For a moment, big Matt listened to Willy Brado's twig broom industriously sweeping the dirt in front of the Miller headquarters. The Captain had not completely bought into his son's employment of the boy, but a week had passed, and big Matt had not shuffled the youth down to the German camp along Little Juniata Creek.
Matt Miller had been longer in Philadelphia than intended, and he had more important things on his mind. He had gathered his son, China Smith, and Lukey Bates to listen.
Big Matt said, "As you know, I have begun to separate this headquarters from my brother's operations in the east. The separation is more difficult than I had anticipated. Brascomb resents the change, and he makes everything painful. He hides papers, and he fails to remember important details."
The boss sighed, "Brascomb's irritation will only delay, but it means that I will have to be in Philadelphia a number of times before everything is settled.
"For now, Matt and China will hold the fort out here while I concentrate on shifting things around. When I go back to wrestle Brascomb a few falls, I will take Lukey. Too much of that paperwork is beyond me."
The Captain scrubbed at his vest, as though he suffered chest pain, then he went on.
"Matt, when you were working with your uncle, how well did you get along with Scribner?"
Scribner had no commonly used first name, but the employment records listed him as Roger Scribner, age 37, single—clerk. Matt thought that description included almost all that any of them knew about the man.
Scribner had worked for Brascomb Miller since boyhood. He came to work on time and buried himself in his bookkeeping. Matt had examined the payroll, and he knew that Scribner, like his uncle's other two clerks, received less than his father would have paid. Lukey Bates was better rewarded, and Bates did not have to labor beneath the lash of Brascomb Miller's sharp tongue.
Once, when Brascomb's ire fell on Scribner's shoulders, Matt had caught his eye and winked at the abused clerk in shared understanding. Thereafter, when either endured specially directed tongue-lashings, exchanged winks eased tensions, and over Matt's two winters, became something silently shared among all the clerks. Matt wondered if the small bonding continued after his departure? With those memories in mind, Matt made his answer pithy.
"Scribner works hard and well. He is easy to work with, and he knows the business. He is neat and on time. He is not first out the door at quitting time, and he is quiet and unassuming. Uncle Brascomb should pay him a lot more than he does, and, if I were Scribner, I would have long ago moved to where I was more appreciated."
Big Matt nodded. "That is good to hear. My opinion is much the same as yours. I ask because Scribner approached me with his request to transfer to this part of the Miller operations. Lukey already needs help, and . . ." big Matt gestured toward the hard-sweeping Wilhelm Brado . . . "that skinnied-down rag bag boy you hired may not be much use for a year or more.
"The problem is that Scribner has many years with this company. He has seniority, but I want Lukey as chief clerk without resentment from men working for him. How do you think Scribner would feel about being second man to someone younger and less experienced?"
Lukey tried to speak, but the Captain's raised hand made him wait. Big Matt said, "I know how you see it, Lukey, I want to hear Matt's thoughts."
The Boss's Boy had no doubts. "Scribner will hardly notice, Pa. He is not ambitious, and if it were not for Uncle Brascomb's barbed tongue, I doubt Scribner would be looking for a change. Out here, you will pay him what he is worth—which is a lot more than he is getting now, and our bookkeeping is not as intense. Scribner would be good for us, Pa." Matt glanced at Lukey Bates, "And I expect Lukey was about to say exactly the same."
The Captain asked, "Lukey?"
Bates nodded his head. Then he added, "Matt has it right, Captain. I did not realize that Scribner was interested, or I would have suggested he come with us. Your brother has few secrets from Scribner—not that he doesn't attempt to keep them to himself, but Scribner has been there so long that he knows almost everything." Lukey paused before suggesting, "What Scribner knows might come in handy, Captain."
Big Matt nodded acceptance and little Matt assumed Scribner would soon be en route. Good! Bates did need help, and they had found no one else that looked promising. Uncle Brascomb might strangle himself because he would be acutely aware that Scribner knew details that he might not wish others—especially the company's senior man, to know. Matt liked that thought as well.
The Boss swung a thumb toward the company safe looming against the back wall. "As you know, I have transferred serious money from Philadelphia to our more handy safe. There will be more each trip until our separation is complete."
His chuckle was deep. "Getting cash from my brother is like pulling his teeth, but he has it, and he will cough it up." Big Matt shook his head in some awe. "You would think that our money was only Brascomb's money. Every dollar moved out causes him visible pain."
China added his thought. "You should have made this move years ago, Captain. Working with Philadelphia has always been a pain."
"You are probably right, China, but until Matt grew old enough to take hold, there was only Brascomb and me. We made a good team, and we have both prospered, but . . ." The Boss let it ride and returned to the conversation.
"I meant to speak about the safe. I do not like the way it sits in plain view. It almost challenges someone to try to break into it.
"Matt, I want you to have a couple of carpenters build a room around the safe. Make the entire back wall of this office a series of closets or something. The safe front will be hidden behind one of the doors—and it should be a strong door with a lock that will be difficult to break down to even get to the safe."
Matt thought that the best idea of the day. The huge iron box just sitting there, with other people's money in it, worried him. He had propped a loaded shotgun beside his bed, just in case.
