Imagine it's 2 o'clock in the morning in February 1896 in New York City's Lower East Side.
You wipe raindrops from your spectacles, trying to ignore the bone-chilling cold. You're a police reporter for the New York Evening Sun, and you're on one of your late-night outings with your new friend, Theodore Roosevelt, the city police commissioner. But tonight, you have something important you want to bring up with him.
You step into the dim glow of the green lights of the Church Street Police Lodging House, ready to delve into your pitch. These dingy police station basements are the only shelters available to the homeless. I think it's long past time we shut them down and open up real shelters, ones with beds and showers, but almost anything's better than what they've got. You wait till you see for yourself. Okay then, lead the way.
Roosevelt is new on the job and has never been to a police lodging house. All the other city officials have turned a blind eye to this misery, but you're hoping to change that. Roosevelt opens the door for you, then follows you inside. You nod at a familiar-looking sergeant, then lead Roosevelt toward the narrow set of stairs to the basement. You know, I stayed here myself, 25 years ago, when I first came to this city.
I was an immigrant with nowhere else to go. What was it like? Not good. A tramp robbed me, took my last token of home, a small gold locket containing a locket in my mother's hair. When I told the police officer on duty, though, he just threw me out. But I had my dog with me, and I thought that would have been enough. But he started barking like mad in the street, and a doorman snatched him up and beat him to death against the stone front steps of his building. That's barbaric. No man deserves to be treated like that.
As you walk into the light of the damp, windowless cellar, you register the anger on Roosevelt's face. You look around and realize the room is just as you remember it. Three men are stretched out on dirty wooden planks. You point to the young man closest to you, tossing and turning in his sleep. You know, I was just like him. Oh God, he's just a kid. And a sick one, by the looks of him. It wouldn't be unusual. A typhus epidemic spread through the lodging houses a few years back.
Roosevelt shakes his head and then clenches his fists. I will smash them tomorrow. Smash them? What do you mean? Well, I'm going to get rid of the police shelters for good. Replace them with proper housing. Just like that? It's been 30 years and no police commissioner has managed to shut them down. But I am not just any police commissioner.
You know how hard it is to make a change in this city. But there's a fierce glint in Roosevelt's eyes that makes you believe him, a resolve that could transform the lives of thousands of New Yorkers.
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On our show, we take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday people as history was being made, and we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now.
In 1896, reporter Jacob Reese befriended New York City Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt and took him on late-night walks through Manhattan's Lower East Side to investigate the problems plaguing the urban poor. Reese was an immigrant himself who arrived in New York with nothing, then made a name for himself exposing the horrors of tenement life. Roosevelt was a member of one of America's wealthiest families.
But both men envisioned far-reaching reforms that could make a lasting impact on the lives of the city's most vulnerable. These men became two of the leading figures of the Progressive Era.
By the 1890s, more than two decades of astonishing economic growth had made the United States one of the world's great industrial powers. Bustling cities, sprawling factories, and powerful corporations drove unprecedented wealth. But this prosperity hid the darker truth of a society rife with corruption, poverty, and injustice.
Between the 1890s and World War I, a diverse group of reformers resolved to right America's wrongs by harnessing the power of government. Activists, journalists, lawyers, and politicians all fought a wide range of battles seeking to cleanse cities of crime, prostitution, and drinking. They championed corporate regulation and worker protections, and they strove to reinvigorate democracy and root out corruption.
Above all else, these progressives believed in a strong, active government that worked on behalf of all Americans, rather than the privileged few. And as the United States entered the 20th century, the progressive movement steered the nation in a bold new direction, launching an era of reform to restore power to the people. This is Episode 1 in our five-part series on the Progressive Era, Roots of Reform.
In the summer of 1894, Chicago became the epicenter of a labor strike that paralyzed rail traffic across the Midwest.
The Pullman Palace Car Company was a manufacturer of luxury railway cars based in Pullman, Illinois, just south of Chicago. And in the wake of a punishing economic depression, company owner George Pullman cut employee wages by 25%. But he refused to lower the rents in company-owned housing, which were already significantly higher than the rents in the surrounding area.
