by John Jakes
The valley had no huge natural deposits similar to the bog ore of Jersey. Nor was there as much flux as the Pine Barrens men took from nearby salt bays in the form of clay and oyster shells. But George’s great-grandfather did find great stands of timber for conversion to charcoal. He found water power. Most important of all, he found opportunity.
For years his was the only furnace on the river. Ore had to be brought over the mountains in leather bags carried by pack horses, but that didn’t deter him. The same transportation system had served furnaces in Jersey for a long time.
Competitors said he was crazy not to move to the Schuylkill River valley, but George’s great-grandfather paid no attention and persevered. In the valley of the Lehigh he was his own master, succeeding or failing solely on the basis of his own decisions.
During the Revolution the Hazards threw everything into the war effort and almost went to the wall financially. Luckily the rebels won, and the continuity of the line was not abruptly ended by a hang rope. But unqualified success continued to prove elusive.
Year after year the Hazards were forced to ship their iron down the river to the Delaware in antiquated Durham boats that were forever incurring damage on the rocks of the Lehigh rapids. Then, in 1829, the canal opened. A local man, Josiah White, had developed it principally to ship anthracite coal that had been discovered in the region. But the canal boats brought prosperity to almost every business in the valley, and Hazard Iron was no exception. For a century, products of the ironworks had provided the family with a steady if unremarkable income. Suddenly, thanks to the canal, many more markets were within reach, and in one generation, that of George’s father, the Hazards were rich.
George had grown up with the canal. The shouts of the boatmen and the occasional bray of a balky towpath mule were essential parts of his boyhood experience. Now men said the canal era was already passing. It had lasted scarcely thirty years, another dizzying proof of how fast the new, machine-driven world was changing. Evidently William Hazard had believed the predictions about canals. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gone into the production of rails.
The boat stopped for half an hour at the expanding town of Bethlehem, which had been settled by members of the Moravian church from Bohemia. A few miles beyond Bethlehem, the skyline of the South Mountains began to take on a familiar aspect. It was a blustery, dark day. All the other passengers stayed below, but George stood on the roof promenade of the main cabin, reveling in the sights of home.
Under racing gray clouds, the low, rounded peaks looked almost black. The mountain laurel that covered them was dormant now. But in the spring, on all the hillsides, there would be pink and white flowers by the thousands. And the blooms would be found in every room of the Hazard house. George’s mother had a special, almost religious regard for the mountain laurel. She said the shrub was like the Hazard family. It often took root in rocky, unpromising ground, but it survived and thrived where other plants could not. She had transmitted that special feeling to George, much as his father had passed along his beliefs about the power of iron.
The canal boat proceeded around a long bend, gradually bringing into view the small town of Lehigh Station and, adjacent to it on the upstream side, the sprawl of Hazard Iron.
Nearest the river in the town stood several crowded blocks of poor cottages. This was the section inhabited by the growing population of Irishmen, Welshmen, and Hungarians who migrated up the river to fill the new jobs created by Hazard’s expanding product line. More and more cast iron was being used for construction in the large cities. There was a mania for cast-iron pillars and elaborate cast-iron cornices; even complete fronts of buildings were being manufactured. And of course Hazard’s now produced rails.
On the hillsides above the workers’ hovels rose the larger frame or brick residences of the town’s mercantile community, as well as homes belonging to foremen and supervisors at the ironworks. And highest of all, on a huge parcel of ground terraced out of the mountain, there stood the house in which George had been born.
He loved the house because it was home, but he despised its actual appearance. The first part of it had been built a hundred years ago; that section had long ago vanished within various remodelings, each of a different architectural period or style. The house had thirty or forty rooms, but it had no unity, no name, and in his opinion no character.
The dominant features of the Hazard Iron complex were the three furnaces, truncated cones of stone forty feet high. From the top of each, a wooden bridge crossed to the side of the mountain. Two of the furnaces were in operation. George could see the cumbersome movement of the bellows pumping in hot blasts of air and hear the noisy steam engines that powered the bellows. The furnaces spewed smoke, blackening the already murky sky. Charcoal was a dirty fuel and an outdated one.
On the bridge of the third furnace, workmen pushing handcarts crossed from the mountainside. They dumped the contents of the carts down the charging hole, then returned to the other end of the bridge for the next load. Surely some better method of moving ore, fuel, and flux could be devised. A system of steam-driven conveyors, maybe. His brother Stanley would probably want every other furnace in the state to install such a system before he would consider making it a permanent improvement.
The wrought-iron finery looked busy too. George had forgotten how big Hazard’s had become—especially with the addition of a good-sized building he hadn’t seen before. It adjoined the plate-rolling mill. It was the rail mill, he assumed.
Hazard Iron was a noisy, bustling, unclean operation. Its great slag heaps and charcoal piles disfigured the landscape. The smoke was an abomination, and the heat and din could be infernal. But it became more apparent each day that America was running and growing because of iron and the men who knew how to produce it. The business had gotten into the marrow of George’s bones, and it took this homecoming to make him realize it.
