Power, Community, and Racial Killing in East St. Louis

Power, Community, and Racial Killing in East St. Louis

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Power, Community, and Racial Killing in East St. Louis Malcolm McLaughlin

POWER, COMMUNITY, AND RACIAL KILLING IN EAST ST. LOUIS

© Malcolm McLaughlin, 2005. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. First published in 2005 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 1–4039–7078–5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McLaughlin, Malcolm, 1974– Power, community, and racial killing in East St. Louis / by Malcolm McLaughlin. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–7078–5 1. East Saint Louis (Ill.)—Race relations—History. 2. Race riots— Illinois—East Saint Louis—History. 3. Power (Social sciences)— Illinois—East Saint Louis—History. I. Title. F549.E2M37 2005 305.8⬘00977389—dc22

2005047594

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: November 2005 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

Contents

List of Tables

vii

Maps

ix

Acknowledgments

xiii

Introduction

1 Part I East St. Louis and Its World

1. East St. Louis Transformed: The Emergence of an Industrial City

7

2. The Structure of Power

29

3. Popular Culture, Race, and Violence

65

Part II

Race Riot

4. Race Riot: The Conjuncture

87

5. Anatomy of the Killing

125

6. “Hot Lead from the Race Quarters”: Black East St. Louis and Self-Defense

163

Conclusion

177

Epilogue: The Case for Reparations

183

Notes

193

Bibliography

269

Index

279

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Tables

1.1 Population in East St. Louis, 1870–1910 1.2 Nationalities of immigrants in East St. Louis, 1910 1.3 Parentage and nativity of whites in East St. Louis, 1900 and 1910 1.4 Composition of a sample meatpacking plant in East St. Louis, 1910, and comparison with Chicago 2.1 Assessed taxable values of select corporations in East St. Louis and in National City, Illinois, 1915

11 13 13 16 32

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East St. Louis

Nector Av. Gross Av.

Key city streets, neighborhoods, and industries, 1910s

25th St Landsdowne

Goose Hill 9th St

Brooklyn

1st St

10th St St Clair Av. (Whiskey Chute) Pennsylvania Av. Summit Av.

River front and railway yards

18th St St Clair Av.

Illinois Av. Cleveland Av. St Louis Av. Gaty Av. Missouri Av. Division Av. Broadway

Collinsville Av. City Hall

Downtown

Eads Bridge South End

(Streetcar depot)

(Aluminum Ore Co.) (U.S. Steel) Walnut Av. Brady Av. Virginia Park

River front and railway yards

Main St

Denverside

4th St

(Elliott Frog and Switch Works) N

S Free Bridge

Jones Park

17th St

3rd St

National City (stockyards)

Mississippi River

29th St

Free Bridge viaduct

McCasland Av. Bond Av. Market Av. Trendley Av. Piggott Av. Tudor Av. Baker Av. Boismenue Av.

Alta Sita

This is a schematic map of the key streets of East St. Louis and is not to scale. Certain angles have been straightened in order to simplify the plan, while retaining the correct relative position of the streets.

ix

x

East St. Louis Approximate areas of African American and immigrant neighborhoods, 1910s

Nector Av. Gross Av.

Largely African American neighborhoods Approximate area—increasing black settlement Approximate area—largely immigrant and some African American settlement

25th St

29pth St

Landsdowne

Goose Hill 17th St

Jones Park

Brooklyn

3rd St

National city (stockyards)

18th St 10th St St Clair Av.

1st St

Summit Av.

Collinsville Av.

River front and railway yards

Illinois Av. Missouri Av.

Eads Bridge

Broadway Walnut Av. River front and Main St railway yards

Alta Sita Bond Av.

Mississippi River Denverside Piggott Av.

N

S Free Bridge

Free Bridge viaduct

Boismenue Av.

East St. Louis

Nector Av. Gross Av.

Approximate areas of major riot damage, of general riot violence, and of African American homes and businesses remaining intact Areas where African American homes and business were razed by whites Areas of rioting and violence Goose Hill Areas of significant black settlement where

25th St 7th St

29th St

Landsdowne

homes and businesses remained intact 3rd St National City (stockyards)

Brooklyn

8th St 6th St

17th St

Jones Park

18th St

10th St St Clair Av.

1st St River front and railway yards

Summit Av. Collinsville Av. Illinois Av. St Louis Av. Missouri Av. Broadway

Eads Bridge

Walnut Av. River front and Main St 4th St railway yards Mississippi River N S

Free Bridge viaduct

Brady Av. Virginia Park

McCasland Av. Bond Av. Market Av. Trendley Av. Piggott Av. Tudor Av. Baker Av. Boismenue Av.

Alta Sita

Free Bridge

xi

xii

East St. Louis The Valley Saloon concentrations of the Valley and Whiskey Chute

9th St

Goose Hill

Brooklyn 3rd St

National City (stockyards)

10th St St Clair Av. (Whiskey Chute) Pennsylvania Av. 1st St

Summit Av.

River front and railway yards

Illinois Av.

St Louis Av. The Valley

Collinsville Av. Missouri Av. City Hall

Division Av.

Eads Bridge

Broadway Walnut Av. N

Main St

Mississippi River S

4th St

Acknowledgments

his book began as a Ph.D. thesis at the University of Essex. Over the past few years, I have been fortunate to receive much help, support, and assistance both in the United States of America and in Great Britain. To begin with, I thank the Arts and Humanities Research Board of the British Academy for their financial support during my studies at Essex University and for a grant that enabled me to conduct key elements of my research in America. And, my thanks are due to the editorial and production staff at Palgrave Macmillan, who have helped guide me through the process of seeing this work prepared for publication, and to the copyeditor and to the anonymous referees whose suggestions have improved the quality of this work. In the United States, I owe a large debt of gratitude to Dr. Andrew J. Theising, a political scientist with a keen interest in the past and present of East St. Louis. On my first research trip to America, Andrew offered me his hospitality, showed me around East St. Louis and the local area, and made available his collection of many publications, documents, and photographs, which now comprise the Theising Research Collection of the Bowen Archives at the Lovejoy Library of Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville. I benefited from the many conversations we had about the history of the city and also from the tremendous help and support he offered me with the practical aspects of my research trip to St. Louis. Staff at a number of libraries and archives assisted me with my research in the United States: in Illinois, the Chicago Historical Society Library, the Chicago Public Library, the Carter G. Woodson Library in south Chicago, the Lovejoy Library of Southern Illinois University, and the Belleville Public Library; in St. Louis, the Missouri State Historical Library, the city’s Public Library and the Thomas Jefferson Library at the University of Missouri; and, in Washington D.C., the Library of Congress. The staff at the Belleville County Courthouse kindly took the time to show me around their archives. I would also like to thank Connie Butts, who offered me much assistance at the Illinois State Historical Library in Springfield; and, at the National Archives in Maryland, the archivist Dr. Walter Hill, who

T

xiv

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

enthusiastically took the time to help me with an exhaustive trawl through the archives there. I was fortunate, though, to be able to do the largest part of my research at the Albert Sloman Library of the University of Essex. The library purchased extensive microfilm collections of archival material relating to the East St. Louis race riot and of the city’s daily newspaper. These rich sources formed the bulk of evidence consulted for this work. I would like to thank the Albert Sloman Library for supporting my work in this vital way. At Essex, I would also like to thank the members of the Department of History, for their support and for providing a stimulating environment in which to carry out my research. In particular, I thank Professor Hugh Brogan and Dr. Fiona Venn for their comments on my emerging work in the course of my research. I also thank Professor Rick Halpern, whose thought-provoking comments on my original doctoral thesis were much appreciated. And, especially, I would like to thank Dr. Mary Ellen Curtin, who has offered me many helpful comments on my work, suggested further readings, and posed questions that have encouraged me to develop important aspects of this study. Throughout the course of this work, I have benefited enormously from the advice of Dr. Jeremy Krikler. His insightful comments and suggestions have opened important avenues of investigation, alerted me to new perspectives on my work, and broadened my horizons as a historian. I have also been fortunate to benefit from Dr. Krikler’s work on the South African Rand Revolt of 1922, which has provided me with many fruitful points of comparison with my own study. He was an inspiring Ph.D. supervisor and I thank him for his support and encouragement over the course of the past few years and for the commitment he has shown me. Finally, I owe special thanks to my family and particularly my parents, for their constant support and encouragement throughout the course of my studies. Above all, I thank my partner, Sarah Griffiths, whose comments on my work have helped me answer some tricky questions and to develop my ideas, and whose support in every way has seen me through it all.

Introduction

We have sacrificed on the altar of prejudice and race hatred a quarter of a hundred men, women and children in the last orgy staged recently in East St Louis. It is not a story of the dark ages, when savagery was at its height, nor yet a review of the atrocities committed by the Belgians in their African colonies. It has to deal with a class heralded as the acme of twentieth century civilization, living not in Georgia, Texas nor any state below the Mason and Dixon line, but in Illinois, the home of the greatest of humanitarians, Abraham Lincoln. (Chicago Defender, 14 July 1917) “Get a nigger,” was the slogan, and it was varied by the recurrent cry, “Get another!” (St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917)

hey were killing all the Negroes they could find.” Henry Douglas was only nine years old when racist mobs broke out in a murderous rampage across East St. Louis, Illinois, but when interviewed by a local newspaper reporter seventy-five years later, he still vividly recalled the moment when white rioters descended upon his family’s home on Market Street. He could still picture his father warning his frightened family, as they hid in their home, that the police and the National Guard were out on the streets, but that they were not coming to help: they were with the whites, “helping kill people.” Henry’s father, a worker at the local Swift meatpacking plant, must have known when the mobs arrived that he had no choice but to fight back: “my father had a pistol,” Henry recalled and the last time Henry saw him, he was “shooting out the window.” He kept the whites at bay, but, hopelessly outnumbered, a bullet fired by one of the rioters struck his head: “he fell backwards, right by my bed.” Henry’s father died where he lay. Yet, by holding the rioters back, he had bought enough time: his family, at least, escaped with their lives, finding shelter with a local white physician whom they knew. They survived. Many decades later, at the century’s close, memories of that day continued to haunt Henry Douglas—the day that his hometown and family were

“T

2

POWER, COMMUNITY, AND RACIAL KILLING

consumed by a storm of racial violence. His story reveals one searing vision of a tragedy that engulfed an entire community. It is a horrific glimpse of one of the worst racial atrocities in American history: the East St. Louis race riot of 1917.1 Rioting broke out in the midwestern industrial city of East St. Louis, Illinois, on the morning of 2 July 1917, after months of seething racial hostility. Throughout the day, local whites in their hundreds swarmed through downtown streets, beating, shooting, and hanging black men, women, and children and setting their homes and businesses ablaze. With the local police department encouraging violence, and with the National Guardsmen who had been sent to the city on riot duty deserting their posts to join in the killing, the white mobs were unrestrained. Witnesses struggled to convey a sense of the savagery. Newspaper reporters wrote of a “Blood Orgy” and of “UTTER BRUTALITY,” in their headlines, comparing the killings to other contemporary horrors—the genocide of the Armenians in Turkey and the German army’s atrocities in Belgium. The city, in the grip of such violence, was a “wholesale slaughter house.”2 At the end of the day, dozens of black people had been killed. Official estimates placed the death toll at thirty-nine, but local reports spoke of a hundred or even more. Many deaths, it was said, were not recorded officially and some bodies had been thrown into the Mississippi River and been swept away, south. Countless African Americans were left injured, many grievously so, and thousands effectively became refugees, forced to flee their burning homes and seek sanctuary across the river in St. Louis, Missouri. Little surprise, then, that the terrible events of East St. Louis continue to ripple through American memory—the savage beatings, killings, and the burning of black neighborhoods appearing, for example, as a horrific, half-glimpsed cataclysm in Toni Morrison’s novel Jazz.3 This appalling event was amongst the worst of the many outbursts of urban racial violence that peppered the first decades of the twentieth century. Before East St. Louis, in Wilmington, North Carolina (1898), Atlanta, Georgia (1906), and Springfield, Illinois (1908)—to mention only three cases—whites had taken to the streets, beaten and murdered black people, and razed their homes and businesses to the ground. And, two years after East St. Louis, a succession of bloody race riots in Chicago, Washington, and twenty other cities, shook America during the “Red Summer” of 1919. A further two years later, in 1921, Tulsa, Oklahoma, erupted.4 East St. Louis, standing amidst these events, has recurring themes in the history of urban racial violence, North and South, woven through it. Here, there were local white resentments over the perceived erosion of customary racial segregation in the city—affecting neighborhoods and streetcars, for example. Such resentments were claimed as the “natural” response of a people living

INTRODUCTION

3

so close to the Mason–Dixon line. There were conflicts arising from the racist demagoguery of the Democratic Party and from a campaign of disfranchisement directed against black voters. There was moral panic concerning supposed black “criminality.” But, there were also conflicts arising in the industrial workplaces, the factories that dominated and defined the city physically, economically, and socially. Here, the white-dominated labor unions that failed to reach out successfully across the racial divide and unite black and white workers would find themselves at the heart of a racially inflected strike that would act as a lightening rod for local white hostility. Such industrial conflict formed a key context of the 1917 riot. Finally, there were urban territorial conflicts arising over competition for residential neighborhood space as a black ghetto took shape, expanding with the arrival of migrants from the South. Entangled with these issues were notions of citizenship: how white proletarians constructed their own identity with reference to race and a racially defined community of citizens, and how they reacted when that identity was destabilized. Thus, the causes of the East St. Louis race riot and the meaning of its distinctive character are to be found in the specific context of the city and within its communities. East St. Louis also raises the question of the imperative of self-defense. Here, as time and time again in other moments of urban racial violence, the black community was faced with the dilemma of how to respond to white aggression when it was being carried out with the collusion of law enforcement agencies. One answer was to fight back. Throughout this period, campaigners such as John Edward Bruce or—above all—Ida B. Wells voiced their support for armed self-defense, and this militant discourse of resistance would form a key context of the race riot of 1917: in East St. Louis, force would be met by force. Of course, this provided no easy answer. As Henry Douglas’s story shows, those who did fight back risked death at the hands of the mob. But, equally, as the ferocity of the East St. Louis race riot amply illustrates, the price of not fighting back was a certain death. Moreover, in Henry Douglas’s case, his father’s resistance kept the rioters at bay and gave his family time to escape. The East St Louis race riot highlights the stark choice that confronted black Americans so often in the first decades of the twentieth century. This book, then, is about the city of East St. Louis, its people, and the race riot of 1917. It explores the reasons why the local white community broke out in such savagery on 2 July, what bearing the character of the city had upon the riot, and how black East St. Louisans defended themselves and their community against the onslaught. In a large part, the work mines a rich seam of evidence left by a remarkable federal congressional Select Committee investigation. In late 1917, a panel of five Congressmen held

4

POWER, COMMUNITY, AND RACIAL KILLING

hearings in East St. Louis, calling dozens and dozens of local witnesses, whose testimony was recorded in thousands of pages. The investigation heard from people who had seen the killings on 2 July firsthand, and their vivid, often distressing, accounts illuminate the race riot in its naked brutality. But the Select Committee also probed the wider context, seeking insights into the causes of the riot: many witnesses described daily life in their city before the inquiry. Their words provide an opportunity for the historian to peer into the world of East St. Louis. This offers the chance to see the inner workings of the city, to explore the lives, conflicts, hopes, and fears of its people, and to lay bare the forces that would eventually collide in 1917, propelling East St. Louis into the race riot. It is, therefore, into East St. Louis and its world that we must go.

Part I

East St. Louis and Its World

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1

East St. Louis Transformed: The Emergence of an Industrial City

ast St. Louis began 1917, the year of the race riot, as a self-confident and optimistic industrial city. Its politicians, realtors, businessmen, and corporate managers anticipated a future of prosperity and growth and, indeed, they had grounds for optimism: over the course of a few decades, from the late nineteenth century, East St. Louis had grown from humble origins into one of America’s most dynamic industrial centers. It was a city shaped by its industrial development. Any visitor to East St. Louis during this period would have left in no doubt that this was a thriving city, one dedicated to— indeed, largely given over to—production: smokestacks dotted the horizon, factories stood next to and amongst workers’ neighborhoods, and railroad lines cut through the city’s streets, on their way to converge in a mass of warehousing that lined the river front. Industry shaped the experiences of the local men and women who worked and lived amongst the smoke, noise, and smells of the factories. This was a city of toilers, a community for which industrial employment was lifeblood. East St. Louis was not what most people would imagine as a pleasant place to live—but it was a place where thousands of workers moved in search of a job and a living. If we are to understand this city—a city that, in 1917, would find itself swept up in a cataclysm of racial violence—we must first understand the workings of its industrial heart, and the world its people inhabited. It is with the birth of industrial East St. Louis that we begin.

E

The Economic Transformation of East St. Louis East St. Louis lies on the east bank of the Mississippi River, in an area known as the American Bottoms, a once wooded, flood-prone plain

8

POWER, COMMUNITY, AND RACIAL KILLING

stretching approximately five miles east from the river to upland bluffs. Before 1804 this had been the border between American Illinois and the French (later Spanish) territory, which would become Missouri. The first European settlers on the Illinois side were French and German farmers.1 It was their need to cross the Mississippi to gain access to the trading post of St. Louis that encouraged the local landowner James Piggott to establish a rudimentary ferry at the crossing point in 1797. After Piggott’s death in 1799, Samuel Wiggins acquired the land: he continued operating the ferry, replacing it with a horse-drawn service in 1820, and a steam-powered one in 1828. It was around that ferry crossing that plots of land were divided and auctioned, eventually establishing Illinoistown in 1859—renamed, in 1861, East St. Louis.2 Although East St. Louis was known as a nationally important center of industrial production by the early twentieth century, there was relatively little industrial development in the city until the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Indeed, until the 1830s, production in the East St. Louis area was essentially agricultural. This was nevertheless important, as by 1841, twothird of food consumed in St. Louis was provided by farmers from the Illinoistown area.3 The river crossing at Illinois town continued to serve farmers on their way to St. Louis: it also became the terminal point for the town’s first railroad, when in 1836 six miles of rail track were laid, from the mine workings in the bluffs—at Pittsburgh, Illinois—to the Mississippi, specifically so that coal might be transported to St. Louis. Eventually East St. Louis would become one of the most important rail transfer points in the United States—a dozen lines converged there by 1882, and twenty-seven by the mid-1890s—but it was not until large-scale industrial production began to take place that the city took shape.4 Before the 1870s, a small meatpacking plant, two small soda factories, and a brewery were the only signs of industrial production of any sort in East St. Louis.5 The land around East St. Louis flooded often and badly whenever the Mississippi broke its banks, and apparently this had discouraged investment.6 Yet in the early 1870s—coinciding with an economic boom and an expansion of the market for dressed meat—a tract of land adjoining East St. Louis to the north was developed as an enclave for the meat industry. It contained stockyards, a hotel, and an office for brokers.7 There were tax incentives (National City—as the enclave was called—was officially autonomous and set its own business taxation rate at a low level) and the land there was cheap, which appears to have overcome any qualms producers may have had about the quality of land in East St. Louis or its proximity to flood waters.8 The first businesses to establish themselves there when the yards opened in 1873 were the small packing concerns, Richardson and Co., and

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

9

Kent Hutchinson and Co. They were joined by another packing company, Whittaker, in 1877. These businesses opened in East St. Louis as the meatpacking industry was entering a period of rapid transformation. Robert Tyson, writing in a local publication at the time, correctly predicted that the refrigeration car—which enabled meat to be transported over long distances, allowing access to larger markets—would “revolutionize” the meatpacking industry.9 However, while Tyson saw ambitious local concerns such as Richardson as the likely beneficiaries of such a “revolution,” in fact the benefits were felt mostly by the large corporations: Morris, Armour, and Swift. In the course of their national expansion, they opened plants in East St. Louis: Morris took over the Samuel Allerton plant in East St. Louis in 1889; in 1893, Swift bought the Whittaker plant; and in 1902, Armour began production in the city. East St. Louis was mirroring national developments: smaller local concerns emerged during these years—Meyer in 1897, Crescent and the East Side Packing Co. in 1907— but the large corporations came to dominate production. The growth of the stockyards was rapid. Cattle receipts increased steadily by sixty percent each decade from 1874 to 1904, but the most dramatic increases were felt after the opening of the Armour plant in 1902: receipts of hog—which had previously been expanding at ten percent each decade—increased by seventy percent between 1894 and 1904; receipts of sheep likewise increased dramatically, by 135 percent, more than doubling during this period of expansion.10 The expansion of the meatpacking industry in East St. Louis occurred concurrently with a wider industrial transformation in the city. Manufacturing and mineral processing industries were able to benefit from the local coal supplied by nearby mines, the plentiful water supplied by the river, the excellent rail network, and—perhaps of greatest importance— the cheap land. By 1875, a flour mill, which had been established in the 1850s, was joined by warehousing and storage companies, a lumber mill, a fertilizer plant, a small, local iron foundry, and an iron works manufacturing railway parts. By 1895, a number of iron and steel works had begun production in the city: Missouri Malleable Iron, the Freeman Wire and Iron Company, Western Forge Rolling Mills, and Tudor Iron Works established plants in East St. Louis during this period. This rapid expansion continued into the first years of the twentieth century, and large national corporations opened plants in the city—International Harvester, American Steel, Pittsburgh Reduction (the Aluminum Ore Company of America), as well as the meatpacking companies, Armour, Swift, and Morris. By 1907, East St. Louis was home to the meatpacking industry, iron and steel production, alumina refining, cottonseed oil refining, chemical works such as Empire Carbon and Carbonic Dioxide, railway industries,

10

POWER, COMMUNITY, AND RACIAL KILLING

glass works, and warehousing businesses. In about half a century, this region of “forest and prairie agricultural land” had become a thriving and growing industrial city.11

The Industrial Workers The rapid industrial growth of the city was matched by an equally dramatic growth in population, which increased five-fold between 1870 and 1900 before almost doubling again by 1910, as workers flocked to the new industrial plants. The workforce living locally grew from 12,000 to 27,000 between 1900 and 1910. Industrial workers, who were the largest single section of the city’s workforce in 1900, were the majority—sixty-three percent—by 1910. From roughly 5,400 of a workforce of 11,800 in 1900, industrial workers were 16,800 of a workforce of 26,700 by 1910, more than doubling in number during this period. Some of this expansion can be seen in the growth of particular occupations: there were, for example, fifty-seven steamfitters residing in East St. Louis in 1900, but 163 in 1910. The scale of industrial growth can be seen most dramatically across a single sector of production: census reports reveal a two- to three-fold increase in the number of metalworkers, for example, resident in East St. Louis over the period 1900–1910, despite the intervening depression of 1907.12 As the population of the East St. Louis expanded rapidly, the ethnic and racial composition of the city was also transformed. The black population of East St. Louis grew dramatically as African Americans from the southern states moved northward in search of industrial work. While the classic work on the East St. Louis race riot, Elliott Rudwick’s 1964 book Race Riot, focused on the critical period between 1915 and 1917, it is important to place that migration fully in its context.13 Migration to East St. Louis reflected a wider trend at this time, of the migration of African Americans from the south to northern industrial cities. In Chicago, for example, the black population increased from roughly 14,000 in 1890, to 30,000 in 1900, and to 44,000 in 1910.14 The growth in the actual number of black residents in East St. Louis, a far smaller city than Chicago, was on a smaller scale—rising from fewer than 800 in 1890 to almost 6,000 in 1910. But this was nevertheless a significant proportional change: indeed, while the African American population of Chicago increased three-fold between 1890 and 1910, that of East St. Louis increased eight-fold. More than doubling over each decade at this time, the growth of the black population was proportionally outpacing the general population growth of East St. Louis: blacks were five percent of the total population in 1890, but ten percent by 1910 (see table 1.1). And that growth continued through the 1910s,

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

11

Table 1.1 Population in East St. Louis, 1870–1910*

Year

Total population

1870 1880 1890 1900 1910 1915

5,644 9,185 15,169 29,655 58,547 72,105

Black population

% of total

Foreignborn population

% of total

100 513 772 1,813 5,882 7,910 (est.)

1.8 5.6 5.1 6.1 10.1 10.1

2,353 2,491 n/a 3,903 9,370 8,100 (est.)

41.7 27.1 n/a 13.2 16.0 11.2

* Statistics adapted from: United States Bureau of Census, 10th Census (1880), Reports, Vol. I, Statistics of the Population of the United States, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1883, pp. 417, 448, 505; United States Bureau of Census, 12th Census (1900), Reports, Vol. I, Census Reports, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1902, pp. 874–875, 882–883, 890–891, 898–899, 902–903; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. I, Population: General Reports and Analysis, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 285, 474, 658, 860–861, 1168; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. II, Reports by States with Statistics for Counties, Cities and Other Civil Divisions, Alabama-Montana, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 504–505. For 1915 population, see Statistical Abstract of the United States, 1915 (No. 38), Department of Commerce, Government Printing Office, Washington DC, 1916, p. 40. For 1915 estimates, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 165, 172.

spurred after 1914 by the wartime demand for labor. Young men, looking for industrial employment, composed a significant proportion of these new arrivals: African Americans composed between ten and fifteen percent of all East St. Louisans in 1917, but roughly twenty-five percent of young men aged between twenty-one and thirty years.15 East St. Louis also attracted a large number of European immigrants as its industry expanded during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Although the flow of immigrants to the city was outpaced by the growth in the native-born American population in the three decades after 1870, their numbers increased gradually over this period. Moreover, it is notable that after 1900, the immigrant population began to increase more rapidly: immigrants were becoming a larger proportion of the city’s total population as the flow of new immigrants to the city increased in pace before the outbreak of the First World War. Indeed, between 1900 and 1910, the immigrant population of East St. Louis more than doubled. As the opportunity for industrial work encouraged immigrants to East St. Louis, this had a significant effect on the demographic composition of the growing population: as was the case with African American migrants, the immigrants arriving in East St. Louis were largely young and also largely male. In 1910, men and women aged between twenty and forty-four years accounted for forty-five percent of the nativeborn white population, but sixty-five percent of the immigrant population.

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POWER, COMMUNITY, AND RACIAL KILLING

The ratio of men to women was far higher among immigrants: there were 110 native-born white men for every 100 native-born white women in East St. Louis in 1910, but 222 foreign-born men for every 100 foreign-born women. Thus, men aged between twenty and forty-four years composed seventeen percent of the total native white population of East St. Louis, but men of that age group were forty-eight percent of the immigrant population. By 1910, almost one in ten East St. Louisans was a young immigrant man.16 As the flow of immigrants to East St. Louis increased into the 1900s, the composition of the immigrant population became increasingly heterogeneous. The early population of East St. Louis had been composed of the “old immigrant” groups—German, Irish, Scots, Welsh and English immigrants—who together composed over eighty-five percent of the immigrant population of the county, as well as a smaller number of French, Swiss, Swedes, and Norwegians. From the late 1880s, the Irish American population of East St. Louis swelled with the arrival of Irish immigrant packinghouse workers moving on from Chicago and Omaha.17 However, by the turn of the century, “new immigrants” from a variety of different countries in central, southern, and eastern Europe were arriving, as Irish and German immigration declined and the earlier generation of immigrants settled and raised American-born children. Bohemians arrived after 1899, followed shortly after by Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, and Poles (the latter were generally included as Russians, Germans, or Austrians in census reports).18 By they early 1900s, the city’s steel and iron works—and those of nearby Granite City—were attracting Armenian, Turkish, Greek, Hungarian, and Bulgarian immigrants to East St. Louis. Those who failed to find work there entered the stockyards, replacing “old immigrant” workers over time, a process hastened when the defeat of a strike in 1904 forced the more established workers from the industry.19 By 1910, Russians, Hungarians, and Austrians (including Bohemians) between them composed over half of all immigrants in East St. Louis— around one-tenth of the total population of the city as a whole (see table 1.2). These nationalities had overtaken the Germans, Irish, and British, who now composed roughly only one-third of immigrants—or less than one-twentieth of the city as a whole. German, Irish, and British immigration declined in relation to the new immigrant groups, and the earlier generation of old immigrants raised a new generation of American-born children. Over time, then, these ethnic groups were becoming assimilated. The proportion of white East St. Louisans of native parentage increased between 1900 and 1910; at the same time, the proportion of native-born whites of immigrant parentage declined, from roughly one-third to less than onequarter of all whites (see table 1.3). By 1910, of American-born children who had at least one immigrant parent, over one-third either had parents

13 Table 1.2 Nationalities of immigrants in East St. Louis, 1910* Nationality German Irish British Canadian Other “old immigrant” Austrian Hungarian Russian Other “new immigrant” (including Greeks, and Turks) Other not specified

1910 population

% of all immigrants

% of East St. Louis population

1,427 998 423 193 314

15.2 10.7 4.5 2.0 3.4

2.4 1.7 0.7 0.3 0.5

1,672 1,807 1,690 680

17.8 19.3 18.0 7.3

2.9 3.1 2.9 1.2

166

1.8

0.3

* Statistics adapted from: United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. I, Population: General Reports and Analysis, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 860–861; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. II, Reports by States with Statistics for Counties, Cities and Other Civil Divisions, Alabama-Montana, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 504–505.

Table 1.3 1910*

Parentage and nativity of whites in East St. Louis, 1900 and

Native-born of native parents Native-born of immigrant parentage Native-born of mixed parentage Foreign-born Total whites

1900

% of whites

1910

% of whites

14,455

52

30,447

58

9,484

34

8,136

15

[x]

[x]

4,663

9

3,903 27,842

14 100

9,400 52,646

18 100

* Statistics adapted from: United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. II, Reports by States with Statistics for Counties, Cities and Other Civil Divisions, AlabamaMontana, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 504–505.

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of two different nationalities, or one immigrant parent and one Americanborn parent, indicating a significant tendency to assimilate. This process of assimilation was not even across all immigrant groups, but was more apparent among old immigrants, like the Germans and Irish. In 1900, thirty percent of German immigrant parents, and twenty-five percent of Irish immigrant parents with American-born children were married to a person of different nativity. In contrast, intermarriage was far lower for Austrians and Hungarians (roughly fifteen percent), and lower still among Russians (eight percent). These immigrants generally married within their own ethnic communities.20 The dramatic transformation of the population of the city was due to the arrival of immigrants and migrants seeking work, and the workplaces in which they found employment were likewise affected. The meatpacking industry provides one such example of these changes in East St. Louis. Irish workers were the first immigrants to arrive in the city in large numbers in order to find work, when, in 1889 and 1892, Armour and Swift both opened new plants in East St. Louis. Such was the extent of this movement that, by the early 1890s, Irish immigrants composed the majority of the meatpacking workforce in East St. Louis.21 They had an advantage in the labor market: by the time the Irish began arriving in East St. Louis they were already experienced meatpacking workers, having worked previously in the industry in other American cities. The Immigration Commission noted that many of these Irish workers had originally been employed at Armour’s and Swift’s plants in Chicago, Omaha, and Kansas City. Around the 1880s, Bohemian and Polish workers were beginning to replace the Irish in the unskilled occupations in stockyards in those cities, and this may have been a factor driving their move to East St. Louis.22 This being so, it would seem probable that, because the Irish had experience of working in America already and spoke English, they would have found it relatively easy to integrate rapidly into the native workforce. The Irish immigrants arriving in East St. Louis—having first worked in other meatpacking plants—were workers of a different character from those who filled the ranks of the unskilled in, for example, Chicago’s early stockyards. While the first Irish meatpacking workers in Chicago had to adjust from their previous pattern of rural life to industrial work, by 1880, according to Barrett, they had become “entrenched” in the industry: thus, from 1889, by the time Irish workers were moving to East St. Louis, they were already experienced, industrial workers, many of whom must have possessed skills.23 While Irish and German immigrants and native-born Americans may have dominated East St. Louis stockyards before 1900, by 1910 they composed approximately only half of the workforce—with native-born whites

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alone accounting for forty percent. As workers of other immigrant nationalities entered the packinghouses, they came to numerically dominate, although American-born whites (albeit most of them probably the descendants of the earlier generation of Irish and German immigrants) maintained a strong foothold in the industry. These native-born whites composed a far higher proportion of meatpacking workers in East St. Louis than in Chicago, where the workforce was more dramatically recomposed by fresh waves of immigrants.24 Nevertheless, in East St. Louis, immigrants were a far larger proportion of the meatpacking workers than they were of the general population: the packing plants still relied heavily on immigrant workers. In 1910, immigrants were only sixteen percent of the population of East St. Louis, but over forty percent of the meatpacking workers. Austrian, Hungarian, and Russian (including Polish) immigrants alone composed over one-quarter of the meatpacking workforce, although they were less than a tenth of the general population of the city. In contrast, Irish immigrants, while still employed in the stockyards, no longer seem to have a great connection with them: they were only two percent of meatpacking workers, corresponding roughly with the proportion of Irish immigrants in the city as a whole. As well as eastern European immigrant labor, the packing plants also drew heavily on black workers. African Americans, only ten percent of the population in 1910, were fourteen percent of meatpacking workers.25 Although important, the ethnic and racial composition of the meatpacking workforce reveals only part of the picture; it is also necessary to consider how this related to the different occupations within the packing plants. By 1917, it seems that American-born workers were still the largest single section of the meatpacking workforce in East St. Louis (see table 1.4). The native-born workers’ hold on the stockyards had slackened a little during the 1900s, after a strike defeat in 1904 allowed the packinghouse management the opportunity to push out those they saw as responsible for organizing the union: one local observer later recalled that, at that point, Poles, Hungarians, Greeks, Armenians, and Bulgarians began to “fill up the packinghouses.”26 But, it seems that the “old immigrants” and their American-born children—still forty percent of the workforce—monopolized skilled positions in the stockyards.27 This was partly because the employers discriminated in favor of native-born whites. Before the Select Committee investigating conditions in East St. Louis after the 1917 massacre, it was admitted by the manager of Armour in East St. Louis, Robert Conway, that “we give the white man preference when hiring our labor— [we] always have.”28 Other employers and workers in East St. Louis often had in mind specifically the Irish and Germans and the American-born children of the earlier generation of immigrants when they used the term

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Table 1.4 Composition of a sample meatpacking plant in East St. Louis, 1910, and comparison with Chicago* Number, East St. Louis White, American Black Polish Austrian (incl. Slovak, Bohemian, and Hungarian) German Croatian Irish Russian Lithuanian Other (incl. Greek and Armenian) Total

% East St. Louis

% Chicago stockyards

535 180 147 180

41.6 14 11.4 14

18.9 3.0 27.7 10.0

53 41 24 26 [x] 100

4 3 2 2 [x] 8

10.4 [x] 7.5 2.9 12.0 7.6

1,286

100

100

* Data adapted from Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 18–19. For comparison with Chicago, see Barrett, Work and Community, p. 39.

“white men,” and this was likely to have been Conway’s meaning as well. As a result of such discrimination, these old immigrants and American-born workers were most likely to occupy the skilled positions of steamfitter, millwright, beef-boner, and curer.29 Generally, it would appear that immigrants were given unskilled laboring work. And, when the packinghouses looked for a source of labor to replace the immigrants who had left at the outbreak of the war in Europe, they drew on black migrants, rather than native-born whites.30 It was at this point that black migrants began to replace European immigrants. It can be estimated that between 1910 and 1917 the proportion of southern and eastern European immigrant labor at the meatpacking plants decreased from roughly forty percent to twenty percent, while black labor increased over the same period from roughly fifteen percent to forty percent of the workforce.31 By 1917, Conway admitted, the “common labor is done by colored men,” and those workers were given the least desirable work in the plant: the fertilizer department, arguably the worst in the plant, was “all colored” by 1917.32 Black workers also dominated the “killing gangs,” a job that was unpleasant and bloody, and for which pay was not given during the many periods of “broken time” when workers waited for animals to be herded.33

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

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This occupational stratification occurred in the other industries throughout East St. Louis. At the Missouri Malleable Iron Company, American-born whites and established Irish and German immigrants occupied the most desirable positions, doing skilled and semi-skilled finishing, grinding, chipping, and trimming work.34 While Malleable Iron required a large unskilled workforce for “very exhausting,” and “very, very laborious work” in “hot temperatures,” the company’s management admitted during the Select Committee investigation that they did not hire “white labor”—Irish and German immigrants and their American-born children—to fill these positions.35 Instead they “depend[ed] on colored labor . . . and to some extent what is called ‘foreign labor.’ ” These workers, blacks and “new immigrants” each composed roughly one-third of the workforce. Armenians and Turks alone were about ten percent of the workforce, although the plant’s “foreign labor” apparently also included Poles, Hungarians, and Lithuanians.36 These workers were given jobs attending the furnaces, skimming the molten metal, and carrying the castings and hot slag in the castings department, where temperatures reached 120⬚ Fahrenheit.37 Some of the “new immigrant” workers—Poles in particular—were able to obtain molding work by 1917, but many remained in an insecure position. Apparently, it was common during the 1910s for these immigrant workers—Turkish workers in particular—to leave their jobs at the iron works in the spring, and join railroad camps, where they could work outdoors, away from the heat of the castings room and furnaces. As occurred in the packinghouses, vacancies left by departing immigrant workers were generally filled by the newly arriving black migrant workers.38 Similarly, at the Aluminum Ore Company, the established immigrant groups—the Irish-and German Americans—occupied the better positions. The superintendent at that plant, Charles Fox, stated that although American-born whites and Americanized “old immigrants” had done “the rougher work” when the plant opened in 1903, they soon “slipped into higher positions.”39 According to a union organizer, by 1916, “most of the operating department”—where the unskilled work with the ore was done— was composed of immigrants, specifically “Hungarians, Austrians, [recently arrived] Germans, Russians and . . . Poles.” In contrast, the construction department, of skilled millwrights, electricians, pipe fitters, and the like, was composed of native-born whites.40 These “new immigrants,” it should be stressed, were preferred over black workers by the Aluminum Ore Company. Indeed, blacks were almost entirely excluded from the Aluminum Ore plant before the outbreak of war in Europe: before 1916, there were only a dozen African Americans (and they worked as porters) in a workforce of roughly 2,000. Undoubtedly, the prejudice of the plant manager, Charles Fox, had something to do with this: Fox openly admitted that he

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preferred European immigrants, whom he considered to be “more ambitious” and generally “better workers.” This situation changed through the 1910s, as the supply of immigrant labor declined and some blacks were able to find employment in their place, although they were confined to unskilled work.41 * * * To sum up, then, as East St. Louis developed rapidly as an industrial city, it attracted tens of thousands of workers. The number of industrial workers residing in the city increased rapidly as new factories opened and others expanded production. The opportunities for industrial work attracted European immigrants and black migrants from the southern states, a large proportion of them young men. Both arrived in increasing numbers after 1890. Immigrants had composed a significant proportion of the city in the late 1800s, but the new wave of immigrants arriving at and after the turn of the century were from different backgrounds. While the earlier generation of immigrants had been drawn predominantly from western Europe— Germany, Ireland, Britain, and France—the new immigrants were mostly central, eastern, and southern Europeans, largely Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, Poles, Greeks, Turks, and Armenians. These immigrants found themselves in a labor market in which they occupied a low standing: German and Irish immigrants and the American-born descendants of the earlier generations of immigrants monopolized skilled occupations, and plant managers openly admitted that they gave preference to native-born whites. “New immigrants” found themselves in unskilled positions in the packinghouses and foundries in East St. Louis, in the bloody and poorly paid killing gangs, or doing the exhausting and hot furnace room work. A significant number of these immigrants—many Turks in particular—did not seek to hold on to such work permanently, but preferred to join a railroad camp in the spring, where they could work outside. Some central and eastern European immigrants were able to climb into better-paid work over time: by 1917 some of these immigrants—the Poles in particular—were working as molders. In this respect, the new immigrants held one advantage over the southern black migrants: African Americans remained consigned to the least well paid, least desirable occupations. Taking account of the ethnic composition of East St. Louis, it is clear that the workforce was not simply divided between white and black workers. Instead it can be seen that an earlier generation of immigrants and their American-born descendants occupied a more secure position in the labor market. The newer wave of immigrants, drawn largely from central, eastern, and southern Europe, was generally consigned to the least

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

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desirable occupations, working alongside African Americans. While some of them were beginning to move into skilled work during the 1910s, and while this indicates that they were not considered suitable only for unskilled work—as racial prejudice held was the case for black workers— progress into skilled occupations was by no means universal.

Civic Space and the Neighborhoods The industrial transformation of East St. Louis took place rapidly, but local civic planning lagged well behind economic growth. There was some civic development when the first industries began to arrive in East St. Louis. A library and reading room was built in “Italian renaissance style” in 1874, and gas lighting was instituted in the same year. Six schools—including one for African Americans—were established by 1875, although four of these were held in basements of local churches. By the end of the 1890s, four stone or brick school buildings had been erected, the original buildings downtown were being replaced by more modern structures, and even an opera house with its own conservatory was established.42 However, little thought was given to planning the streets at first: railway lines cut across the city in a chaotic pattern, even cutting through residential districts. Moreover, the development of streets or sewers lagged greatly behind the industrial development of the city. The streets of East St. Louis sat below the flood level of the Mississippi River, and while Mayor John Bowman had suggested raising the streets above flood level in the 1870s, and establishing a proper system of sewers, local property owners opposed the implementation of the plans because this would have involved extending the city’s debt.43 Thus, as the city grew through the 1880s and 1890s, its streets remained unpaved, below the flood line, and without sewers. Some attempts to raise the city above the flood line were made on an ad hoc basis by individual property owners: in the 1870s, one bank was built above the high water mark, but this meant that its entrance was fifteen feet above the level of the street. Although the idea of raising the streets to such a level was “recognized as proper and necessary” by the 1890s, too little work to achieve this had been done and the city was inundated during a flood in 1903.44 This spurred street improvements downtown, so that by 1907, a local chamber of commerce publication boasted that the city had forty miles of paved street and seventy miles of granitoid walks, and anticipated the complete replacement of the wooden board sidewalks that had served the business district until then.45 By 1910, funds had been obtained for large-scale improvements: East St. Louis looked forward to “protection [from floods], [to] sanitation and beautification,” with the

20

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construction of a levee, sewers, and the building of a system of pleasant boulevards.46 While civic improvements were made downtown—albeit slowly—the development of residential neighborhoods occurred erratically. An area of good quality homes was built east of 9th Street along Pennsylvania and Summit Avenues and became home to local politicians and businessmen.47 These homes were close to the downtown area, but during the early twentieth century, many middle-class East St. Louisans settled in suburbs to the east of the city. At the far southeastern end of the city, along Bond Avenue and Market Avenue past 26th Street, middle-class East St. Louisans made their homes at Alta Sita, which bordered Virginia Park. Here, brick and stone homes stood along “paved streets . . . lined with shade trees.” This was a “beautifully situated” suburb where a “refined, well-satisfied class of people” was said—by one local chamber of commerce publication— to reside. Similarly, Landsdowne Park, a suburb to the northeast of the city, was a “beautiful residence section,” with “a pleasure resort” comprising thirty-five acres of parkland, an “abundance of shade trees,” a lake, and “a beautiful grove.”48 These residential districts were not strictly the preserve of businessmen and professionals alone. Some skilled and semi-skilled workers and factory and railway foremen—overwhelmingly American-born whites—lived in or near these areas. For example, James R. Harris, a firefighter, and John Reynolds, a streetcar motorman, lived on 10th Street, just north of “Quality Hill”—although their homes were wooden frame dwellings rather than brick “mansions.” A number of workers clearly lived in the more pleasant suburbs. For example, John McConnell, an Aluminum Ore pipe fitter, George Ripley, a railway yardmaster, and Frank Clayton, an Aluminum Ore carpenter, lived in four-, five-, and six-room houses, respectively, in Alta Sita, although, again, they occupied frame dwellings. At the other side of the city, Hugh Kennedy, a renderer at a meatpacking plant, lived in the Landsdowne Park district, in a large eight-room house. Other workers—such as James Leuterman, a meatpacking foreman, W. R.Williams, a stockyard watchman, and Leon Dickens, a foundry worker— lived on the fringes of this suburb. Again, these workers occupied wooden frame buildings, rather than the fine brick residences of the middle-class residents—indeed, a Bureau of Labor Statistics survey of skilled workers and clerks indicated that fewer than five percent lived in brick homes. While their homes were far from spacious or luxurious, on the whole such workers enjoyed some of the better living conditions in East St. Louis. Three quarters of them lived in detached houses, generally with enough space for one bedroom for each family member (with a husband and wife sharing)

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

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and one day room. Although most rented, a quarter of those surveyed owned their homes, or had a mortgage on their home.49 Many workers were not so lucky, living in poor quality wooden dwellings clustering about the factories dotted around the city. Goose Hill, a neighborhood adjoining the stockyards, was a typical example of a workingclass neighborhood in the city. Here, unskilled workers, largely eastern European immigrants, lived in some of the poorest conditions in East St. Louis. This neighborhood was home to about thirty or forty percent of meatpacking workers, economically the least secure section of the city’s labor force.50 Originally, Goose Hill had been where Irish immigrants— also predominantly meatpacking workers at the time—settled at the end of the nineteenth century. The parish of the Sacred Heart, for example, was established by Irish immigrants in 1902 in Goose Hill, then called Illinois City.51 As some Irish workers left the packinghouses for other employment, and others climbed into the better paid skilled occupations, they left the areas of Goose Hill immediately adjoining the stockyards, and eastern European immigrants moved in.52 By the late 1910s, a great many skilled workers—American-born whites, meatpacking workers, as well as railway workers—also lived in wooden frame dwellings around this neighborhood, although they lived some distance from the stockyards. Those workers who earned higher wages tended to live on the eastern side of Goose Hill, where it bordered Landsdowne Park, or south of St. Clair Avenue, which formed Goose Hill’s southern border. Thus, for example, William Greeley, a steamfitter at the stockyards: John S. Shaw, an Aluminum Ore foreman, and B. J. O’Blennis, a railway engineer, all lived along Cleveland Avenue, south and east of Goose Hill.53 The unskilled workers of Goose Hill lived in wooden shacks, or poorly maintained two-story wooden frame constructions. Giving evidence during the hearings of the government’s labor arbitrator, Judge Alschuler, East St. Louis labor representative Earl W. Jimerson stated that such poor conditions existed “in practically all [working class] parts of town,” Goose Hill as well as the southern neighborhoods.54 These conditions were so bad that Jimerson was of the opinion that the houses there “should be torn out and something else put up instead.” If anything, he noted, South End was worse than Goose Hill.55 In many places, it was possible to see “weeds growing up every place” around these homes, but an untidy appearance was the least problem faced by residents: a witness to the Select Committee commented that, in working-class neighborhoods throughout the city, a great many homes had “no semblance of sanitation,” and were “not really fit for a horse” to live in.56 Local labor representative Alois Towers stated, “I don’t believe you will find another condition anywhere in the country, not even in south

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Chicago, that will compare with East St Louis for the shacks that exist as they do.”57 This is a serious claim indeed, for—as James Barrett’s work has indicated—conditions in that part of Chicago were truly appalling.58 Although the local Chamber of Commerce held that “housing conditions are fairly satisfactory,” a United States Housing Corporation field agent wrote in 1919 that to bring East St. Louis up to standard would be “the biggest work of its kind in the U.S.A” and would “practically mean . . . the rebuilding of East St. Louis.”59 Even by 1920, three years after the poor living conditions of East St. Louis had been brought to national attention in the wake of the massacre, over half of working-class homes in East St. Louis remained in violation of city sanitation ordinances and “many” remained without sewers.60 As well as being poorly constructed and maintained, the shacks of working-class East St. Louisans were poorly situated. As has been mentioned, the southern and eastern European immigrants’ homes at Goose Hill adjoined the stockyards: they were near the animal pens, slaughterhouses, fertilizer plant, and rendering works, and these must have been extremely noisy and odorous conditions in which to live. All of the workingclass neighborhoods were cut through by rail tracks. A surveyor in 1920 looking back on the development of East St. Louis noted: “rail roads have spread at random throughout the city’s area” without consideration for residents.61 While the downtown area had been raised above flood level by the 1900s, working-class neighborhoods were not developed in this way. Consequently, as one member of the Congressional Select Committee investigation noted, “pools of stagnant, slimy water” collected in the numerous abandoned or vacant lots besides workers’ homes.62 These neighborhoods, characterized by poor quality housing, were nevertheless the hearts of local communities. The southern and eastern European immigrants who settled there developed important community bonds and established institutions, such as the Tabor Nove Dody lodge, built in November 1901 by the Bohemian community. In all there were almost a dozen lodges established around Goose Hill by the Austrian Bohemians, Slovaks, and Poles before 1911. They provided an opportunity for immigrants to meet and hold celebrations according to traditional customs; and, as was the case with the Tabor Nove Dody or the St. Joseph lodge, they also enabled immigrant workers to organize life and sickness insurance. Thus, immigrants were able to create a system of support relating to both the social and productive spheres. The lodges also provided the opportunity for different ethnic communities to mix. National Hall, which was built in 1911, for example, was used jointly by the different immigrant communities of Goose Hill.63 And, in 1916, Bohemian Hall—which had originally been built in Goose Hill as a meeting place for Bohemian

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

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immigrants—became a center of interethnic union organization for meatpacking workers.64 Union organization itself could provide the chance for immigrants from different national backgrounds to come together: by 1916, eastern European immigrant meatpacking workers had formed a union and went out on strike. Although they shared no single common language, some workers acted as translators and—according to one witness appearing before the Select Committee—“they were able to form a sort of complete system of masonry between them[selves].” Furthermore, as that strike also involved American-born whites, it seems clear that by the mid-1910s these immigrants were not simply living in isolated ethnic communities.65 While many eastern European immigrants settled in Goose Hill, Armenian, Turkish, and Greek immigrants lived in a different part of the city, in neighborhoods to the east of downtown, between 10th and 19th Streets around Kansas and Division Avenues.66 Many Armenians, Turks, and Greeks were employed in local iron and steel works, and as well as working alongside each other, these immigrants also seem to have socialized together.67 To provide for their community, the Armenians opened coffee houses and restaurants around their neighborhood. They became known for being “not generally speaking—saloon men” and preferred to remain with other Armenians, gathering together to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes in their cafés.68 Their distance from the established white community of East St. Louis is apparent in the testimony of local journalist R. Baylan, who noted that Armenian immigrants remained “perfectly content to run their coffee houses” during 1917 and—unlike so many whites—they were not involved in the growing racial hostility prior to the July massacre.69 To the south of East St Louis, roughly between 10th and 21st Streets— west of Alta Sita—was the “new manufacturing addition” of Denverside.70 Here, in the early 1900s, large factories including the Missouri Malleable Iron Works, St Louis Locomotive Works, National Iron Works, St Louis Steam Forge and Iron Works, were located, alongside numerous railway lines.71 It was here that the African American district of the city grew as the black population increased, trebling between 1900 and 1910, then doubling again by 1917, and the old pattern of customary racial segregation came under pressure.72 While African Americans lived in different neighborhoods across the city, it was in the area of Denverside where a clearly discernable black community grew up and where the greatest expansion of black residential neighborhoods was evident during the 1910s.73 Here, as in Chicago’s Black Belt, was an area of black businesses, and the residences of middle-class black people, businessmen, and professionals as well as workers.74 Although Denverside was perceived as a black neighborhood, it is important to

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acknowledge that it was not settled exclusively by African Americans. Indeed, on Bond Avenue between 18th and 19th Streets—where the local African American politician and businessman Le Roy Bundy lived and had his automobile business—four of the homes were occupied by whites, while only three were occupied by blacks.75 However, although some whites lived in Denverside—and even composed the majority in certain streets— in many areas they were a small minority. On Market Avenue between 17th and 18th Streets, for example, black residents occupied all but one home. The more southerly streets—around 15th and 16th Streets and Boismenue—were described by Le Roy Bundy as “entirely colored.”76 During the 1910s, the black population of Denverside was expanding as whites moved out to other areas of the city. Walnut Street, a street running west from Denverside, past 10th Street, had once been a white preserve but, by 1917, it was described as “the real negro street.”77 The local real estate agent, Thomas Canavan, told the Select Committee that the “little homes” on Market Avenue, which had once been occupied by white workers, were occupied by African Americans by 1917.78 In many cases—such as Market Avenue—black people settled in patches of streets, rather than in their entirety. Market Avenue was approximately thirty blocks long: some blocks, around 19th Street, were said to be “thickly” settled by blacks, but at 8th and 9th Streets the residents were “mostly whites.”79 What does seem clear, however, is that during the period 1900–1917 black migrants had begun to settle in the southern neighborhoods that were previously exclusively white, and had even become predominant in certain blocks. Many of the homes in Denverside were poor quality wooden frame houses and tenements—like many of those found in Goose Hill. As black workers faced racial discrimination in the workplace and were generally confined to unskilled occupations, they could afford only the poorest quality housing. Moreover, it is also clear that racial discrimination played a role in excluding those blacks who could afford better quality homes from that housing: when one black doctor attempted to move to a street in the suburb of Landsdowne Park, occupied by whites, in 1917, the white residents petitioned to prevent him moving in.80 According to Dr. Lyman Bluitt, a prominent local African American physician with knowledge of the black neighborhoods of East St. Louis, “[al]most all the blacks” in the city lived in a “squalid condition.”81 Bluitt, who did not live in Denverside but in St. Louis Avenue, himself occupied a “shack” with two rooms: apparently the buildings on that street were very poorly maintained and Bluitt noted that not “ten dollars” worth of repair work had been carried out on them by the landlords in over fifteen years.82 Nearby, on Gatey Avenue, where many African Americans lived, some homes resembled “a sort of woodshed house.”83

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

25

The Working-Class Household Economy Amongst the working-class of East St. Louis, the (predominantly white) skilled and semi-skilled workers fared best in employment and in housing. Their relatively higher wages also afforded them a better standard of living. Although they were by no means well off, the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics survey reveals that the skilled and semi-skilled workers who lived in Alta Sita and Landsdowne Park, and around the bordering areas of those neighborhoods, enjoyed a relatively varied diet and were able to afford to pay for entertainment—perhaps as many as eighty percent were cinemagoers. Roughly a third owned a gramophone and bought records. A smaller number—perhaps ten percent—owned bicycles, and a few even owned automobiles. A number of these workers were able to afford to pay for laundry to be sent out, and a smaller number could pay for servants to do day work around their homes. While over half grew vegetables in their gardens or kept chickens, they were not dependent on this produce, although it undoubtedly enriched their diet. The median income of this group was between $1,300 and $1,400 per annum, and most—about seventy percent of those surveyed—managed to save some income: about a third saved the equivalent of five percent or less of their income; a small section—roughly a tenth of the workers surveyed—managed to save the equivalent of between ten and twenty percent of their income.84 Of course, this does not mean that these workers could be considered wealthy, for in the event of sickness, or the death of a child or spouse, such savings could be used up rapidly: they were hardly a secure safety net. And while most of these workers managed to save, a proportion of them, about fifteen percent, ended the year with a deficit of roughly ten percent of their annual income. It is important not to forget that these workers did not exist in a world that guaranteed them security, even if, while they were working, they could afford a relatively reasonable standard of living. Compared with those workers surveyed by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, the unskilled workers of East St. Louis occupied a very difficult position. By 1916 unskilled workers at the Aluminum Ore Company (who were mostly southern and eastern Europeans) were paid only $2.50 a day, for an eight-hour shift. If seven days were worked each week, throughout the year, such a worker would still be unable to earn more than $910: yet, in the winter months, such workers would be fortunate to work for twenty hours a week.85 By way of contrast, Charles Fox, superintendent at the Aluminum Ore Company was paid an annual salary of $5,700 in 1916, for a five-day week.86 Unskilled workers were usually employed on a casual basis and suffered extended periods of unemployment throughout the year. In 1916, for example, many unskilled ethnic immigrants, including

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Poles, Russians, and Hungarians, were simply laid-off because of seasonal fluctuations in demand.87 As skilled labor—which was composed predominantly of “old immigrants” and the American-born—received $4.25 a day and had less chance of being forced to work irregular hours, the weight of poverty wages was borne most by the southern and eastern European immigrants and African Americans.88 In other industries as well, irregular employment was a serious problem for less established workers. Commonly, those workers would have to queue outside the factory gates each day and hope to be chosen by the foreman for work. Many were disappointed daily. Local labor representative Alois Towers gave an idea of the desperation workers felt, when he described to the Select Committee how men could be seen in the mornings “begging and waiting for work” outside their prospective employers’ gates.89 The yearly wages for unskilled workers in most industries, as for those of the Aluminum Ore Company, were therefore generally very poor. The Missouri Malleable Iron Company paid unskilled workers (who were, it will be recalled, largely Armenians, Turks, and other eastern European immigrants by the late 1910s) $2.60 per day before 1917; the standard unskilled rate at the meatpacking plants was $2.75.90 As only fifteen percent of the workforce in East St. Louis was composed of women, it seems that few households could rely on more than one wage, unless they had a working child. However, of those working women, it would seem that the wives of the poorest immigrant packinghouse workers were a large part: the union representative Earl Jimerson claimed during arbitration hearings that “a big part of the wives work in the packinghouses along with the[ir] husbands.”91 Although housing was poor throughout the city, as a consequence of poor pay and seasonal unemployment, the poverty at Goose Hill in particular was appalling. Towers commented that workers from Goose Hill would arrive at work “illy clad,” unable to afford adequate clothing.92 According to Earl Jimerson, when visiting Goose Hill, it was possible to see barefooted children—the children of families too poor to buy them shoes. Such families, Jimerson noted, typically lived on a diet of bread, molasses, and coffee.93 These were conditions as poor as any to be found in America’s industrial cities.

Conclusion: East St. Louis Transformed In the last three decades of the nineteenth century, and continuing into the twentieth century, East St. Louis grew from a small agricultural town into a rapidly expanding industrial city. At first, meatpacking plants and, soon

EAST ST. LOUIS TRANSFORMED

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after, iron and steel, aluminum refining, chemical, glass, and many other industries began production in the city. By the beginning of the twentieth century, East St. Louis was a center of production of national significance, with national corporations located in the city. The factories attracted workers to East St. Louis and the expansion of the population—doubling each decade—mirrored the rapid industrial growth. Among the workers arriving in the city from the 1870s were large numbers of immigrants, and the city became increasingly diverse: the earlier generation of “old immigrants” from western Europe—Irish, German, and British—were joined at the turn of the century by immigrants from Austria, Hungary, Bohemia, Russia, and other eastern European countries. In the first years of the twentieth century, Greek, Turkish, and Armenian immigrants arrived. From the 1890s, black migrants from the southern states began arriving in East St. Louis—also looking for industrial work. Eastern and southern European immigrants arriving in East St. Louis at the turn of the century found themselves in a segmented labor market in which the earlier generation of immigrants, and their American-born children, had come to monopolize skilled occupations in local factories. Together with African Americans, who faced racial discrimination in the workplace, eastern and southern European immigrants found themselves confined to unskilled jobs. However, in an important respect, the immigrants found themselves in a more fortunate position than black workers: although not favored in the workplace, immigrants were able, eventually, to work their way into skilled occupations; for example, Polish immigrants ultimately moved from unskilled jobs in the local iron works into molding work. While black workers faced racial discrimination, they were unable to do likewise. Residential neighborhoods were also affected by immigration and migration and were recomposed over time. Workers generally lived in poor conditions, in poor quality housing close to factories. Goose Hill, adjoining the packinghouses, was one such neighborhood. This district had originally been settled by “old immigrants,” predominantly Irish. As that earlier generation of immigrants and their American-born children moved into skilled occupations or left the packinghouses for other work, they also moved away from Goose Hill. Some even moved to the borders of the pleasant middle-class suburbs of Alta Sita and Landsdowne Park. A new generation of workers—predominantly eastern European immigrants— now moved into the unskilled occupations in the stockyards that the earlier immigrants had vacated; they also moved into their predecessors’ former neighborhood. A different pattern of residential settlement occurred regarding African Americans. As the black population of East St. Louis increased, many

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African Americans moved into houses in Denverside in the south of the city. Here, streets that had once been occupied solely by whites gradually became occupied by blacks as well, and some became entirely occupied by African Americans, as white residents moved away. Yet, it is important to recognize that black migration to East St. Louis did not somehow disrupt a settled, homogeneous, white working-class community: rather, this chapter has suggested, repeated change and recomposition characterized white working-class East St. Louis during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The arrival of black migrants in the city from the 1890s—a trend that accelerated after 1910—was taking place within that context. This, then, was the economic context of workers’ lives in East St. Louis, the conditions in which they lived, and the economic forces to which they were subjected. These workers also faced an entrenched power structure, which is the focus of the following chapter.

2

The Structure of Power

s discussed in chapter 1, from the 1870s, East St. Louis was transformed by rapid industrialization, fuelling an explosion in its population. Known as an “industrial offshoot of St Louis” by the early twentieth century, the East St. Louis that emerged was a city largely defined by industrial production. In this sense, the city owed its existence to the large corporate employers who had built factories and plants there.1 As factories came to dominate the city physically, so the corporations who owned those factories became the dominant power in the city. This was not seen in a positive light by all. “East St Louis”, wrote Roger Baldwin, a former secretary to the St Louis Civic League in the wake of the 1917 race riot, “is probably the most finished example of corporation owned city government in the United States.” He argued that all these corporate interests demanded, “is a city government that will give them the privileges they want and then let them alone. The politicians and underworld can have the rest.”2 Indeed, as will be seen, East St. Louis was a city gripped by powerful capitalist interests—interests served by City Hall. Moreover, as Roger Baldwin observed, organized crime was allowed to take root in the city—in the Valley vice district downtown—and this constituted a violent presence at the heart of the city. As will be seen later, when the moment of the riot is considered, that presence would have a significant bearing on the trajectory of the violence of 1917. The corporations drew power from a sympathetic City Hall, but their dominance also rested upon its control of a weak working class, divided along racial lines. White workers sought to pursue interests that they felt to be separate from those of black workers even though this strengthened their employers’ hand. The reasons they did so will be considered here. In the productive sphere, in the wider urban environment, and in party politics, white workers sought to uphold their position in a structure of power in which they occupied a position of relative privilege compared

A

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with African Americans. By eschewing class solidarity in favor of an identity constructed around notions of whiteness, those white workers, who were dominated by corporations turned to seek dominance over African Americans. Thus, white workers’ sense of self-esteem partly relied upon accommodation with employers and the political establishment: this would have catastrophic consequences in 1917. However, it is to power in the productive sphere that attention now turns.

Corporate Power, Class, and Race East St. Louis was a city in which, as one Select Committee investigator suggested, workers found themselves “[h]elpless” in the face of powerful corporate employers.3 Corporations did not want “a class of labor that would demand a better standard of wage”; “they were interested only in [having] a floating population [of workers] and keeping them floating.”4 The weakness of the working class was exacerbated by a segmented labor market, in which—as was shown in the previous chapter—native-born whites monopolized skilled crafts and blacks were confined to unskilled occupations. Whites and blacks who both sought unskilled or semi-skilled employment found themselves “pitted against each other” in the labor market, rather than gaining strength through unity.5 Utterly at the mercy of their employers, many of these unskilled and semi-skilled workers lived “right at the back door of the poor house,” earning little when they did work, and with little security.6 Workers also found the productive process beyond their control, as scientific management techniques applied increasingly during the early twentieth century in East St. Louis as in the United States generally, reduced their autonomy.7 In East St. Louis, at the Aluminum Ore Company plant, for example—the largest factory in the city—workers felt a tightening of control and a sense of burdensome exploitation during an efficiency drive in the mid-1910s.8 The company employed—in the words of one local labor leader—“an efficiency man,” Raymond F. Rucker, to gather “all the information he could” about the running of the plant.9 On his recommendations, bonus pay was “regulated,” to the detriment of workers’ wages. But it was not just the loss of pay that rankled. New rules about time management were imposed. Established unofficial customs were overturned and workers were unable to resist. While previously, “nothing was said about it,” if they clocked on a little late, after Rucker arrived, “men were cautioned” for lateness. While workers had been allowed to tidy their workplace on company time at the end of their shift, Rucker forced workers to clock-off before they began clearing up. Similarly, on payday, workers had been allowed to queue to

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collect their wages on company time, but Rucker demanded that they clock-off first.10 The relationship between capital and labor was therefore a most unequal one. As will be seen when the moment of the massacre is considered, the eruption of racial violence in East St. Louis emerged out of a context of class conflict, in which powerful interests initiated a drive against labor organizations, largely composed of white workers. The corporations established and maintained their power in East St. Louis in the productive sphere and this had a bearing upon racial divisions within the working class. Corporations wielded their power to support their key interest: profit. Where possible, they removed themselves from all other concerns of the city. “[C]ivic pride,” one witness appearing before the Select Committee race riot investigation stated, “seems to be unheard of,” among the corporations operating in the city.11 Indeed, Congressman Raker, a member of the Select Committee, formed a similar opinion after interviewing Charles Fox, the superintendent of the Aluminum Ore Company and former president of the Chamber of Commerce: the sole concern of the Aluminum Ore Company, Raker concluded, was to “get the men in the plant to work and get the work, and then out again.”12 Fox was simply “trying to make all the money” he could, and took no interest in his workers, once their day’s work had ended.13 It was not only the Aluminum Ore Company that behaved in this way. Incorporation laws facilitated this abrogation of civic responsibility: when it first set up, the meatpacking industry had been able to incorporate the area in the vicinity of their factories as National City— a semi-autonomous enclave, composed almost entirely of production facilities, which nevertheless had a mayor and aldermen who were elected by corporate interests there, and empowered to “govern” the enclave. Located in that enclave of factories alone, officially separate from East St. Louis, the meatpacking industry had an excuse for avoiding involvement in their workers’ communities.14 Corporations thus used their power to detach themselves from the civic community from which they drew the resources and labor upon which production depended. Factories were corporations’ own self-contained fiefdoms. As one labor representative noted of National City: “it has been generally known for years that the fellow that don’t work in National City has no business there and it is best for him to stay away from there.”15 The extent to which local officials collaborated with the corporations in this abrogation of responsibility is clearly evident in the degree of corporation tax evasion. The meatpacking corporations of National City enjoyed a significant degree of control over their enclave: the tax assessor of National City was an employee of one of the meatpacking companies.16 His official assessment of the taxable value of Armour and Co. in East St. Louis was

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less than one-tenth of its true value.17 The other corporations who did not have the benefit of their own tax assessor nevertheless benefited from sympathetic officials who were—the Select Committee found—of the opinion that corporations were “in need of help” in evading taxation.18 One such official involved in the process of tax assessment, Judge Joseph Messick of East St. Louis, for example, was described as “one of the most influential and successful lobbyists and corporation servers in the whole state of Illinois.”19 As table 2.1 reveals, the sums involved in tax evasion were considerable. Taxation liability was determined by a three-stage assessment process: the city assessor made a first determination; the county assessor proposed amendments; and the County Board of Review would then approve the assessment, or make further amendments. Elliott Rudwick revealed this tax evasion in his work, although it is worth adding here the data for the St Louis Bridge Company that he did not include: it was undervalued by $1,000,000.20 As a result of the undervaluing, over the four years between 1913 and 1917, the St Louis Bridge Company had escaped paying $116,654 in taxation. Similarly, $69,952 and $45,148 had been lost in taxation revenue from the Aluminum Ore and Malleable Iron Companies respectively, over the same period.21

Table 2.1 Assessed taxable values of select corporations in East St. Louis and in National City, Illinois, 1915*

Company Aluminum Ore Co. Malleable Iron Co. St Louis Bridge Co.

Company Armour and Co.

City assessor Michael O’Day’s first assessment

County assessor Fred Warning’s amendment

County Board’s final revision

$699,990 $465,000 $3,500,000

$799,990 $519,000 [x]

$200,010 $132,000 $2,500,000

National City assessor’s first assessment

County assessor Fred Warning’s amendment

County Board’s final revision

$40,019

$420,057

$55,100

* All figures are taken from the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3798–3800 and 3807 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 828–830 and 837, UPA microfilm collection). Anderson’s figures are authoritative: he was a seasoned investigative reporter and had investigated these East St. Louis tax assessments thoroughly for his newspaper; Anderson had copied the figures directly from official papers. See also the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3797–3807 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 827–837, UPA microfilm collection). For Rudwick’s rendering of the figures, which exclude the St Louis Bridge Company, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 192–194.

