Autobiography of Andrew Carnegie
much better had the works been closed until the old men voted to
return"; but the Governor of Pennsylvania, with eight thousand troops,
had meanwhile taken charge of the situation.
I was traveling in the Highlands of Scotland when the trouble arose,
and did not hear of it until two days after. Nothing I have ever had
to meet in all my life, before or since, wounded me so deeply. No
pangs remain of any wound received in my business career save that of
Homestead. It was so unnecessary. The men were outrageously wrong. The
strikers, with the new machinery, would have made from four to nine
dollars a day under the new scale--thirty per cent more than they were
making with the old machinery. While in Scotland I received the
following cable from the officers of the union of our workmen:
"Kind master, tell us what you wish us to do and we shall do it for
you."
This was most touching, but, alas, too late. The mischief was done,
the works were in the hands of the Governor; it was too late.
I received, while abroad, numerous kind messages from friends
conversant with the circumstances, who imagined my unhappiness. The
following from Mr. Gladstone was greatly appreciated:
MY DEAR MR. CARNEGIE,
My wife has long ago offered her thanks, with my own, for
your most kind congratulations. But I do not forget that you
have been suffering yourself from anxieties, and have been
exposed to imputations in connection with your gallant
efforts to direct rich men into a course of action more
enlightened than that which they usually follow. I wish I
could relieve you from these imputations of journalists, too
often rash, conceited or censorious, rancorous, ill-natured.
I wish to do the little, the very little, that is in my
power, which is simply to say how sure I am that no one who
knows you will be prompted by the unfortunate occurrences
across the water (of which manifestly we cannot know the
exact merits) to qualify in the slightest degree either his
confidence in your generous views or his admiration of the
good and great work you have already done.
Wealth is at present like a monster threatening to swallow
up the moral life of man; you by precept and by example have
been teaching him to disgorge. I for one thank you.
Believe me
Very faithfully yours
(Signed) W.E. GLADSTONE
I insert this as giving proof, if proof were needed, of Mr.
Gladstone's large, sympathetic nature, alive and sensitive to
everything transpiring of a nature to arouse sympathy--Neapolitans,
Greeks, and Bulgarians one day, or a stricken friend the next.
The general public, of course, did not know that I was in Scotland and
knew nothing of the initial trouble at Homestead. Workmen had been
killed at the Carnegie Works, of which I was the controlling owner.
That was sufficient to make my name a by-word for years. But at last
some satisfaction came. Senator Hanna was president of the National
Civic Federation, a body composed of capitalists and workmen which
exerted a benign influence over both employers and employed, and the
Honorable Oscar Straus, who was then vice-president, invited me to
dine at his house and meet the officials of the Federation. Before the
date appointed Mark Hanna, its president, my lifelong friend and
former agent at Cleveland, had suddenly passed away. I attended the
dinner. At its close Mr. Straus arose and said that the question of a
successor to Mr. Hanna had been considered, and he had to report that
every labor organization heard from had favored me for the position.
There were present several of the labor leaders who, one after
another, arose and corroborated Mr. Straus.
I do not remember so complete a surprise and, I shall confess, one so
grateful to me. That I deserved well from labor I felt. I knew myself
to be warmly sympathetic with the working-man, and also that I had the
regard of our own workmen; but throughout the country it was naturally
the reverse, owing to the Homestead riot. The Carnegie Works meant to
the public Mr. Carnegie's war upon labor's just earnings.
I arose to explain to the officials at the Straus dinner that I could
not possibly accept the great honor, because I had to escape the heat
of summer and the head of the Federation must be on hand at all
seasons ready to grapple with an outbreak, should one occur. My
embarrassment was great, but I managed to let all understand that this
was felt to be the most welcome tribute I could have received--a balm
to the hurt mind. I closed by saying that if elected to my lamented
friend's place upon the Executive Committee I should esteem it an
honor to serve. To this position I was elected by unanimous vote. I
was thus relieved from the feeling that I was considered responsible
by labor generally, for the Homestead riot and the killing of workmen.
I owe this vindication to Mr. Oscar Straus, who had read my articles
and speeches of early days upon labor questions, and who had quoted
these frequently to workmen. The two labor leaders of the Amalgamated
Union, White and Schaeffer from Pittsburgh, who were at this dinner,
were also able and anxious to enlighten their fellow-workmen members
of the Board as to my record with labor, and did not fail to do so.
A mass meeting of the workmen and their wives was afterwards held in
the Library Hall at Pittsburgh to greet me, and I addressed them from
both my head and my heart. The one sentence I remember, and always
shall, was to the effect that capital, labor, and employer were a
three-legged stool, none before or after the others, all equally
indispensable. Then came the cordial hand-shaking and all was well.
