.”
An officer of the national guard rode up with his sword drawn.
“Are you Johnson and Winslow?” Captain Drury asked.
“Yes, sir! We’re riding to the armory to pick up our automatic weapon.”
“I’ll escort you. Keep your hand guns ready. So far, the armory has been safe. Snipers have been posted. We’ve got to break through the stragglers and onlookers to the main crowd down by the station. Follow me.”
The men continued to their destination hearing gun shots in the distance and a growing din of strikers shouting slogans. At the armory was a company of men waiting at parade rest for the captain to bring the two machine gunners. The Gatling gun was in the yard. Alongside the weapon were boxes of ammunition in a neat, long row.
“How long till you can get this baby mounted in your wagon?” the captain asked.
“Ten minutes if all goes well, Sir. I’ve got to check the gun and oil it. Winslow will check the ammo. We’re trained to have the gun ready to fire within that time.”
“All right, men, make it happen! Sergeant Masters, form up the company.”
“’Tenhut!” the sergeant roared. The company snapped to attention.
“Present arms!” Again, the soldiers showed they still had their war skills. The sergeant inspected the troops.
Meanwhile, Johnson’s keen eyes flew over the Gatling gun. He used a clean rag to oil the piece. Meanwhile Winslow pried open seven boxes of ammo with a crowbar. He smiled approvingly and gestured that the boxes were ready for loading.
Johnson and Winslow fetched the loading ramp for the Gatling gun. They both worked to roll the gun’s wheels up the track and into the back of the wagon. There Johnson slid the locking bolt through the base of the gun and the bottom of the wagon. Winslow slipped underneath the wagon to fix the washer and nut to the bolt with the wrench. This would keep the gun’s base steady while it fired.
The two men lifted the ramp into the wagon and fitted it into the slots. They clambered forward to their seats and signaled the sergeant they were ready to roll.
The sergeant did not miss a beat. He hollered, “Port arms!”
The captain nodded and raised his sword toward their objective. “Move them out, Sergeant.”
“Right turn. Forward march.” The soldier with their guidon called the cadence as they marched through the cobbled streets. The wagon with the Gatling gun followed the marching men.
As the company made its way toward the train station, the angry, milling crowd thickened. Captain Drury rode at the head of his company. He looked stern as he glanced from side to side.
The crowd of strikers gave way before the soldiers. Some protesters continued chanting and waving their fists as they parted. Some stepped aside silently to watch the drama unfold. Ahead was a group of strikers with clubs and crowbars. Some had piles of stones ready to throw.
“Company, halt!” the captain ordered. “Sergeant, form the wedge with bayonets fixed.”
As the sergeant barked the familiar orders, the men fanned out across the width of the street and fixed their bayonets. The captain opened the flap that covered his pistol. Johnson maneuvered his wagon behind the wedge. Winslow jumped back to get the Gatling gun ready to fire.”
“All ready, Captain.” Said the sergeant.
“Very well, Sergeant. Forward march. Half time. Use bayonets as necessary. Hold your fire until I order otherwise.”
The captain led his men forward. The sergeant shouted orders. As a precision unit the men and machines moved toward the burning station.
For a few minutes, the exercise seemed to frighten the strikers, who gave way—all except the rowdy group in the center of the street. Those strikers stood tall. They were determined not to give way. The leader of the group bared his teeth and shouted orders. Thrown stones came like a constant rain. Some of the soldiers were struck in the head and bled. Yet they continued marching.
“Soldiers, charge!” the captain ordered. “Johnson, provide covering fire.”
Johnson turned his wagon to the right, unmasking his gun. He slipped the reins around the brake post and climbed back to the gun where Winslow stood ready to feed the gun ammo.
The gunner took careful aim at the leaders of the strikers who were recognizable because they were giving orders. He began to turn the hand crank, and his Gatling gun spoke as the barrels rotated and smoked.
The strike leaders fell dead with others behind them since the Gatling gun’s bullets could pass through two or three men in a row. As the company moved forward, bayonets pierced flesh and men screamed. The hail of stones kept coming steadily. Then the captain fell off his horse in the melee. The sergeant at first could not get through to help him. Johnson directed his fire to either side of the place where the captain had fallen. The sergeant saw a way clear. He sprinted forward and helped his wounded captain rise.
