E took an omnibus, and were presently in the big house on Washington Square.
“Hello, young man!” said the Commodore, as he took the hand of McCarthy. “Going out to the stable to look at a sick horse. Come along!”
He donned his overcoat, which had a collar of gray fur of about the shade of his hair, and it put a wonderful finish on him. I never saw in all my life a better figure of a man.
We went with him to a large stable back of the house. I recall my wonder at its size and comfort and cleanliness, and the splendor of its many vehicles and trappings. Yet it was not fine enough for the Commodore, who, seeing a wisp of straw on the floor of the carriage-room, larrupped the coachman with high words. Then a quick, spoken command:
“Bring out the mare!”
Out came the mare in a jiffy, and Mr. Vanderbilt looked into her mouth and felt her throat and legs, and said, presently, “Take her back, and have her bled in the morning.”
He let down the shafts of a light road-wagon and rolled it to the middle of the floor.
“There's a good wagon,” said he. “Take hold of the axle and heft it.”
We did so, and were surprised at the lightness of the graceful thing.
“Not much heavier than a tom-cat,” said the Commodore, “and it cost me ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand dollars! Why, it cost as much as a house!” said Mr. McCarthy.
“As much as some houses,” the Commodore went on. “I sent for a good carriage-builder and told him to plan the lightest wagon that would safely carry my weight. He brought the plan for a fifty-eight pound wagon at fifteen hundred dollars. 'Twon't do,' says I. 'Make it just as strong and five pounds lighter and I'll double your pay.' Well, he came back by-and-by with a plan for a fifty-pound wagon for three thousand dollars. 'That's the best you can do, is it?' says I. 'Well,' says he, 'I might get it down a few ounces if I had time to study the problem.' 'Take time,' says I, 'and I'll pay you a hundred dollars an ounce for all the weight you can take out of the wagon, but you must keep it as strong as it is now.' He took four pounds off the weight of it, and the saving cost me sixteen hundred dollars a pound. Money is quite a stimulant if it's used right.”
The gentleman stood looking thoughtfully at the Commodore. When the story was finished he struck the air with his hand, saying:
“Mr. Vanderbilt, that wagon is worth its weight in diamonds.” We looked into his glowing eyes, and he went on: “Let me tell you why. If brains, rightly stimulated, can reduce the weight of a road-wagon without any loss of strength, let's see what they can do with our big, clumsy freight and passenger cars. If we could take a hundred pounds off every car in the country, think what it would mean. That weight could be turned from expense into income. Think of the saving in power and fuel. It would mean millions of dollars!”
“Well, boy, go to work on that proposition,” said the Commodore. “I'll give you a dollar for every pound you save on every car that runs over my tracks. I wish to God that my boy Bill had your push!”
“You are very kind, sir,” said McCarthy.
“Look out for the weight of your head,” Mr.
Vanderbilt continued; “it's your freight-car—remember that—and you don't want to carry any sap in it. Let me tell you a story: Bill is a fat, good-natured cuss, and wants to take it easy, like all boys with a rich father. I told him that I wouldn't have him loafing around, and I sent him down on the farm and put him to work there, and Bill is getting along. He played a good joke on me, and I've made up my mind that he'll do for the railroad business.
“He says to me the other day, 'Father, I need some manure for the farm.'
“'Well, boy, how much do you want?' I says. “'Seven or eight loads,' says he.
“'How much 'll you pay a load?' says I.
“'A dollar a load,' says he.
“'All right,' I says to him, 'come over to the car-stables and get all you need at that figure.'
“What do you suppose the cuss done to me? He come over and got eight schooner loads!” Mr. Vanderbilt roared with laughter.
“'You're no farmer,' I says to him. 'Come right over and learn the railroad business.'” The Commodore pushed the road-wagon back into its corner.
“On your way to Pittsburg?” he inquired. “Yes, sir,” Mr. McCarthy answered, with a sly wink at me.
“Anything more to say?”
“No, sir.”
“That's good. It's a wise man that knows when he's said enough. Good-night.”
Mr. McCarthy and I left to go to our inn.
“'On your way to Pittsburg?'” said the handmade gentleman, repeating the query of the Commodore. “How did he know that I was going to Pittsburg?”
“He's been at work on your programme, perhaps,” I suggested.
“And has a hand in the affairs of the Central system,” my friend went on. “That's his way of telling me. He has bought the Harlem and Hudson River roads, and has the ring in the bull's nose, and the continuous route is now a certainty. But we are not to talk too much. You can make up your mind that the Commodore knows all about us. I probably don't say or do much that isn't reported to him. A foolish word or two and he would be done with me.”
