I don't want any mercy from any court,
I don't do anything but what is my duty to do as a citizen of this nation,
and I don't ask you for mercy.
I am asking for justice, and not mercy,
and I told the judge not to have any mercy on me.
-Mother Jones
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Monday May 17, 1915
Washington, D. C. - The Testimony of Mother Jones Before the Walsh Commission
On the 13th and 14th of this month, Mother Jones came before the Commission on Industrial Relations, now in session in the nation's capital. Mother gave testimony regarding her many years of service to the American man, woman, and child of the working class. Newspaper accounts describe the tears streaming down her face as she told of the horrors of the many industrial struggles waged by the producers of the nation over the past many years.
Today's Hellraisers is pleased to offer excerpts from her testimony given on May 13th when she was questioned exclusively by Chairman Frank P. Walsh. Tomorrow we will cover her testimony from May 14th, on which day she testified regarding labor and the law.
TESTIMONY OF MRS. MARY JONES
Washington, D. C., May 13, 1915
Questioned by Chairman Frank P. Walsh
Introduction
Chairman Walsh. What is your name?
Mother Jones. Mary Jones.
Chairman Walsh. Where do you reside?
Mother Jones. Well, I reside wherever there is a good fight against wrong— all over the
country.
Chairman Walsh. Do you claim a residence in any particular State?
Mother Jones. No. Wherever the workers are fighting the robbers I go there.
Chairman Walsh. Now, it may seem unnecessary, but you are the lady that is known to
the country as " Mother Jones," are you?
Mother Jones. I suppose so, Mr. Walsh.
1877-Pittsburgh Railroad Strike
Mother Jones. Well, the strike began in Martinsburg, Ohio [West Virginia]. It started with the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad employees, and it reached down to Pittsburgh and east to Scranton. I was in New York. I came down. I was a member of the Knights of Labor at that time, and some of the boys met me and asked me to stay over with them, and I did. So the traffic was stopped and a lawless element that had got into Pittsburgh during the panic of 1873, they had gathered in from the eastern part of the country and, of course, began to revolt and started to rioting. The employees of the railroad and others went to the mayor of the city and asked him if he would not swear them in as deputies to preserve the property and have the law enforced. While this was going on the sheriff of the county telegraphed to the governor, and the governor sent the militia.
Now, at that time I believe the troops went to Pittsburgh, but the fight turned onto the Pennsylvania Railroad; it concentrated on the Pennsylvania Railroad mostly, and some of the militia was quartered in the roundhouse. The business men of Pittsburgh, who for years had complained of discrimination by the railroad company against the city, were free in their expression of enmity against the company. Some of them connected with this committed acts of violence and actually participated in the riots that followed. Cars were set on fire and run down the tracks to the roundhouse, which was destroyed, together with over 100 locomotives belonging to the Pennsylvania Railroad Co.
The feeling at that time of many workers and sympathizers was one of distrust, and in many instances amounted to hatred, because the corporations of that day were open and successful in passing antilabor legislation, tramp laws, and other legislation, which caused the workers to feel that they were being discriminated against. The corporations succeeded in the passing of the law which required that in case of a strike the train crew should bring in a locomotive to the starting place before the strike would begin. It was because of that legislation that so many locomotives were housed at Pittsburgh and be came the prey to the flames by an outraged populace and not by the workers and not by strikers.
I know most of the strikers; all had done everything they could to keep order. Not but what they felt the sting of the lash, the injustice that was done, but nevertheless they wanted to keep order and be steady otherwise. But the business men were the men who perpetrated the wrongs, because they felt that the railroad company had discriminated against them so much.
1900-Arnot, Pennsylvania
Mother Jones. I had been down in Arnot, Pa. We had a strike there for six months, but there were no deputies and no gunmen and no militia brought in there, and there was no violence. That is the home of the Secretary of Labor [William B. Wilson].
During the whole six months, it was a nine months' strike, but it was six months after I went there; but the men were orderly and they themselves took care of the property. The superintendent and the officials of that company could come up 4 miles from Blossburg at any hour of the night they wanted to alone, and they were not afraid and had no reason to be. That strike was settled very peacefully. The Erie Co. conceded to the men most of what they asked for, and there was no violence during the whole nine months.
1900-The First Great Anthracite Strike
Mother Jones. Then I went into Maryland. I was not in Maryland very long until I was sent for to come into the anthracite region...in 1900....