Before long, many Pullman employees and their families faced starvation. So in May 1894, 3,000 workers walked off the job in protest. But one woman tried to intervene.
Jane Addams was a college graduate and the daughter of one of the richest men in Illinois, but she had devoted her life to helping the poor as a leader in the Settlement House movement, an attempt to address poverty and social issues by establishing community centers in impoverished neighborhoods, providing services like education, health care, and social programs.
Beginning in the 1880s and 1890s, thousands of middle-class, college-educated reformers, especially young women, moved to working-class neighborhoods across America to try to combat the problems plaguing the urban poor. In 1889, Adams rented an abandoned Chicago mansion in an immigrant neighborhood and opened Hull House. There, she and her fellow settlement workers provided their neighbors with education, health care, and social services, including a nursery and a public kitchen.
And over the next five years, Adams won the respect and support of local politicians, business leaders, and philanthropists. Among them was George Pullman, who had donated small amounts of money to Hull House. So in June of 1894, Adams offered to mediate between the Strikers and the company, but Pullman refused to speak with her, insisting there was nothing to negotiate.
Soon after, the country's largest railway union launched a nationwide strike in solidarity with the Pullman workers. 125,000 rail workers joined the boycott, refusing to handle any trains carrying Pullman cars. As a result, rail traffic ground to a halt in 27 states, threatening the health of the U.S. economy.
So in early July, President Grover Cleveland deployed federal troops to Chicago on the grounds that the strike threatened the delivery of mail. On Independence Day, the U.S. Army marched on the city. Three days later, soldiers fired on a mob of protesters, killing several. And while this violence raged, Jane Addams would discover the cost of her commitment to the cause. Imagine it's July 1894 in Chicago.
You're huddled over the oak desk in your corner office, rechecking your calculations. The Pullman strike has wreaked havoc on the railroad industry and your clients are struggling. You stamp out your cigar in a silver ashtray and pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.
Let out a slow breath as Jane Addams enters your office. Her hair is pulled back away from her face. She wears a plain brown silk dress, the picture of wealth and practicality. She doesn't wait for a greeting. Good afternoon, sir. Your kind secretary let me through. Oh, did she now? Well, she shouldn't have. I am busy. I apologize for not making an appointment. I promise not to take much of your time. You've been so generous in your support for Hull House, and our relief work depends on donors like you.
You stifle a laugh, exhaling sharply. "'So you've come to ask for more money? I've long considered you to be one of the most charitable men in Chicago. Even a small gift would go a long way toward helping our poorest neighbors. You know, Miss Adams, you had a good thing going. I think you really did. But then you had to go and throw it all away.' "'Throw it away? I'm afraid I don't understand.' "'Well, that figures, because like an idiot, you went and mixed yourself up with something you know nothing about.'
Oh, you mean the Pullman strike. You wave a hand toward all the paperwork scattered across your desk. Yes, those striking workers have cost my clients money. They've cost me money. Sir, you must understand, I took no sides. I only wanted to help mediate. Well, of course, the saintly Jane Addams comes to the rescue playing peacemaker, but you've put your nose where it doesn't belong. Now, Hull House is going to pay for it.
Adam strains her shoulders and then takes a step closer. Me and my nose belong wherever I see suffering and injustice. Don't be so naive. Those workers should be grateful for what George Pullman has done for them for all these years. They're a danger to law and order and the stability of the economy.
Sir, you must understand these men and women are struggling to feed their families. They've been pushed past their limits. Oh, I understand completely. And I don't want my money anywhere near those labor radicals. Now, would you please get out of my office? And I will instruct my secretary not to let you back.
Adams flinches, and for a second you think she's going to argue. But then she lifts her chin and walks out the door. You return to your calculations, feeling a little bit better about your client's losses after having put her in her place.
Although Jane Addams insisted on a neutral stance during the strike, she lost friends and donors who accused her of supporting the workers. Affluent Chicagoans called her a traitor to her class. One friend recalled, the famous Pullman strike was for her the most painful of experiences because she was forced by conviction to work against the stream to separate herself from the great mass of her countrymen.