My friend went to see Miss Manning, but soon joined me at the inn and reported that she was not at home.
At midnight we were on our way to Philadelphia in a draughty coach. It was an up-to-date train, equipped with the Miller platform, coupler, and buffer, which gave it a continuous floor and cane-woven seats, and the trainmen carried the new movable globe lantern. The rails were joined so as to soften the tread of the wheels, but still the bang, bang of them at the rails' ends filled the train with its clamor. We had brought a couple of shawls with us, and we used them for pillows, and lay half reclining on the hard seats beneath our overcoats. We slept a little in spite of the roaring wheels and rattling windows and the shriek of the trainmen at all the stops and the snore-streaked, chilly silences that followed, and rose stiff and sore at daybreak to wait for the west-bound train. It was hard travel, but far easier than that of the stage-coach, of which my mother had told me, and in those days it seemed like the height of luxury. All next day and another night we travelled, and Mr. Carnegie met us at the Pittsburg depot at eight o'clock.
He was a man of about thirty years, with a full brown beard and keen, gray eyes and an alert and courteous manner. He showed us through the Union Iron Mills, where they had begun to make and handle castings heavy as a house by steam-power, and as easily as a lady swings her fan. There weapons for the war with distance were being made. Bones of the mountains were melting in great heat and running into rails and beams to bridge the pathless fields and the river chasms.
“I want to talk with you about the rail problem,” said McCarthy.
“It's nearly solved,” said Mr. Carnegie. “The rail of the future will be made of Bessemer steel. It can stand heat and cold and heavy pressure. We'll be making them here as soon as possible. I think within a year or two this company will be able to fill your orders.”
It was a warm day in April, and Mr. McCarthy and I had removed our coats. The city was celebrating the surrender at Appomattox, and, driving toward the depot, we came into full streets and met a procession led by cavalry.
“I think we had better get out and take the sidewalk,” said Mr. Carnegie.
We left the carriage, and suddenly the gentleman said, “I must go back after my coat.”
“Why?” the other asked.
“It wouldn't be polite for me to walk in the streets without a coat.”
“Here, take mine,” said Mr. Carnegie, as he removed his own, which McCarthy declined.
It was an odd exhibit from the old and new schools of gentlemanhood, of the formality of Chesterfield—of which Mr. McCarthy had long been a student—and the simplicity of Abraham Lincoln.
“Thank God, the war is over,” said Mr. Carnegie, as he went on, “but the military spirit is everywhere, and it will die slowly. I feel it more and more in business. Do you know that business is beginning to be a kind of warfare in which victory is the chief end, and all is well that leads to it? War is a crime. It sanctions murder and teaches dishonesty.”
“I have felt the spirit you complain of,” said the hand-made gentleman. “In my business there are scouts and spies, and I have had trouble in which violence and threats of murder were resorted to.”
“It's the teaching of war, and battles of business are coming in which blood will flow, and the gun and torch will play their part.”
The distinguished railroader shook his head, and his face kindled with old Celtic fire as he thought of war's iniquity. He was unlike, and yet very like, my friend McCarthy. They had both gone through the same hard school of poverty, and with like endowments had reached the same high footing. A friendship began between them of much value to both.
As we sat in the office of the young Scot he explained his signal system, and spoke of other needs, especially of better rails and road-beds and comfortable sleeping-cars, and the continuous trip to Chicago. Both clearly foresaw, in part, the great things which have come to us. I remember that McCarthy made me think him rash when he spoke of moving hotels that would some day convey one across the continent.
They dived into the past also, and began to talk of their boyhood. We had gone out to look at the new Woodruff sleeping-car, and dined and returned to Mr. Carnegie's office, where we spent the evening together. I sat by and listened to the talk of the others, and I remember well how it thrilled me.
Carnegie had spoken of the war spirit, which had begun to show itself in business. The brave ventures of these two had in them a touch of the hazard-loving, heroic courage of the soldier. I thought of this, and yet I had no suspicion that they were to be great generals in the new war. God had armed them for the mighty struggles of peace. They had learned that when two forces were joined something comes of it vastly greater than their sum.
“I wish you would help me to account for you,” said McCarthy. “Tell me how you got it all.”
“Oh, you mean this stupidity and this luck of mine,” said Carnegie, with a smile. “It's a good deal to account for, but I'll try.
