North and South Trilogy Page 30

  Zachary Taylor won the presidential election in November 1848. That same month workmen finished Belvedere, and George and a very pregnant Constance moved in. Not long afterward, William Hazard III was born in their canopied bed.

  Husband and wife loved the new house. Constance first furnished the nursery, then filled all the other rooms with expensive but comfortable pieces whose function was to be used, not admired. In contrast, Stanley and Isabel maintained their home as if it were a museum.

  George discussed every major decision with Constance. She knew nothing of the iron trade—not at first, anyway—but she had a keen, practical mind and learned rapidly. He confessed that he was probably courting failure by acting too quickly, even rashly, on many questions on which he had little except instinct to guide him. But he believed progress could be achieved no other way. She agreed.

  Soon the expanding grid of American railroads was consuming all the rails the mill could produce on a twenty-four-hour schedule—and this despite a poor economic climate. But George had to fight his brother at every step, on virtually every important issue.

  “For God’s sake, Stanley, here we are in the middle of a prime hard coal region, and you seem oblivious. It’s been merely a hundred and fifty years since the Darbys started smelting iron with coke in Britain. Is that still too experimental for you?”

  Stanley looked as if George were demented. “Charcoal is traditional and eminently satisfactory. Why change?”

  “Because the trees won’t last forever. Not at the rate we use them.”

  “We’ll use them till they’re gone, then experiment.”

  “But charcoal’s filthy. If it does this”—he swiped an index finger over Stanley’s desk; the fingertip showed black—“what do you suppose it does when we inhale the smoke and dust? I would like your agreement to build an experimental coke-burning—”

  “No, I won’t pay for it.”

  “Stanley—”

  “No. You’ve pushed me on everything else, but you will not push me on this.”

  George also wanted to invest some capital in an effort to duplicate the now-lost process by which the Garrard brothers had produced high-quality crucible steel in Cincinnati in the 1830s. Cyrus McCormick had thought enough of Garrard steel to use it for the blades of his first reapers. But a lowering of import duties during Jackson’s administration had permitted an inrush of European steel to meet the small domestic demand, and the infant American steel industry had been wiped out.

  Today America produced only about two thousand tons of high-carbon steel each year. As the country expanded, however, George foresaw a growing need and a growing market. The problem was not how to make steel—that had been known for centuries—but how to make it rapidly enough that production was profitable. The old cementation process took almost ten days to yield a minuscule quantity. The Garrards had reportedly found a better way. So George quietly surrendered on the coke issue, saving his resources for the fight that would surely ensue over his proposed investigation of steelmaking.

  No doubt egged on by Isabel, Stanley said no to nearly all his younger brother’s proposals. That was the case with the one concerning steel. George was in a rage for days, rescued from it only by Constance’s announcement that she was carrying their second child.

  In the summer of 1849, Stanley and his wife received a visitor from Middletown. The guest stayed overnight. George and Constance were not invited to dine, Virgilia was in Philadelphia, and Maude had taken Billy to New York on a holiday. The privacy seemed planned.

  George was unconcerned from a social standpoint, but he was curious about the purpose of the visit. He immediately recognized the tall, dignified man of fifty who alighted from a carriage and disappeared into Stanley’s house for the rest of the evening. Simon Cameron was widely known in Pennsylvania and over the years had profitably involved himself in printing, banking, railroad development, and even the operation of an ironworks.

  George sensed it was a completely different interest that had brought the visitor to Lehigh Station. Politics, perhaps? Cameron had finished a partial term in the Senate but had subsequently been passed over by the state Democratic caucus when it considered the current full-term appointment made by the state legislature, where the party had a majority. That night as George lay in bed with his hand resting on his wife’s stomach, he suddenly formed a connection between Cameron’s situation and another fact:

  “Good Lord. I wonder if he could be the recipient of those drafts.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear.”

  “I haven’t had time to tell you. I’ve just discovered that during each of the past three months Stanley’s written a draft for five hundred dollars. No name—the drafts are written to cash. Maybe he’s trying to help Cameron get back on his feet.”

  “You mean return to the Senate?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Under the Democratic banner?”

  “No, he couldn’t do that. He displeased too many people by straying from the party line. Old Jim Buchanan was one he displeased. On the other hand, you don’t get rid of Cameron simply by saying no. That only spurs him on. I must find out whether Stanley’s handing him money to help him build a new organization.”

  Gently she kissed his cheek. “All these quarrels with Stanley are making you old too fast.”

  “What about you and Isabel?”

  She turned away with a shrug too exaggerated to be genuine. “She doesn’t bother me.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to say anything else. But I know she does.”

  “Yes, she does,” Constance said, abruptly breaking down. “She’s vicious. God forgive me, but I wish the earth would swallow them both.”

  She huddled against his neck, one hand flung across his chest, and cried.

  “Yes, I’m donating to Cameron,” Stanley admitted the next morning. He waved a hand in front of his face. “Must you smoke those rotten weeds in here?”

  George continued puffing on the Cuban cigar. “Don’t change the subject. You’re giving away company funds. Money that should be retained in the business. What’s worse, you’re giving it to a political hack.”