Seeking solace from her estrangement, Adams walked nearly five miles in the sweltering summer heat to Chicago's Lincoln Park, as the city's streetcars were also on strike. There she found the newly erected bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln, and etched in stone were Lincoln's immortal words, "With charity towards all." They were a powerful reminder of Adams' lifelong mission and her sense of responsibility to a democracy she thought was in danger.
She reflected that the Pullman strike crisis gave her the paralyzing consciousness that our best efforts were most inadequate.
The Pullman Strike was one of the most explosive conflicts in an era of rapid industrialization, extreme wealth inequality, and violent labor strife. In the final three decades of the 19th century, America shed its agricultural past and transformed into an industrial economy. In steel mills, oil refineries, and Wall Street banks, powerful businessmen amassed unprecedented fortunes.
Skyscrapers rose up over cities, and immigrants flocked to American shores for a piece of the prosperity.
But this feverish economic growth came at a cost. Mark Twain dubbed the era the Gilded Age, observing that a dazzling surface of wealth and excess masked a society riddled with corruption and inequality. Workers toiled under harsh conditions for little pay, robber barons used ruthless tactics to crush the competition, and politics was mired in corruption and scandal.
so that by the 1890s, years of social and economic upheaval had convinced many Americans that democracy itself was under threat from the forces of big business. Jane Addams was just one of many reformers who fought the economic and social injustice they saw. They called themselves progressives. And among these, some of the most effective in uncovering injustice and corruption were investigative journalists who published scathing exposés of exploitation and urban life.
In 1890, Danish immigrant Jacob Ries published his groundbreaking book How the Other Half Lives, a damning account of New York City's disease-ridden slums. The book's photographs and vivid details gave middle-class readers a shocking window into the squalor of immigrant neighborhoods.
In the South, Black journalist Ida B. Wells investigated lynching, challenging the myth that it was primarily used to punish Black men for raping white women. Armed with statistics and personal testimony, Wells exposed lynching as a tool to terrorize Black people and enforce white supremacy. But journalists weren't the only crusaders. The spirit of reform extended to politics, too.
In the early 1890s, the populist movement swept across the Midwest and South. Populism mobilized millions of farmers, laborers, and middle-class activists who were determined to challenge corporate power. They urged the government to rein in the abuses of Wall Street and big business. And as the election of 1896 approached, they resolved to win a seat at the table.
That year, the populace rallied behind the Democratic Party's new standard-bearer, a brash 36-year-old Nebraska congressman named William Jennings Bryan. That summer, Bryan electrified the Democratic National Convention with a call for the free coinage of silver to relieve farmers suffering under crippling debt. The party nominated him for president the next day.
And with the fierce passion of an evangelical preacher, Bryan barnstormed the country, spellbinding audiences with speeches championing common people over corporate interests. Bryan's opponent in the 1896 election was the stately Republican nominee William S. McKinley, a former governor of Ohio. Campaigning from his front porch in Canton, Ohio, McKinley gave sedate speeches in favor of protective tariffs and other business-friendly policies.
But what McKinley lacked in rhetorical flair, he made up for in powerful allies, and none more so than Mark Hanna, a millionaire industrial tycoon turned political kingmaker.
Hanna raised an unprecedented $3.5 million from corporations and wealthy donors, a figure more than 10 times the amount in Bryan's meager war chest. Hanna funneled this money into advertising, targeting various interest groups with specialized campaign ads. He also sent Republican speakers to the Midwest to persuade Democrats to vote for the Republican ticket.
And it seemed these efforts worked. On election night, a group of wealthy businessmen and bankers gathered in an elite Chicago club. After midnight, the news arrived that McKinley had defeated Bryan by a margin of nearly 100 electoral votes. The room exploded with cheers, with men jumping on sofas and tables, running up and down stairs, and dancing in each other's arms. In Cleveland, the jubilant Mark Hanna fired off a telegram to the president-elect declaring God's in his heaven, all's right with the world.