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While employers were able to avoid making any contribution to the civic welfare of East St. Louis, City Hall put itself at the disposal of corporations, eager to encourage their favor and investment. The meatpacking companies based in National City, for example, did not contribute to the upkeep of the fire service, but they “had no hesitation about calling East St Louis hose companies,” if their factories were threatened by fire.22 City government was “disposed to be generous with corporations,” being “composed of broad-minded business men who are always ready to facilitate” industrial development.23 The local Commercial Club bragged that “the [city] council have made and are making many concessions to our numerous industries.”24 Indeed, for as well as helping established corporations illegally evade taxation, local government allowed new companies setting up in the city exemption “from city taxes and teaming license[s] for a term of years commensurate with the magnitude of the enterprise.” At the same time, these companies were encouraged to take advantage of the city’s ready supply of “superior steam coal,” its “superior” supply of filtered water, “reliable and prompt” freight service, and “low price” factory sites. Moreover, in addition to these readily exploitable raw materials and services, there was an “abundance and cheapness of skilled and unskilled labor, both male and female, freed from the danger of strikes.”25 It was, in short, a city that was put at the disposal of capital, from which little in return was demanded. With such promising conditions for profit making, employers were reluctant to allow organized labor to influence the productive process. The threat of union organization, or strike action, could draw a hostile and sometimes violent response: before the Select Committee, one local union representative recalled a case in which a worker at the Malleable Iron Company had been physically beaten by his supervisor when it became known that he wished to join a union. The supervisor then coerced the worker into signing an agreement not to press charges for the attack, by threatening to dismiss the worker’s sister—also an employee of the company.26 In 1916, John Paton, the East St. Louis manager of Morris and Co., only grudgingly negotiated with his striking workers after first publicly vowing that “[t]here will be no union in this plant.”27 Just how far it was believed Paton and other meatpackers would go to crush organized labor is indicated by the rumor, which circulated at the time of the strike, that “guns were given promiscuously among the strikebreakers” by the meatpacking employers.28 Whether accurate or not, the circulation of such a rumor indicates workers’ fears that employers were willing to use violence against them. Yet, there was no question that the local authorities would censure the employers. Indeed, the police department proved itself lax in investigating attacks on union members. During the 1916–1917

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Aluminum Ore Company strike, for example, two armed company foremen, Joe and Louis Freisz, attacked a union meeting, beating strike organizer Mark Williams: although this attack was reported to the police, no action was ever taken against the Freisz brothers, or their employers.29 However, employers’ power did not rest on coercion and political support alone, but also on a weak and divided working class. As discussed earlier, in East St. Louis, native-born white workers monopolized the skilled trades, while at the same time other whites working in semi-skilled and unskilled occupations could aspire to climb the occupational ladder and enter skilled occupations eventually. By the early 1900s and 1910s, established “old immigrant” groups—largely the “Americanized” Irish, German, and British and their American-born children—mostly occupied these skilled positions. At the same time, the most recently arrived “new immigrants”—Poles, Hungarians, Armenians, and Turks, for example—often worked in the least desirable and insecure unskilled occupations. But the position of immigrants was a transitional one: as had the Americanized “old immigrants,” “new immigrants” eventually “slipped into higher positions.”30 For example, as was noted in the previous chapter, Polish immigrants had generally been given arduous unskilled furnace room work in the early 1900s, but some had obtained better molding work at the Missouri Malleable Iron plant by 1917. Yet, African Americans comprised a permanent class of unskilled labor. In racial discrimination, African Americans, unlike immigrants, faced a permanent barrier to climbing the occupational ladder. Racism underpinned this segmented labor market, and—as will be seen—created a breach in the working class. As Rick Halpern has commented on the meatpacking labor market in Chicago, such segmentation was of great benefit to employers: “[t]hey tapped one market for skilled labor and another, larger one for the remainder of their requirements. A third pool of workers, consisting of African Americans, was held in reserve,” and could be employed temporarily during a strike or unexpected period of high demand. Second, this segmented market “produced a fragmented workforce unable to challenge the packers’ authority effectively.”31 In East St. Louis, not only did this weaken the working class as a whole, but it perpetuated the racial divisions that provided a fertile ground for racial violence.32 Employers encouraged racial discrimination and were happy to meet white workers’ expectations that they would have better employment opportunities than those given to African Americans. The East St. Louis manager of Armour and Co., Robert Conway, freely admitted before the Select Committee that “we give the white man preference when hiring our labor—[we] always have.”33 Similarly, according to Edward Mason, the secretary of the Central Trades and Labor Union, the plant superintendent

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of Aluminum Ore, Charles Fox, employed only white skilled labor, but stated that “he [Fox] would rather hire colored men than white men” in unskilled laboring positions.34 At Missouri Malleable Iron, too, there was discrimination of this sort, although the president of that company used the slightly spurious justification that it was “difficult to get a white man” to do unskilled labor.35 Whether by such means, or by more active discrimination, the actions of employers in East St. Louis helped ensure that whites dominated the skilled crafts and more desirable occupations. And, in social spaces within factories, black and white workers remained separate. At the American Steel, Malleable Iron, the meatpacking plants Morris and Co. and Armour and Co., for example, segregated washrooms, dressing rooms, and canteens were provided.36 Without social contact in the factory, it would have been difficult for blacks and whites—who did not mix socially outside of work—to form a sense of their common interest. While managers’ willingness to discriminate against African Americans perpetuated the segmented labor market, the craft union system was also to blame. Dominated by skilled whites, the local American Federation of Labor largely (AFL) excluded (predominantly unskilled) African American workers.37 Local labor leaders estimated in 1917 that roughly 8,000 skilled workers were union members, compared to fewer than “two or three hundred” of the more numerous unskilled workers.38 AFL leaders were complacently content to protect their own interests, recognizing that such divisions were problematic, but failing to foster links between black and white workers. Before the Select Committee, in the wake of the 1917 race riot, local labor representative Alois Towers reasoned retrospectively that racial hostility would have been less likely to take root had black and white workers all been union members: racial hostility grew from a “a failure of meeting fully on that common ground” which would arise “by virtue of understanding the employment and working together.” It was this “common ground” that the AFL failed to establish among blacks and whites in East St. Louis, as it had so often failed nationally.39 Instead of effective campaigns to recruit black workers, the AFL offered weak excuses, largely implying that black workers lacked commitment. Thus, after the race riot, union leaders in East St. Louis complained that they had “repeatedly tried to get the colored man together,” but they met with failure “for some reason or other.” Some union organizers claimed that they had been persistent in seeking to recruit African Americans; although whether merely having “repeatedly told them [black workers] . . . [that] there shall be no discrimination” in the union was ever likely to be a successful strategy is uncertain.40 Generally, labor organizers seemed resigned to their “very poor” results. Their attitude to further organization of black workers—that “the doors are open” for black workers who wanted to join,“if they want” to come in—was

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hardly dynamic.41 Indeed, in claiming that they had made as much effort to organize black workers as white, the union organizers seem to reveal a general failure to grasp that they might have needed to make more effort to recruit black workers than whites into their white-dominated union.42 The feebleness of such efforts in East St. Louis is highlighted by the energetic and committed organization drive of the Stockyards Labor Council (SLC) in Chicago in the late 1910s. It is worth contrasting the AFL of East St. Louis with the approach of the SLC, for in Chicago, this organization managed to make progress in uniting black and white workers, which mitigated racism. Formed in 1917 by radical syndicalists William Z. Foster and Jack Johnstone and John Fitzpatrick of the progressive Chicago Federation of Labor, the SLC set about “encouraging new, inclusive forms of organization,” and consciously sought to recruit African American workers.43 They did not face conditions any easier than those of East St. Louis. They had to deal with craft unions that openly discriminated against African Americans: for example, the Machinists, who barred membership to all but “white, free born male citizens.” The craft structure also presented a problem as it created a division between skilled and unskilled members, which the SLC’s compromise affiliated structure could not fully bridge. They also had difficulty in facilitating the integration of black workers into the union on equal terms with whites: at first, black workers who joined the general Amalgamated Meat Cutters Union (which did not discriminate) found themselves unhappily in a small minority; when the SLC proposed separate black locals, the union became vulnerable to accusations of encouraging segregation and, when it eventually decided to organize union locals at the community level, it reflected neighborhood segregation. Moreover, as Rick Halpern has indicated, black unionists often also faced opposition from their own communities, which were suspicious of the largely white-dominated labor unions.44 Despite these difficulties, the SLC had some success in organizing both blacks and whites in Chicago. Although segregation was not eradicated in all workplaces, in the larger plants, such as Wilson and Co., there was some impressive progress.45 In the most successful cases, white members “frequently elected black stewards,” strong shop-floor organizations encouraged the fair treatment of black workers, and the SLC “vigorously followed up complaints of racial discrimination.”46 The SLC made a conscious effort to reach out to black workers, employed black union organizers, and union members made an effort to engage with black community leaders. Moreover, the SLC promoted “interracial social contact” outside the workplace: it held “a number of meetings and parades” through 1918 in an effort to bring workers together. They held an interracial ball, picnics, and other events, and, in 1919, planned an interracial “giant stockyards

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celebration.” Black and white workers, prevented by their employers from marching together, nevertheless gathered together after segregated marches: Jack Johnstone was able to praise the “checkerboard crowd” of blacks and whites assembled before him during his speech to the workers.47 The campaign had some success, although the organization was dealt a serious— indeed fatal—blow by the eruption of the race riot in Chicago in 1919, which “drove a wedge” between the black and white communities.48 Yet, during the riot, the SLC worked to preserve order among its members, circulating calls for calm among whites,“holding mass interracial meetings,” and organizing relief for black families who had been caught up in the violence. It is a mark of the success of the SLC—both before and during the riot—that its members were generally not involved in the widespread violence of that summer.49 Thus, the SLC made significant progress toward eroding racial divisions, and their campaign succeeded in helping to prevent white stockyard workers from becoming involved in the 1919 race riot. The approach of the East St. Louis labor leaders entirely lacked this radicalism and imagination. The Molders’ organization campaign in Metropolis, Illinois, in which East St. Louis labor representative Alois Towers was involved, provides an insight into the contrasting approach of these AFL officials. Speaking to the workers, the AFL insisted that they were only interested in offering equal protection at work:“after the meeting, your social affairs are your own”; the union offered “no social functions connected with the organization” and it encouraged “no requirement of social equality.”50 The complacency of the local Central Trades and Labor Union—responsible for bringing the various AFL organizations together—is also evident in their attitude toward the black workers of the Cotton Seed Oil Company. These workers had organized a union and staged a strike at their plant, but the AFL leaders of East St. Louis had taken no interest because—according to one such union representative, Harry Kerr—the factory was located just outside the city limits, and was therefore none of their concern. Yet, they did not apply the same logic to white workers at the meatpacking plants, just outside the official city limits in National City.51 It is unclear how, without an active campaign, white AFL leaders envisaged black and white workers “meeting fully on . . . common ground.” Their more urgent efforts to forge links between the unions and the black community after the first May riot—in a desperate attempt to turn back the tide of growing racial hostility—were admirable, but lamentably too little, too late.52 The local AFL leadership thus failed effectively to challenge racial divisions within the working class. Moreover, it seems that they were content to protect their members’ position in the labor market at the expense of black labor. It is perhaps telling that, in explaining why the AFL was not

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responsible for the 1917 race riot, Alois Towers noted that “very few” black workers were likely to threaten white members of the AFL: “[f]ew Negroes were put in their line of work, so there couldn’t have been a great feeling of organized labor against the Negro.”53 Had black workers been given skilled work, the implication seems to be, then they would have been seen by Towers as a threat to the security of his members. Likewise, another labor leader noted that, while working at the Aluminum Ore plant he “didn’t have any colored men competing” with him.54 Again, black labor was seen in terms of competition. These skilled white workers, occupying a relatively secure position, took a self-interested attitude. They were generally unionized and had a good bargaining position.55 One local labor representative noted that members of labor organizations, which were composed “mostly [of] the crafts,” were “able to take care of themselves” in dealings with their employers.56 With defensive and conservative attitudes such as these, it is perhaps unsurprising that their efforts to organize black workers—seen as potential competitors unless confined to unskilled work—lacked vigor. But such attitudes were not confined to the craft unions. While blacks remained permanently confined to unskilled work, then unskilled whites, including immigrant Europeans, could look forward to “slipp[ing] into higher positions” eventually.57 In the short run, many whites had to take unskilled or semi-skilled work, but in this there was a chauvinistic assumption— shared by unskilled and semi-skilled whites—that whites were somehow “more entitled” to jobs than were blacks.58 There was a sense among the white workforce that jobs in East St. Louis—in the words of one local worker—“belonged to the white man.”59 They complained of meatpacking employers choosing black workers over “competent [white] butchers”—as if the white workers should have received preference. Complaints at the Aluminum Ore plant that the manager “would rather hire colored men than white men” were repeated by whites in other factories.60 Rather than seeing a common interest with black workers, whites turned to notions of race to justify their demands for preferential treatment in the labor market. Thus, white workers emphasized their supposed difference from black workers. Whites claimed that they had to sustain a higher standard of living than blacks: they claimed that “[i]t don’t require as much for a negro to exist as it does for a white man.” Such notions legitimized the confinement of black workers to the least secure occupations: it was socially permissible, whites claimed, for an African American to “work three or four days a week and live in a shack and let his wife . . . run around and help him make a living”; or even for him to receive charity. In contrast, a white worker was expected, it was claimed, to provide for his wife and to “raise his kids right and decent.” The notion that whites were somehow compelled to strive to meet this higher “American standard of living” at

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once encouraged whites to eschew class solidarity with blacks in order to meet the so-called demands of whiteness, and to justify white claims to better and more secure occupations.61 Ironically, this claim to the benefits of whiteness in the labor market would prove increasingly problematic during the 1910s. As African American migration continued through the early 1900s and the black population quadrupled between 1900 and 1915, the need to organize black workers became more urgent but was ignored. The resulting structural weaknesses of white labor’s bargaining position meant that black workers arriving in the city could be seen as a threat to the interests of (whitedominated) organized labor. As Rudwick discovered, black migration had contributed to an oversupply of the labor market by 1917, although many migrants would not stay in the city if there was no work available: they had not come to settle in the city, so much as look for work.62 Rudwick was undoubtedly correct that “[i]n order to impress whites that they [white unskilled workers] were not indispensable, the employers of large industries threatened to use this reservoir of Negro labor” to ensure the quiescence of those unskilled whites.63 Indeed, in the opinion of one local labor representative speaking in 1917, the availability of a large pool of black workers could be used by employers as “a challenge to the unorganized [whites] to keep quiet and stay on their jobs.”64 This revealed the weakness of organized labor, but instead of considering how to improve their position by including African Americans in their unions, labor leaders instead complained about black migration and accused blacks of “threatening the existing standards of labor” by bargaining down wages.65 Such fears could be easily exploited by employers. Able to exploit the racial divisions which their own employment policies perpetuated, employers could demoralize white workers and draw upon a pool of nonunion black labor to work as strikebreakers. During the 1916 meatpacking strike, for example, a rumor emerged that the employers had arranged for “fifteen hundred negroes to be shipped [to East St. Louis] . . . in order to break the strike.”66 The rumor proved to be unfounded, but the wide currency it gained indicates how sensitive white strikers were to the possible employment of black strikebreakers. Yet, it is notable that in the ongoing Machinists dispute of 1911–1915, when the union was eventually broken, only one-third of the strikebreakers employed were African Americans.67 Similarly, in two key strikes of 1916, at the stockyards and on the streetcar railway, African Americans composed only a portion of the strikebreakers employed.68 In fact, it was not just the fear of being replaced by strikebreakers that frightened white workers, it was, rather, the fear of being replaced by African Americans. In the 1916 meatpacking strike, for example, although the employers eventually conceded to the unions and

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allowed the strike organizers to return to work they soon began to use—in the words of one AFL leader—“the old tactics”: they “fired . . . the man that attended union meetings, and put a negro in his place.”69 Not only were employers replacing white union workers with black nonunion labor, but they specifically placed those black workers in the same job once occupied by the white union members. White workers, once favored in the labor market, could, if they became involved in the union, appear to be cast out of their position of privilege and swap places with African Americans. The reaction of white workers could be hostile and widen existing racial divisions: after the 1916 meatpacking strikes, whites complained that employers “encourage the negro by discriminating against the whites.”70 The psychological aspect of this should not be lost, for whites’ fear of being replaced in the workplace by black migrants implied more than an economic threat: whites could feel that their very place in the community— their status in the labor market as well as the “American standard of living” that they pursued—was in jeopardy. And, while the white-dominated AFL lacked any strategy for organizing black workers, the strategy of utilizing black workers remained open to employers who were willing cynically to manipulate racial divisions. As we shall see, such cynical manipulation also marked party politics.

Party Politics In the aftermath of the race riot, many were quick to draw a connection between city politics and the outbreak of racial violence. Rather than looking at party politics, however, political corruption was seen as the key cause. Specifically, according to one local newspaper reporting in 1918 on the findings of the congressional investigation into the violence, the massacre was “due to a corrupt political system . . . which permeated the entire fabric of the [city’s] community.”71 Similarly, according to a local pastor and social campaigner, George Allison, violence had erupted because the “worst kind of political shysters were in control” of the city.72 Such assessments were made in the wake of the racial violence but, in his 1964 work, Elliott Rudwick also argued that misgovernment had “corrupted the police, municipal judges and juries.” “[T]he July riot,” Rudwick argued, “could not have occurred if people had believed there was law instead of ‘rotten’ politics in East St Louis.”73 Yet, it does not necessarily follow that corruption in the municipal government would lead to an outbreak of racial violence. Indeed, it will be suggested here that—apart from in one key respect—City Hall corruption had far less significant a bearing on the 1917 riot than the structure of political power.

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With justification, Elliott Rudwick suggested corruption was a “political tradition” in East St. Louis. The nefarious regimes of the city’s early history—during the 1880s—had falsified official documents, misappropriated and embezzled city funds, and even burned down City Hall and dynamited city vaults to cover evidence of their crimes.74 Similarly, the Republican-dominated administration of Charles S. Lambert (1911–1913) was marked by corruption. At the end of the Lambert administration, a preliminary audit revealed that the “chaotic” state of the accounts of William Rodenberger, City Comptroller, was obscuring the embezzlement of public funds.75 Although Rodenburger was ordered to relinquish the treasury’s account books, he refused and later claimed that burglars— presumably with a penchant for accountancy—had broken into his vault and stolen the account books for which he was responsible, including records of every bond transaction since 1906, and ledgers containing a record of all invoices and receipts for the previous five years. Rodenburger had clearly destroyed the evidence of his wrongdoing. At the same time, Lambert’s City Treasurer, Fred Gerold, had embezzled $50,000 of public funds during his term of office.76 It was this tradition that the Democratic-dominated administration of Fred W. Mollman followed during 1915–1919. Mollman’s close Democratic ally, G. Locke Tarlton, used his position on the Levee Board—a powerful committee with large funds at its disposal for the redevelopment of the riverfront—in order to bolster his political position and to profit illicitly from real estate transactions. For example, together with two associates, Thomas Canavan and city attorney Jerry Sullivan, Tarlton bought worthless submerged land under the shallow Horseshoe Lake, to the north of the city, before using Levee Board funds to drain the lake, “underwriting other improvements such as the construction of canals.” This increased the value of their recently acquired—and hitherto “practically worthless”—land immeasurably.77 Such corruption surely reflects these officials’ lack of scruple, although in being controlled by politicians willing to abuse their influence for personal gain, East St. Louis was hardly unique.78 However, apart from contributing to the general atmosphere of civic irresponsibility, it is unclear how precisely corruption related directly to the outbreak of racial violence in 1917. That is, except in one specific sense: Locke Tarlton also used his influence in City Hall to protect illegal gambling parlors, saloons, and brothels, which paid high rents to his real estate business. Managers of these illegal establishments paid Tarlton tribute to receive his protection, which he then used to fund political campaigns and to consolidate his position in office.79 This allowed organized crime to root itself in the city, something that is examined in more detail later. And, as is seen in later chapters, this harboring of organized crime in the city would have a

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significant impact on the extremity of the violence of the 1917 race riot. However, here, further consideration of the political establishment of East St. Louis is required. As well as being known for financial impropriety, city officials of East St. Louis were infamous for their lack of principle. In his work, Elliott Rudwick argued that City Hall was controlled by political “bosses,” whose self-interest came above the interests of city or even national party political affiliation. Regardless of party affiliation, “Republican and Democratic leaders . . . unite[d] behind certain candidates, with the victors rewarding [their] supporters.”80 It was apparently wryly remarked that these local politicians crossed party lines and formed and reformed alliances with such agility that “if [the circus entrepreneur] Barnum wanted to get some tumblers [acrobats] he could get them right in East St Louis.”81 These local alliances—Rudwick argued—were determined by the manipulation of a system of “patronage and privilege” by political “bosses.”82 Thus, the Republican congressman William A. Rodenberg, an influential figure locally in the early 1900s, offered key support in the 1907 mayoral contest for Mayor Silas Cook, a Democrat, who stood for the Independent Municipal Party in city elections.83 By 1917, it was Locke Tarlton—a local Democrat and political dealmaker—who was city “boss” and said to have “owned” Mayor Fred Mollman,“boots and baggage.”84 He led a Democratic Party clique but also built his success on an alliance with a local African American Republican organization.85 As is seen later, the unprincipled way in which the Tarlton Democrats manipulated faction and party loyalty would have an impact upon the context of the race riot. However, apart from this key point, the machinations of local politicians generally—in as much as these consisted of a shuffling within the political establishment of the various office seekers and officials—are not of interest for the purposes of this study. They determined who occupied office, but had little impact upon the policies of city government. Rather it is the policies of the parties to which they belonged and their use of political power while in office that is relevant. For city politics had an important role in supporting the structure of power seen in the productive sphere in which business interests dominated the working class, and in which white workers were offered a position of relative privilege over African Americans. City politics was not defined by the corruption of certain local officials alone. Indeed, although Rudwick interpreted it as a cover for corruption, bipartisanship—or rather, nonpartisanship—of the sort found in East St. Louis was generally seen as a civic virtue during the Progressive Era: it appealed to progressives who wanted a City Hall governed “not by partisans, either Democratic or Republican, but by men who are skilled in business management and social science.”86 Indeed, Mayor M. M. Stephens,

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a progressive Democrat, stood with reform-minded Republicans on the local Citizens’ Party platform, and dominated City Hall between 1887 and 1903.87 And although the administration of Stephens’s successor, Mayor Silas Cook (1903–1911), was dominated by Democrats, Cook stood locally for the Independent Municipal Party and faced challenges from Citizens Party candidates supported by both Republicans and Democrats.88 In certain respects, City Hall embodied these Progressive Era nonpartisan political values. The political class of East St. Louis thus cooperated across the lines of national party affiliation. They shared local parties and also a general political outlook: their parties embraced the pro-business politics of boosterism, a politics that suited the local businessmen, merchants, and professionals who filled the ranks of the political establishment in East St. Louis. (Indeed, key members of that political establishment were real estate agents and such politicians had a material interest in promoting the increase in land values locally.89) Moreover, it was by offering cheap and attractive industrial land for development and a plentiful labor supply that East St. Louis had been transformed into an industrial city, and local politicians adopted this formula for prosperity. For example, it was upon such claims, in 1903, that the campaign of the incumbent Mayor Stephens rested: “EVERY factory and industry in East St Louis that has come here in the last fifteen years has been located by Mayor Stephens.”90 While Silas Cook was mayor, it was for presiding over a period of dropping demand for real estate and factory development that the rival Citizens Party attacked him: they promised to ensure that “confidence . . . will be restored” among potential investors.91 Yet, the Citizens Party raised a question of competence rather than policy, for Cook also sought to appeal to business: according to the local Commercial Club, Cook’s attitude toward corporations and industry was “generous”; he “displayed a loyalty and interest in the progress and development” of East St. Louis and industry.92 How did the corporations manage—in this electoral democracy—to sustain their dominance? They could not rely on paternalistic loyalty; indeed, large employers withdrew from the civic community wherever possible. Yet, although East St. Louis was a predominantly working-class city, it was pro-business “booster” parties rather than the Socialist Party of Eugene Debs that thrived there. In the early twentieth century, the Socialist Party stood for election in various municipalities in the United States: at its height it had over one thousand officials in 340 towns and cities across the country. However, in East St. Louis, it was far less successful and won no election. It seems that for the workers of East St. Louis—as for the conservative AFL—“ ‘class politics’ were anathema.”93 In this working-class city, the Socialist Party could only muster a share of the vote that roughly corresponded with the average of its support nationally: in the 1911 and 1913

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East St. Louis municipal elections, the Socialist Party received six percent and four percent of the vote respectively, and in the 1912 general election, six percent of East St. Louisans voted for the Socialist presidential candidate Eugene Debs.94 Most workers looked to local “booster” politicians who promised to help cushion them against the worst ravages of the unreliable labor market by promising to maintain a vibrant local economy.95 As the campaign publicity of Mayor Stephens announced in 1903, for example, it was upon such economic “development and progress” that “the interests and welfare of labor depend.”96 It is possible that workers who felt unable to confront their powerful employers effectively instead found the suggestion that they shared a common interest with these employers a reassuring proposition. In this and in other ways, city politics encouraged white workers to seek accommodation with the political establishment and tended to encourage the existing racial divisions among the working class. Through labor representatives’ participation in politics, workers were able to feel as if they had a stake in city government. Politics offered organized labor the chance of some influence in a city where it faced employers hostile to their concerns. While the Chamber of Commerce held labor in contempt—its members once dismissed an AFL delegation seeking their help in remedying the squalor of the city’s poorest districts by calling them dangerous radical “dynamiters”—City Hall sought to include union members in office.97 In 1911, for example, the Progressive Party advertised the union credentials of its candidate for city attorney John F. Seymour, while on the Greater East St Louis Party ticket, Eugene Wright stood for city clerk: Wright had “proved his loyalty to the labor cause,” was a member of the Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen, and was a former member of the Knights of Labor.98 Similarly, in 1915, John Chamberlin’s Administration ticket included David Walsh, a member of the retail clerks’ union and the local Central Trades and Labor Union, standing for city clerk, while other important local labor leaders, Michael Whalen, Harry Kerr, and Edward F. Mason sat on his executive committee.99 Although Chamberlin lost to Fred Mollman in 1915, Michael Whalen won his race, and in 1917 stood on Mollman’s Administration ticket for reelection.100 Thus, labor representatives were prominent members of City Hall. But what use did organized labor make of this involvement in city government? They failed to prevent employers taking aggressive strikebreaking action against the nascent union organizations of unskilled and semi-skilled workers in the streetcar, meatpacking, and Aluminum Ore strikes of 1916–1917. Nor did they use their position to promote unionization among unskilled or semi-skilled workers, or among African Americans. Some issues in local politics were nevertheless of concern to working-class East St. Louisans (even if not related to labor). In 1915, Fred

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Mollman defeated John Chamberlin partly because the latter had taken a somewhat anti-saloon position, which proved unpopular with workingclass voters; although in this case, Chamberlin had the support of a number of union representatives, including, ironically, the bartenders’ union.101 But, in 1917, Mollman relied not on working-class issues, but on appeals to patriotism in order to bolster his support—declaring himself “an American with a capital A”—at a time of nationalistic fervor just before America entered the First World War.102 Indeed, apart from declaring themselves sympathetic toward labor, union candidates and their platforms seem to have offered the electorate little that was of concern specifically to labor. However, perhaps this was to be expected, for as has been shown, the AFL represented the (predominantly) white skilled workers who occupied a relatively privileged position in the labor market. They would not necessarily have seen an interest in challenging the status quo. Had they demanded concessions for unskilled workers, some improvement in their neighborhoods or in their treatment in the workplace, they risked upsetting the consensus within municipal politics that allowed organized labor its position in City Hall. Moreover, as has been indicated earlier, the AFL leaders were generally unconcerned with assisting unskilled labor, least of all the black workers who permanently filled unskilled positions. Indeed, it would seem that in City Hall, as in the workplace, local AFL leaders tended to see themselves as the representatives of white labor. Having little to say in municipal government about the treatment of workers by employers, they were nevertheless willing to use their influence to speak out about the migration of African Americans to the city, which they feared might result in increased competition for employment and provide employers with a pool of strikebreaking labor.103 When the AFL did use its influence, it threw its weight behind white workers’ protests about black migration in 1917. In fear of the rising racial hostility among white workers locally, but without any effective plan of how to solve the problem, they pointlessly urged the mayor to take action—even though, as the Select Committee later commented when considering this issue, there was no action the mayor could take.104 However, the involvement of AFL leaders— representing their predominantly white membership—in City Hall did serve an important psychological function: white labor was given a seemingly privileged place in municipal politics, and City Hall could stand as a symbol of white workers’ stake in the white establishment. This can only have strengthened the sense that East St. Louis was—in the words of some local white workers—“a white man’s town,” a place where whites had a greater claim on citizenship (as they felt they had a greater claim on jobs) than African Americans.105 As will be seen, this sense of ownership, of East St. Louis being a “white man’s town,” would be emphasized as white workers

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became increasingly hostile to black migrants in the months before the outbreak of the race riot. The political establishment of East St. Louis was therefore one dominated by whites, in which business interests were given privilege, but in which white workers could find some accommodation. It was an establishment that marginalized African Americans; white workers’ sense that they had a claim on the political establishment exclusive of African Americans would contribute to the rise of racial hostility before the 1917 race riot. For cynical local politicians were willing to raise and then manipulate fears among whites of losing that stake in political affairs to African Americans. In this, these local white politicians were willing to play a dangerous game, inciting racial prejudice among whites and manipulating racial divisions among the electorate one moment, while soliciting support from blacks the next. While City Hall politics tended to privilege white workers to some extent, local political parties could not ignore black voters or black political leaders. Nonpartisan city politics actually offered an opportunity for white and black political leaders to forge coalitions. Working within the tight confines of a racist electoral system, black political leaders sometimes managed to make deals with white mayoral candidates, offering support in return for sympathetic policies. In 1909, for example, M. M. Stephens, standing for the Citizens’ Party, sought to attract African American voters, who usually supported Mayor Cook, by promising to end the “inhuman and barbaric” racial discrimination in the police force. In this campaign, Stephens received the endorsement of the Negro Workingmen’s Club, although it was Cook who won the election.106 Black politicians were also willing to withdraw their support in cases where white candidates took the support of black supporters for granted. This was the case in 1910, when the Colored Progressive Republican League of East St. Louis declared itself against Republican Congressman William A. Rodenberg, a politician who—the League claimed—was dependent upon black voters, but who was unwilling to address their concerns and include black politicians in the city’s administration: he merely complacently offered a few low status patronage jobs—“a couple of spittoon cleaning places and janitors’ jobs”—in return for expected support. The League encouraged its members to vote for progressive Democrats instead.107 Thus, African American politicians generally sought to make the most of their bargaining power in an electoral system that offered poor opportunities. Although black politicians were not appointed by these white-dominated parties to senior office, there was clearly potential here to bridge the divide between white and black in East St. Louis in politics at least. Yet, in the hands of the unprincipled politicians of East St. Louis, such alliances could simply

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reflect political expediency, rather than any serious effort to forge an interracial coalition. Indeed, this strategy characterized the Tarlton Democrats. African Americans, ten percent of the city’s population, composed a significant percentage of the electorate and could hold the balance of power in municipal elections. Certainly, by the 1917 municipal election, there was roughly between 3,000 and 4,000 black voters in East St. Louis— a key section of the electorate given that Mollman’s victory that year hinged on 1,431 ballots. This was all the more significant given that Mollman’s party benefited that year from an alliance with leading black politicians.108 The development of that alliance in the cynical world of East St. Louis municipal politics requires careful consideration. Although Mollman stood on the Greater East St Louis ticket in 1915, his candidacy was largely the creation of a new Democratic faction, forged by Thomas Canavan and his politically powerful business partner Locke Tarlton, the Levee Board President.109 It relied upon Democratic support while absorbing nonpartisan voters too.110 The Tarlton Democrats did not have control of the Democratic Party—they were merely a faction of it— but exercised wider influence: in 1916, for example, the election for state’s attorney for East St. Louis was a contest between Charles Webb, a Democrat, and Hubert Schaumleffel, a Republican who was nevertheless “a cog in the Tarlton-Canavan machine.”111 Significantly, African American Republicans would prove a key element in the Greater East St Louis Party, dominated by Tarlton Democrats. This party, with Mollman as its mayoral candidate party, had made overtures to African American voters during the 1915 election.112 In 1916, the leader of local black Republicans formed a splinter St. Clair County Republican League and, although they were to remain supporters of the GOP in the general election of that year, they allied themselves with the Tarlton Democrats. The leaders of the League— Dr. Le Roy Bundy, a dentist and businessman, Dr. Lyman Bluitt, a physician, Noah W. Parden, a lawyer, and Thomas Wallace, a pastor—were all prominent members of the black community. Bundy, Bluitt, and Parden had all held offices at City Hall before 1917, and Wallace stood as a candidate for county supervisor on Mollman’s ticket in 1917. Among the few African American politicians who had close links with City Hall, they held significant influence in the black community. Indeed, such was their political role that in the 1916 Levee Board elections, voters in predominantly black wards voted in greater numbers for the Tarlton Democrats supported by these black politicians than did voters in white wards, many of whom voted for Democratic candidates of other factions.113 In order to build a coalition with black voters, Mollman had to offer them something. Hence, Mollman’s election promises to black voters to recruit more black police officers and to build a new fire station in the

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African American neighborhood.114 Moreover, it is clear that in order to obtain the support of black voters, Mollman’s party needed to provide candidates in whom they had confidence. During the election for the office of state’s attorney in 1916, for example, the Democrat Charles Webb received the endorsement of the St Clair County Republican League specifically because—according to the League’s spokesman—Webb had “been very fair in his dealings with colored people during his term of office.”115 This Democratic machine, seemingly open to the influence of African American Republicans, must have appeared more electorally attractive to black voters, for it compared favorably with the apparently unresponsive (white dominated) local Republican Party. But this was not really a genuine popular coalition built to bring black and white communities together. The Tarlton Democrats were thus not averse to bullying black voters. They unethically used a connection with State Attorney Schaumleffel to put pressure on African American saloonkeepers to use their influence in the wards during the election.116 Schaumleffel called a meeting of these local saloonkeepers—in the office of the African American lawyer and politician Noah W. Parden, as if to emphasize that Schaumleffel had the support of local black political leaders—and told them to support Mollman in the mayoral contest. He warned that he would close their saloons if Domhoff won and “have one big church and preachers talking on street corners.”117 As if in preparation for this, Mollman had earlier confiscated the licenses of many black saloonkeepers, while allowing them to remain open illegally, thus keeping the saloonkeepers in a vulnerable position, dependent upon his protection.118 If the mayoral campaigns of 1915 and 1917 were marked by an appeal by the Tarlton Democrats to the black electorate, however marred by threats this appeal was, this was not the case in the local campaign for the general election of 1916 in East St. Louis. With the support and resources of the national leadership, and in their name, the local Democratic Party— led by Tarlton and Canavan—adopted a different and altogether more pernicious strategy. Facing a Republican Party more united than it had been in 1912 when it suffered from defections to the Progressive Party, the Democratic Party in East St. Louis sought to ensure that their section of Illinois remained for Woodrow Wilson.119 The local party organizers thus followed a national strategy that attempted to rally white working-class voters around a racist campaign that falsely accused the Republicans of involving African Americans in ballot fraud. Instead of seeking to mobilize the support of African American voters, the Democrats sought to disfranchise them. In a campaign that echoed those in Chicago and St. Louis, the East St. Louis Democrats claimed that the GOP was inducing hundreds— even thousands—of African Americans from the southern states to

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“colonize” East St. Louis.120 By making repeated false allegations about a “Black Belt” of illegally registered voters being established by Republican congressman Rodenberg in East St. Louis, the Democrats created an association in the minds of whites among the GOP, African Americans, and ballot fraud.121 Given that the black electorate was numerically significant in East St. Louis at this time, the Democrats’ rhetoric promoted and then exploited whites’ fears of losing political dominance in the city: they portrayed the GOP as a party willing to sideline white East St. Louisans, if it thought that it could win the election through the support of supposedly “colonizing” black voters. In this way, the Democrats sought to rally white support by effectively positioning themselves as the party of “honest” whites, who would deploy electoral register “checkers” to ensure that the audacious “scheme” to “steal” the election in East St. Louis would not succeed.122 The strategy was not merely an attempt to rally white support: it was a thinly veiled disfranchisement campaign involving intimidation of black voters. In St. Louis, the Democrats were able to rely on the support of police officers, who ensured that scores and scores of black voters were arrested, and “many [were] frightened from the polls” on election day.123 Similarly, in East St. Louis, the Democratic Party fought a campaign of intimidation, which often involved the authorities. In this, they were aided by a sympathetic local press, which linked fevered accusations of vote fraud with false accusations that black men were responsible for a spate of violent crimes in the city: in a single article, “the ‘Rodenberg Black Belt’ colonizers” were said to be responsible for “depredations and . . . killings around East St Louis,” while the Chief of Police was cited as believing that many of these black “colonizers”—whom he called “bad niggers”— were coming from Tennessee.124 A local Democratic Party official, Charles Karch, who was a U.S. attorney, even attempted to involve the Department of Justice: as election day neared, he submitted a request for undercover agents to be sent to “the Republican headquarters [to discover] what arrangements had been made for the distribution of money on election day . . . [for the purpose of] bribing voters.”125 Karch’s request for undercover investigators was denied, and the local Bureau of Investigation told him that any attempt to infiltrate the GOP would be “useless” so close to election day.126 However, the Department of Justice did investigate these allegations and questioned some black residents of East St. Louis; of course, its agents were unable to uncover any evidence of a plot, but the questioning must have added to the campaign of intimidation.127 Although the Democrats claimed that they were concerned about black migrants being illegally registered, this was simply a cover for their real strategy: to seek to have as many black voters removed from the electoral

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roll as they could, and to intimidate those who remained registered. Even long-term black residents of East St. Louis were included in the list of those said to be part of the “colonized” “Black Belt” and, on the basis of Democratic claims, a number were summoned to prove to the Election Board that they were entitled to vote. Even when an official investigation revealed that the Democrats’ claims were false, they continued to insist that they were true.128 When the local newspaper supporting the Democratic campaign warned that the jails and penitentiaries are waiting and eager for persons thought to be involved in ballot fraud, many African Americans must have feared that there would be numerous false arrests of black voters on election day.129 The impact that this cynical racist campaign had on the election in East St. Louis is uncertain, as the turn out—22,260 ballots cast out of 25,071 registered voters, or eighty-eight percent—was high and comparable to previous elections. And although defeated in Illinois, Wilson won fifty-six percent of the votes in East St. Louis: hardly a landslide in what was in any case a comfortably Democratic city.130 But this campaign, in the way in which it had manipulated the racist fears of whites, would have a longer-term impact. The local Democratic Party, in which Tarlton and Canavan took a leading role, had run a racist campaign engineered to raise fears among local whites that African Americans were involved in a conspiracy to take over political control in East St. Louis. This left—as Rudwick put it, and as is discussed later—lasting “scars” of racial hostility and suspicion among whites in East St. Louis.131 Without that context, and had the Tarlton Democrats been seeking to forge a genuine interracial coalition with the African American St. Clair County Republican League, then perhaps Mollman’s victory in the mayoral race of 1917 might have helped bridge the divide between whites and blacks. But this was not the case. The Democrats had repeatedly told white workers during the frenzied disfranchisement campaign of 1916 that black voters were going to displace them in political influence in East St. Louis. Then, in the 1917 mayoral election, only three months before the race riot, the St Clair County Republican League played a key—and well-publicized—role in Mollman’s victorious election campaign. A barbecue in honor of black party workers held after his victory was reported in the local newspaper. Crucially, this coincided with an increase in white feelings of insecurity in the city, and, in particular, fears of being displaced by African Americans. In April 1917, then, Mollman—who was part of the Democratic machine— appeared to ride to a victory made possible by black voters and politicians. White workers had traditionally seen the Democratic Party as their own party, but here it seemed that African Americans now also had a claim upon it. This event, coming after the Democrats’ cynical manipulation of racist fears would contribute to the growing atmosphere of racial hostility in the

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period immediately before the outbreak of racial violence.132 Very little seemed to be able to contain or diffuse that atmosphere. Everything— including the nature of policing in the city—conspired to heighten it.

Policing and Race In East St. Louis, the law was very unequally enforced by the police. In the world of work, white workers found that the police generally sided with employers and they received little if any protection from physical assault by bullying managers and foremen. In the wider urban environment, however, policing was guided by a white supremacist outlook and it reinforced white workers’ dominant position of power over African Americans. This racial bias in the white-dominated local police department was particularly apparent in the months before the 1917 race riot. During this time, as Rudwick revealed, both black and white men routinely carried concealed firearms in public. This claim is certainly supported by the evidence: the (white) labor leader Edward Mason stated before the Select Committee that in the months prior to the July riot, “everybody pretty near had to carry a gun here in this town,” and that he himself “didn’t feel safe out[side] after dark without one.”133 Yet, as Rudwick noted, “since white East St. Louisans were not routinely searched by the police, Negroes constituted the majority of persons arrested for carrying concealed weapons.”134 This simply reinforced the stereotyped prejudice that black men were somehow more inclined to criminality than whites. The fact that the (predominantly white) police in East St. Louis were stopping and searching blacks frequently, but not routinely stopping whites indicates the white (mis)perception that black men in the public urban sphere were inherently more threatening than white men. In this respect, such fears were a gendered phenomenon, relating to black men in particular. Of course, as a result of the demography of migration, black men were the majority of the African American community, and the presence of larger numbers of black men may have exacerbated racist perceptions in this regard. Certainly, although African American men were not responsible for a disproportionate number of crimes in the city, a common rumor in East St. Louis held that, in the ten months before the July riot, blacks had committed “800 holdups, 27 murders, and 7 rapes.” It was said that blacks were responsible for the murder of a white “every other night or so.”135 Conditioned by racism, whites do seem to have widely perceived black men as somehow inherently “criminal,” and requiring police control. Such fears—reaching a climax during 1917—fed directly into the outbreak of the race riot.

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When whites encountered blacks in the public urban sphere, even apparently innocent behavior could be interpreted as threatening. According to an article in the St Louis Globe-Democrat, prior to the July riot, whenever white East St. Louisans passed black men in the street, they feared that these men might push them out of the way. No evidence that blacks actually did so was presented in the article, but the journalist wrote that “some of the meaner” African Americans would “almost shove white folks off the [side]walk.”136 Similarly, it is clear from the Select Committee testimony of the real estate agent Thomas Canavan that he tended to interpret the presence of African Americans going about their daily business in the public urban environment as inherently threatening. Rather than stand on a streetcar—Canavan complained—black men would “jump in and get a seat beside a white woman,” or they would “take all the seats by the window”: the implication was that Canavan believed that black men sought to intimidate white women or to deprive whites of window seats deliberately.137 Significantly, fears like this were reaching a climax in the months and weeks before the race riot. Such feelings were exacerbated during the year before the race riot when whites feared established patterns of racial segregation—affecting housing, recreational space, hospitals, schools, and workplace changing rooms amongst other places—were not being upheld. Perhaps this is why, for example, Canavan felt threatened when blacks sat next to white women on the streetcars, where segregation was not legally enforced but was customary. Testimony presented before the Select Committee indicates that, among white East St. Louisans, there was a belief that the activities of African Americans should be strictly regulated. Raymond F. Rucker, a senior employee of the Aluminum Ore Company, stated that there would not have been racial conflict in East St. Louis had only a few blacks lived there: a black “population” was seen as a “a problem to deal with.” He, too, felt that customary segregation had become eroded, and that “you are liable to come into contact with them [African Americans] at any time or in any place.”138 Before the Select Committee, one resident stated that in 1917 the streets of East St. Louis had become “full” of black people, and that the racial composition of the downtown area had changed so much that “you wouldn’t think you were in the home town” anymore.139 Another witness complained that streetcars had become “crowded with negroes” in the months leading up to the riot.140 Policing, in response to white demands, sought to fix previously established patterns of urban interaction between black and white, at a time when whites appeared to fear that these patterns were being eroded. Such regulation worked not merely to restrict black freedom, but to support the white claim to dominance in the urban environment.

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Whites apparently became hostile when they believed that the black community was not being controlled strictly enough: Frank Nulson— president of the Missouri Malleable Iron Company—complained that “we [white East St. Louisans] naturally resent it when a negro assumes the attitude of being able to do anything he chooses.”141 Such attitudes were shared across white East St. Louis: according to the labor leader Edward Mason, in the months prior to the July massacre, “a rumor on the streets” of East St. Louis held that blacks were “being allowed to run wild” in the city.142 Significantly, the evidence suggests that white concerns about the presence of black people in the urban environment were shared across social classes. In their attitudes, union representatives were united along racial lines with a real estate agent and a senior employee of the Aluminum Ore Company. In the months prior to the July massacre, the police were stopping, searching, and arresting blacks in disproportionately greater numbers than whites. Yet, clearly, whites continued to believe that blacks were still not being “regulated” enough. This belief would be a source of violent hostility. Whites held such opinions despite the fact that it was they who posed a threat to blacks: white gangs often attacked African Americans, but discriminatory police officers failed to restrain them. Indeed, the police often sided with the whites, or simply failed to prosecute the perpetrators. Rudwick noted in Race Riot that the black community had been unable to obtain police protection from “the nightly beatings” perpetrated by whites against blacks prior to the riot. Black workers were attacked by whites “almost daily” on their way to and from work. In one particularly disturbing attack, a sixty-year-old man was “beaten into insensibility” by a crowd of whites after he refused to relinquish his streetcar seat to a white woman. Despite these open and public attacks, the police in East St. Louis “arrested none of the gangs of whites” responsible. The freedom to exploit and coerce workers, which, as was indicated earlier, the police allowed employers, has a parallel in this license given to plebeian whites to assault African Americans with impunity. Often, when the police did intervene in confrontations between whites and blacks, they did so on the side of the whites. When, on 23 May 1917, police patrolmen found “about a score” of black youths and “about the same number of white youths” throwing stones at each other, the patrol “blamed the Negroes and arrested several colored boys.”143 This was, perhaps, to be expected in a town in which, according to the St Louis Republic, it had apparently long been a matter of pride (among whites) that no white man had ever been hanged for murdering an African American.144 The violence discussed above reveals more than just discriminatory policing. White violence against African Americans reveals that whites felt

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it to be their “right” to exercise power over African Americans, especially black men. The most extreme form this took was the posse or lynch mob. The spontaneous formation of posses in this way was not routine in the city, but certainly appears to have been a form of action with which whites were familiar. Indeed, while East St. Louis had no history of specifically the sort of racial violence seen on 2 July 1917, the local area, the city, and its neighboring towns were generally felt by African Americans to be “hostile environments for Blacks”: African Americans were “excluded from living in [nearby] Granite City, Madison, and Venice,” and in nearby Belleville there had been an actual outbreak of mob violence in 1903, when a group of local whites lynched David F. Wyatt, a black schoolteacher.145 Although East St. Louis was in Illinois, local whites felt that they didn’t “represent the northern sentiment,” where race was concerned: they preferred to think of their town as being “relatively comparable with the situation in the South.”146 Almost by way of offering an excuse for racism, it was suggested that “being as close to the Mason Dixon line as we are, we naturally resent it when a negro assumes the attitude of being able to do anything that he chooses.”147 In July 1914, false rumors that two teenage African American boys, James Ross and John McBride, had attempted to rape a ten-year-old girl reached a group of white railway workers employed by the Southern Rail Road and they formed a posse to search for the teenagers. In fact, Ross and McBride had been searching for money in a pile of clothes lying on the river bank: the clothes belonged to two women and a young girl who had gone swimming in the river, and when the women saw the boys they began screaming and threw stones at them until they ran away. The local newspaper reported that had the two boys not gone straight to the police, then it was likely that the posse would have caught them and lynched them.148 Again, white workers of the Southern Rail Road were involved in an attempted murder in 1916, after Willie Suggs, a seventeen-year-old black man, shot and killed a white saloonkeeper. They found Suggs soon after the shooting, but instead of turning him over to the police, they decided “that the negro [should] be done away with immediately”: they were leading him to a tree to lynch him when a police officer arrived on the scene to prevent them, an intervention that apparently surprised the white men.149 White men clearly felt morally entitled to take vengeful action against black men who had allegedly transgressed the law. This sort of mob action could take place even when the police had already made an arrest. When one William Shelton was stabbed and killed when he intervened in a fight between two black men in the downtown area, “a crowd of about a hundred [white] men gathered.” Although the police had arrested Alec Boyd— the black man who had stabbed Shelton—the crowd of whites “threatened

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to take the negro from the police and lynch him.” They were only “quietened” when the police officer carefully explained that the stabbing had been accidental.150 In East St. Louis, as has been suggested of the South, lynch mobs were seen by many whites “as legitimate extensions of the law.”151 Notwithstanding the odd occasions when the police intervened against potential lynch mobs, the situation in the wider urban environment created a vicious counterpoint to the relationship between white workers and the police in the productive sphere. Policing in the productive sphere reinforced the dominant position of employers and enabled them to continue to exploit workers—even to use violent coercion to keep workers in line. In the wider urban environment, however, police action generally indicated to white workers that they would be permitted considerable license to attack African Americans. How control was being exercised by the authorities is very significant in this light. The authorities intervened on the side of employers—against workers—in the workplace, and on the side of whites—against blacks—in the wider urban environment. This selective policing may have (albeit not consciously) tended to divert white workers’ aggression away from the dominant industrial interests in the city, and downward on to the less socially and politically powerful. Whether aware of it or not, employers thus benefited from racial divisions among the working class in East St. Louis: potentially dangerous white working-class aggression seems to have been channeled toward African Americans, and diverted from the authorities.

The Valley and Criminal Power The place of organized crime in East St. Louis needs to be carefully considered, for such criminals had close connections with City Hall and business interests, and thus occupied a key position in the structure of power. This district was one in which organized crime flourished, and exerted control over its domain with ruthless violence. This provided a space in which a violent saloon culture would flourish, which would have a significant impact upon the 1917 riot. Factories may have dominated large sections of East St. Louis and its periphery, but a large section of the downtown area of the city was dominated by a district of saloons, gambling rooms, and brothels known as “the Valley.” Like many cities across the United States at this time, East St. Louis had attempted to contain its saloons within a “segregated” vice district in an effort to maintain the “moral purity” of residential neighborhoods and to enable the police to maintain surveillance more effectively.152 In the

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words of one local politician: saloons should be kept away from residential neighborhoods for “[t]he home and family . . . should be as far and as free from [such sources of moral] contamination as possible.”153 Similar “segregated” concentrations of saloons could be found in other American cities: in central Chicago’s “Loop” district, in Boston’s “Hub” district, at the Levee in Cincinnati, or in “Old Town,” Kansas City, Missouri.154 A visitor familiar with such districts would have recognized the sights and sounds of East St. Louis’ Valley: the drunken revelry, open prostitution, and general disorderliness. What was less typical was the way in which the Valley dominated East St. Louis. This “segregated” vice district was not confined to a corner of the city, but sprawled across downtown East St. Louis. Indeed, in its broadest sense, the Valley was not strictly seen to designate a specific geographical area, but was a term applied to areas of saloon-lined streets downtown adjacent to the main commercial street, Collinsville Avenue. It spilled out east across Collinsville Avenue from 3rd and Missouri, along Broadway and St. Louis Avenue, north to the stockyards along the Whiskey Chute of St. Clair Avenue, and south along Walnut Avenue in the “black Valley” area of predominantly African American owned saloons.155 But the Valley’s center was downtown, where it surrounded City Hall. This was rather appropriate, for municipal government was dependent on the revenue from saloon licenses as it allowed local corporations to avoid paying tax locally.156 In the summer of 1917, for example, Mayor Mollman announced that he would seek to cover a shortfall in city revenue by raising the cost of a saloon license, a politically expedient move that allowed him to claim to be taxing—and therefore discouraging—“vice” and thus improving morality.157 However, equally important were the connections between key city officials and the business of the Valley. The Valley offered great business opportunities for saloonkeepers— legitimate and criminal alike. In the Valley, however, it was the criminals who dominated. It was a regional center of prostitution and illegal gambling. “Hundreds” of prostitutes worked in the Valley. They were able to draw clients from the ranks of young, male workers who worked in local factories: on payday, prostitutes could be found waiting outside the factory gates for clients.158 Along 3rd and Missouri, at the heart of the Valley downtown, prostitutes could be seen—as one local reform movement investigator found in 1910—strolling the streets “scantily dressed” in “kimonas [sic]” and openly “soliciting men and boys.”159 These prostitutes walked the streets within view of City Hall and “right under the noses of the police,” from whom they had little to fear.160 Large gambling games could also be found in saloons: the reform movement’s investigator described one such game in a saloon on Collinsville Avenue, where he found a group of approximately fifty men, aged between nineteen and

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fifty, playing craps and gambling for high stakes.161 Gambling was illegal but such games were played hidden in backrooms, or in the saloon bar after closing time. As a mark of the failure of antigambling laws, East St. Louis was described as a “gambler[‘]s mecca,” attracting players from around the region as well as local residents.162 The municipal government and police were well aware of the activities taking place in the Valley—often in full view of their offices. As noted earlier the East St. Louis municipality was dependent upon saloon license revenue. Moreover, many city officials were personally involved in the illicit business of the Valley. There was, effectively, a nexus of city politicians, the police, and organized criminals. It is in this specific sense that City Hall corruption took on great significance, for it allowed space for a ruthlessly violent presence at the heart of the city. Prostitution organized under the control of criminal gangs was also tolerated by the authorities. Unpoliced, organized criminals had rich opportunities to exploit the women under their control. Pimps made proprietorial claims over prostitutes. In the case of the Commercial Hotel at 3rd and Missouri—a branch of a wider illegal enterprise—prostitutes were listed in the business inventory as “chattels,” together with their earning potential.163 As the Select Committee testimony of one former Valley prostitute indicates, such women found themselves in highly exploitative relationships: a prostitute’s pimp might take all, or almost all, of the money she earned from her clients; he might deny her food if she failed to earn the sums he demanded; or he might rape her as a punishment or as an expression of control and ownership.164 It was to this sort of enterprise that local politicians and otherwise legitimate businesses could be connected. For example, the Commercial Hotel was managed—as a brothel and saloon— on behalf of the Central Brewing Company by a local gangster, Nick Rosselli, and his partner, Mr. Stewart. There can be no doubt of the Central Brewing Company’s complicity in this. Undercover investigators for a local reform movement sought to expose this illegal business. They posed as businessmen interested in taking over the management of the Commercial Hotel and met with the brewery agent—Mr. Stuernagel. When they asked him if they would be able to manage the hotel as Rosselli and Stewart had done, Stuernagel replied that he “didn’t give a damn what they did there so long as they didn’t commit murder.” Moreover, Stuernagel was pleased with the way in which Rosselli and Stewart had managed the hotel, for he expressed the wish that they might “go into another part of the city and establish a similar business.”165 Second, as real estates agents, leading local politicians Thomas Canavan and G. Locke Tarlton acted as rent collectors and property managers for the Commercial Hotel; as a political boss in East St. Louis, Tarlton also oversaw and protected the hotel from the law.

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Indeed, Tarlton had taken a hand in establishing this hotel (and others): he hired Mr. Hollingsworth, a man who had previously established “three or four” houses of assignation in St. Louis, to found the business at the Commercial Hotel.166 Likewise, organized criminals ran large gambling games with the knowledge—and sometimes involvement—of local politicians. Such games were profit-making enterprises and organized criminals did not always leave chance to dictate their returns: it was alleged locally that, at such games, “the roulette wheel is ‘fixed’ for suckers, [and] the dice are ‘loaded.’ ”167 Indeed, according to a local newspaper, East St. Louis had something of a bad reputation: “did you ever hear of a game in East St. Louis run on the square [i.e. fairly]?”168 This may have applied to a number of the larger games in the city, but organized criminals in East St. Louis were also involved in a sophisticated telephone system for placing bets on horse races, the outcome of which was beyond the relatively smalltime East St Louis gangsters to fix.169 As with prostitution, gambling involved legitimate business and city politicians. Consider, for example, “The Monkey Cage” saloon, at 18 South Main Street: its managers, George “Potts” Nevins and George Neville, were known to be criminals; Mayor Cook was forced to close the saloon on one occasion, after receiving “many complaints regarding its character,” but then, after receiving visits from Charles Lambert and Henry Albrecht, representatives of the brewers Anheuser-Busch and the Albrecht Liquor Company respectively, he allowed it to reopen after only thirty days, claiming that he had been satisfied by the brewery representatives that illegal activity in “The Monkey Cage” would cease. Of course, such activity did not cease.170 The locally influential former sheriff and city chief of police George “Wash” Thompson was personally involved in such business. He had faced allegations of involvement in the brothel and gambling business even when in office, in the early 1900s. He only fell foul of the law when an ambitious district attorney, Charles Webb—whose authority rested at the county level, above City Hall— raided Thompson’s saloon in 1913: Webb obtained evidence that Thompson had been involved in a “huge gambling trust,” with his saloon acting as a “clearing house” for a regional operation involving telephone betting and “branch hand-book offices in St Louis.”171 Moreover, both the judiciary and the police department were involved. Under the Mollman administration, on the instructions of the mayor’s office, the police frequently arrested “smalltime prostitutes and gamblers,” but left alone the saloonkeepers—many of whom were involved in organized crime—who supported the mayor’s key political ally, Locke Tarlton. If the police raided such premises, the businesses of Tarlton’s friends were rarely—if ever—closed permanently.172 Indeed, as Rudwick noted, police

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“constables and deputy sheriffs” were often personally involved in such businesses: they acted as doormen, introduced clients to prostitutes, while “enterprising police officers rented houses to prostitutes.”173 So common was such corruption that a number of police officers “came near having a shooting scrape”—a gunfight—in the police station as a raid on the Valley by a squad of (uncorrupted) officers angered another group of officers who had connections with the raided businesses.174 When H. F. Trafton of the police department’s Morality Squad raided a brothel owned by the wife of Assistant Chief of Detectives Frank Florence, Florence shot and killed him in revenge.175 Similarly, the mayor and his “associates” decided which judges would be allowed to try certain cases, and “only political friends received assignments.”176 Using their influence over the judiciary, Tarlton and the Mayor were able—to the benefit of their criminal friends—to instruct judges when to release particular defendants, when to levy small fines, or when to alter charges, so that “for example, carrying a concealed weapon became disorderly conduct.”177 As a result of such corruption, some defendants could even escape punishment for violent crime. For example, the East St. Louis railroad YMCA manager William Miller recalled an occasion when a local tough, an associate of a nearby downtown saloon, entered the YMCA barbershop. He was drunk and was swearing, and when the barber told him to watch his language, the drunken man picked up a pool cue from one of the pool tables in the barbershop and attacked the barber, beating him unconscious. For this the tough was arrested and convicted in court; however, such was the political influence of the attacker’s saloonkeeper associate that a bribe persuaded the judge merely to fine the man, and then remit that fine.178 This kind of corruption seems to have been widely known, even expected, in the city. Certain judges—Justice Clark for example—had a reputation in the city for being “crooked”: Clark’s court was referred to locally as the “Kangaroo Court,” yet he remained in office.179 That judicial abuses were carried on in such a routine and open way indicates that leading members of the municipal government—and their criminal associates—believed that they had the right to run the city as they wished, and had the confidence that they would face no challenge to their dominance.180 In return for a share of the profits of prostitution and gambling, City Hall effectively relinquished control over the Valley. Organized criminals thus faced no check on their activities there. As a result, a ruthlessly violent milieu took root in the heart of East St. Louis. In this space, a violent saloon culture emerged, which would have a significant impact on the 1917 race riot. Organized criminals employed hoodlums to protect their businesses in the Valley from unwanted exposure in the press, or from citizens whose homes or business were disturbed by their activities and whose complaints

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might threaten the political security of an illegal gambling parlor or brothel. As their businesses relied on the illicit support of City Hall, the glare of publicity could threaten the political links upon which their protection depended. For example, the notorious “Monkey Cage” had escaped punishment for its illegal activities for years because its manager—“Potts” Nevins—was a friend of Mayor Cook. However, the storm of publicity following a “deadly shooting and slugging scrap” in 1910 placed political pressure on the mayor and forced him to close the saloon.181 Criminal saloonkeepers thus felt it necessary to employ hoodlums to intimidate local residents, journalists, and business folk. Lightly and often, these men resorted to violence in order to protect the perceived interests of their saloon proprietor employers, posing a significant problem for local residents and business people. Somebody making a complaint might receive death threats. For example, one journalist, who had gone to a saloon to investigate vice activities, was chased away by saloon employees after he was identified: they warned him that they would “kill” him if he did not leave them alone. Reverend George Allison’s campaign for the closure of the saloons in the Valley elicited the warning that “the gang,” employees of a particular saloon owner, would “croak” (kill) him for his efforts.182 While such threats were undoubtedly intimidating, saloonkeepers’ hoodlums did not just rely on words. In one particularly extreme case, associates of a saloon and brothel owner in East St. Louis kidnapped the three-year-old son of an Armenian baker, Alphonse Magarin, after he had complained several times to the police force about the establishment and managed to persuade them to raid it. Although Magarin offered $2,000 for the return of his son, the kidnappers beheaded the boy in revenge, and left his decapitated body “wrapped up in a newspaper and tied up in a gunny sack.” The boy’s head was found over a week later, buried under a city dump.183 Clearly these gangsters placed little value on life, even that of a child. They also framed for the murder one of the prostitutes associated with their brothel—Berta Franz—then murdered her, placing her body on the railway tracks to make it appear that she had committed suicide. Clearly, they needed to have no fear of punishment: “[S]trong gang influence” rescued the culprits from prosecution. They evidently had powerful political connections, for one of the murderers was the nephew of the city health commissioner, McCracken, and their brothel was owned by Thomas Canavan and Locke Tarlton.184 While the ruthless murders connected with the Magarin abduction were not typical, they do reveal the degree of brutality that associates of the saloonkeepers were capable of and the extent to which they were free to commit such acts. Such acts helped establish a violent behavioral norm in the Valley, which

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would infuse popular culture with violence, and which would provide the brutal mold for individuals immersed in this world. The hoodlums were known to have close associations with particular downtown saloons. These establishments institutionalized violence in the Valley. Before 1916, the European Hotel, was one such establishment. In 1916, when William Miller, manager of the Railroad YMCA, found himself in conflict with the hotel’s manager, “Fats” Johnson, he discovered that “Fats”“had planned to get me over there [to the European Hotel] and beat me up . . . they had a bunch of fellows over there that done that kind of work.” Indeed, Miller was not mistaken. These “fellows” savagely attacked one newspaper cartoonist when they mistook him for a reporter who had written an exposé of the Valley: they “jumped on him and beat him up and caved in some of his ribs.” Miller had been told by somebody that Johnson’s men planned “to get” his “hide” too, because he had “exposed” their business to public attention.185 Miller obviously did not lack nerve, for he remained in his job. Moreover, a journalist friend of his gathered enough information on the European Hotel—and it seems Mayor Mollman’s connections with it—to pressure the mayor to take action against it and close it down, and, eventually, “Fats” Johnson was forced to leave town.186 When the European Hotel closed, it was said that the “many thugs,” who had been associated with “Fats” Johnson, “transferred their headquarters” to the Commercial Hotel.187 It had a reputation for the “bad class of criminal characters [who] were [known for] hanging out” there. In the months before the 1917 riot, it was said that a “gang . . . was being harbored” at the hotel. It was closely associated with a “gang [who could be found daily] hanging out at the corner saloons at Third and Broadway.” They intimidated and accosted local residents and businesspeople who “endured all kinds of mistreatment at the[ir] hands,” and yet were too frightened to complain to the police.188 This is, perhaps unsurprising, as the hotel was protected by the city “boss” Locke Tarlton, and Ed Payne— one of the “many thugs” to be found there—was the brother of Chief of Police Ransom Payne. It was precisely for this reason, for example, that H. H. Hunsacker, a collector, who had been assaulted by Ed Payne in the course of his work, reported feeling too “afraid to appear” in court in fear of reprisals.189 Such establishments, which nurtured violence in the Valley, would be closely associated with individuals responsible for the outbreak of racial violence in 1917. The power of the violent criminal saloonkeepers in the Valley was almost without challenge during this period. But not entirely. For, between 1911 and 1915, an anticorruption reform movement threatened the politically entrenched organized criminals and saloonkeepers. In 1911, a new

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sheriff, William J. Mulconnery—whose authority rested at the higher county level, bypassing City Hall—conducted raids on a gambling parlor and a dance hall in East St. Louis.190 However, it was in 1913, when Mulconnery joined hands with a new state’s attorney, Charles Webb—who had been elected on an antigambling ticket—that an energetic campaign was pursued. In the local press, Webb declared a “war on gambling” in East St. Louis.191 He raided the gambling parlors and brothels of politically connected men such as former police chief and sheriff George “Wash” Thompson and former alderman William O’Malley, and of local gangsters such as Nick Rosselli.192 When John Chamberlin was elected mayor in April 1913, this provided further impetus for the reform movement. He supported Webb and in 1915, coinciding with a Baptist revival in the city, Chamberlin ordered the closing of the Valley and its saloons, brothels, and gambling parlors.193 However, by 1915, the campaign had become associated with a general drive against working-class leisure. While the state’s attorney had targeted gambling parlors operated by organized criminals, local police officers followed in his wake by making opportunistic arrests of casual game players. For example, C. Chamberlin, Herbert Arnold, and Otto Siddell, neighbors from 22nd and 23rd and St. Louis Avenue, were arrested for shooting craps in the street under a streetlight, clearly simply enjoying a social game. Similarly, on another occasion, five “boys” aged between fifteen and twenty years were arrested for playing craps in a vacant house at 818 North 7th, and fifty cents in wagers was confiscated.194 Furthermore, the antiprostitution campaign gave way to repressive policing of the saloon and women in particular.195 In 1913, the chief of police announced that he had issued orders to his officers that women walking in public at night should be arrested “unless they had a good reason” for being out; “Another thing that must stop,” he declared, “is the frequenting of saloons by women.”196 At certain points, policing of the saloon amounted to simple harassment. In 1914, the Board of Fire and Police Commissioners made an inspection of downtown saloons and cafés: some cabarets were ordered to close after members of the Board heard the sound of singing as they stood outside in the street. Another was given a stern warning after it was found to be “in semi darkness, with a sort of summer garden effect”; this was deemed unacceptable and “The lights were ordered turned up.”197 Perhaps it was partly because of this general repressive policing that voters turned away from these crusaders—first from Chamberlin, who lost office to Mollman in 1915, and then from Webb, who lost to Hubert Schaumleffel in 1916— and elected Tarlton candidates instead.198 Although this drive against working-class leisure was a likely source of anger for workers—for whom the saloon or a casual game of dice represented

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an escape from the strict control of the workplace and its frustrations—it had come to an end by 1916. When Fred Mollman became mayor in 1915, it would seem that the Valley “reawakened” to an extent, although, when it woke up under Mollman, it was much more in thrall to politicians than had been the case before. Mollman used the opportunity of a well-publicized “THORO CLEAN UP” of saloons to close the establishments of his political enemies.199 Moreover, he confiscated the licenses of some black saloonkeepers and allowed them to remain in business only illegally, offering his protection from the police in return for their political support.200 As saloons often had an important role in political campaigns at the ward level—mobilizing local support for one candidate or another—Mollman’s “clean up” was politically significant. He closed down Al Steiner’s saloon on Whiskey Chute in the spring of 1917, apparently because Steiner supported his opponent.201 (It is possible that this cull of saloons could explain why Mollman needed to raise the price of saloon licenses in 1917.) In contrast, Mollman allowed the saloons in which he and his associates had a personal interest to remain open: the Commercial Hotel was one such saloon that had long been associated with crime but which was allowed to remain open.202 And, it seems that Mollman allowed new saloonkeepers and prostitutes to set up business in the Valley in the place of those whom he had forced out of business.203 Despite announcing a further clean up in May 1917, prompted by an embarrassing investigation by Illinois Attorney General Edward Brundage, by June, Brundage still complained that a number of saloons in the vicinity of City Hall—the Commercial Hotel included— remained open.204 Around this hotel, a violent clique condensed. They would have a key role in the outbreak of the 1917 race riot.

Conclusion East St. Louis, then, was a city dominated by corporate interests. In the productive sphere, workers were largely at the mercy of powerful employers. In city politics, municipal governments looked first to uphold the interests of capital above all else: working-class interests were subordinated to those of the employers. However, in some respects, white workers occupied a position of relative privilege within this power structure. Compared to African Americans, white workers fared better in a segmented labor market, benefiting from discrimination, and in politics, where whitedominated labor unions were included in the political establishment. The racially discriminatory hiring policies of the corporations helped entrench white labor in the skilled trades, and the AFL craft unions failed to challenge this: in acting to defend its members’ interests, the AFL thus tended

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to act as an advocate of white labor alone. For skilled workers who sought to limit job competition, the economic reasons for supporting a system of racial discrimination were clear enough. However, the psychological implications have also been mentioned here: through their better position in the labor market, white workers could stake a claim to a relatively higher status than black workers. White workers could feel that—even though they were unable to challenge their employers’ power—they could at least feel that whiteness offered the chance of protection from the worst excesses of exploitation experienced by African Americans. As discussed earlier, in this context, employers’ attacks on unions could cynically exploit racial divisions in the workforce and had the potential to instill fear among white workers that their grip on their favored position in the workplace was loosening. In 1917, such an onslaught by employers would have catastrophic consequences. The presence of white AFL representatives in City Hall fulfilled a similar psychological function as that performed by whites’ relative privilege in the labor market. While white workers were unable to assert power in the workplace, they were nevertheless able to enjoy at the very least a symbolic role in the political establishment. They could also—because of discriminatory policing—assert power over African Americans in the wider urban environment. In each case, white workers tended not to engage in open conflict with their masters and turned instead to bolster their sense of privilege or relative power over African Americans. Thus, white workers’ sense of self-esteem in the city relied on their position vis-à-vis AfricanAmericans, a position dependent upon their whiteness and the support of the political establishment and local authorities. As the 1916 election campaign indicated, whites could always be mobilized when frightened by the supposed prospect of losing influence over local politics to African Americans. Finally, while the prevalence of City Hall corruption helps to illuminate the structure of power and indicates the unscrupulous character of local politicians, such corruption proved significant in one particular respect that was relevant to the violence of 1917: it allowed organized crime to take root in the heart of downtown East St. Louis. Directly supported by members of the city administration, prodigiously violent organized criminals dominated the downtown area. Corrupt city officials relinquished control over the Valley, and illegal saloon businesses remained largely unpoliced. Moreover, local gangsters were permitted to exert their power over the local people, using violence and intimidation. As is seen in the next chapter, they allowed a brutal and violent saloon culture to grow in the city, a culture that would eventually feed into the 1917 racial massacre.

3

Popular Culture, Race, and Violence

he structure of power in East St. Louis, described in chapter 2, helped to create the environment in which the 1917 race riot erupted. While this helps our understanding of this event, it is also important to consider the particular culture that produced the racial violence. The explosion of violence may have been spontaneous, but it was culturally conditioned: the white men and women who participated in this massacre were also participants in a popular culture in which violent patterns of behavior and ideologies of white supremacy were firmly established. In this chapter, then, consideration is given to those aspects of popular culture that helped to make the racial massacre possible. The popular culture discussed here was related to the wider structure of power, inasmuch as it was a reflection of, and existed in space significantly shaped by, that power structure. Thus, the sphere of popular culture in East St. Louis was racially segregated, as was the city generally. Cultural forms such as popular theatre—discussed later—reflected the ideologies underpinning racial prejudice and white supremacy. Indeed, the shared cultural experience of (largely working-class) whites lent such racist ideologies a sense of legitimization, and normalized them. The world of the saloon, a key aspect of popular culture, was shaped by its place within a sphere under the control of organized criminals, in which City Hall had relinquished direct control. As a result, popular saloon culture reflected the violent social norms of the world of organized crime. Patrons were exposed to acts of extreme violence and young men were socialized within the violent behavioral norms established here.