“I went into business when I was six years old—raised pigeons and rabbits. Other boys helped me, and were rewarded by having rabbits named after them. My hero was Wallace Bruce. Often I had to pass a graveyard at night, and was a bit afraid of it. Then I used to say to myself that Wallace would not be so foolish, and went on with a better heart in me. In many a time of trouble I have asked myself what Wallace would do, and have tried to do it.
“We came to America when I was eleven, and I began work across the river, in Allegheny City, at one dollar and twenty cents a week. You know this is a time of business combinations. I made one of the first on record. It was this way: I got to be a messenger boy at two dollars and a half a week, and learned the names of all the business firms, in their proper order, on the leading streets. There were four of us who delivered for the telegraph company, and each got ten cents when a message took him beyond city limits. There was a contest between the boys for these messages. I got them together, and suggested that the extra fees be divided equally. We made a sort of pool, or trust, and never quarrelled again. You see, I am at heart a peacemaker. I have always worked along that line—putting two and two together, and establishing harmony between them.”
“That is what Lincoln has done,” said McCarthy. “At last he has brought the North and South together, and begun to establish harmony.”
“He is the first gentleman in the world,” said the other.
“I know he is a very great one,” said McCarthy, “but I wish he were a little more particular in his dress and manners. I don't believe he's read the Letters of Lord Chesterfield.”
“He is the modern democratic gentleman,” said Mr. Carnegie. “He has shown us how little dress and manners have to do with it.”
Mr. Carnegie stopped, for suddenly a man had rushed in upon us.
“My God!” he sobbed, as he sank into a chair with tears running down his cheeks, “Lincoln has been assassinated!”
Outside bells had begun tolling, and we could hear the running of many feet.
E had little heart for the rest of our business. The whole city was like the house of mourning. Shops and mills, were closed, and the street crowded with those who could neither sleep nor rest nor cease talking. Some wept, some prayed, some told of fearful dreams and strange imaginings. I heard men declare that they had seen blood dripping from the flags just before Lincoln was shot.
We went to one of the mines, and then to Harrisburg, and waited for the funeral train. The car which Mr. Lincoln had used on the United States military road was to convey his body to the home he had left long before to continue the work now finished.
The car of the president of the Baltimore road, with its parlor, bedroom, dining-room, and kitchen, was to convey the family and their immediate friends to the same destination. These cars were to be transferred from one road to another, and rolled into Springfield, Illinois. As a railroad enterprise, it marked the beginning of new things. The train came in a rain at 8.30 on the evening of April 21st, its cars and engine heavily-draped. We had telegraphed for permission to ride on the pilot-engine, which was to lead the way north half an hour ahead of the train. About midnight word came to us that our request would be granted. Next morning at 10 the bearers arrived at the depot with the body, which had been lying in state at the City Hall of Harrisburg, and the bearers conveyed it to the funeral car. Big panels of plate-glass in the sides of this car enabled one to see the coffin from the street level. The engine had her bell muffled, and large portraits of Lincoln, draped with black crape edged with silver lace, on either side of her cab.
At 10.30 we left on the pilot engine.
Well, my children, we began to know, then, what had happened. Oh, it was a wonderful thing to see and feel—the love of millions! The railroad—why, it was a way of sorrow sprinkled with tears. North to Albany and west to Springfield the people stood deep on either side of the long ironway. I saw them waiting patiently in sleet and rain, some weeping, some kneeling as we passed, thinking, no doubt, that he they loved was among us.
We left the pilot-engine in Philadelphia and hurried to a city on the Erie road, where we had work to do. We reached Albany some days later, about an hour ahead of the funeral train. There the beloved President was to be taken from the train and borne to the State-House, so that those of the north country might have a look at him. We waited among tens of thousands gathered in the streets, and the train came at midnight. I shall never forget the hush that fell upon all as the body passed in the darkness, and the low, tremulous murmur of the crowd. It was like the sound of a great bass string when it is lightly touched—it was the note of a people's sorrow. Slowly, silently, we made our way to the State-House. All about us men and women were sobbing, and we said not a word to each other.
For a moment my tears blinded me at the bier, for there by the coffin-head stood Pearl, in the uniform of a sergeant, with three medals on his blue cape. A squad of veterans walled the passage. Pearl stood calm and erect, with strange authority in his scarred face. He was the soldier again. A little ahead of me, as I walked in line, were Jo and Colonel Busby. I saw the Colonel seize the hand of Pearl and speak to him, but only a word. I did my best to gain the side of Jo, and failed—there were so many between us. Soon I had lost sight of them in the crowd and the darkness beyond the open doors. It would all have been different maybe—all in these latter years of our history—but for those twenty feet or so that lay between us that night. Just that little glimpse of her face, ennobled by our common sorrow, revived my love of her, and then I knew that even if I lost her I should never lose that. I hoped that we should find them next day, and so contented myself.