After Bryan's defeat, the populist movement fizzled. Their ideas would live on, but for now, it seemed as though only a minority of Americans shared Bryan's appetite for reform. Meanwhile, the election outcome was a resounding victory for big business and the wealthy. America's millionaire class felt reassured that their futures were in safe hands, but they wanted access to overseas markets and a chance to flex their muscles on the international stage.
A Washington Post editorial declared, A new consciousness seems to have come upon us, the consciousness of strength, and with it a new appetite, the yearning to show our strength. That appetite fueled imperial ambitions, and the results of several conflicts abroad would soon cement America's status as a new imperial power.
In the mid-1890s, Americans watched as Cuba fought a brutal war for independence against Spain. American businesses had $50 million invested in Cuba, and war fever burned through the halls of power. The opportunities to join the fight came in January of 1898, when a U.S. Navy vessel, the USS Maine, was sent to Havana Harbor to protect American interests in Cuba. On February 15th, that battleship exploded, killing 260 men,
The cause of the explosion was unclear, but soon after, Congress declared war on Spain, igniting the Spanish-American War.
This conflict lasted less than 100 days, but by the end of the year, the U.S. had acquired sovereignty over Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines, and it was there, in the aftermath of the war, that Filipinos rebelled against their new American colonial rulers, igniting a war that would claim the lives of thousands of American and Filipino soldiers and some 200,000 Filipino civilians.
But America prevailed in this conflict, too, and emerged from the Philippine-American War as a global imperial power. At the same time, war-driven federal spending and gold discoveries spurred an economic boom, reviving factories and ending mass unemployment. The United States was set to enter the 20th century with newfound prosperity and confidence. But many progressives were horrified by the violence overseas and how it distracted Americans from reforms needed at home.
They argued that imperialism violated democratic ideals and served wealthy elites at the expense of ordinary Americans. But these conflicts had another important outcome. The Spanish-American War catapulted Theodore Roosevelt into the national spotlight.
As a leader of a group of American volunteer fighters, his daring cavalry charges in Cuba made him a national hero and celebrity. And soon, Roosevelt would begin a meteoric rise in politics, embarking on a path leading all the way to the presidency. ♪
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In 1858, Theodore Roosevelt was born in New York City to a wealthy and distinguished family. His father was a businessman and philanthropist who descended from the Dutch merchants who built New York. His mother was raised on a Georgia plantation in the upper echelons of Southern society.
But despite his privileged birth, adversity shaped Roosevelt's early years. Debilitating asthma left him bedridden for weeks at a time. He sought solace in the outdoors, and as a teenager he adopted a vigorous exercise regime to improve his health and stamina. He became a lifelong advocate of what he called the strenuous life, reveling in horseback riding, swimming, hiking, and boxing.
He later affirmed that the highest form of success comes to the man who does not shrink from danger, from hardship, or from bitter toil.
After graduating from Harvard in 1880, Roosevelt launched his political career, winning a seat on the New York State Assembly. But tragedy struck in 1884 when his mother and his young wife Alice died on the same day, just two days after the birth of Roosevelt's first daughter. Consumed by grief, Roosevelt fled west to the Dakota Badlands, where he spent his days herding cattle, hunting grizzly bears, and chasing outlaws.
But after a harsh winter wiped out his cattle herd, he returned east and rekindled a romance with his childhood sweetheart, Edith. The couple settled in Oyster Bay, New York, where they raised six children together.
Then, in the spring of 1895, Roosevelt was appointed as New York City's police commissioner. The police headquarters was across the street from the offices of the New York Evening Sun, where journalist Jacob Reese worked as a police reporter. Roosevelt had read and admired Reese's pioneering study of living conditions in New York's tenements titled How the Other Half Lives. So he left his card on Reese's desk at the Evening Sun, scribbling a note on the back that said, I have read your book and I have come to help.
Reese and Roosevelt were from different worlds, but they became fast friends. Reese took Roosevelt on midnight rambles through the city so Roosevelt could witness the struggles of the poor firsthand.