T

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Race and Popular Entertainment The patterns of racial segregation that marked East St. Louis generally were also found within the city’s popular culture. The racial divisions that presented a fatal obstacle to any hope that white and black workers might identify a common interest were reproduced in workers’ leisure time. When the moment of the riot is considered, it was such division that contributed to the rise of racial hostility in 1917 and eventually to the outbreak of violence on 2 July, as white workers were unable to conceive of African Americans as anything other than a threat and economic, political, and social rivals. These divisions are, therefore, a matter of key importance. It was not inevitable that popular culture should play a role in reinforcing racial divisions. It is conceivable that popular culture had the potential to promote the transformation of white attitudes and of the relationship between blacks and whites. The fact that this did not happen in East St. Louis is in part a testament to the failure of the (white-dominated) working-class organizations in the city—such as the conservative AFL discussed in chapter 2—to address the problem of racism. The example of Chicago in the 1930s demonstrates that where there was imaginative leadership, there could be change. Rick Halpern has demonstrated that, in contrast to the situation in East St. Louis in the 1910s, the Packinghouse Workers Organizing Committee in Chicago (PWOC) made significant progress in breaking down racial discrimination—in part by bridging racial divisions between workers in their leisure time.1 Thus, the PWOC sponsored interracial social and cultural events as a part of a coherent campaign to break down racial divisions. A “union-sponsored sports program [was] organized on an interracial basis,” bringing black and white workers together weekly for bowling tournaments, basketball, and baseball.2 More than simply encouraging black and white workers to share leisure time and space, the PWOC established “recreational and educational facilities” for workers’ children, “enabling black and white youngsters to interact with each other in an open setting.”3 Events, such as picnics and dances, brought black and white families together too. This drive to break down segregation in leisure time was combined with an antidiscrimination campaign. The PWOC actively “promote[d] racial harmony”: it “spoke out against incidents of racial violence and pleaded for an attitude of acceptance. . . . [I]ndividuals [whom they judged to be] . . . guilty of spreading . . . racial hatred were . . . publicly reprimanded.”4 Not only was this politically significant in its own right, but it provided an antidiscriminatory context for the PWOC’s social and cultural activities: any white workers attending could be under no doubt that these were racially integrated activities, designed to promote tolerance. As a result, “the hatreds of the past appeared to be giving way.”5

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The PWOC campaign was not the only example of such activity in Chicago. During 1919, for example, the SLC had attempted to promote solidarity between black and white workers, a campaign that included efforts to bring them together socially, as well as “bold public displays of interracial goodwill in the [stock]yards.” This campaign was greatly undermined by the explosion of racial violence in Chicago in the “Red Summer” of 1919, but as a mark of the progress made by the SLC, members of the union did not take part in that violence, and endeavored to maintain peace within their own communities.6 Clearly, then, it was possible to break down racism in part by organizing interracial social events as part of a campaign to encourage tolerance and integration. However, no such activities were promoted in East St. Louis. Whereas, in a different period, the PWOC encouraged interracial baseball as part of a conscious campaign, in East St. Louis, sports retained a Jim Crow flavor. East St. Louis had no Major League team of its own, but did have numerous local and neighborhood teams, which were racially segregated. Segregation in leisure time physically divided whites and blacks. In the baseball matches in East St. Louis, for example, the regular condition of racial segregation framed the occasional games between black and white teams as unusual “racial” contests. Thus, physical separation could affect the meaning of popular sporting activities: as well as establishing segregation as a social norm, it promoted the idea that when blacks and whites came together, it would be in a relationship of opposition and even conflict. For white East St. Louisans, competitive sports thus reproduced the notion that African Americans were in some sense “others.” On rare occasions, a local African American team played against a white team, and such events were keenly anticipated by the local Daily Journal, which played up a sense of competition between black and white. These were certainly not events that positively promoted tolerance and integration: the Daily Journal printed racist caricatures of black players next to its column discussing one forthcoming game in 1915, between the East St. Louis Colored Giants and the (white) Edgemont Regulars. It suggested that “razzahs” (razors) were “being sharpened,” and that “ball players . . . are taking out life insurance” for the game.7 The use of sarcastic humor and cartoons that sought to belittle African Americans suggests that, to a degree, whites felt uncomfortable facing black competitors on the sports field. It seems that these ballgames in East St. Louis—in which whites and blacks shared space and time, but which were unrelated to any conscious effort to promote integration—did little to break down racial divisions in the city. Indeed, competition of this nature likely provided an event around which whites’ racist antipathies condensed. Contests with African Americans provided an arena in which whites often felt that their notions of racial supremacy were symbolically put to

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the test. Victory could, of course, provide whites with “evidence” of their superiority; but failure could mean humiliation. Perhaps nothing generally illustrated this situation more clearly than the alarm caused to whites across the United States by the black boxer Jack Johnson. Johnson rose to prominence between 1908 and 1910 when he beat the “retired” white heavyweight champion Tommy Burns and a number of other “white hopes.” During this time, the “undefeated” white champion, Jim Jeffries, refused to fight Johnson, stating that he would not compete with a black man. But, such was Johnson’s evident ability that, eventually, Jeffries realized that he would have to fight him if he wanted to retain his credibility: Jeffries met him in April 1910 and was defeated.8 Significantly, such contests involving Jack Johnson and white boxers were not seen by white America as mere sporting contests but, as Al-Tony Gilmore has put it, as “Social Darwinian” struggles: the fight with Jeffries in 1910 had been “billed as a staging ground for racial supremacy.”9 As Jeffrey Sammons has suggested, whites saw Johnson as an “insolent [and] defiant . . . usurper of white privilege”: his defeat at the hands of Jeffries, they hoped, would “serve as a lesson akin to a public lynching.”10 But, in fact, Johnson won convincingly in a contest that whites felt as a humiliation, precipitating simultaneous outbreaks of racial violence across the United States— including in St. Louis, where whites and blacks fought in the streets for four hours.11 Further, it initiated an ongoing search for a new “white hope”—a “Savior of the white race from the black man’s supremacy,” so it was felt.12 Thus, the sport of boxing, and whites’ interest in Jack Johnson, in particular, was infused with racial panic at this time. It is noteworthy, too, that the local newspaper in East St. Louis reported on Johnson’s activities outside as well as inside the ring. When Johnson was arrested in November 1912 under the Mann Act, there was a distinct sense of glee in the tone of the newspaper reports—not least because of Johnson’s well-publicized liaisons with white women, which compounded their sense of racial transgression.13 Relishing the opportunity to portray Johnson as a humbled man, the East St Louis Daily Journal reported that he was “a somewhat dejected world’s champion,” whose “ ‘golden smile’ has faded”—a reference to Jack London’s call, two years earlier, for Jeffries to “remove the golden smile from Jack Johnson’s face.” As he left the courtroom handcuffed, “his shoulders were stooped, and his head hung down.” This proud, seemingly invincible man had been broken, the newspaper seemed to be suggesting, for it reported that “Johnson shed tears, pleaded, offered cash . . . in almost any amount” in a failed attempt to obtain his release on bail.14 Perhaps there is no better indication of how whites felt their sense of racial superiority had been challenged by Jack Johnson than their clamoring for the removal of this man from the sport by any means,

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inside or outside of the ring. Perhaps they would have preferred to see him defeated by a white boxer, but, if not, they were happy to see him victimized by a discriminatory prosecution: the East St Louis Daily Journal wryly commented of his arrest, “the law bids fair to make good as the ‘white man’s hope.’ ”15 As this suggests, sport in East St. Louis tended to become infused with whites’ racial prejudices. In contests between segregated teams, as in local baseball, or between individuals, as in the case of Jack Johnson and the “white hopes,” sport was seen as an arena of “racial” competition. Sport was seen as a cultural representation of everyday social relationships and thus whites looked to sport as a means of reaffirming their own notions of racial superiority. They also looked to the theatre and cinema for such affirmation. In East St. Louis, the cinemas and theatres were not officially racially segregated. This apparently irked some whites, for, according to Raymond F. Rucker, assistant superintendent of the Aluminum Ore Company and a man who advocated strict, formal racial segregation, “you are liable to come into contact with them [African Americans] at any time or at any place” in East St. Louis, including in the theatres; this fact had “impressed itself immediately” on visitors who were used to more strictly defined racial segregation, he claimed, disapprovingly.16 It seems possible that some African Americans attended cinemas or theatres from time to time. However, very likely, Rucker’s words reflected general prejudice and dissatisfaction with the fact that African Americans were not officially prohibited from cinemas and theatres altogether.17 Not surprisingly, it would seem that local African Americans did not generally believe that they were welcome at such places. As the African American physician Dr. Thomas G. Hunter explained to the Select Committee, there was no entertainment, apart from that to be found within the saloons, to be had in East St. Louis, “except [for] the movies”: but, he added, the cinemas were “for whites.”18 When discussing theatre and the cinema below, therefore, it is important to bear in mind that stage productions and films were shown before largely (if not entirely) racially segregated audiences and that, even if African Americans attended at all, these establishments sought the custom of, and were patronized largely by, whites. During the 1910s, the standard bill at the local vaudeville theatre, Erber’s, involved popular music and dancing, acrobatics, magic tricks, or comedy routines. Acts such as the (somewhat painfully convoluted) humor of Joe Morn and Flossie Campbell in their “The AviAte-Her” punning “comedy talk, built on lines having to do with Aviation” appeared alongside performers such as Fern and Zell’s “comedy, singing, talking and dancing” act. The “mixture of conjurer’s art and comedy” presented by Ziska appeared with the likes of Lohse and Sterling’s “fast and furious

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[acrobatic] feats.”19 However, it is the blackface shows that shared billing with these acts at Erbers that are of interest here. Such blackface shows were some way removed from the raucous carousing masculine affairs of the antebellum period, discussed in some detail, notably by David Roediger and Alexander Saxton.20 Ad Hoyt’s Minstrels, for example, appearing at Erber’s Vaudeville Theatre in 1915 were described as “real stars” of minstrelsy. This large troupe of seven performers—characteristic of later blackface—emphasized the “tasteful” aspects of their act: it was noted that their “comedy is clean,” their singing, “harmonious and pleasing.”21 Despite seemingly being absorbed into this slick vaudeville form, blackface remained more than a mere theatrical convention. The content of the minstrel shows appearing at Erber’s is particularly significant. Specifically, the popularity of one character, the “rube”—a rustic character, lampooned for his lack of urban sophistication—requires further consideration. Clearly, stereotypes of African Americans—which were felt to legitimize white supremacy—were represented on stage as part of a shared white culture. The rube apparently emerged in minstrelsy during the 1890s, well after the beginning of blackface’s transformation into “tasteful” vaudeville and appeared at Erber’s in East St. Louis.22 For example, in March 1915, a newspaper advertisement indicated that “4 RUBES,” described as “HICKSVILLE MINSTRELS”—a reference to their supposed “hick,” or rural, origins—would be appearing. In June 1915, another troupe, Coakley, Hanvey, and Dunlevy, promised “plenty of the rube effect” in their “rapid fire of dialogue, singing, dancing and instrumentalization.”23 The emergence (in blackface) of the rube during the 1890s within the context of the migration of large numbers of African Americans to East St. Louis— and other northern towns—from the rural South seems significant. Blackface representations of rubes probably offered whites a way of reproducing a sense of social superiority, by mocking rural blacks, at a time that the Northern communities were being racially recomposed. Moreover, such stereotypes effectively demanded that the rube was somehow the “appropriate” social role for African Americans. If, in the words of one newspaper review, this “don’t care [i.e. rube] character” was one that whites “all know and like to see,” by implication, a striving, urban, and economically successful African American was perhaps exactly what these whites did not want to see.24 As will become apparent when the race riot is considered, white resentment of the growing economic success of some in the African American community in East St. Louis would feed directly into racial hostility. It is also worth considering work on nineteenth-century minstrelsy by Alexander Saxton and David Roediger, in which attention was drawn to

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the role of blackface in whites’ efforts to come to terms with industrialization. Blackface “offered the possibilit[y] that . . . preindustrial joys could survive amidst industrial discipline.”25 Of course this refers to an earlier period. However, workers who had long adjusted to the new life continued to face the pressures of industrial society—the fear of unemployment and poverty—and had to survive in an exacting labor market.26 Therefore, in the 1910s, blackface could perform something of an escapist function. The rube—who embodied notions of rustic naivety—was free from the disciplined environment and class conflict of the industrial workplace. He had no need to fear the consequences of failing to navigate the urban labor market. Moreover, at a time when drinking, gambling, and sexuality were increasingly subject to the proscriptions of social reformers seeking to improve “morality” and efficiency in the urban environment, the rube stood outside such concerns.27 Such a character was at once appealing, for he existed outside class hierarchies and conflicts, and yet was an object of ridicule for being a naïf, untested by the pressures of the industrial environment and modern urban life.28 In general use, the epithet rube did not carry a distinctively racial meaning. However, in the context of blackface it became racialized and the characteristics with which the rube was associated were identified with blackness, and sloughed off by whites: the ideological connection between whiteness and industrial and social discipline was thereby implied. Blackface shows of this nature must have had a role in perpetuating the racist stereotype of black people—particularly southern blacks—as shiftless and ill adapted to urban life. At the same time, they implicitly asserted the ideological whiteness that stood as its inverse. Yet, during this period, in East St. Louis as in other northern cities—Chicago being a notable example—there was a growing black urban (and indeed industrial) community, and indeed, a growing black middle class.29 If the minstrel rube mocked blacks—seen as embodying these risible notions of rusticity— it surely also reminded whites of the urban black community emerging in East St. Louis because the rube was so unlike them. As such, it is likely that for whites, whose sense of self-esteem relied in part on racist notions of black “shiftlessness,” such shows may have incited a degree of hostility toward the black community: for that community was not composed of laughable rubes, but was instead politically and economically significant. While the vaudeville theatre was overwhelmingly dominated by white performers, some African American acts did appear on the bill at Erber’s. However, it is clear that they were seen by whites as appearing within a racist framework. For example, Green and Pugh, appearing at Erber’s Vaudeville Theatre in 1917, performed a blackface show as “The Two Boys

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from Dixie.” They were favorably compared by theatre management to the “white delineators of the negro character.”30 Here, even when African American performers appeared, they were expected to conform to the representation of blacks established by white performers and were measured against them. In another act, two African Americans, Rufus Greenlee and Thaddeus Drayton, appeared as the “colored aristocrats” at Erber’s in 1915. Their act included dancing and singing and also “talk[ing] in five languages.” It was this linguistic feat that seems to have amused whites the most, for it cut against their understanding of African Americans’ supposed intellectual capacities: the feat was, newspaper publicity stated, “going some” for African Americans.31 The show did not challenge racist assumptions: for, in being presented as two “exceptional” black men, Greenlee and Drayton could be seen by whites as exotically comic, implicitly lampooning African Americans who were supposedly incapable of performing any such feat. Of course, as well as the theatre in East St. Louis, there was also the increasingly popular form of entertainment offered by the cinema. Films starring famous actors of the day such as Blanche Sweet, Mary Pickford— America’s Sweetheart—and Charlie Chaplin appeared in local cinemas, offering a variety of melodramas, romantic tales, morality stories, crime dramas, and so on. Films such as The Secret Sin, in which Blanche Sweet played a young working girl caught by opium addiction as she tried to survive in the city, seem to reflect contemporary concerns about the “moral dangers” of modern urban life. And, it is quite likely that the “little fellow” character being developed by Charlie Chaplin at this time—in his frequent encounters with imposing bullies and disapproving authority figures— was a character with whom many of the put-upon workers of East St. Louis could identify.32 However, of most concern for the present study is a film that gave spectacular expression to the sort of racist ideologies that have been discussed above in relation to popular theatre: D. W. Griffith’s film of 1915, The Birth of a Nation. The film was enormously successful in its time and made its way to the movie theatres of East St. Louis in February 1917, the same year as the race riot. Given its massive impact at a national level, and its arrival in East St. Louis less than five months before the outbreak of the racial massacre in July, the film demands careful consideration. The Birth of a Nation was based on Thomas Dixon’s aggressively racist stage play The Clansman. This play represented the Reconstruction as a period in which unscrupulous freedmen and Northern white “carpetbaggers” allied themselves in a “tyrannical” rule over white Southerners, and in which the Ku Klux Klan appear as the “heroic” liberators of “oppressed” whites: it presented “a nightmare of interracial brutality, rape

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and castigation.”33 This was Dixon’s own (bigoted) version of the past, written with the intention—as Dixon himself stated in 1906—“to teach the north [about] . . . the awful suffering of the white man” during Reconstruction. He wanted “to demonstrate to the world that the white man must and shall be supreme.”34 The Birth of a Nation appeared as a racist “Gothic horror tale haunted by black brutes.”35 Significantly, it spoke to white fears of African Americans, and suggested mob violence as the means by which whites could “protect” themselves from this putative black threat. Thus the Ku Klux Klan appears as a morally legitimate force. The film approvingly depicted the Klan placing the “renegade” African American Gus on summary “trial” for the rape of a white woman: after lynching him, they place his body on the porch of the local black official Silas Lynch.36 Its distorted representation of history and its call for mob violence of this sort were all the more pernicious for the widespread acclaim the film received. Its undoubted technical achievements attracted praise, placing the film in the limelight. When it was released, it was “dressed in the trappings of celebrity” by clever use of publicity: “[l]eading Americans in politics, religion, and philanthropy testified to its power, artistry and historical accuracy.”37 The film, with its sympathetic portrayal of the Ku Klux Klan, thus received public legitimation: indeed, even the president, Woodrow Wilson (formerly a historian), endorsed the veracity of the film’s interpretation of history.38 The Birth of a Nation proved very popular in East St. Louis, as it had across the United States. Its arrival in the city was anticipated some days in advance, with adverts in the local newspaper showing still images from the film—including one image of the Ku Klux Klan riding on horseback.39 When it was screened in the city, it was reportedly “packing ’em in [to the cinema] every night.”40 Indeed, such was the anticipated demand for this film that the local movie theatre, Redmond’s Majestic, announced in the press that customers should try to attend the matinee screenings if possible, because “the management [wishes] to try to arrange so that everyone may be able to see the picture.”41 The themes of the film surely triggered associations in the minds of local whites. In general terms, notions of African Americans as “black brutes” were within the mental frame of reference of local whites: indeed, in the week the film appeared in the city, the local Daily Journal reported an alleged rape on its front page under the headline “NEGRO BRUTE SEIZES WHITE GIRL.”42 The Birth of a Nation culturally legitimized this racist view of black men as “threatening” criminals and rapists. In the film, there was also an echo of the stereotyped binary view of African Americans: “good” loyal slaves and freedmen were set opposite “bad”— “tyrannical”—black soldiers and corrupt Reconstruction officials.43

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The film also spoke to whites’ fears of the erosion of their racial power—indeed, Dixon had spoken of his wish that his play might promote a defense of white supremacy. A key element of the film involves an African American—the Reconstruction official Silas Lynch—who is shown in a sense to “get above himself,” or transgress the position of subordination and deference whites deemed suitable for blacks. One can imagine how this was comprehended by white East St. Louisans, who feared that black migration to their city might result in a shift in the balance of power and an erosion of established patterns of racial domination. Concern that blacks were not showing anticipated deference to whites was felt to symbolize this. According to an article in the St Louis Globe-Democrat, prior to the July riot, for example, whenever white East St. Louisans passed black men in the street, they feared that these men might push them out of the way. No evidence that blacks actually did so was presented in the article, but the journalist wrote that “some of the meaner” African Americans would “almost shove white folks off the [side]walk.”44 Perhaps this concern in East St. Louis was given impetus (or was even inspired) by the film, for in The Birth of a Nation, a scene where black soldiers push the local white Cameron family off a sidewalk symbolized the fallen racial order and the imposition of an “unnatural” new hierarchy in which whites no longer dominated African Americans.45 Indeed, two Select Committee investigators, Representatives Henry A. Cooper and John D. Raker, suggested that the film had been the inspiration for at least one racist attack in East St. Louis when “[black] men [were] mobbed . . . by a mob clad in such uniforms as were shown to have been used by the Ku Klux Clan [sic] in that Birth of a Nation picture.”46 The Birth of a Nation also echoed Democratic whites’ fears in East St. Louis surrounding the 1916 general election, for it showed a world in which black Republicans ruled over whites—and dominated them. A caption in the film stated that the intention of Reconstruction politicians was to “put the white south under the heel of the black south.”47 The success of the Republican Party was portrayed as a moment of triumph for African Americans and defeat for whites.48 The interests of blacks and the GOP were shown as indistinguishable—as Democratic white East St. Louisans had feared in 1916. This rule by Republicans and African Americans was depicted as resulting in a period of corruption, the end of white supremacy ushering in tyranny, culminating in forced marriage between black and white and the implicit rape of white women by black men. Significantly, it was the Ku Klux Klan who were shown “rescuing” whites from this “tyranny,” sweeping across the screen to rescue the heroine Elsie from forced marriage to the ambitious Silas Lynch—“drunk with . . . power”—and the town from the hordes of black soldiers.49 It was,

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in short, a film that promoted “Klan terrorism”: the guardian of white supremacy against a black political power easily warped by lusts and political corruption.50 In a city that had been used to racist vaudeville, this film added an aggressive dimension in the year of the race riot. In the theatre and the cinema, then, popular entertainment regularly offered degrading representations of African Americans, boldly expressed in the film The Birth of a Nation. Aspects of popular culture such as sport also divided whites and blacks or pitted them against each other. Chillingly, The Birth of a Nation actually promoted racial violence. It did this in a city that already had a segregated institution that habituated many whites to violence: the saloon.

The Valley, Saloons, and Violence The discussion of saloons here focuses on those establishments patronized by whites. Saloons, like theatre and cinema, were largely racially segregated. James R. Barrett has noted of Chicago’s Packingtown in the early twentieth century that the saloon provided space in which European immigrants could mix informally, and in which ethnic divisions broke down. Yet, there was no possibility that a similar process could affect racial divisions—African Americans were excluded from saloons patronized by whites.51 So-called black-and-tan saloons—patronized by both blacks and whites—were a familiar, although marginal, part of saloon culture in the United States.52 East St. Louis was no different in this respect. Segregation was so common in East St. Louis that police officers entering an African American saloon (to close it down for opening after hours one night) were reported to have been “surprised” at the presence of a “sprinkling” of whites.53 When, George Allison, an East St. Louis reformer, visited the saloons of the African American village suburb Brooklyn in 1916, he found whites and blacks drinking in the same barroom: but black and white patrons did not sit at the same tables, nor could he think of any other bar in which whites and blacks mixed.54 It would seem, then, that there were extremely few saloons in East St. Louis that both blacks and whites frequented at the same time, and even these had their own form of segregation. The world of the saloon in East St. Louis was an established part of the city. As discussed in chapter 2, the Valley vice district of saloons, illegal gambling parlors, and brothels dominated downtown East St. Louis. Although many cities in the United States abolished their vice districts during the 1900s, East St. Louis remained resistant to reform.55 The reform campaigns of the early 1910s under State Attorney Charles Webb and

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Mayor John Chamberlin came to little: with the defeat of Chamberlin by Fred Mollman in 1915, the Valley that Chamberlin had suppressed in early 1915 revived.56 Under Mollman’s administration, organized crime was politically well entrenched. Indeed, as suggested in chapter 2, one of the city’s most notorious gangsters, Nick Rosselli, was closely associated with the two leading City Hall politicians and allies of Mollman, Locke Tarlton and Thomas Canavan.57 Largely because of their political connections, these organized criminals were afforded the space to protect their business interests in the Valley, and to enforce their will there as they wished: they often stamped their authority on this area by the use of violence. The Valley was a place in which violent behavior was tolerated. Certainly, violent rage of a sort not generally expressed in other spheres of life was given vent in the Valley: here, outbursts of rage occurred with an intensity that led to fatal beatings or shootings in barrooms. The police effectively relinquished control of the Valley to organized criminals, and it was in their sphere of influence that such violence was established as a social norm: indeed, the predatory culture of organized criminal gangs— in which violence was used to support their illicit business interests— dominated the Valley and sat above the rule of law. For example, Ed Payne, a hoodlum employee of one Valley gangster, was able to get away with intimidation and violence because his brother, Ransom Payne, was the city’s chief of police.58 Frank Florence was able to keep his own brothel safe from prosecution for years because he was an assistant chief of detectives. Using his position in the police force, he was even able to evade conviction for killing a fellow police officer, H. F. Trafton, whose investigations were threatening his business.59 Similarly, influence at City Hall allowed the owners of the Commercial Hotel to escape punishment for their involvement in the shooting of a policeman, Detective Neville, on their premises.60 Thus, there was a sense in which violent acts were considered legitimate in the Valley: police officers and City Hall officials allowed violence, intimidation, and murder to govern relationships there and turned a blind eye, on occasion approved of, or even participated in such acts. These violent social norms were reflected in the behavior of the saloon patrons. This is, perhaps, not surprising for the saloons of the Valley seem to have been shaped by violence and crime to an unusual extent. Often, in the United States generally, saloons played an important role in working-class communities.61 As James R. Barrett has shown of Chicago’s Packingtown, such saloons often functioned effectively as working-class institutions. Saloonkeepers cashed checks, acting as local bankers. Saloon halls offered meeting space for fraternal organizations and unions, or for local celebrations. For workers who lived in cramped tenements, the saloon was an attractive escape from poor living conditions. Likewise,

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saloons located near factory gates often provided a free lunch with a glass of a beer, and served as unofficial canteens. Certainly, some saloons in East St. Louis seem to have fulfilled the sort of community function that Barrett found in Packingtown. Downtown, for example, Eddie Carr’s saloon on Collinsville Avenue offered the free lunch associated with the sort of bar termed as the “poor man’s club”; it also had a large board on display, on which baseball scores were updated whenever games were being played. It seems safe to assume that this saloon contained much of the atmosphere of the working-class saloon referred to by Duis and Barrett.62 However, it was the saloons of the Valley—often doubling as brothels or gambling parlors—rather than the working-class community saloon that dominated downtown East St. Louis, and dominated the saloon culture of the city. The saloons of the Valley were most unlike the ideal working-class “poor man’s club” or community saloon. Indeed, there seems to be much to justify the claim made by one witness appearing before the Select Committee in 1917 that “[t]he trouble with East St Louis is [that] it has got very few saloons in it, but it has got an innumerable amount of dives.”63 Without doubt, saloons located along Whiskey Chute in the vicinity of the stockyards in East St. Louis were of a very different character from the community bars Barrett described in the vicinity of Chicago’s stockyards: Whiskey Chute was said to be “a good place to go” for “a foot race,” meaning that a visitor was likely to be forced to flee or else become involved in a fight of some sort at some point during a night.64 (According to Robert Johns, a local carpenters’ union agent, one saloon alone on Whiskey Chute—that of Al Steiner—had been “a nice, clean, respectable place”; it was closed down in the spring of 1917 by Mayor Mollman because Steiner supported the mayoral campaign of Mollman’s opponent.65) Rather than the free lunch, associated with the respectable poor man’s club, it is cockfighting that symbolized the establishments of the Valley. Local saloon owner “Chick” Ducree organized particularly successful cockfighting— and indeed dog fighting—evenings in an arena to the north of the city.66 Apparently Ducree’s large events could last throughout an entire night.67 Needles of two inches in length were attached to the cockerels so that—in fights lasting up to ninety minutes—the birds would tear and cut each other for the delight of spectators gambling “large sums of money.”68 Such joy taken in gratuitous cruelty seems to reflect the wider culture of the Valley, in which leisure mixed with violence and bloodletting. The culture of the Valley was all the more significant for the popularity of its saloons. Thus, violence in them did not take place in a marginal social sphere, but was a prominent part of life in East St. Louis. “Dives” they may have been, but the saloons of the Valley attracted many patrons, “residents and tourists” alike.69 Leaving the violence aside for a moment,

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the Valley provided an environment where restrictive social mores were relaxed and where (largely working-class) men and women spent their leisure time.70 This, as in Chicago and New York for example, was attractive to working-class men and “rowdy girls” (as young working-class women who frequented saloons and dance halls were known) who could join together there in unrestricted drunken revelry after a hard working week: these saloons were the mirror reverse of factory discipline.71 A Daily Journal article in 1910 described a typical scene in the Monkey Cage saloon (albeit in a rather disapproving, moralizing tone): “seven couples, young men and women,” and unescorted “girls,” were seen “smoking cigarettes and drinking beer,” and dancing together (“lewd dances” to “crude” piano music).72 This was a relaxed, casual environment—the Journal described much “drinking, smoking and swearing,” as women casually lounged, with “their feet cocked up on the tables” or “sitting on . . . men’s laps.”73 Although such behavior challenged respectable social mores, there seems to have been little here that was harmful in itself. Yet, while such activities were in themselves rather innocuous, the environment was not. Indeed, visiting “tourists” from St. Louis seem to have felt this to be so, for numbers of them liked to pay “slumming” visits to the Valley, where saloons were felt to have a more dangerous—and therefore exotic—flavor.74 That a visit to the saloons, which were part of everyday experience for East St. Louisans, was considered by outsiders to be exotically dangerous seems particularly revealing of the extent to which East St. Louisans had absorbed the norms of the Valley. Organized criminals were entrenched in East St. Louis. With their stronghold and sphere of influence in the Valley, they dominated the downtown area. Their violent culture infected the surrounding district of the city. William Miller, the manager of the Railroad YMCA downtown, noted how, in that area of the city, “the sentiment is rotten to the core” and caught up in the world of the organized criminals: living there, “you think it is the sentiment of the whole world.”75 Through the saloon, the working class of East St. Louis entered the organized criminals’ sphere and its social norms. Undoubtedly, this was all the more significant in the case of the many young teenage boys who frequented saloons in the city.76 Those saloons—associated with prostitutes in kimonos and backroom gambling parlors where “you could cut the cigar smoke with a knife”—provided the highly masculinized environment in which these teenage boys came to manhood.77 As they did so, these boys were socialized in the behavioral norms of the Valley saloons: the carrying of firearms, a great sensitivity to personal slights, and spontaneous outbursts of extreme violence. East St. Louis saloon patrons’ habit of carrying concealed firearms surely contributed to outsiders’ belief that these bars were dangerous. Such

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behavior also provides some indication of how the violent norms of the Valley shaped the behavior of the city’s people. Clearly, firearms introduced a potentially lethal factor into personal confrontations and barroom fights. However, the carrying of firearms was largely tolerated by the authorities. The knowledge that armed men were about seems not to have stirred police officers or judges into action, beyond taking reasonable precautions for their own safety: one witness appearing before the Select Committee recalled one occasion when Judge Clark, passing near the “outlaws” lining up to enter one saloon in the Valley, concluded simply that he would leave the street and “go to his room before the shooting would start.”78 As a result, one could find in the Valley the sort of “heavily armed” patrons one police officer saw lining up to enter the Millionaire’s Club gambling parlor.79 Perhaps unsurprisingly given the prevalence of firearms, the local coroner C. P. Renner reported to the Select Committee in 1917 that “lots of the homicides” in East St. Louis had been committed in saloons in the years before the race riot.80 Quite likely, firearms were sometimes simply brandished as a gesture to deter aggressors. However, there are ample newspaper reports of barroom shootings to indicate that they were not carried merely for defense. Those reports offer an insight into how such violence erupted and indicate that even relatively mundane incidents or conflicts could result in an argument that could escalate wildly. Saloon patrons sometimes resorted to extreme violence in reaction to a slight against their sense of personal pride or familial honor: for example, Everett Woods, a teamster, was shot and wounded in George “Potts” Nevins’s saloon by Chester Calvert, an electrician, after the former allegedly “insulted” the latter’s sister.81 Sometimes arguments over gambling debts or accusations of cheating in games of cards or craps sparked violence. In high-stakes games, this could be a very real financial matter as well as one of personal honor.82 Thus, Harry Koch, was shot and gravely wounded by “Hoot” Humm at “Potts” Nevins’s saloon, after an argument over a (substantial) $100 gambling debt, in which the latter accused the former of having cheated in a game of poker.83 Similarly, Edward Musgrave shot at William Schiffer in a saloon at 434 Broadway in the Valley, after quarrelling over a game of craps—missing his target in this case, but hitting a bystander, William Whatley.84 Although such barroom fights sometimes erupted in response to an insult, there is little that suggests this can be compared to the sort of “honor culture” in which violence served to resolve disputes in “traditional” or preindustrial societies. Writing recently of such a culture—nineteenthcentury Greece—Thomas W. Gallant has considered the significance of widespread ritual knife-fighting among plebeian men in confrontations arising over insults or slights against honor. As Gallant’s work shows, such

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violence was ritually controlled: the knife-fight was intended to “maim and scar,” not to kill.85 But in East St. Louis, the ready resort to firearms in barroom fights indicates that saloon confrontations were not simply ritualistic, or a symbolic drawing of blood: assailants plainly were prepared to kill their opponents, or did not care if they did. Moreover, there seems to have been no effective social check on the degree of violence used in a fight, even where firearms were not involved. William Jermin, for example, died after receiving a savage beating at the hands of the bartender, Fanhoff Publoski, and the porter, Frank Bokoarski, of the saloon in which he was drinking.86 Clearly, this was a sustained attack of some savagery. Likewise, in another particularly brutal attack (at the notorious saloon of “Potts” Nevins’s), Mr. R. C. Childers of St. Louis was beaten “beyond recognition” during a barroom brawl one night, then thrown out of the door to lie on the street, where he died.87 Rather than being ritualized contests over matters of honor, barroom fights in East St. Louis were explosions of rage. Even the most minor events could spark a confrontation if it were interpreted as a provocation. A useful approach to the role of rage in street fights and brawls is suggested by the anthropologist Daniel Touro Linger, in his research on interpersonal violence among men in late-twentieth-century Brazil.88 Linger described a situation in which rage, welled-up during everyday life, could be suddenly and dramatically expressed in violent confrontations—often with strangers.89 A violent eruption could vent this built-up rage, and was felt to have a cathartic effect. Yet, it was only considered acceptable to engage in a fight if there had been some sort of provocation, and so violence could erupt around the thinnest of pretexts: thus, a man might deliberately misinterpret an accidental collision in public—if somebody trod on a foot or struck him with an elbow accidentally—as a slight and provocation.90 Repressed anger would then be brought to the surface, and feelings of rage about a sense of “being exploited, maligned and violated” in everyday life were displaced into confrontations of this kind.91 In East St. Louis, a similar displacement of rage is evident in the culture of the Valley. Here, the unemployed and exploited workers—expected to conform to workplace discipline during the day—were offered an opportunity to vent their frustrations in a sphere where such expressions were considered a social norm and where they were least likely to elicit a response from the socially powerful. It was also an environment in which there was copious consumption of strong liquor—for example, the extra strong “twelve block” whiskey served for five cents a shot and so named because it was reputed that it was so strong that if “[y]ou take a drink of that and walk twelve blocks . . . [you] drop [down drunk]”: undoubtedly such drinking habits tended to disturb the judgment of saloon patrons and

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weakened their ability or willingness to control aggression.92 This was a volatile environment in which something as simple as the spilling of a glass of beer could lead to an argument, which rapidly escalated into a murderous fight—as occurred in the killing of saloon patron William Jermin. Similarly, it was an argument over a matter of little consequence—the refusal of bartender Everett Jones to lend Overton Croft fifty cents—which led to an argument in which Croft shot and killed Jones.93 Thus, at the heart of East St. Louis was a culture in which frustration and rage was displaced in explosions of extreme violence. The Valley was a sphere in which the violence of organized criminals was mirrored in the violence of saloon patrons. City Hall authorities had relinquished control; instead, organized criminals established their own control, which rested on extreme violence and which was defiant of the law. This established a violent behavioral norm that dominated the Valley and its saloons. The Valley became a sphere in which extreme acts of brutality were carried out, as rage that was restricted in other spheres was given vent here. Laws restricting the carrying of firearms were not enforced by the police and this surely contributed to saloon violence. Yet, violence was also committed by unarmed men. Here, in brutal beatings, it is clear that the sort of social checks that regulated ritualized fighting in some other cultures were absent in the Valley. When violence broke out, it could escalate wildly. Located at the heart of the city, and widely patronized by East St. Louisans, the Valley culturally conditioned local people to accept— even expect—that extreme violence would erupt in interpersonal conflict. This ready acceptance of extreme violence would have a significant impact upon the trajectory of the 1917 race riot. Saloon patrons in employment were routinely exposed to the Valley but the Valley was also—as one local resident observed—home to many “men that never worked at all . . . [but] found some other way of getting a living.”94 They were a milieu of men surviving on the economic margins around the Valley, opportunist criminals, street gang members and the sort of “heavily armed” professional gamblers mentioned earlier. These were not the working-class patrons who spent some time in the Valley: these were men who were utterly immersed in the violent lifestyle of the saloons, brothels, and gambling parlors and were brutalized by it. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they were considered to be “a dangerous class of men,” a “tough element.”95 According to William Miller, manager of the local Railroad YMCA, which was located downtown, “virtually all” of the saloons in the Valley attracted this clientele of “hold up men, thugs, toughs . . . and that character of men.”96 They were a permanent feature of the Valley district downtown. It was impossible to avoid such men in this area, as a person “walking up and down the streets [of the Valley] would be bumping into

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these thugs” continually.97 Such men who spent their days “loaf[ing] around bar-rooms” or else “inhabit[ed] wine rooms and places of that character,” were described somewhat appropriately by the “muckraking” St. Louis journalist Paul Y. Anderson as “saloon bums.”98 It was just such saloon bums who would play a key role in triggering the racial violence of 2 July 1917. Given the violent culture of the Valley, it is unsurprising that men who were immersed in this world, the saloon bums, were prominent in acts of violence. This was a culture that produced freakish acts of brutality. In June 1916, for example, ten-year-old Mac Katona was kidnapped by Nick Noctkich—described as a “vagrant . . . [who] hangs around saloons”— and possibly two other men. For their amusement, while drunk, these men “performed an operation” on the boy, as the local newspaper reported, using “an old pocket knife,” leaving him with grave injuries.99 Such an incident was extreme even for the Valley and was not a routine occurrence in East St. Louis—although the attack on Mac Katona echoes the kidnapping, mutilation, and beheading of the little boy Alphonse Magarin by criminal gangsters mentioned in chapter 2. However, bubbling to the surface, acts of this nature seem to indicate a general culture in which delight in cruelty and violence was accepted as a social norm. Such saloon bums were also clearly implicated in racial violence. For example, according to the Chicago Defender, one group of white racists—a street gang known locally as the “Chaw” Gang—were involved in racist attacks in the weeks leading up to the July massacre: they were known “to hang out at Tom Jordan’s pool room.”100 One element of this Valley milieu that would have a more direct role in the outbreak of the July riot was the men who congregated in the saloons of the Valley and who drove jitney cabs—unlicensed taxis—to make money. One group of such jitney drivers in particular was closely associated with Nick Rosselli’s Commercial Hotel—an establishment that attracted a large clientele of the sort of criminals and saloon bums who frequented the Valley. These jitney drivers were among the “crowd of objectionables” whom Mayor Chamberlin sought to eject from the city during his administration. They were known to “hang around” with the “tough element” of the Commercial Hotel and similar saloons and roadhouses, sometimes earning money by driving criminals to the places where they would commit violent robberies.101 Such men, would become closely involved in the growing racial hostility in East St. Louis during June and July 1917. Moreover, they would bring a particular violence to it. On the night of 1 July 1917, it was just such a group of jitney drivers who were seen leaving the Commercial Hotel, armed. They climbed into an automobile, drove south to the black neighborhood of

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Denverside, through the residential streets there and opened fire on the homes of African Americans: this action would spark the racial onslaught that is addressed in detail in Part II of this book.102

Conclusion Although popular culture encompasses many different forms, the focus here is on those aspects that reproduced racial discrimination and prejudice, and which normalized violence. Popular culture can be used to transform the relationship between blacks and whites, and promote the breakdown of racial divisions and prejudices. Such use of popular culture, however, depends upon organizations that were absent in early-twentiethcentury East St. Louis. Although baseball was widely played in East St. Louis, games remained racially segregated, reinforcing the divisions in everyday life. The occasional baseball games between segregated black and white teams did not take place in an environment that encouraged the breakdown of these divisions: quite the reverse, they seem to have been occasions around which racial antipathies condensed. In popular theatre, performers reproduced racist stereotypes that belittled African Americans. Stereotypes of a more aggressively racist nature featured in the film The Birth of a Nation, which appeared in East St. Louis only months before the 1917 race riot: this film, which had made a profound impact nationally, and which attracted large audiences in East St. Louis, portrayed African Americans as predatory threatening “others,” and as a danger to the political and social order. It legitimized mob violence and lynching as a means of upholding white supremacy. It has been noted that a number of the themes raised in the film connected with white East St. Louisans’ own fears. In this, it contributed to the promotion of ideologies of race that shaped popular culture and prophetically suggested mob violence as a means of reasserting a white supremacy that was felt to be under threat. The saloon occupied a central place in the popular culture of East St. Louis. But, the saloons of the Valley in East St. Louis generally did not compare favorably with the sort of working-class saloons to be found in Chicago’s Packingtown, or with the ideal “poor man’s club.” Instead, the saloon culture of East St. Louis reflected the violent social norms established by the organized criminals who controlled the Valley. The world of the saloon was a place in which rage was displaced and expressed in outbursts of unchecked, extreme violence. The culture of the Valley conditioned white working-class saloon patrons to accept, or even expect,

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that extreme acts of violence would be used in the resolution of interpersonal conflict. Here, young men were socialized in violence. At the heart of the Valley, moreover, was a violent core of saloon bums. They, and the ready acceptance of extreme violence that their culture propagated, would shape the brutal outpouring of violence on 2 July 1917.

Part II

Race Riot

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4

Race Riot: The Conjuncture*

n the summer of 1917, East St. Louis slid into a cataclysm of racial violence. On 2 July 1917, the city erupted in one of the bloodiest race riots in American history. In an explosion of racial hatred and rage, white mobs—cheered on by crowds of hundreds upon hundreds of local whites—mercilessly beat and shot black men, women, and children in the streets, and set black businesses and homes ablaze. The rioters claimed the lives of at least around forty black people, and left many more injured, some appallingly so.1 Entire sections of African American neighborhoods were devastated, razed to the ground, and thousands of black families were forced to flee the city. Chapter 5 anatomizes the massacre itself, and this chapter discusses the causes of the outbreak. To begin with, however, it is necessary to consider Elliott Rudwick’s classic book of 1964, Race Riot at East St Louis. When explaining the appalling outbreak of violence in July 1917, Rudwick suggested that the reaction of racially prejudiced local whites to two campaigns of “organized hostility,” in the context of “the migration of a considerable number of Southern Negroes” to the city, was key. First, in the autumn election campaign of 1916, local Democratic politicians whipped up a frenzy of paranoia with false allegations that Republicansympathizing black migrants were arriving in the city at the behest of the GOP in order to influence the election result. The campaign left “scars” of racial hostility in the city. Then, in the months after the election and facing defeat in a strike at the Aluminum Ore plant, “local labor leaders . . . took a leaf from the Democratic party’s campaign handbook”: they “decided that their only hope of ever staging a successful strike was to bar [black] migrants from the city”; they “repeatedly inflamed the whites, using racist propaganda to rally the community against employers and to frighten Negroes into leaving the city.” In particular, they accused local employers

I

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of “importing” black workers from the South in order to weaken labor unions or even displace white labor altogether.2 These two campaigns encouraged local whites to see migration as a threat to their community and to the prevailing system of racial subordination. Migration, it was feared, was part of a plot by employers to make East St. Louis “a Negro town” and local whites began to assert an increasingly aggressive claim on the city, stating that it must remain a “white man’s town.” And, Rudwick noted, in the wake of these campaigns, the local press demonized black migrants, repeatedly misrepresenting them as criminal “gun-toters,” thus stoking white fears.3 Sporadic violence began to grip the city. A nascent race riot erupted on 28 May after an AFL-sponsored meeting protesting against migration. Sporadic clashes between whites and blacks broke out through June. Meanwhile, “dwindling” pickets at the failing Aluminum Ore strike became involved in fights with strikebreakers—many of whom were black. Humiliating defeat finally came as black strikebreakers appeared escorted to work under the protection of the National Guard.4 This ratcheted the racial tension in East St. Louis up a further notch: the city was tinder dry, finally bursting alight on 2 July. Rudwick’s work certainly identified the key contexts of the race riot. However, this book places less emphasis upon the campaigns of organized hostility whipped up from above by politicians and AFL leaders, and more emphasis upon how racial hostility emerged from below, from within the white working-class community. Rather than tracing the emergence of racial hostility to the 1916 election campaign, this chapter traces its origins to the period of labor conflict, out of which the Aluminum Ore strike grew. In particular, it argues that the rise of racial hostility in East St. Louis cannot be fully understood without considering the impact of the defeat of the Aluminum Ore strike upon white working-class community and identity. To begin, it places the Aluminum Ore strike and its defeat in the context of a period of emerging, and dramatically curtailed, workers’ militancy and union organization: this was a period in which workers’ hopes were raised and then bitterly crushed. It would bring workers into an intense class conflict, in which race would be involved from the outset. It would result in a defeat that would see white workers gripped by a sense of despair, and desperately fearful that their place in the world of work, within their civic community, and even their nation, had been placed in jeopardy. The significance of this is further illuminated by comparison with the work of Jeremy Krikler on racial killings on the South African Rand in 1922. The timing of the outbreak of violence on the Rand, Krikler has suggested, was related to the impending crushing of a white miners’ strike. This, as Krikler in fact noted, bore some similarities with the eruption of

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violence in East St. Louis in 1917: in both cases, indiscriminate racial violence can be related to the crushing (or impending crushing) of a workers’ movement by employers supported by the state. On the Rand, as the white miners in South Africa faced defeat and state forces flooded the region to repress the strikers, “all out combat with the full might of the state” seemed impending; at that moment, white workers broke out into indiscriminate racial violence and appealed to the wider white community on the basis of a racial peril. The approach rests upon the suggestion that white workers participated in the violence to heal a fracture in the white community caused by class conflict and to address a fear that their position in the racial community was about to be swept away, a prospect that threatened their very sense of identity.5 The reaction of white workers in East St. Louis can be understood in these terms.

Hope Crushed: Capital, Labor, and Race, 1916–1917 The defeat of the Aluminum Ore strike came as the bitter end to a period of nascent union organization in East St. Louis, which had raised the possibility that unorganized workers—employed by companies hostile to unions—might be able to assert some control over their working environment and conditions. Only a small proportion of workers overall in East St. Louis were members of unions.6 While, according to local AFL representative Alois Towers, skilled workers were generally “able to take care of themselves,” most workers were “helpless” in the face of their employers.7 However, this seemed to be changing in the summer and autumn of 1916. The outbreak of war in Europe revived the American economy and—as Rick Halpern has noted of the effect of this economic change on the stockyards in Chicago—this provided “the most favorable climate in over a decade” for organization, as workers found themselves in an improved bargaining position. Significantly, as well as an emerging militancy in Chicago at this time, “major strikes idled thousands of [meatpacking] workers in Sioux City and East St Louis” that year.8 However, the emerging militancy was not confined to the meatpacking industry alone: Alois Towers recalled that at this time, “common [unskilled] labor all over [East St. Louis] was becoming dissatisfied, and justly so. Their wages were horrible.”9 Yet, at the same time, employers were looking forward to a period of sustained high demand and even—anticipating the entry of the United States into the war in Europe—government war orders.10 This placed capital and labor on a collision course in East St. Louis during 1916–1917 and meant that the Aluminum Ore dispute would be tied to a wider struggle.

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In his Select Committee testimony, Alois Towers recalled that there had been two key strikes in 1916, of track workers and meatpacking workers, before the Aluminum Ore dispute.11 In all three cases, workers had successfully formed their own unions and challenged their employers’ antiunion policies. First, in May 1916, a group of track workers employed by the East St. Louis and Suburban Streetcar Company formed their own organization and went on strike, demanding a pay increase. Although the strikers were immediately fired by their employer, Alois Towers later recalled, there was a strong sense of solidarity: when the “other workmen on the job [were asked] . . . to fill the places of the discharged men . . . [t]hey refused” and when they too were sacked they joined the original strikers’ organization. The strikers affiliated to the AFL, to strengthen their union, and brought the entire streetcar network running through East St. Louis and the surrounding area to a halt for over a month. It was an impressive strike, achieving—in Towers’s words—“the most complete tieup in the way of a strike that has ever been pulled off in this community.”12 Moreover, the workers received the support of the mayors of East St. Louis and nearby Belleville who, concerned about the effect of this strike on downtown businesses, placed pressure on the employer to meet the union. By mid-July, the company had agreed to the strikers’ original pay demand of $2.00 a day and had officially recognized the union.13 Thus, the strike succeeded in forcing concessions from the employer and in drawing political support behind the workers. As will be seen later, this dramatic event and display of workers’ power greatly alarmed the local Chamber of Commerce, members of which began planning a way to break this power. However, before that, as the track workers’ strike ended in mid-July, another strike was about to break out in East St. Louis, this time at the packing plants. Although Elliott Rudwick was right to state that the crushing of the meatpacking workers’ organization in 1917 demonstrated the power of the employers, it must be emphasized that the organization campaign and strike of 1916—the first significant action in the packing plants since 1904—first raised hope that collective action could wring concessions from these powerful corporate employers.14 The dispute began in late July when “about 50” union organizers were dismissed after holding an organizing meeting of 250 workers. However—as had occurred during the track workers’ strike—dismissals merely stiffened the workers’ resolve at this time.15 Within days, up to 700 butcher workers had joined the union: they “voted to quit work until their comrades . . . [were] reinstated.” Many laborers, men and women, blacks and whites, struck in sympathy and perhaps up to 2,000 workers joined this walkout.16 By the second day, a local newspaper headline declared that “5000 WORKMEN ARE OUT AT SIX

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PACKING HOUSES” and that production had been “Virtually Suspended” by the action.17 This was a potentially powerful workers’ movement because, as in Chicago’s stockyards around this time, ethnic divisions in this “polyglot workforce” were being overcome.18 This is perhaps well symbolized by the workers’ meeting place: Bohemian Hall, which had been built in the Goose Hill neighborhood by immigrant workers as a meeting place for Bohemian immigrants, but was now acting as a center for interethnic union organization.19 Moreover, this was a strike in which both blacks and whites participated: “hundreds” of black workers joined the walkout and an African American worker, William Bagley, helped lead the strike at Morris.20 Management would quickly seek to unpick this nascent solidarity. However, at the time, the strikers prevailed. The employers struggled to cope. By the fourth day, “[o]ffice men, clerks and bookkeepers were required . . . to put on butchers’ aprons and to slaughter and dress cattle and hogs.”21 Meanwhile, union leaders reported that they expected the engineers and machinists—who kept the chill rooms running and stopped meat from spoiling—to join the walkout imminently.22 The union applied further pressure, holding a meeting at City Hall calling for arbitration while warning that “unless a settlement is reached, the meat cutters and packers of Kansas City and Chicago will be called out, practically tying up the industry throughout the country.” Workers’ morale was high: at a strike meeting at a park that day, it was reported, “the chant of ‘s-t-a-y out!’ was loud and prolonged.”23 The next day, employers agreed terms: they would reinstate the sacked union organizers, tolerate the union—if not recognize it fully—and allow grievance committees on each floor. Although they were unable to achieve a closed shop, the strikers had managed to wring significant concessions from their powerful corporate employers after only days.24 In the summer of 1916, then, workers across East St. Louis had new cause for hope. New labor organizations had sprung up even in the face of employers’ hostility. In the case of the meatpacking industry, a union was being built for the first time in over a decade and, significantly, the strike had seen blacks and whites united in a common cause. Thus, workers in East St. Louis must have felt a sense of momentum building behind them, as first the streetcar company conceded, after first refusing to negotiate at all, and then the meatpacking corporations settled after only days. Thus, it was against the background of recent victory that, in autumn 1916, workers at Aluminum Ore—the city’s largest factory—began to organize in response to a recent deterioration in working conditions, opening up a new struggle. Working conditions at Aluminum Ore had not always been considered bad. According to the plant manager, the dispute of 1916–1917 was the

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first in ten years.25 The Aluminum Ore Company paid wages that were comparable to other local industries.26 When Charles B. Fox took over as superintendent in 1909, there was no labor organization in the plant, but—according to Philip Wolf, one of the union organizers—conditions were reasonably satisfactory during the early 1910s. Management tolerated workers clawing back some time from the company: practices such as clocking-on late and collecting pay on company time were seen as established “old custom” and surely helped mitigate the sense of exploitation.27 However, this was to change and provoke workers to organize when a new assistant superintendent, Raymond F. Rucker, was appointed in mid-April 1915.28 As noted earlier, this was a period in which techniques of scientific management were increasingly being applied in factories. Such practices tended to increase economic efficiency—while tending to chip away at workers’ control and autonomy. Rucker was—in the words of one worker— just such “an efficiency man.”29 Hired as the outbreak of war in Europe began to fuel demand, Rucker’s arrival was well-timed to help the Aluminum Ore Company make the most of the revitalized economy. However, his recommendations, which included lowering bonus payments for workers, closing the factory restaurant, and, most crucially, imposing new rules about time-management, involved overturning “old customs” and the small concessions workers had hitherto felt made their employment at the plant more bearable.30 Moreover, the changes made a clear statement of the power relationship between management and workers. By posting signs around the plant warning “no more pay on the company’s time,” management exacerbated the workers’ sense of burden and loss of the small degree of control they had previously enjoyed.31 In response, in the autumn of 1916, the Aluminum Ore workers organized. Like the track workers and unskilled meatpacking workers, the Aluminum Ore workers at first organized themselves without the help of the AFL.32 They formed the Aluminum Ore Employees’ Protective Association and sought to bring together workers from across the plant. This represented a potentially serious challenge to management, with the potential to break down ethnic and racial divisions and divisions between the skilled and unskilled. The Association recruited among the roughly 1,200 largely native-born white skilled workers—pipe fitters, electricians, millwrights, mechanics and so on—of the Construction Department, and the 800 or so largely unskilled, foreign-born, and African American workers of the Operating Department.33 The Construction Department workers took a leading role in the strike. Union leader Philip Wolf, for example, was a native-born, semi-skilled oiler in this Department’s power house. But, the union also included a significant number of foreign-born workers of the Operating Department, where there were also said to have been

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“prominent” organizers. Joseph Siski, for example, organized meetings of foreign-born Aluminum Ore workers in his neighborhood hall.34 Philip Wolf, a former member of the United Mine Workers of America, also sought to recruit black workers to the organization. To have a union that included black and white workers, Wolf later stated, was “the proper thing” to do.35 This was a potentially powerful organization, then, which sought to unite the entire workforce. And, at first, it seemed that management recognized this. As the “Meat Trust” had caved in after only days, the “Aluminum Trust” conceded even before the walkout took place. On 13 October, the day before the planned strike, Superintendent Fox met with the Protective Association. He “told the members there was no necessity to go any further; that the conditions complained of would be remedied,” and their wages would be increased.36 However, during the autumn of 1916, as the Aluminum workers seemed to be sealing a third symbolically significant victory for labor that year, a counterattack by employers was already beginning. Between then and the spring of 1917, employers sought to undermine the three victorious unions by fomenting racial discord and opening and manipulating racial divisions among their workers. In the case of the track workers, whose organization was composed entirely of whites, this was a simple matter. Repeating the worst mistakes of the AFL, under whose guidance their union was consolidated, these white workers sought only to protect their own position and did not wish to identify a common interest with black workers.37 This had not presented them with a practical problem during the strike, but it became a pressing matter after the strike, when the streetcar company began to employ contract workers, some of whom were black.38 Even by the autumn of 1916, the union had not recruited any black members. The failure to seek common cause with black workers allowed the company to neutralize the union. In what seems to have been a thinly veiled threat, a company official met with the union’s representative in the autumn and, seemingly mocking, asked “if their organization would take in negroes.” For, he explained, “he could get all kinds of negro labor,” and planned “to bring in negroes and put them on the job” in the place of the white union members.39 White workers’ privileged position in the workplace was based upon collusion with their employers in racial discrimination and now, it appeared, white workers were being given an ultimatum: to fall into line behind their employers, or to lose the security accorded them through racial discrimination. As noted earlier, white workers felt humiliated when they were replaced by, and felt themselves to be interchangeable with, black workers, whose position of subordination in the workplace and labor market ordinarily bolstered whites’ sense of self-esteem. Significantly, the employment

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of black track workers would later be cited by whites as an example of how an “influx of negroes” was enabling employers to “challenge” workers “to keep quiet and stay on their jobs.”40 Nevertheless, the employer’s racial strategy may have made the trade union leadership of the track workers wary about taking action. They did not call a strike in 1917 when a number of other unions took action, and when their own rank and file wanted to. However, employers surely faced a more difficult task where the meatpacking workers were concerned. Both blacks and whites had participated in the 1916 strike: “hundreds” of black workers joined the walkout and an African American worker—William Bagley—had helped lead the strike at Morris. If not the basis for a long-term interracial union, this at least held out the possibility that workers need not always be divided by race. Perhaps the spontaneity of the widespread solidarity walkout had even helped temporarily obviate the difficulties posed by organization drives involving the AFL craft unions, which were blighted by racial discrimination and seen by many black workers as “white men’s unions.”41 But managers quickly began using what one local union representative called “the old tactics” to foment racial discord after the strike: “[t]hey fired . . . [white union leaders] or the [white] man that attended union meetings, and put a negro in his place.”42 Meanwhile, the local police department of the predominantly African American town of Brooklyn, which lay next to the stockyards and East St. Louis, played a role in preventing black and white workers coming together at this time, in action that indicates strong support for corporate power by the police: AFL organizer Earl Jimerson later recalled that he and Le Roy Bundy, a black community leader of East St. Louis, had tried to hold a joint meeting in Brooklyn to encourage black workers to join the union but they were “ordered back to East St Louis” by the chief of police.43 It is significant that, as employers sought to open up racial divisions and the chances of consolidating interracial solidarity were curtailed by police harassment, resentment toward black workers grew: white workers began to complain that employers “encourage the negro by discriminating against the whites.”44 This belief was so strong that some whites would come mythologically to associate the employment of black workers with the crushing of organized labor and the ejection of white workers from their position in the labor market: before the Select Committee in late 1917, discussing the aftermath of the 1904 meatpacking strike, in which Irish American and German American workers had been displaced by southern and eastern European immigrants, a union official incorrectly explained that it had been a similar “great influx of negroes” then that had caused “Irish and English” workers to be “forced out of the packing houses.”45

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It is clear that employers successfully divided blacks and whites and in the process created resentment among the whites toward African Americans. This pattern also emerged at Aluminum Ore following the dispute and threatened walkout in 1916. Significantly, it seems that this strategy was adopted by management as a reaction to the breaking down of racial divisions. As Rudwick noted, during the winter of 1916, the Aluminum Ore Employees’ Protective Association had sought to recruit African Americans and “a few” joined after December: “that was precisely the point,” Rudwick noted, “at which management decided to hire colored men who had migrated from the South,” and increased the number of black workers at the plant from 280 to 410. Meanwhile, over two hundred whites—not all of them even Protective Association members—were dismissed. While not all of those whites were replaced by blacks, the larger proportion was.46 The impact of this strategy was twofold: weakening organized labor by removing union members and sowing racial discord among the workforce. It seems that black workers were employed in the place of whites in the Operating Department specifically. Having been roughly one-third of the 800 or so strong Operating Department, they became roughly half. Not only did this strategy bear down upon the weakest section of the Protective Association—the Operating Department was not comprehensively unionized to begin with—it also targeted the workers who were essential to production and, therefore, of priority for the union: a strike that included the Operating Department could halt production immediately.47 Moreover, replacing union members with black migrants from the South posed a particular challenge for the union. As both James Barrett and Rick Halpern have found in their work on Chicago’s stockyards during this period, unions were generally able to recruit both blacks and whites who were native to the city but had particular difficulty when trying to recruit black migrants from the South: a lack of awareness about unions among rural black Southerners, or past experience of racist unions and a genuine enthusiasm among many for the new opportunity of industrial employment in the North, which encouraged loyalty to employers, tended to undermine recruitment.48 Thus, by replacing whites who had an emerging involvement in union organization at Aluminum Ore with black migrants, who had none, management tended to weaken the Protective Association’s chances of recruiting in this section of the plant. At the same time, the Aluminum Ore Company was seeking to encourage the loyalty of its workers. Having first opposed the Protective Association, Assistant Superintendent Raymond F. Rucker later embraced it, fearful that if it did not achieve some success, workers might turn to the AFL, where—it was felt—“there was strength.”49 In 1917, Rucker met with

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Wolf and told him that Aluminum Ore was trying to organize a workers’ insurance scheme. Perhaps the offer was genuine, although it seems unlikely that this represented a serious change of heart, for Fox expressed little enthusiasm for making improvements to working conditions for his employees: “you can do too much of that” he had stated.50 But, whether introduced for cynical reasons or from genuine concern, such paternalism generally tended to work against union organization. Moreover, in March 1917, Charles Fox hosted a meeting of representatives of local corporate and public amenity employers and the YMCA, in order to discuss ways of improving housing conditions for black migrant workers.51 It is uncertain whether Fox had made it known to newly employed black workers that his company was planning to help improve their housing conditions— although this is suggested by the rumor that local corporations were building “negro huts” to house black migrants, which may have been a distorted interpretation of this plan.52 It seems likely that Fox was hoping to encourage loyalty among black migrant workers to discourage them from joining the union. As Rick Halpern and James Barrett have both noted of Chicago during this period, packinghouse employers had some success in discouraging black migrants from joining a union drive by encouraging loyalty through social programs: at the same time as weakening the union drive, this tended to polarize whites and blacks.53 It seems likely that in East St. Louis, as in Chicago, such a strategy would have widened divisions between native East St. Louisans and black migrant workers: perhaps this would have been especially the case at the Aluminum Ore plant where there had been no black workers before 1913 and where the majority of recent black employees seem to have been migrants.54 White Aluminum Ore union members came to blame African Americans for perceived weaknesses in their organization. Expressing exasperated frustration about the appointment of these new black workers, as well as a racist hostility toward them, the trade unionist Wolf later stated before the Select Committee that management had fired white union members and “put in niggers wherever they could” at this time; “[i]t appeared as though where they left one white man out they hired a nigger in his place.”55 Moreover, as was noted in chapter 2, white workers were generally of the opinion that they somehow had a prior claim to employment over African Americans. The Aluminum Ore union may have recognized the need to recruit black members, but this was merely because its members knew this would strengthen the union, rather than reflecting a challenge to racial chauvinism. The actions of the Aluminum Ore management in 1916–1917, meanwhile, raised to the surface the attitudes intrinsic to this chauvinism: white Aluminum Ore workers began to complain that black workers “took work” that “belonged to the white man.”56 It is clear, then, that Fox’s strategy widened racial divisions among the workforce and aroused hostility

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and resentment toward the newly recruited black workers. The hostility toward black migrants aroused in the Aluminum Ore plant would be felt across the city, for the substitution of black workers for white there was felt to be part of a pattern. Wolf himself stated later, “I understand that it [replacing white workers with black workers] had been done at the packing plants” too.57 Thus, in an ominous reaction, as white workers felt the strength of their union being undermined during the winter of 1916–1917, they began to blame black workers. Despite the initial promise held out by the meatpacking and Aluminum Ore unions, over the winter of 1916–1917, employers clearly managed to foment racial discord. However, racial violence only erupted during the summer of 1917. Significantly, this coincided with a crushing defeat for organized labor: only then did it become apparent that workers would be unable to assert any meaningful control in the productive sphere. Most prominently, the Aluminum Ore union was destroyed in a strike over pay and conditions that began hopefully in April 1917, but ended in disaster two months later. Robert Johns, a carpenters’ union representative recalled that when Wolf met with the AFL in late March to discuss calling a walkout, he “seemed to be anxious to pull off a strike”—perhaps anxious because he knew management was picking off union members over time—and buoyed by having “whipped” the Aluminum Ore Company in the autumn.58 The Aluminum Ore workers decided to strike on 18 April.59 At first, it seemed promising. Elliott Rudwick’s suggestion that “[d]uring the first several days of the walkout . . . the union seemed to be winning” seems to have been well founded.60 On 18 April 1917, Wolf recalled, “news spread like wild fire” that a walkout had been called. Despite Plant Superintendent Fox’s personal intervention, moving through the plant trying to dissuade workers, telling them the strike had been called off, at midnight the boilers were cooled and the plant shut down.61 The following day, the strikers marched to City Hall under their union banners and the Stars and Stripes. Wolf estimated that between 1,800 and 2,000 participated and even the plant manager conceded that at least 1,000 took part.62 Excluding the foremen—who remained in the plant during the strike—it seems likely that well over half of the workforce joined the walkout, including members of both the Construction and Operating Departments. Despite the discord and racial division encouraged by management, the specific grievances of black janitors, who had been forced to work more than their agreed eight hours a day, were cited by the union as among the reasons for striking.63 Furthermore, the calling of the Aluminum Ore strike was followed by a clutch of industrial disputes and small walkouts. On 19 April, there was a walkout of more than fifty black and white workers—steamfitters, plumbers, and “other classes of workmen”—at American Steel. And on the

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same day, a small group of thirty-five packinghouse workers, carpenters, and “laborers” joined a walkout over a pay dispute.64 Only a few days later, “100 workmen, the greater part of them negroes,” were reported to have joined a strike at the Cotton Seed Oil Company.65 At the same time, the motormen and conductors of the East St. Louis and Suburban Streetcar Railway anticipated strike action as their contracts came to an end and their employers refused to meet a claim for a wage rise: over the next weeks and through the middle of May, negotiations involving Mayor Mollman, the unions, and the company repeatedly averted strike action at the last moment in favor of arbitration.66 Although never matching the scale of action in the summer of 1916, some disputes involved both black and white workers acting together and clearly a core of union activists remained even in the packing plants where management had spent the winter seeking to unpick the union organization. But, significantly, organized labor across the city was beginning to falter, not grow stronger. A walkout by meatpacking workers at this time was only small in scale, supporting Rudwick’s claim that the employers had effectively “smashed” the union by this time.67 A strike at the Elliott Frog and Switch plant was called off as workers failed to win a pay increase and agreed instead to the scale offered before their walkout.68 Likewise, the conductors and motormen of the East St. Louis and Suburban Streetcar Company entered protracted negotiations with their employers, the leadership threatening, but not quite daring to follow through on rank and file votes in favor of strike action.69 Even at Aluminum Ore, where 1,000 or more strikers had joined the walkout, the union began to falter. As Rudwick noted, the strike’s chances of success seemed to dwindle after “the company drew on its resources” and sought to break it.70 As the Aluminum Ore strike was slowly crushed during May and June 1917, sporadic racial violence began to flare in East St. Louis. The strike was finally called off on 21 June, with some pickets remaining in a final show of defiance for another week or so. The racial massacre erupted within a week of the strike’s final demise. This timing alone, in the context of growing racial hostility, suggests that the two events were linked. However, it is possible to understand exactly how they were connected only by further consideration of the breaking of the Aluminum Ore strike.