The Boss continued with his son.
"So, Matt, beyond hiring some unusual workmen (his eyes again swung to the sounds of Wilhelm Brado's labors) what have you accomplished during my absence?"
Matt immediately felt nervous, but he believed his actions had been sound.
"Well, I spent some money, Pa."
The father threw up his hands in feigned despair. "Must you always begin with that particular statement, Matt? You always announce money spent. Instead tell me about money made. That would be a welcome change."
Matt hurried on. "This was a low water spring Pa. Only the earliest log rafts got down the river, so there were some raft breakups coming down that gave us a lot of logs to store behind Halderman's Island. We did especially well there, Pa."
The Boss nodded. "Money well spent, Matt. Sometimes, good logs are better than money."
Matt grimaced within and hurried on. "Well, I agree, Pa, but that isn't the money I referred to.
"A rafter was coming down the West Branch and got here more than a little too late. I got word passed to him that he had no chance of getting his raft through, and he pulled his load against the bank and tied it off while he looked for himself.
"I made it a point to happen along while he was staring at the bridge dam and the shallows below. He was finished, and he knew it. Unless there was a big river rising, he would have to hold his raft together for nearly a year until the spring rains and snow melt gave him water depth.
"I suggested that I lived nearby and might find use for his logs. I mentioned how hard it was to keep a raft together with the logs getting waterlogged and the ropes wearing and stretching.
"I told him how locals might see his logs as easy picking by just busting them loose and salvaging what they could off the dam and in the shallows.
"It took him three days, but he finally gave up, and I bought the whole raft for less than I could pay workers to gather individual logs. The logs from that raft have just about filled the channel behind Halderman's, Pa. We've got enough to last a long while."
The Ca
ptain nodded approval, and shook his head in some wonder. "You've got a knack for seeing opportunity, Matt. I assume there is enough money left in our safe to continue for a few weeks?"
Matt guessed he had done well. "There is more money now than there was when you left, Pa. Why we . . ."
The father held up a hand. "That will do for now on money reporting, Matt. I will look over the books. The more important question is, what is next? Have we got contracts waiting?"
China finally entered the game.
"There are important changes arriving, Captain. The canal construction work is more or less done. What is left has moved to the mountains, and the big contracts are out around Pittsburgh. We will have enough with Commonwealth maintenance contracts to keep our best men working, but there is change there as well."
Matt decided to take over. "Many of our Irish workers intend to move on, Pa. They seem to have developed itchy feet. They want to see the other side of the hill, or something like that."
The Boss grunted annoyance. "That's the Scots and the Irish for you. No matter how good they've got it, they move to the furthest frontier the first chance they get. Are they going as a bunch or just a few now and then, and when do they claim they are leaving? Some of them talk a lot and do nothing, you know."
China said, "Some have already gone, but not enough to bother our work. My guess is that the bulk of them will winter here in our hotels. Spring will see most of those that are planning to leave on the road." China looked thoughtful. "In fact, we might be a bit more careful to whom we give credit this winter."
Big Matt suggested, "We ought to have good men in mind to take their places. There is a lot of labor unrest taking place up in the coal regions, and it's the talk of Philadelphia. Men who have trouble in one place are likely to have it in the next. We don't want to hire malcontents that we will have to fire halfway through the summer."
Matt said, "I would like to hire Germans, Pa. There are some down in their camp that already consider themselves Miller Men."
The father's mouth set a bit grimly. "Like the ones you and McFee and a few others have been fist fighting?"
Matt hunched his shoulders readying himself for the anticipated onslaught. Sooner or later the fighting always came up. At least the slow-healing lump over his eye was completely gone.
"Most of the Germans are darn good workers, Pa, and I think we should tie them to us in some ways I haven't brought up. There are skills among them that we should have, and . . ."
"What skills?"
Ha, the Captain's mind had been diverted from fist fighting. "Brick making is one, and clay pottery is another. We should get dams across both Sherman's Creek and the Little Juniata before Harrisburg makes damming illegal. We can't get the speed we need on our water wheel at the mill to spin our saws the way we should. Dams can give us more power."
Then Matt went for his big one. "The fact is, Pa, we need at least one steam engine. Water wheels are passable, but they close down in the winter. An engine runs no matter what the weather. If we had a steam engine, we could spin two saw blades at once just about as fast as we want. We can have steel shafts and brass journals and iron axles that will last, with big screw nuts so that saw blade changing is quick and easy. We . . ."
Matt became aware of looking into widened eyes and open mouths. He dropped the steam engine and took up a more likely subject.
"Some Germans are terrific stone masons. We need them to get a foundry built to see if we can make use of that iron ore up on the ridge.
"We've got coal to burn in a foundry, and coal seems to be working as well as charcoal down the river. I think there is a market for ten plate stoves and big kitchen stoves with ovens. Everybody wants those, and a decent iron foundry could make them easily. One of the Germans I know about has iron casting experience, and . . ."
His father rose and walked out the door. China followed, but there was a smile on his face.
Lukey Bates said, "Sometimes you are scary, Matt. Your Dad was expecting that you might want to change the size of some lumber or something, and you laid out enough planning to employ every worker between here and York."