This partnership was a major influence on Roosevelt's tenure as police commissioner. He closed the city's crime and disease-ridden police lodging houses, battled bribery in the police force, and had the city tear down the worst tenements. Reese wrote of Roosevelt's efforts, For the first time, a moral purpose came into the street. And for his part, Roosevelt became convinced by his efforts that real change demanded government oversight, equal enforcement of the law, and strong executive power.
He would seek that power through a continued career in politics. After Roosevelt campaigned for William McKinley during the election of 1896, McKinley appointed him as Assistant Secretary of the Navy. Roosevelt was an enthusiastic supporter of military intervention, and he harbored hopes that the United States would take action to drive Spain out of Cuba. He told a friend, I should welcome almost any war, for I think this country needs one.
He got what he wanted when McKinley declared war on Spain in 1898 and Roosevelt was determined to see battle himself. Ignoring the pleadings of his wife, he resigned his position in Washington and raised a ragtag volunteer cavalry regiment known as the Rough Riders.
After leading a heroic charge up Cuba's San Juan Hill, Roosevelt burst onto the public consciousness. His glasses, prominent teeth, and bristly walrus mustache made him instantly recognizable. He stood 5'8 and 200 pounds, a barrel-chested frame to match his forceful, larger-than-life personality.
In the fall of 1898, he parlayed this wartime fame into politics, winning the New York governor's race. And during his time in office, he improved labor laws, outlawed racial segregation in public schools, and created park and forestry programs. He also pushed for taxes on large corporations. But these reforms unsettled local political bosses, who found Roosevelt difficult to control.
So to sideline him, party leaders sought to stick him in what was considered a largely ceremonial post with no real power, nominating Roosevelt for vice president in 1900. He joined McKinley on the Republican ticket.
The Democrats once again nominated William Jennings Bryan, creating a rematch of the previous election. McKinley and Roosevelt campaigned under the slogan, Let Well Enough Alone, a motto that captured their party's conservatism and laissez-faire attitudes. Foreign policy, though, was a different matter. Roosevelt brought his zeal for U.S. imperialism to the campaign, defending the annexation of the Philippines in the interest of national honor and manly duty.
And when Election Day arrived in November 1900, McKinley once again defeated William Jennings Bryan, this time by an even wider margin. McKinley boasted that he was now president of the whole people.
McKinley began his second term as a new century dawned in the United States. By the year 1900, there were 76 million Americans, of which one in seven were foreign-born. U.S. factories were now outproducing those of Great Britain and Germany, and more Americans lived in towns and cities than ever, earning rising wages.
But a changing America raised a host of difficult questions. Should government rein in the power of big business and industry? What should be done about poverty, crime, and inequality? How could fair labor standards be ensured? And who should have the right to participate in democracy? Some of these questions were answered on the local level.
In September of 1900, a hurricane struck the port city of Galveston, Texas, leaving 100,000 residents homeless in the greatest natural disaster in American history. In the wake of this hurricane, the city replaced its mayor with a city commission, staffed by five experts, each responsible for a different government department. The idea was to put a stop to the bitter partisan warfare that had long undermined good governments.
And the city commission was a success, so that over the next decade, another 300 cities would adopt what became known as the Galveston Plan.
These reforms made local governments more efficient and less corrupt, but they reduced the power of poor and minority voters. Previously, city officials were elected by district, allowing working-class neighborhoods to choose representatives who supported their interests. With the introduction of citywide elections for commissioners, candidates from poorer areas struggled to afford the high cost of campaigning.
But other progressive political reforms occurred at the state level. In Wisconsin, a tireless progressive crusader named Robert La Follette won the Wisconsin governor's race in 1900. La Follette's progressive awakening began when he was working as a lawyer in private practice. In 1891, a powerful U.S. senator offered him a bribe to sway a judge. La Follette angrily refused the bribe, then vowed to devote himself to cleaning up politics.
