“My dear Louisa.” His use of my first name was a subtle recognition of my subordinate position. “One good turn deserves another, don’t you think?” He cocked his head and gave me a look I can only describe as lascivious. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d now made an ungracious request. A request that required the locking of the door.
“You’ve come all the way out here for me, so I’ll give you some advice: Go back to the city, deliver my message, and then ask Sinclair his plans. Once you know, never tell anyone and stay as far away from all of this as you can. I wouldn’t want you, of all people, to get caught up in any … complications.”
“Might these complications relate in any way to the death of Karl Speyer?” I asked, risking frankness.
He looked sincerely taken aback. “No, not at all. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.”
“Ah, well … I’m afraid I really must return to my work now.”
I didn’t move. I remained silent until I had his full attention. “Mr. Albright, did you have anything to discuss relating to Macaulay?”
Gently he chortled. “Everything we’ve discussed is related to Macaulay, my dear. I should have thought that obvious.”
Angrily I walked down the asphalt-paved road, cursing its Albright-sponsored smoothness. What was I to do with this warning he’d given me for Tom? Obviously I would have to pass it along, but how foolish I would feel, repeating Albright’s nonsense about his finger in the dike—especially because I had no idea what it meant.
Workmen were streaming in and out of the gates: a change in shift, I assumed. As I crossed to the train station, I saw a man handing out flyers—calling to his friends, reaching to shake hands, trying out greetings in several languages and enjoying his inability to master any of them. I took a flyer from him and looked at it as I waited on the railway platform, the wind from the lake whipping my skirt against me. As I read, I felt surprised that the flyer was handed out so openly.
Debs’s appeal to you!
There was a blurry picture of the fiery socialist labor leader Eugene V. Debs, thin, bald, and bespectacled. I read on:
We stand for you! Can you and will you understand? We are of your class and we have resolved to free ourselves from wage-slavery.
Are you with us? You must be unless your eyes are blind, your heart dead, and your hand lifted against your own wife and child.
Socialism is the hope of humanity, the light of the world.
Here is our hand, brother, give us yours.
“Miss Barrett? Is it Miss Louisa Barrett?” a man’s voice inquired. Startled, I looked up. I recognized him immediately—the man who was the talk of the town. I crumpled the flyer and slipped it into my jacket pocket. “I thought so. Well met, well met.” As he reached for my hand, he took off his hat and bowed slightly from the waist. His thinning brown hair, combed over the crown of his head, was so thickly pomaded that the wind didn’t lift it. He wore a plaid-patterned beige suit of a thick tweed. His entire manner was warm and affectionate, as if we’d been friends for years, when in fact we’d never been introduced. But of course he knew me. That was his job: to know people. “What a happy coincidence.”
I had an uneasy suspicion that our meeting wasn’t a coincidence at all. For here was Frederick Krakauer, Mr. Morgan’s man. “You’ve picked a lovely day for a tour of the steel mill. Lovely.” He gazed at the gray sky suspiciously, as if wondering why it didn’t cooperate with his convictions.
Meanwhile, the train arrived on the other side, discharged its passengers, and circled around for the trip back to the city. When it pulled up, Krakauer took my elbow lightly to guide me down the platform. “Allow me the honor of escorting you back to the city.”
Instinctively I pulled my arm away from him. “I’m hardly in need of an escort, Mr. Krakauer.” Then I realized my mistake; I must not offend him: Who could tell what ears he whispered into? As graciously as I could, I added, “Should you wish to accompany me, however, your presence will make the trip much more … mutually entertaining.”
He paused. “Yes, I think so,” he finally agreed, as though my words had taken him a moment to unravel.
We boarded, I took a window seat facing the direction we were going, and he sat opposite, facing me. His bulky presence seemed to fill the double seat. He gave off a sweet tobacco scent, but not of cigars or cigarettes; a pipe, most likely. The train whistle blew, and then we were moving.
At first we sat in silence, but as we passed through the squatters’ camp Mr. Krakauer began to offer his views on humanity. “How curious it is, Miss Barrett, that this little community is not what it appears. No, no, it’s not one large shantytown for the workers of Stony Point: It is many small shantytowns—one for the Poles, one for the Italians, one for the Slovaks, for the Croats, for the Czechs, and on and on. Even the coloreds have their pitiful circle. Each group has its own territory and God help them if they step over the invisible boundaries because they won’t live to see the morrow!”
I didn’t honor his prejudice with a response.