How would Constance take to it? Would she be happy here, married to an ironmaster and living in an unfamiliar place? He vowed to do everything possible to make her happy, but how she got along in Lehigh Station was not entirely up to him. That worried him.
He was glad that some business of the anti-slavery society had kept Virgilia in the city so that he could come home alone and slip gradually into his old life, with all its joys. And its sorrows. His father was gone. He felt guilty because, for a little while, overwhelmed by familiar sights, he had actually forgotten his father. He needed to make amends, and say good-bye.
A spectacular sunset lit the marble obelisk with the words William Hazard carved in its base. George uncovered his eyes, gave a last adjustment to the black wreath he had laid, and rose.
He dusted his knees as his mother approached. She had come with him to the graveyard in the hard, bright light of the winter afternoon. But she had remained several yards away while he silently said his farewell.
They walked down a precipitous path toward the waiting carriage. George had been home only a few hours, but Maude Hazard was already bubbling with plans for the wedding.
“It’s a tragedy your father couldn’t have lived long enough to meet Constance,” she said.
“Do you think he would have approved of her?”
Maude sighed, her breath pluming. “Probably not. But we’ll make her welcome. I promise.”
“Will Stanley make her welcome?” His tone expressed skepticism.
“George”—she faced him— “you already know that some will hate you for the step you’ve taken. The Irish are a despised lot, though I don’t quite understand why. You, however, are obviously very realistic, and I admire that. I admire you for your willingness to face up to the hate you may encounter.”
“I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, Mother. I love Constance.”
“I know, but there is still a great deal of un-Christian hate in the world. Love will somehow defeat it. It will and, if we’re all to survive, it must.”
He thought of Elkanah Bent, Tillet Main, and his own sister.
He could believe in must. But will? He had great doubts about that.
Book Two
Friends and Enemies
Human beings may be inconsistent,
but human nature is true to herself.
She has uttered her testimony
against slavery with a shriek ever
since the monster was begotten; and
till it perishes amidst the execrations
of the universe, she will traverse
the world on its track, dealing her
bolts upon its head, and dashing
against it her condemning brand.
THEODORE DWIGHT WELD,
American Slavery As It Is
1839
17
GEORGE WAS CEREMONIOUSLY WELCOMED home with a Christmas party. It gave him a chance to observe all the changes that had taken place in the family in a relatively short time. Some he found quite surprising.
His brother Billy, for example, looked and acted grown-up at twelve. His face had filled out, taking on the broad, sturdy appearance common to adult males of the family—Stanley excepted. Billy’s brown hair was darker than George’s, his blue eyes less pale and forbidding. He had an appealing smile, but there was no sign of it while he asked sober, intelligent questions about the war. Who was the better general, Taylor or Scott? How did the American and Mexican armies compare? What did George think of Santa Anna?
Billy couldn’t be as serious as he seemed, George thought. But then, he recalled being pretty serious about some of the scrapes he’d gotten into when he was Billy’s age. Some of them had involved young women. Was Billy similarly entangled? If so, George disapproved.
Then he laughed at himself. He had changed along with the rest of the Hazards.
Virgilia chattered constantly about the anti-slavery movement, which she referred to as her work. She had become not only fanatical about it but self-important. Naturally George didn’t say that aloud, but neither did he conceal his anger when he told everyone that Orry would be his best man and Virgilia replied by saying, “Oh, yes—your slave-owner friend. Well, George, be warned. I shan’t smile and fawn over someone like that.”
It threatened to be a wretched wedding. Virgilia was apparently determined to spoil Orry’s visit; and Stanley’s new wife made several cool and sarcastic references to Constance Flynn’s religion, as well as to the site of the ceremony—the tiny and unprepossessing Catholic chapel down by the canal.
Stanley had married a little more than a year ago, while George was on his way to Mexico. Isabel Truscott Hazard was twenty-eight, two years older than her husband. She came of a family that claimed its founder had been a colleague and friend of William Penn’s. Although she had been occupied with a pregnancy during most of her first year in Lehigh Station, her husband’s last name and her own ambitious nature had established her as a social leader of the community.
George tried to like Isabel. The effort lasted about five minutes. She was homely as a horse, which wouldn’t have mattered if she had been intelligent or gracious. Instead, she openly bragged about never reading anything except social columns.
George could have pitied her, but why bother? She thought of herself as perfect. She also had that opinion of her home, her wardrobe, her taste in furnishings, and her twin sons, born almost nine months to the day after her wedding. She had already informed Stanley that she would bear no more children, having found the entire procedure distasteful.
With great pride, George showed the family a little daguerreotype of Constance. A few minutes later, while a footman served rum punch, Isabel remarked to him, “Miss Flynn is quite lovely.”
“Thank you. I agree.”
“They say that down South men admire physical beauty without, shall we say, substance. I hope your fiancée isn’t so naive as to think the same holds true in this part of the country.”
George reddened. Evidently Isabel had decided to condemn Constance because she happened to be beautiful.
