In 1909, Urban Walter, a 28-year-old mail clerk, founded a small magazine with large ambitions. According to its masthead, the Harpoon was “a magazine that hurts.” It was founded in pursuit of one goal: to oppose the Post Office Department’s imposition of a “gag order” on any discussion of the train wrecks that killed scores of railway mail clerks annually and maimed many hundreds more. These gag orders, first promulgated by the Postmaster General in the late 19th century, and later expanded by executive orders issued by Theodore Roosevelt and William Taft, prohibited civil servants from petitioning or giving information to Congress, or advocating for improved pay or working conditions except through their departmental head. The Harpoon defied the order, promising to give the “fullest publicity” the dangerous conditions, physical and organizational, of the work.
Walter was frequently ill with respiratory issues, exacerbated by moldy mailbags and the dusty, lamplit conditions on the mail car. To explain why he spent his precious “lay-off” time in a small print shop in Phoenix, Arizona, Walter invoked the highest of constitutional ideals. “No public official is great enough to take away the guaranteed rights of American citizenship,” Walter explained. “The very constitutional rights” of “lesser public servants” were abrogated by an order that, under penalty of swift removal, prohibited a clerk from discussing his working conditions publicly and from complaining to Congress. Under what Walter saw as the pretext of maintaining “efficiency of service,” postal officials had robbed 15,000 railway postal workers of their right to speech and right to petition the government. In so doing, officials had also undermined the public good, by keeping Americans ignorant of the conditions under which their mail was delivered.
Urban Walter and the railway postal clerks who read and wrote for the Harpoon understood their fight for speech rights not in individualistic and expressive terms, but as a precondition for public accountability. Because of the transient, hidden nature of railway postal work, disclosure of the clerk’s working conditions was the public’s window into a job that also bore upon public safety. In 1909 alone, 27 railway mail workers were killed, 98 “seriously injured,” and 617 “slightly injured”—the highest number of deaths on record. Under Walter’s framing, the disclosure of dangerous working conditions implicated the “public good,” and not just the narrow interests of an individual worker.