Captain Drury would not leave the field of battle. Though wounded, he climbed back on his horse and un-holstered his pistol. He began firing at targets in the crowd. Emboldened by his brave example, the sergeant urged the company forward.
Johnson picked his targets carefully. He liked targeting clusters rather than individuals for his lethal fire. He became the primary target of the protesters’ stones.
A shot rang out, and Johnson grabbed his right arm. He had been shot before, so this was nothing new. He asked Winslow to rig a tourniquet. As Winslow did so, Johnson continued to direct his fire along the line where the enemy’s shot had been fired. He heard the crucial order for the entire company.
“Fire at will!” the captain yelled. As if answering his order, a striker raised a hand gun and shot him through the heart. Johnson saw the whole sequence and coolly wheeled his gun toward the shooter. Seconds later, his target was shreds of blood and bone. Men behind his target fell with grievous injuries.
Enraged by the protestor’s cold-blooded murder, Johnson and Winslow became a killing machine as they had during the last phases of the war. Winslow kept the ammunition flowing. Johnson knew how to space his fires so the gun’s barrels would not melt.
The sergeant formed his men into a square and called for Johnson and Winslow to provide covering fire. The men formed the square while the Gatling gun assured a space between the square and the enemy.
The sergeant ordered the square to fire at will. Around the square bodies lay in an increasing circumference. Most strikers fell back. Some fled. A few would-be leaders charged the lethal square with clubs, flaming torches or crowbars. The company of riflemen cut them down easily.
Johnson began targeting groups of strikers gathered around piles of stones. When he cleared one group, he turned his smoking gun on another. To the protesters, the relentless bang-bang-bang of his gun. For him it was the Devil’s music calling souls to Hell.
As the crowds dispersed, cowed by the withering fire, the sergeant formed the men into the wedge again. Johnson slipped back into the driver’s seat again and urged the horses forward behind the wedge. He had to thread his way through dead bodies and detached limbs.
The sergeant ordered the men to halt while he and another soldier recovered the captain’s dead body and tied it over his horse. The sergeant then tied that horse to the rear of Johnson’s wagon. He led the company forward to the steps of the train station, which now was a smoldering ruin.
Johnson saw that the sight of the Gatling gun had struck fear in the remaining strikers’ hearts. Some who were looting boxcars and setting them afire were slain by the sergeant and the riflemen. The sergeant signaled Johnson to stop and tether his wagon.
Johnson, knowing they had reached their terminal destination, climbed back to resume his deadly work with the Gatling gun. Where the riflemen picked targets who stood in the open, Johnson in contrast looked for men who lurked behind structures or in the shadows. The sergeant let the men continue to find and kill targets until no more strikers were present.
The uniformed city police arrived to sort out the remnants of the crowd. They arrested some and forced them into police wagons destined for the jail. Others they arrested and conveyed to hospitals. The dead they marked with red ribbons so the carrion wagons could harvest them later. The police lieutenant in charge formally relieved the sergeant, who formed the company for marching back to the armory.
As the company passed through the carnage they had caused, Johnson thought about the likeness of this battle to his experiences in the war. The chief difference was that the enemy today were not well armed. No big enemy guns were present to provide countering fire against him.
The power of the Gatling gun was evident everywhere Johnson looked. He cursed himself for not being fast enough to save his captain’s life. It was little consolation for him to know the murderer was dead.
As the company passed out of the streets that led to the train station, it was as if nothing violent had happened. The company’s soldiers had all been wounded by shots or rocks or clubs, and the captain’s dead body lay across his saddle. Those signs seemed anomalous in the unusually radiant afternoon light.
Along the Allegheny River, the steel plant belched its noxious white smoke. In the neighborhoods housewives hung out their laundry so the ash could soil it in a constant rain.
Johnson began to recover from shock. His arm throbbed. He saw Winslow had tied a bandanna around his head where a rock had struck him. The sergeant was limping but putting the best face on his leg wound.
They arrived at the armory where the sergeant called the men to attention. He hobbled inside the building and emerged with a trumpet.
