STAGE IX.—IN WHICH WE MEET THE CAPTAIN OF THE NEW ARMY
GOT to Rushwater late at night, and reported at eight next morning at the factory office. Mr. McCarthy had not arrived, and I went down to Pearl's shop in the y friend sat by a lathe. He rose and embraced me with his one arm. Near us a carpenter was working at a long bench. The Pearl put on an apron and began to heat up his forge.
“How are you getting along here?” I asked.
“I am surprised at my success,” he answered. “I have made myself the most hated man in Rushwater. I am abhorred, hissed at, despised. I deprive honest labor of its occupation and grind the faces o' the poor.”
“How is that?”
“Well, I have invented a machine that does the work of ten men, and does it better than they did. Now, the ten had to find other jobs, and they didn't like it. Did you ever pull a hen off her perch late in the evening? You know what a noise it makes—all the others get scairt an' begin to holler. Well, you pull a man off his perch and you get the same sort of a ruction. I happen to be the leg-grabber. I didn't mean to do any harm. The purpose o' the factory is to make the goods as cheap as possible, and I was employed to help solve the problem. I've got our wheels on the main shaft, and God's draft-horse is whirlin' 'em.”
He took me into the sub-cellar, where a rush of water struck the buckets of a turbine and made it shriek as it sped on its pivot, and the power of a hundred horses went up the shaft.
Soon a boy came down to find me, and said that Mr. McCarthy had arrived. I went to the office at once, and within half an hour had begun my new work. The hand-made gentleman had secured for me a copy of Isaac Pitman's treatise, and I spent all my leisure in the acquisition of “soundhand,” or shorthand, as we now call it. I enjoyed my work, and saw at once that I was likely to do some good in it. Mr. McCarthy wished me to spend a few months in a business college, as much in his interest as my own, he said to me, and in New York he made arrangements to that end.
“I want you to get the pace of the city,” he said to me, “and learn how to score up in proper style. There's a lot of very polished people down here. See how they dress and behave themselves morning, noon, and night. It will be a help to both of us.”
We went to the big city that week, I to begin my studies, and he to have a talk with the great Mr. Vanderbilt. The Pearl had said to the hand-made gentleman, when we were leaving Rush water:
“Don't let him scare you. He's as full o' power as my turbine; has a good deal of a whir to him. Likes resistance; so does every great force. Used to row a boat all day, an' every day. Fought the wind an' the tide. Stiffened his hands on the oar. Can't straighten 'em to this day. He's fought a thousand difficulties. He'll take you for another an' pitch into ye—like as not. Don't let him scare ye. If he jumps on ye, jump on him; he'll enjoy it, an' begin to respect ye. It's like puttin' a belt on the turbine—you'll take off a bit of his power an' ease him down.”
We passed through two offices on our way to that of the Commodore.
“Walk right in,” said a colored man, who sat near an open door, when Mr. McCarthy had claimed his right to an interview.
We entered, and saw a large, handsome man sitting by a desk on the farther side of a big room. He had a massive head, and white hair and side-whiskers—the latter neatly trimmed—and sat with legs crossed in a big arm-chair. The elegance of his attire impressed me, especially the waistcoat of figured silk, the jewel in his shirt-front, and the spotless white choker. He looked up over his glasses. The skin began to wrinkle a bit around his dark eyes.
“Well, what is it, sonny?” he demanded.
“My name is James Henry McCarthy, of Rush-water, New York,” said my friend.
“I don't care what your name is; tell me your business,” said Commodore Vanderbilt—for he it was—and he spoke sternly.
“It's a railroad project, referred to by my friend, H. M. Pearl, Esq., in his talk with you.”
“My God!” said Mr. Vanderbilt, as he flung a paper on the desk before him. “I've got projects enough now. Will you please let me alone?”
“No, I will not,” said the hand-made gentleman, decisively. “I've travelled over two hundred miles to keep an appointment with you, and I insist that you show me proper respect.”
The Commodore changed his tone. “Young man,” said he, “I won't talk with you; I can't talk with you. Come to my house to-night. I'll see you at half-past seven.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the hand-made gentleman as we left the room.
Mr. McCarthy's feelings had been hurt and his confidence began to leave him. He had gone there with a good deal of honest pride in his heart—perhaps, even, a little too much—and I think he would rather I had not seen his embarrassment.
“I am surprised,” he said to me as we were going down the stairs together. “He cannot have read the letters of Lord Chesterfield.”
“Hasn't had time, probably,” I answered.
Our inn was near, and no word passed between us after that until we got to our room. My friend strode the floor in silence, and tears stood in his eyes for a moment. I felt for him, but could think of nothing to say.
“I think one gentleman ought to be careful of the feelings of another,” said Mr. McCarthy. “He made me feel like a dog.”
“He was out of sorts,” I remarked.
“I have learned this,” said the hand-made gentleman: “business is war. I see it clearer every day. If you want respect you've got to fight for it.”
We recovered our composure by-and-by, and spent the rest of the day among tradesmen extending the acquaintance of Sal and the sisters of Sal.
At half-past seven we presented ourselves at the house of the Commodore at 10 Washington Square.
Mr. McCarthy carried his map under his arm, and it was about half the diameter of a piece of stove-pipe.
