The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  Matt said, "Our company profits will be strong this year, and I thank you for your labor that has made success almost common.

  "For as long as I can remember, workers have earned seventy cents a day—no matter what the job. When we hire, that is what we pay, and if a man has worked for us for ten years, seventy cents a day is still considered fair pay.

  "For all genuine Miller Men, I intend to change that system. I consider you special men because of your work ethic that makes you labor hard and at any task asked and because of your loyalty to the company you work for. Those are the reasons we employ each of you as steadily as we can.

  "From tomorrow on, as long as this company can afford it, Miller Men will receive eighty cents a day, and as a bonus for the hard and successful work on the bridge, each Miller's Man who worked on that job will be paid an extra dollar."

  Even China was shaken by the thunderous roar of approval. Men were on their feet applauding and slapping each other's shoulders.

  Matt raised a hand for quiet, and despite the excitement, it came almost instantly.

  "Do not misunderstand. When the company employs other workers, their wages will be the usual seventy cents a day. Only Miller Men will be paid the higher wage. Do not expect your uncle or your cousin to automatically be taken on as a Miller Man. Those positions will be rare and difficult to qualify for."

  Matt closed his meeting. "I will add that it is my intent to have a company bath constructed. We will heat the water from beneath, and bathing will be free. Judging from the thickness of the air in here almost everyone will be glad to make regular, Saturday-night use of the facility." There was chagrined laughter.

  "I thank you for your hard work in the past. I hope that we continue as a team for many long years." Matt grinned in shared entertainment, "You may use some of that extra money in paying overdue rent and spend the rest in our company store."

  The Boss

  Chapter 20

  Matt studied the mighty Susquehanna with interest. How the water roared. The river was again within its banks, but the current seemed ever faster.

  Before he left for Philadelphia, China had explained that during a flood, the river jammed and was held back at the Dauphin narrows only a dozen miles downstream. When the water was merely high, the current rushed through. Low water, of course, offered only a slack flow, and in some places a man could almost walk across.

  Matt was slightly chagrined that he had needed China to explain something so obvious, but, he did not claim to know everything—yet.

  A month had passed since the highest flooding had receded. Canals had reappeared and Miller crews were repairing and improving far up both rivers.

  Mister Horace Thorpe had made numerous visits, and he paid promptly with Commonwealth bank drafts that Matt cashed in Harrisburg. The state was an excellent employer, and if the amount of money within the Millers' great safe had been suspected, Matt would have employed an armed guard.

  Money came in, but money also went out—in sums that made Matt sweat.

  On Saturday night, the workmen lined up for their pay. Following Lukey Bates' routine grumblings that a lot of paperwork could be avoided if the company paid every other week instead of each Saturday, Matt and Lukey sat at a table and paid off the workers. Miller Men were recorded in a ledger separate from other hired laborers. Bates announced the amount due, and Matt dealt the coins into the laborer's calloused palm.

  Too many men immediately departed for a shacky saloon that had sprung up along the riverfront, and Matt, as ritually as Lukey's biweekly payment suggestions, exclaimed that the Millers should get into the beer and whiskey business.

  Matt regularly claimed that if they sold liquor next door, they could simply issue coins to a worker, take payment for the beer or whiskey, hand the money back into the office, and re-issue it to the next man in line. Matt swore that all they would need would be a few dozen dollars—total.

  China had gone to Philadelphia because big Matt had not come home. The Boss wrote regularly explaining that he was still feeling low, but his doctor was working hard for him.

  Big Matt also sent money. Twice, armed guards accompanied money carriers who paused on their routes to dispense significant amounts at the Millers' western headquarters.

  Big Matt was still dipping into the Philadelphia side of the business. The Boss's Boy was certain that his uncle Brascomb knew of the money transfers and resented them to no end. It was just as well that Brascomb Miller had no sense of the profits from the western contracts also piling up in the safe.