McCarthy and I walked to our inn together, and talked of the wonderful things we had seen and of the great captain of the people. We had read many columns in the press which had told of the gentleness of his heart and of his simplicity, which had amounted to uncouthness in the view of some.
“The outside of a man isn't of so much importance, after all,” said my friend, as we were going to bed. “The gentleman is a lover of men, and seeks not to charm but only to serve them. And when he passes away it is as if there were some one dead in every house that knew him. Let us pray God to help us.”
We knelt by our beds in silence, and so ended one of the saddest days in my history.
Next morning I tried to find the Colonel and Jo, but with no success. I found Pearl, soon after dinner, sitting on the steps of an old church. His head rested on his hands; his cheeks were tear-stained.
“Did you know Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.
“Yes,” said he.
“Tell me about him,” I said, as I sat down by my friend.
“Oh, you'll hear of that some time,” he answered. “I'm goin' to stop talkin' and mournin', and go back to Rushwater and get to work.”
“Let's find McCarthy,” I said, and we rose and walked toward the Delevan House. “Last night I saw you shake hands with Colonel Busby,” I remarked.
“Yes; I knew the Colonel long ago, and we met here yesterday,” he said.
“Do you know where they are now?”
“They left this morning to make a trip around the world. She is to be married on their return.”
“Married! To whom?”
“I cannot tell you.”
So it happened that I gave up the last dream of my youth.
HE end of the war was come, and McCarthy and I felt a sense of shame and sorrow that we had had no part in it—he, because of his wooden leg; and I, because of those who were dependent upon me. But soon we were to find ourselves in the first great battle of peace, one of those of which the iron-master had spoken.
The States had put aside their jealousy, and begun to pull together in enterprises the like of which had never been known. We were laying iron rails across the deserts, and would soon be scaling the Rockies with them. Engines had climbed the Alps and swung in little curves, hauling a forty-ton train over Mont Cenis and the Semmering at twelve miles an hour. But the work we had begun was vaster and more difficult.
It was in January, 1866, when we were together in Albany, that the gentleman said to me one day:
“The battle is on. I knew it was coming, although I haven't said anything about it. The Central is fighting the Commodore. He has so much power in the board that they're afraid of him. In summer they've been sending their south-bound freight by the river boats. In winter, when the river was closed, of course they've been glad to use the Vanderbilt roads to New York. The Commodore has got ugly, and begun to jerk the bull ring.”
“The bull ring!” I exclaimed.
“Exactly,” he went on. “It's the middle of January, and the ice is a foot thick on the Hudson, and, somehow, the Central freight doesn't move. They've begun to yell at the Commodore, and he answers, 'Use the boats.' 'They answer, 'The river is frozen.' He says, 'Well, pull your trains into Albany on time, and I'll do my best for you.'
“Now, there's where he's got 'em. They can't get here on time, and never do. Their freight is piling up, their passengers never make their connections for the South. The Commodore's trains used to wait, now they leave promptly on time. Lately there's been something the matter with the tracks on the east side of the river, and Mr. Vanderbilt's trains haven't been able to reach Albany at all.”
The gentleman paused, and began to laugh.
“The Central yards and storehouses are overflowing, patrons and stockholders have set up a howl,” he went on.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Progress,” he answered. “God has found the will of a Cæsar to perform His wonders. When it's time for a great thing to be done, it's done, and little people have to get out of the way.”
“But the bull ring seems to me rather oppressive,” I suggested.
“It is oppressive, and a godsend, too, when the bull won't lead,” said the gentleman. “What would you do with men like Richmond and Drew? Would you try to persuade them? Suppose, too, there were a lot of people who expected you to bribe them out of the way? Why, in such a case we need power, and it's down at No. 10 Washington Square. In a month Mr. Vanderbilt will own the Central lines, then—”
The gentleman paused, and turned and looked at me.
“Why, it's the beginning of a new emancipation,” he said. “It will break the bonds of distance and set us free. In a few years we shall take our train in New York and leave it in San Francisco. The desert plains will be settled and tilled, and there will be great cities where there's nothing now but gophers and wild sage. Why, in the Far West there's land enough for all the oppressed of Europe.”
It was the first time that I had heard the phrase now so well worn.
Within a week new schedules were established, and Central freight and passengers went on without delay.
“It's all settled,” said McCarthy. “My dream is coming true. Soon there'll be one system from New York and Boston to Chicago.”