The Aluminum Ore Strike and the Fracturing of the White Community Three key factors shaped the 1917 Aluminum Ore dispute. First, it seems that management engaged in a strikebreaking campaign with the intention

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of inflicting a humiliating and devastating defeat on organized labor. It seems possible that this was related to an attempt to reimpose employers’ authority across the city: this was not only an industrial dispute, it was also a critical class confrontation. Second, management exploited the timing of the dispute, which began on 18 April, only twelve days after America’s entry into the First World War. Although, economically, this strengthened labor’s hand—for the government required war orders to be fulfilled and the manufacturers were eager to profit from these orders—this proved to be politically dangerous ground. Management used the opportunity to seek to convince the strikers that the state was joining it in moving against organized labor. Finally, the employers’ strategy of manipulating racial divisions in the workforce continued through the Aluminum Ore strike. This would add a final dangerous layer to the strikebreaking campaign. Something of the intensity of the Aluminum Ore strikebreaking campaign is suggested by Elliott Rudwick’s work. He revealed that the plant manager Charles Fox recruited a “professional strikebreaker” and a “large corps” of private detective “guards,” whom he armed with pickaxe handles and to whom he made available a crate of rifles, “secretly obtained” from the U.S. government.71 But, Rudwick noted, Fox also received two companies of National Guardsmen to patrol company property: exploiting the wartime context, Fox announced that the guards had come to protect the property “against . . . sympathizers with the German cause,” drawing an association between the strikers and America’s war enemy. Refusing to negotiate, Fox simply advertised the strikers’ jobs, but offered them the chance to return if they renounced their union membership. Faced with an opponent of such strength, Rudwick noted, the strikers collapsed, with only the core members remaining on strike for more than a few days.72 Indeed, the strikers faced a well-equipped and well-prepared employer. Moreover, as a closer look at Fox’s procurement of government rifles reveals, the Aluminum Ore Company was supported by corporate employers in the city and benefited from a degree of class loyalty. In preparing to break the Aluminum Ore strike, Fox had received the rifles from a local gun club set up by Estes M. Sorrells, secretary of the Chamber of Commerce. Almost certainly, Sorrells had established the club for the express purpose of obtaining these rifles, for the weapons remained packed and ungreased until they reached the Aluminum Ore plant. In fact, Sorrells later admitted during Select Committee hearings that the “gun club” never actually met to fire a shot.73 The club had been officially registered and rifles obtained even though no meeting place had been arranged and no enquiries about the cost of building a firing range had been made. The 40 rifles and 25,000 rounds of ammunition were moved from the gun

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club to the Aluminum Ore plant at night, using a company truck and with the assistance of company foremen. Sorrells was given a job, superintendent of River Navigation, by the Aluminum Ore Company the following month.74 But this was not a scheme devised by Sorrells and Fox alone. Taking a key role was the local Chamber of Commerce. This was seen locally as little more than “half a dozen heads of the big business interests” and their lawyers, consisting “exclusively of the leading men in the big industries, and manufacturing industries, and the public service corporations.”75 The Chamber of Commerce was generally hostile toward organized labor, and had earlier boasted that East St. Louis was a city with a labor force “freed from the danger of strikes.”76 It was, Estes Sorrells claimed, at the suggestion of the representatives of these corporate interests— significantly at the time of, and in response to, the 1916 track workers’ strike—that he set out to obtain the rifles. The implication was that the corporate employers were alarmed by the effectiveness of the track workers’ strike and obtained the rifles to help them break future strikes wherever they arose.77 Indeed, Sorrells himself boasted that he would have been willing to supply his rifles to “any plant that has a large property,” such as the packing plants.78 Thus, the Chamber of Commerce proved to be an institution through which the local managers of corporations could respond collectively and more powerfully to the increasing union organization taking place during 1916. Interestingly, Charles Fox, the Aluminum Ore superintendent, had a pivotal role in this institution in early 1917. For in March 1917, a month before the Aluminum Ore strike, the Chamber of Commerce and local Commercial Club had merged: Charles B. Fox, said to have been “the choice of the directors,” was elected President.79 Perhaps, as the newly elected president of the Chamber of Commerce and manager of the largest local factory, a sense of personal pride depended on his handling of the strike. This may have accounted, in part, for the ferocity of the strikebreaking campaign. But, also of significance were the government war orders received by large corporations, such as Aluminum Ore, which offered an opportunity for making large profits, opportunities that work stoppages could jeopardize. The war orders also gave the Aluminum Ore Company and other local corporations an opportunity to attack the strikers for hindering the war effort: hence the accusations of “pro-German” sympathy, noted by Rudwick. But, more than this, war orders allowed employers to identify their own interests with those of the state and the wider national interest. The efficacy of the Aluminum Ore strikebreaking campaign lay in its ability to convince strikers that they faced a combination of state and capital, that in conflict with their employers, workers were also in conflict with the

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state. As was noted in chapter 2, white workers’ self-esteem was based in part on the sense that they had a stake in the white establishment. Allegations of disloyalty followed, critically, by the seeming ejection of white workers from the established order would have a key role in precipitating racial violence in 1917. The Aluminum Ore strike was immediately met with allegations of disloyalty: “[t]hat the ‘strike’ is of pro-German origin is the pronounced opinion of General Manager Fox,” the local Daily Journal reported on its front page on the first day of the strike. The union was led by a “proGerman, [who is] loud in his expressions favoring Germany as against the United States,” the Journal reported: there was “no doubt that he is using Kaiser money to foment the [strike] . . . in order to cripple or shut down the plant.”80 At this time, there were other and similar ideological attacks on organized labor at other factories in the city giving this moment wider significance for working-class East St. Louisans. Striking workers at American Steel, for example, also found that the local newspaper reported their walkout on 19 April under a similar headline: “PRO-GERMAN INTERESTS BLAMED FOR STRIKE.”81 Such allegations of disloyalty carried additional weight in East St. Louis where, as was revealed in chapter 1, such a large proportion of the population were immigrants from Germany and Austro-Hungary, or the offspring of parents from these countries—precisely those against which America was now engaged in war. Philip Wolf, for example, was Americanborn, but his name identified him to his supervisors as being “originally [of] German ancestry.”82 Even during the Select Committee hearings at the end of 1917, Wolf ’s loyalty, if not in doubt, was still seen as ambiguous, to the extent that a fellow labor representative felt the need to assure the committee that Wolf ’s family had fought in the American Civil War and as a result it had to be conceded he must therefore be “an American at heart.”83 Accusations of disloyalty were not merely intended as insults, but carried an implied threat. America’s entry into the First World War was marked by an atmosphere of “intolerant and authoritarian” patriotism, in which immigrant and native-born German-Americans alike came under suspicion: “[u]ndivided loyalty became the watchword of ‘true Americans.’ ”84 In wider Illinois, vigilantes attacked those suspected of “divided loyalties” and of holding views that challenged the establishment. In Missouri, the state lying just across the Mississippi River from East St. Louis, Robert Paul Prager, a German American, was lynched by a mob who accused him of being a German spy after he “talked to fellow miners about the merits of socialism.”85 In this atmosphere, allegations of disloyalty made against striking workers, many of whom were German Americans and whose walkout was said to be disrupting the war effort, were intimidating and

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dangerous. Significantly, such allegations questioned the validity of these workers’ citizenship, casting them as enemies not members of the community of “true Americans.” The patriotism that greeted America’s entry into the First World War cast an uncomfortable light on the period of union organization, strikes, and intensified class conflict during 1916 and 1917. Workers, once at odds with their employers, found that their interests were now in conflict with the state as well. Moreover, in fulfilling war orders, manufacturers’ interests seemed to coincide with those of the state. Even services such as the streetcar could claim—as part of the infrastructure supporting production—to be a part of the war effort.86 A “complete tie-up” of the sort Alois Towers spoke of in relation to the track workers’ strike of 1916 could thus be interpreted as a blow to the war effort after the declaration of war on 6 April 1917.87 Workers were expected to subordinate their class interests to the national interest at this time. In rituals that could be seen as symbolic declarations of class truce in a time of war, workers at Swift and Co. and Missouri Malleable Iron participated in flag-raising ceremonies; the latter distributed small American flags among local people who had come to see the ceremony.88 But the Aluminum Ore strikers found themselves apart from such rituals, marginalized from the celebration of nationhood. The Aluminum Ore Company exploited this sense of being marginalized, announcing in mid-June that workers in its plant had been buying many Liberty (war) Bonds: “there are no slackers employed” at its plant, the company announced.89 This could have been taken to mean that there were slackers to be found, cast out of the plant, manning the pickets, still pursuing class interests above those of the nation. The strikers seemed aloof from the trend of a time when citizens were mobilizing for war—the local newspaper printed the names of those who had registered for conscription, while praising those eager volunteers who had formed a local infantry detachment.90 Meanwhile, those who deviated from this trend attracted public hostility: on its front page, the local Daily Journal reported President Wilson’s approval of a local “loyalty meeting” at which the antiwar views of the local Republican congressman were condemned.91 But, patriotic rhetoric did more than remind strikers they were failing in their patriotic duty and were in conflict with the national interest. In this rhetoric, strikers tended to become synonymous with pro-German saboteurs and spies. Not only were the Aluminum Ore strikers accused of being led by a pro-German, for example, but a newspaper report of the involvement of the National Guard in breaking up a fight at the picket line was followed by a reminder that the plant was “prohibited to alien enemies,” as if referring to the strikers.92 Similarly, given that the strikers had been accused of being part of a pro-German plot, the later suggestion that

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a “German Plot” lay behind explosions, reportedly heard at Aluminum Ore, implicated the Aluminum workers’ union in an alleged act of sabotage.93 In this context, the Aluminum Ore Company’s use of surveillance by private detectives surely promoted a profound sense of unease among workers, particularly when it was believed the employers were acting in partnership with the state in such action. The Aluminum Ore Company hired operatives from the Interstate Detective Agency in Chicago partly in order to obtain intelligence of the strikers’ plans—in fact, Fox was warned of the walkout in advance.94 But it seems that the detectives fulfilled another role: to intimidate the workers and impress upon the union that they faced a powerful adversary. The Protective Association leadership was certainly aware of being spied on—Robert Johns recalled that when Wolf met with the AFL in late March he had claimed that “detectives from the Aluminum Ore Company were following them around wherever they met.”95 Although the detectives worked undercover, it is clear that management wanted workers to know that they were being watched. Indeed, Assistant Superintendent Rucker threatened Wolf that he personally was under surveillance and that company spies could “find out news out of your own bedchamber.”96 Furthermore, the strikers would later complain that Burns Detective Agency operatives were attempting to smear the reputation of union leader Philip Wolf: it seems no coincidence that two days before the April strike a Burns detective, Frederick Hindrichsen, was officially employed as the company’s plant chief of police.97 All this took on an added significance when Fox encouraged the belief that the federal government joined in with this surveillance, for there was a widespread fear of German spies and saboteurs at the time of the declaration of war. For example, the discovery of dynamite in Cahokia Creek, dropped there by accident, aroused fears of a German plot in April, just before the Aluminum Ore strike was called. Reports, such as that of the arrest in June of a Malleable Iron worker accused (on scant evidence) of being a saboteur, can have done little but enhance such fears.98 This had serious implications for the Aluminum Ore strikers who disrupted war production and were openly accused of being pro-German. Charles Fox sought to exploit this. As the strike began, the Aluminum Ore Company announced in the press that “[f]or weeks the United States Government has had a number of secret service men stationed in the ore plant” looking for German agents. Moreover, the “pro-German leader” of the strike was “constantly under espionage,” and—significantly—this was said to be federal surveillance conducted in concert with the company: “[t]hese [secret service] men have reported the utterances of the pro-German leader to the [company] officials.”99 Fox even visited the local Bureau of Investigation

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office in St. Louis in person a few days after the beginning of the strike in order to denounce one Hungarian–born union leader, Joe Szuch, as a “very strong pro-German.” This did not prompt a thorough investigation—in fact it seems from their records that the Bureau took little interest in the Aluminum Ore strike.100 But, following Fox’s tip, Bureau investigator W. C. Coss did visit East St. Louis seeking to interview Szuch, called at his home, and spoke with his brother. This can have done little but confirm in the minds of the strikers that the authorities suspected them of treason and that the Bureau of Investigation was supporting Aluminum Ore in their drive against the union.101 Significantly, this seems to have tended to promote fear among workers throughout the community, as if all were somehow held in suspicion after the emerging union organization of 1916–1917: one rumor circulating at this time held that “secret servicemen” were in place to “intimidate the workers” across East St. Louis, and it is not surprising that such fears arose when unions at more than one factory were being publicly denounced and, apparently, targeted by government agents.102 African Americans seem to have been bracketed in this community of “bad patriots,” which included strikers and union members. The local newspaper reported an allegation that “10000 Negroes in East St Louis Neglect Registration Duties,” although, on another occasion, a headline implicated the whole East St. Louis community: “Secret Service Unearth Organization Against [conscription] Registration” in the city.103 It is possible that this encouraged whites to seek to distance themselves from African Americans, publicly demonstrating their own patriotism while seeking to cast blacks as “bad patriots”: a report that a black man was beaten by a crowd of whites, native and Polish Americans, during a loyalty parade when he allegedly refused to take off his hat as a mark of respect for the flag seems significant in this context.104 Perhaps rumors emerging within the white community at this time that black migration might be related to “a conspiracy on the part of some foreign government to denude the cotton fields of labor” in the South were also related to an attempt by whites to define blacks as “bad patriots.”105 It seems significant, in this light, that rumors of a black uprising planned for 4 July—desecrating America’s national day—began to take hold.106 The Aluminum Ore strikers also faced the threat of violence, in which the state was seen to support the employer. Fox, it will be recalled, had hired “75 or 100 guards” from the Interstate Detective Agency.107 Disappointed that his Interstate guards did not look intimidating enough, Fox reached for additional help when the walkout proved more successful than he had anticipated.108 On the second night of the strike, he sent for a professional strikebreaker named James Waddell, of the New York

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firm Bergoff Brothers and Wadell, with whom he had previously had discussions.109 Fox thought of Waddell as “a pretty smart fellow” and “a good high-grade man.”110 It is not difficult to imagine what it was that Fox admired about this man: “[i]nfluenced by the New York East Side criminal gangs that supplied many of their recruits,” this firm had risen to prominence in the early twentieth century by promising to be able to “assemble an army of 5,000 men, ready for action, on forty-eight hours’ notice,” to come to the assistance of corporations.111 It was Waddell who took command of the Interstate guards at Aluminum Ore in East St. Louis. He selected the most physically powerful guards, creating what a Select Committee investigator later termed a “genuine, strong, flying-squadron.”112 Fox denied, in Select Committee hearings, that he had planned for this squad to attack strikers, but the investigators found this risible, sarcastically asking him why, then, he had equipped them with pickaxe handles: “were they to use them just as toothpicks?”; did he expect the guards to remove strikers from the plant “by moral suasion, or . . . through the ax handle persuasive method?”113 Clearly, he had prepared for violence. Despite Fox’s claim that he instructed his guards to remain within the grounds of the plant, on at least one occasion it seems that pickets were fired upon from within the plant.114 And if he did not deploy his private guards to harass strikers around the city, then his foremen seem to have been willing to do this instead. Fox had conferred with his foremen before hiring Waddell and clearly they felt that violent action against the strikers was somehow legitimized by their manager’s attitude, which condoned the use of violence against workers.115 Certainly, on one occasion, two armed company foremen, Joe and Louis Freisz, had disrupted a union meeting and, brandishing pistols, had beaten union members including Jon Simon, the leader of the October strike.116 Fox appeared to be supported by the state in his use of violence. While the Freisz brothers went unpunished by the law, state forces were sent to East St. Louis to protect the Aluminum Ore Company from the strikers.117 The local police department had already been instructed by the mayor to keep “a strict watch” on the strikers, suggesting that they would become disorderly.118 The arrival of U.S. Marshal Cooper Stone and ten deputies a few days later added to this police presence. Moreover, while the Aluminum Ore Company’s private guards were deployed against workers, local AFL representatives would complain that the marshal and his deputies had “go[ne] to extremes in intimidating [the] strikers.”119 It must have been clear to workers that the authorities not only approved of the Aluminum Ore Company’s use of intimidation, but were actively engaged in supporting it. The arrival of the U.S. marshal and deputies must be understood in the context of the deployment of the National Guard as well. Within days of

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the strike being called, two companies of the Illinois National Guard were deployed to East St. Louis. They had been sent to guard a number of sites around the city, including the Aluminum Ore plant, American Steel, the stockyards, packinghouses, the Commercial Acid Company, and the streetcar transformer station. Significantly, many of the sites now under guard had been or were at that time places of industrial dispute. Moreover, the local newspaper announced that the Guard had been deployed because of “industrial unrest in and around East St. Louis” and because “reports of pro-German utterances” had “reached the ears of [the Government in] Washington.”120 The Guard’s arrival must have been seen by many workers effectively as something of a military occupation—an impression hardly dispelled by the news that the Guard had formed a “picket line” around its camp, with fixed bayonets, and that they would question any passersby.121 And, as if to provide a further indication of the reasons behind their deployment, twenty-five National Guardsmen were sent to break up a fight that erupted between strikebreakers and pickets.122 Further Guardsmen arriving after 28 May were also deployed to protect the local black community from racist attack after the proto-riot of May, so these forces were now seen to be protecting both the corporate employers and African Americans from white workers. The federal conciliator Patrick Gill reflected that East St. Louis looked as if it was “practically under martial law” by June, a situation that—although partly caused by the white workers’ racist outburst on 28 May—was also linked to the intense class conflict in the city.123 The guards stood as visible reminders to the strikers that they had no rights to the plant and were now considered as enemies not only by their employer, but also by the state. Moreover, these physically powerful and intimidating men impressed upon the strikers that they would be unable to assert any control over the productive sphere and might even be driven from the local labor market altogether. During the strike, Fox turned the Aluminum Ore plant into a virtual fortress: as if preparing for a siege, he brought in “several hundred cots,” an ample food supply, and strikebreakers ate and slept in the plant as his armed guards patrolled its grounds.124 He obtained a “very sweeping” injunction to remove the pickets and posted copies of the injunction around the perimeter of the plant. They were printed on large canvass sheets and named the strike leaders prohibited from assembling near the premises.125 Many of the white Protective Association members who were dismissed complained that their applications for work in other factories in the city were not even being considered by employers, raising suspicions that they had been blacklisted.126 Charles Fox refused to even meet the strikers. The Aluminum Ore strike occurred before later wartime initiatives to facilitate industrial relations.

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Arbitration hearings, such as those of Judge Alschuler, which brought about an industrial truce in the Chicago stockyards, for example, did not have a role here.127 While, at the request of local AFL organizers, Department of Labor conciliators Patrick Gill and Joseph Meyers were sent to encourage a settlement of the Aluminum Ore strike, they were unable to convince Fox to negotiate with the strikers. Even the additional intervention of Mayor Mollman—which had succeeded during the track workers’ strike—failed to persuade Fox.128 In fact, far from considering a settlement, Fox and the Aluminum Ore Company complained to the Department of Labor that the Federal Conciliators had only gone to East St. Louis to “stir up trouble” and the company wanted Gill “and all of his kind called off.”129 As numbers of white workers were coming under such pressure, it is significant that black workers were among the strikebreakers being sheltered within the plant under the protection of the private paramilitary and state military forces.130 Whites’ position in the workplace had relied upon collaboration with their employers in racial discrimination. Now, it appeared to the white strikers they were being excluded from the plant whereas black workers, who had always been confined to a subordinate or marginal position, were being protected within it. This aroused anger throughout the white working-class community of East St. Louis. According to Robert Conway, the manager of the local Armour and Co. plant, after the injunction was obtained—which in fact coincided with the deployment of the Marshal’s Deputies and the National Guard—white workers began venting their rage against African Americans: they began “beating the [black] men at night, [and] slugging the men at night”; it was at this time when, ominously, in “common talk around town,” local whites began to state that they would “drive the niggers out” of East St. Louis.131 In this regard, the collapse of the Aluminum Ore Employees’ Protective Association seems significant, for this organization had played an important role in seeking to prevent white strikers from becoming involved in racial violence. Recognizing that there was a danger that the predominantly white rank and file members might become caught up in racial violence, Philip Wolf saw the union as one way to prevent this by instilling discipline. For example, following the embryonic race riot on 28 May, Mayor Mollman had wanted the union to cancel a meeting scheduled for 31 May. But Wolf argued that “a thousand or twelve hundred people” would attend and he was concerned that if the meeting were not held, the union “wouldn’t have no control over these people at all.” On the other hand, if the union had a chance to meet, Wolf could “ask them [white members] to go home in a peaceful manner.” During the meeting, which was held despite the mayor’s efforts to prevent it, the union’s lawyer,

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C. B. Thomas, urged the white members “to go home peacefully and not let a bad impression go out upon the Aluminum Ore strikers.” He said that he “didn’t believe the Aluminum Ore strikers were amongst the rioters” on 28 May, and “he didn’t want them mixed up with it.”132 Thus, an appeal to the best interests of the union served also as an appeal against racial violence. In this, the union served as an instrument to encourage discipline among white workers. Moreover, despite the tinderbox atmosphere in the city after the 28 May riot, according to Wolf ’s testimony, “fifteen or twenty” black members were present at the 31 May meeting. This is not to suggest that the union was not affected by racism. However, it seems significant that the racial violence that had gripped the city on 28 May had not broken the relationship between black and white strikers.133 However, it would become increasingly difficult for the union to meet. In early June, two squads of the National Guard broke up a strike meeting. Eventually, the mayor convinced the union to stop holding nightly meetings.134 While the meatpacking workers had been allowed to meet at City Hall and the track workers had even benefited from the support of the mayor, the Aluminum Ore strikers were being abandoned. By June, the organization that had previously served to encourage discipline and had even provided an occasion for whites and blacks to meet and reaffirm a common purpose was effectively prevented from working. Meanwhile, it seems that the Aluminum Ore strike became a focus for white racial hostility, for as violence flared outside the Aluminum plant through June, individuals unassociated with the strike but with a penchant for racial violence attached themselves to the struggle. In particular, one Aluminum Ore worker, who was not a Protective Association member, suggested that local “bar flies”—the sort of saloon bums discussed in an earlier chapter—sought to get involved in any trouble, or simply make trouble (they were “at the front” of “any . . . excitement”) on the picket line.135 Given the number of company guards and Marshal’s Deputies stationed around the plant, the atmosphere must have been tense.136 During June, fights broke out between pickets and white and black strikebreakers. The involvement of the National Guard to break up the fighting cannot have cooled the mood of the strikers, particularly considering that the Guard had been involved in breaking up a union meeting earlier in the month.137 But, even if fighting between pickets and strikebreakers was not always specifically motivated by racial hostility, it seems that “many” African Americans were being “waylaid and beaten” through the month in the vicinity of the plant by “alleged strikers”—either pickets or men who had become associated with the strikers during June.138 It seems that this was not limited to the vicinity of the Aluminum Ore plant. At the stockyards, too, racist violence flared during June: at one point, local whites

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stoned a streetcar bound for the stockyards because, according to the press, they “perceived a negro [was] on board.”139 However, it was the Aluminum Ore strike that had become increasingly associated with this sort of sporadic violence: Wolf had feared it might, if the union was prevented from holding the strikers together.140 The deployment of National Guardsmen—with fixed bayonets—to escort black workers to and from the Aluminum Ore plant was therefore a tragic development in the context of the final defeat of the strike. Confrontation and an absence of union leadership had led to escalating violence around the plant and instead of seeking a way to cool the situation down, perhaps by encouraging the union to impose order on the picket line, the deployment of the Guard simply increased the scale of the confrontation. Rick Halpern has noted that, in the aftermath of the 1919 Chicago race riot, the packers and city officials similarly arranged for black workers to be escorted to work “guarded by machine guns and fixed bayonets.” There, they also bypassed the union, the leaders of which “reacted in horror” when they heard of the plan, believing it likely to encourage violence.141 In fact, Halpern has suggested, it appears that this was a scheme to polarize black and white workers further: the packers saw this as “an opportunity to administer a mortal blow to the union movement.”142 In East St. Louis, the timing of the deployment, arranged for 22 June, the day following the Aluminum Ore union’s official call for the strike to end, seemed timed as a final blow to the remaining pickets and a conclusive stamping of authority upon the defeated workers.143 Violence continued to escalate. Ten days later, the July massacre erupted. The crushing of the Aluminum Ore strike cut away a key pillar supporting white workers’ sense of identity, their privileged position in the workplace. However, more than that, it seemed to threaten whites’ relationship with the state, impugned their citizenship, and marked them as disloyal. Seemingly subjected to surveillance by the state and under military occupation, white workers felt cast out of the community of whites, whereas black workers actually appeared to be under the protection of the state. At the same time, white workers began to fear that they were losing their grip on their neighborhood communities and their claim on City Hall.

Neighborhood Segregation and Urban Change Rudwick’s excellent work interpreting sparse statistical evidence provides an estimate of the growth of the black population of East St. Louis between 1915 and 1917: this indicates that there were 7,910 black residents in

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June 1915 and 10,617 in June 1917, many of the newcomers being young single men looking for work.144 From around the time of the industrial transformation of East St. Louis—that is, from the 1870s—the city had been dramatically recomposed ethnically and racially time and again. African Americans had been migrating northward in numbers since the 1890s and, in East St. Louis, the years between 1900 and 1910 saw a dramatic increase in the size of the black community, growing from six percent to ten percent of the total population of the city.145 Black migration in the 1910s did not, therefore, somehow disrupt a homogenous city of whites, or disturb a settled, hitherto unchanging, community. Moreover, it is clear that, despite significant migration during the 1910s, the black community remained a minority of the city’s population. Blacks were no more than fifteen percent of the total population of East St. Louis as a whole by July 1917.146 However, local whites began to fear that their urban world was in danger of being somehow lost to the migrants. Although African Americans accounted for perhaps one in ten or one in eight of all East St. Louisans, local whites said that “the streets were full” of black people, that “you wouldn’t think you were in the home town” for all the black newcomers, and that East St. Louis would become—in the words of one white—a “negro town.”147 It seems that the nature of the changes wrought by migration in the context of the local housing market, rather than the scale of migration, was significant. As noted earlier, certain areas of East St. Louis, such as Denverside, were identified with the African American community, but there was no sharply defined residential segregation. The boundaries of the African American residential area were blurred, so that although Denverside was said to end at about 10th Street and Market Avenue, it was “mostly whites” who occupied the streets west of that—9th and 8th.148 Nevertheless, as the black population of East St. Louis increased overall as a result of migration from the southern states in the years before 1917, the black population of Denverside also increased. During the same period, it would appear that whites were moving out of Denverside. The local real estate agent and Democratic politician, Thomas Canavan, told the Select Committee that the “little homes” on Market Street that had once been occupied by white workers were occupied by African Americans by 1917.149 Work on Chicago has shown how, in the period before the 1919 race riot, such shifting neighborhood boundaries were a context for heightened racial hostility and even violence, as the black district expanded toward the Irish American neighborhood of Canaryville and whites struck out against what they felt was an encroachment of African Americans into their racially exclusive streets.150 Similarly, in East St. Louis, according to Thomas Canavan, the arrival of African Americans in streets that had once

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been settled exclusively by whites was “the prime cause of hatred of the negroes.”151 Neighborhoods were less clearly defined in East St. Louis than in Chicago, where the “dead line” of Wentworth Avenue separated the Black belt from Canaryville. There were nevertheless particular contested streets and areas in East St. Louis around which violence erupted, perhaps as whites sought to define borders at a time when black and white neighborhoods appeared to be shifting and losing their older definition.152 One of these contested areas was by the viaduct leading to the Free Bridge— around 10th Street—where the predominantly African American streets of Denverside blurred into streets occupied “mostly [by] whites.”153 It was here, during the summer of 1917 before the race riot, where numerous attacks on black men and women took place.154 Representatives of African American residents of Denverside complained to the mayor that summer of “a bad nest of white fellows close to the Free Bridge” who were responsible for this violence.155 It seems that the Free Bridge viaduct brought people entering the city directly into the contested residential area, providing a specific point around which whites could gather and lie in wait for African Americans. Significantly, this was a flashpoint for the July massacre, for it was here that two white detectives, Samuel Coppedge and Frank Wadley, were accidentally shot and killed on the night of 1 July by African Americans, enraging local whites. In fact, African Americans had been defending their homes that night against a marauding gang of armed whites who had driven along black streets, firing into homes: their automobile was driven by Gus Masserang, a white resident of Denverside, who lived on Trendley Avenue in the contested area between 12th and 13th Streets.156 Similarly, violence erupted on streetcars running on the lines linking Bond Street in the predominantly black area of Denverside with the predominantly white neighborhood of Alta Sita, to its east. During 1917, whites resented what they felt was an encroachment on their neighborhood as African Americans moved into streets bordering Alta Sita.157 Traveling downtown, whites would first pass through the contested border area and the black streets of Denverside. Here, by passing through such areas, the streetcar served to remind whites of the changing racial composition of neighborhoods, as well as actually connecting black and white neighborhoods together at a time when whites wanted these to remain segregated, separate, and unconnected.158 This seems to have become a focus for their hostility. It was said that there was “resentment on the part of the white people who live there to riding in a car that is crowded with negroes.”159 In the weeks before the July massacre, white “drunken toughs” attacked blacks riding on these streetcars.160 Here, the urban geography of

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the south side of the city made it impossible for whites to ignore the changing composition of their city and the breakdown of segregation at a time when they were coming to resent this. This hostile reaction to urban change had an economic aspect. Whites would pay more for a house in a racially exclusive neighborhood and when black residents moved into a particular street, Thomas Canavan claimed, the value of homes there would be “cut in two.”161 Canavan claimed that such feelings arose because white workers bought houses “after a life of toil and struggling hard to get a home,” and resented it when African Americans moved into an area. For white workers—wage dependent and economically insecure—home ownership must have represented a vital degree of security and they surely felt a great sense of disappointment when, in their racism, they felt that this was being undermined. However, many whites simply did not want to live in streets where African Americans also lived. According to Canavan, “as soon as” a black resident moved into a white neighborhood, “the white people [in that street] would move out.”162 Thus, ironically, white racists’ intolerance of sharing urban space with blacks accelerated the breakdown of their neighborhoods as well as causing them to lose the value of their assets when blacks moved in nearby. The shifting racial configuration of East St. Louis neighborhoods, then, left white workers feeling insecure and disoriented. But, far from all workers—perhaps only a quarter of skilled workers— owned their homes.163 It is, therefore, vital to consider the market for rented accommodation. Although whites had expected to be able to live in racially exclusive neighborhoods, this ran counter to the interests of real estate agents, who saw an opportunity to exploit newly arrived single black migrants who had an urgent need for accommodation once they arrived in the city. Real estate agents, then, increasingly refused to adhere to the wishes of local whites. According to Thomas Canavan, when a rental term on a house occupied by whites came to an end, “a lot of ” real estate agents—although he denied he did this—would split the house into four separate rooms: having rented the house out to a white family for $10 a month, the agent would then rent four separate rooms to black migrants for $5 each, doubling the total rent for the building.164 While whites resented blacks moving in, these circumstances were hardly to the advantage of African Americans, who had to pay $5 for only a quarter of a house previously rented in its entirety for $10. But, such exploitation by real estate agents at this time was only an extension of established practice. The rented housing market generally was run in a way that discriminated against African Americans: the local black politician and physician Dr. Lyman Bluitt revealed that black families usually paid $12 for a house real estate agents would rent to whites for $10.165 But in the period before

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the race riot, this system, which whites had hitherto believed worked to their advantage in providing them with cheaper and racially segregated housing, suddenly seemed to them to be working to their disadvantage as real estate agents sought to exploit the arriving black migrants. In the wake of these changes, according to local labor leader Edward Mason, “protest meetings in different neighborhoods about renting property that had formerly been inhabited by white persons to colored people” were reported to his office “thick and fast.”166 Whites expected real estate agents to uphold the customary segregation, but, in this new market, found that the old compact had broken down. Local whites reacted with hostility, blaming black migrants for the breakdown of racially exclusive neighborhoods. The erosion of residential segregation seems to have triggered more profound fears among local whites. In East St. Louis, prior to the race riot, a rumor that a smallpox epidemic was being spread by blacks circulated within the white community. The rumor was almost certainly incorrect: of the twenty-five cases of smallpox recorded by 12 February 1917, only six were among black patients, but by April 1917 newspapers were claiming that “most cases,” and by May, “practically all” cases were among migrants.167 Indeed, the Chicago Commission on Race Relations in 1922 concluded that the 1917 “epidemic” in East St. Louis was “imaginary, one of the many rumors or myths circulated in periods of racial tension.”168 Indeed, in seeking to explain the underpinnings of attitudes regarding segregation, certain writers have noted that white racists have, in the past, often associated blackness with dirt, pollution, and disease.169 Rudwick drew attention to the way in which the number of black smallpox patients was overestimated and argued this was done to inflame whites.170 But what must be stressed is that these rumors were genuinely believed and reflected anxieties about pollution associated in the minds of whites with race. Precisely at the time when whites’ anxieties over the erosion of segregation were becoming acute, this fear of a bogus black contagion arose. Whites’ hostility to the breakdown of segregation cannot be understood without reference to wider social meanings. Their homes and neighborhoods held a particular significance for wage-dependent and economically insecure white workers. As noted in chapter 1, even the most economically secure skilled white workers—generally native-born whites—who could afford small luxuries such as washing machines and gramophones and had enough income left over for modest savings, existed on tight financial margins. Sickness or unemployment could spell disaster. This was especially true for unskilled workers—many of whom were immigrants, such as those employed in the Operating Department at Aluminum Ore—who often struggled to make enough money to get by.171 This posed a problem for white workers, for their claim on the privileges of whiteness was

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predicated upon their putative “difference” from African Americans. However, both black and white workers were wage-dependent and, largely, propertyless. Partly, whites sought to distance themselves from blacks by claiming that they could look forward to improving their condition, unlike blacks who could not. Indeed, this took on a moral imperative, for whites claimed, for example, that a white worker sought to “raise his kids right and decent,” unlike African Americans who were said to be content to live “in a shack.”172 But these bigoted assertions about blacks’ aspirations surely created a fragile sense of distance from African Americans: living alongside black workers, in the same street, in the same sort of house, and likewise wage-dependent, whites had little choice but to concede (perhaps subconsciously) the similarities in their positions. Clinging on to a desire for the privileges of whiteness, however, white workers refused to see black workers as “equal sufferers,” which might “bring them to a common ground and a common realization”—as one local white union leader put it.173 Instead, to protect their sense of whiteness, they sought only to resist any sense of being the social equal of blacks. This took on a greater urgency for white workers in 1917. The breaking of nascent labor organizations in early 1917, the crushing failure of the Aluminum Ore strike and the drive against organized labor in the summer saw white workers facing their inability to assert control over the productive sphere. This had real economic significance. It was white workers’ position of privilege in the labor market, accorded them by racial discrimination, which had allowed them to aspire to own a home. As noted earlier, it offered even unskilled whites the hope that they could rise up the occupational ladder and enter the skilled trades one day.174 And it was, among other things, their position of privilege that white workers feared losing through the intense class conflict ushered in by the Aluminum Ore strike. Perhaps white workers sought to have established a more rigid racial segregation in the residential world precisely because they hoped that this would allow them control over their neighborhood environment given that they had clearly lost all control over the productive sphere. Whites feared that the lines distinguishing their social position from African Americans were becoming blurred at this time, even erased altogether. They feared losing their claim on the economic and social position that racial discrimination had afforded them, and also had a sense of becoming indistinguishable from African Americans. Here, the situation bears comparison with the context of the 1922 Rand killings discussed by Jeremy Krikler. As Krikler noted, precisely such fears among white miners— of being reduced to what they saw as the standard of life of Africans—was a crucial part of their violent reaction. A key aspect of this was whites’ fear of becoming indistinguishable from blacks: “[o]ver and over” they placed

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“stress upon the reduction of white workers to black status, or of a transformation of them[selves] into—effectively—black people.”175 Such fears among whites in East St. Louis in 1917 seem to have been as palpable. As white workers feared being driven from their position of privilege in the workplace and forced to live alongside African Americans, they could be overheard around town at this time, talking about how they did not want to have to live “like a nigger,” to lose their economic status, live in neighborhoods with blacks, and be reduced to the standard of living they associated with African Americans.176 Their sense of identity as white workers, separate from black workers, was challenged. During the summer of 1917, then, white workers feared that their position in the workplace, their neighborhoods, and even their very identity as white workers had come under threat. Although this would give rise to a violent reaction, white workers also sought to exploit what they believed to be one of their remaining privileges: their claim upon City Hall. Their attempt to solicit the support of the mayor for the restriction of migration invoked what white workers believed to be their stake in the local white establishment. The rejection of their demands would be felt as a further smashing of the structure supporting their sense of place in their community and their identity.

White Workers, the AFL, and City Hall Protests against, and conspiracy panic concerning, black migration form a key part of Elliott Rudwick’s work on the race riot. These, according to Rudwick, were largely coordinated by local organizations that depended upon white working-class support. Their significance lay in their power to “inflame” local whites’ hostility against African Americans.177 Thus, Rudwick stated that “organized hostility against Negroes” in East St. Louis began in 1916 when the Democratic Party, the party of white workers, accused the Republicans—traditionally supported by African Americans— of “colonizing” the city with, and illegally registering, black migrants in order to influence the autumn election.178 According to Rudwick, the local AFL emulated the Democratic Party’s campaign strategy and began using “anti-Negro propaganda” in order to rally white workers as they faced defeat in the Aluminum Ore strike. The AFL claimed that corporations were “importing” black workers from the South in order to break the unions and displace white labor. As well as these organized campaigns, Rudwick suggested, the local press contributed to rising white hostility by repeatedly misrepresenting black migrants as criminal “gun-toters,” responsible for a crime wave in the city.179 The racial violence that

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simmered through the summer of 1917 was, in part, the result of the heightened racial tension generated by these negative misrepresentations of African American migrants. Rudwick was certainly correct that this contributed to an atmosphere of racial hostility in East St. Louis. However, his approach tends to suggest that the behavior of whites was only reactive, implying that they passively absorbed the pronouncements of the Democratic Party and the AFL. A different approach is taken here, one that acknowledges that white workers were active participants in shaping this environment of racial hostility. Before this is considered further, the precise role of the Democratic Party and the AFL needs to be explored. By 1917, the Democratic Party was not directing or organizing racial hostility locally. Its racist election campaign of 1916 ended with the November election of that year. Nevertheless, its claim that African Americans were somehow a threat to white workers’ political interests had planted suspicions within the white working-class community that would continue to flourish.180 In contrast, the AFL continued to protest to the mayor about migration in 1917 and, indeed, one protest meeting it organized on the question was followed by a nascent race riot on 28 May.181 For this reason, the role of the AFL appears of more immediate concern here. It seems clear that the Central Trades and Labor Union—the local AFL body—behaved with utter irresponsibility, revealing their racist assumptions and a lack of concern for black workers. But, it seems equally clear that they did not—as Rudwick suggested—simply ape the Democratic Party’s campaign of “racist propaganda.”182 The local AFL’s claims in respect of migration arose separately when, in the autumn of 1916, the national president of the AFL Samuel Gompers wrote to local trade unionists regarding the “importation” of African Americans to East St. Louis: Gompers stated that “there had been a number of negroes shipped from the South over the Pennsylvania and B & O railway systems” and instructed union officials to “investigate . . . and find out what they were being used for.”183 As Rudwick demonstrated, these charges of importation were gross exaggerations, for while some employers sought to recruit African American workers in the South, the vast majority of black migrants arriving in East St. Louis were traveling on their own initiative.184 Nevertheless, the instructions sent by Gompers to the East St. Louis Central Trades and Labor Union help illuminate the actions of local labor leaders. They were not, as Rudwick claimed, seeking to rally whites as the Aluminum Ore strike collapsed.185 Rather, it seems likely that the local AFL leaders were animated by the instructions, these having come directly from Gompers himself. It is likely that the prejudices of these white local labor leaders inclined them to believe that black migration was part of a plot by employers: presumably unable to conceive of African Americans moving

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North on their own initiative, the union officials assumed African Americans were the passive tools of larger interests. Thus, in later announcements, the Central Trades and Labor Union stated that black migrants were “being used to the detriment of our white citizens by . . . capitalists.”186 Not only did this fail to comprehend the actual situation, it promoted the notion that African Americans were somehow joined with capital in a struggle to crush (white-dominated) organized labor. The actions of employers during this period can only have further raised suspicions: after all, through late 1916 and early 1917, the streetcar and meatpacking employers as well as the Aluminum Ore Company had been manipulating racial divisions in the workplace. At any rate, local trade unionists had no adequate way of confirming or disproving Gompers’s claims. The local AFL probably was—as one union leader later claimed—“at sea” in their investigation.187 They relied on local hearsay and their investigations therefore rapidly became infused with local whites’ fears, suspicions, and prejudices. Thus, white workers’ fears became channeled through the AFL at this time. Although union leaders began by investigating Gompers’s claims of importation with respect to employment—“pleading with . . . [the Mayor] to inform Negroes in the South that there were no jobs in East St Louis”—they soon articulated other concerns.188 In short, the AFL leaders reacted to the fears of local whites and began to adopt an agenda shaped by them. Thus, Edward Mason later recalled that “we [the Central Trades and Labor Union] decided to have someone speak to the mayor” about black migration, because his office was receiving incessant reports about “protest meetings in different neighborhoods about renting property that had formerly been inhabited by white persons to colored people.”189 Likewise, it was in response to fears engendered by newspaper reports that cast black migrants as criminal “gun-toters” that the AFL leaders invited women union members who had been robbed, allegedly by black migrants, to a meeting with the mayor on 28 May: they sought to demonstrate to the mayor, according to Edward Mason, that black migrants were a “danger” to white women.190 Despite protesting about black migration, it seems that the AFL had hoped to be nuanced in its campaign, so that not all African Americans in the city were blamed. In their invitation to delegates for the 28 May meeting, for example, the Central Trades and Labor Union Secretary Edward Mason declared that the meeting was “not a protest against the negro who has been a long resident of East St. Louis.”191 But it was deeply irresponsible to think that a protest could be made against black migrants without inviting a more general racial hostility. On 28 May, the meeting was heavily attended by white workers, union members, and nonunion members,

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as well as a few labor leaders: to the surprise of the organizers, “it looked like the town turned out.”192 The mayor, who was present, was called upon to halt further black migration. He replied that this was beyond his power. The event then slipped from the hands of the AFL, ending in something of a race riot after a local lawyer and politician Alexander Flannigen, who was unconnected with the union, made an impromptu speech: he suggested that blacks would be unable to move into white neighborhoods “if the[ir] house burns down” and stated that “there is no law against mob violence.”193 White workers in the audience called out “East St Louis must remain a white man’s town” as they streamed, angry from the hall.194 Labor delegates C. N. Alleger, Michael Whallen, and David Walsh as well as Mayor Mollman made efforts to calm the crowd as it became agitated, but it was clear that, having given a platform to racial antipathy instead of seeking to fight against it, the AFL leaders now found the situation beyond their control.195 Perhaps white workers had attended the meeting because the AFL had the ear of City Hall and was seen as a representative of white labor and a mechanism through which white workers could have their own concerns voiced. White workers may have hoped that Mayor Mollman would listen to their representatives, for he had strong connections with the local Democratic Party, the party of white labor, and worked with an AFL representative in office.196 However, as noted, Mollman could not satisfy their demands to restrict black migration. In 1916, the Democratic Party had warned whites that they were in danger of losing political influence in the city to African Americans and now, it appeared, to white workers, Mayor Mollman was unwilling to act against black migration in their defense. As mentioned earlier, Mayor Mollman had forged an alliance with the black St. Clair County Republican League and this had disconcerted whites, who feared losing influence over Mollman’s Democratic-dominated local party: in particular, newspaper reports that Mollman had celebrated his victory with black party workers at a barbecue prompted concerned discussions within the white community.197 It was at the critical moment of heightened class conflict and the crushing of the Aluminum Ore strike that these concerns became more pressing: white workers made an urgent call on Mollman for support and surely felt his refusal as an utter betrayal in a moment of what was felt to be desperate need. They began to suspect that Mollman was actually working against them: “reports [i.e. rumors]” emerged that Mollman had gone to “the South [and] extended invitations to negro laborers to come to East St Louis.”198 This sense of losing influence over City Hall compounded the workers’ lost hopes of asserting control over the productive sphere. In fact, as Mollman had personally instructed the police department to “keep a strict

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watch over the [Aluminum Ore] strikers,” it was probably suspected that he had little sympathy with the strikers to begin with.199 As discussed earlier, white workers’ sense of self-esteem rested on a belief that they had a greater claim than African Americans upon jobs and upon citizenship. Racial discrimination in the workplace and a belief that the AFL had the ear of the mayor supported these notions.200 Now, in the wake of the Aluminum Ore strike, it seemed to white workers that, not only were they in danger of being cast out of their privileged position in the workplace, but even City Hall seemed to be willing to embrace African Americans instead of white workers. As the 28 May protest meeting came to an unsuccessful close, whites shouted at Mollman that “they didn’t elect him for the purpose of bringing these niggers here to take their jobs.”201 It was, of course, not merely the thought of losing their jobs to black migrants that angered whites: it was also the belief that their mayor might have collaborated in this and might be looking to African Americans for support instead. When white workers in the audience on 28 May called out “East St Louis must remain a white man’s town” as the meeting closed, they did so partly because they feared that the city was becoming something else, a place upon which they had no claim.202 By the summer of 1917, therefore, white workers feared that their position in East St. Louis was slipping away. They seemed to have lost their claim on City Hall and on their neighborhoods, while state forces from outside East St. Louis—federalized National Guardsmen and U.S. marshal’s deputies—stood against them. In this situation, the desperate whites sought to recreate the world they felt they were losing. They did so partly through an approach to the police on the grounds of race.

White Workers and the Police: Restoring the White Community Local police officers had been detailed to monitor the Aluminum Ore pickets during the strike and clearly this had the potential to bring workers and the police into direct confrontation. The police, for example, were instructed to stop and search persons found in the vicinity of the Aluminum Ore plant after the strike began.203 In failing to bring a case against the Aluminum Ore foremen, Joe and Louis Freisz, whose attack on a union meeting was mentioned earlier, the local police department revealed a bias in favor of the employers. But it was the private guards, National Guardsmen, and marshal’s deputies, rather than the local police, who seem to have taken a prominent role in intimidating the strikers. It was, for example, National Guardsmen who had broken up an Aluminum Ore

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union meeting in June.204 Moreover, perhaps the Aluminum Ore manager’s contempt for the inefficient local police—he described them as “greasy, dirty,” and “slouchy,” undisciplined, not the sort of “soldierly” men he admired—indicates that they did not take their job of policing the pickets as seriously as he had hoped.205 It is possible that the predominantly white police officers were as uncomfortable with the crisis as white workers were. Certainly, the most significant actions taken by the police at this time occurred in the wider urban environment away from the strike and had the potential to build bridges with white workers. As noted earlier, while the police tended to uphold the power of the corporations in the productive sphere, in the wider urban environment, they took on the role of policing African Americans, generally supporting white supremacy and white workers where they became involved in conflict with blacks. Significantly, it was during the Aluminum Ore strike, after the arrival of the National Guard, the U.S. marshal and deputies, and—as Rudwick noted—“[a]t the height of the importation crisis,” that the police department announced that black migrants would be kept under close watch.206 Perhaps this was done under Mollman’s instructions, as a sop to his white working-class constituency. On 14 May, the local newspaper announced that “the entire police force” was “on the lookout for recently imported ‘blacks,’ included among whom are said to be many of the notorious colored crooks of the South.”207 According to the newspaper, “Gun Toters”—a term increasingly reserved for African Americans—had been “[b]anned by [the] Chief of Police.”208 Police officers began stopping and searching African Americans in the streets, claiming that this was part of a campaign to crack down on the carrying of concealed firearms: the local newspaper announced that “POLICE WATCH MANY THREATENING NEGROES,” a good many of whom, it claimed, had been found carrying firearms.209 In fact, many whites and blacks in East St. Louis carried firearms in public, but, as Rudwick noted, because of their prejudices, the white-dominated police force disproportionately stopped and arrested blacks.210 For white workers—feeling isolated from the white establishment, under attack by state forces and employers—it was undoubtedly reassuring to see the local police press down on African Americans: not simply because this meant the police were leaving whites alone, but also because it signified that the police were still upholding the racial discrimination that had guaranteed white workers’ relative position of privilege in the city. Significantly, local white workers were actively involved in constructing this image of African Americans as some sort of “criminal” threat. Despite the police campaign to stop and search African Americans, whites complained that they were not being policed closely enough. Later, local AFL

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officials claimed that black migrants in particular were “being allowed to run wild” in East St. Louis at this time.211 It was said to be “not safe to take your wife on the street after dark” because of the alleged threat from black muggers.212 Local AFL leader Harry Kerr later claimed that “the bad negro” had been responsible for a “reign of terror” in East St. Louis at this time.213 There had been, another official hysterically and spuriously claimed, well over 800 muggings and burglaries, more than a score of murders, and seven rapes committed by African Americans between September 1916 and June 1917.214 As Edward Mason, secretary of the Central Trades and Labor Union later explained, his organization had sought to press this point home to the mayor on 28 May, when demanding that he act to restrict migration: it will be remembered that the union invited white women members along specifically to show the mayor that they had been robbed, “grabbed, and hit and knocked down . . . by colored men.”215 How can these beliefs be explained? Certainly, at a time when white workers feared becoming increasingly indistinguishable from African Americans, these repeated allegations and statements had the potential to define the white working-class community in a favorable light, in contrast with a criminal black community. But, the involvement of the police in this and their decision publicly to increase the policing of the black community at this time needs to be explained too. In this, it is useful to reconsider Jeremy Krikler’s work on the 1922 Rand killings. Krikler argued that, as the white community was fractured by an intense class conflict and state forces seemed poised to bear down upon white workers, there arose a series of unfounded rumors of an impending black uprising. White strikers then began to appeal (although unsuccessfully) to those state forces that had been ranged against them, offering assistance in putting down this “insurrection.”216 Such rumors were no simple pretence through which white strikers sought acceptance by the authorities. Rather, there was a “genuine fear” among the whites: they believed these (false) rumors and Krikler suggests that the historian might use them “in the way a psychoanalyst would dreams: as labyrinthine expressions of hopes and wishes.” As the white community was fractured by class conflict—white workers, believing that they were being driven from their privileged position in the racial state—rumors arose spontaneously from a subconscious desire to unite all whites against supposedly threatening racial others.217 This would allow the workers to feel as if they were to be reincorporated into the ruling racial order. Just prior to and during the July massacre, similar unfounded, but genuinely believed rumors of a putative black uprising swept East St. Louis. It seems that during May and June of 1917 in East St. Louis, the white workers were already beginning to reach out across the breach that had opened in the white community. Perhaps the increasing

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emphasis on black “criminality” emerging through the interaction of discriminatory policing, bigoted newspaper reports, and the prejudiced attitudes of the desperate white workers and labor leaders is to be explained in this way. As noted earlier, white workers had long felt entitled to take vengeful action against black men who had allegedly transgressed the law: in East St. Louis, as has been suggested of the South, lynch mobs were seen by many whites “as legitimate extensions of the law.”218 This took on particular significance during the summer of 1917, as local whites sought to collaborate with the police, even to rush to the “defense” of police officers against supposedly criminal African Americans. For example, on 23 May, a police officer arrested a black man for spitting on the sidewalk. Not surprisingly, this repressive treatment elicited a protest from other African Americans. Local whites became involved on behalf of the police officer and a fight erupted with the black protesters, in which one white man drew a pistol and shot into the crowd of African Americans.219 The police, meanwhile, supported whites’ aggression against African Americans. On 23 May, a fight between groups of blacks and whites was broken up by the police who, significantly, blamed the African Americans.220 During the first race riot on 28 May, it seemed for a while that local whites and the police would join together in racial violence. As the protest meeting broke up that night and whites left the hall, a black man came running past the crowd of whites, pursued by a police officer named Brockman and Charlie Caschel, a former sheriff. Some whites joined the pursuit and eventually the man was captured. But, as whites were gathered on the streets and Brockman and Caschel were taking the man to the police station, a rumor ran through the crowd: as AFL leader Edward Mason later recalled, “word was passed through the crowd that he [the black prisoner] had shot a white man” and there was a call from the crowd “to go right in and lynch that fellow right away.”221 Some whites moved forward to seize the prisoner, but relented as Brockman and Caschel insisted on taking him to the police station.222 However, that night, having refused to hand over one African American prisoner, the police subsequently made little effort to prevent whites from rampaging around the city, attacking black people and black property, events that are considered in more detail in chapter 5. The police “confined their activities to taking the injured to hospitals or headquarters. They also arrested several Negroes for carrying concealed weapons.”223 Thus, the police failed to intervene in this violence and even took steps to disarm blacks. Through June, the police failed to prevent white gangs from attacking African Americans, despite complaints to the mayor made by representatives of African American residents of Denverside.224

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It was during June that unfounded rumors arose that a black uprising— a massacre of whites—was being planned for 4 July.225 As noted earlier, it seems significant that this rumor, of an uprising planned for America’s national day, emerged at a time when white workers were coming under attack as pro-German “alien enemies.” Rumors of a black uprising surfaced again on 2 July during the race riot and had an influence on the events, allowing workers to appeal to the National Guard as well as to the police. But, even before the July massacre, such rumors also had a key role, allowing white workers to reach out to the police. On the night of 1 July, a marauding gang of whites had driven through black neighborhoods, firing into homes. Armed African Americans gathering on the streets to defend their homes were seen by a local white man, looking out of his window: startled, he telephoned the police, warning them that the rumored uprising had begun, saying “they are coming from all directions. They’ve got guns and everything.”226 Two of the white police detectives who went to investigate, Samuel Coppedge and Frank Wadley, were mistaken for the racist assailants and shot and killed by armed blacks in an encounter in an unlit street. Upon hearing of this, whites became enraged. In part, the July massacre would be justified as a defense of, or vengeance on behalf of, the local police: white crowds on 2 July shouted “[t]hey got Sam and Frank; we’ll get them” as they carried out their onslaught against the black community.227

Conclusion By the summer of 1917, white workers feared that their position in East St. Louis was comprehensively undermined. White workers had, in the past, colluded with their employers in racial discrimination, which had upheld their privileged position in the labor market. They had looked to City Hall as a symbol of local citizenship, the municipal power’s relationship with the AFL seeming to guarantee the favored position of white labor in the city. This seemed threatened by a period of intensified class conflict during 1916–1917, reaching a peak during the Aluminum Ore strike: in order to break organized labor, employers sought to call into question workers’ loyalty, manipulate racial divisions in the workplace, and to drive upon the unions. Having failed adequately to address the problem of racial discrimination and fearing massive employer coercion, the whitedominated unions began to unravel. In reaction to the fear of losing their privileged position in the labor market, white workers reacted with hostility toward African Americans even though—in the case of the meatpacking and Aluminum Ore workers—some moves toward making common cause with African Americans had taken place.

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For white workers, the class conflict—brought to a new level of intensity by the Aluminum Ore strike—had opened a breach in the racial community: they feared the loss of their claim on the state and City Hall. Moreover, as African Americans moved into their neighborhoods and as the privileges afforded by racial discrimination seemed in danger of being lost, white workers feared becoming economically, and perhaps socially, indistinguishable from their black neighbors. As African Americans were among the strikebreakers receiving the protection of state forces during the Aluminum Ore strike, this raised the possibility that African Americans were now perhaps favored over the white workers and deemed more worthy of citizenship, unlike the strikers against whom state forces were deployed and whose patriotism was called into question. Meanwhile, in light of these fears and recalling the racist election campaign of the Democratic Party, which had earlier stoked fears of losing political power to African Americans, white workers interpreted the Mayor’s inability to stop black migration as abandonment of them for African Americans. They reacted with hostility, breaking out in sporadic racial violence in the weeks leading to the July massacre. White workers desperately sought to restore the fragile accommodation they had enjoyed with powerful interests and the authorities. This had always rested upon collaboration in racial discrimination and oppression and consequently their efforts to restore that accommodation would center on race. During May and June 1917, this was achieved by seeking to join with the police in the oppression of African Americans. They thus responded to a police crackdown on alleged African American gun-toters by participating vigorously in the demonization of the black community. By 1 July, the unfounded rumors of a black uprising circulating within the white community seemed confirmed by the killing of two white detectives in the black neighborhood of Denverside. Significantly, it was in “defense” of the police that white workers then launched the racial onslaught described in the next chapter.

5

Anatomy of the Killing*

uring the summer of 1917 in East St. Louis, racial hostility increasingly began to take a violent turn. There were sporadic racist attacks, and an embryonic race riot erupted on 28 May. The city seemed constantly to be on the edge of some sort of violent explosion. Even before the May riot, smaller incidents had seemed to threaten to spark wider disorder. On 24 May, the East St Louis Daily Journal reported that a “race riot” had broken out, after a large fight erupted between two groups of blacks and whites: “the hatred is increasing daily,” the newspaper warned.1 And, after the May riot, the atmosphere remained febrile. A headline on 10 June reported that a black man had been chased by an “INCIPIENT MOB” near 10th Street2 This, and similar attacks, led the Daily Journal to suggest that “race rioting [had] resumed” in late June.3 However, even if a violent eruption of some sort was anticipated in the summer, the scale and brutality of the riot on 2 July was not. This chapter focuses on that violence. By considering the composition of the riot crowds and the social psychology of the atrocities, it seeks to explain the meaning of the East St. Louis race riot and why so many local whites supported the killings. However, to begin, it is necessary to have a clear understanding of the chronology of events. For, timing will prove crucial to an understanding of the riot.

D

The Summer of Violence: May–July 1917 Although the July riot was a spontaneous eruption—as suggested in the preceding section—it was foreshadowed by earlier, smaller outbursts during the summer of 1917. The pattern of behavior observed during the May riot, for instance, anticipated that of July. On 28 May, as in July, small groups of whites set out from Collinsville Avenue and spread across downtown streets, indiscriminately attacking, as the local newspaper noted,

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“every negro to be found.”4 Rioters stopped streetcars, dragged African Americans out, and beat them.5 At least twice on 28 May, whites made threats of lynching, although they did not act upon them.6 Rioters also made forays into nearby black neighborhoods and threw stones though the windows of homes there, but, on this occasion, the attacks stopped short of the fire setting of 2 July.7 On 28 May, rioters also descended on the Valley, intending to set black saloons ablaze, but were dissuaded by two white police detectives.8 The rioters instead smashed black property downtown—a restaurant, a barbershop, and saloons patronized by African Americans.9 Although the May riot was a serious display of violence, nobody was killed that night. On 2 July, events would follow a similar pattern, but take an altogether more savage turn. It is also possible to see the key groups who would be part of the July riot crowd emerging as leaders of racial violence earlier in the summer of 1917. The May riot demonstrated that many white workers not only felt hostile toward African Americans, but were also willing to participate in violence. Indeed, it was from among the crowds of workers leaving the protest meeting at Labor Hall that lynching had been called for.10 However, it seems that much of the violence during the summer was led by small groups of white racists, many of whom had close associations with the city’s saloons. There was the “bad nest of white fellows” about whom local African Americans had complained to the mayor, for example, or the “drunken toughs” who attacked black streetcar passengers on Saturday nights, both discussed in chapter 4.11 Similarly, on 29 May, it was whites lying in wait along the saloon-lined Whiskey Chute outside the packinghouse gates who had beaten black workers heading home and even shot one man. “Youths, armed with revolvers,” who gathered on Whiskey Chute, were associated with these attacks: in a show of strength that evening, they “shot into the air and marched” through the city, “singing popular songs.”12 These “young men and boys” and “roughly clad girls” associated with the city’s saloons would play a key role in the July massacre.13 However, the sporadic racist attacks during the summer were carried out by small groups of whites and remained limited in scale. The mass outburst of racial violence on 28 May, on the other hand, took place because the protest meeting at Labor Hall had provided the occasion for a gathering of a large crowd of hostile whites. Events on the night of 1 July provided another such occasion. In this, a gang of local whites—probably the “bad nest of white fellows” who had been harassing African Americans in Denverside during the summer—had a key role. During the daytime on 1 July, “a large number of automobiles filled with white men” were seen driving through Denverside at the same time as “a large number of white men” were seen “parading” on foot through the area. They were, it was later

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claimed, making “an inspection” of the neighborhood in preparation for an attack and, indeed, they returned later that night, sometime before midnight: perhaps as many as “ten or twelve” men—“drunken joy-riders”— drove along Market Street, firing into black residents’ homes.14 African Americans, clearly in a heightened state of preparedness in the wake of the May riot, managed to return fire as the automobiles drove along Market Street, but the whites escaped.15 Shortly after this, a church bell was rung, and local black residents assembled in the street to defend their neighborhood.16 However, a local white man, looking out of his window, saw them and assumed, as noted in chapter 4, that this was the beginning of an uprising, which (false) rumors circulating in the white community had predicted.17 He telephoned the police in a panic, saying that they were armed and advancing.18 The local police department dispatched an automobile to investigate, carrying, among others, plainclothes detectives Samuel Coppedge and Frank Wadley. As the vehicle passed into Denverside, at 10th and Bond, it encountered the crowd of African Americans, later estimated at over one hundred strong.19 In a confused encounter in the moonlit streets, a number of African Americans among the crowd fired upon the police vehicle, killing Coppedge and fatally wounding Wadley. The black residents could not have known immediately that the unmarked car was a police vehicle and may well have viewed it as carrying yet more white attackers. If the police officers who accompanied Coppedge and Wadley to 10th and Bond are to be believed, Coppedge identified himself to the crowd, although whether his badge was visible in the dark street is doubtful. In any case, the generally hostile attitude of the police toward African Americans during the summer could hardly have encouraged African Americans to trust them. Perhaps, as one passenger of the police car later suggested, one of the vehicle’s thin tires burst as it was drawing away from the crowd, making a sound like a gunshot, which, in the tense situation, brought a volley of fire from the crowd.20 Whatever the reason for the shooting, the death of Coppedge would provoke a furious reaction from the local white community. The bullet-marked police car was left parked outside the police station on the morning of 2 July in clear view of everybody passing by on their way to work: “with its blood-stained upholstery, [it] ‘looked like a flour sieve, all punctured full of holes.’ ”21 News of the shooting passed through the white community and was met by outrage. An unfounded rumor emerged among local whites that the black residents of Denverside were holding a “gala-day” celebration of the shooting, with singing and banjo playing and whites began to talk of taking revenge.22 According to the St Louis Times journalist George Popkess, “all the reporters predicted a riot” that morning when they heard of the shooting.23 Arriving in the city that morning, the

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St Louis Post-Dispatch reporter Paul Y. Anderson noted that local whites were gathering in groups, talking among themselves, saying that blacks “should be run out of town,” or, even more ominously, that they “should be wiped out.”24 As crowds of whites gathered, a local lawyer, John Seymour, circulated among them, saying that he would defend anyone in court who took revenge against the black community for the killing of Coppedge and Wadley. Police officers also made their support for violence clear: “it was apparent,” George Popkess recalled, that the police “wouldn’t enforce the law in case an attack was begun upon the Negroes.”25 One white man, a railway claims agent named Richard Brockway, urged workers to meet at Labor Hall on Collinsville Avenue, where he told them “to arm themselves against the Negroes.”26 As that meeting broke up, sometime before ten o’ clock, the first rioters made their way south along Collinsville Avenue, “marching in an irregular way.”27 “[T]wo or three of the men in this crowd” set about a black man as they passed him: they “kicked him in the face a few times” before another man “walked up and shot him three or five times” with a revolver, wounding him badly, although he survived the attack and made an escape.28 Other rioters were seen “running around . . . promiscuously from one end of the street to the other,” attacking any black man they passed.29 This became, as Rudwick chillingly described it, “a bloody half-mile” through the morning, as white rioters beat African Americans with their fists and improvised weapons.30 They stopped streetcars, searched them for black passengers, dragged African American passengers out, beat them, and—in the afternoon—shot them.31 The beatings drew a large crowd of onlookers, numbering between five hundred and a thousand, who cheered and applauded the violence. The streets were thronged by women “dressed for home” in “calico dresses” and so many men dressed in blue cotton work shirts that a newspaper reporter later commented that it looked as if a “blue-shirted army” had invaded the city.32 The riot took hold downtown in the middle of the commercial district in full sight of the local community.33 As the Select Committee investigator John Raker noted, “[t]here is every conceivable legitimate business that you can think of down that street [Collinsville Avenue]—millinery shops, butcher shops, banks, confectionary, and everything else—telegraph office . . .; girls selling cigars; shoe stores”: the people working at these businesses and shopping downtown were all “watching the mob.”34 While the newspaper reporter Paul Anderson discovered that some white shop assistants and clerks offered shelter to African Americans escaping from the rioters, most seem to have simply watched the violence.35 Nor did the police come to the assistance of black East St. Louisans. Many were ordered home or simply did not report for duty. Some local

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police officers were actually complicit in the violence, pointing out potential victims for the rioters.36 But, the role of the police in the riot was eclipsed by that of the National Guard. In the early hours of 2 July, after the shooting of Coppedge and Wadley, Mayor Mollman put out a call for the National Guard, realizing that there was a real danger that a riot may erupt the next day. However, company by company, the soldiers arrived at a slow, trickling pace. By 9 a.m., thirty soldiers of the 4th Regiment had arrived; thirty or so more followed later in the morning; and forty or so after midday. By 1 p.m., by which time the riot was well under way, just over one hundred soldiers had arrived in the city. Not only were the forces arriving on the day of the race riot under strength, they were also undisciplined and badly organized. The Guardsmen were broken up into small patrols and were not placed under effective command. They were ill prepared and had no training in dealing with civilian crowds. Crucially, many clearly had a virulently racist outlook and sympathized with the local whites. They either simply stood back and watched the riot unfold or even urged the violence on. Some Guardsmen were overheard calling to the rioters that “black skunks . . . are no friends of ours,” or that rioters could “kill all the niggers” as far as they cared.37 The violence intensified in the afternoon. Around half past three, groups of rioters moved south of Broadway, east of Collinsville Avenue, and westward into the Valley around 3rd Street, and began to set fire to black homes in these areas. As black residents fled these burning buildings, white rioters, including National Guardsmen, opened fire. A witness, reported in a newspaper, said that he had seen “one man shoot down seven negroes as they scurried out of their burning homes, one after the other, as fast as he could pull the trigger.”38 Beatings, administered by both white men and women, continued on Collinsville Avenue into the evening.39 Nearby, the violence came to a bloody climax at the “storm center” of 4th and Broadway.40 Here, white men, women, and children cheered as black men, women, and children were beaten and shot. One “rather heavy act man” was seen climbing on a telegraph pole around 6.40 p.m., securing a rope as a black man was seized and then hanged.41 Another black man, Scott Clark, was captured: a noose was placed around his neck and he was paraded to 4th and Broadway and would certainly have been lynched too had Colonel E. P. Clayton of the National Guard not arrived with a company of soldiers who had not been involved in the killings that day. The soldiers arrested around seventy-five rioters, although they were not in time to save Clark’s life, for he later died from his injuries.42 Between six and eight o’clock, fires engulfed the black homes near the downtown area and much of the Valley vice district. Billowing smoke from the burning buildings could be seen from St. Louis on the Missouri side of

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the river, and the flames cast a light that could be seen miles away up in the bluffs above East St. Louis. Through the night, fires continued to burn and, in the north of the city, there was some sporadic gunfire as groups of whites and blacks clashed. However, the worst of the violence had passed and the riot unwound through the night. At least thirty-nine African Americans—although possibly many more—had been killed, with many more left injured.43 The East St. Louis race riot was indeed a brutal outpouring of violence. Only the most careful anatomization of it can help explain why it took place and how it seemingly engulfed an entire city, either as victims or perpetrators. To begin, we focus on the cooperation among local white workers, the National Guard, and the police in the killings. This can reveal a hitherto hidden reason behind the violence.

Rumor and Restoration of the Racial Community The July race riot erupted at a moment of crisis for the local white working class in the wake of the crushing of organized labor. Having once felt assured of a stake in the local white-dominated order, white workers found themselves the subjects of state surveillance, targeted by state forces sent to suppress union militancy, and at odds with the local police force. However, this tense situation began to ease during May 1917 with respect to white workers’ relationship with the local police force. African Americans, rather than white workers, found themselves being closely watched and intimidated by the police during the summer. This occurred as white workers and the (white-dominated) police and local press simultaneously began groundlessly to accuse African Americans of being responsible for a crime wave in the city. This discourse, which cast African Americans as criminal gun-toters and a threat to the white community, allowed white workers to appeal to the police on grounds of race for protection. It also allowed the police—perhaps equally eager to dispel the tension between the local white community and themselves—to respond accordingly. This gave white workers hope that the breach in the white community opened up by intense class conflict could be overcome. This interpretation was suggested by the approach to rumor taken in historical work on the racial killings on the South African Rand in 1922: in that case, rumors of an impending black uprising gripped the local white working-class community and were the basis upon which they sought acceptance by the authorities, who were then poised to bear down upon white strikers. These rumors, a historian has suggested, reflected subconscious hopes and wishes: in that case, the wish to arrest a slide toward

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civil war among whites. This manifested itself in the emergence of unfounded rumors of a black uprising, a “Black Peril” that had the potential to unite all whites.44 While, as was suggested in chapter 4, the emergence of a discourse about black gun-toters in East St. Louis might have been a related phenomenon, a clearer example of this can be found in the emergence in East St. Louis of unfounded rumors in the summer of 1917 of an African American plot to massacre whites on 4 July.45 Indeed, in his work on the South African killings, Jeremy Krikler suggested that these rumors of a black uprising in East St. Louis appeared to be “not very different from the kinds of rumor that plagued white working-class communities in 1922 on the Rand.” Were these rumors in East St. Louis, Krikler asked, “linked subconsciously to an attempt to restore that community of whites which had earlier been shattered by class conflict?”46 Interestingly, it was a false report of a black uprising that had drawn Detectives Coppedge and Wadley to Denverside on 1 July, where they were shot and killed.47 Such rumors were important because they allowed the white-dominated police force and white workers to reach out to each other and to combine against this putative black threat on 2 July.48 Although the shooting of Coppedge and Wadley was almost certainly a mistake, white workers asserted that the killings were deliberate and related to the rumored uprising. Moreover, on the morning after the shootings, as one Select Committee witness later suggested, it was evident that the police would turn a blind eye to an onslaught upon the African American community.49 It is quite possible that the police were actively seeking to incite local whites to take “revenge” against the black community by leaving Coppedge’s bullet-riddled automobile in front of the police station on 2 July. Certainly, as Rudwick revealed, some police officers clearly saw the riot as revenge for the shooting: when informed of a lynching at 4th and Broadway on 2 July, the police “laconically replied, ‘Well they [AfricanAmericans] are getting what they gave to Coppedge and Wadley.’ ”50 J. McGlynn, an attorney who witnessed the violence, noted that “the police were heartily in sympathy with the mob spirit.”51 Not surprisingly, a rumor actually passed through the crowd that the police had urged white rioters to break into Ellman’s pawnshop to loot weapons, indicating that rioters felt that the police condoned the violence. It seems likely that the rumor reflected the general attitude of the police, for, when the pawnshop was looted, of jewelry as well as firearms, and the shopkeeper ran to the police station, which was only one block away, the officers inside simply told him to “get the hell out of there.”52 The police, then, simply allowed the rioters to run free. When the mob murdered a black father and his foster son, two police officers, Meehan and

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O’Brien, merely looked on.53 Even when “sixty or seventy” rioters were arrested by National Guardsmen (some did their duty that day), the police did not register the suspects: instead the rioters were put in an insecure room with “windows which went all the way down to the lower floor, and they were allowed to come out.”54 Some police officers were even closely involved in the violence, pointing out injured blacks, shouting “[t]hey’re not dead yet, boys” to the rioters.55 However, it was the cooperation between the rioters and the National Guard that is perhaps most significant for the argument advanced here. For, during the summer, while the police had reciprocated white workers’ efforts at reconciliation, the National Guard had been unmoved. Guardsmen had been deployed to patrol company property against strikers, to intimidate organized labor, and to escort black strikebreakers, and their presence in the city was seen by some whites as a military occupation. It was all the more significant, then, that this relationship of confrontation was dispelled during the July race riot. In this, rumor also played a key role. During the riot, unfounded rumors emerged that an arsenal, ready for use in a black uprising, was hidden at the home of Dr. Le Roy Bundy, the prominent black community leader. Other rumors warned of an impending attack from the neighboring black village of Brooklyn: “Word reached East St. Louis that the negroes of Belleville, Brooklyn, Cahokia, Alton, Granite City and East Carondelet were mobilizing to invade the city.”56 Such rumors were undoubtedly false. National Guardsmen awaiting “armies” of blacks stated later that “everything was quiet; we had no trouble.”57 Yet, these rumors were believed. The St. Louis Republic reported that when rumors of a black invasion reached one white section of East St. Louis, “genuine fear was apparent among the women and children who blockaded themselves in their homes.”58 On 2 July, these rumors diverted Guardsmen from quelling the riot. When a military inquiry asked the National Guardsman Captain J. A. Eaton, “did you establish a line of patrols [during the riot]?” he replied: “No sir. We just simply held the bridge [to Brooklyn].” His reason: “it had been rumored there was a bunch of blacks coming from Brooklyn to clean the [white] people out.” But no such attack happened.59 African Americans did join together in small groups to attempt to defend their neighborhoods from white rioters. However, the rumors sweeping East St. Louis during 2 July distorted this action: “one of the persistent rumors” Major William Klauser of the 4th Infantry National Guard later recalled, “was there were two hundred negroes armed around sixth and Bond Streets.” When Klauser went to investigate with a company of soldiers he “combed” the area “for an hour or probably more” and found only two armed African Americans.60

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Not only were rumors diverting soldiers from protecting African Americans, they also facilitated a dramatic change in the relationship between the National Guard and local whites. The arrival of the National Guard in East St. Louis in April, in response to the Aluminum Ore strike and after a period of increased labor organization, had signified to white workers that they had entered a conflict with the state as well as their employers. There was surely little question in the minds of workers about the reasons behind the April deployment for, over time, the soldiers became involved in breaking up union meetings and intervening against pickets around the Aluminum Ore plant. Moreover, as the Aluminum Ore union collapsed and white workers became involved in racist attacks on black workers, the Guard was deployed—with fixed bayonets—to protect black workers from whites.61 However, during the July massacre, this situation was reversed: the Guard was now being deployed to protect whites from a putative black threat. The National Guard deployment on 2 July thus promoted in the minds of white workers the healing of the fracture in the white community. Of equal significance were the actions of individual Guardsmen, who actually assisted the rioters and were seen firing at blacks.62 It was as if a sense of camaraderie was being forged between these two previously opposed groups as they joined together in the murder of blacks. Soldiers were seen “fraternizing with the mob, smoking cigarettes with them and accompanying them on their errands of brutality.”63 Perhaps the white National Guardsmen were as keen as the white workers to heal the divisions. They were overheard encouraging the violence. One, for example, was heard telling a rioter he could murder every black person as far as he was concerned.64 Another told a man firing “a big heavy revolver” at African Americans that he should “kill all the black bastards” he found.65 Others joined in the killing themselves. The reporter Paul Y. Anderson later overheard one National Guardsmen brag that he had fired seventeen clips and “couldn’t hit anything except a black target.”66 There was a gruesome jocularity about the riot—one witness referred to a “circus” atmosphere. Perhaps that jocularity, the laughter accompanying many of the atrocities, was a manifestation of relief felt when fears about the National Guard were overcome by common participation in the riot.67 On at least one occasion after soldiers had shot blacks, rioters “slapped their thighs and said the Illinois National Guard was all right.”68 The fractured racial community was being healed. Surely it is no coincidence that, as the white working class in East St. Louis was crushed by state and capital, unfounded rumors of a black threat emerged, prompting white workers to ally with the forces that earlier had been set against them. It is powerful evidence indeed, as Krikler

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demonstrated for the Rand, and suggested for East St. Louis, that unfounded rumors of black revolt were “linked subconsciously to an attempt to restore [a white racial community].”69 However, for the perpetrators of the racial violence, the demonization and victimization of black people on 2 July 1917 fulfilled other functions as well. They are considered here.