  “Simon’s no hack. He served with distinction.”

  “Oh, did he? Then why did the Democrats repudiate him for a second term? I must say the repudiation didn’t surprise me. Cameron’s voting record is a crazy quilt. No one can be certain of where he stands or what party he supports—unless, of course, it’s the party of expediency. What’s his current affiliation? Know-Nothing?”

  Stanley coughed hard to register displeasure with the smoke and to play for a bit of time to find an answer. Outside the window of the little wooden office building, dirty, bedraggled men were filing down the hill—the night shift from the furnace. A train of six connected wagons carrying charcoal creaked in the other direction.

  “Simon’s building a state organization,” Stanley said at last. “He won’t forget those who help with the task.”

  “Stanley, the man’s a trimmer! You know the joke they tell about him—his definition of an honest politician: ‘Once bought, he stays bought.’ You want to associate yourself with someone like that?”

  Stanley was unperturbed. “Simon Cameron will be a power in Pennsylvania. In the nation, too. He just had a few temporary setbacks.”

  “Well, don’t help him overcome them with our money. If you continue, I’ll be forced to put the matter before Mother. Regrettably, that’s the only way I can stop you short of mayhem.”

  His brother glowered, not finding the sarcasm funny. George intimidated him. Stanley chewed his lip, then muttered, “All right. I’ll consider your objection.”

  “Thank you,” George snapped, and walked out.

  He knew he had won. He had used a weapon, a threat he had never employed before. He disliked using it; only a fool subjected other men to humiliation. A humiliated man often struck back—and in vicious ways. That risk was increased with someone like Stanley, who was
inwardly aware of his own ineptitude.

  Still, in this case, George had no other choice.

  Constance was right, he thought as he trudged uphill toward the furnaces. The endless battles were wearing him out. This morning, standing in front of his shaving mirror, he had spied several white hairs above his forehead. And he was not yet twenty-five.

  When Isabel heard about the latest argument, she erupted.

  “Will you let him get away with it, Stanley? When the senator has reestablished himself, he’ll certainly remember your generosity. Then you’ll get that political appointment we both want. It’s our chance to escape from this grubby little village for good.”

  Stanley sank down in one of the bedroom chairs. He unfastened his cravat with a listless hand. “If I don’t agree to stop the donations, George will approach Mother.”

  She sneered. “The little boy running for help?”

  “I don’t blame him. While I control the funds, he has no other recourse.” Short of turning on me with bare fists, Stanley thought as a thrill of fear chased down his back. George had a temper. He had fought a war and was no stranger to brawling. It wasn’t hard to imagine him attacking his own brother. Stanley would not run that risk.

  Isabel stormed over to his chair. “Well, by heaven, you’d better not surrender control of the purse to that godless little wretch.”

  “No, I won’t give in on that,” Stanley promised. It’s my last bit of authority.

  “And you find some way to keep sending Cameron donations, do you understand?”

  “Yes, my love. I will.” Stanley let out a pained sigh. “I fear I’m learning to hate my own brother.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you should go that far,” she countered. Secretly, she was pleased.

  He blushed and stepped behind a screen to remove his shirt. “I know. I don’t always mean it. Just sometimes.”

  “The trouble between you and your brother is that idolater he married.” She looked at her reflection in a decorative mirror but saw only the beautiful face of the red-haired chatelaine of Belvedere. “That Papist bitch. It’s time to take her down a few pegs.”

  Stanley poked his head out from behind the screen. “How?”

  Isabel’s only response was a cold smile.

  18

  THE MORAVIAN SEMINARY FOR Young Ladies was situated on the bank of Monocacy Creek in nearby Bethlehem. Established in 1742, it had the distinction of being the first boarding school for young ladies in the colonies. Virgilia had attended the seminary for two terms but had then been sent home for refusing to obey the rules of the institution.

  Late in September each year, ladies in the area conducted a bazaar to raise funds for the school. The affair was held on the lawn outside Colonial Hall. Planning began in the summer. To be asked to chair one of the numerous committees was a sign of social acceptance. Isabel had been a committee head the preceding year.

  Constance believed in education for women—as much education as they were equipped to handle, even if it placed them in competition with men. George found the attitude a bit startling but didn’t disagree with it. Constance told him she would like to help with the September bazaar; her pregnancy did not yet hamper activity or travel on the rough highland roads. George promised to mention her interest to Stanley but forgot.

  Constance waited. She had plenty to occupy her. She tended little William several hours a day, believing that if babies didn’t receive sufficient patting and handling when they were tiny, they grew up to be warped, disagreeable adults. More to the truth, she loved caring for the pink, plump little boy.

  She had household duties as well. She was a good manager of the servants at Belvedere, mediating their quarrels in a firm, fair way and helping them to accomplish more in less time by showing them how to plan their chores and do them efficiently. They soon came to respect and admire her—and fear her a little, too. She had an Irish temper and displayed it when she saw sloppy work or heard it defended with flippancy or fibs.

  Busy as she was, Constance still thought about the bazaar. She finally asked George about the message he had promised to pass along. He whacked his forehead and groaned in such a melodramatic way that she laughed. She said his forgetfulness didn’t matter; she would speak to Isabel herself. That required a special arrangement, since the two women seldom saw each other except by accident. That was Isabel’s design, Constance thought in occasional moments of pique.