As time went on, his frequent clashes with party leaders earned him the nickname Fighting Bob. And as governor, he resolved to wrest the power to nominate political candidates from the hands of party bosses declaring, the will of the people shall be the law of the land. Imagine it's late at night in February 1901 in the state capitol in Madison, Wisconsin. You're a Republican state assemblyman, and you're stumbling back to your office after winning big at a poker game with a colleague and a pair of railroad lobbyists.
So you're grinning to yourself when you open the door to your office and turn on the light. The sight of Governor La Follette sitting in a worn leather chair waiting for you nearly scares you out of your wits. Oh, God, Governor! What are you doing here? Hey. Good evening. How was your poker game? Did Philip let you win again? You sink into the chair across from the governor, trying hard to compose yourself. Oh, well...
Good evening. What an unexpected surprise. How's Bell and the children? Oh, this isn't a social visit. I need to know if I have your vote for the primary election bill. Ah, well, now that you mention it, I have some reservations. Hmm, is that so? It seems to me that direct primaries would weaken the party machinery. They'll degrade our politics by turning primary elections into bitter personal feuds. It'll give rise to demagogues.
La Follette waves his hand impatiently. "'No, I'm not interested in your excuses. Have you forgotten the promise you made to the voters who elected you last year?' "'Well, no. It's just that this is a delicate matter. We can't go shaking up the whole system. I suppose I could consider a modified bill mandating direct primaries for local elections only.' "'Local elections only? You know, if you ask me, it sounds as though you're scared to have your candidacy tested in a primary. And I can imagine why.'
I don't think voters think too highly of legislators who cozy up to the railroad interest. Have I introduced you to my friend Tom, reporter of the Wisconsin State Journal? I bet he'd be fascinated to hear about your late-night poker games, for instance. Yeah, absolutely fascinated. With a smile, La Follette stands, claps his hand on your shoulder, and walks toward the door. Now, wait a minute, Governor.
LaFalla turns around and raises an eyebrow. Yes? I'll vote for your bill. Good man. I knew I could count on you. The governor walks out of your office and you slump back into your chair feeling dazed. You fear that he's right, that if you're forced to ask Republican voters to put you on the ballot in a primary, your days in politics are numbered.
As governor of Wisconsin, La Follette put in place direct primaries to give voters the power to select candidates for public office. He also secured a tax law that stripped railroad corporations of tax exemptions. And he relied on experts from the University of Wisconsin to craft policies. Other state governments replicated what became known as the Wisconsin Idea, drawing on professors and policy experts to draft legislation.
But progressive reform at the local and state level could only do so much. Some problems demanded national solutions. Only the federal government could protect workers and consumers nationwide and curb the power of trusts.
In the 1890s, trusts exploded across the U.S. economy. Companies merged into powerful conglomerates to dominate markets and stifle competition. Between 1897 and 1904, roughly 4,000 firms merged into only 257 corporations, crushing small businesses and placing high prices on consumer goods, making a handful of owners extremely wealthy at the expense of the many.
The largest of these mergers occurred in March 1901, when nine companies combined to create U.S. Steel. Valued at $1.4 billion, almost 4% of the entire U.S. gross national product, steel magnate Andrew Carnegie pocketed $500 million from the deal at a time before income taxes.
Later that year, Wall Street titan J.P. Morgan merged several Western railroads into the Northern Securities Company Trust, which stood to monopolize rail traffic from Chicago to San Francisco.
Determined to curb the unchecked power a few corporations exercise over the economy, progressive activists urged the White House to break up these trusts. President McKinley considered the options. But in September of 1901, when he was just six months into his second term, he was felled by an assassin's bullet. An anarchist in Buffalo, New York, shot him in the abdomen, and he succumbed to his wounds a few days later.
Vice President Teddy Roosevelt rushed out of a campsite in the Adirondacks to take the oath of office, and on September 14, 1901, he was sworn in as the 26th President of the United States. At the time, he was just 42 years old, the youngest president America had ever seen. But he was never one to back down from a challenge. A bold new era of strong executive leadership and progressive reform was about to begin. ♪
Thank you.