And in that—there were only 7,000 men organized out of 160,000, and I addressed the convention the day that I got in from Maryland and they called the strike right afterwards. Well, of course, we had to go over all the district—three districts—to rally them together. There was no violence up in either Scranton or around Hazelton, and very little of it down in a town named Shamokin—scarcely any violence there, but the militia was brought in. First the company would guard the mines so that the men could not get out, or that we could not get near them; and if we billed a meeting, why the company would always attend the meeting and the men could not; It was the force of the company entirely that attended the meeting, and I concluded that these men had suffered long enough.
I want to say, Mr. Walsh, that I do not take any orders from any officials. I belong to a class who have been robbed, exploited, and plundered down through many long centuries, and because I belong to that class I have an instinct to go and help break the chains; and so I concluded some moves had to be made to bring the men all out; and I organized the men and women, the women particularly, and I made raids every night; we marched and pulled out those mines—the men. There was no violence. The sheriff in Hazelton was a very fine man. He understood the law, and he knew he could manage the affair without bringing the military there.
But I went down to Panther Creek. There were 5,000 men there that could not be reached, and I knew they had to be got out in order to get more bread for the children that were coming, so one night, without saying anything to anyone, I gathered up 2,000 or 3,000 women, and naturally the men followed. That is their natural instinct—to know what we were going to do. We started. I had to go into the saloons and tell them to close up and not give any liquor to the boys. I knew the women did not go near the saloons; I was the only one that did. We marched, and about 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning we met the militia.
There was a poor little sheriff, not to be condemned at all, but he was unable to grasp the thing, and he yelled like a mad dog in the night to send the guns to him, the governor. I did not know it, or I would have telegraphed the governor, to keep the guns at home and there would be no trouble. Then we marched 15 miles over the mountains from Hazelton to Panther Creek, and there we met the militia in the middle of the night.
The militia did not know what kind of an army I had with me. He thought it was just a few strikers; he told us to go back. I told him that the American workingman never goes backward; we go forward, and we did not go out to go back; and he said he would charge bayonets. Well, he didn't do it anyway; but it took us three hours to go back 2 miles. I don't like to resist officers and create any trouble, but I saw he was a sort of a Sunday-school fellow and there wasn't very much to him, and I concluded to just pat him on the back a little, and I pulled out the 5,000 men...
Yes [I induced the 5,000 men to go out on strike]; I wanted them to win the fight. I had a large army with me and I wanted them all, and so I had to get these miners out, because they were furnishing the coal. I brought out the 5,000 men. We held up the street cars and did not hurt anybody, and the men—oh, once in awhile when a boss wanted to jump over us we picked him up and threw him over the fence to his wife, and told her to take care of him. We did not hurt him, but we wanted him out of our way; so that thing continued until 10 o'clock in the morning ; and we had the 5.000 men out and that ended it, and that part of the strike was ended peacefully.
The women had nothing but brooms and mops and they were very hungry, and the militia had ordered breakfast at some hotel and I told the women go in and eat their breakfast and let the State pay for it; and it was our breakfast anyhow. So they did. We ate the breakfast. We had more strength to get back.
1902-Parkersburg, West Virginia
Mother Jones. The prosecuting attorney recommended me to the mercy of the court [of Federal Judge John Jay Jackson]. I don't want any mercy from any court. I don't do anything but what is my duty to do as a citizen of this Nation, and I don't ask you for mercy. I am asking for justice, and not mercy, and I told the judge not to have any mercy on me.
1902-The Raleigh County Massacre
Mother Jones....Now, then, I am coming to that part of it—the strike of 1902 in West Virginia. There is a very sad, sad story to be told about that. They were pretty peaceful boys down there as a rule, and we kept them in line, and there was one mountain, Standford Stanaford Mountain, and they had issued this injunction, that men could not look at the mines. That injunction was always issued on me, and the boys went one day to take a walk along the highway and came back and went home peacefully and quietly, interfering with nobody nor anything. They had never been in court in their lives, none of those boys; they were law-abiding, good men, living quietly up there in the mountains.
The United States deputy marshal came In the next morning with a warrant for 33 of them. They were holding a meeting in their hall, quietly, and he read the warrant, and some said, "You can't arrest us; we have broken no law; we have hurt nobody; and you will have to leave the town." I think his brother was a company doctor, and they asked him to come, and he did come down and take him away. Anyhow, the next night they went up that mountain, and they shot seven men while they slept. There were about 100 of those gunmen and their deputies and these mine owners and their sons, and they went up that mountain, and while those men slept they shot them; they riddled their little shacks with bullets and wounded 23 as they were sleeping.
I was going to a meeting the next morning very early, and I was told what happened, and I went and called a couple of boys and told them that they had had some trouble on Standford Mountain, and let's go up. We went up, and the picture I shall never forget. The mattresses were all seeping with blood, and the bodies were lying there. It was sad, and I shudder at the picture, and the women were screaming, and the babies were running to me to call back their papas. It was a sad, sad picture. I knew those men had violated no law outside of walking on the highway and that supposed injunction. They got a coroner, and he held an inquest over them. A few were arrested, but no one was ever convicted for the crime.