  She invited Maude and Isabel to tea. First they discussed her pregnancy. Constance said she felt sure she was carrying a girl this time; she and George had agreed to name her Patricia Flynn Hazard. Hearing that, Isabel pursed her lips and gazed at some distant point.

  Constance mentioned her interest in the bazaar. Maude immediately said, “How good of you. I’m sure the ladies would be pleased to have you volunteer. I’ll be glad to mention your interest, although I no longer have an active part. I served on my last committee two years ago. I felt it was time for younger women to take the helm.”

  ”I shall mention it, dear,” Isabel said to Constance, “at the meeting of the organizing group next Monday.”

  “Thank you,” Constance said, trying to detect insincerity in Isabel’s sweet smile. She couldn’t.

  Isabel brought up her sister-in-law’s name at the Monday meeting. “I thought that perhaps she might chair the quilt committee—” she began.

  “Perfect choice,” one of the other ladies declared.

  “But when I mentioned the idea, she refused.”

  That produced some frowns of displeasure among those seated in the circle. “On what grounds, Isabel?” one inquired.

  Another asked, “Is she opposed to female education?”

  “I can’t say,” Isabel answered. “She told me she couldn’t participate because the, ah, religious orientation of the seminary violates many of the precepts of her own church, which of course she considers the only true church.”

  The woman chairing the group spoke up. “Well, that’s the last time we need consider her. About anything.”

  Isabel shook her head. “It’s a pity. Constance is a bright person. She has several fine qualities. I’ve been told Catholics are a queer, bigoted sort, but I never believed it until I became acquainted with her. I’m sure her attitudes are the result of the influence of priests and nuns. How can anyone who lives eternally in a dark cell be quite—well—right? And one does hear the most frightful stories about what goes on in nunneries.”

  Sage nods greeted that statement. It was popular cant in the country just then, and exciting to believe.

  Isabel called on Constance the following afternoon. Her face reflected dismay as she said:

  “There is no easy way to tell you this, my dear. I tendered your very generous offer, but the ladies of the organizing group declined to receive it. Not because of any personal flaws in yourself, please understand, but it is, after all, a bazaar to raise funds for a religious denomination different from your own.”

  Constance twisted a lace handkerchief. “You mean they don’t want the help of a Catholic.”

  Isabel sighed. “I’m so sorry. Perhaps next year.”

  Ever afterward, she knew, she would savor the memory of her sister-in-law’s face just then.

  While Isabel was calling on Constance, George was running to the rail mill, summoned by a frightened foreman. A quarrel had led to an accident. Stanley always deferred to his brother when such things happened. With a straight face he had said it was because George possessed the common touch. If Isabel had made the remark, George would have been sure it was an insult.

  The summer had been exceptionally hot, and the advent of autumn brought no relief. Tempers were frequently frayed in the Hazard family, and George could imagine the tensions that rose in the mill where the heat was infernal.

  The rail mill was of the type the trade called Belgian. The long, fast-moving ribbon of red-hot metal was gradually reduced in thickness and shaped to the proper configuration by passing through a series of
grooved rollers mounted on stands. Between the stands, burly men called catchers seized the metal with tongs and guided it into the next set of rollers. It was hard, dangerous work, and much of it would be eliminated if anyone could design a mill that passed the metal continuously through the rollers. A mill owner named Serrell in New York had almost done it several years ago, but his design was flawed. George had also attacked the problem, unsuccessfully so far.

  George ran as fast as he could. All work had come to a halt in the mill. The iron being fed into the first set of rollers had already cooled, he saw as he neared the scene of the accident. One of the catchers lay on the dirt floor, moaning. George choked when he smelled scorched clothing and burned flesh.

  The fallen man was a wiry Slav whose last name George couldn’t pronounce. He was a fine worker, unlike his partner at this station, a wide-shouldered hulk named Brovnic.

  “We sent for Dr. Hopple,” said the foreman.

  “Good.” George knelt between the injured man and the twisted ribbon of dark, cold iron lying nearby. Evidently the iron had fallen diagonally across the right side of the man’s body, burning away his shirt front and deeply searing his chest and bare forearm. The man’s charred flesh resembled half-cooked meat. George fought down vomit that rose in his throat. God knew whether the man would ever use the arm again.

  George rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, then asked, “How did it happen?”

  “Accident,” Brovnic blurted. His jutting jaw threatened anyone who denied it, but the intimidation failed. A sweaty, begrimed worker stepped forward.

  “Accident, hell. Brovnic’s been bothering Tony’s wife. Tony told him to quit it, and—”

  Brovnic cursed and lunged. Three men grabbed him and held him back as the speaker pointed to the ribbon of iron. “Brovnic knocked him down with it, then dropped it on him.”

  “Fucking liar,” Brovnic screamed, writhing to get free of his captors. He would have if George hadn’t stormed up to him and jabbed a finger into his filthy shirt.

  “You’ve done nothing but cause trouble since the day I hired you, Brovnic. Collect your wages and get off this property. Now.”