  Big Matt saw that money and records sent east barely showed a profit. Soon, probably already, the east and the west companies would be separated in all respects except ownership. Big Matt Miller owned everything and would continue to do so.

  China did not like the Captain's continued absence or big Matt's reports of feeling ill. Little Matt agreed, and China went to be at the Boss's side until he chose to return to Petersburg.

  Petersburg—they had to stop using that familiar name. The town had agreed to adopt the name of Duncannon. Why? None of them knew, but the Irishmen liked the change because the new name sounded Irish or maybe Scot.

  Matt always got the nationalities mixed in his mind. There were Scotsmen (most called them Scotchmen) and there were Irishmen. Unfortunately for clarity, there were also the Scotch-Irish who, Matt gathered, were Scots that had moved generations past to Ireland but retained different practices. Scots bragged about being highlanders, or were mildly insulted by being labeled lowlanders. Irish could be wounded by being termed Bog Irishmen, or . . . they also worshipped in different churches. Some were protestant Presbyterians and some were Roman Catholic. At any rate, Benvenue amounted to little, and Petersburg and Baskinsville were gone. They all now lived in Duncannon.

  The current excitement was the impending arrival of the steamboat George Washington. Matt had already seen the boat tied alongside a dock in Harrisburg. Built for canal travel, the craft was almost flat bottomed and had its side-wheel paddles set into the hull so that they did not protrude and make the craft wider than the preferred ten feet. The boat drew only three feet of water when loaded, and Matt doubted it could carry significant cargo.

  The foredeck was piled high with wood cut to fit through the boiler's small door. Wood was fed into the engine's firebox from the front, and Matt could see that leaving the door open while the boat was moving could create a draft that would stoke the fire and feed power to the engine. The massive and weighty steam engine filled the boat's middle, and passengers and cargo were carried aft of the boiler.

  The George Washington was steered by a tiller attached to a large, catboat-like rudder that drew little water but extended well behind the craft.

  Each paddle wheel could be slowed by a device called a friction clutch that could be eased in or out via long cords to the helmsman at the tiller. A skilled pilot could maneuver simply by slowing a paddle wheel. When wishing to stop, the clutches were allowed to slip, and the engine turned without transferring power to the wheels.

  Matt could see the practicality of a steam engine in a large, perhaps ocean-going vessel, but within the confines of a canal, with extremely limited water depth? Until they were vastly improved, Matt doubted such a rig could return value.

  Still, the vessel had appeal. It was claimed to be able to maintain more than eight miles an hour, and it could move upstream in almost any current. Most marveled—no horses to feed whether they worked or not, no long, shore-fastened tow rope to dodge and to wear through and part unexpectedly.

  Truly marvelous machines, a few expected such engines were against God's will and nature's laws, but most, like Matt, believed that with more development, steam powered canal boats might, in some uses, challenge the towed barges.

  Matt examined the George Washington's heavily built steam engine with envy. Eventually he planned to have such engines to turn the shafts and gears on a sawmill so powerful that it would fairly spit forth boards and planks to exacting d
imensions.

  The Boss's Boy also noted that the engine was not the best for its boat. On a canal boat of narrow beam, a steam engine should be built lighter and more compact, and the engine should sit very low. As it was, the steamboat was top heavy with a tall iron chimney hinged so that it could be lowered to pass beneath bridges—or just as probable in a canal, to avoid low hanging tree limbs. On land, excess size and weight mattered little, but afloat, extra poundage could degrade a craft's balance. The George Washington could never manage waves or seas of any size. The boat would always be a canal or small lake vehicle.

  Matt had accompanied China to Harrisburg to view the marvelous invention. The old sailor had no good words for the brightly painted canal boat.

  China said, "That bucket is so poorly built that not much more than the paint is holding it together. I'll be surprised if it makes it over the mountain in one piece. If that wreck gets to Pittsburgh it will be a miracle. The boat will never go further than the forks of the Ohio, that is for sure."