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In September 1901, Theodore Roosevelt, his wife Edith, and their six children moved into the White House and the executive mansion came alive like never before. The boisterous Roosevelt children slid down banisters, roller-skated across the hardwood floors, and trampled through the flower beds on stilts. Ringing through the house was the sound of their laughter and the squealing of the family's menagerie of pets, which included flying squirrels, a badger, and a small bear.
The new president was no less lively. A New York Times reporter observed, The president is always speaking with great animation, gesturing freely, and in fact talking with his whole being, mouth, eyes, forehead, cheeks, and neck. A hundred times a day, the president will laugh. It is usually a roar of laughter, and it comes nearly every five minutes. Another journalist wrote, You go into Roosevelt's presence, and you go home and wring the personality out of your clothes.
A friend described him as an electric battery of inexhaustible energy, energy that Roosevelt was ready to apply to the presidency. So Roosevelt retained President McKinley's cabinet and announced that he would follow the policies of his business-friendly predecessor. Roosevelt knew that he had to be pragmatic to navigate the conservative Republicans who led both houses of Congress. But he was nevertheless determined to use his power as chief executive to serve the public good.
His first step in that direction was to take on the trusts. In February 1902, he directed the Justice Department to prosecute Northern Securities, the railroad trust organized by J.P. Morgan under the Sherman Antitrust Act.
Congress had passed this act in 1890 to prohibit businesses from forming trusts. It was the first federal law designed to promote competition in the marketplace, and its aim was to stop powerful companies from controlling entire industries and unfairly driving up prices.
But in its 12-year existence, the Sherman Act had proved largely ineffective. Roosevelt's predecessors declined to enforce it, and the Supreme Court often interpreted the law in ways that protected trusts rather than breaking them up. More often than not, the law was used to prosecute labor unions as illegal associations that restricted trade.
But Roosevelt was determined to take a different approach and apply the law against big business as intended. But he was not about to bust up every large corporation. He believed there were good trusts that benefited the economy and bad trusts that used corrupt methods to gain an advantage in the market. From his perspective, Northern Securities was a bad trust.
When the Justice Department filed its suit, J.P. Morgan was stunned. He had little experience with government oversight. So he rushed to the White House to interrogate Roosevelt, telling him, if we have done anything wrong, send your man to my man and they can fix it up. But Roosevelt stood his ground. His attorney, General Philander Knox, interjected, we don't want to fix it up. We want to stop it.
The Supreme Court would eventually uphold this suit, ordering the dissolution of Northern securities. But Roosevelt proceeded cautiously. He filed one more antitrust suit in 1902, then backed off, wary of rocking the boat with a re-election campaign on the horizon. Because while some Americans resented the power that trusts held over the economy, others saw no reason to challenge big business in a time of prosperity.
But even though Roosevelt paused his antitrust campaigning, later in 1902, he had to confront a new test of the powers of the presidency. In May of that year, a strike broke out in the anthracite coal mines of Pennsylvania. Anthracite coal burned cleaner than soft coal and was the main heating fuel in many eastern cities, making it a valuable commodity.
But all production stopped when nearly 150,000 coal miners, many of them illiterate immigrants, walked off the job in protest of low wages and dangerous working conditions. Their demands included a 20% pay increase and a reduction of the working day from 10 to 9 hours.
But the mine owners stubbornly refused to come to the table, and the strike dragged on into the summer. Coal that ordinarily costs $5 to $6 per ton rose to $14. Protesters clashed with strikebreakers and private guards hired by the mine owners, and in response, the Pennsylvania governor sent state troops in. Back in Washington, D.C., President Roosevelt read reports of the crisis with a growing sense of urgency and alarm.
Imagine it's late August 1902 in Washington, D.C. You're the Attorney General, and you're on a sunset walk with President Roosevelt in Lafayette Square. The fading light casts long shadows on the park as you try to keep up with the President's brisk, restless pace. He walks with the force of a cavalry charge. Oh, it's an outrage, I tell you. The strike's gone on for months, and we can't let this continue. You take a steadying breath. But we've been over this, Mr. President. You have no authority to intervene.