Five or six days after this I went back up that mountain; there was a grave out in the field, and a woman was over it and a little baby, and the little baby, when she saw me she screamed, and she said, " Oh, Mother Jones, come and pick up my papa!" And she was scraping the clay with her little, tender hands, and the wife was watering with her tears. That young man was as law-abiding a young man, I think, as you could find in the country. I don't think he ever thought of such thing, but he was shot while standing up on the mountains.
1903 & 1904-Colorado Coalfield Strike
Mother Jones. In 1903. That was the first [Colorado Coalfield] strike. The governor sent for me, and I never go to see those officers alone; I generally take some of our officials with me when I go. I know them pretty well. He said, "Are you going to have a strike in the southern coal fields, Mother Jones?" I said, "I don't know, Governor [Peabody]; that is up to you. If you can bring the conflicting parties together, I think we can ward off the strike, and both sides concede." He said, "I don't want a strike." "Neither do I, but we will strike rather than slavery." I said, "I suppose you are very anxious to know, Governor?" And he said, "Yes, I am; why do you think so?"
And I said, "I suppose you want to get your militia ready to go out." He said that he had them already in another district in Colorado to open a mine. I was not aware that the State owned the mines. I thought they were private property, belonging to a combination of private individuals, and he said, "So they are, but we have to get the militia after that lawbreaking organization."
"Who are you talking about, the Western Federation of Miners?" "Yes." And I said, "It is strange that they have become lawless and lawbreakers since you got in. They have developed this State and have their families here, and I think they would hardly become rioters at once." He said. "I won't discuss it." And I said, "What did you send for me for?" And he said, "I want to know if you are going to have a strike." And I said, "Yes, we are, and you had just as well know it now as any time."
And I went back, and the strike order went out. I went around holding meetings of the men, women, and children. We didn't have as large a tent colony then as afterwards. From the miners themselves there was little violence at that time, but the militia was brought in there. The sheriff came to me Saturday night and said, "Mother Jones, I heard the miners are going to organize and make a raid down on some camp" he told me about, and I said, "Sheriff, you are sheriff of the county, and you ought to know that these miners are not going to do anything of the kind. If they do, I would know it the first one."
He said, "The governor has a representative here." "Of course, that is perfectly natural that he would have a representative here, but there is no need of the governor sending any troops here. You and your officers of the law here can take care of this situation. There has been no trouble that amounts to anything, and let me guaranty to you that if there is to be any trouble I will give you the first news. Is there any trouble in the county?" "Not that I know of," he said.
And I said, "If there is, you get your buggy right out." It was 11 o'clock at night, but I says, "I will go with you to any part of the county, and I will guaranty to you that if there is any trouble we will stop it immediately." "There is none, Mother." he said. I said, "Very well, why don't you go home and to bed and don't bother about this?"
The militia came on Monday. They gambled all night. The representative of the C. F. & I.—I have forgotten his name—and the sheriff and this militia man; one of them lost, I heard, $700, but that didn't bother me, because it didn't concern me how much it was; it was among themselves. However, Monday the militia came in, and we didn't know anything about it until I got a telephone message from Denver early in the morning, and they said they are mobilizing the militia here, and I think they are going to Trinidad; you had better watch yourself; and I said, "Let them come," and that afternoon the militia came in, and I told one of our officers that I had just got a telephone from Denver that they were mobilizing the militia, and that he had better see the boys and tell them to keep quiet, and he did, and the militia came.
I went out to the camp several days, talking to the women and children, and Saturday evening I came in; I had been out all day. But before that we went out to a meeting, and coming back from that meeting I met a wagon loaded with guns that were going to Bowen, I think, and I said to the party with me, "There has been something doing; if those fellows belong to Bowen, they are the gunmen," and I think the superintendent was with them; I am not certain.
But when we came back to Bowen a young woman came out screaming. She said, "Stop, oh, stop," and I said to the party with me, "I guess they are drinking in there; keep away, don't mix in it," and she pleaded and pleaded and pulled and pulled; she was an Italian; and so we finally went in. I went into the house, and old man Farley sat there with his head all tied up, and a young man named Rooney was lying in bed all covered with blood. You could have put your finger down through him. They had been at a meeting and were coming home when those fellows attacked them from ambush and almost beat them to death.