  Matt saw most of what China did, but the modern steam plant colored his vision, and he wondered if they could buy a similar boiler and cobble together their own steam engine. The Boss's Boy resolved to look into that possibility.

  China had gone on to Philadelphia, but Matt had stayed to speak with the boat's captain about his steamboat and steam engines in particular.

  The boat's skipper was also the boat's owner. A flamboyant character, topped by the tallest double-beaver hat Matt had ever seen, the boatman lavished praise on his craft and his engine.

  The longer the owner exclaimed, the more certain Matt became that the owner/captain actually knew little about either his boat or his engine. The man was more salesman than seaman. He owned the craft and had powerful hopes that he could convince individuals along his way to invest in his newly formed steamboat company—that was sure to return handsome monetary rewards. Matt returned to Perry County with visions of powerful engines but without steamboat company investments.

  The McFees had returned to their rooms, and Matt saw Erin puttering with some flowers outside their door. He was tempted to stroll that way, but he had no handy explanation as to why he was out walking around. Matt scratched the idea and reentered the office.

  Lukey Bates looked up from his books. "Matt, it is Friday and tomorrow we have to pay half a hundred workers. I can't believe how the dollars run out our door. It seems that every day is payday around here."

  His mind still on Erin McFee, Matt answered vaguely. "Well, money comes in more than it goes out, Lukey."

  Bates sniffed. "It had better. We have the biggest payroll since I came on board. If business slackens we will have to lay off workers, Matt."

  Matt remained undisturbed. "It has always been that way, Lukey, and it always will be. Workers know that, and perhaps you have noticed that more than a few of our contracts have come by way of Miller Men who told us about someone looking for labor."

  Matt stirred restlessly. "I ought to hop a boat up toward Newport and look at that new iron furnace that is starting up a few miles this side of town. We should be getting into iron making, Lukey. Wood is going out, and iron is coming in. Machinery is all iron, and there is money to be made there."

  Instead of going upriver, Matt stepped into their boxing yard and wrapped his fists to punch the heavy bag for a turn or two. Mickey McFee had made use of the equipment while his family was living in the headquarters, and Matt was impressed by the solid thumping McFee gave the leather-wrapped bag.

  It wouldn't do to let the Irish Hurricane get ahead of him in the fist fighting game. The time might just come when . . .

  Horses pulled up out front, and Matt heard Lukey's surprised and pleased voice. "Well, well, welcome home all of you." Fists still wrapped, Matt hurried inside.

  Looking somehow uncomfortable, China and Wilhelm Brado stood just within the office door. Just outside, a man Matt quickly recognized as Brascomb's clerk Roger Scribner waited for room to get inside.

  Matt supposed his father was just beyond, probably paying for the horse hire and looking over the rapidly enlarging community.

  Before Matt could speak, China held up a restraining hand and motioned Matt into his usual chair.

  Smith's voice was hoarse with emotion, and Matt felt his senses sharpen. Something bad was coming, and he tried to get ready for it.

  China said, "There's no easy way to get into this, Matt, so I'll speak it right out." Still the old fighter had to clear his throat before continuing.

  "Your Pa is dead, Matt. He passed away four days ago. It was sudden and unexpected. One moment he and I were talking. The next he was down and gone right there in Brascomb's living room." Young Matt's mind and body froze.

  "There was no warning, and nothing could be done." China cleared his throat twice before continuing. "I'll save the details until you let this settle in your mind, Matt, but it is what it is, and I'll tell you straight out that we've got to go on without delay just the way the Captain would want it."

  Smith shook his head in obvious misery and said, "I'm going down to the hotel and get myself cleaned a little. Willy can do the same here. I'll take Scribner with me. He can clean up there until you decide where he is to stay."

  As if from a great distance, Matt heard Lukey Bates repeating, "Oh my, oh my," but he seemed anchored to his seat, and his hands had turned numb as if fallen asleep.