Neighborhood Segregation and Urban Change: Violence, Place, and Meaning Shifting patterns of residential settlement had formed a key part of the context of the rising racial hostility in East St. Louis. Local whites protested against African Americans moving into their hitherto racially exclusive neighborhoods: the border area between the expanding African American area of Denverside and the adjoining white streets became a focus for sporadic racial violence, as did streetcars that threaded districts newly settled by blacks together with those in which whites still lived. During the summer of 1917, whites violently enforced physical separation between the races and laid claim to particular areas. This process would take on a dramatic and brutal form during the July race riot. To begin, it is worth considering the particularly profound fears that the erosion of racial segregation could trigger among whites. In early 1917— precisely at the time when whites’ anxieties over the erosion of segregation were becoming acute—a bogus fear that African Americans were spreading a smallpox epidemic emerged. It is even possible that one aspect of the whites’ actions during the July riot were structured by profound fears associated with this sense of “contamination.” When rioters referred to their attacks as having “wiped out” and “clean[ed] up” neighborhoods, this may have reflected a feeling of having removed what they considered to be a “pollutant” from their midst. Perhaps this explains the widespread burning of the bodies and homes of African Americans. Colonel Tripp, adjutant general of the Illinois National Guard commented at the time that whites sought not only to kill blacks, but also “to burn them out of their respective districts.” Indeed, approximately two hundred homes were destroyed by fire.70 Witnesses testified to the dead or dying being thrown into burning buildings. The rioters remained proud of what they had done in the weeks after the riot and the burning of bodies was no simple attempt to destroy corporeal evidence of crime.71 Not satisfied with killing, they wanted to erase even dead bodies. Fire has many symbolic associations, but that of its use in the burning of corpses during epidemics seems pertinent here: fire could in this sense have been seen as a way of somehow “decontaminating” areas of the city that were, in the minds of whites, “polluted” by

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the presence of blacks. Thus, whites ensured that the houses of African Americans were utterly consumed by flames, risking even confrontation with firemen by cutting their hoses.72 Significantly, during the race riot, concerns about smallpox arose when African Americans were offered shelter in City Hall. Local whites considered East St. Louis a “white man’s town,” and the sheltering of black refugees in a symbol of local citizenship like City Hall must have anyway been perceived as a racial transgression of some sort, but it is interesting that it was given the inflection of disease. On 4 July, the St Louis GlobeDemocrat reported the rumor that “cases of smallpox” were found among the “several hundred” black refugees sheltering in City Hall. While the evidence indicates that the majority of smallpox victims in the 1917 outbreak were white, it was the presence of black refugees that raised a panic, and elicited reassurances that City Hall would be “fumigated” once the refugees had gone, in a purification ritual that seems to have had more of a psychological function than a practical purpose.73 However, if the violence was partly structured by such “contamination” anxieties, it was not caused by them. White workers’ anxieties concerning racial segregation (and contamination) became acute at a time when industrial conflict seemed to threaten to drive them from their position of privilege in the workplace. The segregation that had allowed whites to maintain a physical separation from African Americans was breaking down precisely at a time when they came to fear economic and social approximation with blacks. Recall how white workers could be overheard around town at this time, talking about how they did not want to have to live “like a nigger,” or lose their economic status, live in neighborhoods with blacks and be reduced to the standard of living they associated with African Americans.74 This was not merely an economic question but, as discussed earlier, it seemed to threaten white workers’ sense of identity. During the July riot, a rioter whipped-up the crowd by shouting “one race born black, should be exterminated . . . ‘We’re born white, and we’ll always be white!’ ”75 There would have been no need to state “we’ll always be white,” unless there was a palpable feeling that perhaps whiteness was not a stable identity, and that it might be lost. Whites had sought to preserve the fragile social distance between themselves and African Americans and had failed. It was as if seeking by a violent mass mobilization to define their community and themselves apart from African Americans that whites joined the onslaught on 2 July. The context of the perceived breakdown of racial segregation gave the precise locations of the attacks on 2 July a symbolic significance. In this, East St. Louis has much in common with the killings on the South African Rand in 1922, in which the changing urban environment—the establishment

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of African communities in Sophiatown for example, or the increased presence of black workers in areas previously felt to be “white”—formed part of the context of racial hostility.76 On the Rand, whites attacked black people “residing or merely present”—considered to be interloping—in those areas claimed as white space and made “armed forays” into areas recently settled by blacks (like Sophiatown).77 Likewise, in East St. Louis, the sporadic racist attacks breaking out during the summer tended to focus on downtown streets where the presence of blacks had reminded whites of their changing city, or on residential areas recently settled by blacks. During the July massacre, attacks often centered on areas that were symbolic of the growing black presence in East St. Louis and the changing urban world. For example, the black suburb of Brooklyn, which had been established in the nineteenth century and was therefore not associated with the recent changes, remained untouched.78 The rioters specifically sought to attack those African Americans whom they “held responsible for the changing [urban] world.”79 Thus, much of the violence was focused on the South End and Denverside: precisely those areas of former white settlement most transformed by the growth of the black community. It was surely no coincidence that these areas had been the locations of sporadic racist violence during the summer of 1917. And, on 2 July, white rioters pressed through to the areas around 10th and 11th Streets, around Market and Trendley, Brady and McCasland Avenues in Denverside, targeting black homes.80 As a later chapter will reveal, African American residents prevented white rioters from moving further into Denverside. Had they not done so, it seems likely that white mobs would have—as one rumor circulating in Denverside during the riot held—made their way further east to raze the homes and businesses of East St. Louis’ emerging black middle class.81 Such violence, then, not only sought to fix the geographical borders of black neighborhoods, but also to delimit the black social, political, and economic world. The heart of the emerging black middle class—politically and economically dynamic—surely represented as much of a powerful symbol of the changing urban world as the increased settlement of white neighborhoods by African Americans. The black middle class also had the potential to destabilize white working-class identity in particular, for it departed so markedly from the racial stereotype that whites associated with African Americans. But it was in the violence downtown—the “bloody half-mile” of Collinsville Avenue and its vicinity—that the July riot took on its most prominent and brutal aspect.82 This violence, in which whites effectively occupied the civic and commercial center of the city, had symbolic as well as strategic significance. By “marching” on the main streetcar transfer point at Broadway, for example, rioters attacked almost all black people

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moving through, or simply temporarily engaged in business in East St. Louis. Thus, a woman, her husband and son who were merely passing through downtown East St. Louis on the streetcar heading home to St. Louis from the town of Alton were among those attacked.83 There was a deliberate quality in the attempt to kill or remove with violence every African American: the rioters systematically “stopped all the street cars that came past and searched them for negroes . . . [the] . . . desire [was] expressed . . . that they should find them and kill them, all that they could find.”84 Their actions turned the public heart of the city into an area dominated and exclusively occupied by whites. There was a sense, then, in which the rioters felt they were somehow “reclaiming” their city. As rioters hanged one black man, for example, hauling him up by pulling one end of the rope, a rioter shouted encouragement: “Get hold and pull for East St. Louis!.”85 The call “East St Louis must remain a white man’s town” had marked the beginning of the May riot and it was associated again with the July killings. A National Guardsman, seeking to intervene to protect an African American at one point was driven back by a white man “stick[ing] his fist under . . . [the] militiaman’s face”: “Goddamn you,” the rioter told him, “I want you to understand this is a white man’s town.”86 Before the riot, local whites had complained that their urban world was being disrupted by black migration and might perhaps even be lost in some sense to the newcomers. They complained that, along Collinsville Avenue, instead of meeting familiar people, they would meet “new [black] people coming into town”: they stated, it will be recalled, that “you wouldn’t think you were in the home town.”87 They feared that East St. Louis would become—in the words of one white—a “negro town.”88 As noted in chapter 4, these fears were conditioned by prejudice rather than reflecting a genuine and sudden transformation of the urban world. However, during the race riot, whites acted as if these fears were real. They violently imposed themselves on the center of the city, laying claim to this space, and removing or killing any African American who entered it.

The Crowd, the Mob, and Collective Behavior It is particularly disturbing to reflect that thousands of men, women, and children were present at and supportive of extreme acts of violence during the East St. Louis massacre. Drawing on newspaper and eyewitness accounts, Rudwick described acts of terrible cruelty. “Victims were not permitted ‘to die easily,’ ” he stated. Rioters “laughed at the final writhings of a Negro whose skull had been partly torn away.” One white man was

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seen “bathing his hand” in a black man’s blood, as he lifted him into a noose to be hanged.89 The horror of the killings and the distinctly sadistic edge to the violence requires explanation. How did the July riot develop into an outpouring of such savage violence and how could apparently ordinary white working-class people eagerly take part in it? Although Elliott Rudwick provided an evocative and compelling narrative of the riot, he did not seek to address this question. A consideration of the collective sociopsychological process of the riot, allows an explanation of how the race riot spiraled into a bloody, sadistic massacre. Moments of spontaneous popular racial violence, such as the East St. Louis massacre, have not been a central concern of much recent theoretical work on crowd action, which has tended to focus on sustained social and political movements, strikes and revolutions. However, passing moments like the East St. Louis massacre stand apart from politically driven, sustained movements.90 And, compared with the often politically inflected disturbances, such as food riots and labor disputes, considered by George Rudé in his pioneering work on the crowd, the East St. Louis massacre appears wholly pathological: an explosion of sadistic, brutal violence. Here, there is surely a case for considering the irrational “mob in history,” and sociopsychology and theories of collective behavior are helpful in this.91 In particular, the “emergent norm” approach to collective behavior illuminates an event such as the race riot: a spontaneous and temporary, passing moment; a moment in which the “everyday” rules of behavior did not apply. As will become clear, this approach helps account for how actions during the East St. Louis race riot could have acquired a sense of “legitimacy” in the eyes of the participants. It emphasizes how, within a temporary closed crowd environment such as the East St. Louis riot, individuals—who might otherwise balk at brutality—can become influenced by the behavior of others in his or her vicinity. Individual crowd members then tend to adopt the behavioral norms seemingly established by the majority of the crowd. Psychological experiments have indicated a tendency for crowd members who dissent or do not approve of the extraordinary behavior to remain silent, giving the impression of acquiescence or agreement.92 This tends to create a behavioral norm. Of course, a crowd is a dynamic social environment and behavioral norms do not necessarily remain fixed within it. Experiments also highlight how assertive crowd members can shape behavior and accepted norms within the collective environment by acting in a “consistent and convincing” manner.93 When faced with others acting in a self-assured way, even members of the group who initially dissent from behavior adopted by the majority can find themselves “experiencing doubts about their own judgment.”94

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Thus, bold crowd members can emerge in a “leadership” role. Their assertiveness tends to discourage dissent and this creates the impression of majority support, lending actions a sense of legitimacy and encouraging unity of behavior. This approach helps to explain why and how whites got “caught-up in the mood” of the riot and also how a bold leading figure or subgroup could have emerged within the riot crowd and driven the violence forward. The East St. Louis riot was composed of a large spectating crowd surrounding a murderous core of leading rioters. It was reported that among the thousands of whites in the streets, “a comparatively small number of people [were] doing the assaulting.” Witnesses stated that the core had a leadership role: rioters seem to him to have been divided into “units . . . each . . . [of which] . . . appeared to have a leader” and “no better organized mob ever operated” it was observed.95 Accordingly, a distinction is made between the wider supporting “crowd,” and the active, pathologically violent “mob” core. Particular attention is given to the role of these riot leaders: they physically orchestrated the worst of the violence, shaping and reshaping norms of behavior in the riot, driving it forward. However, it is important to temper this approach with recognition of the particular context of East St. Louis in 1917. The July riot took place in a city that was already receptive to a violent outburst. For over a month in the summer of 1917, in the form of sporadic racist attacks and a mass outburst on 28 May, racial violence had taken hold in the city: surely, by July, there was a sense in which whites were beginning to see racial violence somehow as a “normal” part of life in their city. Moreover, as discussed in chapter 3, violence in a general form permeated the culture of East St. Louis. Acts of brutal violence—savage beatings and shootings—were a regular part of the city’s saloon culture. And, patrons of these saloons seem to have joined the July riot, bringing with them their distorted sense of “normal” or “acceptable” levels of violence.96 In these circumstances, we would expect to see the violence increase incrementally on 2 July as the violent “norm” of behavior was accepted and increasingly grew more brutal through the day. Indeed, the evidence does suggest this was so. For example, the journalist and eyewitness Roy Albertson noted generally that, “[a]s the day wore on, the rioting grew more serious.” This was also the perception of the general manager of Swift and Co., Frank J. Hunter: “[t]here was rioting all day,” he later recalled,“but it got what you might call violent [i.e. murderous] along about the middle of the afternoon.”97 “Content at first with administering severe beatings,” the St Louis Globe-Democrat observed, the rioters “soon . . . began to demand greater punishment.”98 Although the day would end in an orgy of sadistic, ritualistic murders, shootings, and hangings at 4th and Broadway, the riot began with the

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generalized beating of passersby, before attacks were “ratcheted up.” Over the day, attacks became even more focused on killing—not simply beating—and involved increasingly systematic searches for African Americans. However, between nine and ten o’clock in the morning it was noted that the rioters “were just running around . . . promiscuously from one end of the street to the other . . . [and] they would get tired of beating up negroes there and they would look for some new game [at the other end of the street].”99 These first attacks—with an emphasis on “beating up”— cannot be compared with the vicious and ruthlessly murderous activities evident later in the day. Amongst themselves, from the outset, the first rioters were saying that black East St. Louisans should be “wiped out,” but they did not act on this for some time.100 However, at ten o’clock, a few (“two or three”) rioters from a crowd of approximately thirty, broke away as they passed a black man on Collinsville Avenue: they beat him and then one of the white men drew a pistol and shot him. The African American man survived and was taken soon after to hospital by an ambulance. Within fifteen minutes, another black man was fired upon, although this time the white rioter missed. Clearly, some rioters were willing to commit homicide. Yet these two shootings seem exceptional, stand out as atypical of the violence of that morning, and indeed they occurred at a point before the riot had fully taken shape and before the large spectating crowd had formed.101 As that crowd—of possibly five hundred or a thousand spectators—gathered over the course of the morning, beatings, but not homicidal attacks, were the norm. White rioters began stopping streetcars (as they had done on 28 May) searching them for black passengers, dragging out those they found, and beating them with brickbats. There were no fatalities before one o’clock, but the attacks—stopping cars and searching for victims— became more systematic. Then, soon after one o’clock, two men who had been leading the attacks—Charles Hanna, a “chauffeur,” and John Gow, a teamster, dragged Edward Cook and his foster son from a streetcar and shot and killed them both. This marked a departure in the riot: an almost casual attitude was to develop toward murder once the behavioral boundary was crossed. By the early afternoon, rioters “calmly” shot and killed prone victims.102 As these core rioters broke increasingly brutal ground, the crowd followed behind them, supportively cheering and “hissing” at dissenters to maintain unanimity.103 And, just as the police had encouraged the outbreak of violence in the morning, by the afternoon, they were believed to be encouraging the killing, helping to establish murder as a “norm” within the riot: after three o’clock, as rioters moved south into the black neighborhood around 3rd Street, there was a rumor among them that white police officers had told the riot leaders that they should loot the nearby Ellman’s pawnshop

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for weapons. Not long after the pawnshop was looted, the violence escalated. Rioters set fire to buildings around 3rd Street and South Main Street, and shot African Americans as they fled from their homes there. Now rioters were not simply opportunistically attacking black passersby but seeking out people to kill. Again the crowd was drawn into supporting the mob core: at one point—support blurring into participation—a group of teenage girls assisted armed men in the chase after a fleeing black woman, demanding that the men shoot her, although these girls did not assault the woman themselves.104 As the assaults on black homes began, the riot promised to become even more murderous. At 3.45 p.m., a National Guardsman confronted a white rioter, demanding that he stop beating a black man, telling him he had “done enough to this man,” and not to kill him. This plea for restraint would have reflected the tacitly agreed bounds of violence for the riot in the morning, but the riot had by now broken far beyond them. Rather than complying with the Guardsman, the rioter “immediately” drew a pistol from his pocket and defiantly shot the beaten man through the head.105 Murder was now the established norm. During the afternoon, as well as becoming more severe, it would appear that the scope of the violence also widened. The mob at first hesitated about killing women and children. The Chicago Tribune, for example, noted that attacks on women began “[l]ater in the day.”106 Indeed, two rioters came to blows with their fellows, defending a black woman streetcar passenger at one point.107 And when the first attacks on black neighborhoods began, after half past three, rioters shot and killed men as they fled from the burning buildings, but they did not shoot children.108 Yet the climax of the riot on 4th and Broadway after six o’clock would engulf women and even children: a young boy was thrown into a fire to die; a oneyear-old child was shot in the head; and a three-year-old girl was shot dead next to men who had shared the same fate.109 By early evening, the brutal element was holding sway, controlling the riot at the “storm center” of 4th and Broadway, where the greatest atrocities occurred.110 It was after six o’clock, at the height of the violence, that the news reporter Paul Anderson saw a rioter sit on a black man and shoot not one, but “several shots” into that man’s head.111 A local grocer, John Sullivan, saw two white men together during the riot, an older man and a younger man, behaving in a similar way. “In the evening” Sullivan stated, the older man “cut loose”: he shot one black man with a forty-four caliber pistol and when his younger companion told him to “give him another,” the white man “pulled one of them rapid firing guns and he pumped about five [bullets] into him.”112 While newspaper reports did not agree on the precise details—the riot was a confusing and chaotic event—they do

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convey a sense of savage brutality and glee taken in killing in this area. It was around 4th and Broadway that a reporter saw one man “bathing his hand in the . . . blood” of a victim.113 Here, rioters beat one black man under a “shower of stones,” before attempting to hang him: on their first attempt, the rope snapped and so the rioters obtained another rope and hanged the man a second time, this time leaving his body suspended.114 According to one newspaper report, the rioters tormented the man with “almost good natured jabs in the ribs” as the noose was placed around his neck.115 Some newspaper reports stated that rioters had even shot the man after the rope snapped, before they hanged his body a second time. Another report claimed that he had been shot before the first attempt to hang him. Another man, the same report claimed, was shot by “a volley” of gunfire before being hanged.116 An eyewitness reported seeing “the mob throw a rope around a colored man’s neck and shoot him full of holes.”117 This violence was orchestrated by a relatively small core of rioters. Of the roughly one and a half thousand people said to have been gathered at 4th and Broadway in the evening, only a dozen or so men seem to have been directly and actively involved in the hangings.118 Among those men, one newspaper report identified a “ringleader” with whom a seventeenyear-old boy was seen making improvised nooses at 4th and Broadway.119 That is not to say that the core members were the only ones to commit acts of violence: on one occasion, for example, a group of teenage girls took part in a beating, as if sampling the riot experience. They beat a black woman so badly they got her blood on their clothes, but then calmly walked away, rejoined their friends in the crowd, and discussed what they had done.120 However, when certain crowd members participated in a limited way, they still looked to the mob leadership to approve and orchestrate killings. When some crowd members beat two fleeing black men they did not kill them, but passed them to other rioters, shouting “hang them” and “swing ’em up.” On another occasion, the crowd set two black men against a wall for three armed whites to shoot and kill.121 Who, then, composed the “mob” core of the riot? Some National Guardsmen took a particularly brutal role in the killings. It seems likely that among the militia were a significant number of men who were eager to engage in violence. Yet, while some members of the National Guard were heavily involved in the July killings, it does not seem that they were instrumental in driving the violence forward: one witness mentioned that National Guardsmen on their arrival “got in the same [mob] spirit,” suggesting that soldiers were becoming involved in, rather than initiating, the violence.122 Their role, while brutal, was not decisive. Other witness evidence suggests the key importance of workers in the riot. It is clear that white workers—identified by their blue work

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shirts—composed the largest proportion of the crowd: the journalist George Popkess suggested perhaps “two thirds of them [rioters] wore blue [work] shirts.”123 Similarly, working-class women, identified by their “calico dresses”, were seen in significant numbers in the crowd.124 This indicates the presence of white workers generally in and around the riot crowd. Not all such rioters were industrial workers. Tige Meisenheimer, who was seen firing a “big heavy revolver” during the riot and was later heard to brag about the number of African Americans he had killed, was a barber.125 Others were clerical workers. Joe Dickerson, who was involved in the hangings at 4th and Broadway, was a furniture salesman.126 But, a number of industrial workers and transport workers also had a murderous role in the riot. For example, a local grocer claimed to have seen one “powerful, big fellow with a hickory shirt [i.e., work shirt] on him,” of roughly “thirty-five years of age,” about five feet nine inches tall, together with a “smooth shaved young man” of “about twenty-two or twenty-three” years old wearing a “blue serge suit” [i.e., working clothes] during the riot. They were, according to the grocer, “very energetically trying to kill Negroes in front of my place with a revolver.” As well as being dressed for work, they had a “transfer horse”—a workhorse—with them and were possibly employees of a transfer or teaming company.127 Other evidence makes it possible to be more precise about the occupational background of rioters. Included among those arrested and tried after the riot were Herbert F. Wood, a forty-year-old switchman, Leo A. Keane, a seventeen-year-old railway messenger, John Gow, a teenaged ice wagon driver, and Charles Hanna, a teenaged fire service “chauffeur.”128 Wood and Keane were convicted for their role in the hangings at 4th and Broadway, while Hanna and Gow were said to have been “quite active in the mob, beating and shooting negroes around noon and during the afternoon.”129 They had led some attacks: a witness later recalled that it had been Hanna and Gow whom she had seen “enter a streetcar after pulling the trolley off the wire” and pursue an African American “into the hands of a mob of white men.” Indeed, Gow was said to have later bragged that “he had thrown fifty negroes into Cahokia Creek, besides beating and shooting several more.”130 Likewise, John Johnson, a twenty-nine year-old switchman, John Tisch, a nineteen-year-old packinghouse worker, and Edward Otto, a steamfitter, were all involved in separate shootings and arson attacks.131 Tisch, for example, had been seen chasing after African Americans with a group of “possibly forty or fifty” white men armed with “a number of shining revolvers.”132 According to a witness, he “had [later] boasted of ‘getting his share of niggers’.”133 However, certain qualifications must be made about the workers’ participation in the riot. The newspaper reporter Paul Y. Anderson noted

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the presence of many “[o]rdinary blue working men’s shirts” among the crowd, but when asked about the role in the riot taken by workers involved in the recent strikes, Anderson replied that “the men whom I saw most active in the rioting were not that type of man [i.e., strikers].” When asked if union leaders were involved, he replied that he “kn[e]w most of the men who are active leaders in labor circles here” and did not see them in the riot crowd.134 Indeed, as Anderson noted, Richard Brockway—who had a key role in organizing the violence on 2 July—was “not at all a union labor man.”135 Even if many unionized white workers whose labor organizations had recently been crushed were among the hundreds upon hundreds who joined the riot crowds on 2 July and supported the violence, it does not appear that they took an active role in the killings. Aluminum Ore workers, for example, were not among the most murderous of the rioters, mentioned here, who were arrested and tried. Nor does the involvement of a few stockyard employees indicate a meaningful pattern: they were among workers of many different backgrounds. Rather, it was the involvement in the riot of two loosely defined groups—a lynch posse organized by Richard Brockway and individuals closely associated with the city’s saloons—that was central.

“Faces in the Mob”: The Lynch Posse In certain important respects, the East St. Louis race riot appeared as a mass lynching, driven by a sense of retribution. Local whites, colluding with the police, sought to cast the killings in the light of a “quasi legal” form of vengeance for the shooting of detectives Coppedge and Wadley: their rallying call was “[t]hey got Sam [Coppedge] and Frank [Wadley]; we’ll get them.”136 As William Fitzhugh Brundage has observed of lynching in the South, “[f]ew crimes were more provocative in the eyes of whites than confrontations between law officers and blacks.”137 It is striking that, in East St. Louis in 1917 and recalling a Southern pattern, the killing of detectives Coppedge and Wadley elicited a ferocious response. In structure too, there are grounds for comparison between the East St. Louis race riot and Southern lynching, for, as Joel Williamson has noted, lynching in the South, was often led by “an active core” of leaders, while large crowds of whites looked on.138 Moreover, in ritualistic murder—the hangings at 4th and Broadway—the race riot took on the aspect of lynching. These gruesome murders were the shocking climax to the violence of 2 July and were symbolic of racial violence in the South. The leaving of the body of one black man hanging from a telegraph pole seven feet above the ground at 4th and Broadway evoked the racist terrorism and white supremacy

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associated with the South. Typical of lynching, bodies were described as being “riddled” with bullets, or thrown onto fires.139 Whites took souvenirs, “pieces of the hats, coats and shirts of the dead” and “[s]ightseers toured morgues viewing distorted remains of victims” the following day.140 The ritualized lynching at 4th and Broadway was a terrible and symbolically powerful aspect of the violence of 2 July. By drawing upon an existing social repertoire, rituals, and a claim of moral “legitimacy,” the lynch posse in East St. Louis in 1917 probably made it appear to local whites (especially if they had Southern connections) that riot leaders were acting according to certain behavioral norms. Moreover, the lynch posse itself—a small group of men who led the violence—provided the riot with its core. One man in particular, Richard Brockway, took a leading role in forming the lynch posse. Brockway was a streetcar railway claim agent who had a past record of corruption and seeking to pervert justice: in 1916 he was prosecuted for bribing a witness to leave the jurisdiction in the course of a claim against the East St. Louis and Suburban Streetcar Company.141 He was also a local Republican Party politician, seemingly at loggerheads with a rival in his party who had attained office.142 The Chicago Defender later described Brockway as “influential” in local politics and, indeed, during his trial following the riot, the East St Louis Daily Journal reported that he was able to call on men who were “prominent in East St. Louis business circles” to testify to his reputation.143 But his influence seems to have lain in his personal connections with the local political class rather in direct political power. Former mayors M. M. Stephens and Silas Cook, as well as the political “kingmakers” Eddie Miller and John Kickham, appeared as character witnesses during Brockway’s trial—but these men were not as important in 1917 as they had once been.144 Nevertheless, somebody who was alienated from the Tarlton–Canavan men then in power, Brockway may have found he could appeal to white workers who had become increasingly angry with the mayor, a Tarlton–Canavan creature, whom they accused of deserting them for African American voters.145 Brockway exploited these fears on 2 July: he circulated among the white workers gathered around the bullet-riddled police car, telling them “that niggers [are] going to take [over] the town” unless they took action.146 He was clearly intent on organizing violence, for around nine o’clock in the morning, a “stout white fellow”—later identified as Brockway—was overheard telling a police officer on Collinsville Avenue that he had “better get these negroes off the street because we’re going to kill every one we see in a minute.”147 Soon after this, he organized a meeting outside Labor Temple Hall on Collinsville Avenue—the location of the 28 May meeting, but this time the meeting was unconnected with the AFL—“to form a home protective league,” that is, a posse of armed whites.148 Brockway had

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a definite idea about what he thought should be done. He told the assembled whites “to arm themselves against the Negroes,” although Brockway did not bear sole responsibility for organizing the posse.149 As will be recalled, as crowds of whites gathered downtown on the morning of 2 July, a local lawyer named John Seymour had mingled with them, saying that he would defend anyone in court who took revenge against the black community for the killing of Coppedge and Wadley. The police had also made clear that morning their tacit approval of racial violence. And, after Brockway made his speech urging whites to arm themselves, he was joined by a second man, who had “a pronounced Southern accent,” who actually set the call for violence in the context of Southern lynching: he told the crowd that “he was from the South and he knew how they handled Negroes down there”; “he had been in several race riots” he explained, and he knew what to do.150 Nevertheless, Brockway’s role was key. Perhaps the “stout” Brockway was the “rather heavy act man,” whom one newspaper reporter described climbing on a telegraph pole later in the day, around 6.40 p.m., helping to secure a rope as a black man was seized and hanged. Certainly, as became apparent in the course of his trial, Brockway personally organized the lynch posse on the morning of 2 July, took a leading role in the violence, and “shot and hanged” African Americans during the day.151 The formation of lynch posses was, of course, more generally associated with the South, but even white East St. Louisans who had no Southern connections would have been familiar with lynching from—sometimes favorable—newspaper reports and descriptions.152 Moreover, although lynching was most common in the South, it was not confined to that region. For example, in 1914, a white mob had seized an African American barber, Dallas Shields, of Fayette, Missouri, taken him from the town’s courthouse and lynched him. Reporting the event, the East St Louis Daily Journal did not explicitly condemn the whites: Shields had, the newspaper reported, “terrorized the neighborhood” by “flaunting a revolver” and had killed a sheriff ’s deputy.153 The film The Birth of a Nation gave this form of racial violence a particularly vivid representation in national popular culture. The film presented whites with a representation of lynching as a morally “just” and “legitimate” way to protect their community from supposedly threatening African Americans. The film was warmly received in East St. Louis. Indeed, this film favorably represented Klan terrorism as a way for whites to defend themselves against the supposed “threat” posed by marauding black soldiers: it seems significant that whites in East St. Louis similarly resorted to lynching in “defense” of their community against a putative black “mobilization.”154 Perhaps tellingly, white East St. Louisans in Southern Illinois felt themselves to be socially as well as geographically “close to the Mason Dixon

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line.” It needs to be emphasized that local whites felt that they did not “represent the northern sentiment,” where race was concerned: they preferred to think of their town as being “relatively comparable with the situation in the South.”155 Moreover, the formation of lynch posses was not unprecedented in East St. Louis itself: on 28 May, some whites had called for lynching and white workers had periodically made unsuccessful attempts to lynch alleged black criminals. In particular, it seems that workers for the Southern Railroad had been prominent in the formation of lynch posses on more than one occasion in the past.156 Perhaps it was not a coincidence, therefore, that two leading members of the mob who carried out the lynchings at 4th and Broadway, Herbert Wood, a switchman, and Leo Keane, a messenger, were both railway workers.157 In 1917, it seems reasonable to hypothesize, some whites were seeking by the lynchings to impose “the South” and, specifically, white supremacy on East St. Louis. However, the perhaps Southern-inspired lynch posse was not responsible for all of the violence. Equally important were those bred in East St. Louis’ saloon culture, although, of course, it is possible that these two groups might have overlapped.

“Faces in the Mob”: The “Saloon Bums” The July riot crowd contained a large number of working-class men identified, as Paul Y. Anderson noted, by their “[o]rdinary blue working men’s shirts.” “[B]ut,” Anderson observed, “the rioters were not confined entirely to the blue-shirted men.”“There was probably every class of men in the crowd” he explained, “but the men who seemed to take the most active part were the type that you would call saloon loungers; the kind of men who inhabit wine rooms and places of that character.”158 These were, Anderson explained, “what we call ‘saloon bums’ . . . . [and] cadet [i.e., pimp] type of fellows”: men who were known to “loaf around bar-rooms.”159 While special credence must be given to Anderson’s testimony—for he had spent some time investigating the corruption and crime associated with the world of the saloon in East St. Louis and was surely familiar with its denizens—he was not the only person to make these observations. Carlos Hurd, for example, reporting in the St Louis Post-Dispatch also noted the presence amongst the rioters of men who “had the aspect of . . . loafers.”160 It seems likely that it was to such individuals that the St Louis Globe-Democrat referred when it reported that the mobs were “made up largely of idle men and half grown boys.”161 Similarly, Hallie Queen of Howard University believed it was “that class” of criminals and “hoodlums” existing in the shadowy world of the saloon who “rose up” on 2 July.162

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These were men who were part of a milieu surviving on the economic margins around the Valley vice district: they included opportunist criminals, street gang members, and professional gamblers.163 They lived their daily lives among the gangsters and pimps who ran the bars, brothels, and gambling parlors of the Valley. The men who frequented saloons of this kind were immersed in a world in which extreme acts of violence were common. They were considered to be “a dangerous class of men,” a “tough element” in the city.164 “[V]irtually all” of the saloons in the Valley downtown were said to attract this clientele of “hold up men, thugs, toughs . . . and that character of men.”165 There is much in the suggestion that saloon bums were responsible for much of the brutality, once they became involved in the riot on 2 July. It was probably such people whom the reporter Paul Y. Anderson referred to as “men who were running in to get a chance to kill somebody because they thought they could do it and not be punished for it.”166 Even before the July riot, whites closely associated with saloons in East St. Louis were involved in racial violence. As noted in previous chapter 4, it was “bar flies” who had exploited the tense stand-off at the Aluminum Ore picket line and engaged in racist attacks on African American workers and strikebreakers.167 It seems significant that Robert E. Conway, the local manager of Armour and Co., identified the saloons along Whiskey Chute outside the stockyards as places that functioned as “a headquarters for the class of fellows who would be glad to get into a riot.”168 Indeed, it was along Whiskey Chute on the day following the mass outbreak of racial violence on 28 May that smaller groups of white “[y]ouths, armed with revolvers” attacked and beat African Americans, and even shot one black man.169 The general violence that was ordinarily prevalent in the world of the saloon, then, sporadically burst out in racial violence during the summer of 1917. There was anyway an association between saloon revelry and racial violence. Saturday night, the journalist Roy Albertson later stated, was “the great booze night” in East St. Louis, and this was the night when weekend revelry and the blowing-off of steam became a focus for racist attacks. “[D]runken toughs,” sought out and beat up African American streetcar passengers after closing time: as Albertson noted, “the negroes are beat up on Saturday night.”170 Saloon bums such as these also contributed directly to the outbreak of the July riot. It will be recalled that on 1 July, the event that triggered the July riot, the shooting of Coppedge and Wadley in Denverside, had occurred after local black residents had mobilized to repulse a gang of marauding whites. Those marauding whites, who had driven through black neighborhoods, firing into homes, had close connections with the world of the saloon. The gang’s first automobile appears to have been

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owned by a bartender at the notorious Commercial Hotel at 3rd and Missouri in the Valley. It was to the Commercial Hotel that the car was seen returning later in the night, riddled with bullets from gunfire returned by black residents.171 The Commercial Hotel, managed by Nick Rosselli, attracted a large clientele of the sort of criminals and saloon bums who frequented the Valley.172 The gang’s second automobile was a taxi (a “service vehicle”) driven by the twenty-six-year-old jitney driver Gus Masserang.173 Again, jitney drivers were closely associated with the world of the saloon. They were said locally to “hang around” with the “tough element” associated with the Commercial Hotel and similar saloons and roadhouses, and sometimes earned money by driving criminals to the places where they would commit violent robberies.174 As well as around the area of the Commercial Hotel, jitneys also congregated by Charlie Kline’s saloon, around 10th and Piggott, in Denverside.175 This was the area where Gus Masserang claimed he had spent part of the evening of 1 July, waiting for fares.176 It is also possible that he drove to the Commercial Hotel that night.177 Some of these men who were implicated in the drive-by shooting on 1 July and, with the exception of Masserang who was wounded, might well have also been involved in the race riot the following day. They were a group of friends and associates who met on 1 July by Kline’s saloon: Clarence Dixon, Jay Long, Joe Dillard, Charlie Leonard, Edmund Shobre, and Arthur Metzger—the last two had recently joined the army.178 At least both Dixon and Masserang lived the sort of economically marginal life associated with saloon bums. Dixon had been, as he later put it, “idle” for “[a]bout seven months” before 1 July, and Masserang was similarly irregularly employed, at one point working as a railway switchman (the connection between railway workers and racial violence deserves emphasis), but usually making his living as a jitney driver.179 Some of these friends and associates were former school friends and lived in the area of Denverside bordering the expanding African American neighborhoods—precisely the area where local black residents had complained of being harassed and attacked by white racists during the summer of 1917.180 Given their involvement in the drive-by attack, it was probably to these saloon bums and jitney drivers of 10th Street that local black residents referred, when they complained of “a bad nest of white fellows close to the Free Bridge” (i.e., 10th Street).181 There were probably particular reasons relating to the ongoing conflict over residential neighborhood space that contributed to the involvement of these men in the racist attacks during 1917. But their association with the Commercial Hotel and Kline’s saloon is also significant: clearly the drive-by attack on 1 July was carried out by white racists who had strong associations with particular saloons and, it would appear, had absorbed the violent behavioral norms of the city’s saloon culture.

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Similar individuals were also implicated in the riot itself, on 2 July. In particular, Charles Hanna, who was seen “riding around on the day of the riot” in his “service car,” had a prominent role in the violence and was one of the most brutal riot leaders. Entirely lacking mercy, he was overheard at one point “threaten[ing] an ambulance driver attempting to haul away a negro who had been shot” by rioters.182 It had been Charles Hanna and the teamster John Gow who together helped usher in a new level of brutality in the July riot when they dragged Edward Cook and his foster son from a streetcar and shot and killed them both. Significantly, the evidence reveals that Hanna had a long-standing involvement in the world of the saloon and it would seem that he was socialized in its violent culture from early on, for he was only a teenager at the time of the riot: Hanna was identified during his trial by Dorothy Ruth, an eighteen-year-old prostitute, whom he had known and “gone around with . . . considerabl[y]” for two years.183 It seems likely that another prominent rioter, Joseph “Fat” Braunagel, was also part of this milieu. Braunagel was the “champion newsboy” of East St. Louis—one of the economically marginal young men often associated with the “loafers” and saloon bums of the Valley, who made a living selling newspapers downtown. Braunagel’s newspaper stand was at the corner of Collinsville and Missouri Avenues, placing him daily in the vicinity of the Valley and only a block from the notorious Commercial Hotel.184 He was said to have been “particularly active during the rioting and . . . fired many shots at Negroes.”185 A closer look at the evidence reveals a further connection between saloons and the race riot. Certain rioters were, or had been, saloonkeepers or bartenders—the lynch posse organizer Richard Brockway among them. Although Brockway worked as a railway claims agent before the riot, city directories listed him as a saloonkeeper at 1301 Missouri Avenue in 1905 and as a bartender for the L. A. Hall Liquor Company in 1906. The same Brockway—according to a biographical sketch in the History of St Clair County—was “engaged in the liquor business in East St. Louis” in 1907.186 He was not the only rioter with such a background. J. Saniki of 315 Bowman Avenue in Goose Hill, for example, was described as a baker at the time of the July riot, but he had been a saloonkeeper until Mayor Mollman withdrew his license in January 1917.187 Another rioter, George Zeman of 1843 Natalie Avenue on the east side of Goose Hill, was a saloonkeeper at the time of the riot.188 It seems significant that these men, who had been—or continued to be—immersed in the world of the saloon, which (as shown earlier) was a violent one, emerged as prominent in the riot mobs on 2 July. All this strongly suggests a connection between saloon culture and violent participation in the July riot, but it seems unlikely that the existing

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evidence even fully reflects the involvement in the riot of saloon bums. Paul Y. Anderson suggested that many such saloon bums escaped prosecution because local witnesses were too frightened to identify them to the police.189 As one Select Committee investigator suggested, “people . . . are intimidated from coming up or giving their testimony . . . because of fear.”190 Certainly, the rioters were prodigiously violent individuals and it might be expected that some witnesses would fear giving evidence against them. The politically entrenched position of organized crime and the saloons in East St. Louis surely added to such fears: it was unlikely that witnesses felt safe giving testimony when saloon bums enjoyed the favor of City Hall. As discussed in chapter 2, hoodlums associated with saloons such as the Commercial Hotel faced no effective sanction by the police: they existed outside of the rule of law. Mayor Mollman’s power broker, G. Locke Tarlton, used his position to protect the illegal gambling parlors, saloons, and brothels, including the Commercial Hotel, which paid high rents to his real estate business.191 The “gang” who were said to be found there daily “hanging out” were able to intimidate and accost local residents and businesspeople at will: locals “endured all kinds of mistreatment at the[ir] hands,” and yet were too frightened to complain to the police.192 It would be unsurprising if such individuals had been deeply involved in the July riot and equally unsurprising if local people felt too frightened to testify against them, as Paul Anderson suggested.193 Perhaps this was the reason why charges against the saloonkeeper George Zeman and his accomplice Chester Ortigier were dropped, despite the evidence against them: “both had been mentioned as having been seen that night [2 July] on the streets,” the local newspaper reported.194 It is possible that men with direct interests in saloons had another motive for becoming involved in the riot, a motive that might explain why black saloons were specifically targeted and burned down.195 During 1917, Mayor Mollman’s administration had tightened its control over saloons in East St. Louis by closing the establishments sympathetic to its political enemies.196 For example, Mollman closed down Al Steiner’s saloon on Whiskey Chute in the spring of 1917, apparently because Steiner supported his opponent.197 In contrast, Mollman allowed the saloons in which he and his associates had a personal interest to remain open: the Commercial Hotel, for example.198 The mayor was supposedly engaged in a clean up of the city’s vice district, and this was how it was presented to the public, but even as some saloons were closing down, Mollman allowed new saloonkeepers and prostitutes to set up business in the Valley.199 Apparently, many saloons owned or managed by African Americans were among the new establishments opened during the early summer.200 It could be that saloonkeepers who felt disgruntled at losing their licenses during 1917 in

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the politically motivated clean-up vented their anger against the African American saloons that had seemingly opened in their place. Moreover, for established white saloonkeepers and their associates—such as those of the Commercial Hotel—the riot may have offered them an opportunity to eliminate unwelcome competition.201 The saloon bums were generally men and, indeed, so far discussion of the composition of the rioters in 1917 has focused overwhelmingly upon men. Certainly, in the formation of the lynch posse and the involvement of saloon bums, the East St. Louis race riot had a highly masculine character. The violence emerging from the world of the saloon into the riot in particular seems to have reflected the most pathological aspects of masculine culture in the city. However, not all of the rioters were men. Some women joined the riot and took an active role in the violence.

Women and the Race Riot In his account of the race riot, Elliott Rudwick revealed that both men and women were observed in the crowds, calling and shouting encouragement to the rioters.202 Some women, “carrying hatpins and penknives as weapons,” took a more active role: they policed the riot crowd, hushing protests from disapproving whites.203 Other white women who were identified as prostitutes joined the attacks, “grabb[ing] the hair and clothing of fleeing Negro women,” and, in one case, bloodying their stockings as they kicked black men lying prone on the ground.204 However, it is difficult from these brief references to understand exactly what role white women played in the riot and what their motivations were. In a different context, that of the 1863 New York draft riots, Iver Bernstein has underlined the importance of not conflating the motivations behind male and female participation: for Bernstein, the involvement of Irish American working-class wives could not be explained simply in terms of the workplace experiences of their men folk, but, he suggested, “relied as well on the neighborhood networks of poor Irish women.”205 In yet another context, Dominic J. Capeci and Martha Wilkerson, in their work on the 1943 Detroit race riot, peeled away “layers” of violence, as they termed it, to reveal the specific involvement of women in the violence: white women, they discovered, were “much less responsible than black and white males for detonating Detroit’s explosion [of violence]” and while “they moved quickly onto the streets once it began,” they did so for their own reasons.206 Likewise, the East St. Louis race riot cannot be understood without careful consideration of the specific concerns of women rioters. Such an analysis must proceed with caution, for it rests on very sparse evidence.207 Yet, with a careful

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reading of the evidence that does exist, it is possible to propose some explanations. To begin with, the presence of white working-class women in the riot must be accounted for. The women seen in the riot crowd were “dressed for home,” in “calico dresses,” some of them with children.208 Many of these women, it was said, “urged on the men.”209 But the rage that had gripped white men did not exclude women: one report stated that a white woman said she “wanted to ‘cut the heart out’ of a negro, a man already paralyzed from a bullet wound.”210 At one point, white “[w]omen and children” were seen pursuing black women fleeing a burning building.211 At another point, “a number of women and several children” were seen amidst a crowd of around 600 whites at 6th Street and Rock Road attacking and firing on black homes.212 Can the reasons driving the participation of white working-class men in the riot, particularly those associated with conflict emerging within the sphere of production, explain the behavior of these women? The first point to be noted is that the position of white women in employment differed considerably from that of men. While their conditions were not as bad as those endured by black women, white women were among the least secure and worst paid of workers.213 Yet, together with their men folk, their wages could help keep households, especially those of the generally poorly paid southern and eastern European immigrants, afloat: it was said by one local union leader that “a big part of the wives [of immigrant workers] work in the packinghouses along with the husbands.”214 The economic stakes— where a job meant the difference between economic survival or disaster— were thus surely as high for women workers as they were for men.215 Moreover, while women were more exploited and insecure than men, it seems that white women were nevertheless as likely as the men to defend their narrow advantage over African Americans in employment. As Alice Kessler-Harris has shown of the United States generally during this period, racial discrimination in the workplace reserved what was viewed as less arduous work for white women, while black women were “confined . . . to the bottom of the labor market pool.”216 Here, notions of “genteel” employment said to be “suitable” for “respectable” white women were the feminine equivalent of the ideologies used to justify racial discrimination in male employment. Thus, for such white women, “one measure of genteel employment was the absence of . . . black workmates” or, in the case of native-born white women, even the absence of immigrant women.217 Perhaps such notions lay behind the strike by “fifty white girls”—sausage workers at the East St. Louis Armour plant—in 1916, noted by Elliott Rudwick: they were protesting against the employment of black women, “to do scrub work,” which seemed to threaten their hitherto exclusive

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claim on it.218 Hence, it seems possible that white women workers were as disappointed and frustrated by the crushing of organized labor in 1917 as were the men. Moreover, as employers were willing to replace white women with black women workers (as suggested by the instance of the sausage workers), it could have been the case that white women experienced a similar sense of being cast out of a position of privilege. In the case of the sausage workers, for example, it is possible that the employment of black women was felt by the white women as an attack on their status— expressed in terms of “respectable white womanhood”—as well as on their livelihoods. However, it is potentially problematic to draw too close a parallel between the significance of the workplace in the construction of white working-class masculine and feminine identities. The defining experiences of most white working-class women were not related to the sphere of production. Experiences grounded in the reproduction of labor, managing the household economy, and child rearing marked the lives of most workingclass women much more than the lives of men. This world of the household was, of course, also crucial to women in employment who did not find themselves severed from the concerns of the domestic sphere. As James Barrett’s work on Chicago has shown, even women who had paid employment in the meatpacking plants often found that their husbands “still insisted that their wives do all the normal household chores.” Working women also seem to have still taken the larger part of the child care responsibilities: “[m]any women asked for night work so that they could be with their children during the day.”219 Most women in East St. Louis, however, were not wage earners: according to the 1910 census, eighty-six percent of men, but only eighteen percent of women in East St. Louis worked in paid employment.220 Moreover, descriptions of the riot crowd—particularly references to women “dressed for home” and with children—suggests the women present were housewives and mothers rather than in paid employment. Indeed, references specifically to workingwomen in the riot were not found in the evidence analyzed for this study. Of course, all white women were concerned with the industrial conflict taking place in East St. Louis during the summer of 1917. Precisely because they took on the responsibility of managing the household and caring for the children, such women’s economic interests were tied to those of their men folk: any threat to the security of a husband’s employment was also a threat to the security of a woman’s household and her ability to provide for her children. In this respect, it would be unsurprising if white working-class women saw something to be defended in the racial discrimination that had guaranteed their husbands’ economic security—or at

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least had seemed to promise advancement into the more secure occupations. To return, though, to women’s involvement in the events of 2 July 1917. The race riot seems to have accommodated the domestic sphere: women, it should be noted, participated in the riot as mothers, with children at their side. Here it is worth drawing a comparison with lynching in the South, where “women and children . . . often figured prominently in proceedings.”221 The gathering of the white community that often attended such killings could be the occasion for the community to participate in an event that “bound the lynchers both socially and morally.”222 If the East St. Louis race riot can be seen in these terms, it would be unsurprising that women—as primary child carers and those most responsible for the reproduction of the community and the transmission of its values—joined the riot crowd with children. In this, the brutally murderous ritual of the riot could be seen as part of the cultural reproduction of the values relating to white supremacy. The precise context of the outbreak of the First World War may also suggest particular reasons why women became involved in the race riot. In this, it is worth considering the significance of notions of womanhood, particularly those bearing on women’s sense of patriotism. The East St. Louis race riot took place at a time when white women faced increased pressure to conform to a patriotic ideal. On the one hand, in the period leading up to America’s entry into the war, popular culture was familiar with the idea of woman as pacifist: images of “mothers trying to save their sons from war appeared on songbook and magazine covers.” But, equally strong (if not stronger) were images of “beautiful white girls in patriotic colors symboliz[ing] the ideal for which boys marching off to war were expected to give their lives.”223 The notion of white womanhood, then, had an important symbolic role in U.S. patriotism at this time. In the popular movie serial Pearl of the Army, which ran in East St. Louis during the early summer of 1917, the eponymous white heroine Pearl sought weekly to thwart the spies who had “infested” the United States. Here, white woman appeared as the savior of the nation: “America’s Joan of Arc.”224 This was a theme taken up in the film Womanhood: The Glory of the Nation, which was shown in East St. Louis in early June 1917. In the well-publicized advertisements for the film, America was symbolized by a white woman, a Joan of Arc figure, holding the Stars and Stripes. The plot involved a foreign army invading and conquering a militarily unprepared United States: the declared purpose of the film was, in part, to convince the nation of the need for military readiness. But this was a drama with a moral intended for all American women too, especially, one might deduce, white women: “[t]he aim of ‘Womanhood’ is the exaltation of patriotism, the

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necessity of [war] preparedness, the compelling power of self-sacrifice, especially among the woman of America.”225 Given this cultural clamor for women to conform to the patriotic ideal—an ideal that claimed to validate womanhood—the suspicion with which the employers and the state had treated the working-class community of East St. Louis as a whole must have affected white working-class women. The allegations of treason, then, would not just have affected their men folk. Nor can the significance of the feared defeat of local labor for white women be wholly detached from the patriotic ideal of white womanhood: for, at a time when America seemed to demand that white women fulfill a role in the “glory of the nation,” the white working-class women of East St. Louis faced the prospect of reduction to a social and economic position they felt to be entirely incompatible with the ideal of white womanhood. In short, white women may also have been enraged by recent developments and not averse to giving vent to this rage. These arguments are hypotheses that might apply to the “respectable” white workingwomen of East St. Louis. However, as was mentioned earlier, it was prostitutes who took the most active role in the race riot. Prostitutes were brutalized and utterly exploited women. In this sense, it is possible that the race riot saw a violent explosion of rage by those white women who were denied their right to claim “respectability” and who ordinarily had no chance to express their anger, disappointment, or sense of exploitation.226 Some prostitutes took an important although essentially supportive role in the violence. The white saloonkeeper Edward J. Carr, for example (a man who seems not to have been involved in the violence), stated that he had seen “a couple of disreputable girls” shouting “kill him” as white men pursued a black man.227 But prostitutes did not merely offer encouragement. Paul Y. Anderson noted that “a number of girls, thirty or forty . . . seemed to take a very active part in it [the violence].” Again, these were prostitutes (“immoral women, they looked like that type of women”).228 Sometimes, they acted with men who may have been their pimps or regular clients. Perhaps this was the case when one black woman was thrown to a group of prostitutes as a white man shouted,“[l]et the girls have her”: she was struck by a white woman wielding “a broomstick . . . swung like a baseball bat,” but managed to escape after being beaten.229 Women, however, also acted independently. Around 5.30 p.m., Anderson saw “several girls in the crowd [at 3rd and Brady] and I saw one of the girls with a big revolver in her hand [shooting at] . . . the Negroes running out of these houses.”230 Indeed, attacks could be carried out in the face of male disapproval. Thus, as one eyewitness later recalled, a black woman was set about after she tripped and fell while attempting to escape from the rioters: “before she could rise there was two white girls probably twenty or twenty-one years

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old assaulted her and struck her in the face with their fists and started to tear her shirts and clothing off and by that time the white men and spectators on the sidewalk stepped in and told the girls to stop and pulled them off.”231 As the evidence referred to here so far has indicated, many of the attacks by white women seem to have been on other women. This was also the case, for example, with the white women who were seen “clambering aboard street cars,” looking for African Americans: it was reported that they “knocked down Negro women, tore off their clothing, dragged them into the street, and set them screaming towards their homes.”232 This was particularly true of the attacks of white prostitutes, the most active of women rioters. Reports described how prostitutes “beat . . . negresses’ faces and breasts with fists, stones and sticks,” for example.233 Another man saw a black woman being chased by two white prostitutes at 6 o’clock along Broadway near Collinsville Avenue.234 They caught the black woman and a witness saw those white women “beating her in the face, one had a shoe beating her.”235 Another three white women, whom a newspaper reporter suggested were prostitutes, were seen attacking a black woman described as “an aged negress”: they beat her with the tap of a bar beer pump, used as an improvised club.236 As discussed earlier, prostitutes in East St. Louis found themselves in a highly exploitative and brutal relationship with their pimps.237 It seems that, during the race riot, the brutality meted out to these highly exploited and oppressed women was somehow reflected in, or displaced into, attacks on African Americans. The particular savagery of some attacks—the pounding of a black woman’s face with the heel of a shoe, or the beating of another woman with a beer tap—suggests some such explosion of pent up rage. What can account for the tendency for white women to attack other women in particular? Certainly, it seems unlikely that men, in most cases, dictated this target for the women, for these women were willing to carry out attacks even when the male rioters did not approve. Instead, white women chose to attack black women. Given the prominence of prostitutes among the female rioters, it seems worth considering whether some of the violence had its origin in territorial conflict in the Valley: white prostitutes might have resented the arrival of black prostitutes in the Valley in 1917, seeing them as a threat to their economic interests.238 But this explanation, by itself, is unsatisfactory and cannot account for all the attacks. Indeed, such motivations could have no bearing on the participation of women in attacks on mothers and their children. There were a number of reports that referred to infants and children being attacked and killed by white women in horrifying incidents. One white woman, Luella Cox—whom The Crisis interviewed—claimed to have seen a baby “snatched from its mother’s

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arms [by a white woman] and thrown into the flames” of a burning building.239 Hallie Queen of Howard University, who had conducted her own investigation after the riot, claimed that she knew of one case where white prostitutes had taken newly born babies from their mothers and thrown them onto a fire.240 This was, according to Queen, only one of a number of such attacks for, she claimed, white women “killed infant after infant before the face of the mothers.”241 We need to be careful with such secondhand reports but, the East St. Louis City Coroner C. P. Renner later confirmed that he had seen the bodies of children killed in the riot.242 Paul Y. Anderson provided firsthand witness evidence: he claimed to have seen white women, who could have been prostitutes, attacking a black woman and beating her and the child in her arms.243 At a time when there was an increasing concern with the image of women as the moral guardians of America, as “mothers of the nation,” prostitutes stood unfavorably outside this ideal.244 It could have been that, during the race riot, these white women—their status as respectable white women rejected by white society—struck out against black women who seemed to approximate the ideal of female respectability more closely. This may explain another seemingly symbolic form of violence: the stripping of black women. This was a prominent feature of attacks by white women—in particular prostitutes—on black women. Hallie Queen’s evidence is particularly important in this regard. She reported that “[t]he women of the underworld divided into two groups, one at the corner of Broad Street [i.e., Broadway] and the other across some distance, and these women would go down and get a colored woman, and they would take her and entirely strip her and then make her run from one group to the other, at the same time firing at her feet until she dropped dead.”245 Another report spoke of how white women beat black women “and tore off their clothes.”246 According to the same newspaper report, three white women attacked “an aged negress,” “threw her to the street, [and] tore her clothes from her.”247 Similarly, when white women dragged black women from the streetcars, they “tore off their clothing” and chased them from the streets.248 “[T]hroughout the whole evening” of 2 July, it was reported, white women “beat them [black women] and tore off every stitch of clothes they had.”249 This was a very specific act of humiliation carried out by the white prostitutes.250 At a time when even partial nakedness in public was considered highly indecent, the stripping of women was a potentially powerful means of causing humiliation by denying those women precisely that decency that was held to underpin “respectable” and “honorable” womanhood.251 Perhaps white prostitutes, denied a sense of “decency” by their society, placed outside the boundaries of behavior deemed acceptable for white womanhood, sought to deny that very decency to black women.

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In this regard, the violence could have been an attempt to gain a sense of connection with the wider community of white women. For, in failing to live up to the ideals of white womanhood, prostitutes were placed outside of that community. By joining respectable white women in the racial violence, perhaps prostitutes sought to overcome that division by violently emphasizing common whiteness and graphically portraying black women—through stripping them—as less decent than themselves. * * * Aftermath On 3 July, the people of East St. Louis awoke to a still-smoldering city. Bodies lay about the streets and under rubble. According to local rumors, several of the dead were buried hurriedly in unmarked graves in the aftermath of the killing. To this day, no one knows exactly how many black people died. Large sections of entire city blocks lay in ruins. Newspaper reporters inspecting the town the next day found “ash heaps and crumbling chimneys” where black homes had stood, only “a stone’s throw from City Hall.” Alluding to the horrors of the First World War, a journalist wrote that the scene in East St. Louis “reminded one with frightful poignancy of the description given by war correspondents of the odor rising from ‘No Man’s Land’ between the trenches.” Yet, some local whites seemed to remain defiant, repeating the previous day’s claims that they had been acting in defense, against a “threatening” black community: “the niggers started it,” they told reporters, “and the white folks did the finishing.” In the days after the riot, the city remained on edge, seemingly teetering on the edge of a further explosion. But, despite numerous (though less devastating) attacks on African Americans, there was no resumption of mass violence.252 The actions of the authorities in the weeks and months that followed provided a bitter postscript to the riot. There was a shameful failure to administer justice. Although the race riot was an act of brutal white aggression, prosecutors moved with vigor against the black residents of Denverside accused of killing the white detectives Samuel Coppedge and Frank Wadley on the night of 1 July: eleven African Americans were eventually convicted of homicide. And, the authorities bore down upon the local black politician and business leader Dr. Le Roy Bundy, holding him responsible for “inciting” the riot and conspiring to lead an “uprising” in East St. Louis—of which, they claimed, the killing of the police officers on 1 July had been the first shots. This was a wild falsehood, merely repeating

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the pernicious allegations that white rioters had used to seek to justify the violence on 2 July. On unsafe evidence—key elements of which were based upon the unreliable testimony of prejudiced witnesses—Bundy was convicted, and it would take a further legal battle before the verdict was eventually overturned by the Illinois Supreme Court.253 In contrast, only four white rioters were eventually convicted of murder. Many other whites escaped with convictions for mere misdemeanors: twenty-seven received only fines for rioting and fourteen more served short prison sentences in the county jail. These latter charges were only token gestures of censure, considering that at least around forty black people had been murdered, countless more had been injured, and entire African American neighborhoods had been razed to the ground by these rioters. This made a mockery of any suggestion that black people could expect equal protection under the rule of law in the white-dominated order. There would be no repeat of the killings of 2 July in East St. Louis, but the legacy of the 1917 race riot would be a lingering injustice.

Conclusion In order to understand the East St. Louis race riot, it has been necessary to consider the different layers of participation in the violence. The riot differed in scale from earlier sporadic racial violence because, above all, it was a mass mobilization of the local white working class. White workers composed the large crowds of hundreds or thousands that thronged the downtown streets on 2 July. That mobilization can be seen, in some ways, as a reaction by white workers against the opening of a severe breach in the larger white community, brought about by a period of intense class conflict and an open confrontation with employers and the state. As has been seen, by participating in the racial killings on 2 July together with National Guardsmen and with the express approval of police officers, white workers could imagine that they had overcome the breach, especially with respect to those who had earlier been deployed against them. In 1917, the white working class of East St. Louis feared being reduced to the social and economic position that they associated with African Americans as a result of the drive upon them. At the same time, the shifting patterns of residential settlement—which tended to erode the racial segregation that whites felt provided them with the required separation from blacks—became acutely alarming to them. In the public streets downtown, too, whites became alarmed by the presence of African Americans at the particular time when they feared losing their claim over City Hall: they feared the mayor had transferred his loyalties to African

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American voters. During the race riot, whites then struck out against the black community, seeking to remove African Americans from areas of the city—neighborhoods to the south, which were recently settled by blacks, and downtown streets—which whites claimed as their own. Not all whites participated in the riot to the same extent. Some were spectators, while the violence was orchestrated by a “mob” core. Drawing on theories of collective behavior, it was suggested that particular sociopsychological processes enabled assertive riot leaders to draw and redraw norms of behavior in the riot, ratcheting up the violence while maintaining the support of the crowd. That crowd, of course, was probably already disposed to accept violence. Not only was there a violent saloon culture in the city, which routinely exposed patrons to acts of brutality, but sporadic racial violence had also been breaking out in East St. Louis through the summer of 1917. It has been possible to identify some of the “mob” members at the core of the riot. It was noted that a lynch posse organized by Richard Brockway instigated the riot and was partly responsible for the hangings. He was supported by a Southerner who claimed to have prior experience of participation in racial killing, and who urged local whites in East St. Louis to follow the example of Southern lynching. The sort of racial violence that was associated with the South could well have appealed to the whites of East St. Louis in any case, even those who had not themselves lived in the South: many local whites, of course, considered themselves to be more “Southern” than “Northern.” It was also noted that lynching played a prominent role in national popular culture anyway: lynchings were reported—not always disapprovingly—in the local press, and the film The Birth of a Nation was very well received in East St. Louis. Moreover, in previous years in East St. Louis, railway workers—some of them employees of the Southern Railroad Company, which ran trains to the South—had been involved in the formation of lynch posses. The involvement of the workers of the Southern Railroad Company raises the possibility that this behavior was somehow “imported” by whites traveling along the railway route, and highlights the porous nature of the Mason–Dixon line. At any rate, the wide acceptance of lynching in popular culture, North and South, surely made it easier for Brockway and his accomplices to lead local whites into the atrocities at 4th and Broadway and to convince them that they were, somehow, “normal.” The presence of saloon bums had an influence on the degree of violence in the race riot. Some leading rioters were closely associated with the violent saloon culture of East St. Louis. Others—including Richard Brockway—were, or had at one time been, bartenders and saloonkeepers, and had also spent time immersed in this brutal world. It was a world that

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city government had allowed to flourish, for it was dependent upon the revenue from saloon licenses because of its collusion with industry in corporate tax evasion. In this regard, the brutality of the riot must be seen as an indirect product of the irresponsible local authorities and cynical industrialists who profited from the order in East St. Louis, but took little interest in its people. While the discussion focused on the role of men in the riot, for it was instigated and largely perpetrated by men, many white working-class women joined the crowds once the violence began. Many of these women may have been agitated by the implication that they did not conform to the role espoused for women generally during the First World War. They were certainly agitated by the crisis affecting the white working class of East St. Louis during 1917. However, the most active female rioters were not the ordinary working-class women of the city, but prostitutes. The construction of white womanhood might offer clues to the involvement of these women. The prostitutes’ attacks on, and stripping of, black women and the beating and murder of their children focused on those aspects of idealized womanhood—sexual modesty and family life—which they themselves were held not to embody, but aspects of which they possibly recognized in respectable African American women. And in joining “respectable” white women in the racial violence, the prostitutes were able to connect with a wider community of white women on the grounds of race, which their status as prostitutes ordinarily excluded them from. Perhaps, too, the particularly brutal treatment that prostitutes received at the hands of pimps in East St. Louis can account for the savagery of their violence on 2 July. It may have been the displaced violence of brutalized people. In this sense, too, the violent saloon culture of the city contributed to the savagery of the riot.

6

“Hot Lead from the Race Quarters”: Black East St. Louis and Self-Defense

ttention has thus far focused on the actions of the white rioters and the reasons for the outbreak of violence in East St. Louis in July 1917. However, the response of the black community to that onslaught is also a vital matter: the actions of members of the black community were key in limiting the extent of the violence and the number of casualties. Not that one would discern this from contemporary newspaper reports. The odd reference to resistance notwithstanding, newspaper reports of the race riot generally cast African Americans wholly as passive victims. In this, the local white press in East St. Louis conformed to the national pattern identified by Gail Bederman with respect to Southern lynching: even in the reports of white Northern journalists, who generally disapproved of such racial violence, African Americans were nevertheless cast as passive, “unmanly,”“shivering Negro[es].”1 Certainly, in newspaper reports of the East St. Louis race riot, African Americans appeared powerless, pitiable, and passive. Black refugees were described as forming “pitiable congregation[s],” standing “[b]arefoot and in [r]ags,” or having “fled” in a “pitiable procession.”2 African Americans were credited with no agency by the white journalists, who suggested that survival depended upon the action of dutiful National Guardsmen or police officers—even though many Guardsmen had participated in the killings and the police had encouraged violence on 2 July. Thus, “thirty negroes were found hiding in a cellar” and rescued by soldiers; “Negro men and women and their children . . . were brought in by soldiers” and saved, and they were “herded into the basement” of City Hall by the authorities for refuge.3 At times, white journalists evoked stereotypes of racial subordination in order to emphasize the suffering of black victims, casting African

A

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Americans as objects of pity, but in an abstract way. For example, Colonel Tripp was said to have rescued “an uncle Tom type of man.” In a line of refugees, a journalist’s eye fixed on women he described as “buxom mammies.” These stereotypes were, of course, a general part of whites’ image of African Americans: one black woman who escaped from the riot was apparently “affectionately known [in East St. Louis] as ‘mammy.’ ”4 When locating individuals within groups of African Americans, the journalists (and it seems likely, whites generally) saw only “types,” as if they were unable to conceive of African Americans as real individuals. Perhaps it was also the case that journalists used such references in the belief that their (predominantly white) readership would comprehend the world about them in such a way. Journalists, presumably moved by the atrocities and seeking to convey this to their readerships perhaps drew on those particular stereotypes that might elicit their readers’ pity more easily: the longsuffering, but loyal “Uncle Tom”; the nurturing, loving, faithful “mammy.” Such images would stir particular feelings of pity, however influenced by bigotry. One report described a woman “crying and moaning in such a way as only negroes, face to face with eternity can moan,” again emphasizing the notion of African Americans as long-suffering, deserving objects of pity.5 Yet this also assumed that it was African Americans’ station in life to be long-suffering—as if this were conferred by race—and failed to acknowledge that African Americans could take an active role in resisting the violence of the white mobs. Such pity was based on an abstract idea of African Americans, one in which their dignity was diminished. In some respects, Elliott Rudwick’s classic work on the East St. Louis race riot conformed to this framework of victimhood, although, no doubt, for wholly different reasons: perhaps, in light of the effective use of nonviolent direct action being made in the Southern states in his own day, Rudwick sought to emphasize the moral supremacy of African Americans in the East St. Louis race riot, in the face of unjustifiable white aggression. Whatever his precise reasons, Rudwick argued that very few African Americans made any effort to fight back against the whites in East St. Louis in 1917, and that the small resistance effort that was made had a negligible effect on the outcome of the riot. The “cyclonic fury of the mobs,” he argued, frightened most African Americans into “terrified inactivity,” a reaction that was “intensified by most of them having lived in the South” and, therefore, been used to periodic outbreaks of racial violence.6 There were, Rudwick admitted, “a few instances” in which black East St. Louisans downtown offered resistance when whites bore down upon them. In one case,“over a hundred”African Americans in a building at 6th and Broadway exchanged fire with white rioters and eventually the National Guard intervened and escorted the African Americans to safety in St. Louis. Outside of

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the downtown area, “gangs” of African Americans “sporadically” engaged in a few “skirmishes,” but this, he claimed, “hardly amounted to a . . . counterattack.”7 Such a view is, however, refuted by the experience of the black neighborhood of Denverside in 1917. Located to the southeast of downtown, Denverside was outside of what Rudwick termed the “riot zone” where the worst atrocities occurred. However, the fact that this important black neighborhood, which was acknowledged locally as such, remained outside the main riot zone should arouse curiosity in itself. Entire blocks, from 4th to 8th Streets along Broadway and Walnut Avenue were razed on 2 July. However, in the area closer to Denverside, whites had only been able to burn as far east as 10th Street, in the area of Market and Trendley Avenues, and 11th Street, in the area of Brady and McCasland Avenues.8 This is significant for white rioters had intended to attack the homes and businesses of middle-class and professional African Americans in the area of 18th and 19th Streets and Bond Avenue, but failed to do so.9 This suggests the possibility that the instances of resistance mentioned by Rudwick might have been more significant than he allowed: rather than looking for evidence of an African American “counterattack”—the sort of sally into the downtown area that Rudwick failed to find—this chapter considers evidence of action by African Americans to defend a stronghold in Denverside on 2 July and to repel the advancing white mobs. If African Americans fought back against their aggressors in East St. Louis, then their actions can be understood in the context of a wider historical pattern. Although Rudwick suggested that the experiences of African Americans in the South tended to encourage them to view the explosion of racial violence in East St. Louis as something fated and not to be contested, this view would seem to neglect the strong tradition of African American self-defense and resistance against white violence. To be fair, however, this is something that historians have highlighted more recently. Although such resistance has often involved great self-sacrifice, and not always resulted in clear victories over white aggression, it has run, Sundiata Keita Cha-Jua has argued, like a “tattered thread” though African American history.10 Its past can be traced through the nineteenth and into the twentieth, century: as Timothy B. Tyson has suggested, this tradition was “rooted in the unforgettable experiences of slave resistance and Reconstruction militancy . . . [and] survived what Rayford Whittingham Logan called ‘the nadir’ of African American life” in the late nineteenth century.11 Such work reveals that African American resistance to white violence cannot be seen as having its origin in the military experiences of African Americans during the First World War: if the “New Negro” of the postwar period symbolized for many a new assertiveness among

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African Americans in their attitudes to racism, it seems clear that such assertiveness was encouraged, but not necessarily created, by wartime and postwar experiences. The tradition of resistance was, no doubt, nourished by a legitimizing literature produced during the 1890s and 1900s, which urged African Americans to resist white violence—by force, if necessary—and which also formed a countervailing discourse to that of the white press. At a time when racial violence in the United States grew increasingly severe, with an upsurge in lynching and numerous eruptions of popular urban racial killing, African Americans were forced increasingly to contemplate the imperative of self-defense.12 It was in the context of the rising tide of racial violence in the 1890s and 1900s that the militant black journalist John Edward Bruce, for example, urged African Americans to “meet force with force, everywhere it is offered.”13 Similarly, Ida B. Wells urged African Americans to fight back against aggressors: the Winchester rifle, she stated, should occupy pride of place above the mantelpieces of African American homes. Such advice could function merely as a rhetorical assertion of pride and refusal to be cowed by white violence but, at a moment of crisis, such as that of the East St. Louis race riot, it could also serve to legitimize and hence encourage resistance.14 Indeed, the response of Ida B. Wells to the East St. Louis race riot highlights the reflexivity of this discourse. She was highly supportive of the reports of armed resistance in East St. Louis that she heard of: African Americans who had defended their community against the mobs, she wrote, had behaved with the utmost responsibility.15 African American resistance in other race riots of the early twentieth century helps to place East St. Louis in context. In the Atlanta race riot of 1906, as Charles Crowe has revealed, African Americans at times fought back against the white mobs. Although, he suggested, that “scattered and isolated instances of resistance . . . only seemed to make death or grave injury more certain” for African Americans, it is possible that certain aspects of it were more successful than Crowe generally allowed.16 For example, the violence perpetrated in downtown Atlanta, which Crowe chillingly described as a “macabre mixture of carnage and carnival,” was not repeated in the black neighborhood of Brownsville, which armed African Americans sought to protect by force. African Americans there “formed and led resistance groups or seized houses to barricade as stations for snipers,” while others smashed street lights to hamper white attackers. Such action sometimes involved efforts to suspend all movement around the city (and in so doing, hold-up any white advance on the black district): in one particularly daring sally, nine black men “occupied a building which commanded a major car line and stopped all traffic with rifle fire for nearly an hour before escaping.”17 As Crowe himself revealed, on the first day of

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the riot, whites were successfully kept out of the black neighborhood of Brownsville. On the second day, an armed “invasion” of whites was repelled after a “gun battle,” in which “at least half a dozen blacks and whites fell to the streets from gunshot wounds.” When whites returned “a few hours later,” it was with “hundreds of troops and police.” The black defenders could not fight against such odds, but—perhaps because there was by now such a large-scale official involvement of the Guard and the police—the black defenders were arrested en masse and there was no slaughter. The value of such defensive action, in the time it bought for black residents, cannot be underestimated: a thousand African Americans escaped from the city. Twenty-five black people were killed in Atlanta in the course of the riot, but surely the death toll would have been higher had it not been for the actions of these black defenders.18 This pattern, to some extent, was repeated in the Chicago race riot of 1919, as William Tuttle has shown. Tuttle noted that black people realized the police would not help them—or that they were even “the armed representatives of white hostility.” But, African Americans “were not disposed to sacrifice their lives cheaply. They were armed and stood ready to defend themselves . . . by attempting to repulse the gangs [of whites]” from their streets and peripheries of their neighborhoods. First, efforts were made to secure the neighborhood’s borders and to make it a “no go” area for whites: guards stood around 37th and 38th Streets and snipers took up positions in the “Black Belt.” Marauding white gangs in automobiles were harried by sniper fire, and Tuttle described how, taking no chances, black gunmen “fired at practically every vehicle speeding through the black belt,” including ambulances and hearses. Even the sound of police motorcycles backfiring attracted gunfire from snipers.19 Such actions were clearly not merely random retaliation against whites, but formed a strategically minded response to aggression: in both Atlanta and Chicago, African Americans sought to defend the border of their neighborhoods, making them “no go” areas to ensure that the rioters were kept out.20 Rudwick, however, insisted that no such resistance was evident in East St. Louis. Thus, he was skeptical of the Cleveland Gazette and the Chicago Defender, which had claimed that white rioters had suffered serious casualties in the face of armed blacks. For example, he dismissed the Chicago Defender’s report that “the firing of the whites was promptly returned by hot lead from the Race quarters.”21 Such reports, he argued, “reflected the need to reassert race pride” rather than the truth. He also dismissed reports in the white newspaper the St Louis Republic that “[t]housands of negroes . . . continued fighting back all day and far into the night”: this was, he claimed, “fabricated” for the newspaper’s readership.22 In light of the relatively few white fatalities—a total of nine, two of

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whom were killed accidentally by rioters—it does seem likely that these reports were exaggerated, embellished, or written in overly dramatic language.23 But, this does not mean that African Americans offered no significant resistance, even if that resistance did not take the form of a pitched battle of the sort conjured up by the St Louis Republic’s colorful reporting. In fact, taken as a whole, the evidence relating to moments of African American resistance in East St. Louis suggests precisely the sort of defensive action seen in Atlanta and Chicago. Black residents, men and women together, sought to ensure that no white rioters could do in Denverside what they had done in downtown East St. Louis. Snipers, sometimes concealed in cover, made the neighborhood a “no-go” area for whites. As the local white real estate agent and politician Thomas Canavan described in his Select Committee testimony, any whites who strayed into Denverside risked being taken for potential aggressors and were fired upon. Between 7 and 8 o’clock in the evening, Canavan decided to drive through Denverside, on his way downtown, to see what was taking place there. At 15th and Bond he saw two white men ambushed: armed African Americans, concealed in weeds in a vacant lot, shot them as they passed by. At that moment another white man drove past in an automobile: the armed men fired at him as well, forcing his car from the road. The man was not a rioter—he was in fact Dr. McQuillan, the Aluminum Ore Company’s doctor. The black defenders ran to his immobile vehicle and threatened to kill him, but let him go once they realized who he was, and that he was not a threat.24 As Canavan attempted to make an escape from the area, he drove northward toward Broadway, and as he passed along McCasland Avenue, he was fired upon. “A great number of negro men and women,” he later recalled, were “shooting revolvers”; “[i]t looked to me that from every door they were shooting at me.”25 As the Select Committee panel pointed out to Canavan, it was hardly surprising that he and the other whites were attacked as they drove through Denverside, given that whites had been engaged in a violent onslaught against African Americans all that day: it is easy to see why black residents of Denverside perceived every passing white to be a potential threat, and did not wait to be fired upon before themselves firing. On 2 July, as Tuttle noted of Chicago in 1919, even ambulances might be taken for a threat by African Americans seeking to protect the borders of their neighborhood: for example, both the St Louis Republic and the highly reputable St Louis Post-Dispatch separately reported the shooting of a white ambulance driver at the key border area of 10th and Broadway at eleven o’clock.26 A group of National Guardsmen in a civilian automobile driving to 18th and Bond as darkness fell on 2 July was also fired upon.

