CHAPTER VI.—THE FIRST BATTLE OF PEACE
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.'