King, on his knees, hugged his nephews.
He spent some time with the family, catching them up to date on how his work was going. One of the reasons he was in Colorado was related to some of the investigations of conditions in mines he was doing for his new employer, the Rockefeller Foundation. A huge benefit to this trip was that he could visit his dear brother.
King looked at Max, who with his curly hair and light blue eyes had inherited so much of Grandfather’s looks. He also seemed to have a lot of his fighting Scottish spirit. Yet, with a flush in his cheeks his little brother appeared so fragile.
They exchanged some stories about the times they had spent together in Ottawa. Then King lovingly embraced his brother, before returning to his hotel.
The next morning, King awoke to the sound of the telegraph boy knocking on the door. The message he delivered spun King into action. Bella was ill. They were summoning him home. King had checked the train timetables, contacted Max, and begun to pack by the time the second telegraph arrived. This telegraph caused him to sit down and cry. It was too late. Bella was dead.
“If only she had listened!” he told Max. “Her heart would not have worn out.”
“I tried to get her to rest more,” Max rued, “to give up the nonsense of working as a clerk at the bank. With Mother and Father to look after, and her heart as weak as it is – was–” Max corrected himself, “it was all just too much. Our poor, dear gracious sister.”
“She was such a good Christian, so loving to everyone. To Mother, to Father, to us, to the children she helped through St. Andrews Church. I simply can’t believe it,” Willie shook his head, “Why now? Just when I was beginning to earn enough to be able to help lift her burden substantially.”
King bade farewell to his brother and rushed to catch the train, thoughts flooding his brain. Dark and senseless the waves came, too fast and powerful to be stopped. My sister My big sister Dead. No children, no spouse. I have just said goodbye to my brother. My little brother. Ill as he is, he gathers strength in the loving arms of his wife and children. I am over forty. What sort of life will I find? What sort of end? Bella. Why did you have to be taken now?
Colorado, United States
September, 1915
There was war in Europe, but the mood in the hall on this spring evening was one of optimism. The fiddlers were pushing the tempo. Someone yelped “Yahoo!” and the dancers on the floor stepped up their pace.
A handsome, compact man, with devilish dark eyes and a wicked smile, whirled his partner around, laughing gaily. The man was John D. Rockefeller, Junior, the richest person in the United States of America. The woman was the wife of one of his employees.
The year before, women and children had died violently in Ludlow, Colorado. The problems had begun in 1913 when the miners started protesting the conditions and the lack of union recognition at the coal mines in which Rockefeller was the largest shareholder. The workers left the company town and installed themselves and their families in tents, watched by the state militia and company guards. On the morning of April 20, 1914, men shooting rifles and machine guns attacked the tent village. They threw paraffin onto the tents and lit them on fire. Eleven children and two women had been burned to death and three camp leaders shot. The American nation had been shocked and had demanded action.
At the dance, the man who had succeeded in bringing change, William Lyon Mackenzie King, sat on the sidelines, sipping punch and chatting with the dancer’s husband. Tonight he was enjoying one of his biggest successes.
At more than forty years of age and too old to fight in the war in Europe, King had had to find a job after the Liberals had lost the last election. He was looking after an increasing number of the bills for his parents and even for Max. His work at the Canadian Liberal and other small jobs didn’t cover expenses. Nor did money from his friends. King had found a sympathetic patron, Violet Markham, an intelligent and wealthy British woman with a social conscience. He’d impressed Violet when he met her in 1905 and in the correspondence they’d established since. She was quite willing to help Rex financially while he was out of Parliament, in hope that he would soon return to power and advance the cause of the underprivileged. But King needed more money so that he could help his family. He felt it was necessary to take the well-paying job in the United States. As director of industrial investigations for the Rockefeller Foundation, he started at a $12,000 per year salary that in 1914 seemed sent from heaven. More importantly, King was not just carrying out an academic study of labour relations. He believed he could make a difference in the lives of many people.
He had several goals in mind when he took his New York job: one was remaining Canadian. He even conducted some business on letterhead that gave his Ottawa address. King did not want to jeopardize his aspirations for having a position with the Dominion government at some future date when the Liberals would return to power.
In his present post, King had to accept some of the restrictions of his employer. Despite public outcry, Rockefeller and his associates were not prepared to recognize the United Mine Workers of America. But Willie succeeded in having the Colorado Fuel and Iron Company recognize a union organized from within the company. Communication between the miners and their bosses was resumed, and the tension of the year before eased.
Rockefeller had re-established his reputation in the eyes of the public. He had even impressed Mother Jones, a well-known eighty-three-year-old labour activist. Moreover, he had impressed King as “one of the best men and most welcome of friends” and a fine Christian, someone who sincerely tried to help other men. However, King mused privately, as he watched his employer across the floor, he’s not the best dancer.
“Not bad for a city slicker,” the miner laughed, taking his wife’s hand from Rockefeller.
“Mr. King taught me everything I know!” the industrialist joked. “Well, maybe not how to dance. But I certainly needed an education in labour and he gave it to me. I am but his mouthpiece.”
The miner nodded his approval and led his wife onto the dance floor.
“You coming back with us to New York, old man?” Rockefeller asked between gulps of punch. “Or are you going to get some rest like the doctor ordered?”
Ignoring the comment about his state of fatigue from overwork, King replied, “Now that business is all but concluded, I think I’ll see my brother.”
“How is he?”
“Much better. The Colorado air has done him good. He’s been able to move out of the sanatorium and is living nearby with his family in a small house.”
“Sounds like he’s on the road to recovery!” Rockefeller said.
King could not respond. When Max had first entered a sanatorium in Montreal, the doctor had confided to William that his brother would not recover from the deadly tuberculosis. He had not shared the news with Max. King told Rockefeller enthusiastically, “He’s writing a book for other TB patients called TB and How to Beat It!”
“That’s the spirit! You Kings – the harder you’re hit, the higher you bounce.”
King