  China and Scribner departed but Wilhelm Brado stood at his almost attention in front of Matt's desk—waiting, Matt assumed, for questions that needed to be answered.

  Matt finally got his voice going. "Why did China leave so fast, Willy? I never even got a word out."

  Brado said, "We decided I would explain what I could to you, Mister Miller because Mister Smith has been fired."

  "What? My father fired China?"

  "No, no, Mister Miller. Mister Brascomb Miller fired Mister Smith. He told him that he never was on the payroll and that his presence was no longer desired and that he was not to make use of Miller facilities and that when Mister Brascomb Miller arrived out here he did not want to find Mister Smith on Miller property."

  Matt Miller grew even more numb. There were almost too many Millers in Brado's explanation, but the content came through. Uncle Brascomb had fired China? Absurd! Brascomb Miller could not fire anybody—but, of course, he could!

  The realization struck Matt Miller like ice water. With his father gone, control of all Miller properties passed to Brascomb and would remain there until Matt Miller reached age twenty-one, still months away.

  It was too much. Matt waved Wilhelm Brado away and hauled himself from his chair. Lukey Bates asked, "Where are you going, Matt?"

  Uncertain of any destination, Matt twisted at a loose end on his fist wrappings.

  "I'll be out back for a while, Lukey, I've got some thinking to do." Matt's voice sounded tinny and artificial to his ears, and he fumbled a little with the door latch.

  Alone, Matt sat on a log China used when coaching Matt's boxing. The familiar surroundings helped, but an ache within his heart was developing, and young Matt Miller had no idea how to ease it.

  He wished he could cry. The relief would be welcome, but no tears came. He tried to imagine his father dead and laid out for burial, but that picture remained blurry, and Matt put it aside for later.

  Times past came more easily to his mind, and he allowed his memory to roam. How good he had had it with his father behind anything he tried, including forcing him to learn in school when all he wished to do was work with the Irish laborers.

  The memories were calming, and after a while Matt rose and began the familiar routines of punching the heavy bag. The splat of his fist against the leather passed pleasurably up his arms and into his shoulders. He could feel his mind settling and organizing thoughts yet unannounced.

  Then China was there. He took his usual position on the opposite side of the big bag and held it solid while Matt struck, bobbed and weaved, jabbed, and hammered hard with his right
hand.

  Matt judged he had consumed a lot more time than he had realized because China was shaved and in different clothing.

  China said, "Keep punching, Matt. I'll talk while you work. Let your mind roam over what I am saying. We can talk it all out later on."

  Matt's blows shook the bag, and China admonished, "Just lightly, Boss's Boy. Just tap at it, and let your body do its work." Then he began to tell how it had been.

  Chapter 21

  China Smith worked at explaining his captain's death, and Matt could sense the loss behind his words.

  China said, "As soon as I got to the city and saw big Matt, I knew something serious was wrong. The Captain slept more than he roused. He had lost too much weight, and he moved as if he had reached one hundred years.

  "His doctors dosed him with some of the worst smelling stuff I have ever encountered. I can't begin to guess what it must have tasted like, but none of it helped even a little."

  The old sailor paused to shake his head.

  "These past days have been among the worst of my life. Your Pa was clearly going downhill, but Brascomb kept nagging at him wanting this cleared up and that understood until I longed to flatten him."

  Again China paused, and this time he moved the bag so that Matt had to stop punching. He motioned them over to the sitting log, and Matt went along, anxious to hear but hating every somber and tension-filled word.

  China spoke mostly to his feet thrust stiffly before him, as if avoiding Matt's eyes and adding his suffering to the Boss's Boy's obvious distress, but his words came clear.

  "Your Uncle Brascomb is not a likable man, Matt. Your Pa described him as penurious, a word I hadn't known, and he had it right. Brascomb Miller places money above everything else in life, and his hunger for ever more money makes him resentful and envious and unpleasant to be around."

  Matt already knew that, and he waited for his friend to go on.