“Winslow, is it true you know how to play this horn?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes, Sergeant, I can play it. What do you want me to play?”
“Play taps for our captain and for all those men we had to kill today.”
He handed Winslow the trumpet. He stood at attention with his men as Winslow played.
Johnson had no idea Winslow was a gifted trumpeter. The private’s soulful rendering of the ancient military tune brought tears to his eyes.
When he had finished, Winslow lowered the horn to his side.
The sergeant ordered, “At ease.” Then he said, “Dismissed.”
Johnson and Winslow climbed down from their seats and prepared to return the Gatling gun to its resting place within the armory. Johnson knew it might take two hours to clean and oil the weapon.
Winslow remarked, “We went through all the ammo except for one box.”
“Good planning, Private! By the way, you do know how to play that horn. It was beautiful.”
“Thanks, Corporal. I’d like to return the compliment.”
“How’s that?”
He pointed at the Gatling gun. He said, “You played that instrument extremely well. You must admit, your percussion music put men out of their mortal coils. My brass horn comforted the living. Who knows what it did for the dead?”
The sergeant came for the horn. He had heard Winslow’s open question.
“It honored them, Private. And you both played well.” Winslow gave him the horn.
“Sergeant,” said Johnson, “Do you suppose we’ll be called to fight again tomorrow?”
“Corporal, I have no idea. But, as always, we’ll have to stow our gear and weapons as if we’ll be seeing action again soon. Nothing we did today will stand in the way of our normal weekend drills.”
Johnson nodded. He and Winslow helped the sergeant lower the captain’s body from his horse and lay his body on the grass.
“The corpse wagon will be coming soon to take the captain’s body to the morgue.”
“I suppose he’ll be given a good Christian burial?”
“You can count on that, Corporal.”
“Why’s that, Sergeant?” Johnson asked.
“Because he’s an officer. That’s why. Now get back to cleaning your weapon.”
Johnson took his time cleaning the Gatling gun. He finished the work at dusk. He drove his wagon away from the armory with Winslow seated beside him.
“Corporal, you might want a doctor to take a look at that wound in your arm.”
“My wife Polly is a trained nurse. She’ll fix me. If you like, I’ll drive you by my place to have her look at your head wound.”
“It’s kind of you to offer, but Peggy would want to know I’m all right.”
The gunners continued through the streets of Pittsburgh as darkness gathered. Johnson dropped Winslow at his home. He continued driving as he contemplated the events of the day. His mind kept returning to the image of Captain Drury’s body lying on the grass of the armory yard. The man had died a hero, but he never knew his company had won the little war.
As Johnson’s wagon pulled in back of his house, Polly came running to meet him.
“Oh, Nate, I was so worried about you. Look, you’ve been hit. Come right in. I’ll put some water on to boil. While it’s warming, tell me everything that happened. You smell like cordite. You’ve been using the Gatling gun, haven’t you?”
He hugged her tight. “You have no idea how good you feel tonight.”
“Don’t distract me. I’ve got to get you mended. I may have to call Doctor Mallow.”
“It’s only a flesh wound, Polly. You can handle it.”
She took him inside and set him up for treatment at their dining room table. She cleaned his wound and bound it while he told her what had happened from the time he left until his return.
“Nate, I don’t know what to say. Those foolish strikers died—and for what? The same goes for your valiant captain. I’m just glad you were only wounded.”
“So am I, Polly. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Silly.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Mercy me! I’ve been so busy fixing your arm, I totally forgot. I fixed you pork and bean stew. I’ll fetch us each a bowl—and a tankard of ale.”
As Polly did that, Nate fell asleep where he sat. He dreamed of seeing his captain in a field of grain. The man’s face was like a seraph’s.
“Corporal, I’ve heard the most beautiful music today. It has changed key in midcourse, and I was here.”
Polly nudged Nate awake.
“A penny for your thoughts, Nate?”
“Your face is all I need, Polly. My thoughts are all about you.”
She blushed and pushed her hair behind her ears as she handed him a spoon.
“I don’t know what you were dreaming about when I came in the room, but it must have been a good dream. Your face was one enormous smile.”
Nate nodded and tasted the bean stew. “It’s perfect, Polly, as always. Thank you.”