"Those ideas can make money, Lukey."
"And they will take money, Matt. And they will take time as well. A steam engine? Now where could we find a steam engine? Most people have never even seen one. Imagine what an engine could cost, if there was one for sale—which I have never heard of in all of my life.
"Talk sense, Matt; your father is not made of money. Some things are just beyond reach, and a steam engine is one of them." Lukey turned to his ledgers muttering about how he could use Scribner right now.
Matt heard his father and China trying to speak with Wilhelm Brado, and he hurried out to help translate the boy's words into English.
Wilhelm was standing at his usual attentive attention and answering the best he could. Matt judged the youth's English had already improved. Not letting him hang around with the Germans was a good decision. Immersed in English talk, Brado was progressing.
The young learned easily. Old folks, like China and his father clearly needed time to think through even the obvious things he proposed, Matt was discovering. The Boss's Boy decided to hold off on the other ideas he had until the Captain could digest what he had already been offered.
There was a bright side to their pondering. His father had not pursued the fist fighting, and every day further removed would make the incident older history. Maybe it would never come up again.
Never come up with his father, that was. China Smith enjoyed rehashing every detail about every bout, but China understood, and young Matt Miller enjoyed explaining how every fight had gone, especially his own—with all of the dramatizing possible.
Chapter 13
China said, "I'm going up to the Irish camp to look around. I can feel something brewing that I'm not going to like."
Matt pondered aloud. "I haven't heard any extra grumbling. Is it something to do with the miners rioting up at Maux Chunk? What are you feeling?"
"Don't know, but I'll take a listen, anyway." Smith soft-footed away.
When Matt finished his paperwork he found Mickey McFee just outside the door. McFee's right hand was buried within a tight binding of cotton strips. No blood stained the cotton, so Matt guessed the reason for the wrappings.
"Broke your hand good, didn't you?"
McFee was clearly disconsolate, with the spirit taken out of him.
"Smashed it as bad as any I've seen. That's what I've come to see you about."
"What happened to it?"
McFee twisted in embarrassment. "Well, I've got an important bout coming up a week from now, and Klubber was fighting the other guy's style. I threw one at Klubber's chin, he ducked his head, and my fist took him smack on the skull." Mickey shook his head in misery. "Matt, I broke durn near every bone in my hand."
China re-appeared to stand just behind McFee. His voice held disdain mixed with a large dose of sympathy.
China said, "I just talked with Klubber, Matt. McFee's got it about right. Cole said he could feel McFee's hand bones crushing, and when he looked at the hand he could see it was all smashed out of shape."
Smith turned to McFee. "How long ago was that, Mickey?"
"Only been a half hour or so, Mister Smith. I hustled right over because I'm not going to be good for much the next week or so."
China snorted through his nearly blocked nose. "You won't be much use for more than a month, and it could be that you'll never have a strong grip in that busted up paw."
Mickey groaned, but Smith was not finished. "Likely all you did was wrap it in those cloths, that right?"
"That's right, Mister Smith, and that's another reason why I came over."
China's voice was expectant. "So I could tie it up right for you?"
McFee's voice was small. "I'd surely be grateful for anything you could do, Mister Smith."
China turned to Matt. "McFee won't be worth anything to us, Matt. You want to just turn h
im out for good?"
The silence was heavy with McFee's trepidation, but China Smith already knew Matt's answer and was just scaring McFee into compliance.
"Mickey stays, China. He's one of us, and we don't toss out our good men." Matt had heard his father say the same words more than once.
"Do what you can for his hand. I'm curious to see what a really broken fist looks like."
Gratitude dripped from Mickey McFee. Broken-handed and without a job, his future would have been bleak. As it was, he had other worries almost as great as holding his job.
When China gently unwrapped Mickey's broken hand, Matt took a lengthy look at the swollen and distorted knuckles that appeared to be shoved back into the back of the hand bones—two of which also seemed to be broken almost in the middle. It was enough to make a man shudder. Matt decided to take advantage of the situation.
"The fact is, McFee, there is one more thing you've got to agree to if we are going to keep you on in the shape you are in." He did not wait for Mickey's reply.
"The agreement will be that you've had your last money fight. You're all your family's got, Mick. You've had a run at knuckle fighting, and that should be enough."
Mickey groaned, and Matt thought China had hurt him.
"My broken hand isn't all of it, Boss."
McFee hesitated, "This is awful hard to say, but you've got to hear it."
McFee's explanation waited as China Smith examined the shattered bones. Klubber Cole had been right. The hand looked as if a horse had trod on it.
Smith scrubbed at his jaw. "If it were my hand, I'd straighten the bones until everything looked right, then I'd wrap it tight into a fist until it healed. That could be more than a month—more likely a month and a half. If you were going to fight again, it should be a lot of months before you began even gentle bag punching."
Matt was forceful. "The agreement is going to be that he doesn't fight again."
When he spoke, Mickey kept his head down, staring at his hand and not meeting eyes.
"I'm signed to fight in a week, and the money's been put up. That's the other thing I needed to talk about."
The Boss's Boy Page 11