“Barely pays to build them real housing, at the rate they’re killing each other. Not to mention losing arms and legs on the job. I don’t know how poor Mr. Albright keeps things going! Do you know, there are over four thousand injuries a year and on-site fatalities average one a day? Extraordinary. And yet men keep lining up for the work.” Krakauer patted his belly, looking pleased with himself for being able to pass on this inside information. With his smooth skin, his age could have been anywhere between forty and sixty.
“Mr. Albright worries about strikes, but I say, when you’ve got the men working twelve-hour shifts, who has time or energy to organize a strike!” This time he waited for my response.
“I see what you mean,” I said noncommittally
“Now, Mr. Sinclair over at the power station, he’s got different ideas. He’s all for taking care of his workers—giving them proper houses and even education. And not just them, but their families too! Can you beat that?” Krakauer shook his head at the naiveté of such notions. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see which is more profitable in the long run.” I had no doubt that Krakauer had already made up his mind on that score.
“Well, I’m certainly happy to have this chance to speak with you. Unfortunately I wasn’t present for your tour of the powerhouses—although I heard about your visit, yes indeed I did. Well, I can’t be everywhere at once,” he admitted sadly. “Even Mr. Morgan doesn’t expect me to be everywhere at once. I can only do my best, and try to be where I need to be, at any moment.”
I couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him. “It must be difficult, to judge where to go. Where you’ll be needed most.”
He sighed, thinking me sincere. “Yes, that’s the toughest part of my job.”
“Mr. Krakauer,” I said gently. “What exactly is it that you’re doing here?”
“Here? On this train?” He looked astonished. “Why, going back to Buffalo.”
“No, here in general. At the steel mill. At the power station. In the city and all around it. At one social event after another. Week after week, month after month—my girls are beginning to regard your presence as highly suspect.”
He chuckled good-naturedly. “Yes, yes, I have daughters myself. I know what fun they have with anything out of the ordinary.”
“Yes, they do.”
“My dear Miss Barrett.” He leaned toward me appealingly Almost apologetically. “I’m here for the reason everyone knows I’m here: I’m Mr. Morgan’s man and proud of it, and I’m looking out for his interests wherever they lead me.”
“What are his interests?”
“Oh, he has many interests, Miss Barrett.” He leaned back, smirking, puffed up with vicarious glory. “More than any of us can ever imagine. But he manages to keep track of everything, I can tell you. That’s why I’m here. Just think: If you’d invested a fortune to build a hydroelectric power station five hundred miles from your home, and you’d
encouraged your friends to do the same, wouldn’t you want someone on hand to look after your interests?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Suddenly there was an edge to his voice. He regarded me with narrowed eyes. “So … you met with Mr. Albright himself today.”
He let the statement float between us, and I wondered at what point he had begun to watch me.
“Mr. Albright’s on your school board, isn’t he?” Krakauer asked rhetorically. “You must have a great deal to discuss,” he added, inviting me to confession.
“Yes, indeed,” I said, creating a story and feigning enthusiasm for it. “Mr. Albright and I share an interest in butterflies. He had some specimens to show me. It is my fervent hope that one day Mr. Albright will donate his butterfly collection to Macaulay.”
Mr. Krakauer gazed at me quizzically, apparently unsure whether to believe me. “Did you enjoy seeing the steel mill?” he inquired accusingly.
“Enjoy is not precisely the word I would use.”
“Ha ha,” he guffawed, slapping his knee. “I understand what you mean. Good for you.” His reaction, so at odds with my expectations, made me even more cautious.
Carefully I said, “What is Mr. Morgan’s interest in the steel mill?”
He looked taken aback. “Forgive me, Miss Barrett, but I’m surprised at you. A person like yourself, asking a question like that. Why anyone who reads the newspapers …”
No doubt it was for the best, that he think me stupid. Finally he added, “It’s a delicate dance we do here, Miss Barrett. A delicate dance.” He raised his eyebrows, as if challenging me to ask him to go on.
“Yes?”
Unexpectedly he shrugged, then he shifted on the seat, leaning forward elbows-on-knees to speak confidentially. “We’ve had so much success with the hydroelectric power project, you know. Sinclair’s got a gift for bringing in business. Graphite, abrasives, aluminum, you name it. That old Irish charm, eh? Nobody can resist him. The investors are already seeing a return! Isn’t that extraordinary? Especially considering that work is still in progress. Well Mr. Morgan certainly is perspicacious, and I’m certainly proud to be his man.”
“Quite so, Mr. Krakauer. Hearing you talk makes me wish I could be Mr. Morgan’s man!”
“Oh, my dear lady, that would be impossible.” He looked aghast.