But things not so cheerful were pressing on us. My mother and sister and I had taken a small furnished house in Albany, and fitted up a room for the gentleman, agreeably with his own plan, for he had been urgent in his wish to live with us. Months had passed, but the room was still unoccupied. My sister had made it cosey and homelike, with the pretty arts of a school-girl.
“Don't you think it's lovely?” she said to me one day.
“Oh, it's a charming room!” I exclaimed.
“I wonder why he doesn't like it?”
“I think that he does like it.”
“But he's only been here once since it was ready,” she answered. “Just one look at that room was enough for him.”
She turned away, and when I went and put my arm around her waist and kissed her I saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“You silly child,” I said, “you are fond of him!” I had not dreamed of such a thing, and yet I ought to have known it.
Sarah began to laugh, and ran away from me and up-stairs to her room. The revelation worried me, and that very day I had a talk with my mother about it.
“Sarah will get over that,” said she. “All boys and girls have their little troubles. You had yours, and have recovered.”
“Not yet,” was my answer. “If it takes hold of her as it took hold of me, God pity her. I shall not fall in love again.”
“I'm sorry to hear you say that,” said my mother. “Jo treats you very badly. Sarah had a letter from her the other day, and there was not a word for you in it. They are in India, and intend to stay there for a year or so. It seems rather strange to me.”
“There's some reason—I'm sure she means well,” I insisted.
That evening McCarthy and I sat together in his room at the Delevan writing letters until midnight.
“Speaking of the ring in the bull's nose,” he said, “what do you think of that?”
He passed me a letter from a firm of New York lawyers in behalf of Maud Isabel Manning. They demanded that he keep his promise to marry the young woman or pay a “reasonable sum” in damages. That sum should be, in their opinion, forty thousand dollars.
“I'm in an awful mess,” he said, as he turned to me with a troubled look in his face. “There's a quotation from Ecclesiastes that fits the case pretty well:
“'I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets, and her hands as bands.'
“Jake, you know now why I couldn't go and live in your house, with this thing hanging over me.”
“I do not quite understand you,” I said.
“Why, as times are, if I had to pay that sum of money it would ruin me,” he declared. “I don't see how I can go to law with them and smirch myself and you with scandal, to say nothing of the girl—”
“You needn't worry about her,” I interrupted, with a smile. “As to myself, I'll tell all I know as publicly as you please.”
“I feel disgraced enough already,” said he, “but worse things are coming. I'm not going to lie down and let them rob me. I shall fight them, but not with your testimony.”
“I am your friend—” I began.
“Wait,” he interrupted, as he closed his desk. “Heron, I'm in love with your sister. I have never told her or any one. It may be a hopeless love; but, you see, it won't answer for you to have anything to do with this case, and I must keep away from your house until I am done with it. Your sister is sacred to me. I must keep her name as far from mine as possible until I am vindicated and free.”
Then James Henry McCarthy—a gentleman than whom no knight of old had better chivalry—shook my hand and bade me good-night.
HOSE days there were few if any bribe agreements made in Albany. Sometimes a member would find money in his mail from unnamed but not, probably, from unknown sources, or now and then a good team or a pair of oxen would be delivered at his farm as “a token of regard” or “the tribute of admiration.” But “the lobby,” while on its way, had not yet arrived at the capital.
It had been noised abroad that Vanderbilt had control of all the great railroads in the State except the Erie, and was likely soon to acquire that—Vanderbilt, then worth forty million dollars! Clever and unscrupulous men, who foresaw that he would have favors to ask of the Legislature, began to hustle for seats. Next session a number of these came on with credentials, some who had failed of election came also, and began to organize “the third house,” as the lobby was called later.
We spent the last day or two of every week at Rushwater looking after the shop, which had an excellent manager, and things had gone well with us. The gentleman had been returned to the legislature without a word of opposition, and was known far and wide as the “cowcatcher.” He stood for progress, and was, indeed, a little in advance of it, and pushed things out of the way. He was polite—always polite—but as firm as iron. No word of vituperation ever escaped his lips, and yet he had a most dreaded and terrible gentleness.
Suddenly, just before the beginning of the session, an important man came to us with plans for a bridge of vast proportions to span the Hudson at Poughkeepsie. It was a daring, a magnificent, design of the best engineers.
“What are you aiming at?” McCarthy asked.
The important man explained the purpose of the bridge.
“I like that,” said McCarthy. “Now, please, say what you want of me.”
“We want you to get the charter.”
“Are you planning to spend any money here for that purpose?” McCarthy asked.
“We'll lay out any reasonable sum.”