There was not very much violence during that strike until the militia came. Then one Saturday night I was going to bed when a knock came on the door, and I said, Come in," and the militiaman opened the door and he said, " Come on;" and, of course, I had to go; there was the bayonets, and I said, "Just wait a moment, will you please, until I dress?" And so I went up to the militia headquarters, and the major asked me where I lived, and I told him I lived wherever there was a fight, and so he called the militia, seven of them, and told me to get my things, and I got a few little things I had, and there was such a hurry—there were seven militiamen, two at my back and two at each side and one in front of me—and they took me down the street and put me on the train and went with me to La Junta, Colo., and left me at the depot at La Junta.
I had only 5 cents in my pocket. And a railroad man came, and an Associated Press man, and he said, "Are you Mother Jones?" And I said, " Yes," and he said, " I thought so, because I saw the militia going." And I followed the militia when I saw they were leaving me there, and I said, "I want to say to you fellows that there is not money enough in the United States Treasury to hire me to acknowledge I was the mother of one of you." They didn't say anything, and they went away. This Associated Press man and the railroad man came and asked me what I was going to do, and I said I didn't know, I didn't have time to decide.
And I found out there was two of our men there, but the railroad man gave me money. They did not go back, but went to Indianapolis. I went back. I had orders not to come back, but no governor owns the State and no President owns the United States, and I happened to be in this country before any of them, and I had a share of stock in there, and I said I was going back the next morning, and I went back the next morning.
Well, I sent the governor a note, which was not a very polite one, either, because when I get worked up I am not a very polite character, Mr. Walsh.
Spring 1904-Utah
Mother Jones. I went then to Helper, Utah. And I went to the hotel at midnight and got a room, and the next morning I got my breakfast and went to the post office in the morning and got my mail, and I saw I was watched; they went to the post office to find out when I got my mail, and I went to an Italian family and got a room in that house, and I took my things over there and didn't see anything more until the next day, when we were going to have a meeting. The next day was Sunday, and the miners all came up. There was a vacant lot in front of the house where I was staying, and the miners all came along and we were going to hold the meeting there, and the company doctor came and said, you know he didn't think it was right to hold the meeting, and the marshal said, "I don't think it is right for you to hold the meeting here, and I don't think you ought to do it."
I said, "How far does your jurisdiction extend?" And he told me, and I said, "Well, we will go outside of your jurisdiction." And I took the miners and went 24 miles down farther. I held the meeting. They had notified the railroad men not to come to my meeting, but the men all came, and I held the meeting and went back and went to my room. Quite a number of the boys came up town again, and I had not been in the room 10 minutes until the company's doctor and the marshal came in and said, "You are quarantined, Mother Jones, for 16 days." I said, "What is the matter?" And they said, "Why, you might have had the smallpox." Well, I said, "Maybe I have, but why don't you quarantine the whole train?" They said, "You know you mingle about a great deal."
I never have an argument, because it don't do any good and it causes trouble, and I was afraid the men would get excited, and I said, "Boys, you go on down town." And he came along Monday and put a yellow flag on the door, "Smallpox in here." He brought me some books and magazines, and I put them in the stove, because I thought the poor little stove would do anything for his corporation and I put the books in the stove, and the next day, Tuesday, the secretary for the miners came and he was sitting there and I was discussing things with him what they should do, so along came this doctor, and he said, "My, my, my, didn't I tell you not to let anybody inside that gate?"
And I said, "You did not; I am a patient, and if you want to keep anybody outside that gate you put a picket at the gate and keep people out; I am a patient and I am not going to do picket work also." And he took hold of this fellow and he got scared, and I said, "Mike, don't get scared, he is only going to inject something into you; don't get afraid; let him inject it."
And they took me down and I was put in the back of an old store. There was no violence, for these miners were as lawabidlng as this audience is; there was not a single one of them doing anything, only just striking. They were singing a little down in their tents. I was in the back of an old store, and on Saturday night I learned that they were coming in Sunday morning and going to arrest all of the boys; so I sent for them and I said, "Have you got any guns?" And they said, "Yes." And I said, "You take them up and bury them under the range," because I thought if the boys that had their guns and those men came in suddenly there would be some trouble; and I said, " Boys, you go and bury your guns and you go back; I am going to stay up all night," and they said "No" and I said "Yes," and to-morrow we will talk things over.
At 4 o'clock in the morning the sheriff and 45 deputies came up. I heard them whooping, and so I put my head out of the window and said, "What is the matter?" The sheriff was the first one, and he said, "We are going to arrest all these fellows." I said, "What have they done?" He said, "They are striking." I said, "They have a right to strike; this Nation was founded on a strike, and they have the right to strike; and we have a right to strike; Washington struck against King George, and we will strike against King Gould." But they took them all; they were not allowed to put on their clothes, and they shook like aspen leaves. They took them up several miles and held them there until night and got a box car and took them down to Price.