Maude Hazard didn’t like her daughter-in-law’s remark. Stanley noticed the instantaneous frown on his mother’s face and scowled at Isabel. That silenced her for the evening, though George was sure it wouldn’t shut her up for good.
For Christmas the broad white living-room mantel had been decorated with mountain laurel leaves. So had all the doors and windows. On the mantel stood the family’s pride, a massive twenty-four-inch-tall goblet blown in the 1790s by the great John Amelung of Maryland. William’s father had bought the goblet in a flush time. On the glass the artisan had engraved a shield and an American eagle with spread wings. A ribbon bearing the words E pluribus unum fluttered from the eagle’s beak. It seemed fitting that, toward the end of the party, Maude should step to the mantel, near this splendid artifact, and there make a short speech to the gathering.
“Now that George is home for good, we must make a change in the management of Hazard’s. From now on, Stanley, you and your brother will have equal responsibility for operation of the furnace and the mill. Your time will come eventually, Billy, don’t worry.”
Stanley struggled to smile, but he looked as if he were sucking a lemon. Maude went on, “With the family expanding, all of us can’t possibly continue to live under one roof, so we must make some adjustments there, too. Henceforward, this house will belong to Stanley and Isabel. I’ll stay here with you, and for the time being so will Billy and Virgilia.”
Her eyes fixed on George. From the mantel she took a folded document he hadn’t noticed before. “One of your father’s last wishes was to provide you with a home of your own. So for you and your bride—this. It’s a deed to a portion of the land on which we’re standing. The plot is a large one, right next door. Your father signed this two days before he was stricken. Build a home for Constance and your children, my dear. With our love and best wishes.”
Tears welled in George’s eyes as he accepted the deed. Billy started the applause. Stanley and Isabel joined in without enthusiasm. George understood the reason for their behavior. Stanley wasn’t the sort to share family leadership with a brother he considered inexperienced and reckless.
Constance and her father came north at the end of March, and the young people were married on a mild day in early April. By then George had already been discharging his new responsibilities for three months.
Growing up, he had done odd jobs throughout Hazard Iron. But now he looked at the operation with a manager’s eye, not that of a bored boy who wanted to be elsewhere. He roved through the furnace, the finery, and the mill at all hours, getting to know the men and hoping to demonstrate that they could trust him. He asked questions, then listened with total concentration to the answers. If an answer identified a problem that he could solve, he did so.
Many a night he stayed up until dawn, reading. He dug through past correspondence of the company, struggled with turgid metallurgical manuals and technical pamphlets. His curiosity irked Stanley. George didn’t care. What he read was informative—and sometimes infuriating. The material from the files showed that whenever their father had given Stanley responsibilities for a decision, Stanley had chosen the risk-free path. Fortunately William Hazard hadn’t delegated too much to his eldest son. Had he done so, George was convinced the business would have stumbled back to the eighteenth century by now.
He did find time to hire a Philadelphia architect to survey his homesite and draw plans for a residence. Italianate villas were the rage. The architect designed one, an asymmetrical L-shape with an elaborate lookout tower rising in the angle. This tower, or belvedere, suggested the name for the showy stone mansion; the architect said belvedere meant “beautiful view,” and the completed house would certainly offer that. The foundation had just been dug when the Flynns arrived.
Constance quickly grew aware of Isabel’s scorn. She smiled and made the best of it. And if Orry felt insulted by Virgilia during the wedding festivities, he kept the reaction hidden. The newlyweds departed for their honeymoon in New York. The family carriage took them past the
old trading station that had given the town half its name, but George and Constance never saw the scenery. Inside the carriage they were wrapped in each other’s arms. They had one night alone, in Easton—a blissful night—before a messenger summoned George back for what turned out to be the first of many quarrels with his brother.
One of the furnaces had burst from the stress generated by the tremendous forces penned up inside; it was not an unfamiliar kind of accident. Two Hazard workmen had been crushed to death by falling debris. After George completed his inspection, he confronted Stanley in the office.
“Why weren’t the wrought-iron bands installed on the stacks? The files say money was appropriated for them.”
Stanley looked pale and exhausted. Annoyance edged his voice as he replied, “That was Father’s idea, not mine. After he died I canceled the installation. Shipments were off slightly. I felt we couldn’t afford it.”
“You think we can more easily afford two dead bodies and two families without fathers? I want those bands installed. I’ll write the order.”
Stanley tried to assume a tone of indignation. “I don’t believe you have the authority to write—”
“The hell! Your authority exceeds mine in just one area. You’re the only one empowered to sign bank drafts. Those bands are going on. And we’re paying a thousand dollars to each of the families.”
“George, that is utterly stupid.”
“Not if we want to keep good workers. Not if we want to sleep nights. You sign the drafts, Stanley, or I’ll collect a hundred men and lay siege to your house until you do.”
“Damned upstart,” Stanley muttered, but when the two drafts for the families of the dead men were drawn, he signed them.
By the time he told Maude of the plan to go ahead with installation of the protective bands, he made it appear the idea was his.