A servant showed us into a large parlor. We could see Mr. Vanderbilt in a room back of it, sitting by a table in his shirt-sleeves reading a newspaper. We observed him fearfully as he took our cards from the tray—plain written cards they were, save that Mr. McCarthy's had a bird on it, drawn by his secretary. He flung his paper aside and rose—a splendid figure of a man, full chest, broad shoulders, and the six feet of him straight as an arrow—and came slowly into the parlor where we sat.
“Well, sonny, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I have a map to show you,” said Mr. McCarthy.
“Where is it?” was the sharp query of the Commodore.
My friend began to unroll his map, and said, “Here it is.”
The steamboat king was impatient. A sharp exclamation shot from his lips, like the toot of a warning whistle, and he added: “It's bigger'n a bill-board. Unfurl it on the floor there. Run it down into the back parlor.”
In a moment Mr. McCarthy had spread his map and begun talking.
“Here's Albany,” he said, pointing with his cane. “Here's eleven railroads reaching west to Buffalo, called the Central System. Here are others that go on to Chicago and others that run east to Boston. Here is the steamer line from New York to Albany, closed half the year. Here are two lines of railroad that run north from New York to the capital—the Harlem and the Hudson River. The Harlem road can be bought for less than six cents on the dollar. I want you to buy it.”
“What the devil do I want of it?” the Commodore demanded.
“It's the key o' the future, and you need it,” said McCarthy. “It's the beginning of a great plan. First buy the Harlem, and then buy the Hudson River road. And do you not see that all these railroads that run east and west up here can't reach the metropolis without your help—especially in the winter when the steamers are out of business? Did you ever see a small boy lead a big bull? It's surprising how easy he does it when he has a ring in the bull's nose.”
I remembered the bull at Baker's, and felt the truth of his remark.
The Commodore was now leaning over the map and looking down upon it.
“These two railroads will give you command of the whole situation,” my friend continued, “and that's important.”
Mr. McCarthy paused for half a moment.
“Go on, go on,” said the Commodore; “let's have your argument.”
“You can whip 'em all into one system, from New York and Boston to Chicago. You can give us a continuous trip between these cities. You can run freight to any point in the system without rehandling on through cars, to pay each railroad according to the mileage it supplies. You would make it possible for me to sell my goods in Chicago and other distant cities and deliver 'em on time. You would quicken the pace of business. Every factory on the line would double its output in two years. It means growth and a new republic and a string of great cities, and a stream of traffic flowing east and west like a river. There are not so many tons in the St. Lawrence as your wheels would carry, and they would roll on like the waterfloods, never stopping. They would enrich you beyond the dreams of avarice.”
The hand-made gentleman saw the truth clearly, and flashed the torch of his enthusiasm on all sides of it. He shook his cane over the map; his eyes glowed like a prophet's. After all this time, I can but dimly suggest the quaint dignity and the singular power of his appeal. I felt it, and have tried to remember all, since these years have complimented his insight by making history of his dreams. I recall how his ardor thrilled me, and how the Commodore rose from his knee and looked at him.
“Young man,” he said, “the dreams of avarice do not bother me. I have money enough.”
The tone of his voice made it clear to me, even, that Mr. McCarthy's talk had impressed him.
“True,” said the hand-made gentleman; “but you have power, composed of brains, money, and public confidence. You're the only man who can do this thing, and it ought to be done. You must do it for the sake of the country. Patriotism, and not avarice, will inspire you.”
The Commodore smiled.
“Boy, how old are you?” he queried. “Twenty-three years; but they count double.”
“They tell me you've made some money?”
“I'm getting along very well.”
“Sit down a minute.”
A man about thirty years of age had just entered the room. Mr. Vanderbilt turned to him.
“I want you to come over and keep my books,” he said, brusquely.
“But, uncle, I'm not a bookkeeper,” said the young man. “I don't know how.”
“You know enough to take the money that comes in?”
“Yes.”
“And add up the expenses?”
“Yes.”
“And give me the difference?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that's all I want, and any d——— fool could do that. You may begin Monday. Goodnight.”
The thoughts of the Commodore went straight to their mark and his words followed them.
He put his right hand on the arm of Mr. McCarthy. I saw then how the grip of the oar had stiffened his fingers.
“Young man, I'll think it over,” said he. “You go home and don't talk too much. What ye don't say will never do any harm. I make it a rule of my life never to talk of anything I'm going to do until I've done it.”
We left the house and walked slowly in the direction of Broadway.
“He'll do it,” said the hand-made gentleman. “He caught my point on the fly. His brain is quick as lightning, and he had the whole thing in a second. He let me go on to make sure that I knew what I was talking about.”
“Suppose he does what you want him to, how are you going to make by it?” I asked.
“I'll trust him for that,” said Mr. McCarthy. “However, I can take care o' myself. As soon as he makes a move I'll buy stock, that's what I'll do. James Henry McCarthy will not be left behind.” After a moment's reflection, he added: “I'm surprised at one thing: he swears like a trooper. And did you see that he came out in a pair of carpet slippers?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“He would have shocked Lord Chesterfield,”
Mr. McCarthy went on. “A gentleman ought to be more careful.” He stopped presently and gave me his hand, saying: “I'm going to see Miss Manning; she's the dearest girl in all the world. Leaves on a long tour to-morrow, and I shall spend a week with her on the road. It doesn't seem right for her to be travelling unattended. I want her to be a lady. Perhaps I shall hire some woman to go with her.”