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The commanding officer recalled that, as they passed a vacant lot, they were shot at, stopped their car, and turned to see gun smoke rising from the vacant lot to their side. A military transport vehicle, carrying a number of soldiers, was some way behind the civilian car and, by the time the Guardsmen arrived in force to search for the snipers among the weeds, they had left the area.27 As Guardsmen had been cooperating with civilians in the killings that day, it is not surprising that African American snipers considered them a threat (especially when they were traveling in a civilian car). Again, the strategic positioning and taking of cover in the tall weeds in an effort to protect the border of the neighborhood of Denverside is evident in this action. In the wake of the riot, the African American newspaper The St Louis Argus suggested that the rioters had been “too cowardly to invade” the “thickly populated district” of Denverside.28 One can understand why. Even if the claims made by the St Louis Republic that blacks and whites engaged in “battles” around 9th Street and Trendley Avenue, and the Free Bridge, seem overly dramatic, it is possible that such reports simply exaggerated actual moments when white rioters faced resistance from African Americans.29 Nor does it seem implausible that such resistance could have driven the white mobs back. The St Louis Republic reported that “with the characteristic bravado of mob spirit,” white rioters set out to find the African American snipers who, it was claimed, were positioned in the area of 10th Street and were “ambushing the roadway.” But, when faced with gunfire from the snipers, the whites “hesitated, halted and then milled back. A shot now and then from a rifle in the negro dwellings whizzed toward them. Then someone set up the shout, ‘Let’s go back and clean up Third street!’ . . . And they turned in the other direction.”30 Such reports were not confined to newspaper articles. After conducting her own investigation into the riot, Hallie Queen of Howard University noted a similar incident in which white rioters faced armed African Americans as they attempted to press forward in the direction of the “better colored homes,” almost certainly a reference to the middle-class district of Denverside. “The men of these homes,” Queen wrote, were “heavily armed” and “lying flat in the grass” as the whites approached. The whites “ordered them to come out,” but instead of surrendering, the African Americans fired a “fearful volley” as the whites moved back.31 Newspaper reports of “battles” between “thousands” of African Americans and whites can be dismissed as inaccurate. Rudwick was undoubtedly right to treat these with skepticism—but it is important not to lose sight of the significance of the strategically placed resistance by small groups identified here. It seems that African Americans did not need to inflict high casualties on the white mobs; the very act of resistance was

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enough to push the whites back. Evidently, the white rioters would not risk their lives: they were ready to attack, beat, shoot, and lynch unarmed black men, women, and children downtown, where they had overwhelming numbers and force behind them, but they were unwilling to engage African Americans on anything approaching equal terms. The weight of evidence, then, suggests that the black residents of Denverside did indeed mount a defense of their neighborhood on 2 July. These were not merely gangs, committing random acts of retaliation but, rather, they were armed groups who took up strategic positions at the neighborhood’s borders, as happened in Atlanta in 1906 and as would occur in Chicago in 1919, often making use of the cover provided by the vegetation in overgrown vacant lots. In order to understand this mobilization more clearly, it is necessary to consider the basis of its organization. The events of the day before the race riot and, specifically, the response of the black community then to being attacked by white racists is particularly illuminating in this regard. It seems likely that African American resistance on 2 July was related to efforts to defend the black community against attacks earlier during the summer of 1917. As has been noted in earlier chapters, it was said that “a bad nest of white fellows” who were to be found “close to the Free Bridge,” around 10th Street, were repeatedly harassing and attacking African Americans there on the western border of the predominantly black residential district, during the summer of 1917.32 It was, for example, at 10th and Piggott that a fight broke out between roughly fifty whites and blacks on 26 May 1917, only three days after a similar confrontation had taken place on Piggott at 7th Street.33 The local African American businessman and lay pastor Calvin Cotton recalled that, after the 28 May riot, “every night or every day [after that] there seemed to have been some trouble, and especially down by the Free Bridge.”34 It was against the background of this ongoing conflict that a group of whites gathered in the area of the Free Bridge on 1 July, attacking African Americans as they passed by. While the white-dominated police department failed to intervene, local black residents took action themselves, in what seems to have become an established pattern of confrontation in this area. On 1 July, the black police officer W. H. Mills later recalled, two neighbors had told him that “the white folks down at 10th street and the Free Bridge were rocking [attacking] every nigger they could see.”35 Around eight or nine o’clock, a black woman was found in a frightened state by a group of African Americans. She had been attacked by whites and her clothing was torn. One witness overheard some of those men “talking about going down there [to 10th St] and defending the colored people.”36 One black man among the group, armed with a shotgun, was bolder still: he apparently said “let’s go and get these sons of bitches,” before heading off in the direction of the Free Bridge.37

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Surely it is no coincidence that not long after, just before nine o’clock, a local resident—a white woman named Mary Fisher—saw a group of armed African Americans pass her house between 10th and 11th Streets on Trendley Avenue. There were two automobiles driven by African Americans and a group of between fifteen and twenty black men armed with revolvers and a shotgun moving back and forth around the streets near her house.38 Such evidence indicates that the African American residents of Denverside mounted an organized response to the white attacks on 1 July, searching for the white gang and patrolling the streets to ensure that they did not return. A similar pattern of action—the gathering of armed men in response to an attack—was also seen later on the night of 1 July, when an automobile driven by a gang of whites drove through Denverside, shooting into African Americans’ homes. Although the attack was certainly a surprise when it occurred, the African American residents of Denverside were not entirely unprepared, for a number of them managed to return fire. The local lawyer and politician N. W. Parden—who was himself seen “run[ning] to the door with his gun”—stated that “the negroes [living on the street] began to shoot as they [the white gang in the car] came along.” They hit the vehicle and injured the gang’s leader Gus Masserang.39 At the sounding of a bell, some minutes after the drive-by attack, a larger group of armed black men formed in the street and set out, patrolling their neighborhood, looking for the white gang as it would seem was the established pattern.40 They made their way to 10th Street, the scene of previous confrontations.41 The rapid gathering of armed black men in the streets, only minutes after the ringing of the church bell, indicates that local African American residents were relatively well organized in their response to white violence. The use of the church bell as a warning signal indicates that some sort of plan of action had been agreed before the drive-by attack on 1 July and might even suggest that a local church had served as a community meeting place in which that response was decided upon. However, the task of identifying the precise structure and basis of this mobilization is made difficult because African Americans who may have had knowledge of it were reluctant to discuss this openly at the time: after the shooting of the white detectives Coppedge and Wadley on 1 July, a number of African Americans, including the black politician Dr. Le Roy Bundy, were accused of conspiring to murder the white detectives and placed on trial. As Elliott Rudwick noted, in order to defend themselves against this charge, they had to deny that any organization lay behind their gathering on the night of 1 July.42 Rudwick then accepted this as fact, probably to scorn the notion promoted by the prosecution that African Americans had somehow brought the race riot upon themselves by initiating violence.43 Rudwick was surely correct to argue that the prosecution was a pernicious one. However, by following

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the defense’s line of argument, his work tends to follow its somewhat distorted interpretation of events—an interpretation that misleads— inasmuch as it suppressed any suggestion that African Americans had been involved in any violence whatever, even in defense of their neighborhood. In fact, preparations for defense were made. So far as whites were concerned, however, preparations for an offensive were underway: prior to and during the race riot, rumors swept East St. Louis that the African American community was preparing an uprising and a massacre of whites. To that end, it was claimed, the local black politician and businessman Dr. Le Roy Bundy was assembling an arsenal of weapons. This rumor was false, of course, for no “uprising” of any sort, let alone a massacre, was planned and, on 2 July, when Bundy’s home was searched for weapons, none were found.44 But, in the tense atmosphere of the summer of 1917, perhaps the rumor was a distorted reflection of defensive preparations. Before the Select Committee, Paul Y. Anderson, a respected white journalist from the St Louis Post-Dispatch, revealed that he had spoken with an African American man, McDonald, who claimed to have knowledge of Bundy’s efforts to organize a defense. McDonald, claimed that he had been approached by Bundy some time after the May race riot. Bundy had apparently discovered that McDonald was an experienced soldier, a veteran of the Spanish–American war and offered him $500 to “drill the men” of Denverside, using some “500 arms” that he had obtained for this purpose. In response to the rising tide of white hostility through the early summer of 1917, it was Bundy’s intention—McDonald claimed—to form “an organization of black men to fight the white people.”45 McDonald claimed that he declined the offer, but the story may cast light on the effort to organize a defense before the July riot. Moreover, there is other evidence—from African American witnesses for the defense during the Bundy trial—which indicates that the black residents of Denverside had been drilling during the summer of 1917. Such activity may have been related to the defense plans to which McDonald alleged, or to the defensive actions of 1 and 2 July. It would appear that the African American Odd Fellows fraternal society provided a preexisting network and structure around which a defense group could have been organized. The black lawyer and politician Noah W. Parden recalled that, on a vacant lot to the southwest of Bundy’s home, he saw “the uniformed rank of the Odd Fellows . . . practicing . . . a number of times at night.” They were “drilling” in what he described as “military formation.”46 William Gladden, an African American resident of Denverside had also seen the Odd Fellows drilling “in uniform,” sometimes along Market Avenue. Denying that they had firearms, Gladden claimed that they carried swords.47 This testimony was corroborated by William W. Buchanan, a

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captain of the Odd Fellows: he confirmed that they had drilled at 17th and Bond and on Market Avenue, wearing uniforms and carrying swords.48 Appearing as witnesses for Bundy’s defense, Parden, Gladden, and Buchanan would have been careful to avoid any suggestion that the Odd Fellows’ drill was in any way related to the events of 1 July. Instead, they cast the drill as a recreational activity, and specifically noted that they carried swords and not firearms. Of course, if the members of the Odd Fellows lodge were drilling in preparation for a defense of their community, it would have been very unlikely that they would have wanted to alert local whites by unnecessarily carrying guns. But, even if conducted with swords, rather than firearms, this activity would have been adequate mobilization practice for a group attempting to coordinate defensive action in Denverside. The evidence, then, reveals the occasions on which black residents of Denverside were involved in action to defend their neighborhood before the July riot, and discloses moments during the riot when African Americans fired on white rioters and sought to protect their community by making Denverside a “no-go” area for whites and by defending its peripheries. It is uncertain how well organized and structured that defense was, but it is certain that particular community institutions helped coordinate or organize that defense. A local church, for example, was used to sound a warning signal. The Odd Fellows clearly promoted drilling among African Americans, which would have inculcated disciplined and coordinated action. As well as these likely influences, the very experience of coming under attack during the summer of 1917 seems to have had a mobilizing effect on the local black community. For, it was in response to the racial violence visited upon Denverside by whites from around 10th Street that local African Americans developed a repertoire of organization—gathering in the streets and patrolling border areas. Significantly, the resistance on 2 July ensured that particular areas of the city would be largely shut off from the white rioters, limiting the scope of the onslaught and keeping certain districts safe from violence. By effectively occupying the downtown area, whites blocked the bridge running from the center of the city over to St. Louis. However, by holding the mobs back at the area around 10th Street, African Americans managed to ensure access to the viaduct leading to the aptly named Free Bridge, which led to St. Louis and safety.49 This was, Hallie Queen wrote, the “Bridge of Mercy,” for a great many African Americans—an “army of refugees,” according to one local newspaper—were able to escape across it to St. Louis.50 The black police officer W. Green, for example, recalled how he conveyed his wife and her grandmother across the Free Bridge, to St. Louis, after the rioters “began burning down the town” and “burned within four blocks of where

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I lived”: for safety, they remained in St. Louis for a week after the riot.51 It was also across the Free Bridge that dozens of children—escorted by women in particular, it would appear—were led to safety during the riot. Speaking during the Select Committee hearings, the black police officer John Eubanks recalled seeing at least two groups on 2 July, to whom he personally offered assistance: as he was walking through the streets around 10th and Broadway on the day of the riot, he encountered “a large number of colored women and children.” They were a group of “possibly 25 or 30 women and children who lived in the vicinity of 12th and Division Avenue.” He stated that “many of them knew me, and they pleaded with me to escort them to the [free] bridge.” After walking south with them to the Free Bridge and seeing them safely on to the bridge he returned to 10th and Broadway. He saw “another crowd of women and children assembled there.” He stated that “they requested that I go with them as far as the Free Bridge. Well, I went with them and returned again.”52 Eubanks’s testimony also highlights the importance of his presence on the streets of Denverside as a black police officer. Although ordered home by his precinct on 2 July, he spent some time in the streets around downtown East St. Louis and bordering Denverside on 2 July. He even attempted to arrest a rioter, John Tisch, although he was forced to retreat quickly when he realized he was outnumbered after pursuing his suspect into an alley way where he found “possibly forty or fifty [white] men” armed with “a number of shining revolvers”: “I came back out of there about as fast as I went into the alley,” he noted.53 African Americans seeking to escape from the riot had somebody to whom they could look for help. Indeed, when he escorted the women and children to the Free Bridge, he demonstrably did so in his official capacity as a police officer: “I took my star [police badge] out from under my coat and I put it on the outside.”54 And this at a time when white police officers and National Guardsmen were actively assisting the rioters in beating and killing African Americans. There were only six African Americans among the seventy police officers in the East St. Louis Police Department and it would appear that most obeyed the orders of their superiors to remain at home from work.55 Yet, even when they did so, it would appear that they played an important role in protecting members of their community. Thus, Officer W. H. Mills “stopped several people [who were passing by, from] going downtown,” as he returned home, preventing them from walking into the midst of the riot mobs.56 Another black police officer, Otto Nelson, offered shelter to refugees—about six black women and one black man—in his house on 2 July. It seems that Nelson had not known these refugees before the riot, and it may well be that they had sought him out, knowing him to be a police officer, and sought his protection.57

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It must be stressed that it was organized resistance that made it possible for the children to be led to safety and for black police officers to offer this sort of protection: for, in driving the white mobs back, safe areas were created in the city, where African Americans could find shelter or find an escape route from the city. Likewise, the protection of Denverside made it possible for residents to find greater safety. The African American physician Thomas Hunter, for example, who lived on 19th and Bond, told the select committee that “a school teacher . . . Mrs. Scott, [and Mr.] Haynes [from] across the street, came into my house,” fearing that their street— and their homes in particular—were under threat from the mobs. These three families went together to stay in another black neighbor’s home for shelter that night.58 But, the residents did not only offer shelter to their immediate neighbors: they offered sanctuary to “a number of other refugees who had come from further down in town,” in the South End, perhaps, where their homes had been set ablaze.59 Facing a ferocious attack by white mobs supported by the police and the National Guard, African American resistance, then, made a significant impact upon the trajectory of the race riot. White mobs were turned back from the black neighborhood of Denverside, allowing many African Americans to find shelter and safety. Many others were able to escape to St. Louis across the Free Bridge, largely because white mobs failed to overwhelm Denverside as they had overwhelmed districts adjoining downtown East St. Louis.

Conclusion The white onslaught of 2 July was met by a black community that was prepared to defend itself against this racist aggression. It was not by chance that large sections of Denverside remained untouched by the rioters, thus providing shelter. Black residents there offered armed resistance to the white rioters. Their defensive action was coordinated and strategic in its mobilization, as armed groups were formed rapidly and took up key positions, making use of cover provided by tall weeds and by buildings. They protected the border streets of Denverside and also key streets within the neighborhood—at McCasland Avenue for example, a street where the residents were almost exclusively black—facilitating the gathering of armed defenders in a concentrated group. In so doing, they prevented any significant movement of whites into Denverside. They were thus able to prevent white rioters from surrounding residential blocks, as they had done downtown at 5th and 6th and Rock Road, where buildings were set ablaze and black residents shot by rioters as they fled. The mobilization of a sizeable

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body of armed black residents—perhaps one or two hundred together with an unknown number of snipers in positions on streets such as McCasland—must have presented a psychological barrier for the white rioters as well. Downtown, whites had numerically overwhelmed African Americans; faced with something approaching an even fight in Denverside, they withdrew. By holding back the white mobs, African American resistance significantly limited the scope of the race riot and the number of casualties. Black snipers prevented the streets east of the viaduct leading to the Free Bridge from being overwhelmed. This provided a vital escape route for thousands of African Americans. Within the safe district of Denverside, African Americans were able to draw on community resources to aid escape from the rioters and to offer shelter to refugees. Black police officers were present in the city, and were able to offer a symbolic presence on the streets, offer protection to African Americans seeking to escape, and offer shelter to refugees from downtown. As neighbors or as families, African Americans in the black neighborhood of Denverside banded together for protection. Through the defense that was mounted, black residents in this neighborhood were sheltered from the violence and were also able to offer sanctuary to refugees. Undoubtedly, many lives were saved.

Conclusion

he East St. Louis race riot of 1917 was a moment of singularly brutal violence. Indiscriminately, from morning until nightfall on 2 July, white mobs murdered black men, women, and children in the streets of their city and set their homes and businesses alight. The brutality of the violence—culminating in a visceral orgy of bloodletting in the evening— was all the more shocking for the apparent good humor of the mobs, who laughed and joked as they murdered, and for the presence of numerous white children among the crowds of supportive onlookers. The violence went largely unchecked by the authorities: many officers of the whitedominated local police force sympathized with the rioters and assisted them; many of the white National Guardsmen who were called to the city to quell the riot deserted their posts and joined in the killing. Ultimately, it would be African Americans’ own actions—in repelling the white mobs by force and by evacuating their families from the city—and not the authorities that would hamper the devastating progress of the riot. At the end of the day, at least thirty-nine black people had been killed, although, very likely, the actual number of dead was far higher but would remain unknown because of the lack of an adequate official record. Countless African Americans were left injured and many more lost their homes or fled the city. This book has sought to explain the outbreak and meaning of the East St. Louis race riot by focusing upon the city and community that gave rise to it, and the black response to it. It began by considering the economic and social transformation of East St. Louis in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: this was a period of rapid economic expansion across the United States, during which East St. Louis emerged as a dynamic, booming, industrial city. The economic forces unleashed by industrialization repeatedly wrought dramatic social changes. The neighborhoods and communities of East St. Louis were repeatedly transformed by wave upon wave of newcomers as European immigrants and, later, African American migrants from the South, were drawn to the city in search of industrial employment. East St. Louis became a thriving industrial city but, although

T

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the city’s factories generated great wealth for the corporations who owned them, the men and women who toiled within them did not share in that wealth. The vast majority of workers—those in unskilled occupations— struggled to earn a living and support a family. Even skilled workers, who earned enough to live comfortably in better homes away from the factory gates, lived with little security. Those workers did not, however, suffer equally. In the early 1900s, it was white workers of the “old immigrant” communities who monopolized the better skilled occupations; “new immigrants” from southern and eastern Europe had to make do with unskilled work. However, even they had better prospects than African Americans. Over time, European immigrants became “Americanized” and moved into better-paid and more secure semi-skilled and skilled work; racial discrimination, on the other hand, remained an unbreakable barrier for African Americans. The city that emerged from the period of rapid industrialization in the late nineteenth century was one dominated by industrial production: it owed its existence to, and was in thrall to, industrial corporations. The power structure that was established in this city was, as a result, one in which workers were subordinated. They had difficulty in asserting any meaningful control over their lives in the face of far more powerful interests. Chapter 2 considered the position of workers in this local power structure. While ethnic and racial divisions within the working class were registered in this discussion, focus fell in particular upon the “Americanized” white working class—for it was white workers who participated in the race riot. Racial discrimination, it was noted, afforded white workers a position of privilege in relation to African Americans. Thy benefited economically in the workplace by monopolizing the best jobs, but this discrimination also gave rise to a psychological “wage”: that is, a sense of higher status. Beyond the sphere of production, too, white workers gained a sense of self-esteem from racial discrimination. They felt that, unlike African Americans, they had a stake in the white-dominated establishment—City Hall and local civic institutions—and a common bond with the police, on the grounds of race. It was on the basis of such a sense of privilege that white working-class identity was constructed and recognition of this was key to understanding later the forces impelling white workers’ participation in the violence. There was a further layer to the structure of power in East St. Louis: the domain of organized criminals. This domain stood apart from the sphere of production and the civic institutions, but it had connections with them. Corruption in East St. Louis was systemic. It gave great succor to the organized criminals who controlled the Valley vice district by violence and intimidation and allowed them to stamp their world in their own violent

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image. The entrenched position of organized crime in East St. Louis had tragic consequences in July 1917. The 1917 race riot cannot be understood apart from the plebeian culture that helped to make it possible. Chapter 3 was concerned with that culture. Specifically, it explained how popular culture reinforced racial divisions and how it reproduced racist stereotypes about black people, and notions that African Americans were “threatening” racial others. No discussion of popular culture in East St. Louis could overlook the city’s infamous saloons. Here, attention returned to the domain of organized criminals. The saloons of East St. Louis were characterized by their criminal connections and by regular violent outbursts. Here, young men were socialized in a highly masculinized and violent culture: a culture from which a milieu would emerge that would have a significant and terrible bearing on the race riot. The second part of this book concerned the race riot itself. Chapter 4 focused upon the immediate context of the race riot and the forces that collided in 1917 to produce the explosion of violence. Of key significance was the period of increasingly intense industrial conflict between the spring of 1916 and summer of 1917, leading up to the race riot. Workers’ hopes were first raised by the tentative success of a wave of labor organization. These hopes were then bitterly crushed by an employers’ drive against union labor, directed with ferocity above all at the Aluminum Ore workers. Crucially, race became connected with the fate of the nascent union movement as employers, supported by the state, moved to break it. Coinciding with America’s entry into the First World War, white union workers found themselves swept up in a maelstrom of intimidation, denunciation, and slander, in which their employers and the state seemingly colluded. This, it seemed to white workers, was calling into question their citizenship and very place within the community of whites. Thus, the manner in which the labor movement was defeated destabilized white workers’ identity. Desperate whites, fearing that their world was shifting around them, and that their place within it might be lost, began to fear for life beyond the workplace: fears began to arise concerning changes to the racial composition of local neighborhoods, and relating to white workers’ relationship with City Hall; they felt a sense of peril concerning crime, for which black people were held responsible. These fears—and the hostility emerging in their wake— took on a distinctly racial aspect. In that growing atmosphere of fear and hostility, East St. Louis slid into sporadic racial violence and, by the end of June, was teetering on the edge of the race riot. East St. Louis finally erupted on the morning of 2 July. The brutal race riot that followed was closely anatomized in chapter 5. It began by considering the social psychology of the riot mobs in order to explain why so

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many seemingly ordinary white men, women, and children became involved in, or supportive of, the atrocities, and why the police and National Guard aided them. Taking an interpretive approach suggested recently in other work on a moment of racial killing in South Africa in 1922, focus fell upon the unfounded rumors of a black uprising that swept the white community as the race riot erupted. These rumors, it was argued, are key to understanding the reasons for, and the timing of, the violent eruption. Subconsciously, they provided a means to restore the racial community of whites at a time when intense class conflict during wartime had brought workers into open confrontation with their employers and the state. More specifically, unfounded rumors of a black uprising allowed local white workers to transcend the confrontation by allying themselves with the white-dominated local police and National Guard in an onslaught against a putatively “threatening” black community. Space and place is also key to understanding this violent outburst. White workers, it was noted, had become increasingly concerned about the changing urban environment in the months before the race riot: in particular, they feared that their city was in danger of being “lost” somehow to black migrants and that the integrity of their racially exclusive neighborhoods was under threat because of shifting patterns of urban settlement. Significantly, these fears driving the race riot also determined where white rioters would symbolically focus their violence: the violence was, in part, motivated by a wish by whites to fix social as well as geographical boundaries in the city. The latter half of the anatomization of the race riot focused upon the brutality of the riot mobs and the key participants. It exposed the structure and composition of the riot crowd and offered sociopsychological explanations for the brutality of the violence exhibited. The individuals and groups who took a leading role in the violence were identified and the significance and meaning of their involvement was established. Significantly, it was noted that white Southerners were present at the head of the riot mobs and organized the violence on 2 July, which culminated in hangings that self-consciously aped Southern lynching. Moreover, men who were closely associated with the city’s saloons took a particularly active role in the race riot. When violence broke out on 2 July, these men, who spent their lives immersed in the violent saloon culture, soon became involved and pushed the riot to even more brutal depths. Even though the rioters claimed many lives, their violence was limited by the actions of members of the local black community. It was shown that white rioters failed to penetrate the important black neighborhood of Denverside and demonstrated that this was because they were forced back by armed African Americans. This mobilization was not accidental but

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rooted in the culture and institutions of the local black community. It also reflected, in deeds, the militant rhetoric of national campaigners such as Ida B. Wells, who advocated self-defense in the face of white aggression. And, it continued the thread of black armed resistance, which could be traced back to the past of the Reconstruction era. But, perhaps above all, it was local experiences that drove this response: having repeatedly come under attack by whites sporadically during the summer of 1917 and left unprotected by the police, black residents of Denverside had become increasingly determined to fight back. On 2 July, this determination to protect themselves and their own community brought black residents into a defensive mobilization. It challenged the white mobs and, faced with anything approaching an even fight, the rioters withdrew. Thus, large sections of the black neighborhood of Denverside remained untouched by the violence. Within Denverside, it was possible for refugees to find shelter. Importantly, by turning the rioters back, African Americans kept open the aptly named Free Bridge. It became the vital escape route from East St. Louis.

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Epilogue: The Case for Reparations

n the first decades of the twentieth century, America was swept by an unprecedented wave of urban racial violence. Black communities came under attack by rampaging white mobs in city after city, large and small, North and South. Wilmington, North Carolina (1898), Atlanta, Georgia (1906), Springfield, Illinois (1908), East St. Louis (1917), Chicago (1919), and Tulsa, Oklahoma (1921), to name only half a dozen of the more severe episodes, all witnessed brutal racist outbursts. Over the course of this period, hundreds of black men, women, and children were killed, thousands were displaced, and millions of dollars worth of property— homes and businesses—were destroyed. These horrific urban attacks exposed how little meaningful protection the rule of law in whitedominated society offered black communities: white mobs were usually not restrained and, often, race riots were actively supported by the local police or National Guard. Against the background of a historic upsurge in lynching and the locking into place of Jim Crow segregation, the race riots of this era represented a further and brutal layer of white supremacist oppression. Now, approximately one hundred years after the beginning of that historic wave of violence, an increasingly vigorous movement demanding reparations has emerged. There have been two prominent cases that have provided a focus for the reparations movement and its core issues in recent years.1 Consideration of these casts light on the question of whether there may be a case for reparations for the East St. Louis race riot, one of the worst of its time. The first of the recent reparation cases concerned a massacre in Florida in 1923, in which local whites attacked and destroyed the black town of Rosewood, murdering untold numbers of residents and stealing their property. The authorities effectively turned a blind eye to the violence at the time, the crimes were never publicized and no one was ever prosecuted. Fear kept the black survivors silent for many decades. In the early 1990s, however, a high-profile campaign began to make demands for

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reparations from the state, on the grounds that it had failed to protect the residents of Rosewood in 1923. On purely legal grounds, the survivors seemed to have little hope of success: seventy years had passed, the opponents of reparations noted, and any civil claim against the state would surely be barred by the statute of limitations. However, the Rosewood campaigners pressed a moral case, which did not stand or fall on a specific point of law: there was need for the authorities to acknowledge this shameful chapter in Florida’s history and to offer reparations as a means of laying it to rest. In 1993, the state legislature conceded and commissioned a research team to investigate and report upon the Rosewood massacre. In 1994, on the strength of this team’s report—and in a landmark decision— the Florida state legislature approved a bill authorizing reparation payments to survivors.2 This offered compensation for property loss and trauma. Crucially, these payments were also symbolic: they represented an admission by the authorities that there had been a failure in the past to uphold equality of protection under the law and that they had a responsibility to make a clean breast of the events. The success of the Rosewood campaign relied upon a carefully crafted political compromise in which the criteria upon which the state legislature agreed to pay reparations were very strictly defined. For, in order to obtain political support, the campaigners had to reassure many legislators that the Rosewood case would not provide a legal precedent and lead to an avalanche of reparation claims for the many other racist crimes in the state’s history. Thus, the bill authorizing reparations stressed the fact that the violence in Rosewood had lasted for a week, that there could be no doubt that the authorities had ample opportunity to intervene but chose not to. It was, in other words, a uniquely egregious case.3 Yet, despite those strictures, the groundbreaking decision in Florida had conceded, in principle, that reparations could be appropriate in some circumstances. It did not exclude the possibility that reparations claims could be pursued for other individual cases in other states, if they were similarly serious enough to warrant special treatment. Following the Rosewood decision, in 1997, activists forced the Oklahoma legislature to establish a commission of historians, legislators, and local people to investigate the Tulsa race riot of 1921. Certainly, the Tulsa riot was an appalling outburst. Scores of black people were murdered by white mobs, over thirty city blocks were razed to the ground and thousands were left homeless. Well over $1,000,000 worth of property was destroyed. The vibrant Greenwood district of Tulsa, known as the “black Wall Street”—one of the most vital black business districts in America, dotted by cafés, restaurants, and bars and the location of the famous Dreamland Theatre—was devastated.4 As in Rosewood, the authorities failed to protect African

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Americans: indeed, in Tulsa, the police and National Guard had actually assisted the white rioters. Unlike Rosewood, however, the Tulsa riot was well publicized at the time and the black community refused to be silent: many demanded compensation from the city authorities and pursued claims through the courts. Yet, the city, the court system, and insurance companies failed, ultimately, to provide money that was, by rights, due for reconstruction. Like the Rosewood investigation, the purpose of the Tulsa Riot Commission was officially to bring these past events into full public view. It also sought to account properly for the dead, some of whom, it was said, had been buried in unmarked graves. It was an opportunity to discuss how the riot had been absorbed in different ways into local memory, to expose how racism had influenced official actions, and to identify responsibility. Importantly, the Commission acknowledged the full extent of the white aggression, the culpability of the state authorities and, specifically, the complicity of the police and National Guard.5 The Commission was also instructed to consider recommendations for reparations. Its report of 2001 suggested a range of such reparation measures: direct payments to survivors and descendants, a scholarship fund for students affected by the riot, an economic development zone in Greenwood, and a memorial. Taking these recommendations into consideration, the legislature passed the Tulsa Race Riot Reconciliation Act in 2001. The Act included provisions to create committees to help design a memorial, to assist with the economic redevelopment of Greenwood, and established a mechanism for allocating scholarships to descendants of the riot victims; however, crucially, it did not fund these schemes. Nor did the legislature agree to direct payments to survivors.6 Partly due to the refusal to make payments to the survivors, activists turned to litigation—a route that Rosewood campaigners had abandoned in favor of lobbying the legislature. There were, though, important differences that seemed to make Tulsa a more hopeful case than Rosewood. The Riot Commission had exposed the extent of the complicity of the police and National Guard: they had not just failed to protect the black residents, they had actually joined in the riot. Nevertheless, the legal case soon became mired in arguments over the statute of limitations. At the time of writing, there may yet be further action on behalf of the Tulsa survivors, but the chances look slim. The Supreme Court rejected the case without comment on 16 May 2005, although campaigners have vowed to continue their struggle. The case illustrates the difficulties posed by litigation. Nevertheless, if a legal argument can be found that would allow the case to proceed, this could elicit compensation payments for the Tulsa riot survivors. By doing justice now, Alfred Brophy has argued, and compensating the survivors, the rule of law would be upheld, albeit after a considerable

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delay. This, it could be argued, would be a form of reparation, for the demonstrable failure of the authorities to uphold the rule of law in 1921 was part of the harm inflicted.7 To summarize, then, on one level, the reparations movement seeks by litigation or by legislation to obtain compensation for damages—trauma or loss of property—resulting from racial violence in which the authorities were implicated. Where no compensation was given at the time, the reparations movement seeks to ensure that debts will be honored, even after a considerable delay. It is, in this respect, partly about ensuring a restitution of property to those who had been dispossessed in the past. But, it is also about justice in a larger sense. Campaigners seek to ensure that survivors receive their due under law now, in order to correct the outstanding failure of justice in the past. And, it is about holding the guilty to account: even if the perpetrators of racial violence who escaped justice at the time are no longer alive to answer for their crimes, the institutions of the state or city that facilitated such violence can nevertheless still answer for their own role. In seeking to identify the location of mass graves, the Tulsa investigation also recognizes that some effort to lay to rest the remains of the dead who are still unaccounted for is a necessary part of coming to terms with these past events. Reparation campaigns are also concerned with recorded history and official memory: they seek to end the official silence that has tended to surround race riots and episodes of racial violence. This is about writing such events into the national story and into collective memory. There is, therefore, an ideological aspect to the reparations movement, for it challenges the “master narrative” and everyday assumptions about America’s past. It exposes some “guilty secrets,” as it were, that have the potential to change the way people think about American history, its institutions, and society: despite the abolition of slavery, institutions of government have had a role in perpetuating inequality and the reparations movement seeks an acknowledgment of that role. This exposes the shortfall between the rights promised under the constitution and the rights that black people were able to exercise in reality. Thus, finally, reparations are important in the definition of the relationship between black America and the institutions of government—in this case, on the city or state level— where those institutions have, in the past, been complicit in racial violence. Reparations can make a break with the institutional past by explicitly acknowledging that it was wrong to deny black people equal protection under law, hence stating that entitlement to these rights now and in the future is to be recognized and respected. What, then, would be the moral or legal basis of a reparations claim for the East St. Louis race riot? This is a question that is doubly pressing for having already been raised in the Illinois General Assembly. A Senate Joint

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Resolution calling for the formation of a committee to investigate acts of racial violence and oppression in the state’s history, including the East St. Louis riot, and to recommend reparations, was presented to the assembly in 2001. Although this measure failed to make further progress on that occasion, it raised a debate that may yet be reignited.8 Certainly, in East St. Louis, as in Rosewood and Tulsa, a substantial responsibility rests with the city and state authorities. The police helped to incite the riot on the morning of 2 July by placing the bullet-riddled car of the slain white detectives Coppedge and Wadley outside the police station in full view, and making it known that they would not attempt to prevent an attack on the black community that day. The police department as a whole did nothing to attempt to prevent violence when it broke out and many police officers fraternized with the rioters: the white-dominated police force saw the killing of the white detectives through the same racist optic as the rest of the local white community, as a racial transgression that needed to be punished. The black community found no protection under the law on 2 July. The deployment of the Illinois National Guard made matters worse. The Guardsmen who arrived in the city throughout the morning and afternoon were wholly ineffective and some even joined in the killing. Many were new recruits and they had no training in crowd control. They were poorly disciplined and many had the sort of virulently racist views that meant that they sympathized with the white rioters. They were badly organized by an ineffective commanding officer—Colonel Tripp. His appointment to the task, the Congressional Select Committee later suggested, “was a reproach to the assistant adjutant general who sent him there and a reflection on the [poor] judgment of the governor for burdening his staff with so helpless an incompetent.”9 Certainly, it was grossly negligent to put guns in the hands of these young, inexperienced, and untrained white men and send them to East St. Louis to quell a race riot without ensuring that they would be placed under a firm and effective military chain of command. It was an error that led to greater violence and destruction. But, perhaps the more profound damage was the impression that the riot created: no black person was safe from mob violence under the rule of law. In this respect, the East St. Louis race riot would have at least as strong a case as Tulsa and Rosewood. However, it is different from these events in an important respect: in the aftermath of the race riot, unlike Rosewood, some black residents of East St. Louis were not prepared to be silent and, unlike Tulsa, efforts to seek redress were successful. In 1921, court judgments forced the East St. Louis city council to raise $454,000 in bonds to pay compensation to individuals who had suffered loss during the race riot.10 It therefore seems very unlikely that litigation could be pursued on

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the same basis as the case against the city authorities lodged on behalf of the Tulsa survivors. Furthermore, this would also have implications for any campaign directed at the state legislature: in the case of Rosewood, direct payments were made to survivors and descendants for property loss and trauma partly on the basis that no redress had been given at the time because the authorities allowed silence to hide the crime. But, this does not mean that the East St. Louis race riot should be considered resolved. Indeed, this point raises the precise danger of placing too much emphasis on the question of compensation payment. Legally, it is possible to compensate individuals for loss and damages but it is not possible to place a moral price upon the death and destruction wrought by the white mobs on 2 July 1917 in East St. Louis. Nor, even if we accept that the East St. Louis cases of 1921 settled every possible individual compensation claim at the time (which is not certain), payment alone does not resolve the issue of memory or of the moral burden carried by the state for failing to uphold the rule of law. This has been a key aspect of reparation campaigns to date. The Rosewood case sought reimbursement for property lost in the 1923 attack, but it also sought an official acknowledgment of this past wrong. Similarly, the Tulsa Race Riot Commission was charged with establishing a record of past events that would rebalance official neglect in the past: one key recommendation of the Commission was for a memorialization of the riot. There would, therefore, be grounds for a reparations campaign for the East St. Louis race riot, focusing upon the state legislature. The question is whether holding the state and city authorities to account can fully resolve the matter. After all, they were not solely responsible for events. As this book has shown, the local corporate employers—particularly the Aluminum Ore Company—had a key role in creating the context for violence: indirectly, by colluding in racial discrimination, by cynically manipulating racial divisions amongst their workforce, these employers contributed to the atmosphere of racial hostility in East St. Louis during 1917. This implies no legal culpability, perhaps, but there is a moral responsibility; an attempt to reach resolution could benefit from apologies and contributions by successors of those corporations. More broadly, this is a question with which the reparations movement has been increasingly concerned. The role of private companies in supporting the institution of slavery, for example, has come under scrutiny. It seems possible that in the future more attention will be given to the role of corporate employers in East St. Louis.11 Fundamentally, the reparations movement seeks a way of coming to terms with America’s history and, specifically, the acts of racial violence

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and oppression that are an unresolved aspect of that past. Holding state and city institutions and private corporations to account could go some way toward providing a sense of resolution, particularly as the whites who took part in the race riot are, almost certainly, no longer alive to answer for their crimes. Governmental authorities and even private corporations can, however, be held to account because there is a direct institutional link to the past. That being said, facing up to the past is not the sole responsibility of institutions of government or corporations. While white people alive today are not responsible for the actions of their parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents, we inherit a world shaped by the past and, therefore, we all have a responsibility to understand it. There are, in that respect, good grounds for a commission to make a full and far-reaching investigation of that past. Sherrilyn Ifill has argued that such a truth and reconciliation commission, driven by local participation but supported by government nationally, is necessary precisely because of the history of widespread white involvement in acts of racial violence— lynching, in particular. This history, Ifill has claimed, is a source of much “distrust and tension between blacks and whites” across the United States because it has largely been shrouded in silence and remains unresolved. By discussing that history it is possible to come to terms with it.12 A glimmer of the possibilities offered by such an approach is, for example, reflected in the case of Marion, Indiana: a town in which two black teenagers had been lynched in 1930. As James Madison explained in his book on the lynching and its legacy, local residents found the event continued to haunt local memory even into the present: there was a realization amongst local residents “that forgetting was not possible.” In 1998, renewed local interest in the lynchings and public discussion by a panel of residents, black and white, helped the community understand better where these events stood in the history of race in the town. Crucially, Madison argued that this helped promote change, symbolized by the election later that year of Indiana’s first black sheriff, Oatess Archey. In particular, this highly qualified black candidate received the support of many local whites who saw his election victory against a white opponent as part of the process of moving away from a past marked by racial discrimination. The election became a focus for discussions about how racism, handed down from the past, must not be allowed to haunt the present.13 In East St. Louis, the state authorities seem to have a good opportunity to support a truth and reconciliation process involving the local community, for there is already local interest in these past events and their legacy. In the city, in recent years, efforts have been made to organize a commemoration of the 1917 race riot. In July 2004, for example, with the support of

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city officials, residents staged a somber drum procession and wreathlaying ceremony in memory of the riot victims. Witness testimonies and the recollections of survivors of the race riot were read in public. Those memories are being kept alive to honor past generations and the sacrifices that they made. However, as the ceremony’s organizers also stressed, they are trying to address some unfinished business. Ravaged by racial violence in 1917, East St. Louis now stands as a stark reminder of the racial divisions that persist in America today. During the 1960s, the city began a rapid economic decline. Almost entirely, its white residents departed for surrounding districts. The black residents who remained were able to elect a black mayor and break the historic white domination of city politics. But, East St. Louis had been left without an economic base and in a destitute condition. Few of the white people who predominate in the more affluent suburbs nearby, or just across the Mississippi River in St. Louis, Missouri, visit this now almost entirely black and poverty-stricken community. Race continues to define separation and inequality. It is the hope of the present generation that remembering the race riot of 1917 will encourage questions about society today and, in the words of one leading organizer, Terry Kennedy, “rededicate efforts to bridge racial divisions.” Understanding the past, in other words, can help shape a better future.14 This is a local truth and reconciliation movement that the state authorities should applaud, and could complement by initiating an official riot investigation, drawing wherever possible upon willing local residents. The focus of the Rosewood and Tulsa investigations provides an example for Illinois. An East St. Louis investigation should be charged with four key tasks. First, it should make a thorough investigation of the events of 2 July 1917, and to set the authorities’ past culpability on the record. Second, it should seek to identify exactly how many people perished in the violence, who they were, and—if possible—where their remains lie. While deaths remain unaccounted for, the dead cannot be considered at peace. Third, an investigation should conclude whether, in spite of past compensation for property loss, reparation payments are due to any survivors, their descendants, or families. There may not be a strong legal case for reparations, but there could well be a strong moral case. In Tulsa, the investigation concluded that the destruction of the historic district of Greenwood obliged the authorities to establish an economic development zone there today: an East St. Louis riot investigation should consider the case for implementing similar measures. Finally, the 1917 race riot must be memorialized. Today, across the Mississippi, in St. Louis, Missouri, the county courthouse where the infamous Dred Scott decision was made is now a museum. It is a public repudiation of the inhumanity of slavery. It has a vital role in education,

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and it serves to commemorate the victims of slavery. By commissioning a museum of the East St. Louis race riot, which could serve as a black history education centre, the state of Illinois could make a similar declaration of contrition in respect of the 1917 killings, and show its willingness to support the process of reconciliation.

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Notes

Introduction 1. Interview with Henry Douglas, St Louis Post-Dispatch, 2 July 1992, p. 1E. 2. For “Blood Orgy,” see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 1. For “UTTER BRUTALITY,” see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. For the Armenian genocide and the German army in Belgium, see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1. For “slaughterhouse,” see telegram, J. M. Weil to President Woodrow Wilson, 2 July 1917: 8:49 p.m., Department of Justice Straight Numerical File No. 1868-35, Record Group 60, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 3. Toni Morrison, Jazz, London, Chato and Windus, 1992, esp. pp. 53–61. 4. For Chicago, see William Tuttle, Race Riot: Chicago in the Red Summer of 1919, New York, Atheneum, 1970. For Tulsa, see Scott Ellsworth, Death in a Promised Land: The Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, Baton Rouge, Louisiana University Press, 1982. See also Alfred L. Brophy, Reconstructing the Dreamland. The Tulsa Race Riot of 1921: Race, Reparations and Reconciliation, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2002. Additionally, see James S. Hirsch, Riot and Remembrance: The Tulsa Race War and Its Legacy, Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 2002. For Atlanta, see Charles Crowe, “Racial Massacre in Atlanta,” in Journal of Negro History, 54 (April 1969), p. 150. For Atlanta and Wilmington, see Joel Williamson, The Crucible of Race: Black–White Relations in the American South Since Emancipation, New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1984, pp. 180–223.

1

East St. Louis Transformed: The Emergence of an Industrial City

1. History of St Clair County, Illinois, Philadelphia, Brink-McDonough and Co., 1881, pp. 62, 298. 2. History of St Clair County, pp. 298–299. See also City Plan for East St Louis, survey prepared for East St. Louis War Civics Committee by Harland Bartholomew and Co., East St. Louis, East St. Louis Daily Journal Press, 1920, p. 1. 3. Carl R. Baldwin, “East St. Louis,” Part 1, in St Clair County Historical Society Journal, 3, 8 (1983), p. 13.

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NOTES

4. History of St Clair County, pp. 209, 301. See also Robert A. Tyson, History of East St Louis, Its Resources, Statistics, Railroads, Physical Features, Business and Advantages, John Haps and Co., East St. Louis, Illinois, 1875, p. 188. 5. History of St Clair County, pp. 298, 303, 305–307. 6. City Plan for East St Louis, p. 1. 7. The Dawn of a Great City, East St. Louis Chamber of Commerce, East St. Louis, 1907, p. 11. See also Baldwin, “East St Louis,” Part 1, p. 16. For the significance of the expanding market for dressed meat between the 1870s and the 1890s, see James R. Barrett, Work and Community in the Jungle: Chicago’s Packinghouse Workers, 1894–1922, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1987, p. 15. 8. History of St Clair County, p. 303. See also Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2, 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1964, pp. 192–194. 9. Tyson, History of East St Louis, p. 139. See also The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 11–12. For the national context, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 14–20, and Rick Halpern, Down on the Killing Floor: Black and White Workers in Chicago’s Packinghouses, 1904–1954, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1997, pp. 8–10, 15. 10. For earlier developments, see Tyson, History of East St Louis, pp. 44, 122–123, 139. For developments from the 1880s to 1900s, including record of receipts, see The Dawn of a Great City, p. 11. Additionally, see US Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Immigrants in Industry, Vol. 13, Slaughtering and Meat Packing, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1911 (Senate Documents, 61st Congress, 2nd Session, Vol. 75), pp. 18–19. For the national context, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 14–20. 11. For the 1870s, see Tyson, History of East St Louis, pp. 62–87. For the 1890s, see Historical and Descriptive Review of Illinois, Vol. 1, “Egypt,” Her Principal Towns and Their Progressive Men, St. Louis and Chicago, John Lethem, 1895, p. 188. For the 1900s, see The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 11–12, 15, 18, 32–38. See also History of St Clair County, p. 304. For the quote, see Tyson, History of East St Louis, p. 18. 12. Statistics adapted from: United States Bureau of Census, 12th census (1900), Reports, Vol. II, Population, Government Printing Office, Washington DC, 1902, pp. 562, 564; United States Bureau of Census, 13th census (1910), Reports, Vol. IV, Population Occupation Statistics, Government Printing Office, Washington DC, 1914, pp. 226, 228, 230. 13. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 157–173. 14. Allan H. Spear, Black Chicago: The Making of a Negro Ghetto, 1890–1920, Chicago and London, University of Chicago Press, 1967, esp. pp. 11–19. 15. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 166. 16. Adapted from: United States Bureau of Census, 10th Census (1880), Reports,Vol. I, Statistics of the Population of the United States, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1883, pp. 417, 448, 505; United States Bureau of Census, 12th Census (1900), Reports, Vol. I, Census Reports, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1902, pp. 614, 852, 866–867, 870–871, 874–875, 882–883, 890–891, 898–899, 902–903, 930, 960, 962; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census

NOTES

17.

18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

195

(1910), Reports, Vol. I, Population: General Reports and Analysis, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 285, 474, 658, 860–861, 1168; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. II, Reports by States with Statistics for Counties, Cities and Other Civil Divisions, Alabama-Montana, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 504–505. See History of St Clair County, p. 62 and testimony of Alois Towers (labor representative, East St. Louis), 1 November 1917: Select Committee to Investigate Conditions in Illinois and Missouri Interfering with Interstate Commerce between These States, pp. 2386–2387 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 437–438, of microfilm collection, The East St Louis Race Riot of 1917, Frederick, MD, University Publications of America, 1985). Hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings will be referred to as Select Committee, and the microfilm collection will be referred to as the UPA microfilm collection. See tables 2 and 3. See also Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 17–19. Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 17–19. Additionally, with regard to Armenians, see Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 9, Iron and Steel, pp. 56–57. Statistics adapted from: United States Bureau of Census, 12th Census (1900), Reports, Vol. I, Census Reports, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1902, pp. 866–867, 870–871, 874–875, 882–883, 890–891, 898–899, 902–903; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. I, Population: General Reports and Analysis, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 860–861; United States Bureau of Census, 13th Census (1910), Reports, Vol. II, Reports by States with Statistics for Counties, Cities and Other Civil Divisions, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1913, pp. 504–505. Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 18–19. Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, p. 17. For the Chicago context, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 38–40. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 36–51. Data adapted from Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 18–19. For comparison with Chicago, see Barrett, Work and Community, p. 39. Testimony of J. J. Kane (collector and salesman, Wagner Brewery, Granite City), 17 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4189–4191 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 128–130, UPA microfilm collection). See also Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 18–19. Testimony of P. A. Hunter (Superintendent, Swift and Co., East St. Louis), 7 June 1917: Hearings of the Labor Committee of the Illinois State Council of Defense, p. 93 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection). Henceforth these hearings are referred to as Council of Defense. Testimony of Robert E. Conway (General Manager, Armour and Co., East St. Louis), 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 141 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 174, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 179 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 210, UPA microfilm collection).

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30. Testimony of P. A. Hunter, 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, p. 93 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection). According to Charles Fox, superintendent at the Aluminum Ore Company, many immigrants moved to Detroit after the outbreak of war. See the testimony of Charles B. Fox (Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 29 October 1917: Select Committee p. 1529 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 610, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 171–172. 31. Figures derived from the following sources: Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, p. 19; testimony of P.A. Hunter, 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, p. 93 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection); and testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 124 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 156, UPA microfilm collection). 32. Testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 129, 179, 174 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 161, 210, and 205, UPA microfilm collection). In the latter quote, italics have been added for emphasis. See also Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 18–19. 33. Testimony of Robert E. Conway, 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, p. 104 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection). 34. Testimony of John P. Pero (Superintendent, Missouri Malleable Iron Co., East St. Louis), 24 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 703–704 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 729–730, UPA microfilm collection). 35. Testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 699–700 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 725–726, UPA microfilm collection). 36. For quotations, see testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 694 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 720, UPA microfilm collection). For composition of the immigrant workers, see testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 690, 701 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 716, 727, UPA microfilm collection). See also testimony of Frank E. Nulson (President, Missouri Malleable Iron Co., East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1014–1015, 1017 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 99–100, 102, UPA microfilm collection). 37. Testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 694, 699, 703 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 720, 725, and 729, UPA microfilm collection). 38. Testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 695, 701 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 721, 727, UPA microfilm collection). See also testimony of Frank E. Nulson, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1014–1015 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 99–100, UPA microfilm collection). 39. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1507 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 586, UPA microfilm collection). 40. Testimony of Philip Wolf (local union organizer, Aluminum Ore Co.), 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2264 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 316–317, UPA microfilm collection). 41. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1506–1507 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 285–286, UPA microfilm collection).

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42. Descriptive Review of Illinois, pp. 188–191, and The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 5–6. 43. Tyson, History of East St Louis, pp. 43, 49, 93–94. “Italian Renaissance Style” is from The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 5–6. 44. Historical and Descriptive Review of Illinois, p. 188. For flood, see “Great Dream that Is Coming True” in St Louis Globe-Democrat, 24 April 1910, p. 3. 45. The Dawn of a Great City, p. 5. 46. “Great Dream that Is Coming True” in St Louis Globe-Democrat, 24 April 1910, p. 3. 47. Carl R. Baldwin, “East St. Louis,” Part 2, in St Clair County Historical Society Journal, 3, 9 (1984), p. 21. 48. The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 68, 71. 49. Cost of Living Schedules 1918–1919, East St Louis, Illinois, United States Bureau of Labor Statistics, Record Group 257, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 50. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson (Amalgamated Meat Cutters and Butcher Workmen union representative, East St Louis), 8 September 1919: pp. 2162–2163 of transcripts of hearings, Case Files, Dispute Case 33/864, Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 51. A. M. Golec, “The Slovak Influence in East St. Louis,” in St Clair County Historical Society Journal, 5, 5 (1995), p. 17. 52. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2056 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 110, UPA microfilm collection). See also Immigration Commission Reports, Part 11, Vol. 13, pp. 17–19. Additionally, see Golec, “The Slovak,” pp. 1, 5, 8; and A. M. Golec, “Polonia in St. Clair County,” in St Clair County Historical Society Journal, 5, 7 (1997), pp. 5–7, 22. 53. Cost of Living Schedules 1918–1919, East St Louis, Illinois, United States Bureau of Labor Statistics, Record Group 257, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 54. For the role of the Alschuler hearings in Chicago’s stockyards, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 198–202. 55. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 4 December 1918: pp. 693–695 of transcripts of hearings; and 8 September 1919, pp. 2162–2163 of transcripts of hearings, Case Files, Dispute Case 33/864, Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 56. For “weeds,” see comments of Congressman Raker during the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: p. 1631 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 712, UPA microfilm collection). For “sanitation,” see testimony of Dr. Lyman Bluitt (African American physician, East St. Louis), 27 October 1917: p. 1366 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 451, UPA microfilm collection). 57. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: p. 2375 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 426, UPA microfilm collection). 58. Barrett, Work and Community, chapter 3, esp. p. 71.

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NOTES

59. For chamber of commerce, see letter of J. N. Fining to Philip Hiss, 20 August 1917, Records of the Section on Housing and the Need for Industrial Housing, August–November 1917, Records of Predecessor and other Agencies, Records of the United States Housing Corporation, Record Group 3, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. For the opinion of field agent, see letter of Charles Bixby to James Ford, 24 April, 1919, Correspondence with Field Agents and Committee, April 1918–August 1919, Records of Homes Registration Section, Records of the United States Housing Corporation, Registration and Information Division, Record Group 3, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 60. City Plan, pp. 49–51. 61. City Plan, p. 2. 62. See comments of Congressman Raker during testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: p. 1630 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 711, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 151, regarding the southern neighborhoods. 63. Golec, “The Slovak,” pp. 11–14. 64. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2018 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 72, UPA microfilm collection). See also chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” in this book. 65. Testimony of J. J. Kane, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4190 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 129, UPA microfilm collection). 66. Testimony of R. J. Baylan (reporter, St Louis Globe-Democrat), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 617 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 642, UPA microfilm collection). 67. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 August 1910, p. 1; 21 August 1910, p. 1; 22 August 1910, p. 5; 23 August 1910, p. 1. See also See R. Mirak, Torn between Two Lands: Armenians in America, 1890 to World War I, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 1983, p. 130. See also p. 124. 68. For the quotation see the testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: p. 712 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 738, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of R. J. Baylan (reporter, St Louis Globe Democrat), 23 October 1917: p. 581 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 607, UPA microfilm collection). 69. Testimony of R. J. Baylan, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 581 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 607, UPA microfilm collection). 70. Descriptive Review of Illinois, p. 189. 71. The Dawn of a Great City. p. 71. 72. Figures based on Rudwick’s calculations. See Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 5, 165, and 171. 73. Testimony of Roy Albertson (reporter, East St Louis Daily Journal), 22 October 1917: p. 531 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 557, UPA microfilm collection). 74. For Chicago, see Spear, Black Chicago, pp. 1–27. 75. Testimony of Mrs. George Wadley (witness for the People, widow of detective Frank Wadley), 21 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy,

NOTES

76.

77. 78.

79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84.

85.

86.

87. 88.

89.

199

pp. 233, 242–243 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frames 652, 661–662, UPA microfilm collection). For Market Street, see the testimony of Calvin Cotton (African American teaming businessman and lay pastor, East St. Louis), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 680 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 703, UPA microfilm collection). For Boismenue Avenue, see the testimony of Dr. Le Roy Bundy (African American dentist, businessman, and politician), 26 March, 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 1120 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frame 631, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: p. 492 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 516, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan (real estate agent and local Democratic Party politician), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1474 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 554, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: pp. 531 and 540 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 557 and 565, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 24. Testimony of Dr. Lyman Bluitt, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1366 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 451, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Dr. Lyman Bluitt, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1371 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 456, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of George W. Allison (local Baptist minister), 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3615 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 642, UPA microfilm collection). In this testimony, Allison discussed the predicament of a destitute white family, residents of Gatey Avenue, but he noted that the street was predominantly occupied by African Americans and that only a few—the poorest—whites lived there. Analysis based upon Cost of Living Schedules 1918–1919, East St. Louis, Illinois, United States Bureau of Labor Statistics, Record Group 257, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. East St. Louis wages figures taken from the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: p. 1546 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 627, UPA microfilm collection). Working hours taken from the testimony of Edward F. Mason (Secretary, Central Trades and Labor Union (AFL), East St. Louis), 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3191 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 215, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: p. 1586 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 667, UPA microfilm collection). Annual salary calculated from monthly figure supplied by Fox in his testimony. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2290 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 315, UPA microfilm collection). For skilled wage, see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1592 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 673, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: p. 2375 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 426, UPA microfilm collection).

200

NOTES

90. For iron company, see the testimony of Frank E. Nulson, 25 October 1917: p. 1015 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 100, UPA microfilm collection). For meatpacking rate, see the testimony of John W. Paton (General Manager, Morris and Co., East St. Louis), 22 October 1917: p. 431 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 459, UPA microfilm collection). For streetcar rates, see the testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2425 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 477, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 144. 91. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 8 September 1919: pp. 2178–2179 of transcripts of hearings, Case Files, Dispute Case 33/864, Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service, Record Group 280, National Archives, Building, College Park, Maryland. The proportion of women in the labor market has been calculated using data from the United States Bureau of Census, 13th census (1910), Reports, Vol. IV, Population Occupation Statistics, Government Printing Office, Washington DC, 1914 pp. 226, 228, 230. 92. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: p. 2375 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 426, UPA microfilm collection). 93. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: p. 2071 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 125, UPA microfilm collection).

2

The Structure of Power

1. For “industrial offshoot,” see Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2, 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1964, pp. 4–5. 2. Letter of Roger Baldwin (former secretary of St Louis Civic League), The Survey, 18 August 1917, pp. 447–448. 3. See comments of Congressman Raker in the testimony of Alois Towers (labor representative, East St. Louis), 2 November 1917: Select Committee to Investigate Conditions in Illinois and Missouri Interfering with Interstate Commerce between These States, p. 2435 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 488 of microfilm collection, The East St Louis Race Riot of 1917, Frederick, MD, University Publications of America, 1985). Hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings are referred to as Select Committee, and the microfilm collection is referred to as UPA microfilm collection. 4. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2439 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 492, UPA microfilm collection). 5. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2440 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 491, UPA microfilm collection). 6. Testimony of Edward F. Mason (Secretary, Central Trades and Labor Union (AFL), East St. Louis), 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3154 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 175, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 142–156. 7. For the national context, see Robert H. Weibe, The Search for Order: 1877–1920, New York, Hill and Wang, 1967, pp. 151, 154–155. See also Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform, New York, Random House, 1955, p. 243. For the

NOTES

8.

9. 10. 11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

201

impact of such techniques in the meatpacking industry, see James R. Barrett, Work and Community in the Jungle: Chicago’s Packinghouse Workers, 1894–1922, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1987, pp. 20–31. Testimony of Philip Wolf (local union organizer, Aluminum Ore Co.), 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2139–2140 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 192–193, UPA microfilm collection). For the date of Rucker’s arrival, see the testimony of Raymond F. Rucker (Assistant Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1792 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 873, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2141 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 194, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2141–2142 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 194–195, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Dr. Lyman B. Bluitt (African American physician, East St. Louis), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1371 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 456, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 149. See also the remarks of Congressman Raker during the testimony of Charles B. Fox (Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1551, 1628–1631 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 632, 710–712, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1628–1631 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 710–712, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 192–196. Additionally, see the testimony of F. J. Hunter (General Manager, Swift and Co., East St. Louis), 18 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 76 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 108, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2380 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 431, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 192–193. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson (reporter, St Louis Post-Dispatch), 10 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3807 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 837, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 193. Rudwick quotes East St Louis Daily Journal, 25 October 1914 (page number not given). See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 193. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3798–3800 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 828–830, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3798–3800 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 828–830, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 194. The Dawn of a Great City, East St. Louis, East St Louis Commercial Club, 1907, p. 30. The Dawn of a Great City, p. 31. For the quotes, see The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 1, 30–31.

202

NOTES

26. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2408 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 461, UPA microfilm collection). 27. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 27 July 1916, p. 8; 28 July 1916, p. 1; 29 July 1916, p. 1; 30 July 1916, p. 1; 31 July 1916, p. 1. 28. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson (Amalgamated Meat Cutters and Butcher Workmen union representative, East St. Louis), 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2121 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 175, UPA microfilm collection). 29. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2203–2210 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 256–263, UPA microfilm collection). 30. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1507 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 586, UPA microfilm collection). 31. For both quotes, see Rick Halpern, Down on the Killing Floor: Black and White Workers in Chicago’s Packinghouses, 1904–1954, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1997, p. 23. See also generally, Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 21–30. Additionally, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 20–30. 32. Indeed, Rick Halpern notes the pride one meatpacking company official took in the sophistication of their hiring policy, which was designed to keep ethnic groups apart: Swift would employ only Swedes one week, Slovaks another, and so on, to avoid risking ethnic divisions breaking down among workers. See Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 24. 33. Testimony of Robert E. Conway (General Manager, Armour and Co., East St. Louis), 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 141 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 174, UPA microfilm collection). See also the previous chapter, “East St Louis Transformed,” in this book. 34. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3149 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 170, UPA microfilm collection). 35. Testimony of Frank E. Nulson (President, Missouri Malleable Iron Company), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1017 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 102, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of John P. Pero (East St. Louis Superintendent, Missouri Malleable Iron Company), 24 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 699–700 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 725–726, UPA microfilm collection). 36. For American Steel, see the testimony of John D. Roach (Superintendent, American Steel, East St. Louis), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 656–657 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 681–682, UPA microfilm collection). For Malleable Iron, see the testimony of John P. Pero, 24 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 710 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 736, UPA microfilm collection). For Morris and Co., see the testimony of John W. Paton (East St. Louis Manager, Morris and Co.), 22 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 439–440 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 465–466, UPA microfilm collection). For Armour and Co., see testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 148 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 181, UPA microfilm collection). 37. Testimony of Harry Kerr (AFL district organizer), 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1864, 1900–1901 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 944,

NOTES

38.

39.

40.

41. 42.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49.

203

980–981, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2414 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 467, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2078 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 132, UPA microfilm collection). For skilled workers, see the testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1912 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 992, UPA microfilm collection). For unskilled workers, see the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2078 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 132, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2506–2507 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 557–558, UPA microfilm collection). For the national context, see Philip S. Foner, History of the Labor Movement in the United States, Vol. III, The Policies and Practices of the American Federation of Labor, 1900–1909, New York, International Publishers, 1964, pp. 233–241. For these quotes, see the testimony of Harry Kerr, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2011–2012 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 65–66, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2077 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 131, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2508 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 559, UPA microfilm collection). For example, for the difficulty faced in recruiting black migrant workers, for whom the move north often represented an improvement in economic position (which they did not wish to jeopardize by union action) or for whom organized labor in the past had been associated with racism, see Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 52, 58–59. See also Barrett, Work and Community, p. 217. As labor representative Harry Kerr noted, black workers were often confined to jobs providing low wages and irregular employment, which made it difficult to afford to keep up union contributions. See the testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1900–1901 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 980–981, UPA microfilm collection). Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 44; see also pp. 48–50. See also Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 191–192. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 194–195 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 51–52, 58. Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 58–59. Barrett, Work and Community, p. 205. Barret, Work and Community, pp. 205–206 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 64–66. For “interracial social contact,” and “a number of meetings,” see Barrett, Work and Community, p. 205. For “giant stockyards celebration” and “checkerboard crowd,” see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 205–206 and also Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 64–65. For the quotation, see Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 65–66. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 219–224 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 65–68. The quotation is taken from Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 67.

204

NOTES

50. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2527–2528 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 579–580, UPA microfilm collection). 51. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1864 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 944, UPA microfilm collection). 52. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 8, 17, 23, 147. 53. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2414 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 467, UPA microfilm collection). 54. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3149 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 170, UPA microfilm collection). 55. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1911–1912 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 991–992, UPA microfilm collection). 56. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2374 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 425, UPA microfilm collection). 57. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1507 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 586, UPA microfilm collection). 58. For “equal sufferer[s],” see testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2438 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 4490, UPA microfilm collection). 59. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2243 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 296, UPA microfilm collection). 60. For these quotes, see the testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3149, 3153 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 170, 174, UPA microfilm collection). See also, generally, the testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2376 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 427, UPA microfilm collection). 61. For these quotes, see the testimony of Thomas J. Canavan (real estate agent and local Democratic Party politician), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1482–1483 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 562–563, UPA microfilm collection). For a discussion of the formation of white identity that has informed this present analysis, see David R. Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the making of the American Working Class, London and New York, Verso, 1991; in particular, see pp. 12–13, 65–94. While Roediger’s work dealt largely with the antebellum South, the suggestion that white workers constructed their identity with reference to notions of the social position of blacks has persuasive power beyond that era and context. 62. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 171–173. 63. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 173. 64. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2433 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 485, UPA microfilm collection). 65. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2368 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 419, UPA microfilm collection). 66. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1863 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 943, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2018–2020 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 72–74, UPA microfilm collection).