After they were gone a woman came to me with her babe, weeping bitterly, and said, "You see my Johnnie?" I said, "Yes," and she said, "Let me tell you, Mother, this baby was born at 11 o'clock at night, and I got up in the morning and got breakfast for 11 men to go into the mines." And she was watering the baby with her tears. "Now," she said, "tell me what to do; they have got my John; they have got my house; we rented a little piece of land from the company, and I took in boarders and I put up a little house on it, and I want to give my children a chance; but now they have got my house, they have my health, and they have got my John, and what will I do?"
Now, I want to say to this commission and to this audience that are listening here, on the quivering heart and the aching breast and blasted hopes of this mother, and of thousands like her, Miss Gould and her class carries on her philanthropy in the Scofield mines, where 400 men were roasted to death; their bones are rotting out there, and their wives and children are carrying on life's struggle as best they can, and, my friends, we can have no civilization until such things are abolished.
That woman with her babe and four children was sad to look at, but she is only one of many thousands I know of in this terrific struggle for industrial freedom. It touches a human cord in most anyone. I brought that up before Mr. Rockefeller when I had the meeting with him. I feel that men in that position do not grasp these things as they are, nor do the people outside, nor do our officials who live in offices, nor do our newspaper men; it takes those who are down with them to see the horrors of this industrial tragedy that is going on in our Nation to-day.
1910-Westmoreland, Pennsylvania, Strike
Mother Jones. I went into that Westmoreland strike, and I did not have any conflict with the constabulary. The only time I came against them at all was when 12 or 13 women were arrested one day and carried into a squire's office; and he, poor wretch, you could see he was a narrow creature; and I went with the women, and I told them to take their babes along. I said, "Wherever you go, take the children, they are yours "; and so the women took all their little ones and babes; and when the people gave their evidence about them, which did not amount to anything, the judge said he would fine them $30 apiece. I said to the women, " Tell him you are not going to pay it," and he said, "Then you will get 30 days in jail." I said, "Tell him all right, they will go to jail." And the women asked for some one who could take the babies, and I said, "No; God Almighty gave you the babies, and you keep them until they are taken away from you."
Two of the constabulary went with the women, and the women ran across some scabs on the way and they licked them, and I took care of the babies until they licked the scabs.
On the way to Greensburg the motorman wanted to stop the car, and I said, "You can't stop this car, it is contrary to law; you must obey the law until you get to the station." They said, "These fellows want to get off," and I said, "You won't let us off, and you won't let them off."
Well, the women were singing all the way to Greensburg. and the two constabulary turned them over to the sheriff, and the sheriff said, "Mother Jones, I would rather you had brought me a hundred men than these women"; and I said, "I didn't bring them, the old squire sent them up; you hold him responsible." He said, "I don't know how to manage them" ; and I said, "What did you get married for if you can't manage women; these women are peaceable, you can manage them." And they were sent up to the room, and I sent them food, and milk for the babies; and I said to the women, "You sing all night, sing all day if you want to, but sing all night and don't stop for anybody." And they didn't; they sang the whole night, and the people complained about the singing, and the women would not shut up, and the babies would not shut up, and nobody would shut up, and they turned them all out.
1912-Cabin Creek, West Virginia
Mother Jones. One night two of the miners came to me at about 2 o'clock at night, at Montgomery, and they said, "We have been down to Charleston, and no one will go up Cabin Creek; will you come?" I said, "Yes." For nine years no organizer had dared to go up that creek, and if he did, he came out on a stretcher, or a corpse. The boys said, "They will kill you, Mother "; and I said, "It don't make any difference to me when I get killed; there is a duty to be performed, and I am going." I said, "Is it billed?" And they said, "No"; and I said, "I will attend to that," and the railroad men circulated the bills.
I went up on Tuesday, and the governor heard I was going and sent a company of the militia; and those men came down over those mountains, and their toes were out through their shoes; they walked 12 miles, some of them. They stood there and looked up as much as to say, "Have you brought us any message of hope? "I talked to them with the militia there, and the company's representatives, and I said, "Boys, freedom is not dead," and some poor wretch hollowed, "Where is she?" "She is gently sleeping, and when you call her she will awake." Those men screamed, and they said, "Will you organize us, Mother?" I said, "Yes." They said, "Into what?" I said, "Into the mine workers," and I said, "If you get organized, will you stay organized? I left you all organized 10 years ago when I went away," and they said, "We will, Mother." I took them over by the church; I don't go to church; I am waiting outside for the fellows in the church to come out and fight with me, and then I will go in. Outside of the church I stood up on a bench and organized the men, and I said for everyone to take out their mine clothes in the morning and to take their picks and shovels and dig coal, and I said, "To-morrow you go to work and don't say anything about this meeting."