“Then I won't have a thing to do with it—not a thing,” said the gentleman. “The legislature must be kept clean.”
“We're willing to put ourselves in your hands absolutely,” said the important man. “I hardly need say that we should prefer to have the proposition go on its merits, but you know there's a new element here which is looking for money.”
“And you rich men with big projects are going to raise the devil with us if you're not careful,” said McCarthy. “Your plans are so vast and important that you will let nothing stand in their way—not even the price of a thousand men. Now, when you begin to buy votes you'll have more and more of it to do, and by-and-by Albany will be a pest-hole.”
“We feel that as keenly as you do,” said the other. “But, you know, those new fellows who have lately come here—Joe and Ed and Sam and Jim and Jack, and a score like them—they've got a following, and every day it increases. Their plan is to hold up the car of progress and demand our money.”
“Put the matter in my hands, and I'll get your charter,” said the gentleman. “But you must agree not to interfere or spend a cent of money.”
“We put ourselves in your hands absolutely,” said the important man.
“Very well, then; I want to name three of the charter members of your board and the conditions under which that body shall begin its work.”
“I think I can promise that.”
“Well, talk it over with your associates, and let me have your answer in black and white as soon as possible,” said the gentleman.
The answer came next day and was all that we desired, and McCarthy began a piece of work which deserves to be lifted out of the limbo of forgotten things, for it was the first big battle with Satan at the State capital. He saw the leading men in both branches of the legislature. He showed them the plans of the great bridge, and explained its purpose and made its value clear. They agreed with him. There seemed to be nothing in our way. But suddenly there came a change: the air was charged with opposition, and we knew that Joe and Sam and Ed and Jim, and other birds of their feather, had been at work.
“All right,” said the gentleman; “we're in no hurry. They'll get hungry, and come to see us one of these days.”
We had not long to wait. One evening, within a week, who should call at our room in the Delevan but Joe—the handsome, smiling, good-natured, witty captain of our enemies. He was in full dress, and his white hair and imperial were not the least of his assets.
“Thane of Glamis and Cawdor,” said he, with a smile and a polite bow, “you are soon to be king, and we must all know you!”
“I had not suspected that you were a weird sister,” said McCarthy.
“I am weird as the devil, but harmless,” our caller laughed, as he took the chair that my friend offered. “Could I see you alone for five minutes?”
“Certainly, if you wish,” said McCarthy. “But first I want to talk with you about that bridge project of mine. I'd thought of you in connection with the board of management. Perhaps you'd like to be a charter member.”
My mouth was open with astonishment. What could he be driving at? Was he compromising with the devil?
“I suppose the board will have the letting of the contracts?” our caller queried.
“Yes, and many other important powers,” said the gentleman. “They want substantial citizens who will work.”
“Sir, I am at your service,” Joe assured him, with another smile.
“Have you any one to suggest for this board?” McCarthy asked.
“Why, there's Jack—what's the matter with Jack?” the other queried. “Then there's a new senator just elected from New York—a hustler and a particular friend of mine, with a silver tongue in his head. He's a protégé of Tweed—stands for important interests, and you'll have to reckon with him.”
“What's his name?” was the query of the gentleman.
“Squares—Bonaparte Squares.”
I had not heard of his election, and could scarcely believe my ears.
“I've heard of him,” said the gentleman. “I believe he's a very popular and promising man, but I don't think he will do. We want men of standing and responsibility if we can get them. The board will be made up of the most substantial citizens, I tell you. It's no place for small fry. I'll consider Jack, and perhaps you can think of another man as available.”
“Well, there's Jim,” Joe suggested.
“All right—I'll consider Jim.”
That was about the end of the interview, and within twenty-four hours Joe, Jack, and Jim had received the pledge they required. The charter went through with scarcely a murmur of dissent. The appointments were duly made according to the plans of McCarthy.
“It's a pity we had to have those fellows,” I remarked.
“Oh, they won't like the job,” said he, with a laugh.
We were at the first meeting of the board. Every member was present. The president rapped for order and said:
“Gentlemen, we have secured our charter, and now we have other important work to do. First, it is my duty to inform you that we have need of money and not a dollar in the treasury. I suggest that each member of this board lend the sum of ten thousand dollars to the enterprise, to provide a fund for preliminary expenses, and shall be glad to know your pleasure.”
A motion was promptly made and carried, with only three dissenting votes, which called for that sum from each. The dissenting votes were those of Joe, Jack, and Jim. Joe rose, and protested with some feeling.