NOTES

205

67. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3133–3135 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 154–156, UPA microfilm collection). 68. For the stockyards strike, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 20–22. For the streetcar workers’ strike, see the testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2415–2427 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 468–480, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 144. 69. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2022 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 76, UPA microfilm collection). 70. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2376 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 427, UPA microfilm collection). 71. St Louis Republic, 8 July 1918, p. 1. 72. The words of local Baptist pastor and social reform campaigner George W. Allison, as quoted in St Louis Republic, 28 July, 1917, p. 1. 73. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 174, 197. 74. Politicians hoping to destroy evidence of their financial mismanagement burnt down City Hall. Soon after City Hall was rebuilt, its vaults were dynamited by municipal politicians in an effort to make it appear that burglars had stolen city funds: in actual fact, those politicians had stolen the money themselves. See Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 175–176. See also East St Louis Sunday Journal, 21 May 1961, section F, p. 8. 75. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 178–182. For the Lambert administration scandal and reports on subsequent trial, see also St Louis Post Dispatch, 2 January 1913, p. 2; 3 January 1913, p. 2; 19 June 1913, pp. 1, 2; 20 June 1913, p. 1; 21 June 1913, p. 1; 22 June 1913, p. 4; 23 June 1913, part II, p. 1; 24 June 1913, p. 1; 27 June 1913, pp. 1, 2; 5 September 1913, p. 1; 29 November 1913, p. 2; 4 February 1915, p. 1; 10 February 1915, p. 3 and 16 February 1915, p. 1. 76. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 178–181. See also St Louis Post Dispatch, 5 September 1913, p. 1. 77. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 183–184. See also the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3814–3815 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 844–845, UPA microfilm collection). 78. Such corruption could be found across America. This was something a generation of muckraking reporters and urban reformers discovered and publicized during this period. See Weibe, The Search for Order, pp. 13, 30–31, 39, 166–168. See also James Weinstein, The Corporate Ideal in the Liberal State, 1900–1918, Boston, Beacon Press, 1968, pp. 92–95. 79. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 185, 201, 203, 209, and 213. 80. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 181. 81. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 181. For an example of such behavior, see the careers of Fred Gerold and William Rodenberger, Republicans who supported both Republicans and Democrats during the 1910s in their search for office, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 182. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 April 1915, p. 4; 25 March 1917, section II, p. 2; 26 March 1917, p. 4; 27 March 1917, p. 1, 4. 82. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 182.

206

NOTES

83. East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 March 1903, p. 2; 24 March 1903, p. 6; 5 April 1905, p. 2; 10 March 1907, p. 4; 24 March 1907, p. 4; 31 March 1907, p. 7; 1 April 1907, p. 2; 3 April 1907, p. 2; 12 March 1909, p. 4; 21 March 1909, p. 4; 7 April 1909, p. 4. See also St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 April 1903, p. 2. 84. Testimony of George W. Allison (local Baptist minister), 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3511 of transcripts of testimony (reel 4, frame 539, UPA microfilm collection). A similar opinion was held by M. Ahearn, secretary of the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners: he was reported as saying that Tarlton owned the Mayor “body and breeches.” For that, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 203. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 182–183. This claim was also made by John Chamberlin’s 1915 election campaign. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 April 1915, p. 4. In the 1930s, Tarlton would become a “one-man political regime” in East St. Louis. See obituary of G. Locke Tarlton, East St Louis Journal, 7 May 1943, pp. 1–2. 85. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 182–187. 86. Indeed, in the 1915 mayoral election campaign, John Chamberlin’s supporters sought to undermine his opponent Fred Mollman partly by arguing that Mollman had deviated from the expected nonpartisan tradition of city politics by relying on his Democratic Party connections for support. In support of this, the local Daily Journal stated, “[t]here should be no partisanship in municipal politics.” See East St Louis Daily Journal, 30 March 1915, p. 4. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 March 1915, p. 4; 31 March 1915, p. 4. For the national context, see Weinstein, Corporate Ideal, pp. 92–116. Quotation appears in Landrum C. Bolling,“Dayton, Ohio,” in Frederick C. Mosher et al., City Manager: Government in Seven Cities, Chicago, Public Administration Service, 1940, p. 266, as cited in Weinstein, Corporate Ideal, p. 93. See also Weibe, Search for Order, pp. 60–61. 87. For Stephens’s party and agenda, see East St Louis Gazette, 9 April 1887, p. 2. See also East St Louis Sunday Journal, 21 May 1961, section F, p. 8. For Stephens’s defeat, see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 April 1903, p. 2. Discussions with Dr. Andrew Theising, a historically minded political scientist with a research interest in East St. Louis have greatly enriched my understanding of city politics in East St. Louis. 88. For Cook’s party, see, for example, East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 March 1903, p. 2; 30 March 1903, p. 2; 31 March 1903, p. 2 and 7 November 1912, p. 4. For his supporters, see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 April 1903, p. 2; East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 March 1909, p. 4. For his challengers, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 March 1905, p. 3; 5 April 1905, p. 2; 10 March 1907, p. 4; 28 March 1907, p. 4. For Cook’s collaboration with Congressman Rodenberg, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 March 1907, p. 7. 89. Mayors M. M. Stephens and John M. Chamberlin were real estate agents, for example, as were leading politicians Thomas J. Canavan and G. Locke Tarlton. Indeed, Chamberlin had been president of the local Real Estate Exchange. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 January 1907, p. 3. See also the obituary of G. Locke Tarlton in East St Louis Daily Journal, 7 May 1943, pp. 1–2.

NOTES

90.

91.

92. 93. 94. 95.

96.

97. 98. 99.

100. 101.

207

Additionally, see the obituary of Thomas J. Canavan, East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 March 1940, p. 1. Mayor Silas Cook was a merchant turned lawyer: see East St Louis Daily Journal, 27 March 1903, p. 2. See also St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 April 1903, p. 2. For the quotation, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 30 March 1903, p. 2. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 March 1903, p. 6. Additionally, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 26 March 1903, p. 2, where a periodical of organized labor—the St Louis Labor Compendium—is quoted as praising Stephens for encouraging “unprecedented growth” in East St. Louis. For real estate and factory growth, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 26 March 1907, p. 4; 31 March 1907, p. 7. For “confidence . . .,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 March 1909, p. 4. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 March 1909, p. 4; 21 March 1909, p. 4. For the quotations, see The Dawn of a Great City, pp. 30 and 31 respectively. Weinstein, Corporate Ideal, p. 21. See also pp. 120–121. For local election results, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 5 April 1911, p. 4; 6 November 1912, p. 4; 2 April 1913, p. 4. As Ross McKibbin has shown, a similar concern with obtaining the potential benefits of the market tended to encourage workers in Britain to eschew Marxist politics. See Ross McKibbin, “Why Was There No Marxism in Great Britain?” in The English Historical Review, 99, 391 (April 1984), pp. 297–304. For the quotation, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 March 1903, p. 2. Stephens’s rival Silas Cook also appealed to organized labor. Cook’s administration encouraged a settlement of the meatpacking strike of 1904, and during that strike the workers acknowledged that they had the support of the local authorities. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 2 September 1904, p. 3. Cook’s close political ally, George “Wash” Thompson, a former glassblower, was sheriff during that strike, and he was held to be “very popular in labor circles.” See The Dawn of a Great City, p. 7. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1908 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 988, UPA microfilm collection). For Seymour, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 March 1911, p. 1. For Wright, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 March 1911, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 March 1915, p. 2. Chamberlin’s ticket also included, for aldermanic positions: George Janner, of the waiters and bartenders’ union and Central Trades and Labor Union; Frank H. Walls, a manager of a local telegraph company, who was nevertheless promoted as “a union man”; J. C. Musgrave a streetcar conductor who held “a high position with the union” of streetcar workers. Walsh, Janner, and Walls were successful in their candidacies: see East St Louis Daily Journal, 7 April 1915, p. 4. For the executive committee, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 March 1915, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 16 March 1917, p. 7. Chamberlin placed much store by his anti-vice campaign, of which more is discussed later. See Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 200–201. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 January 1915, p. 1. For Mollman, see East St Louis Daily Journal,

208

102. 103. 104.

105.

106. 107.

108.

NOTES

25 March 1915, p. 4. For the campaign, see also, for example, East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 April 1915, p. 1. Mollman won by fewer than 30 votes of roughly 15,000 ballots cast. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 7 April 1915, p. 4. East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 March 1917, p. 1; 25 March 1917, section II, p. 2; 27 March 1917, p. 4. This is discussed earlier with respect to the workplace. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3169–3173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 193–197, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2033 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 87, UPA microfilm collection). See also Robert J. Baylan (reporter, St Louis GlobeDemocrat) 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 585 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 611, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 28. Local whites shouted “East St Louis must remain a white man’s town” at a meeting in the city shortly before the May 1917 race riot erupted. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 28. As discussed earlier, white workers felt that they were more entitled to employment than African Americans. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 March 1909, p. 4; 23 March 1909, p. 4; 5 April 1909, p. 3. East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 November 1910, p. 1. Similarly, in 1917, the black politician John Robinson condemned his erstwhile Republican ally John Domhoff during his mayoral campaign, as he had apparently taken for granted the support of black voters, without offering to address their concerns. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 6 March 1917, p. 1. The local Democratic Party claimed that there were 4,827 black voters in the city. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 20 October 1916: this estimate is problematic, because, as is discussed below, the Democrats conducted a racist campaign, seeking to have a number of black voters removed from the electoral register. Captain John Robinson, an African American politician, estimated that there were 6,000 black voters. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 6 March, 1917, p. 1: this figure is also problematic, as Captain Robinson, on this occasion, was admonishing John Domhoff to include some African Americans in his party or risk alienating the black voters—thus he had a motive for overestimating the number of black voters. The East St Louis Daily Journal estimated 3,000–3,900: see East St Louis Daily Journal, 6 October, 1916, p. 4. In the same article, it was claimed that 15,000 African Americans lived in East St. Louis, which is a considerable overestimate (there were fewer than 10,000). However, even taking a conservative estimate, African Americans (about ten percent of the population of the city) most likely comprised 2,500 or more of the 25,000 registered voters in East St. Louis. That would itself probably be an underestimate, as it does not consider the possibility that a majority of the migrant African Americans arriving and settling in East St. Louis during the 1910s, a significant section of the black population, were young single men, rather than families: the proportion of those eligible to vote would be higher among a population so composed.

NOTES

209

109. East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 November 1912, p. 11; 20 May 1913, p. 1; 22 October 1914, p. 1; 27 October 1914, p. 1; 23 March 1915, p. 4; 29 March 1915, p. 4; 31 March 1915, p. 4; 1 April 1915, p. 4. 110. East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 March 1915, p. 4. 111. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 184. 112. East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 March 1915, p. 4 and 1 April 1915, p. 4. 113. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 185–187. 114. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 187. 115. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 October 1916, p. 1. 116. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 185, 187–188. 117. This was discovered by a local investigative reporter. See the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3788–3789 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 818–819, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick refers to this: see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 187–188. 118. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3550 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 578, UPA microfilm collection). See also East St Louis Daily Journal 3 January 1917, p. 1. 119. For the involvement of Canavan and Tarlton in prominent positions in this campaign, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 8 October 1916, p. 1. For the Illinois context, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 10–13. For the national context, see Hofstadter, The Age of Reform, p. 297. 120. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 13. 121. See, e.g., East St Louis Daily Journal, 6 October 1916, p. 4; 12 October 1916, p. 1; 18 October 1916, p. 1. 122. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 October 1916, p. 1; 29 October 1916, p. 1; 31 October 1916, p. 1; and 1 November 1916, p. 1. 123. St Louis Argus, 10 November 1916, p. 1. See also 24 November 1916, p. 1. 124. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 October 1916, p. 1. 125. Report of J. J. McLaughlin (Department of Justice agent, St Louis, Missouri), 3 November 1916: miscellaneous case file number 8024 (reel 182 of microfilm M1085, Investigative Case Files of the Bureau 1908–1922, Record Group 65, National Archives Building, Washington DC); hereafter, this microfilm is referred to as Investigative Case Files microfilm, Record Group 65. See also the report of J. J. McLaughlin, 4 November 1916: miscellaneous case file number 8024 (reel 182, Investigative Case Files microfilm, Record Group 65). 126. Report of J. J. McLaughlin, 4 November 1916: miscellaneous case file number 8024 (reel 182, Investigative Case Files microfilm, Record Group 65). 127. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 13–14. 128. East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 November 1916, p. 1. 129. East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 November 1916, p. 1. See also 5 November 1916, p. 1. 130. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 November 1916, p. 1. Rudwick noted that, although Wilson lost Illinois, the Democrats “captured East St Louis and St. Clair County.” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 15. Mayors M. M. Stephens (1887–1895, 1897–1903), Silas Cook (1903–1911), and Fred W. Mollman (1915–1919) were

210

131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138.

139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145.

146.

147. 148.

149. 150. 151.

152.

NOTES

all Democrats. Compare the 1916 election turn out with the 1912 general election results published in East St Louis Daily Journal, 6 November 1912, p. 4. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 15. Testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 185 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 213, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3146 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 167, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 213–215. For the erroneous crime statistics see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 214. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 5 July 1917; italics added for emphasis. Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1478 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 558, UPA microfilm collection). For these quotes, see the testimony of Raymond F. Rucker, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1848–1851 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 928–931, UPA microfilm collection). Quoted in Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 161. Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1477 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 557). Testimony of Frank E. Nulson, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1047 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 132, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3126 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 147, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 24, 36–37, 212. St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. Sundiata Keita Cha-Jua, America’s First Black Town: Brooklyn, Illinois, 1830–1915, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 2000, p. 152. For the lynching of Wyatt, see pp. 190–196. Testimony of Raymond F. Rucker, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1850–1851 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 930–931, UPA microfilm collection). Frank E. Nulson, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1047 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 132, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 July 1914, p. 1. For the significance of sexual panic in lynching in the South, see Joel Williamson, The Crucible of Race: Black-White Relations in the American South Since Emancipation, New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1984, pp. 183–189. East St Louis Daily Journal, 21 September 1916, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 February 1913, p. 1. William Fitzhugh Brundage, Lynching in the New South: Georgia and Virginia, 1880–1930, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1993. See esp. pp. 34–35. This was a district to which vice was “segregated,” and is in this sense unrelated to racial segregation. See Perry R. Duis, The Saloon: Public Drinking in Chicago and Boston 1880–1920, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois

NOTES

153. 154.

155. 156. 157. 158.

159. 160. 161. 162. 163.

164.

165.

211

Press, 1999 (1983), pp. 204–229, 234–240. For the national context of such negative attitudes to the saloon, see Duis, Saloon, pp. 204–273, 231, 280. See also Hofstadter, The Age of Reform, pp. 290–291. The words of Thomas J. Canavan printed in East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 March 1907, p. 4. For Chicago and Boston, see Duis, Saloon, pp. 235–236. For Cincinnati, see David A. Gerber, Black Ohio and the Color Line, Urbana, Chicago, and London, University of Illinois Press, 1976, pp. 100–101. See also Zane L. Miller, Boss Cox’s Cincinnati: Urban Politics in the Progressive Era, New York, Oxford University Press, 1968, pp. 98–99. For Kansas City, Missouri, see William M. Reddig, Tom’s Town: Kansas City and the Pendergast Legend, Philadelphia and New York, J. B. Lippincott, 1947, pp. 67–68. For the geographical extent of the Valley, see the commemorative history of East St. Louis in the East St Louis Sunday Journal, 21 May 1961, section H, p. 6. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 198 and 206. East St Louis Daily Journal, 8 May 1917, p. 1. For “Hundreds,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 198. For clients, see the testimony of Myrtle Gardner (former prostitute, East St. Louis) 16 November 1917: Subcommittee of Select Committee, pp. 14–15 of transcripts of subcommittee hearings (reel 5, frames 621–622, UPA microfilm collection). For the composition of the workforce, see chapter 1, “East St Louis Transformed,” in this book. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, pp. 1, 5. See also Rudwick’s description of the Valley, pp. 197–199. For “right under the noses,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, pp. 1, 5. For “periodically arrested,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 198. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, pp. 1, 5. For “gamblers mecca,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 198. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3511–3512 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 539–540, UPA microfilm collection). For the wider American context, see Ruth Rosen, The Lost Sisterhood: Prostitution in America, 1900–1918, Baltimore and London, John Hopkins University Press, 1982; and Marilynn Wood Hill, Their Sisters’ Keepers, Prostitution in New York City, 1830–1870, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London, University of California Press, 1993. For East St. Louis, see the testimony of Myrtle Gardner (former prostitute, East St. Louis) 16 November 1917: Subcommittee of the Select Committee, pp. 3, 8–11, 29–30 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 610, 615, 618, 636–637, UPA microfilm collection). Ruth Rosen has noted of the United States, in a description that could have easily been written about East St. Louis, that pimps generally “gathered in gambling resorts during the evening while their women ‘worked the streets or saloon,’ and maintained tyrannical and brutal control over the women.” See Rosen, Lost Sisterhood, p. 108. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3511 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 539, UPA microfilm collection).

212

NOTES

166. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3543 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 571, UPA microfilm collection). When Stuernagel was negotiating with the undercover investigators, he arranged for them to meet Tarlton, so that he could approve the deal. See the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3511–3512 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 539–540, UPA microfilm collection). Canavan and Tarlton owned another brothel in the city, which was managed by Lex Droit, nephew of Health Commissioner McCracken. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 213. See also the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3790–3795 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 820–825, UPA microfilm collection). 167. East St Louis Gazette, 2 December 1911, p. 4. 168. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, p. 1. 169. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 January 1913, p. 1; 23 February 1913, pp. 1, 3; 28 March 1913, p. 1. 170. East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 July 1910, p. 1; 17 August 1910, p. 1; 11 September 1910, p. 1; 11 November 1910, p. 1. 171. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 January 1913, p. 1; 23 February 1913, pp. 1, 3; 28 March 1913, p. 1. 172. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 203. For such behavior during the early 1900s, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 July 1910, p. 1; 17 August 1910, p. 1; 11 September 1910, p. 1; 11 November 1910, p. 1. Mayor Silas Cook protected a notorious saloon and illegal gambling parlor called “The Monkey Cage.” Eventually, it was forced to close in 1910, but only after a “deadly shooting and slugging scrap” created a storm of publicity, which forced the Mayor to take action. 173. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 91, 208, 210–211. See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3582 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 609, UPA microfilm collection). 174. Testimony of William A. Miller (Manager, East St. Louis Railroad YMCA), 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4079 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 18, UPA microfilm collection). 175. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 91. See also the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4080–4086 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 19–25, UPA microfilm collection). 176. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 204. 177. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 204. 178. Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4120 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 59, UPA microfilm collection). 179. For “crooked,” see the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4120 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 59, UPA microfilm collection). For “Kangaroo,” see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3325 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 855, UPA microfilm collection). For further evidence of judicial corruption see the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select

NOTES

180.

181. 182.

183.

184.

185.

186.

187. 188.

213

Committee, p. 3519 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 547, UPA microfilm collection). Miller had personal experience of this “Kangaroo court” when a friend of a local gangster—who had savagely attacked one of Miller’s employees—was allowed to escape with only a remitted fine against him. And indeed they were right, for, through the 1880s, the 1900s, and into the 1910s, it is clear that City Hall protected illegal gambling and prostitution. For the 1880s, see, e.g., East St Louis Gazette, 17 January 1885, p. 2; 29 August 1885, p. 2; 3 September 1885, p. 2; 3 February 1886, p. 2. See also St Louis PostDispatch, 17 August 1885, p. 7. For the 1900s, see, e.g., East St Louis Gazette, 17 December 1904, p. 4; 24 December 1904, p. 4; 7 January 1905, p. 4; 26 August 1905, p. 4. For a later report, see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 29 November 1912, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 July 1910, p. 1; 17 August 1910, p. 1; 11 September 1910, p. 1; 11 November 1910, p. 1. See the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3584, 3604–3605 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 611, 632–633, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3790 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 820, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3672 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 701, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 212–213, where he quotes the Select Committee’s report on this crime, which also concluded that the brothel owner and his associates had been involved. For quotation, and generally, see words of Congressional Investigating Committee report cited in Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 212–213. Additionally, and for details on connections between McCracken and the brothel in particular, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3790–3795 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 820–825, UPA microfilm collection). For these quotes, see the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4066–4068 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 6–8, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3672 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 701, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4069–4070, 4079, 4102 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 9–10, 19, 41, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4102 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 41, UPA microfilm collection). See the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4074–4078 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 14–18, UPA microfilm collection). For the connection between the Commercial Hotel and the murder of a U.S. paymaster, see the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3544 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 572, UPA microfilm collection).

214

NOTES

189. Testimony of H. H. Hunsacker (switchman and former collector, East St. Louis), 15 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4587–4589 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 529–533, UPA microfilm collection). 190. East St Louis Daily Journal, 8 January 1911, pp. 1–2; 9 January 1911, p. 1. 191. East St Louis Daily Journal, 11 February 1913, p. 1. 192. For Thompson, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 January 1913, pp. 1, 2; 23 February 1913, p. 1; 28 February 1913, pp. 1, 2. See also St Louis PostDispatch, 23 February 1913, p. 1. For O’Malley, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 April 1913, p. 1. For Rosselli, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 13 April 1913, p. 1. See the colorful accounts of Webb’s raids in East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 January 1913, p. 1; 10 February 1913, pp. 1–2; 11 February 1913, p. 1; 18 February 1913, p. 1; 23 February 1913, p. 1. Rudwick makes a brief reference to Charles Webb: see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 199–200. 193. East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 January 1915, p. 1. For reports of the revival sermons, see, e.g., East St Louis Daily Journal, 13 January 1915, p. 1; 18 January 1915, p. 1; 20 January 1915, p. 1; 22 January 1915, p. 1; 3 February 1915 p. 1. 194. For Chamberlin, Arnold, and Siddell, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 April 1913, p. 1. For the five boys, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 5 May 1913, p. 1. Compare the 50 cents in wagers here with the $600 and $1,550 confiscated by Webb and Mulconnery during their campaign. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 February 1913, p. 1 and 19 January 1913, p. 1 respectively. For further examples, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 January 1913, p. 1. 195. Duis, Saloon, p. 254. Often the line between prostitution and what reformers called “indecency” became blurred in reformers’ campaigns. This was not made any easier by the generally hazy nature of sexual habits: e.g., saloon winerooms were places where men would go to meet women, introductions that would not infrequently lead to sexual encounters; they were also places where prostitutes would solicit for clients. 196. East St Louis Daily Journal, 6 April 1913, p. 1. 197. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 April 1914, p. 1. 198. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 200–201. 199. East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 January 1917, p. 1. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 201. “Reawakened” is taken from here. See also the testimony of Robert E. Johns (Carpenters’ Union business agent, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4355 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 296, UPA microfilm collection). 200. This was discovered by local investigative journalist Paul Y. Anderson. See the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 10 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3788–3789 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 818–819, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick refers to this: see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 187–188. 201. Testimony of Robert E. Johns (business agent, carpenters’ union, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4355 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 296, UPA microfilm collection). 202. During his re-election campaign, under pressure from reformers, who lent their support to his campaign, Mayor Mollman closed the Commercial Hotel

NOTES

215

briefly, before allowing it to reopen a week after he was re-elected. See the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4074–4075 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 15–16, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 209. 203. For the license fee, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 May 1917, p. 1. For the new saloonkeepers and prostitutes, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 May 1917, p. 1; 29 May 1917, p. 5. 204. East St Louis Daily Journal, 21 May 1917, p. 1. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 May 1917, p. 1. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 May 1917, p. 1; 9 May 1917, p. 1; 11 May 1917, p. 1. Rudwick noted, “[i]n June, Attorney General Brundage . . . order[ed] Mollman to take action against the Commercial and other ‘disreputable hotels’ near City Hall.” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 209.

3

Popular Culture, Race, and Violence

1. Rick Halpern, Down on the Killing Floor, Black and White Workers in Chicago’s Packinghouses, 1904–1950, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1997, pp. 129–158. 2. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 157. 3. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 157. 4. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 157. 5. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 158. 6. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 68. For this context, see generally Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 64–68. See also James R. Barrett, Work and Community in the Jungle: Chicago’s Packinghouse Workers 1894–1922, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1987, pp. 203–206. 7. St Louis Daily Journal, 13 August 1915, p. 6. The East St. Louis Colored Giants won 7-5. 8. Al-Tony Gilmore, Bad Nigger! The National Impact of Jack Johnson, Port Washington, New York, and London, Kennikat Press, 1975, pp. 32–33. See also Jeffrey T. Sammons, Beyond the Ring: the role of Boxing in American Society, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1988, pp. 34–47. 9. Gilmore, Bad Nigger!, pp. 27–33, 59. See generally, pp. 25–54. 10. Sammons, Beyond the Ring, p. 35. 11. Gilmore, Bad Nigger!, pp. 59–72. 12. Gilmore quotes press coverage of the time. See Gilmore, Bad Nigger!, p. 46. 13. Although the Mann Act prohibited the transportation of women across state lines for immoral purposes, Johnson was arrested for traveling with a white woman with whom he had a relationship. See Al-Tony Gilmore, “Jack Johnson and White Women: The National Impact,” in The Journal of Negro History, LVIII, 1 (January 1973), pp. 18–19. 14. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 November 1912, p. 1. For Jack London, see Sammons, Beyond the Ring, p. 37.

216

NOTES

15. East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 November 1912, p. 4. 16. Testimony of Raymond F. Rucker (Assistant Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 30 October 1917: Select Committee to Investigate Conditions in Illinois and Missouri Interfering with Interstate Commerce between These States, pp. 1848–1849 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 928–929, of microfilm collection, The East St Louis Race Riot of 1917, Frederick, MD, University Publications of America, 1985); hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings will be referred to as Select Committee, and the microfilm collection will be referred to as UPA microfilm collection. 17. During the Select Committee investigation, Rucker claimed that African Americans had been “overassertive” of their rights. He advocated segregation in all aspects of life. See the testimony of Raymond F. Rucker, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1848–1850 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 928–930, UPA microfilm collection). 18. Testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter (African American physician, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1104 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 188, UPA microfilm collection). 19. For Morn and Campbell, see East St Louis Daily Journal Sunday supplement, 3 July 1917, p. 3. For Fern and Zell, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 30 August 1915, p. 5. For Ziska, see East St Louis Daily Journal 3 January 1915, p. 8. For Lohse and Sterling, see East St Louis Daily Journal Sunday supplement, 1 July 1917, p. 3. 20. David R. Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working Class, London and New York, Verso, 1991, pp. 115–127. See also Alexander Saxton, The Rise and Fall of the White Republic: Class Politics and Mass Culture in Nineteenth-Century America, London and New York, Verso, 1990, pp. 165–181. Additionally, for the change in blackface over time, see Robert C. Toll, Blacking Up: The Minstrel Show in Nineteenth-Century America, London, Oxford, and New York, Oxford University Press, 1974, pp. 134–149 and 186. See also Carl Wittke, Tambo and Bones, A History of the American Minstrel Stage, Durham, North Carolina, Duke University Press, 1930, pp. 61–66. 21. East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 May 1915, p. 8. 22. Douglas Gilbert, American Vaudeville, Its Life and Times, New York, Dover Publications, 1940, p. 81. 23. For the four Rubes, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 March 1915, p. 4. For Coakley, Hanvey, and Dunlevy, see East St Louis Daily Journal 3 June 1915, p. 6. 24. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 May 1917, p. 3. 25. Saxton, Rise and Fall, pp. 173–174 and Roediger, Wages of Whiteness, pp. 118–119. For the quotation, see Roediger, Wages of Whiteness, p. 118. 26. The foreign-born immigrant population of East St. Louis was roughly between ten to twenty percent: see chapter 1, “East St. Louis Transformed,” in this book. For Roediger’s findings, see Roediger, Wages of Whiteness, pp. 95–96. 27. For the context of reform regarding the saloon, gambling, prostitution, and “moral danger” in the urban environment, see Perry R. Duis, The Saloon: Public Drinking in Chicago and Boston 1880–1920, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1999 (1983), pp. 244–246, 262–271. For the context

NOTES

28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

217

of industrial and social reform during this period, see James Weinstein, The Corporate Ideal in the Liberal State, 1900–1918, Boston, Beacon Press, 1969. See also Robert H. Weibe, The Search for Order, 1877–1920, New York, Hill and Wang, 1967, pp. 151, 154–155. Additionally, see Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform, New York, Random House, 1955, p. 243. For the significance of guilt and industrial discipline generally, see Roediger, Wages of Whiteness, pp. 95–96 and his reference to the work of Herbet Gutman. This is discussed in chapter 1, “East St. Louis Transformed,” in this book. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 May 1917, p. 3. East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 July 1915, p. 5. For this cinematic fare offered in East St. Louis, see, e.g., East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 November 1914, p. 7; 9 December 1914, p. 8; 3 January 1915, p. 8; 7 March 1915, p. 8; 14 October 1915, p. 7; 15 November 1915, p. 7; 14 December 1915, p. 7; 14 January 1916, p. 5; 15 February 1916, p. 5; 14 March 1916, p. 5; 26 May 1916, p. 5; 10 May 1917, p. 3. Thomas Cripps, Slow Fade to Black: The Negro in American Film, 1900–1942, New York, Oxford University Press, 1977, pp. 43–44. Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 44. Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 42. Cripps, Slow Fade, pp. 49–50. Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 41. Cripps, Slow Fade, pp. 41–42. East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 February 1917, p. 3. East St Louis Daily Journal, 20 February 1917, p. 3. East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 February 1917, p. 3. East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 February 1917, p. 1. Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 47. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 5 July 1917. Italics added for emphasis. For this complaint, commonly expressed in East St. Louis, see also The Crisis, 14, 5 (September 1917), p. 238. Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 49. In Cooper’s opinion, the film had “revive[d] the passions and animosities” of the Reconstruction among whites. See comments of Representatives Cooper and Raker in the testimony of Frank S. Dickson (Adjutant General, Springfield, Illinois National Guard), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 934–935 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 1854–1855, UPA microfilm collection). Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 48. Cripps, Slow Fade, pp. 48–49. Cripps, Slow Fade, p. 51. Cripps, Slow Fade, pp. 50–51. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 81–86. Duis, Saloon, pp. 143–164, Madelon Powers, Faces along the Bar: Lore and Order in the Working Man’s Saloon, 1870–1920, Chicago and London, University of Chicago Press, 1998, pp. 55–64 and Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 81–82.

218

NOTES

53. East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 March 1913, p. 1. 54. Testimony of George W. Allison (local Baptist minister), 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3591 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 618, UPA microfilm collection). 55. Elliott Rudwick noted that East St. Louis attracted many prostitutes who had been displaced from other cities, including St. Louis and Chicago, after civic authorities there closed their vice districts. See Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1969, pp. 200–201. As Ruth Rosen has noted, prostitution was generally seen by civic authorities in the nineteenth century as a “necessary evil,” but was increasingly recast as a “social evil” to be banished from cities during the early 1900s. See Ruth Rosen, The Lost Sisterhood: Prostitution in America, 1900–1918, Baltimore and London, John Hopkins University, 1982, pp. 1–13. 56. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 201. See also chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 57. See chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 58. See chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 59. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 91. See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3554–3555 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 582–583, UPA microfilm collection). 60. Testimony of William A. Miller (Manager, Railroad YMCA, East St. Louis), 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4074–4077 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 13–16, UPA microfilm collection). 61. For an overview of the significance of the saloon in urban American life see generally Duis, Saloon. For the quotations here, see Duis, Saloon, p. 1. 62. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 81–86. For saloonkeepers as former workers, see Duis, Saloon, pp. 152–153, 168–169. See also Powers, Faces, pp. 18, 67. For the location of “the Valley,” see the map section in this book. See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3600 of transcript of hearings (reel 4, frame 627, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the commemorative edition of the East St Louis Sunday Journal, 21 May 1961, p. 6-H. 63. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3540 of transcript of hearings (reel 4, frame 568, UPA microfilm collection). 64. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3600 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 627, UPA microfilm collection). 65. Testimony of Robert E. Johns (Carpenters’ Union business agent, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4355 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 296, UPA microfilm collection). 66. Testimony of Father Christopher Goetz (Roman Catholic priest, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4414 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 355, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of A. B. Hendry (police officer, East St. Louis) 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4140 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 74, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick mentions cockfighting: see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 211.

NOTES

219

67. Testimony of Father Christopher Goetz, 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4414 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 355, UPA microfilm collection). For the duration of the events, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 211. 68. For the duration of individual cockfights see the testimony of A. B. Hendry, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4140 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 74, UPA microfilm collection). 69. For this quotation, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 197. 70. In 1911, the East St Louis Gazette—which disapproved of women drinking in saloons—expressed its disapproval at the idea that such saloons might be becoming “a sort of club or recreation place for the East St Louis working girls.” See East St Louis Gazette, 25 November 1911, p. 4. 71. For Chicago, see Joanne Meyerowitz, “Sexual Geography and Gender Economy,” in Vicki L. Ruiz and Ellen Carol Dubois (eds.), Unequal Sisters: A Multicultural Reader in Women’s History, New York, Routledge, 1994, pp. 307–323. For New York, see Kathy Peiss, Cheap Amusements: Working Women and Leisure in Turn-of-the-Century New York, Philadelphia, Temple University Press, 1986, pp. 28, 98–104. Peiss notes the changing moral world of the saloon: while women who frequented saloons in the late nineteenth century risked their reputation and were often considered to be prostitutes, by the 1910s, it was becoming increasingly acceptable for “respectable” women to frequent saloons. 72. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, pp. 1, 5. 73. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, pp. 1, 5. 74. East St Louis Daily Journal, 12 September 1910, p. 1. 75. Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4073 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 13, UPA microfilm collection). 76. East St Louis Gazette, 23 December 1905, p. 4; 27 January 1906, p. 4; 21 September 1906, p. 4; 2 February 1907, p. 4; 25 November 1911, p. 4. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 9 January 1911, p. 1. 77. For “cigar smoke,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 April 1913, p. 1. 78. Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4077 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 16, UPA microfilm collection). 79. Testimony of John W. Edmonson (police officer, East St. Louis), 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 903 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 4164, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Edward F. Mason (Secretary, Central Trades and Labor Union (AFL), East St. Louis), 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3146 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 167, UPA microfilm collection). 80. Testimony of Dr. C. P. Renner (City Coroner, East St. Louis), 26 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1238 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 322, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of H. H. Hunsacker (switchman and former collector, East St. Louis), 15 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4590–4591 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 532–533, UPA microfilm collection). 81. East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 February 1913, p. 1.

220

NOTES

82. According to local coroner C. P. Renner, many of the murders that took place in the Valley were the result of gambling-related arguments. See the testimony of Dr. C. P. Renner, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1238, 1255 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 322, 340, UPA microfilm collection). 83. East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 March 1913, p. 1; 18 March 1913, p. 2; 19 March 1913, p. 1. Koch was also known as Krouch. 84. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 July 1916, p. 1. 85. Thomas W. Gallant, “Honor, Masculinity, and Ritual Knife Fighting in Nineteenth-Century Greece,” American Historical Review, 105, 2 (April 2000), p. 368. See also p. 370. 86. East St Louis Daily Journal, 26 January 1913, p. 1. 87. East St Louis Daily Journal, 2 April 1913, p. 1. 88. Daniel Touro Linger, Dangerous Encounters: Meanings of Violence in a Brazilian City, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1992. 89. Linger, Dangerous Encounters, p. 124. 90. Linger, Dangerous Encounters, pp. 102–117. 91. Linger, Dangerous Encounters, p. 128. 92. Testimony of Frank I. Marks (Pawnbroker, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: p. 4294 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 235, UPA microfilm collection). 93. East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 April 1915, p. 1. Of course, 50 cents was not a derisory sum, being the equivalent of two or three hours’ wages for a worker. Yet, it is remarkable that the refusal of a loan at the bar led eventually to this killing. 94. Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4102 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 41, UPA microfilm collection). Many such men were professional gamblers—see the testimony of Irwin Rout (Secretary, East St. Louis Railroad YMCA), 15 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4583 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 525, UPA microfilm collection). 95. For “dangerous class,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 20 August 1914, p. 1. For “tough element,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1914, p. 1. 96. Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4115–4116 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 54–55, UPA microfilm collection). 97. Testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4125 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 64, UPA microfilm collection). 98. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson (reporter, St Louis Post-Dispatch), 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 281, 307 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 311, 337, UPA microfilm collection). 99. East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 June 1916, p. 1; 16 June 1916, p. 1. Noctkich was later arrested with the bloody knife in his possession. The boy, Katona, identified Noctkich as the man who assaulted him. 100. Chicago Defender, 2 June 1917, p. 1. 101. East St Louis Daily Journal, 16 August 1914, p. 1; 17 August 1914, p. 1. See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select

NOTES

221

Committee, p. 3544 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 572, UPA microfilm collection). 102. Testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3544–3546 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 572–574, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4089–4090 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 2–29, UPA microfilm collection).

4 Race Riot: The Conjuncture * Some of the material contained in this chapter has appeared, in a different form, in Malcolm McLaughlin, “Reconsidering the East St Louis Race Riot of 1917,” International Review of Social History, 47, 2 (August 2002), pp. 187–212. 1. The actual death toll is uncertain for the local authorities failed to account officially for many dead African Americans. See Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2, 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1964, p. 50. Further evidence indicates specifically that there may have been undocumented burials. Appearing before the House of Representatives Committee on Rules, Hallie Queen of Howard University reported that she knew “of a case where a sexton received 16 bodies at one time, and [when] he asked ‘who are they?’ . . . [he received the reply] . . . ‘None of your business. Bury them.’ ” See Riot at East St Louis, Illinois: Hearings before the Committee on Rules, House of Representatives, Sixty-Fifth Congress, First Session on HJ Res. 118, 3 August 1917, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1917, p. 25. 2. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 7, 15–16,142. See generally, pp. 16–26. 3. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 23–28. 4. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 35–37. Rudwick noted that there were attacks on black strikebreakers during June, while revealing in his footnotes that white strikebreakers were also attacked at this time. 5. Jeremy Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics of a South African Racial Massacre,” in The Historical Journal, 42, 4 (1999), 1067–1068. 6. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 7. Testimony of Alois Towers (labor representative, East St. Louis), 1 November 1917: Select Committee to Investigate Conditions in Illinois and Missouri Interfering with Interstate Commerce between These States, pp. 2374, 2436 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 425, 488 of microfilm collection, The East St Louis Race Riot of 1917, Frederick, MD, University Publications of America, 1985); hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings are referred to as Select Committee, and the microfilm collection is referred to as UPA microfilm collection. 8. For these quotations, see Rick Halpern, Down on the Killing Floor: Black and White Workers in Chicago’s Packinghouses, 1904–1954, University of Illinois Press, Urbana and Chicago, 1997, pp. 47–48. See also David Brody, The Butcher Workmen: A Study in Unionization, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Harvard University Press, 1964, pp. 73–74.

222

NOTES

9. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2429 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 482, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 144–145. 10. As James Weinstein has pointed out, employers were well placed to anticipate America’s entry into the First World War, well in advance of the actual declaration of war in April 1917. Those factories capable of producing munitions were inspected and “[b]y September [1916] . . . various state committees . . . had canvassed twenty thousand manufacturers. Most of them believed that the United States would enter the war . . . these men, ‘stimulated as the result of Allied contracts,’ cheerfully cooperated in the census of [war] preparedness.” See James Weinstein, The Corporate Ideal in the Liberal State, 1900–1918, Boston, Beacon Press, 1968, p. 217. 11. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2435 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 487, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Edward F. Mason (Secretary, Central Trades and Labor Union (AFL), East St. Louis), 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3151 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 172, UPA microfilm collection). 12. For these quotes, see the testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2414 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 467, UPA microfilm collection). 13. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2417–2418 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 470–471, UPA microfilm collection). 14. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 21. For the crushing of the 1904 strike, see the testimony of Harry Kerr (AFL district organizer), 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1912 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 992, UPA microfilm collection). At that time, workers in East St. Louis had taken part in a strike together with workers in Chicago, and in both cities defeat ushered in a period of open shop and marked a low point in the history of organized labor in the stockyards. See Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 35–38. See also, James R. Barrett, Work and Community in the Jungle: Chicago’s Packinghouse Workers, 1894–1922, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1987, pp. 154–182. It might even have raised hopes among butcher workers that there could possibly be a return to the days before the 1904 strike, when the union and the Packing Trades Council had seemed to guarantee butcher workers a certain sense of stability: compared to other cities, one hog butcher apparently noted upon arrival in the city, East St. Louis was “living in paradise,” for workers were “looked upon as a man and a human being and not a slave.” See Brody, Butcher Workmen, p. 45. 15. For the number of workers sacked, see the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson (Amalgamated Meat Cutters and Butcher Workmen union representative, East St. Louis), 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2018 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 72, UPA microfilm collection). Jimerson was uncertain if it was thirty-six or thirty-seven workers. See also St Louis Post-Dispatch, 27 July 1916, p. 8, which reported the sacking of “about 50” workers. 16. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 27 July 1917, p. 8. The Post-Dispatch interviewed the union leader Earl W. Jimerson. See also the testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October

NOTES

17. 18.

19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

25.

223

1917: Select Committee, pp. 1864, 2018 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 944 and reel 3, frame 72, UPA microfilm collection). St Louis Post-Dispatch, 28 July 1916, p. 1. For “polyglot workforce,” see Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 42. Of the 1916 meatpacking strike in East St. Louis it was later noted that, sharing no common language, some workers acted as translators and they were nevertheless “able to form a sort of complete system of masonry.” See the testimony of J. J. Kane (collector and salesman, Wagner Brewery, Granite City), 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4190 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 129, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2018 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 72, UPA microfilm collection). For “hundreds,” see the testimony of Le Roy N. Bundy (African American dentist, businessman, and politician), 7 June 1917: Hearings of the Labor Committee of the Illinois State Council of Defense, p. 82 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 166, UPA microfilm collection); henceforth these hearings are referred to as Council of Defense. For William Bagley, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 147 and St Louis Post-Dispatch, 30 July 1916, p. 1. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 30 July 1916, p. 1. If this was an effort to convince the strikers their labor was unneeded, it surely appeared as more an act of desperation. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 30 July 1916, p. 1. At the same time, threats to “tie up the meat supply of the country” by involving meatpacking workers in Chicago, Kansas City, and Omaha were repeated. For these quotes, see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 30 July 1916, p. 1. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 31 July 1916, p. 1. For the strike, see also the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2018–2022 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 72–76, UPA microfilm collection). Local labor leader Harry Kerr recalled that the 1916 strike involved both skilled and “common” labor. See the testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1864 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 944, UPA microfilm collection). Swift and Co.—the more paternalistic of the employers— used the occasion to announce a new pension scheme, to be funded solely by the company, perhaps in an effort to recapture the loyalty of their workers. Workers at Swift had not demanded a grievance committee, and so this applied to Armour and Morris only. The pension scheme provided for a pension amounting to half the average salary of the previous five years for workers. Retirement would be at the age of sixty for men who had been employed for twenty-five years or more, at sixty-five otherwise; at fifty and fifty-five respectively for women. This may have discouraged workers from seeking grievance committees. Rick Halpern notes, of Swift’s paternalism, that union organizers, even in the days of the C.I.O., saw the company as “a hard nut to crack.” See Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 183. Testimony of Charles B. Fox (Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1511 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 590, UPA microfilm collection).

224

NOTES

26. In 1916, unskilled workers received $2.50 a day at Aluminum Ore, increased at the end of the year to $2.75 for an eight-hour shift: this compared with wages of $2.60 at Missouri Malleable Iron, for example; or $1.75 in the meatpacking plants for a ten-hour shift. Mechanics at the aluminum plant would earn roughly $4.25 a day, placing them around the median wage level for skilled workers in the city. For Aluminum Ore, see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1546 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 627, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Raymond F. Rucker (Assistant Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1831 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 911, UPA microfilm collection). For Malleable Iron, see the testimony of Frank E. Nulson (President, Missouri Malleable Iron Co., East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1014–1015 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 99–100, UPA microfilm collection). For meatpacking wages, see the testimony of Robert E. Conway (General Manager, Armour and Co., East St. Louis), 19 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 172–173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 199–200, UPA microfilm collection). Between autumn 1916 and autumn 1917, the meatpacking plants increased wages in four 25 cents increments. See also testimony of John W. Paton (General Manager, Morris and Co., East St Louis), 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 431 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 459, UPA microfilm collection). For skilled workers’ wages in East St. Louis, see chapter 1, “East St Louis Transformed,” in this book. For the wages of skilled mechanics at the Aluminum Ore plant, see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1592 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 673, UPA microfilm collection). 27. Testimony of Philip Wolf (local union organizer, Aluminum Ore Co.), 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2139–2140 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 192–193, UPA microfilm collection). For the date of Fox’s employment, see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1505 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 584, UPA microfilm collection). 28. See p. 5 of Report of David R. Scruggs (FBI Plant Survey), 6 March 1941, Records of the Office of the Chief of Ordinance, file 10104–3059 (2), Military Intelligence Division of the Department of War, Record Group 165, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. Although this report and survey was made in 1941, during the Second World War, the FBI agent noted biographical details of senior employees from the company’s personnel files. The file relating to the Aluminum Ore Company plant and its relationship with military intelligence during the First World War—file 10104–3059 (1)—has been lost, destroyed, or misfiled. See also the testimony of Raymond F. Rucker, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1792 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 873, UPA microfilm collection). 29. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2141 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 194, UPA microfilm collection).

NOTES

225

30. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2141–2142, 2176–2177 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 194–195, 229–230, UPA microfilm collection). 31. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2142 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 195, UPA microfilm collection). 32. See the testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2430 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 483, UPA microfilm collection). For the workers’ complaints at this time, see Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, pp. 1–4, Dispute Case File 33–378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 33. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2265–2267 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 317–319, UPA microfilm collection). See also Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, pp. 1–2, Dispute Case File 33–378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 34. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2265–2269 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 317–321, UPA microfilm collection). Joseph Siski was mentioned by name in the grievances of the union in April 1917, for he had been discharged for his role in organizing the immigrant workers. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. 35. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2236, 2244 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 288, 296, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick noted, “[t]he leadership of the [Aluminum Ore union] . . . recognized the need to recruit members among the Negroes.” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 17. 36. Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, p. 2, Dispute Case File 33–378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. See also the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1592 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 673, UPA microfilm collection). 37. For the AFL generally in East St. Louis, see chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 38. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2421–2424 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 474–477, UPA microfilm collection). 39. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2426–2427 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 479–480, UPA microfilm collection). 40. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2433 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 485, UPA microfilm collection). 41. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. For such difficulties faced by the radical SLC in Chicago in trying to establish interracial union organization in the AFL craft structure, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 202–224 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 25–58. 42. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2022 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 76, UPA microfilm collection).

226

NOTES

43. Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2077 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 131, UPA microfilm collection). 44. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2376 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 427, UPA microfilm collection). 45. Testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2387 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 438, UPA microfilm collection). 46. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 16–17. See also the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1528 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 609, UPA microfilm collection). By February 1917, 470 blacks were employed at the plant; however, by April 1917 that number had dropped to 381. See also the testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2153 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 204, UPA microfilm collection). 47. For the work of the Operating Department, see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2263–2267 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 315–319, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1527 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 608, UPA microfilm collection). For the employment of black workers in the Operating Department, but not in skilled positions, see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2157 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 208, UPA microfilm collection). No doubt, avoiding replacing skilled whites with blacks appealed to the plant manager, Charles Fox, who was of the bigoted opinion that black workers did not make “efficient mechanics.” See the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1546 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 627, UPA microfilm collection). 48. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 202–224 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 25–58. 49. For “strength,” see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2189 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 242, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2160 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 211, UPA microfilm collection). Indeed, in October, the Aluminum Ore union had contacted the AFL: Samuel Gompers wrote to the local Central Trades and Labor Union Secretary Edward Mason asking him to arrange for somebody to help George E. Morris of the Aluminum Ore workers to organize under the auspices of the AFL although nothing came of it at that time. See the letter of Samuel Gompers to Edward F. Mason, 17 October 1917 (reel 214, p. 129, AFL Letter Books, 1883–1924, microfilm collection, Library of Congress Manuscripts Division, Washington DC). 50. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1551 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 632, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1629–1631 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 710–712, UPA microfilm collection). 51. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 27–28 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 216–217, UPA microfilm collection).

NOTES

52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58.

59.

60. 61. 62.

63.

64.

227

See also the testimony of D. E. Parsons (General Manager, East St. Louis and Suburban Streetcar Railway), 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 41–42 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 230–231, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 23. Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 210–212 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 59–61. For the absence of black workers before 1913, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 17. For “wherever they could,” see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2245 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 297, UPA microfilm collection). For “in his place,” see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2157 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 208, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2243 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 296, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2224–2225 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 276–277, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Robert E. Johns (Carpenters’ Union business agent, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4307–4308 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 248–249, UPA microfilm collection). See the grievances of the Aluminum Ore Employees’ Protective Association reproduced in the East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. See also the testimony of Robert E. Johns, 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4308 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 249, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 18. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2194–2200 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 247–253, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2194–2200 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 247–253, UPA microfilm collection). For the manager’s estimate, see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1527 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 608, UPA microfilm collection). The local newspaper estimated that 800 strikers took part in the march. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. The federal conciliator Patrick F. Gill later estimated 1,000. See Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, pp. 3–4, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. Charles Fox claimed that “practically every foreman” remained at work. See the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1524 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 603, UPA microfilm collection). Fox played down the participation of the Operating Department, but it is clear even from his testimony that a portion of the Operating Department workers did take part. See the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1527 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 608, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1.

228

NOTES

65. East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 April 1917, p. 1. 66. East St Louis Daily Journal, 26 April 1917, p. 1; 27 April 1917, p. 1.; 30 April 1917, p. 1; 1 May 1917, p. 1; 7 May 1917, p. 1; 14 May 1917, p. 1; 17 May 1917, p. 1; 18 May 1917, p. 1. 67. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 22. 68. East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 May 1917, p. 1. 69. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2415–2430 and p. 2455 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 468–483 and 507, UPA microfilm collection). Follow these negotiations in East St Louis Daily Journal, 26 April 1917, p. 1; 27 April 1917, p. 1; 30 April 1917, p. 1; 1 May 1917, p. 1; 7 May 1917, p. 1; 14 May 1917, p. 1; 18 May 1917, p. 1; 1 June 1917, p. 1; 3 June 1917, p. 1. Of course, that the streetcar union was nevertheless able to force management into negotiations and arbitration suggests that they had considerably more power over their employer than the Aluminum Ore workers had over theirs. 70. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 18. 71. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 18. Rudwick describes the pickaxe handles as “shovels.” 72. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 18–19. 73. Testimony of Estes M. Sorrells (Superintendent of River Navigation, Aluminum Ore Co., and former secretary of East St Louis Chamber of Commerce), 12 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3921, 3963–3964 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 952, 994–995, UPA microfilm collection). 74. Testimony of Estes M. Sorrells, 12 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3900, 3905, 3948, 3954, 3963–3964, 4010 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 931, 936, 979, 985, 994–995, 1041, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 18. 75. On this point, a local labor leader and the Aluminum Ore plant manager agreed. For “half a dozen,” see the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2082 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 136, UPA microfilm collection). For “exclusively of,” see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1584 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 665, UPA microfilm collection). The East St. Louis and Suburban Streetcar Railway company was included in those prominent members of the Chamber of Commerce. 76. The Dawn of a Great City, East St. Louis, East St Louis Commercial Club, 1907, p. 30. 77. Testimony of Estes M. Sorrells, 12 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3907 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 938, UPA microfilm collection). 78. Testimony of Estes M. Sorrells, 12 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3924, 3964 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 955, 995, UPA microfilm collection). Although, in select committee hearings, Sorrells clearly wished to summon the memory of the recent race riot by stating that he imagined the rifles being used against “a mob,” it is obvious from his earlier willingness to supply Fox with those same rifles during the Aluminum Ore strike that he had in mind using the weapons to put down legitimate organized labor. 79. East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 March 1917, p. 1; 14 March 1917, p. 1. Estes Sorrells was appointed secretary at this time.

NOTES

229

80. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. 81. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. 82. Testimony of Raymond F. Rucker, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1823 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 903, UPA microfilm collection). 83. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1897–1899 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 977–979, UPA microfilm collection). 84. Cecelia Elizabeth O’Leary, To Die For: The Paradox of American Patriotism, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1999, pp. 221, 234. 85. O’Leary, To Die For, p. 235. 86. Indeed, the local newspaper reported that this was the opinion of the authorities. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 30 April 1917, p. 1. 87. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2414 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 467, UPA microfilm collection). 88. For Swift, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 11 May 1917, p. 1. For Missouri Malleable Iron, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 April 1917, p. 1. 89. East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 June 1917, p. 1. 90. For registration, see, e.g., East St Louis Daily Journal, 25 May 1917, p. 1. For the volunteer infantry, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 8 May 1917, p. 1. 91. East St Louis Daily Journal, 26 April 1917, p. 1. 92. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 June 1917, p. 1. 93. East St Louis Daily Journal, 27 May 1917, p. 1. 94. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1559, 1579 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 640, 660, UPA microfilm collection). 95. Testimony of Robert E. Johns, 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4307 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 248, UPA microfilm collection). 96. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2171 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 224, UPA microfilm collection). 97. For the employment record of Frederick Hindrichsen, see Report of David R. Scruggs (FBI plant survey), 6 March 1941, p. 7, Records of the Office of the Chief of Ordinance, file 10104-3059 (2), Military Intelligence Division, Department of War, Record Group 165, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. The file 10104-3059 (1) pertaining to Aluminum Ore in East St. Louis and its relationship with Military Intelligence during the First World War has been lost, misfiled, or destroyed. Nevertheless, the 1941 report was based on Aluminum Ore’s personnel files, including that of Hindrichsen who was still employed by the company at that time. For the allegation that Burns’s detectives were attempting to smear Wolf, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. 98. East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 April 1917, p. 1; 18 June 1917, p. 1. John Cutsinger, aged 43, was arrested for carrying two revolvers into his workplace and charged as a spy. 99. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. 100. That is, until after the July race riot, when tentative enquiries were made, which simply confirmed that no “pro-German” influence lay behind the violence. See, e.g., report of W. C. Coss, 5 July 1917, in which he notes of the

230

101.

102. 103. 104. 105.

106.

107.

108.

109. 110. 111.

112.

113.

NOTES

July riot: “we have been unable to find any German influence back of these disturbances, but did find that it is merely a race riot, caused by an influx of negroes.” Report of W. C. Coss, 5 July 1917, File 28469 (reel 370 of microfilm M1085, Investigative Case Files of the Bureau 1908–1922), Record Group 65, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. See also this file generally. Report of W. C. Coss, 24 April 1917, File OG10558, Joe Szuch (reel 331 of microfilm M1085, Investigative Case Files of the Bureau 1908–1922), Record Group 65, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2455 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 507, UPA microfilm collection). For “10000,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 May 1917, p. 1. For “Secret Service,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 June 1917, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 27 May 1917, p. 1. Testimony of John B. Alltrogge (publisher, East St Louis Mail), 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, p. 23 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 212, UPA microfilm collection). For rumors, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 37. See also the testimony of Roy Albertson (reporter, East St Louis Daily Journal), 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 477 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 501, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1559–1560 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 640–641, UPA microfilm collection). This is the “large corps” to which Rudwick made a brief reference. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 18. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1665–1668 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 746–749, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1664–1665 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 745–746, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1664–1665 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 745–746, UPA microfilm collection). For both quotes, see Stephen H. Norwood, Strikebreaking and Intimidation: Mercenaries and Masculinity in Twentieth-Century America, Chapel Hill and London, University of North Carolina Press, 2002, p. 65. For further details of Bergoff Brothers and Waddell, see generally pp. 4, 65–69, 149–153. Bergoff Brothers and Waddell also “maintained an armory in New York with 1,100 rifles, and a barracks where armed guards drilled.” See Norwood, Strikebreaking, p. 66. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1665–1668 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 746–749, UPA microfilm collection). For “flying-squadron,” see p. 1668. Comments of Representative John Raker (Democrat, CA), during the testimony of Charles B. Fox. For “toothpicks,” see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1659 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 740, UPA microfilm collection). For “moral suasion,” see the

NOTES

114.

115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

120. 121. 122. 123.

124. 125.

231

testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1572 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 653, UPA microfilm collection). For Fox’s instructions, see the testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1582 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 663, UPA microfilm collection). According to the East St Louis Daily Journal, Charles Lehman, the Aluminum Ore Employees’ Protective Association President, claimed that “several shots had been fired from inside the plant at pickets.” See East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 April 1917, p. 1. Rudwick noted that pickets were fired upon. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 18. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1664–1665 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 745–746, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2204 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 256, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2203–2210 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 256–263, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. Copy Telegram, Edward Crough and Marion Leake (AFL representatives), to James Lord (President, Mining Department, AFL, Washington, DC), 2 May 1917, dispute File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 April 1917, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 April 1917, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 June 1917, p. 1. Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, p. 5, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1561–1562 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 642–643, UPA microfilm collection). For “very sweeping,” see the comments of Federal Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, in his Final Report, 16 October, p. 4, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. A copy of the canvas injunction poster is contained within that file. See also Opinion of C. B. Thomas (Aluminum Ore workers’ attorney), 31 May 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. No doubt, Fox benefited from a sympathetic judge for, as Rudwick noted, the strikers had behaved “in a generally orderly manner,” with the exception of one occasion when a rock was thrown at Fox’s car. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 19. For the suggestion that one of Fox’s spies had thrown the rock to provide a pretext for obtaining the injunction, see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2212–2214 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 264–266, UPA microfilm collection). Fox’s restraining order was at first temporary, but was later made permanent with regard to the strike leaders.

232

NOTES

126. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2156 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 207, UPA microfilm collection). 127. For the War Industries Board and this period generally, see Weinstein, Corporate Ideal, pp. 216–254. For the Alschuler arbitration hearings, see Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 198–202 and Halpern, Killing Floor, pp. 55–70. 128. Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. In the opinion of Federal Conciliator Patrick Gill, Fox was “merely sparring for time,” not interested in a settlement. See letter, Patrick F. Gill to William B. Wilson, 24 May 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. When they eventually tracked him down, meeting him at Union Station in St. Louis, despite a “lengthy conversation,” and making “[e]very effort . . . to persuade” him, Fox still refused to negotiate. See letter, Joseph S. Meyers to William B. Wilson, 11 June 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 129. For “chagrined,” see memorandum, 21 May 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. For “no particular,”“stir up,” and “called off,” see copy Aluminum Ore memorandum, Arthur V. Davis to Percy Hodges, Washington DC office, 18 May 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. The Secretary of Labor was most dismissive of the allegation that the conciliator had “stirred up” trouble and this was undoubtedly a false allegation. See letter, William B. Wilson to Patrick F. Gill, 23 May 1917, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 130. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1561–1562 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 642–643, UPA microfilm collection). 131. Testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 128 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 160, UPA microfilm collection). 132. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2217–2220 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 271–274, UPA microfilm collection). This is confirmed by the text of the written Legal Opinion of C. B. Thomas. See Legal Opinion of C. B. Thomas, 31 May 1917, p. 7, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 133. Furthermore, Wolf claimed that after the meeting, union leaders arranged for white members to escort the black members home, to ensure that they were left in no danger from white racist gangs. See the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2219–2220 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 274, UPA microfilm collection).

NOTES

233

134. For the breaking up of the union meeting, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 June 1917, p. 1. For the conciliator’s comments, see Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, pp. 6–7, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. 135. Testimony of Charles E. Rudisill (mechanic, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 18 July 1917: Proceedings before the Board of Inquiry, pp. 521, 526 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 616, 621, UPA microfilm collection). The Board was a military inquiry into the conduct of Illinois National Guardsmen during the East St. Louis race riot. 136. Copy Telegram, Edward Crough and Marion Leake (AFL representatives), to James Lord (President, Mining Department, AFL, Washington DC), 2 May 1917, dispute File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. For the breaking up of the union meeting, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 June 1917, p. 1. 137. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 June 1917, p. 1. 138. For quotations, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 June 1917, p. 1. For this period of the strike, see also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 36. 139. East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 June 1917, p. 1. 140. Testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2217–2220 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 271–274, UPA microfilm collection). 141. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 68. When notified of the scheme, “union leaders reacted in horror. ‘You must be insane to attempt such a thing,’ a delegation charged. ‘These men will be on the killing floor of the packing plants. They will have cleavers and knives. They know how to use them.’ ” 142. Halpern, Killing Floor, p. 68. 143. East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 June 1917, p. 1. For the official call for the ending of the strike, see Final Report of Conciliator Patrick F. Gill, 16 October 1917, pp. 6–7, Dispute Case File 33-378, Arbitration and Conciliation Service of the Department of Labor, Record Group 280, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. See also the testimony of Harry Kerr, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1970–1971 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 25–26, UPA microfilm collection). 144. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 165. See also generally Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 5, 157–173. 145. Chapter 1, “East St Louis Transformed,” in this book. 146. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 163–166. 147. For “streets” and “home town,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 161. For “negro town” see the testimony of Philip Wolf, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2317 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 368, UPA microfilm collection). 148. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee pp. 531, 540 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 557, 565, UPA microfilm collection). 149. Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan (real estate agent and local Democratic Party politician), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1474 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 554, UPA microfilm collection).

234

NOTES

150. William M. Tuttle, Race Riot: Chicago in the Red Summer of 1919, New York, Atheneum, 1970, pp. 157–183. See also Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 219–224. 151. Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1475 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 555, UPA microfilm collection). 152. Barrett, Work and Community, p. 220. 153. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee pp. 531, 540 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 557, 565, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of W. H. Mills (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1203–1204 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 288–289, UPA microfilm collection). 154. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 38. Testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October, 1917: Select Committee, p. 1107 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 191, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Matt Hayes (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 773 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frame 246, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Frank Reedy (for the People), 18 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 214–215 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frames 633–634, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of John M. Hubert (for the People), 18 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 111 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frame 530, UPA microfilm collection). 155. Testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1107 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 191, UPA microfilm collection). See p. 8 of Letter of Military Board of Inquiry to Adjutant General, 2 August 1917 (reel 6, frame 83, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Calvin Cotton (African American teaming businessman and lay pastor, East St. Louis), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 686 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 710, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 24–25, 38. Additionally, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson (reporter, St Louis Post-Dispatch), 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 344, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection). 156. Testimony of Gus Masserang (for the People), 21 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 251, 281 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frames 670, 700, UPA microfilm collection). Masserang’s mother lived two streets to the south, on Tudor Avenue. See also the comments of Thomas Webb, during the testimony of Gus Masserang, 21 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 1188 (reel 7, frame 709, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Calvin Cotton (for the Defendant), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 674 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 697, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Noah W. Parden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 770–772 (reel 8, frames 283–285, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter (for the Defendant),

NOTES

157.

158.

159.

160. 161.

162. 163. 164.

165.

166. 167.

168. 169. 170. 171. 172.

235

25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1066 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 151, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–39. Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1477 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 557, UPA microfilm collection). On 28 May at a protest meeting with the mayor, an imprompt speech about this by a local lawyer and politician was partly responsible for enraging the white audience. See the testimony of Robert E. Johns, 14 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4313–4314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 254–255, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Dr. Le Roy N. Bundy (African American dentist, businessman, and politician), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Records—People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 1113 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 624, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1477–1478 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 557–558, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1473–1474 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 553–554, UPA microfilm collection). Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1473–1474 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 553–554, UPA microfilm collection). Chapter 1, “East St Louis Transformed,” in this book. Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1471–1472 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 551–552, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Dr. Lyman B. Bluitt (African American physician, East St. Louis), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1366 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 451, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3120 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 141, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2393 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 446, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 274. This is an alternative interpretation of his figures. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 274. See, e.g., Joel Kovel, White Racism: A Psychohistory, New York and London, Penguin, 1988 (1970), pp. 84–92. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 274. Chapter 1, “East St Louis Transformed,” in this book. For the quotation see Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1482–1483 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 562–563, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 151. See also Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2376 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 427, UPA microfilm collection).

236

NOTES

173. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 2438, 2506 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frames 490, 557, UPA microfilm collection). 174. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 175. Krikler, “Inner Mechanics,” p. 1074. 176. Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1482 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 562, UPA microfilm collection). 177. Rudwick notes that pronouncements against African Americans “repeatedly inflamed” whites. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 142. 178. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 7. See generally, Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 7–15. For this election campaign, see also chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 179. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 15–23, 25–26, 36. 180. For this election campaign, see, chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 181. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 27–28. 182. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 16. 183. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3118 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 139, UPA microfilm collection). Likewise, local AFL organizer Harry Kerr also received a letter from Gompers to this effect. See the testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1865 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 945, UPA microfilm collection). Labor leader Alois Tower also received this letter. See the testimony of Alois Towers, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3137 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 158, UPA microfilm collection). 184. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 13, 23, 169. Labor organizers Harry Kerr, Alois Towers, and Earl Jimerson claimed to have some evidence that employers had sent recruitment agents to the South; furthermore, a number of black workers testified in front of the Select Committee that they had been encouraged by a recruitment agent to come to East St. Louis from Jackson, Mississippi; moreover, Rudwick noted that “a few East St. Louis corporations employed labor agents.” See the testimony of Harry Kerr, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2000 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 56, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Alois Towers, 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2367 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 418, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2068 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 122, UPA microfilm collection). The migrant workers testified one after the other in rapid succession. See the testimonies of George Thornton, William James Perkins, Tommy Lee Bogan, Eddie B. Griffin, Baskin Carter, Peter Baker, Jim Houston, William B. Wood, Tommy Crawford, Napoleon Griffin, 8 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3261–3355 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 287–383, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 169. The Department of Labor files contain flyers produced by recruitment agencies urging workers to move North. These were not necessarily intended only for black workers. See, e.g., the flyer of Jones and Maddox Employment Office, Bessemer, Alabama, which claims the North

NOTES

185.

186.

187. 188. 189.

190.

191.

192.

193.

194.

237

offers “improved comforts,” a chance to “share the profits with the boss,” and opportunity to “buy a home.” See File 13/65, Race Riot, East St. Louis, Ill. 1917, General Subject File, William B. Wilson, Records of the Department of Labor, Record Group 174, National Archives Building, College Park, Maryland. Rudwick claimed that “white labor leaders, like politicians in the 1916 presidential election, were prepared to use racist propaganda when, in their view, legitimate goals were jeopardized. Such a situation occurred during the spring of 1917 when a labor union was destroyed in one of East St. Louis’ largest industrial plants [the Aluminum Ore Company].” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 16. “Invitation to Labor Delegates” exhibit of testimony of Harry Kerr, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2570 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 622, UPA microfilm collection). Italics added for emphasis. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 30 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1865 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 945, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 23, 27–30. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3120 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 141, UPA microfilm collection). Such reports, Mason claimed, came in “thick and fast.” Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 27. See also the testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3170 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 198, UPA microfilm collection). For the meeting, see the testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3169, 3173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 193, 197, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2033 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 87, UPA microfilm collection). See also Robert J. Baylan (reporter, St Louis Globe-Democrat), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 585 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 611, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 28. For the declaration that the meeting was not a protest against long-time residents of the city, see “Invitation to Labor Delegates,” exhibit of testimony of Harry Kerr, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2570 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 622, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Robert J. Baylan, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 582–583 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 608–609, UPA microfilm collection) and testimony of Harry Kerr, 7 June 1917: Council of Defense, p. 64 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 255, UPA microfilm collection). For these quotes, see the testimony of Robert E. Johns, 14 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4313–4314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 254–255, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3157 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 185, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 28. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26.

238

NOTES

195. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3169, 3173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 193, 197, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2033 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 87, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Robert J. Baylan, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 585 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 611, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick does not reveal that labor delegates were among those seeking to calm the crowd on 28 May. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 28. 196. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 197. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. See also the testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 185 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 213, UPA microfilm collection). 198. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 348–349 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 377–378, UPA microfilm collection). 199. East St Louis Daily Journal, 19 April 1917, p. 1. 200. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. 201. Dan McGlynn (local attorney), 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3103 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 124, UPA microfilm collection). 202. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26. 203. East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 April 1917, p. 1. 204. East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 June 1917, p. 1. 205. Testimony of Charles B. Fox, 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1654 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 735, UPA microfilm collection). 206. The quote is from Rudwick. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26. 207. East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 May 1917, p. 1. 208. East St Louis Daily Journal, 15 May 1917, p. 1. 209. East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 May 1917, p. 1. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26. 210. Rudwick noted that “Since white East St. Louisans were not routinely searched by the police, Negroes constituted the majority of persons arrested for carrying concealed weapons.” Thus, “differential treatment by the police and press confirmed whites’ mental image of Negroes as gun-toters.” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26. 211. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3126 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 147, UPA microfilm collection). It could be argued that, in Select Committee hearings at the end of 1917, AFL officials may have sought to emphasize such claims in the wake of the race riot, in order to justify their union’s protests against black migration. However, these claims were current at the time, in the summer of 1917, when—for example—the local AFL had made protests about black migrants and crime to the Mayor. 212. Testimony of Alois Towers, 2 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2460 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 453, UPA microfilm collection). 213. Testimony of Harry Kerr, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1987 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 43, UPA microfilm collection). See also the

NOTES

214.

215.

216. 217. 218.

219. 220. 221.

222.

223. 224.

225.

226.

227.

239

testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3152 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 171, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson, 31 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 2024 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 78, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick refers to this overestimation of crime statistics. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 214. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3174 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 198, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick mentions that “[f]emale members of a waitress and laundry workers union arrived early [at the 28 May meeting] . . . to dramatize that white womanhood required protection from Negro criminals.” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 26. Krikler, “Inner Mechanics,” pp. 1068–1069. Krikler, “Inner Mechanics,” pp. 1068–1071. William Fitzhugh Brundage, Lynching in the New South: Georgia and Virginia, 1880–1930, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1993. See esp. pp. 34–35. East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 May 1917, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 May 1917, p. 1. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 24. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3172–3173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 196–197, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Robert E. Johns, 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4359 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 300, UPA microfilm collection). See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 May 1917, p. 1. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 29. These attacks are considered in more detail in the next chapter. See the testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1107 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 191, UPA microfilm collection). See p. 8 of Letter of Military Board of Inquiry to Adjutant General, 2 August 1917 (reel 6, frame 83, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Calvin Cotton (African American teaming businessman and lay pastor, East St. Louis), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 686 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 710, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 24–25, 38. Additionally, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 344, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection). For rumors, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 37. See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 477 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 501, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Roy Albertson, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 549 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 575, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–40. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 45.