1913-The West Virginia Court Martial
Mother Jones. I carried the fight on—I knew the boys would—only this is a spectacular age. They have no conception of freedom or justice; until it hits them they don't care. I thought, "I will make a move that will stir the State and draw the attention of the people to this "; and I went out, and at that time I got 3,000 or 4,000 miners and came up to the capitol with a banner which said, "Nero fiddled while Rome burned"; that is what the governor of West Virginia did. And we went into the Statehouse grounds, and I read the document to the governor asking him to do away with the Baldwin guards; that this Nation was not founded to be governed by gunmen; and I read the document on the steps of the statehouse to about 5,000 people. The governor was at my right, and I said that if the Government would not do business that we would by 8 o'clock to-morrow night. So we sent the document in, and the governor still remained there, and they said, "We will wait, Mother, for him to answer "; and I said, "No; you go back."
...So I said to the crowd, "This governor is not going to do anything for you." Some one said, "Why?" I said, "Because the biggest political crook that ever cursed a nation elected him—Senator Elkins," and when he says "Bark," he does it.
I talked for an hour and a half, and there is an inscription on the steps of the capitol that mountaineers are always free, and I called attention to that Inscription and I said, "Now, I want to state right here to this audience that we are going to make that good or we will tear up the inscription," and the governor stood there; and so when the meeting was over I went away. I was tired and worn out, for I had been preparing for that for some days; and some one got up and began to blow off a lot of locomotive hot air, and the boys came up to me to stop it, and I took him by the shoulder and told him to get down, and I got up and said, "This meeting stands adjourned until I need you again. And I want you to stay away from the saloons and save your money, because you will need it." Somebody in the audience hollowed, "Well, what will we do with it. Mother?" "Buy a gun," said I; and they bought the guns; they went to every store in town and bought the guns and put them on their shoulders and went off with them.
...So [arriving later in Charleston] I was arrested as soon as I got off the train and thrown into an automobile and carried down to the Robber's Roost, a hotel near the bridge, which I call the Robber's Roost, because the pirates used always to put up there. So there, was no warrant that I saw, and so I was taken to the C. & O. train and put on the C. & O. train and carried down and handed over to the military 25 miles from where I was arrested.
And I was handed over to the military while the civil court was open. Well, I was held there for three months, and they established a drumhead court and the court appointed two lawyers, and they came to see me, and they said that the court appointed them to defend me. I said, "Gentlemen, personally I have nothing in the world against you; but there is no lawyer in the United States that will defend me in that court." Well, some civilian lawyers came down, and they wanted to defend me—not to cost anything, and I said, "No, sir; there is no lawyer will ever go into that court to defend me."
And so we were taken into court. I think we were, five days there and some nights until 11 o'clock at night. There were about 30 of the men that consented to take a lawyer, but there were six or seven of us that would not have a lawyer to defend us, and we were sent over to the bull pen and the boys were held in their bull pen and I was held in mine, and we saw the military on each side of the bull pen day and night watching.
And it was great fun for me. I used to see the poor kids dressed up in that uniform, and I wondered what their mothers thought of them; and I used to feel sorry for them, and I used to give them an apple once in a while. There was a break in the floor and they used to send things up to me out of the cellar; and I felt sorry for them because they were carrying guns to shoot people, and I used to give them an apple...
The "Bull Moose.." The train the military used. And they came down several nights; and a party in it wanted me to go to Ohio; said my health would break down there. " Well, let it break. I have only one death to meet. ... Well, the attorney general, I think it was, that came down, and I said to the attorney general, "Now, I want to make a statement right here. This thing has got to end. I want to tell the governor of the State that he can chain me to that tree outside there and he can get his dogs of war to riddle this body with bullets, but I will not surrender my constitutional rights to him. I happen to be one of the women who tramped the highways where the blood of the revolutionists watered it that I might have a trial by jury. The civil courts are open, and I demand that the law be enforced." And so I did not; we were tried, anyhow. We were kept in that bull pen, but I would not surrender.
May 1913-Telegram to Senator Kern
Mother Jones. And I got a telegram blank and made up a telegram, and this is about what it stated:
Senator Keen, Washington, D. C:
From out the military prison at [Platt], W. Va., I send to you the groans and heartbreaks and tears of men, women, and children, as I have heard them in this State, pleading with you in their behalf for the honor of the nation to push that investigation, and children yet unborn will rise and call you blessed.