“Of course, if any member finds it a hardship,” said the president, “he is at liberty to resign, but I trust that all are able to meet the requirements. The money is likely to be returned within a year from date.”
“It looks as if I were left at the pole,” said Joe, as he sat down.
That was the last we saw of the three outwitted sharpers in the meetings of the bridge board.
Joe came to see the gentleman next day, and began his talk with high words.
“Did you want something for nothing?” said the latter. “Did you think I was naming you to pay for your influence? Why, I never bought a vote or a favor in my life, and never will. I told you plainly that we wanted substantial citizens only, and that it was no kettle for small fish.”
The other smiled politely, and took off his hat. “I salute you,” he said. “I thought I was something of a bluffer, but you've raised me out of the game. Good-day.”
Not long after that Jim attacked the gentleman with gross invective on the floor of the House. McCarthy took the floor in a silence full of friendly feeling.
“The gentleman alleges that I am a liar,” said he, with calm dignity. “Now, it may be that I have been deceiving myself and my friends, but of this I am sure, Mr. Speaker, the gentleman has forgotten his manners, for I take it this is no place for the delivery of such information. He has said the like of one, also, who can never speak for himself again in this world, which is the more to be regretted. Without any disrespect to him, I may be permitted to doubt if he holds a brief for the judgment of the quick and the dead.”
His assailant never quite recovered from this rebuke, and ever after was playfully called “the Judge.”
McCarthy had ceased to speak of the gentleman within himself, but even his enemies did not fail to acknowledge and respect that great thing in him.
HE next day, on the steps of the Capitol, I met the Hon. Bonaparte Squares, a large, portly, handsome man with a deep, musical voice and a brown mustache and goatee, He seized my hand and shook it warmly.
“Old man,” he said, “I've been looking for you ever since we parted at Niagara Falls. I heard you were here, and I want to have a talk with you.”
I went aside with him.
“First,” he added, “I want to pay you that fifty dollars with interest to date. I couldn't find you after the tight-rope performance or I should have paid you then.”
“Give me the principal, never mind the interest,” I said.
“I insist,” said he. “Here are seventy-five dollars. Please forgive me—the thing had slipped my mind.”
I took only the fifty dollars, and asked how he had prospered.
“Oh, I'm getting along,” said he. “I have a good law practice in New York and a house on Fifth Avenue. When you go to New York, if I'm there, please look me up.”
I left Bony, for the gentleman was climbing the steps and we had much to do.
It was the middle of February, 1868. McCarthy was on some of the most important committees, including Ways and Means and Railroads, and had got his head above the crowd. Suddenly he was called to New York by the Commodore.
“Come to my house at 5.30 to-morrow,” the telegram said.
McCarthy wanted me to go with him, and I went. On the way down he told me that any day he was likely to be served with papers in a suit by the talented young lady.
“So far they've done nothing but threaten,” said he. “It may be it's only a bluff—an effort to scare me. I wish they'd act if they're going to. Have you said anything to Sarah about this?”
“Not a word,” was my answer.
“Don't,” said the gentleman. “Above all, don't let her know that I love her. If she gets a suitable offer she ought to accept it.”
“I have reason to believe that she is fond of you.”
His lips trembled when he turned to me and said: “Heron, if I knew that, I should be the happiest of men. But, you know, these are her best days. She ought not to wait for me.”
We rode part of the way over steel rails at fifty miles an hour in a new “parlor-car,” which the road was trying, with a small buffet at the front, and where we could be served with fruit and sandwiches and tea and coffee.
We arrived at the Commodore's ten minutes ahead of time. The first Caesar of the corporations came into the small reception-room to greet us, his straight, columnar form neatly fitted with a frock suit of black broadcloth. His dignified face, his white hair and choker gave him the look of an archbishop.
“Boy, I want to talk with you for five minutes,” he said to McCarthy. “Come up to my room.”
They were gone about half an hour, and on their return a clock on the mantel was striking six.
“Look here, boys,” said the Commodore, “it's six o'clock; you must come in to supper with us.”
“We're not dressed for company,” said the gentleman.
“You're all right,” said Mr. Vanderbilt. “You know where the bath-room is—go right up an' wash if ye want to.”
In two or three minutes we entered the parlors, and were introduced to a number of people; among whom was the Rev. Doctor Deems. It was a plainly furnished house, as things go now, but comfortable and homelike. The pictures were mostly family portraits, the largest of which was one of the Commodore's mother. There were models, in gold and silver, of steamships and locomotives on the mantel in the great front parlor. We took our seats at the supper-table.
