Eugene Nelson BREAK THEIR HAUGHTY POWER Joe Murphy in the Heyday of the Wobblies A biographical novel Cover oil painting by Liz Penniman They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to earn, but without our brain and muscle not a single wheel could turn; We can break their haughty power, gain our freedom when we learn That the Union makes us strong. Ralph Chaplin: Solidarity Forever Digital edition: C Carretero Spread: Confederación Sindical Solidaridad Obrera http://www.solidaridadobrera.org/ateneo_nacho/biblioteca.html Joe Murphy at age 27, in the spring of 1933 TABLE OF CONTENTS PREFACE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I. BILL HAYWOOD'S BOY II. A REAL WOBBLY III. FIRST LOVE IV. CENTRALIA V. LAWYER FOR THE DAMNED VI. DISHES ON THE ROOF VII. `WE RE ALL LEADERS´ VIII. THERE'S A BEAUTY ABOUT BOXCARS IX. FLYING SQUADRON X. THE HIGH LONESOME XI. MISSOURI XII. THE GREAT RAILROAD STRIKE XIII. AN OBJECTION TO DESPOTISM XIV. THE LABOR SPY XV. ALREADY IN HELL XVI. THE PORTLAND REVOLUTION XVII. THE DEHORN SQUAD XVIII. TO SEA! XIX. FROM VLADIVOSTOK TO SYDNEY XX. SUCH A LOT OF DEVILS' XXI. AND STILL THE WOBBLIES SANG XXII. `SHORT PAY-SHORT SHOVEL´ XXIII. FLYING HIGH XXIV. HELEN KELLER: ’WHY I BECAME AN IWW´ XXV. `JESUS OF THE LUMBER WORKERS' XXVI. THE GLORY HOLE XXVII. IT WAS MY CAMELOT XXVIII. THE SPLIT XXIX. HOLD THE FORT XXX. KEEP ON TRAMPIN' XXXI. DRIVING WITH DEBS XXXII. A GLIMMER OF HOPE XXXIII. `ON TO COLORADO, WOBBLY REBELS!' XXXIV. THE GIRL IN THE RED DRESS XXXV. A PAIR OF SLIPPERS FOR THE SAINT XXXVI. BOULDER DAM XXXVII. A QUIET JOY AFTERWORD GLOSSARY ABOUT THE AUTHOR PREFACE I met Joe Murphy in 1970; a fellow Wobbly introduced me. Joe lived in Occidental, about seventy miles north of San Francisco, with his wife Doris. I was living in Forestville, about twelve miles away. For the next ten years I visited him about once a week. He told me many stories of his fantastic career traveling all over the world as an organizer and fundraiser for the IWW, meeting Big Bill Haywood, Helen Keller, Vincent St. John, Upton Sinclair, Emma Goldman, Sylvia Beach, Eugene Debs and Charlie Chaplin. And of taking part in some of the most important strikes in the dramatic history of the IWW. And of his later career as head of the Laborers Union in San Francisco and later that union's representative for eleven western states. In the mid-1970s Joe asked me to record his life story. I later taped around four hours of his memoirs for the labor history archives at the University of California at Berkeley. Unfortunately I was unable to collect enough verbatim material for a full-length nonfiction book by the time Joe died at age eighty- one on May 18, 1987 (the 59th anniversary of Bill Haywood's death in Moscow). A few months after Joe died, another friend of his, Henry Anderson, asked me to collaborate on a semi-fictional book about Joe dramatizing the outstanding events of his life as a Wobbly. Later I decided to write my own book. The vast majority of the scenes are based upon events Joe participated in; a few are purely fictional. Joe Murphy's memory was much better than that of the average person, but not perfect. For example, he could not remember the exact year he met Helen Keller in Chicago, or the dates of some of the lesser- known events he described. But I have attempted to make these events as historically accurate as possible. Here it is. Eugene Nelson, Oakland, March 21, 1992 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Next to the late Joe Murphy, who spent hundreds of hours telling me of his experiences in the IWW, I am indebted, first of all, to Henry P. Anderson of Oakland, California. One of the chief promoters of the unionization of farmworkers in California, Henry contributed to me, gratis, valuable research material for an earlier novel of mine, Bracero, and sent me to see Cesar Chavez, with whose Farmworker Union I worked for two years, the most satisfying years of my life. Without Henry's urging me to write this book, collaboration on its early stages, and inspiration and help with the research, the book would not have been written. To Doris Murphy, wife and companion of a great man. To Willa Baum, head of the Regional Oral History Office of the University of California at Berkeley, who urged me to tape-record Joe Murphy's memoirs. To Judy Eda, for her excellent job of proofreading. To Liz Penniman, for her enthusiastic interest in the book and her superb painting for its cover. To Marisha Swart, for her creative and painstaking work on the cover design. To the late Herb Edwards (born Edvartsen) of Kvalosater, Norway and Seattle, Washington, whose