And I had two bottles and I rang them together, and a fellow came down in the cellar, and he came, and I says, "You take that up as quick as you can to that telegraph office. Don't go to this one here, but go 3 miles up the road, and tell him to send that telegram to Washington for me"; and the fellow says, "This is fine stuff; tell Mother Jones it will be in Washington before you get home." And so I slept good that night, when I knew that telegram had gone to Washington, and I had bluffed the gang in Wall Street for once; and I had a good sleep.
And the thing came up in the Senate, and old Judge Goff—he is not a bad fellow at all, but he has been dead for 40 years and doesn't know it. The old judge had a telegram from the governor stating that I was not at all incarcerated; that I was in a very pleasant boarding house; and he went on about outside agitators, and who they were and what they were. Well, this Nation was founded on agitation. The chattel slavery was abolished through agitation, and God grant the agitation keeps up until the last chain of slavery is broken. And he said, "That is old Mother Jones, and I want to tell you that if you listen to her as I did you will find out she will convince you." But I never convinced him; but he should never have been in the United States Senate at all. The old fellow was not a bad fellow, but he is dead and the world has run beyond him.
Senator Kern pulled out his telegram and read, and the Senators in Washington told me that in 50 years nothing had ever struck the Senate like that telegram. I says, "Well, thank God, something struck them; they needed a cyclone once in a while, and if the telegram stirred them up, so much the better."
September 1913-The Colorado Strike Begins
Mother Jones. I went out to the colony because it was rainy and drizzly, and I wanted to see that the little children were cared for, if there were any there; and I went to carry some clothing to them. In that 14 miles between Trinidad and the tent colony I met 28 wagons; mothers with babies in their arms were walking. It was a cold, drizzling rain. I want to say to this commission that it was the earthly belongings of those people, it was their earthly savings that were in those wagons. There Is not a second-hand man in the United States that would have given $30 for the contents of the 28 wagons, yet it was all those people had. When I came to the tents, the mattresses were wet, and I said to the women, "You didn't sleep there all night?" "Yes; and the baby slept, too." And an Italian said—I said, "Joe, where did you sleep?" And he says, "Out on the ground." " Why, it was raining and the ground was wet." "Sure, mother," he said, "but I no like the company; like better than sleep in company house." Now, this was the sentiment, and nobody can understand this unless they live with those people. I know their lives, and it was on the blood of those people that we carry on our charity institutions and everything else. And that tent colony went on, and we fed them, and then the scabs were coming—
January 1914-Trinidad, Colorado: Deportation and Arrest
Mother Jones. Well, then, the scabbers were coming in from Mexico; I had been to Mexico a few years before that, down to see Madero and De la Barra and other men; and I was going to El Paso to stop the scabs coming in, and I went down. I was there a week and held some meetings, and I wanted to see the revolutionists and have a talk with them.
The morning I came back was the 4th of January, 1914. When I got off of the train here was the bunch. I got off of the Santa Fe. They ran and said, "Here she comes," and I looked around. "Take her back." I said, "What is the matter?" "We have got you." "Here I am, take me, I am going to Denver." " Get on that train." "I am not going on that train." "Get in here and get your ticket." "They don't sell the C. & S. tickets in that office."
He went and asked the telephone, and they said there would not be a train for an hour and a quarter yet, so I was put in an automobile and taken to the Columbia Hotel, and I was taken to a room. On the way to the room I said that I had not had any breakfast; I would like to have some breakfast. They said, "Take her in to breakfast," and I asked the captain who was escorting me, I said, "Who Is going to pay for this?" And he said. "The State will pay for it." And I said, "All right, if the State pays for it I will get a good breakfast." I don't often have an opportunity to do that, but the State was paying for it and I got a good break fast. I was taken to the room, and a half a dozen were there to take care of me.
The train came and the automobile came, and with three bayonets, one at my back and one at my left, and this fellow that had arrested me was at my right, and there were two others in front. When I got to the depot there were the cavalry and the infantry and the gunmen after one old woman 80 years old. I said, "You are awful brave fellows, your mothers ought to put you in a nursery and give you a nursing bottle for 10 years." I got on the train and the captain came along and said that he was going to Denver. I told him I was glad to have him. He came along and said, "Don't come back," and I said, "If I don't feel like it, I won't," and so I went on into Denver.
While I was here in Washington I picked up a paper and saw where the governor would have me arrested if I came back, and I won't let any governor run a State that I have an interest in; I have one share of stock, and so I went back, and he put two detectives in the hotel to watch me. He put one at the gate watching the trains, and I thought that I would fix him right there, and I would let the world see that you are not such a wonderful governor after all.