This is a dispute between a private company and labor. The federal government has no standing. No standing? No standing when the American people are suffering? What am I here for if not to help them? There must be something I could do. I could release the labor commissioner's report on the dispute. Oh, I would advise against it. It could be seen as interference. Then we'd go to the courts. If we can't order the mine owners to give in, we'd break them apart. You could file an antitrust suit.
I don't believe there are grounds for a lawsuit. The coal operators may be ruthless, but they're not a trust. They're not violating the law. Roosevelt stops abruptly and then rounds on you, fixing you with a withering look. I don't give a damn if they're not breaking the law. The price of coal has more than doubled. There are reports of potential shortages in New York.
I have half a mind to call in the army. Seize the mines myself. Oh, don't even think about it, sir. Well, the American people are on my side. They're urging me to act. How can I ignore them? Still call myself president. Well, the American people may be on your side, but the Constitution is not. This is a matter of moral duty, and I'm not one to shirk duty.
The lights flicker to life along Pennsylvania Avenue, illuminating the dark circles under the president's eyes. You've never seen him so agitated. With a frustrated growl, he strides off in the direction of the White House, and you watch him go with a heavy suspicion about what will happen next. Theodore Roosevelt is not a man who can easily be restrained.
Although Roosevelt was desperate to intervene in the coal strike, his attorney general, Philander Knox, told him that the Constitution provided no authority for a president to mediate a dispute between labor and management. Roosevelt told a senator, "'I am at wit's end as how to proceed.'"
The strike stretched on, and by September, coal prices soared to $20 a ton. Hotels and restaurants raised their prices, and landlords hiked their rents. Chicagoans burned street paving, and railroads gave their employees old wooden rail ties to use as fuel. The U.S. Post Office threatened to shut down, and Pennsylvania steel mills faced mass layoffs. All of this, and winter was yet to set in. In a few months, many Americans might not be able to afford to heat their homes.
So they urged Roosevelt to take action, especially in the Northeast. One Massachusetts senator warned, "...the demand that the government take the coal fields is rising louder all the time. It's a perilous crime. When the cold weather comes, it will be far worse."
President Roosevelt admitted he had fears of untold misery, with a certainty of riots which might develop into social war. But he was forced to reckon with the limits of presidential power and the knowledge that if this crisis in the coal mines went unresolved, it could derail the nation's economy and the future of his presidency. From Wondery, this is Episode 1 of our five-part series, The Progressive Era, from American History Tellers.
On the next episode, President Theodore Roosevelt takes unprecedented action to bring the Pennsylvania coal strike to an end. Meanwhile, journalist Ida Tarbell exposes the ruthless tactics of oil tycoon J.D. Rockefeller, and author Upton Sinclair shocks readers with his graphic account of the Chicago meatpacking industry.
If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Supervising sound designer, Matthew Filler. Music by Thrun. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozanski. Managing producer, Desi Blaylock.
Senior Managing Producer Callum Plews. Senior Producer Andy Herman. And Executive Producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Marsha Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery. Last year, Law & Crime brought you the trial that captivated the nation. She's accused of hitting her boyfriend, Boston Police Officer John O'Keefe, with her car. Karen Reid is arrested and charged with second-degree murder. The six-week trial resulted in anything but resolution. We continue to find ourselves at an impasse.
I'm declaring a mistrial in this case. But now the case is back in the spotlight, and one question still lingers. Did Karen Reid kill John O'Keefe? The evidence is overwhelming that Karen Reid is innocent. How does it feel to be a cop killer, Karen? I'm Kristen Thorne, investigative reporter with Law & Crime and host of the podcast, Karen, The Retrials.
This isn't just a retrial. It's a second chance at the truth. I have nothing to hide. My life is in the balance and it shouldn't be. I just want people to go back to who the victim is in this. It's not her. Listen to episodes of Karen, the retrial, exclusively and ad-free on Wondery Plus.