Union Brother
Written by Eric Shipley and Charlotte Easterling
Fulton County, IL: May 1921
Illustration of Alan Ellis by Charlotte Easterling
Alan Ellis was angry. And when he thought about it, he had been for a long time, most of his life, in fact. Perhaps it was because he’d had to start working in the coal mines of southern Illinois when he was just a boy. Perhaps his father, also a lifelong coal miner, had passed down the anger he’d built up living and working under the privations and cruelty of the mine owners. It probably was both.
Portrait of John L. Lewis. By Paul Thompson - The World's Work: https://archive.org/stream/worldswork43gard#page/454/mode/2up, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30896504
In any case, he used his anger to rally the other coal miners to join and fight for the United Mine Workers. It was something he’d learned from John L. Lewis, the UMW President. (Upon meeting Lewis, the first thing Alan noticed was that the rumors about his imposing eyebrows were true.)
There had been strikes and violence in the near past, and he knew in the pit of his stomach that more was coming, most likely soon.
But how soon? he asked himself as he pulled into the gravel driveway of his small, semi-rural house.
And as that question echoed in his head, he allowed himself a sigh and a moment to rest his forehead against the steering wheel.
So tired, he thought, then got angry all over again, this time at himself. He was only thirty—he had no right to be tired!
Alan made an honest attempt to quell his anger. He knew he was a hard man, but that was necessary for him to do what he needed to do. The way the miners were treated was more than unjust, it was immoral. It might not technically be slavery, but with the pitiful pay and dangerous conditions, and that damned company store, it wasn’t far off. Still, he tried not to let that affect how he treated his very pregnant wife, Betty, or their kids, so he took a deep breath before going inside.
***
“Dada!” exclaimed Violet, just over a year old, as she threw open her arms. Betty was holding her but gave her to Alan when she squirmed.
“Hi, pretty girl,” he said, taking her and giving her a kiss. Then he gave Betty one as well and greeted his stepsons, Marty (who was eleven) and Del (who was six).
“Come sit down, and have a bite to eat,” said Betty and gestured to the table where something in a pot smelled good.
***
Dinner passed normally, with no more than mundane talk about how school and work had gone. And within a short time after finishing, Alan was overcome with exhaustion and settled in his chair by the fireplace for a nap. Not long after (or it seemed that way), Betty gently shook his shoulder.
“Time for bed,” she said.
She’d kept the boys and Violet reasonably quiet, although Alan didn’t fully appreciate how monumental a task that was. And she’d cleaned up too, also a monumental task given her swollen abdomen and very sore feet.
He shook himself nominally awake, then said, “Time for bed boys.” They groused, so he went on. “No backtalk. Wash your faces and tuck in.” They obeyed, albeit with token objections that annoyed Alan. He considered a more harsh follow-up, but decided against it. Betty already had Violet ready for bed, so he went to get himself ready.
***
The next thing he remembered was being shaken awake.
“Alan, wake up,” Betty whispered urgently. “Something’s going on outside.”
After hurriedly pulling on pants and a shirt, he went to the closet and took out his double-barrel shotgun and a box of shells.
Betty was standing too, holding Violet who was crying. “Alan, don’t–”
“Quiet,” he snapped, then softened a bit. “Stay in here and look after the kids.”
She just nodded and looked worried and frightened. By this time, Marty and Del were also up and came to the bedroom door. They were confused.
“Dad, what…” Marty began.
“You just stay in here and help your mother!”
“But–”
“You mind me! Get in here!”
They did as they were told, and Alan approached the front door. Something was flickering brightly outside, and he had a feeling he knew what it was. He pulled aside the curtain on the front door window.
Photo: Adirondack Almanack
Yes indeed, he thought angrily. A burning cross stood in front of his house, and not far beyond, there was a truck full of Klansmen in their white robes and pointed white hats. He could see through the window that they had rifles that they started firing in the air, and he could hear their shouted taunts through the door.
“Damn union taff! You’d best knock off or someone’s gonna get hurt!”
Alan saw red and cocked the shotgun. He wanted to kill them all. Those bastards—threatening him, and then much worse, his family! He started to throw the door open but stopped when he heard a gasp from behind. He turned and saw Betty imploring him with her eyes. Please don’t.
It gave him a moment of pause, and he glanced back out the window. There must be at least a half dozen of them. He knew he’d be lucky to hit one or two of them before they got him.
Then what? he thought. It took only a second to decide it was more important to keep his family safe. He got a grip on his rage, and presently, the truck drove off with more gunshots and shouting.
When they were out of sight, he uncocked the gun, then opened it and took the shells out. Violet was crying loudly, and he could see tears streaming down Betty’s face. Marty was clearly holding back, but Del was not. He set the gun on the table and went to them.
“It’s all right,” he comforted. “They’re gone.”
As he held them, he remembered something John Lewis had said:
If the KKK is mad at you, you’re doing something right!
True enough. But it didn’t mollify him. Crossing picket lines was bad enough, but tonight those bastards had crossed a different line they should not have crossed. He was angry before; now he was enraged. And his union brothers would be too.
Map showing the location of Fulton County, Illinois. Map: Google Maps