At his best the Commodore was a playful and kindly man. There had been days when he wore his “railroad look,” and his words were as thunder and lightning, but now he was like a schoolboy. He ate only Spanish mackerel and a small venison steak, and drank a glass of champagne with it, and meanwhile said many droll things which have quite escaped my memory.
“For a man with a war on his hands, you're very cheerful,” said Doctor Deems.
“Doctor, I never let business interfere with pleasure,” said he. “I've reversed the old rule; my home is for comfort and pleasure, and I keep business out of it except when McCarthy comes.”
Supper over, the ladies retired, and cigars were passed to the men, who remained for a smoke with the Commodore. He smoked big cigars, and always said that when he gave up smoking it would be time to give him up.
“What ship is that supposed to be?” the minister asked, looking at the golden model of a ship trimmed with flowers in the centre of the table.
“The Caroline,” said the Commodore. “She was my first ship, and a beauty—brass and mahogany trim, and every comfort—and when she was all ready I gave Delmonico an order for the best dinner he could get up. He served it in her cabin, down the bay, one beautiful afternoon. I had landed at Staten Island, and sent for my dear old mother, and showed her all over the ship. Then I h'isted the flags, and took her into the cabin and sat her down at the table opposite me. There were a number of my friends seated with us. Mother was astonished. She looked around, and says:
“'Corneel, how the devil did you do it?'”
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” said Doctor Deems, “I'm sorry, but I have to doubt your veracity.”
“What do you mean?” the Commodore demanded.
“Well,” said the Doctor, “when you sit there and tell me that your dear old Christian mother asked a question like that, it casts a doubt on the whole story.”
The Commodore lowered his cigar, and said, with a sad smile:
“You're right, Doctor, she said it different—no doubt o' that. I have a miserable habit of swearing. Got it years ago, when my office was the top of a barrel down at the Battery. It seemed to be necessary those days, and sometimes I thought it was a help in the steamboat business, but of course it wasn't. I ought to be ashamed of it, and I am. I'm like a horse with a hitch in his gait: it's bad, but you can't blame the horse so much, after all.”
There was a touch of greatness in his answer, it seemed to me, and gave us all a broader charity for the lion-mouthed men of that day, and God knows there were many of them. A young man who sat with us asked the Commodore if he might quote his answer to Doctor Deems.
“Why, sonny, I haven't the least objection,” said the Commodore. “Everybody knows that I swear, and they ought to know why, if they don't.”
He was always very frank in the matter of his faults and vices, and his word for the meanest thing in the world was “sneak.”
“Would you mind telling us the secret of your success?” the young man asked.
“There's no secret in success, boy,” said the Commodore. “There's always a secret in failure, but not in success.”
On our way to the St. Nicholas, McCarthy said to me: “To-morrow we're likely to see one of the greatest battles in history. It's between the Commodore on one side, and Fisk and his associates on the other.”
“And what's the prize?” I asked.
“The Erie road,” said the gentleman. “It's in the hands of wreckers and pirates who are cutting rates, and are likely to make us all kinds of trouble. The Commodore is buying the stock; it will probably be cornered to-morrow. I'm pretty well loaded, and am going to sell everything but my Hudson River and Harlem stock at the opening.”
“I wonder what he wants of more trouble, with all his riches,” I said. “He owns the Harlem, the Hudson River, the Central, the Lake Shore, and a part of the Michigan Southern. Isn't that enough?”
“But he wants to build up a great, impregnable system,” said McCarthy, “the one we've been dreaming about. To be sure, he's got all the money he wants for himself and his posterity, but he keeps working and striving and building. Don't you remember that lecture of Mr. Emerson's, in which he spoke of man's love of the permanent? It was that love which slowly raised the Egyptian pyramids and the vast cathedrals of Europe. Now it is expressing itself in railroad systems, and tunnels through miles of mountain rock, and bridges over great rivers. We begin a long task, and know well that we shall never live to finish it; yet we strive and worry and suffer for it. Sometimes we give all for its sake, even our honor and our heart's blood. Like patriotism is our love for the permanent. We must work for those who follow us. It's God's will. Now you can understand why Vanderbilt is buying Erie: it's more rock for his pyramid. He's the great builder of his time. Drew and Gould and Fisk are destroyers; they're working for themselves. Vanderbilt is working for America; he ceased to work for himself long ago. He's Uncle Sam in flesh and blood, that's who he is—a plain, blunt, terrible fighting-man who leads the army of progress. No angel, but square. He could have robbed the Harlem bondholders, but he made them hang on till they got a profit. Next to Lincoln and Grant, he's the greatest man of his time.”