own fine book about IWW organizing in the Northwest, Slowly We Learn, provided much valuable background information and inspiration. To the following persons, for reading the manuscript and/or giving me valuable suggestions: My daughter, Tamar Juana Nelson, RN; Jake Kenney, Charles Pusey, Carlos Cortez, Steve Lehmann, Larry Skoog, George Underwood, Barbara Atchison, and Mike Moriarty. To Tommy Zee, for much valuable background information on the merchant marine. To the staff of the IWW at its former headquarters in Chicago. To Thomas Featherstone, archivist at the Walter P. Reuther Library at Wayne State University in Detroit, for his friendly help providing historical photos for reproduction. To Edward C. Weber, head of the Labadie Collection of the University Library at the University of Michigan, for providing the photo of Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. To the researchers at the Bettmann Archive in New York, who supplied several photos of historical figures and settings reproduced here. Thanks also to the New York Times for permission to reproduce headlines and articles from their coverage of the 1922 national railway strike; and to University Microfilms International in Ann Arbor, Michigan, for supplying photocopies of several of those articles. And to the wonderful librarians of the public libraries in Springfield and Kansas City, Missouri; Pueblo, Colorado; the University of California at Berkeley; the library of the Historical Society of Oregon (in Portland); the Nevada State Museum and Historical Society (in Las Vegas); and the historical museum in Telluride, Colorado. I. BILL HAYWOOD'S BOY We stood under the bare light-bulb on the little back porch. I remember my mother's last words to me: "Your hair's so beautiful, Joe —just like a hayrick shot through with sunlight." I was trembling. "I love you, Ma," I said. "I'll write—as soon as I get to Harper." "Write but don't put your name on the envelope." "I won't, Ma." "And give my love to your brother Emmett." "I will, Ma." She was crying now. We were both crying. I gave her one last hug and was gone off through the darkness. "Be good to folks, Joe" —the wind flung her words after me. I went through the shadows across the low undulating fields, threading my way among little frame houses, wary of arousing dogs, taking a different route than usual far west of town to avoid the police. Off to the east I could see a scattering of late-night lights floating off toward downtown Springfield like fireflies with insomnia. I hefted my pack and went on through the darkness, starting at every sudden shadow, feeling my pulse race. The events of earlier in the evening were still screaming in my mind. I had been carrying dinner to my dad at the railyards. I was always wary because of the beatings I had gotten from the Catholic-baiting gangs. This time they caught me unawares, springing out into the darkness from behind an abandoned shed. "There he is! Let's get the dirty Mick!" "Hey, pope-bugger!" "Let's kill 'im this time!" "Let's cut off his pecker!" "Nigger-lovin' Cath'ic bas'ard!" I had already almost reached my full six foot four at age thirteen—but they were big too. They were all over me before I could turn and run. One of them ripped open the lunch pail and smashed my dad's dinner against my face. I was too scared to speak, or even to see who they were. Probably some of the KKK kids who had been tormenting me for years. I finally wrenched loose and tried to run up a little bank, but the damp grass was slippery and I slid back down toward them. They began beating me with their fists, all over my head and body. I squirmed loose again. I saw one of them pick up a big rock. I was terrified. I can't quite remember exactly what went through my mind or how it happened, but suddenly my pocket- knife was in my hand and its blade flipped open. "Kill 'im, Josh!" I heard one yell. And suddenly one of them seemed to be pushed or fell against me. I heard him gasp and realized my knife had gone into his stomach. He slumped to the ground at my feet like a sack of spuds. "Jesus," someone said. I didn't wait to see what the others might do next. Some ambiguous force seemed to propel me off through the darkness. I was so scared I couldn't even feel my feet and legs —I just seemed to be a disembodied head and beating heart rushing into the shadows. Now I seemed to see them again, rushing at me from behind every shadowy bush or tree. I was running hard through the low steamy woods now, for I'd heard the distant whistle of a perhaps already departing freight train back in the yards in Springfield a mile or two to the east.