Author’s note: On September 2, 1885, white coal miners in Rock Springs, Wyoming, rioted and murdered at least 28 of the town’s Chinese residents and drove the rest of them out of town at gunpoint. The bloodshed, known as the Rock Springs Massacre, was the result of a decade of labor struggles in the Union Pacific coal mines. In November 1875, in the middle of a financial crisis caused by reckless speculation in railroads, the Union Pacific brought in Chinese workers to break a strike.
Number One
March 1874
New York, New York
To write about the New York Stock Exchange
is to simply describe the movements of Jay Gould.
Before he came to the Union Pacific,
he issued fraudulent stock to wrestle the Erie Railroad
away from Cornelius Vanderbilt and drove up
the price of gold until it crashed on Black Friday.
All in a day’s work before he goes home
to his family, their faces bright in the portrait
on the mantelpiece. He retires to his own library
but the day still weighs on him, that latest acquisition—
he runs his finger down the ledger of coal mines
in the West. The price of coal is falling,
the price of mining must fall too. He pauses on
Rock Springs, Mine Number One,
the most productive of them all, mouthing
these words under his breath: Mine. Number One.
Landlocked
November 1874
Rock Springs, Wyoming
He returns to air, dusts the soot
off his skin, walks home on the banks
of Bitter Creek, so named for the water
too hard to drink. The stars
a blanket in the sky, telling stories
he cannot yet read. All day he crouches
in a sweltering room, picking at seams
for nuggets of coal, setting charges
to clear the debris. Coal dust
gathers in his lungs. All day he swallows
his tears. All day he tries
not to think of the past. He prays
his lamp keeps flickering
and the old canary keeps singing.
Town Hall
October 1875
Rock Springs, Wyoming
First they cut our wages.
We agreed only if they lowered their prices
at the store.
Now they break their promise.
How will we feed our children if
we keep working for less?
Why do we pay
while they live in their gilt?
I say we call a strike on November 8th.
Restore our pay to five cents a bushel.
November 2nd we start working
half days.
We will not dig extra this winter.
Let’s see how far they get
without us.
Let’s go for broke.
Housekeeping
November 1875
Rock Springs, Wyoming
No matter how much she scrubs the floor,
the dust returns, a fine silver
on every surface in the house.
“We live in a dugout, dear. It’s pointless,”
John tells her, but she cannot
stop—it is not proper
for a woman to live in such a mess.
These days he hardly comes home
for dinner, staying out late
in the union hall—and she knows—
stopping by the saloon for a pint or five
after talking all day about how much longer
to strike. There are only so many ways
she can make their pantry last.
She counts how much she owes the store,
how much for flour, for eggs, maybe
some roast for Sunday—no, that was only
a girlhood dream, like the dream
that he would put his hands on her breasts,
two fingers missing.
Ultimatum
November 5, 1875
Rock Springs, Wyoming
S.H.H. Clark, the general superintendent
of the Union Pacific Coal Department
Does your union propose to dictate to this company
regarding the amount of coal it is to mine?
Do you intend to limit our supply of coal
from our own mines?
Do you wish to cripple us in failing to give us
an adequate supply of coal
for the purpose of running our trains and supplying
the needs of the people
residing along the line of our road?
If that is your purpose, gentlemen,
I herewith give you notice that in a very short time
I will have a body of men here
who will dig for us all the coal we want.
Letter Home
November 19, 1875
San Francisco, California
My dearest wife,
I have good news for you.
Yesterday I was praying at the temple
and this big man walked in, saying he needed
a hundred men for a job. I said I built
the railroad, I didn’t mind the winter nights,
and I knew how to handle the explosives.
“Great! You’re just what we’re looking for,” he said,
giving me a train pass and telling me
I must be at the depot in the morning.
I’m sorry that I haven’t written much
these days. It’s hard to stand all day in lines,
waiting for someone, anyone, to call me.
Some nights I think about those years I spent
shoveling snow and blasting rock. I kept
praying a shard won’t shatter in my heart.
But I had work. I made money. I know
it’s hard for you too. Our dear boys are growing
so fast. And Mother needs her medicines.
I carry your sweet letters in my pocket,
read them again when I long to hear your voice.
I thought I would go home after two years
in California, land of golden peaks
and dreams made on the backs of desperate fools.
No matter how much I work, it never seems
to be enough. I can’t say what Wyoming
will bring. I’ll still be blasting rock, this time in
the coal mines. I promise to write more
when I get there—
Your faithful husband.
Strikebreakers
November 21, 1875
Rock Springs, Wyoming
Snow falls the night before.
Winds whip the sagebrush, the rocky hills.
Men huddle in their hovels, light the last
oil in their lamps, eat the scraps
left on their stoves.
No work, nowhere to go,
some of them drink all day in the saloons.
Cold seeps under their skins.
Fourteen days—how long more can they hold out?
Soldiers arrive in the cover of night,
the moon and stars still shrouded in clouds.
The troops stand guard before the mines, the shops,
the company store, the banks of Bitter Creek,
now a trickle in the dour of winter.
Their footsteps sink into the snow.
They signed up to fight for their country,
for life, liberty, and happiness—
Governor Thayer rides the two o’clock
train from Cheyenne.
They dine him in first class,
befitting, they say, a dignitary of the Territory.
The blood of steaks
soaks the mash on their plates.
Wine stains the tablecloth.
They shake hands, whisper plans, and step out
under the cold blue sky—
refusing to look at the men on strike.
Four-fifteen.
A train pulls up from Sacramento,
its shadow cast across this fractured land.
A hundred and fifty Chinamen alight
still in a daze, their long hair
braided into queues.
They set up camp across the creek, make
dinners of noodles, slicing the pork so thin the
fat glistens in the broth.
That night they sleep in boxcars, wrapped in wool.
The strikers plead, “We’ll go back to work if you send those people away.”
But the Chinese are here to stay.
The governor says,
“Legitimate labor should not be interfered with,
no matter the race
and nationality of the laborer.
Law and order will be enforced even
if it takes the might of the army.”
The soldiers hide their scowls.
Mine Number Three.
Carpenters build huts all morning,
a makeshift Chinatown on the icy ground. And
this, posted at the company store:
All persons whose names appear below can obtain
employment at Mine Number One.
None others need apply.
All miners desiring passes
for themselves and their families must apply at once, as
none will be granted after November 24th.
Those who stay sign their right to strike away. *
Where else can the white men go?
Rock Springs is a desert
surrounded by mountains and snow,
dependent on the Union Pacific
for work and housing, to get to Omaha or Denver,
Salt Lake City or San Francisco.
Stomping on the muddy ground,
they board the trains to futures unknown,
biting their lips so hard they bleed.
Letter Home
December 1875
Rock Springs, Wyoming
It’s a strange place out here. Not snowy
like the mountains
or stormy like the sea.
It’s a desert of broken rock.
And it is cold.
We live in wooden huts.
Winds seep through the cracks.
The white men are hostile.
I don’t know what happened, but soldiers
escorted us when we arrived.
Company guards protect us in the mines.
But I’m getting paid, finally.
Here’s my first paycheck, as I promised.
I don’t think I can stay here long, but the money is good.
I want to see you all again.
Teow Lim Goh is the author of two previous books of poetry, “Islanders” and “Faraway Places.” Her essay collection “Western Journeys” was a finalist for the 2023 Colorado Book Award in Creative Nonfiction. She lives in Denver.