The militia was there, and a man, I think he called himself a humane man, I don't know whether he was taking care of dogs or human beings, but he came up Sunday and said, "Are you going down to Trinidad, Mother?" And I said, "Yes." And he said, "When?" And I said, "The last of the week." And he said, "I want to know because I want to go on the train with you."
I told him I would be glad to have him, I knew he was a Baldwin rat, and I wanted to go along. He said, "Where are you going this afternoon?" And I said, "Trade and labor." And he said, "May I go with you?" And he escorted me up the street so no one would hurt me, and I said, "I told the boys that the governor said I could not go to Trinidad, but that he didn't own it; I had a share of stock in it, but that I was not going until the last of the week; that I had some matters coming from Washington." I went to my room, and the fellow went home contented; he said there were two other fellows in a house across the street in a room watching me.
I had my sleeper all bought on Saturday, and I got into the sleeper and went to sleep, and when the train pulled out I was asleep, and I told the conductor when he got there to stop the train before it got to the depot. He held up the train, and I got down and walked up the street and into the hotel and sent out and got my breakfast, and was in the hotel three hours before they found out I was there. I sent for the boys, and they came up and I said to the boys that they were liable to arrest me, but don't you fellows make any fuss or move; just let them arrest me; don't say a word and make a move, and keep the boys all quiet and off of the streets, because you can not do that, because the curiosity of an animal is aroused whenever anything is going on.
So I had my breakfast, and presently along came the troopers—tramp, tramp, tramp—after three hours. The governor had telephoned and telegraphed, "Arrest her at once," and the general said, "Get her," so they did. I said, "You come after me," and they said, "Yes." I said, "Wait until I get my few duds." I got into an automobile, with a bunch of guns and bayonets behind me and in front, and the poor fellow that was running the automobile was scared to death, but I told him to keep that machine going straight, that they wouldn't hurt him. There was 150 cavalry, 150 infantry, 150 horses with their heads poked at me, 150 gunmen of the Standard Oil Co., and the old woman, and I shook my hands to the boys good-by.
I was taken to the hospital and put in a room, and I was kept there for nine weeks and didn't see a human being except Attorney Hawkins. But there was a thing that they called a colonel that came along once in a while that wanted me to go to Denver. But I said, "No; I will stay here." He would come strutting about every now and then, and there were a lot of poor boys there. They had stationed three of the militiamen—three on the outside of the door and two in that room and one outside of the window.
I couldn't eat. I didn't have much appetite locked up in a room, and so I gave my food to the militia boys. They are good boys when you get at them right, and I gave my fruit to them to eat and got on the right side of those fellows, and they told me they had not gotten any money for several weeks, and I said, "I have five or six dollars. I will give it to you boys, and you can go to the show to-night." I gave it to them, and they went, and I got them with me, and they said, "I will tell you, Mother, we will never take up a gun again to shoot a worker," and I said, "That is what you should have done before."
Chairman Walsh. At this point, Mother Jones, we will stand adjourned until to-morrow morning.
Mother Jones. I have a good deal to tell you yet, Mr. Chairman.
Chairman Walsh. All right.
(Whereupon, the hour for adjournment having arrived, the commission here adjourned until Friday, May 14, 1915, at 10 a. m. )
Note: paragraph breaks and emphasis added to above testimony of Mother Jones.
~~~~~~~~~~
SOURCES
Industrial relations: final report and testimony
United States. Commission on Industrial Relations
-ed by Francis Patrick Walsh, Basil Maxwell Manly
D.C. Gov. Print. Office, 1916
Volume 11: https://books.google.com/...
10586-Washington, D. C, Thursday, May 13, 1915—10 a. m. Present: Chairman Walsh; Commissioners Harriman, Garretson, Lennon, Weinstock, and O'Connell.
https://books.google.com/...
10618-PM: Testimony of Mrs Mary Jones
https://books.google.com/...
Mother Jones Speaks
-ed by Philip S Foner
NY, 1983
IMAGES
Mother Jones with Strikers Children
http://digital.library.upenn.edu/...
Mother Mary Harris Jones, Miners Angel
http://www.biography.com/...
Mother Mary Harris Jones Standing
http://theadvocateonline.com/...
Mother Jones, Appeal to Reason, Mar 11, 1905
http://www.newspapers.com/...
Mother Jones, Raising Hell
http://www.laborheritage.org/...
Mother Jones in West Virginia Military Bastille, 1913
http://www.wvculture.org/...
Women March for Mother Jones, Trinidad Jan 23, 1914
http://www.du.edu/...
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The Death of Mother Jones-Gene Autry
O'er the hills and through the valley
In ev'ry mining town;
Mother Jones was ready to help them,
She never turned them down.
On front with the striking miners
She always could be found;
And received a hearty welcome
In ev'ry mining town.
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