Having thus rejoined hands and hearts with our employees and their
wives, I felt that a great weight had been effectually lifted, but I
had had a terrible experience although thousands of miles from the
scene.
An incident flowing from the Homestead trouble is told by my friend,
Professor John C. Van Dyke, of Rutgers College.
In the spring of 1900, I went up from Guaymas, on the Gulf
of California, to the ranch of a friend at La Noria Verde,
thinking to have a week's shooting in the mountains of
Sonora. The ranch was far enough removed from civilization,
and I had expected meeting there only a few Mexicans and
many Yaqui Indians, but much to my surprise I found an
English-speaking man, who proved to be an American. I did
not have long to wait in order to find out what brought him
there, for he was very lonesome and disposed to talk. His
name was McLuckie, and up to 1892 he had been a skilled
mechanic in the employ of the Carnegie Steel Works at
Homestead. He was what was called a "top hand," received
large wages, was married, and at that time had a home and
considerable property. In addition, he had been honored by
his fellow-townsmen and had been made burgomaster of
Homestead.
When the strike of 1892 came McLuckie naturally sided with
the strikers, and in his capacity as burgomaster gave the
order to arrest the Pinkerton detectives who had come to
Homestead by steamer to protect the works and preserve
order. He believed he was fully justified in doing this. As
he explained it to me, the detectives were an armed force
invading his bailiwick, and he had a right to arrest and
disarm them. The order led to bloodshed, and the conflict
was begun in real earnest.
The story of the strike is, of course, well known to all.
The strikers were finally defeated. As for McLuckie, he was
indicted for murder, riot, treason, and I know not what
other offenses. He was compelled to flee from the State, was
wounded, starved, pursued by the officers of the law, and
obliged to go into hiding until the storm blew over. Then he
found that he was blacklisted by all the steel men in the
United States and could not get employment anywhere. His
money was gone, and, as a final blow, his wife died and his
home was broken up. After many vicissitudes he resolved to
go to Mexico, and at the time I met him he was trying to get
employment in the mines about fifteen miles from La Noria
Verde. But he was too good a mechanic for the Mexicans, who
required in mining the cheapest kind of unskilled peon
labor. He could get nothing to do and had no money. He was
literally down to his last copper. Naturally, as he told the
story of his misfortunes, I felt very sorry for him,
especially as he was a most intelligent person and did no
unnecessary whining about his troubles.
I do not think I told him at the time that I knew Mr.
Carnegie and had been with him at Cluny in Scotland shortly
after the Homestead strike, nor that I knew from Mr.
Carnegie the other side of the story. But McLuckie was
rather careful not to blame Mr. Carnegie, saying to me
several times that if "Andy" had been there the trouble
would never have arisen. He seemed to think "the boys"
could get on very well with "Andy" but not so well with some
of his partners.
I was at the ranch for a week and saw a good deal of
McLuckie in the evenings. When I left there, I went directly
to Tucson, Arizona, and from there I had occasion to write
to Mr. Carnegie, and in the letter I told him about meeting
with McLuckie. I added that I felt very sorry for the man
and thought he had been treated rather badly. Mr. Carnegie
answered at once, and on the margin of the letter wrote in
lead pencil: "Give McLuckie all the money he wants, but
don't mention my name." I wrote to McLuckie immediately,
offering him what money he needed, mentioning no sum, but
giving him to understand that it would be sufficient to put
him on his feet again. He declined it. He said he would
fight it out and make his own way, which was the
right-enough American spirit. I could not help but admire it
in him.
As I remember now, I spoke about him later to a friend, Mr.
J.A. Naugle, the general manager of the Sonora Railway. At
any rate, McLuckie got a job with the railway at driving
wells, and made a great success of it. A year later, or
perhaps it was in the autumn of the same year, I again met
him at Guaymas, where he was superintending some repairs on
his machinery at the railway shops. He was much changed for
the better, seemed happy, and to add to his contentment, had
taken unto himself a Mexican wife. And now that his sky was
cleared, I was anxious to tell him the truth about my offer
that he might not think unjustly of those who had been
compelled to fight him. So before I left him, I said,
"McLuckie, I want you to know now that the money I offered
you was not mine. That was Andrew Carnegie's money. It was
his offer, made through me."
McLuckie was fairly stunned, and all he could say was:
"Well, that was damned white of Andy, wasn't it?"
I would rather risk that verdict of McLuckie's as a passport to
Paradise than all the theological dogmas invented by man. I knew
McLuckie well as a good fellow. It was said his property in Homestead
was worth thirty thousand dollars. He was under arrest for the
shooting of the police officers because he was the burgomaster, and
also the chairman of the Men's Committee of Homestead. He had to fly,
leaving all behind him.
After this story got into print, the following skit appeared in the
newspapers because I had declared I'd rather have McLuckie's few words