240

NOTES

5

Anatomy of the Killing

* Some of the material contained in this appeared, in a different form, in Malcolm McLaughlin, “Reconsidering the East St Louis Race Riot of 1917,” International Review of Social History, 47, 2 (August 2002), pp. 187–212. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 24 May 1917, p. 1. See also Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2, 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1964, p. 24. For other attacks during this period, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 May 1917, p. 1. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 1 June 1917, p. 1. 2. East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 June 1917, p. 1. 3. Quoted in Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 37. 4. East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 May 1917, p. 1. 5. Rudwick’s reconstruction of the May riot: Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 28–30. 6. Testimony of Edward F. Mason (Secretary, Central Trades and Labor Union (AFL), East St. Louis), 7 November 1917: Select Committee to Investigate Conditions in Illinois and Missouri Interfering with Interstate Commerce between These States, pp. 3172–3173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 196–197, of microfilm collection, The East St Louis Race Riot of 1917, Frederick, MD, University Publications of America, 1985); hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings are referred to as Select Committee, and the microfilm collection is referred to as UPA microfilm collection. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 28–29. 7. East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 May 1917, p. 1. 8. They were Samuel Coppedge and Frank Wadley. The accidental killing of those detectives on 1 July in an encounter with a crowd of African Americans would be used by whites to justify the July riot. For their role in turning back white rioters on 28 May, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 29. See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 May 1917, p. 5. 9. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 29. 10. Testimony of Edward F. Mason, 7 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3172–3173 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 196–197, UPA microfilm collection). 11. For “bad nest,” see testimony of W. H. Mills (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1107 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 191, UPA microfilm collection). As will be seen later, these white men were known to spend time at the saloons in the vicinity of 10th Street and had associations with the notorious Commercial Hotel downtown. See p. 8 of Letter of Military Board of Inquiry to Adjutant General, 2 August 1917 (reel 6, frame 83, UPA microfilm collection; the Board was a military inquiry into the conduct of Illinois National Guardsmen during the East St. Louis race riot). See also the testimony of Calvin Cotton (African American teaming businessman and lay pastor, East St. Louis), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 686 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 710, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 24–25, 38. Additionally, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson (reporter, St Louis Post-Dispatch), 20 October

NOTES

12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

241

1917: Select Committee, p. 314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 344, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Roy Albertson (reporter, East St Louis Daily Journal), 17 July 1917: Hearings of the Labor Committee of the Illinois State Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection); henceforth these hearings are referred to as Council of Defense. For “drunken toughs,” see the testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 May 1917, p. 1. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 31–32. East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 May 1917, p. 1. For “ten or twelve,” see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 17 July 1917: Proceedings before the Board of Inquiry, pp. 339–340 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 432–433, UPA microfilm collection); hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings are referred to as Board of Inquiry. For “drunken joy-riders,” see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 344, UPA microfilm collection). See also the comments of defense attorney Webb during the testimony of Dr. Le Roy N. Bundy (African American dentist, businessman, and politician), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 1188 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 709, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Calvin Cotton, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 672–674 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 695–697, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter (African American physician, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1064–1067, 1081–1083, of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 149–152, 166–168, UPA microfilm collection). For further descriptions of this attack, see the testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1108 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 192, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Noah W. Parden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 770–771 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 283–284, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see James Gladden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 792 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 305, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1108 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 192, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Noah W. Parden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 771–772 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frames 284–285, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38, 115. Testimony of Allen Atkins (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 926–927 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 437–438, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Belle Atkins (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le

242

17.

18.

19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28. 29.

NOTES

Roy Bundy, p. 932 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 443, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Julius May (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 937–938 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 448–449, UPA microfilm collection). For further evidence, see the testimony of James A. Lampley (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, pp. 944–945 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 455–456, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Martha Johnson (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: Transcripts of Hearings: People v. Le Roy Bundy, p. 1079 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 590, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 May 1917, p. 1. See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 477 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 501, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 37. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 549 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 575, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–40. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 360 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 453, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–39. The possibility of the tire having burst is raised by the testimony of Roy Albertson, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 480–481 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 504–505, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 40. Testimony of George E. Popkess (reporter, St Louis Times), 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 404 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 432, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 404 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 432, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 251 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 281, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 403–404 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 431–432, UPA microfilm collection). See the report of the Brockway trial in East St Louis Daily Journal, 25 November 1917, p. 1. See the report of the trial of Richard Brockway in East St Louis Daily Journal, 25 November 1917, p. 1. For “marching,” see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 252 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 252 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 489 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 513, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick’s descriptions: Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 46.

NOTES

243

30. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 44. 31. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 44, 103–106. See also testimony of Dr. C. P. Renner (City Coroner, East St. Louis), 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1230, 1249 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 314, 333, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee pp. 253–256 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 283–286, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Robert J. Baylan (reporter, St Louis Globe-Democrat), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 575–576 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 601–602, UPA microfilm collection). 32. For the description of the women, see the testimony of Frank G. Cunningham (Relay Depot Passenger Association Station Manager, East St. Louis), 19 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 213, 233 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 241, 261, UPA microfilm collection). For “blue-shirted army,” see the testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 417 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 445, UPA microfilm collection). For crowd size see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee p. 253 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 283, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 44–45 for cheering and clapping. 33. Comments of Representative John Raker (Democrat, CA) during the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 328–329 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 359–360, UPA microfilm collection). 34. Comments of Representative Raker (Democrat, CA) during the testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 413 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 441, UPA microfilm collection). 35. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 328–329 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 359–360, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick noted that “not infrequently” African American requests for shelter were refused by whites. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 49. 36. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 87–89. 37. For Rudwick’s work on the behavior of the National Guard, see his chapter on “The Riot and Agencies of Law Enforcement,” in Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 74–94. For the times of the arrival of National Guard companies, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 80. For the deployment of the Guard, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 80–81. For “black skunks . . . ” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 79. For “kill all . . .” and further example of fraternization between guardsmen and rioters, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 258, 262 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 288, 292, UPA microfilm collection). 38. For these quotes, see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 46–47. 39. St Louis Post-Dispatch, pp. 1–2. St Louis Globe-Democrat, pp. 1, 2, 5, 8. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 45. See also the testimony of Gordon Z. Davis (local businessman), 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 511–512 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 606–607, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see

244

40. 41.

42.

43.

44. 45.

46. 47.

48.

NOTES

the testimony of Edward J. Carr (saloonkeeper, Eddie Carr’s, East St. Louis), 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 518 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 613, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Robert J. Baylan, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 578, 604 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 604, 630, UPA microfilm collection). For the time of the lynching and the “heavy act man,” see the testimony of David B. Beatty (shoe merchant, East St. Louis), 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 489–490 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 584–585, UPA microfilm collection). For the body being left suspended, see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1. St Louis Post-Dispatch, pp. 1–2. St Louis Globe-Democrat, pp. 1, 2, 5, 8. See also the report of Colonel S. O. Tripp (Illinois National Guard), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 13 copy of report presented to the Committee hearings (reel 6, frame 13, UPA microfilm collection). See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 48–49, 79. For the view from St. Louis, see Chicago Tribune, 3 July 1917, p. 1. Rudwick noted that to the east of the city the flames were visible from the bluffs above East St. Louis: “[a]n observer in Belleville (the county seat) reported from Signal Hill, ‘the flames shot high into the air and were reflected in Pittsburgh Lake until that body of water at the foot of the bluffs looked like a sheet of fire.’ ” See Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 48–49. The actual death toll is uncertain for the local authorities failed to account officially for many dead African Americans. See chapter 4, “Race Riot: the Conjuncture,” in this book. Jeremy Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics of a South African Racial Massacre,” in The Historical Journal, 42, 4 (1999), pp. 1068–1071. For rumors, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 37. See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 477 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 501, UPA microfilm collection). Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics,” p. 1072. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 360, 549 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 453, 575, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–40. As was noted in chapter 2, the East St. Louis Police Department was overwhelmingly composed of whites: during the Select Committee investigation, Mayor Mollman claimed that six of the sixteen police detectives were African Americans, but that there were no black uniformed officers in a squad of thirty-six men. See the testimony of Fred W. Mollman (Mayor of East St. Louis), 15 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 9–10 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 106–107, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 81, 253. Rudwick noted that some sources suggested that the police force was seventy-strong. However, as Rudwick revealed, this figure included administrative, clerical, janitorial, and other ancillary staff. See also the testimony of William Schmidt (Police Commissioner, East St. Louis), 15 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 90 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 186, UPA microfilm collection), who offers an overly optimistic account of the understaffed police personnel.

NOTES

245

49. Testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 404 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 432, UPA microfilm collection). 50. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 86–87. 51. Testimony of J. McGlynn (attorney, East St. Louis), 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 103–104 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 286–287, UPA microfilm collection). 52. Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. 53. Testimony of Dr. C. P. Renner, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1251 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 335, UPA microfilm collection). 54. Testimony of J. McGlynn, 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 108 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 291, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 88. 55. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 87. 56. For “arsenal,” see the testimony of Thomas L. Fekete (attorney, East St. Louis), 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 22 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 205, UPA microfilm collection). See also Report to Governor, by Colonel S.O. Tripp, Race Riot, East St Louis, Illinois, 25 October 1917, pp. 9–12 (reel 7, frames 9–12, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, Captain J. A. Eaton (Illinois National Guard), 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 135 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 227, UPA microfilm collection). For the invasion rumor, see East St. Louis race riot newspaper clipping file, Missouri Historical Society: p. 18, “Saloons Get Orders.” See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 July 1917, p. 1, in which it was stated that “[r]eports came continually from Brooklyn to the effect that Negroes there were arming and marching to East St. Louis.” 57. Testimony of Captain J. A. Eaton, 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 135 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 227, UPA microfilm collection). 58. Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 18, “Saloons Get Orders.” 59. Testimony of Captain J. A. Eaton, 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 135 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 227, UPA microfilm collection). See also Washington Post, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 60. For “two hundred Negroes” and “combed,” see the testimony of Major William Klauser (Illinois National Guard), 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 460–470 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 564–565, UPA microfilm collection). 61. Chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” in this book. 62. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 75. See also St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. 63. Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 25, “Soldiers Smoke.” See also St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. Additionally, Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 74–77. 64. For this and further examples, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 258, 262 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 288, 292, UPA microfilm collection). 65. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 330 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 423, UPA microfilm collection). 66. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 378 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 408, UPA microfilm collection).

246

NOTES

67. For “circus,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 44. See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 68. Rudwick quotes East St Louis Daily Journal, 5 July 1917. See Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 47–48. 69. Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics,” p. 1072. 70. For “wiped,” see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 251 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 281, UPA microfilm collection). For “clean” see St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. Tripp’s comments from Report to Governor, by Colonel S. O. Tripp, 25 October 1917, p. 20 (reel 6, frame 20, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 48. 71. Testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 399 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 427, UPA microfilm collection). See also C. Cuakenbush (Vice President, St. Clair County Gas and Electric Co.), 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 225 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 317, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 41–57, 67. 72. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 49. 73. For “white man’s town,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 28. For “fumigate,” see Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 27, “Barefoot and in Rags.” 74. Thomas J. Canavan (real estate agent and local Democratic Party politician), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1482 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 562, UPA microfilm collection). 75. St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. 76. Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics,” p. 1073. 77. Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics,” p. 1073. 78. For a history of Brooklyn, Illinois (also called Lovejoy), see Sundiata Keita Cha-Jua, America’s First Black Town: Brooklyn, Illinois, 1830–1915, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 2000. 79. Krikler noted of the attacks on the Rand that much of the violence can be related to an “attempt of some within the white working-class community to root out and extirpate black people in their midst, the people held responsible for the changing world beyond the workplace.” See Krikler, “The Inner Mechanics,” p. 1073. 80. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. 81. Testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1073 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 158, UPA microfilm collection). See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917. 82. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 44. 83. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 103–105. 84. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 254 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 284, UPA microfilm collection). 85. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 47. 86. Testimony of Fred W. Kraut (local real estate agent), 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 258 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 349, UPA microfilm collection). The man, Boehmer, was a clerk at the Beebe’s store. 87. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 161.

NOTES

247

88. Testimony of Philip Wolf (union leader, Aluminum Ore Employees Protective Association), 1 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 2317 of transcripts of hearings (reel 3, frame 368, UPA microfilm collection). See also chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” in this book. 89. See Rudwick’s account of these brutalities in Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 46–47. 90. In this field, Doug McAdam, Sidney Tarrow, and Charles Tilly have recently offered a wide-ranging consideration of approaches to crowd action and contentious politics in a variety of contexts. However, their work does not seem applicable in this case. The examples of collective violence in their work that hold most promise for a comparison with East St. Louis—Hindu–Muslim violence in South Asia, for example—have connections with wider sustained political movements. Furthermore, in the outbreak of violence, East St. Louis conforms more to the “threshold effect” that McAdam, Tilly, and Tarrow have acknowledged but did not seek to address, and seems to stand apart from the concerns of their work on that basis as well. See their Dynamics of Contention, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2001, pp. 126–151, 306–307, 337–340. See also Sidney Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics, 2nd edition, Cambridge and New York, Cambridge University Press, 1998, pp. 6, 14. See also the comments of Paul Brass in his Theft of an Idol: Text and Context in the Representation of Collective Violence, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1997, pp. 9–10. Brass also considers the significance of riot leaders. 91. George Rudé, The Crowd in History: A Study of Popular Disturbances in France and England, 1730–1848, London, Serif, 1995 (originally published by John Wiley and Sons, 1964). In particular, see Rudé’s introduction, pp. 3–15. See Ralph H. Turner and Lewis M. Killian, Collective Behaviour, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, Prentice-Hall, 1972, and Rupert Brown, Group Processes: Dynamics Within and Between Groups, Oxford and Cambridge, Massachusetts Basil Blackwell, 1988. 92. Turner and Killian, Collective Behaviour, pp. 21–24. 93. Brown, Group Processes, pp. 103–121. 94. Turner and Killian, Collective Behaviour, pp. 21–24. 95. Testimony of Robert J. Baylan, 23 October 1917: Select Committee p. 619 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 644 UPA). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 44–47, 225. See also the report of Colonel Tripp, 25 October 1917: p. 13 of copy of report (reel 6, frame 13, UPA microfilm collection). See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 96. Chapter 3, “Popular Culture, Race, and Violence,” in this book. 97. Testimony of Frank J. Hunter (General Manager, Swift and Co., East St. Louis), 18 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 80 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 112, UPA microfilm collection). 98. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 99. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 489 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 513, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick’s descriptions: Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 46.

248

NOTES

100. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 251 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 281, UPA microfilm collection). 101. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 252 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 282, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 489 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 513, UPA microfilm collection). 102. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 44, 103–106. Rudwick renders Gow as Dow. Both are used by the local press. However, the Grand Jury indictment has John Gow: this was the adopted name of John Jankosly. See Grand Jury Indictment, People—vs—Richard Brockway et al, Criminal Records of the Clerk of the Circuit Court, St. Clair County Courthouse, Belleville, Illinois. For Hanna’s occupation, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 353 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 382, UPA microfilm collection). Dorothy Ruth, who knew Hanna, saw him “riding around in a service car he used to operate”: see East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 October 1917, p. 1. See also the testimony of Dr. C. P. Renner, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1230, 1249 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 314, 333, UPA microfilm collection). 103. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 44–45. 104. Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 46–47. 105. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 253–258 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 283–288, UPA microfilm collection). 106. Chicago Tribune, 3 July 1917, p. 2. 107. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 103–106. See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. 108. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 331 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 424, UPA microfilm collection). 109. Testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 384, 394–395 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 412, 422–423, UPA microfilm collection). See also Dr. C. P. Renner, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1236 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 320, UPA microfilm collection). 110. Testimony of Robert J. Baylan, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 578, 604 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 604, 630, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally see Roy Albertson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 492 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 516, UPA microfilm collection). 111. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 264–265 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 294–295, UPA microfilm collection). 112. Testimony of John M. Sullivan (grocer, South 4th St., East St. Louis), 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 279–280 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 373–374, UPA microfilm collection). 113. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 47. For the report, see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. 114. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 115. For “good natured,” see Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 32, “Lynchers Joke.”

NOTES

249

116. For “volley,” see Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 32, “Lynchers Joke.” See also St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. Additionally see the report of Colonel E. P. Clayton (Illinois National Guard), 25 October 1917, pp. 10–12 of copy of report (reel 6, frames 42–44, UPA microfilm collection). 117. The words are those of Salena Hubble, aged 42, who saw the murders at 4th and Broadway. See The Crisis, XIV, September 1917, p. 237. 118. See the report of Colonel S. O. Tripp, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 13 copy of report presented to the Committee hearings (reel 6, frame 13, UPA microfilm collection). 119. Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 32, “Lynchers Joke.” 120. St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 121. Missouri Historical Society clipping file: p. 32,“Lynchers Joke.” Paul Y. Anderson noted that a “small crowd” of “fifteen or twenty” were committing the atrocities, surrounded by a large spectating crowd. See the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 333 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 426, UPA microfilm collection). 122. Testimony of T. L. Fekete, 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 196–197 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 286–287, UPA microfilm collection). 123. Testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 417 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 445, UPA microfilm collection). 124. Testimony of Frank G. Cunningham, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 233 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 261, UPA microfilm collection). 125. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 330, 335 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 423, 428, UPA microfilm collection). 126. East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 November 1917, p. 1; 30 November 1917, p. 1; Chicago Defender, 1 December 1917, p. 1. 127. For these quotations, see the testimony of John M. Sullivan, 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 279–281 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 373–375, UPA microfilm collection). Sullivan also estimated here the older man’s weight at approximately 200 lbs. 128. See Rudwick’s discussion of the trials of these key rioters in Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 99–106. Additionally, for the indictments, see Grand Jury Indictment, People—vs—Richard Brockway et al, Criminal Records of the Clerk of the Circuit Court, St. Clair County Courthouse, Belleville, Illinois. Additionally, for Wood and Keane, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 July 1917, p. 1. Additionally, for Hanna, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 353 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 382, UPA microfilm collection). See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 October 1917, p. 1. Rudwick described Hanna as a “teamster.” See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 103. However, the Chicago Defender more precisely described Hanna as a “driver of a fire service automobile.” See Chicago Defender, 27 October 1917, p. 1. Similarly, the journalist Paul Y. Anderson referred to Hanna as a “chauffeur.” See testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 353 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 382, UPA microfilm collection). 129. For Wood and Keane, see the East St Louis Daily Journal, 11 October 1917, p. 1; 14 October 1917, p. 1; 16 October 1917. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 99–103,

250

130. 131.

132.

133. 134.

135. 136.

137. 138.

139.

NOTES

107–109. Additionally, see the report of Colonel E. P. Clayton, 25 October 1917: p. 11 of copy of report (reel 6, frames 43, UPA microfilm collection). Lieutenant Clayton incorrectly refers to Keane as “King” in his report. For Hanna and Gow, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 October 1917, p. 1. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 103–106. For “into the hands” and “several more,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 October 1917, p. 1. For the trials of these men, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 109–110. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 89. Additionally, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 23 November 1917, p. 1. See also Chicago Defender, 1 December 1917, p. 1. For Tisch, see the testimony of John Eubanks (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1146–1147 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 232–233, UPA microfilm collection). For Otto, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 November 1917, p. 1. Testimony of John Eubanks, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1146–1147 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 232–233, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 109. For these quotations, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 351–352 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 380–381, UPA microfilm collection). Frank G. Cunningham, a local manager who witnessed the riot, claimed that the riot crowd was composed largely of workers whom he described as “the rough element of the East St. Louis people” and the “uncultured, thoughtless, careless class of people.” Cunningham’s language suggests class prejudice. However, it seems unlikely that he would have referred to economically secure skilled workers—some of whom owned homes—in such a fashion. See the testimony of Frank G. Cunningham, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 214 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 242, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 283 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 313, UPA microfilm collection). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 45. William Fitzhugh Brundage suggested of the South in Lynching in the New South: Georgia and Virginia, 1880–1930, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1993, that lynch posses could include a large section of an entire white community, and could involve attacks on a number of African Americans, particularly when responding to allegations that a murder had been committed by an African American. See Brundage, Lynching, pp. 37, 50. Brundage also suggested the importance of a sense of retribution in lynching: see Brundage, Lynching, pp. 18–19, 35. Brundage, Lynching, p. 76. See also pp. 58, 72. Joel Williamson, The Crucible of Race: Black–White Relations in the American South Since Emancipation, New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1984, p. 187. For “riddled,” see St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. For such acts in lynching generally, see Brundage, Lynching, pp. 41–42.

NOTES

251

140. For “pieces of hats,” see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. For “[s]ightseers,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 67. For souvenir hunting in lynching in the South generally, see Brundage, Lyching, pp. 37–38. 141. A claim agent is employed by a railway company to deal with workers making industrial injury insurance claims. This would not necessarily make them sympathetic to workers, and they are sometimes accused of seeking to minimize workers’ claims for the benefit of the employer. For Brockway’s case, see United States—vs—Richard Brockway (commenced 16 November 1916), Records of the US District Court, Eastern District of Illinois, East St. Louis, Criminal Records, Criminal Case Files, Case 3595, Record Group 21, National Archives, Great Lakes Region. Copies of the records have been supplied as a courtesy by the Office of Regional Records Services, National Archives and Records Administration, Great Lakes Region, Chicago, Illinois. 142. Brockway apparently saw Hubert Schaumleffel as a rival. Schaumleffel was the Republican state’s attorney who was said to be “a cog in the TarltonCanavan [Democratic Party] machine,” which was Mayor Mollman’s power base. Brockway later alleged in the course of the criminal trial that fellow Republican Schaumleffel “was actively seeking his conviction” because of political rivalry. See People—vs—Richard Brockway et al, Criminal Records of the Clerk of the Circuit Court, St. Clair County Courthouse, Belleville, Illinois. 143. For “influential,” see the Chicago Defender, 1 December 1917, p. 1. For “prominent,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 21 November 1917, p. 1. 144. For the character witnesses, see People—vs—Richard Brockway et al, Criminal Records of the Clerk of the Circuit Court, St. Clair County Courthouse, Belleville, Illinois. For the composition of the local political establishment by 1917, see chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. For “cog,” see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 184. 145. Chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” in this book. 146. See Brockway’s words cited in Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 107. Rudwick had access to the Brockway trial transcripts, which were unavailable for this study, having been shredded in 1971 when the St. Clair County Court in Belleville, which held the transcripts, relocated to a new building. The new courthouse in Belleville still holds microfilm copies of some indictments and other official papers. 147. Testimony of Calvin Cotton, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 682–683 (reel 1, frames 705–706, UPA microfilm collection). 148. East St Louis Daily Journal, 22 November 1917, p. 1. 149. See the report of the Brockway trial in East St Louis Daily Journal, 25 November 1917, p. 1. See also the reports of the trial in East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 November 1917, p. 1; 15 November 1917, p. 1; 16 November 1917, p. 1; 18 November 1917, p. 1. 150. East St Louis Daily Journal, 14 November 1917, p. 1. See also Chicago Defender, 1 December 1917, p. 1. The Defender stated that Brockway had told the crowd that he was from the South and that he had said that he “knew how Negroes should be treated,” although it seems that this report conflated the words of Brockway and his Southern accomplice.

252

NOTES

151. For “shot and hanged,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 25 November 1917, p. 1. For “heavy act,” see the testimony of David B. Beatty, 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 489–490 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 584–585, UPA microfilm collection). For Brockway’s trial, see the Daily Journal, 25 November 1917, p. 10. See also 21 November 1917, p. 1; 22 November 1917, p. 1; 23 November 1917, p. 1; and 25 November 1917, p. 1. 152. For reports of lynching in the local press, see, e.g., the four reports over a one-month period in East St Louis Daily Journal, 8 September 1912, p. 5; 9 September 1912, p. 1; 11 September 1912, p. 1; 3 October 1912, p. 1. Reports of lynching were not always made this frequently, but did appear regularly in the Daily Journal. Gail Bederman has noted the significance of such Northern newspaper accounts of lynching in the construction of white masculinity. See Gail Bederman, Manliness a Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917, Chicago and London, University of Chicago Press, 1995, pp. 46–53. 153. East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 March 1917, p. 1. There had been a lynching in nearby Belleville, Illinois, in 1903. See Sundiata Keita Cha-Jua, America’s First Black Town: Brooklyn, Illinois, 1830–1915, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 2000, pp. 190–196. 154. Chapter 3, “Popular Culture, Race and Violence,” in this book. The East St Louis Daily Journal had reported that African Americans were “mobilizing” after the 28 May race riot. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 May 1917, p. 1. 155. For “represent” and “relatively comparable,” see the testimony of R. F. Rucker (Assistant Superintendent, Aluminum Ore Company, East St. Louis), 30 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1850–1851 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 930–931, UPA microfilm collection). For the “Mason Dixon line,” see the testimony of Frank E. Nulson (President, Missouri Malleable Iron Co., East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1047 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 132, UPA microfilm collection). 156. For attempted lynching in the past, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 29 July 1914, p. 1; 21 September 1916, p. 1. See also chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. For 28 May, see chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” in this book. 157. Lieutenant Clayton incorrectly refers to Keane as “King” in his report. See the report of Colonel E. P. Clayton, 25 October 1917: p. 11 of copy of report (reel 6, frames 43, UPA microfilm collection). See Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 99–103, 107–109. Additionally, see the newspaper reports of the trials of Wood and Keane in the Daily Journal, 11 October 1917, p. 1; 14 October 1917, p. 1; and 16 October 1917. 158. For the quotations, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 280, 307 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 310, 337, UPA microfilm collection). 159. For “saloon bums,” see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 281 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 311, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson,

NOTES

160.

161. 162.

163. 164. 165.

166. 167.

168.

169. 170. 171.

172. 173.

253

20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 251 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 380, UPA microfilm collection). For “loaf around,” see comments of Representative Ben Johnson (Democrat, KY) during the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 281 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 311, UPA microfilm collection). St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1. See also the testimony of George E. Popkess, 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 418 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 438, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see the testimony of Robert J. Baylan, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 619 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 644, UPA microfilm collection). St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 2. Riot at East St Louis, Illinois: Hearings before the Committee on Rules, House of Representatives, Sixty-Fifth Congress, First Session on HJ Resolution 118, 3 August 1917, Washington DC, Government Printing Office, 1917, pp. 16, 24. Chapter 3, “Popular Culture, Race, and Violence,” in this book. For “dangerous class,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 20 August 1914, p. 1. For “tough element,” see East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1914, p. 1. Testimony of William A. Miller (Manager, Railroad YMCA, East St. Louis), 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4115–4116 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 54–55, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 251 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 380, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Charles E. Rudisill (mechanic, Aluminum Ore Company), 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 521, 526 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 616, 621, UPA microfilm collection). See also chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” in this book. Testimony of Robert E. Conway (General Manager, Armour and Co., East St. Louis), 19 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 166–167 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 194–195, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 31 May 1917, p. 1. Testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection). For “bartender,” see the findings of the Grand Jury, published in the East St Louis Daily Journal, 15 August 1917, p. 1. For the vehicle returning to the Commercial Hotel, see the testimony of George W. Allison (local Baptist minister), 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3544–3546 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 572–574, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4089–4090 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 2–29, UPA microfilm collection). Chapter 3, “Popular Culture, Race, and Violence,” in this book. A jitney is an unlicensed taxi cab. For “service vehicle,” see the findings of the Grand Jury, published in the East St Louis Daily Journal, 15 August 1917, p. 1. Jitney drivers lived on the economic margins. Masserang worked as a jitney driver and had “no regular job,” although he had worked briefly as a railroad

254

174.

175.

176.

177.

178.

179.

NOTES

switchman. See the testimony of Gus Masserang (for the People) 21 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 255–256 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 674–675, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 16 August 1914, p. 1; 17 August 1914, p. 1. See also the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3544 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 572, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Clarence Dixon (caller for Illinois Central Railway and witness for the People) 24 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 594 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 107, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Gus Masserang (for the People) 21 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, pp. 257–260 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 676–679, UPA microfilm collection). George W. Allison claimed that “vehicles,” not merely the automobile owned by the bartender, were seen at the Commercial Hotel that night. See the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 3545 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frame 573, UPA microfilm collection). The evidence pertaining to the involvement of these men in the drive-by attack on the night of 1 July can be found in the witness testimony from the trial of Dr. Le Roy Bundy—the black community leader wrongly convicted in a prejudiced trial for conspiracy to murder Coppedge and Wadley. The prosecution relied in part on the testimony of whites who had been involved in the drive-by attack on Denverside, but who denied their involvement. There is, therefore, a mass of contradictory evidence resulting from the self-serving testimony of these witnesses. However, when these contradictions are ironed out, it appears that some or all of these men met and participated in the driveby attack. Thus, Dixon admitted being at the corner of 10th and Piggott near Charlie Kline’s saloon, with Edmund Shobre, Arthur Metzger (both soldiers), and Gus Masserang but denied being with Dillard, Long, or Leonard. See the testimony of Clarence Dixon (for the People), 24 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, pp. 588, 592–597 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 101, 105–110, UPA microfilm collection). However, Jay Long admitted being with Masserang, two police officers, and two soldiers—perhaps Shobre and Metzger. See the testimony of Jay Long (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 988 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 499, UPA microfilm collection). Masserang admitted seeing Jay Long, Joe Dillard, and Charlie Leonard and his old friend Arthur Metzger on 1 July. See the testimony of Gus Masserang (for the People), 21 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 257, 268–270 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 676, 687–689, UPA microfilm collection). For Masserang’s injuries, see the testimony of Gus Masserang, 21 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 293–294, 300–303 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 712–713, 719–722, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Clarence Dixon (for the People), 24 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, p. 603 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 116, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Gus Masserang (for the People),

NOTES

180.

181.

182. 183.

184. 185.

186.

255

21 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 255–256 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frames 674–675, UPA microfilm collection). According to Masserang, he and Metzger were former school friends. Dixon and Masserang were the same age—26 years old—and may also have grown up together. See the testimony of Gus Masserang (for the People), 21 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 257 of transcripts of hearings (reel 7, frame 676, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Clarence Dixon (for the People), 24 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 588, 592–597 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 101, 105–110, UPA microfilm collection). Dixon lived at 1324 Russell Avenue, just north of the Free Bridge. See the testimony of Clarence Dixon, 24 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 588 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frame 101, UPA microfilm collection). Masserang lived in the same area, at 1112 Piggott Avenue. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1917, p. 1. Jay Long lived at 922 Piggott Avenue in the same area. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 2 July 1917, p. 1. Long was an older man, 45 years old. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 2 July 1917, p. 1. Testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1107 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 191, UPA microfilm collection). See p. 8 of Letter of Military Board of Inquiry to Adjutant General, 2 August 1917 (reel 6, frame 83, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Calvin Cotton, 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 686 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 710, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 24–25, 38. Additionally, see the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 314 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 344, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Roy Albertson, 17 July 1917: Council of Defense, pp. 384, 386 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 457, 459, UPA microfilm collection). East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 October 1917, p. 1; 23 October 1917, p. 1. See the report of Hanna’s trial in East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 October 1971, p. 1. It was claimed during the trial, and reported in the Daily Journal, that Dorothy Ruth was a prostitute (“of questionable character and a frequenter of a questionable house”). For Hanna’s age see East St Louis Daily Journal, 16 October 1917, p. 1. Hanna was in fact tried for his part in the accidental killing of the white hardware merchant William Keyser, although evidence arising in the course of the trial demonstrated his active role in the murders of African Americans on 2 July. He was sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment. See Rudwick’s account of the trial: Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 103–106. East St Louis Daily Journal, 16 August 1917, p. 1. East St Louis Daily Journal, 5 December 1917, p. 1. Originally facing six charges, Braunagel was eventually found guilty of assault to commit murder. See East St Louis Daily Journal, 7 December 1917, p. 1. C. B. Carroll’s East St Louis and East Side Directory, 1905, pp. 474, 1134 (reel 048503, City Directories of the United States microfilm collection, Library of Congress, Washington DC). See also Gould’s East St Louis Directory for 1906, p. 55 (reel 048503, City Directories of the United States microfilm collection,

256

187.

188.

189.

190.

191. 192.

193.

NOTES

Library of Congress, Washington, DC). This is undoubtedly the same Richard Brockway who led the 1917 race riot, for the city directories list no other Richard Brockway. See also the biographical sketch of Richard Brockway (taken from History of St Clair County, 1907, pp. 987–988), St Clair County Genealogical Society, Belleville, Illinois. The History of St Clair County states Brockway’s year of birth as 1871, which would have made him “middle aged”—as the Brockway who led the 1917 race riot was described— by 1917. For Saniki’s role in the riot, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1917, p. 1; East St Louis Daily Journal, 4 December 1917, p. 1. For the withdrawal of Saniki’s saloon license, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 January 1917, p. 1. The J. Saniki referred to in reports on the saloon closures and the aftermath of the race riot is undoubtedly the same man, whose place of residence is given as 315 Bowman Avenue in both cases. East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1917, p. 1. Furthermore, it is possible that the James Schwab of 210 Exchange Avenue in Goose Hill, listed among the rioters, was the same James Schwab whose saloon at 1200 North 3rd Avenue in Goose Hill was listed in the 1906 city directory. See Gould’s East St Louis Directory for 1906, p. 641 (reel 048503, City Directories of the United States microfilm collection, Library of Congress, Washington, DC). See also East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1917, p. 1. Moreover, it will be recalled that one of the vehicles involved in the drive-by attack on Denverside on 1 July was owned by—and probably driven by—a bartender at the Commercial Hotel. Anderson stated: “I think a lot of them [witnesses] are afraid to [give names of those involved].” See the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 358–359 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 387–388, UPA microfilm collection). These are the words of Representative John Raker (Democrat, CA) in the course of Anderson’s evidence. See the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 358–359 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frames 387–388, UPA microfilm collection). Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 185, 201, 203, 209, and 213. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. See the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 4074–4078 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 14–18, UPA microfilm collection). Nor would it be surprising if Anderson—who was familiar with the Valley from his newspaper investigations—recognized particular individuals in the riot but chose not to mention them by name.“Saloon bums” and the hoodlums of the Valley took brutal action against those whom they suspected of exposing their wrongdoing. One reporter, a cartoonist from the St Louis Times, was savagely beaten by hoodlums associated with the European Hotel when he was mistaken for a reporter who had been writing exposés of their illicit business: they “jumped on him and beat him up and caved in some of his ribs.” See the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select

NOTES

194.

195. 196. 197.

198. 199. 200.

201. 202. 203. 204. 205. 206.

207.

208.

209. 210.

257

Committee, p. 4068 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 8, UPA microfilm collection). See also chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. East St Louis Daily Journal, 17 August 1917, p. 1; 22 November 1917, p. 1; 23 November 1917, p. 1; 28 November 1917, p. 1. See also Grand Jury Indictment, People—vs—Richard Brockway et al, Criminal Records of the Clerk of the Circuit Court, St. Clair County Courthouse, Belleville, Illinois. Ortigier is also named in the evidence as Charles Artigier. For the quotation, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 28 November 1917, p. 1. Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 2. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 48. Additionally, see St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. Testimony of Robert E. Johns (Carpenters’ Union business agent, East St. Louis), 14 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4355 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 296, UPA microfilm collection). Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 May 1917, p. 1; 29 May 1917, p. 5. East St Louis Daily Journal, 18 May 1917, p. 1; 29 May 1917, p. 5. See also the testimony of William A. Miller, 13 November 1917: Select Committee, p. 4096 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frame 35, UPA microfilm collection). Miller noted that the saloons were “mostly colored.” Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 2. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 48. Additionally, see St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 46. Rudwick here quotes the St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917 (page number not given). Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 44. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 45. Iver Bernstein, The New York City Draft Riots, New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1990, p. 37. Dominc J. Capeci and Martha Wilkerson, Layered Violence: The Detroit Rioters of 1943, Jackson and London, University Press of Mississippi, 1991, p. 69. See, generally, pp. 69–73. For example, while the Select Committee investigation produced thousands of pages of transcripts of the testimony, these barely touched upon issues clearly concerning women specifically. Moreover, there was only one woman to appear during the investigation—Mineola Magee, a young black woman who testified in a mere six pages about the moment during the race riot when she was shot and seriously wounded by white National Guardsmen. See the testimony of Mineola Magee (no occupation given), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1346–1373 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 458–464, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Frank G. Cunningham, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 213, 233 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 241, 261, UPA microfilm collection). For this quotation, see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 1. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 1. The Chicago Tribune also reported that “a [white] woman in the crowd who was armed with a butcher’s knife

258

211. 212. 213.

214.

215.

216. 217.

218. 219.

NOTES

proposed to ‘cut out his [an African American man’s] black heart,’ but was stopped by men.” See Chicago Tribune, 3 July 1917, p. 2. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 1. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 2. It was surely the case in the meatpacking industry in East St. Louis—as James Barrett has shown was the case in Chicago—that women workers faced open sexual discrimination and were confined to the lowest paid occupations, for example. See Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 51–53. Barrett noted the work of Alma Herbst, who demonstrated that “the industry’s high labor turnover was concentrated within a fairly small segment of the labor force consisting largely of foreign-born women and blacks.” See Barrett, Work and Community, pp. 52–53. When the East St. Louis manager of Armour and Co. spoke of giving “preference” to “the white man” when hiring, he certainly had in mind men specifically. See the testimony of Robert E. Conway, 19 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 141 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 174, UPA microfilm collection). For the United States generally, see Alice Kessler-Harris, Out to Work: A History of Wage-Earning Women in the United States, Oxford and New York, Oxford University Press, 1982, pp. 171–179, 187–214. For the position of black women, see Kessler-Harris, Out to Work, pp. 137, 140, 161. For the position of women in the United States generally, see also Philip S. Foner, History of the Labor Movement in the United States, Vol. III, The Policies and Practices of the American Federation of Labor, 1900–1909, New York, International Publishers, 1964, pp. 18–19. Foner noted that during this period,“Employers discriminated against women by paying them less for the same work than they paid men.” Testimony of Earl W. Jimerson (Amalgamated Meat Cutters and Butcher Workmen union representative, East St. Louis), 8 September 1919, pp. 2178–2179 of transcripts of hearings, Case Files, Dispute Case 33–864, Federal Mediation and Conciliation Service, Record Group 280, National Archives, Building, College Park, Maryland. Alice Kessler-Harris observed that women’s wage-earning provided a most necessary income for working-class families. See Kessler-Harris, Out to Work, p. 122. See also generally, pp. 75–214. Kessler-Harris, Out to Work, p. 137. Kessler-Harris, Out to Work, p. 137. Likewise, white women in San Francisco refused to work alongside Chinese women, for it was said to be “degrading” for the white women. While, in the South, employers forbade black women from some jobs because they sought to attract whites and discrimination of this sort was seen as guaranteeing the “propriety” of employment. See Kessler-Harris, Out to Work, pp. 137, 140. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 22. For both quotations, see Barrett, Work and Community, p. 103. For the difficulties faced by working-class women who had to balance housework with wage work, see Kessler-Harris, Out to Work, pp. 120–121. Philip Foner noted of the United States generally during this period that “night work for women was general practice. Many women worked night shifts in book binderies and laundries, in candy, paper box, and garment factories . . . . Many women with

NOTES

220.

221. 222.

223. 224.

225. 226. 227.

228. 229. 230. 231. 232. 233. 234.

235. 236. 237.

259

a home and children to care for slept only four hours a day.” See Foner, Labor Movement, p. 19. The statistics are for males and females aged ten years or above. See United States Bureau of Census, 13th census (1910), Reports, volume IV, Population Occupation Statistics, Government Printing Office, Washington, DC, 1914, p. 226. Brundage, Lynching, pp. 37–38. Brundage, Lynching, p. 40. Brundage noted, “[s]ome spectators may have been shocked and disgusted by the violence . . . but it was their visible, explicit, public act of participation and not their ambiguous, private sentiment” that bound the community. Cecilia Elizabeth O’Leary, To Die For: The Paradox of American Patriotism, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1999, p. 226. O’Leary, To Die For, p. 226. Pearl of the Army was shown in East St. Louis at the Grand Theatre. See, e.g., the advertisement for the twelfth episode in the East St Louis Daily Journal, 10 May 1917, p. 3. For an advertisement and précis of Womanhood: The Glory of the Nation, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 27 May 1917, p. 6. Chapter 2, “The Structure of Power,” in this book. Testimony of Edward J. Carr, 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 518 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 613, UPA microfilm collection). Eddie Carr’s saloon offered patrons a board upon which sports news and results would be posted, inviting patrons to “step in and watch the scores.” It also offered a free lunch and probably had more of the atmosphere associated with the type of saloon seen as the “poor man’s club.” See advertisement for Eddie Carr’s in the East St Louis Daily Journal, 9 April 1916, p. 6. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 323 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 416, UPA microfilm collection). St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 331 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 424, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Fred W. Kraut (real estate agent) 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 255 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 349, UPA microfilm collection). Chicago Tribune, 3 July 1917, p. 2. See also The Crisis, XIV, September 1917, p. 224. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1. The witness stated, “I would say they were whores.” See the testimony of Gordon Z. Davis, 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 511 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 606, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Gordon Z. Davis, 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 512 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 607, UPA microfilm collection). St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. Large, heavy brass beer taps were, of course, to be found in the many saloons in East St. Louis. Again, see the testimony of Myrtle Gardner (former prostitute, East St. Louis), 16 November 1917: Subcommittee of the Select Committee, pp. 3, 8–11, 29–30 of transcripts of hearings (reel 5, frames 610, 615, 618, 636–637, UPA microfilm collection).

260

NOTES

238. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 5. 239. The Crisis, XIV, September 1917, p. 228. 240. Riot at East St Louis, Illinois: Hearings before the Committee on Rules, House of Representatives, Sixty-Fifth Congress, First Session on HJ Resolution 118, 3 August 1917, Washington, DC, Government Printing Office, 1917, p. 24. 241. See p. 6 of report on East St. Louis race riot attached to letter, Hallie E. Queen to Senator Lawrence Y. Sherman, 20 August 1917, folder 7, box 133, Lawrence Y. Sherman papers, Illinois State Historical Library, Springfield, Illinois. 242. Dr. C. P. Renner, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1236 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 320, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 48. 243. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 262 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 292, UPA microfilm collection). 244. O’Leary, To Die For, pp. 91–109. 245. Riot at East St Louis, Illinois: Hearings before the Committee on Rules, House of Representatives, Sixty-Fifth Congress, First Session on HJ Resolution 118, 3 August 1917, Washington, DC, Government Printing Office, 1917, p. 16. See also p. 6 of report on East St. Louis race riot attached to letter, Hallie E. Queen to Senator Lawrence Y. Sherman, 20 August 1917, folder 7, box 133, Lawrence Y. Sherman papers, Illinois State Historical Library, Springfield, Illinois. 246. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. 247. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. 248. Chicago Tribune, 3 July 1917, p. 2. 249. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. 250. Work by Jeremy Krikler on white women in the Rand Revolt—which considers the stripping of white male strikebreakers—has drawn the present writer’s attention to the significance of stripping as a means of forced humiliation in a different context and with different gender dynamics. See Jeremy Krikler, “Women, Violence and the Rand Revolt of 1922,” in Journal of Southern African Studies, 22, 3 (September 1996), pp. 349–372. See esp. p. 356. 251. The “barefoot can dance,” for example, caused a stir in Chicago during the early 1900s. See Perry R. Duis, The Saloon: Public Drinking in Chicago and Boston, 1880–1920, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1999 (1983), p. 262. For the East St. Louis social reformer George Allison, the way in which local women dressed at local dance halls—which he plainly felt to be inappropriately immodest—was part of the overall context of “indecency.” The sight of “young people—girls 13, 14, 15, 16 years old, in short dresses, middies, hair ribbons . . . dancing in the midst of drunken revelry—a horrible thing” elicited comment, as did the sight of eighteen- or nineteen-year-old women “with knee dresses on.” See the testimony of George W. Allison, 9 November 1917: Select Committee, pp. 3502–3503 of transcripts of hearings (reel 4, frames 530–531, UPA microfilm collection). 252. St Louis Globe-Democrat, 4 July 1917, pp. 1, 7. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 69–73.

NOTES

261

253. See Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2, 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1964, pp. 95–132. See also House Document 1231, 65th Congress, 2nd Session, East St Louis Race Riots: Report of the Special Committee Authorized by Congress to Investigate the East St Louis Race Riots, Washington, DC, Government Printing Office, 1918, pp. 2–9, 20–23. See also Chicago Defender, 1 December 1917, p. 1. Ida B. Wells was dismayed by the actions of State’s Attorney Edward Brundage and “never forgave him” for treating the white rioters with less severity than the African Americans who were alleged “conspirators.” See Patricia A. Schechter, Ida B. Wells-Barnett and American Reform, 1880–1930, Chapel Hill and London, University of North Carolina Press, 2001, p. 154.

6 “Hot Lead from the Race Quarters”: Black East St. Louis and Self-Defense 1. Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917, Chicago and London, University of Chicago Press, 1995, pp. 46–53, 71. See generally, pp. 45–76. 2. For “[b]arefoot,” see Missouri Historical Society Clipping File, “Barefoot and in Rags.” For other quotes, see St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, pp. 1–2. 3. For “herded” and “brought in,” see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 5. For “thirty,” see St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 2. See also St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1. 4. The first quote is from Missouri Historical Society Clipping File, “Col. Tripp Saves and ‘Uncle Tom’ ”; the second is from The St Louis Post-Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 1, and the third is from the St Louis Globe-Democrat, 3 July 1917, p. 8. 5. St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917. 6. Elliott M. Rudwick, Race Riot at East St Louis, July 2, 1917, Cleveland and New York, World Publishing Co., 1964, p. 57. See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 53, 56. 7. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 53–54. 8. See the map section in this book. For areas devastated by the rioters, see East St Louis Daily Journal, 3 July 1917, p. 1 and St Louis Globe-Democrat, 4 July 1917, pp. 1, 7. A National Guardsman later noted that in what he described as “quite a colored district” in Denverside, south of Bond Avenue and between 26th St. and 35th St., only two houses had been set alight by whites. See the testimony of Captain Fred L. Dewey (Illinois National Guard), 15 July 1917: Proceedings before the Board of Inquiry, p. 97 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 191 of microfilm collection, The East St Louis Race Riot of 1917, Frederick, MD, University Publications of America, 1985); hereafter, the microfilm collection is referred to as UPA microfilm collection and the transcripts of these hearings are referred to as Board of Inquiry. The Board was an inquiry into the conduct of Illinois National Guardsmen during the East St. Louis race riot.

262

NOTES

9. Testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter (African American physician, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee to Investigate Conditions in Illinois and Missouri Interfering with Interstate Commerce between These States, p. 1073 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 158, UPA microfilm collection); hereafter, the transcripts of these hearings are referred to as Select Committee. enverside was seen as the black district of East St. Louis by whites. See the testimony of Roy Albertson (reporter, East St Louis Journal), 22 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 492 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 516, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Captain Fred L. Dewey, 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 97 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 193, UPA microfilm collection). 10. Sundiata Keita Cha-Jua, “ ‘A Warlike Demonstration’: Legalism, Armed Resistance, and Black Political Mobilization in Decatur, Illinois, 1894–1898,” Journal of Negro History, 83, 1 (Winter 1998), p. 67. 11. Timothy B. Tyson, “ ‘Black Power’ and the Roots of the Freedom Struggle,” Journal of American History, 85 (September 1998), p. 545. 12. Leon F. Litwack, Trouble in Mind: Black Southerners in the Age of Jim Crow, New York, Random House, 1999, pp. 422–430. See also Herbert Shapiro, White Violence and Black Response from Reconstruction to Montgomery, Amherst, University of Massachusetts Press, 1988, pp. 93–96, 119. Additionally, see Stewart E. Tolnay and E. M. Beck, A Festival of Violence: An Analysis of Southern Lynchings, 1882–1930, Urbana and Chicago, University of Illinois Press, 1995, pp. 209–210. Although Tolnay and Beck suggested that resistance “sometimes exacted a ghastly price,” in the form of white reprisals, they conceded Herbert Shapiro’s suggestion that black resistance was a “relatively frequent,” and that “Southern mobs were sometimes dissuaded [from attacking] when they encountered resistance.” 13. Shapiro, White Violence, pp. 41–42. 14. Litwack, Trouble in Mind, pp. 423–424. 15. Litwack, Trouble in Mind, pp. 423–424. For Wells, see Alfreda M. Duster (ed.), Crusade for Justice: the Autobiography of Ida B. Wells, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1970, pp. 383–395. 16. Charles Crowe, “Racial Massacre in Atlanta,” in Journal of Negro History, 54 (April 1969), p. 165. 17. Crowe, “Racial Massacre,” pp. 165–166, 157. 18. Crowe, “Racial Massacre,” pp. 166, 168. Italics added for emphasis. Herbert Shapiro has emphasized that the “residents of Brownsville [were] determined they would protect themselves” and returned fire. See Shapiro, White Violence, pp. 100–101. 19. William Tuttle, Race Riot: Chicago in the Red Summer of 1919, New York, Atheneum, 1970, pp. 33–34, 40. 20. Interestingly, such a strategy was adopted by the Asian British community of Burnley during disturbances in that city in 2002. Facing attack on their community by gangs of politically organized racists, local Asian men armed themselves with improvised clubs, cricket bats, machetes, axes, and swords and

NOTES

21. 22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35.

36.

263

patrolled the perimeter of their neighborhood of Daneshouse. “It was necessary we were there,” one of the group later stated, “If we hadn’t been there the same thing would have happened as happened in Burley Wood and the town center. If racists had got into Daneshouse everything would have been destroyed. I have no regrets. I would do it again.” See The Guardian, 11 October 2002, p. 8. Chicago Defender, 7 July 1917, p. 1, as cited in Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 55. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 54–55. Rudwick counted nine white fatalities in the race riot in his work. Testimony of Dr. Albert B. McQuillan (physician, Aluminum Ore Co., East St. Louis), 29 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1693 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 774, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Thomas J. Canavan (real estate agent and local Democratic Party politician), 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1424–1428 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 508–512, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Thomas J. Canavan, 27 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1424–1428 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 508–512, UPA microfilm collection). St Louis Post Dispatch, 3 July 1917, p. 2, and St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. The St Louis Republic claimed that its reporters were the only white journalists to enter Denverside on 2 July. Consequently, they may have been better placed to report on black resistance in this neighborhood than journalists from other newspapers who focused on the downtown area. See St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. Testimony of Major William Klauser (Illinois National Guard), 18 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 472 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 566, UPA microfilm collection). The St Louis Argus, 5 July 1917, p. 1. Unfortunately the Argus did not elaborate further. St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 1. St Louis Republic, 3 July 1917, p. 5. See p. 2 of appendix of Hallie Queen’s report to Senator Lawrence Y. Sherman: Lawrence Y. Sherman papers, Box 133, Illinois State Historical Library. See chapter 4, “Race Riot: The Conjuncture,” and chapter 5, “Anatomy of the Killing,” in this book. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 24–25. Testimony of Calvin Cotton (African American teaming businessman and lay pastor, East St. Louis), 23 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 686 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 710, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of W. H. Mills (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1107 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 191, UPA microfilm collection). Interestingly, Mills noted that it was his neighbors, rather than the police department, who alerted him to these attacks. Testimony of Matt Hayes (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, p. 773 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frame 246, UPA microfilm

264

37.

38.

39.

40.

NOTES

collection). See also the testimony of Frank Reedy (for the People), 18 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 214–215 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frames 633–634, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 38. Testimony of John M. Hubert (for the People) 18 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, p. 111 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frame 530, UPA microfilm collection). Hubert estimated that this took place at approximately eight o’clock in the evening. Rudwick placed the event at between nine and ten o’clock. See Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 38. Testimony of Mary Fisher (for the People), 18 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, pp. 135–138 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frames 555–558, UPA microfilm collection). Mary Fisher was a white resident of Denverside who stood as a witness for the prosecution in the Bundy trial, and her testimony must, therefore, be treated with a degree of caution. The prosecution sought to prove that Bundy had been involved in a conspiracy—organizing an armed uprising of African Americans—which resulted in the shooting of officer Coppedge on the night of 1 July. Many white residents of Denverside resented the presence of African Americans in the neighborhood, and surely resented Bundy—a successful African American professional and businessman. Yet, although the defense attorney sought to undermine the evidence of another prosecution witness by suggesting that he had a grudge against African Americans, no such suggestion was made about Mary Fisher. Moreover, her evidence fits with that of the defense witness Matt Hayes, who recalled how African Americans had stated an intention to confront the white gangs after hearing of the attacks. See the testimony of Matt Hayes (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 773 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frame 246, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 112–113. For “run[ning],” see the testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1108 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 192, UPA microfilm collection). For “the negroes,” see the testimony of Noah W. Parden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 771–772 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frames 284–285, UPA microfilm collection). See also Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38, 115. During Bundy’s trial, the question of the timing of the ringing of the bell was controversial. Both prosecution and defense agreed that a bell had been rung that night. The disagreement concerned timing. The prosecution contended that the bell had been rung before any shots were fired, to summon armed African Americans for an uprising. The defense contended that the bell had been rung after shots had been fired by the white gang. The timing provided by the prosecution witnesses may be discarded: the key witness Ed Wilson had been intimidated by the police: defense witness J. C. Hennington was told by Wilson that the police had “beat [him] up and knocked and cuffed [him] around” and forced him to lie under oath to build a case against Bundy. See the testimony of J. C. Hennington (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: People— vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 854 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frames 367–368, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Ed Wilson (for the People),

NOTES

41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

47.

48.

49.

50.

265

21 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 395–396 of trail transcripts (reel 7, frames 811–812, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 113–114. Other prosecution witnesses, John and Barbara Stapp, made a failed attempt to provide a distorted version of events. The defense attorney put it to John Stapp that his testimony was unreliable because “you are unfriendly to the colored people in that neighborhood . . . because they are living about you.” See the comments of Thomas Webb during the testimony of John Stapp (for the People), 18 March 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, p. 61 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frame 482, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of Barbara Stapp (for the People), 18 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, pp. 104–109 of trial transcripts (reel 7, frames 523–528, UPA microfilm collection). For the defense’s version of events, see, e.g., the testimony of Allen Atkins (for the Defendant), 26 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, pp. 926–927 of transcripts of hearings (reel 8, frames 437–438, UPA microfilm collection). Additionally, see Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–39, 113–115. It was, of course, at 10th and Bond Avenue where the group met the unmarked police car carrying the white detectives Coppedge and Wadley. See chapter 5, “Anatomy of the Killing,” in this book. Rudwick, Race Riot, p. 115. Rudwick, Race Riot, pp. 38–39, 115. Chapter 5, “Anatomy of the Killing,” in this book. Testimony of Paul Y. Anderson (reporter, St Louis Post-Dispatch), 17 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, pp. 339–341 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frames 432–434, UPA microfilm collection). Anderson’s testimony has a degree of credibility. He had witnessed the atrocities at 4th and Broadway on 2 July, condemned the rioters utterly, and cannot be seen as a hostile witness. Testimony of N. W. Parden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: People—vs— Le Roy Bundy, pp. 764–765 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frames 277–278, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of William Gladden (for the Defendant), 25 March 1919: People— vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 796, 799 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frames 309, 312, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of William W. Buchanan (for the Defendant), 25 March, 1919: People—vs—Le Roy Bundy, pp. 825–827 of trial transcripts (reel 8, frames 338–340, UPA microfilm collection). Although a detachment of three or four National Guardsmen was sent to the viaduct leading to the Free Bridge, given the number of guardsmen who deserted their posts that day, and given the clashes between whites and blacks that took place at this area, it seems most unlikely that the Guardsmen remained on patrol. Testimony of Thomas Fekete (Illinois National Guard), 16 July 1917: Board of Inquiry, p. 102 of transcripts of hearings (reel 6, frame 198, UPA microfilm collection). For “Bridge of Mercy,” see p. 6 of report on East St. Louis race riot attached to letter, Hallie E. Queen to Senator Lawrence Y. Sherman, 20 August 1917, folder 7, Box 133, Lawrence Y. Sherman papers, Illinois State Historical Library,

266

51. 52.

53. 54. 55.

56. 57.

58. 59.

NOTES

Springfield, Illinois. For “army of refugees,” see Missouri Historical Society newspaper clipping file, “Fleeing Blacks Use Free Bridge.” See also the testimony of Paul Y. Anderson, 20 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 254 of transcripts of hearings (reel 1, frame 314, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1123 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 207, UPA microfilm collection). These quotes are all taken from the testimony of John Eubanks (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 26 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1148 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 234, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of John Eubanks, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1146–1147 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 232–233, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of John Eubanks, 26 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1148 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 234, UPA microfilm collection). For police officer numbers, see p. 3 of report of the Board of Inquiry (reel 6, frame 78, UPA microfilm collection). For actions of police officers, see the testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1110 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 194, UPA microfilm collection). See also the testimony of W. Green (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1123 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 207, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of W. H. Mills, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1110 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 194, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Otto Nelson (African American police officer, East St. Louis), 26 October 1917: Select Committee, pp. 1306–1307 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frames 389–390, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1073 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 158, UPA microfilm collection). Testimony of Dr. Thomas G. Hunter, 25 October 1917: Select Committee, p. 1075 of transcripts of hearings (reel 2, frame 160, UPA microfilm collection).

Epilogue: The Case for Reparations 1. For a summary of this, see Alfred L. Brophy, Reconstructing Dreamland: The Tulsa Riot of 1921: Race, Reparations and Reconciliation, Oxford and New York, Oxford University Press, 2002, pp. 102–119. See also Alberto B. Lopez, “Focusing the Reparations Debate Beyond 1865,” in Tennessee Law Review, 69, 3 (Spring 2002), pp. 653–676. 2. See Michael D’Orso, Like Judgment Day: The Ruin and Redemption of a Town Called Rosewood, New York, Putnam and Co., 1996. 3. See D’Orso, Judgement Day, pp. 206–207. 4. Scott Ellsworth, Death in a Promised Land: The Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, Baton Rouge, Louisiana State University Press, 1982, pp. 1–7, 45–70. See also Brophy, Dreamland, generally.

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5. See Brophy, Dreamland, pp. 88–102, 117. Follow developments in the New York Times, 20 March 1999, section A, p. 14; 19 December 1999, section 6, p. 64; 5 February 2000, section 6, p. 1; 1 March 2001, section A, p. 12; 16 March 2003, section 4, p. 12; 23 March 2004, section A, p. 21. 6. See Brophy, Dreamland, See also the Final Report of the Oklahoma Commission to Study the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921, which is published online at www. ok-history.mus. ok.us/trrc/freport.htm p. 117. 7. See Brophy, Dreamland, For the Supreme Court, see Washington Post, 31 May 2005, p. A03, p. 117. 8. Senate Journal, State of Illinois, Ninety-Second General Assembly, 5th Legislative Day (20 February 2001), pp. 8–10. 9. House Document 1231, 65th Congress, 2nd Session, East St Louis Race Riots: Report of the Special Committee Authorized by Congress to Investigate the East St Louis Race Riots, Washington, DC, Government Printing Office, 1918, pp. 20–21. 10. This compensation was made possible at the time, as Alfred Brophy has noted in his work on reparations, because an Illinois state law of 1905 held municipalities liable for lynching and race riots. See Brophy, Dreamland, pp. 107–108. Brophy cites “Paying the Piper,” in Black Dispatch 4 (15 July 1921): “Recent Press stories chronicle the fact that during this month the city of East St. Louis pays out $454,000 in liquidation of the damage claims growing out of the race riot occurring there four years ago.” See also Chicago Defender, 16 July 1921, p. 1. The Defender noted: “There were many blocks of property burned [in East St. Louis] that were owned by members of the Race.” 11. New York Times, 27 March 2002, Section B, p. 2; 31 March 2002, Section 4, p. 9. 12. Sherrilyn A. Ifill, “Creating a Truth and Reconciliation Commission for Lynching,” in Law and Equality, XXI, 2 (Summer 2003), pp. 263–311. 13. James H. Madison, A Lynching in the Heartland: Race and Memory in America, New York and Houndmills, Palgrave MacMillan, 2003, pp. 147–152. 14. St Louis Post-Dispatch, 2 July 2004, p. BO1.

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Index

Page numbers with n indicate entry appears in note African Americans, see Black East St. Louis Allison, George W., 60, 75 Aluminum Ore Company, 9, 17, 92 employs private detectives, 103 foments racial divisions, 95–97 rifles obtained illegally for, 99 union busting, see Fox, Charles B. see also Strikes Aluminum Ore Employees Protective Association, see Labor unions American Federation of Labor (A.F.L.), 89, 90, 93, 97, 105, 107, 116 racial discrimination, 35–38, 93, 117 American Steel, 35 Anderson, Paul Y., 82, 128, 147–148, 151, 172 Anti-vice campaign, 61–62 Armour meatpacking plant, 9, 15–16, 35

jobs and discrimination, 34–38 labor unions, 35–38, 91, 94–95, 97–98 living conditions, 23–24 local politics, 46–48, 50 migration, 10, 48–49, 110 national politics, 48–51 Odd Fellows, 172–173 self-defense, 165–173 St. Clair County Republican League, 47–48 see also Denverside Blackface minstrelsy, 70–72 Bluitt, Lyman B. (Dr.), 47, 112 Braunagel, Joseph ‘Fat’, 150 Brockway, Richard, 144–146, 150 Brundage, William Fitzhugh, 144 Bundy, Le Roy, (Dr.), 47, 94, 171–172 Bureau of Investigation, 104

Barrett, James R., 76, 95–96, 203n Bederman, Gail, 163 Bernstein, Iver, 152 Birth of a Nation, The, 72–74, 146 Black East St. Louis accusations of complicity in vote fraud, 48–50 accusations of criminality, 51, 53, 117 accusations of ‘crowding out’ whites, 52, 110–111 black police officers, 173–174 electoral strength, 47–49

Canavan, Thomas J., 47–48, 52, 57, 60, 76, 110, 112, 168 Capeci, Dominic J., 152 Central Trades and Labor Union, see East St. Louis Central Trades and Labor Union Cha-Jua, Sundiata Keata, 165 Chamberlin, John, (Mayor), 44, 62 Chamber of Commerce, East St. Louis, 44, 90, 99–100 Chicago, Illinois, 34, 36–37, 66–67; see also Race riots

280

INDEX

Cinema, see The Birth of a Nation City Hall political contests and factions, 42–48 and vice, 55–58, 60–61, 76 and white working class community, 45–46 Clark, Scott, 129 Clayton, E. P., (Colonel), 129 Colonization conspiracy, 48–51 Commercial Hotel, 57–58, 61, 63, 82, 149–151 Conway, Robert, 34, 107 Cook, Edward, 150 Cook, Silas, (Mayor), 43, 46, 58, 60, 145 Coppedge, Samuel, see Coppedge and Wadley Coppedge and Wadley, 127, 144, 146, 171 Cotton Seed Oil Company plant, 37, 98 Crowe, Charles, 166–167 Democratic Party city politics, 41–43 disfranchisement, 49–50 national politics, 48–51 Tarlton-Democrats faction, 42, 47–48 see also Colonization conspiracy Denverside, 23–24, 110, 111, 136, 149 during the 1917 riot, 165, 168, 172–175 shooting of Coppedge and Wadley in, 123, 171 East St. Louis Central Trades and Labor Union, 116, 117 East St. Louis race riot, see Race riots Elections general election of 1916, 48–50 municipal, 42–48 see also, Colonization conspiracy; Vote fraud Eubanks, John, 174 European Hotel, 61

‘Fats’ Johnson, 61 First World War, 99, 102 demonstrations of loyalty, 102, 104 ‘pro-German’ accusations, 100, 102–104, 106 see also White womanhood Flannigen, Alexander, 118 Fox, Charles B., 31, 92–93, 96 president of Chamber of Commerce, 100 role in breaking Aluminum Ore strike, 99–101, 103–107 see also Aluminum Ore Company; Strikes Free Bridge, 149, 170 as an escape route from the 1917 riot, 173–174 Gambling, 56–60, 62 Gerold, Fred, 41 Gilmore, Al Tony, 68 Gow, John, 140, 150 Halpern, Rick, 34, 36, 66, 89, 95–96, 109, 202n, 203n Hanna, Charles, 140, 150 Housing conditions (East St. Louis), 20–24 Hunter, Thomas G., (Dr.), 69, 175 Immigrants German-Americans, 12–15; see also First World War Irish-Americans, 12–15, 21 “New immigrants,” 12–18, 22–23, 26 “Old immigrants,” 12–15, 26 see also Working class Immigration, 10–15 Importation conspiracy, 116–117 Industrial expansion, 7–10 Interstate Detective Agency, 103–104 Jimerson, Earl W., 94 Johnson, Jack, 68–69

INDEX

Johnson, John, 143 Judicial corruption, 59 Keane, Leo A., 143, 147 Kerr, Harry, 37, 44, 121 Kline Saloon, 149 Krikler, Jeremy M., 88–89, 114–115, 121, 131, 133–134 Labor (composition of local labor force), 14–18; see also Working class Labor unions, 89 Aluminum Ore, 92–93, 95, 103, 108 meat packers, 90 racial discrimination, 35–38, 93–94, 96–97, 117 track workers, 90 see also American Federation of Labor; Strikes Liquor lobby, 58 Living standards, see Standard of living Lynching, 54–55, 144–147 David F. Wyatt, 54 Mason, Edward F., 44, 53, 113, 117, 121 Masserang, Gus, 149, 171 Meatpacking industry in East St. Louis, 8, 15–16; see also Armour meatpacking plant; Morris meatpacking plant; National City; Swift meatpacking plant Migration, see Black East St. Louis Miller, William A., 59, 61, 81 Minstrel shows, see Blackface minstrelsy Missouri Malleable Iron Company, 9, 17, 53, 102–103 Mob (the riot mob core), 145 Mollman, Fred W., (Mayor), 41–42, 44, 47–48, 56 accused of encouraging black migration, 118 intervenes in strikes, 107

281

links with Black community, 50–51 links with vice businesses, 58, 63, 76, 151 Monkey Cage saloon, 58, 60 Morris meatpacking plant, 35, 94 Mulconnery, William J. (Sheriff), 62 National City, 8, 31 National Guard break up strike meeting, 108 escort black workers, 109 role in July race riot, 129, 132–133 used to protect factories in East St. Louis, 99, 105–106 Neighborhoods, location and character, 19–24 Organized crime, 57–61, 76, 78, 81 Otto, Edward, 143 Parden, Noah W., 47–48, 171 Payne, Ransom, (Chief of Police), 61 Police Department, East St. Louis accusations of black criminality, 120 complicity in the 1917 race riot, 128, 131–132 racial discrimination, 51, 53, 55, 122 role in strike breaking, 105, 120 and vice, 57–59, 61, 76 white workers appeal to, 120 Popkess, George E., 127 Population growth, East St. Louis, 10–11 ‘Potts’ Nevins, George, 58, 60, 79 Poverty, see Standard of living Prostitutes, role in riot, 156–159 Prostitution, 56–60, 62 Queen, Hallie, 147, 169, 173 Race Riots Atlanta, Georgia (1906), 2, 166–167, 170 Chicago, Illinois (1919), 2, 167–168, 170

282

INDEX

Race Riots—continued East St. Louis, Illinois (28 May 1917), 106–108, 118, 122 East St. Louis, Illinois (2 July 1917), 127–130: collective behavior, 137–142; “crowd” and “mob” discussed, 138–139, 142–144; location of attacks, 134–137; riot “mob,” composition, 144–152, 156–159; see also Reparations movement Racial attacks, 111, 122, 125–126, 170 Rand Revolt, South Africa (1922), 88–89, 114–115, 121, 130–131, 133–134, 135–136 Reparations, 183–191 Rosewood, Florida, 183–184 Tulsa, Oklahoma, 184–186 Republican Party local politics, 48 Rodenberg, William A., 42, 49 Rodenberger, William, 41 Roediger, David R., 70, 204n Rosewood, Florida, see Reparations Rosselli, Nick, 57, 62, 76, 82, 149 ‘Rube’, see Blackface Minstrelsy Rucker, Raymond F., 30, 52, 69, 92, 95 Rudé, George, 138 Rudwick, Elliott M., 10, 32, 50, 51, 53, 58–59, 128, 131, 153 account of black migration discussed, 39, 115–117 account of black response to the riot discussed, 164–168, 171–172 account of city politics discussed, 40–43 account of labor disputes during 1917 discussed, 95, 97, 98, 99 account of the 1917 riot discussed, 87–89, 137–138, 152 account of urban change discussed, 109–111, 113 Rumors of black “criminality,” 51, 53, 121 of black “uprising,” 123, 131, 132

of “secret service” surveillance of workers, 104 of smallpox outbreak, 113, 134, 135 saloon, The anti-saloon sentiment and campaigns, 60, 62–63 and associated “hoodlums,” see “Saloon bums” character of, in East St. Louis, 75–83 and local politics, 48 as “poor man’s club,” 76–77 and race, 75 violence, 59–61, 76, 78–82 see also Organized crime; Women “Saloon bums”, 60–61, 81–82, 108, 111 as riot mob members, 147–152 see also The saloon Saxton, Alexander, 70 Schaumleffel, Hubert, 47, 48 Segregation, 54, 69 perceived breaking down of, 52, 111–113 Seymour, John, 146 Socialist Party, 43–44 Sociopsychology, 137–139 Sorrells, Estes M., 99–100 Southern Rail Road workers and racism, 54 Sports and race, 67–69 Standard of living, 25–26; see also Housing conditions Stephens, M. M. (Mayor), 42–43, 145 Stockyards Labor Council, 36–37 Strikes Aluminum Ore strike, 89–101, 103–108, 114; racial violence surrounding, 107–108 Aluminum Ore Strikers fired on, 105 American Steel, 101 meatpacking strike, 90–91, 107; employers manipulate racial divisions, 94 track workers, 90, 100, 102

INDEX

Swift meatpacking plant, 102 Szuch, Joe, 104 Tarlton, G. Locke, 41–42, 47–48, 57–61, 76, 151 Tax evasion, 32–33 Theater, 69, 70–72 Tisch, John, 143 Towers, Alois, 35, 90 Tripp, S. O., (Adjutant General), 164, 187 Tulsa, Oklahoma, see Reparations Tuttle, William, 167 Tyson, Timothy B., 165 U.S. Marshalls, 105 Valley vice district, The, 55–61, 76–82 Vote fraud (accusations of), 48–50 Waddell, James, 104–105 Wadley, Frank, see Coppedge and Wadley Walsh, David, 44, 118 ‘Wash’ Thompson, George (chief of police), 58, 62 Webb, Charles, 47–48, 58, 62, 75–76 Wells, Ida B., 166 Whalen, Michael, 44, 118

283

Whiteness, and notions of status, 38–40, 45–46, 113–115, 204n White Womanhood, notions of, 155–156 Wilkerson, Martha, 152 Witwatersrand, see Rand Revolt Wolf, Philip, 92–93, 96–97, 101, 103, 107, 109 Women as mothers and homemakers, 154–155 as rioters, 143, 152–159 and Saloons, 78 as workers, 153–154 see also Prostitutes; White womanhood Wood, Herbert F., 143, 147 Workforce, see Labor; Working class Working class ethnic and racial composition of, 11–18, 34 expansion of, 10–11 see also Housing conditions; Standard of living Y. M. C. A., East St. Louis Industrial, 59, 81 Zeman, George, 150