“I know, Mr. Krakauer.” I patted his sleeve. “I’m only joking.”
“Oh,” he said, discomfited but not displeased. “Anyway, it’s been an education to me, learning about these new businesses, finding out how the power station works. Learning about turbines and penstocks and generators. A real education. You know who taught me the most? Poor old Karl Speyer.” Krakauer regarded me frankly. “Poor fellow. Some people say he was murdered. Yes, murdered,” he assured me disingenuously. “Forced at gunpoint to walk across the ice to a weak spot where he fell in and was left to die.” Seeing the scene through Krakauer’s eyes, suddenly I visualized him being the one to force Speyer on this death walk. Yet what would J. P. Morgan gain from Speyer’s death? I couldn’t imagine. And besides, surely there were easier ways to kill a man than forcing him to walk across a frozen lake—especially a man who journeyed regularly to Niagara Falls, where sudden death—accidental or otherwise—was a common occurrence. “Falling through the ice,” Krakauer mused. “It’s the sort of accident that could happen to any of us, isn’t it?”
“I hope not, Mr. Krakauer. What a horrible way to die.”
“I don’t suppose any way is easy,” he replied with the matter-of-fact confidence of someone in a position to know.
We stared at each other. Krakauer had a slight smile on his face. Trying to change the subject, I asked, “Mr. Krakauer, do you think it will be necessary—I mean, some people say that the power station will have to take all the water from Niagara to meet the demand.” I fought an urge to avert my eyes. “Do you think that’s true?”
He waited a long time before answering. “Well now, ‘all’ is a relative term, Miss Barrett,” he said thoughtfully.
“It is?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes, indeed. ‘All’ is a relative term. That’s what Mr. Morgan believes. He told me so himself.” Krakauer gazed out the window with intense concentration, remembering, I felt certain, the day that J. P. Morgan, in the shadows of his library, had passed along this precious bit of information.
“Then it must be true—I mean, that ‘all’ is a relative term,” I said, and I wasn’t teasing, for if Morgan had said it, then for all practical purposes it was true. “Mr. Krakauer, I may be wrong on this—and you know best”—how was that for wheedling?—“but I thought there were some kind of state controls on the water. From the state of New York, I mean. That companies had to rent the water or option it, they couldn’t just take as much as they wanted.”
He bestirred himself. “Yes, yes; true, true. There are state controls, it’s all very strictly supervised. Mr. Morgan insists on very strict attention to details like that.”
Then his manner shifted once again. He seemed to be trying to appear blasé, slouching back in his seat, but in fact his eyes were intent upon mine. “Miss Barrett, how well do you know Thomas Sinclair?”
I was uncomfortable in Krakauer’s stare and felt myself blushing. I looked away. “His wife was my best friend. She died last year.”
“I know. I’m sorry for you. Tell me about her.”
I didn’t dare conceal information from Frederick Krakauer. I must choose carefully, what to tell and how to tell it. I must tell him only what he surely knew already. “Well … she attended Macaulay. That’s how I met her. Mr. Sinclair has supported the school generously in her name.”
“So I’ve heard. He’s an extraordinary character. A man of force and integrity.”
“Yes.”
“Understands the power station like … well, like nobody else. Some of the boys know a little of this, a little of that; but Sinclair, he knows the whole shebang. He’s got the whole thing in his head.” Krakauer tapped his temple. “Anything happened to him, the rest of us’d be in big trouble.” Krakauer made this sound like a joke.
“Yes.”
“He’s self-made, as you probably know. Worked in a factory as a boy. Extraordinary, how far he’s come. Mr. Morgan finds it—well, extraordinary. But that’s America for you, isn’t it? That’s America all over.”
“Yes.”
“The only place in the world like it. I mean, here I am, never even finished school, and I’m Mr. Morgan’s man.”
“Yes. It’s an honor.”
“So it is.” He paused, for too long a time. He cleared his throat. “I wonder if Thomas Sinclair ever … remembers”—Krakauer gave the word intense meaning—“those days. In the factory, I mean. The people he knew … his fellow workers, you’d have to call them. His peers, compatriots, comrades, may we say? Of course he was just a boy. But I do wonder if he ever thinks of them. If he’s ever in contact with them. No telling where they are now. What their …” He searched for the word. “What their … inclinations might be.”
I sensed the crumpled Debs flyer in my pocket. I couldn’t meet Krakauer’s gaze. “I wouldn’t know.”
He sat up, spreading a hand on each tweed-covered knee. “No, of course not. How could you possibly know.” He was silent for a moment. Then, abruptly, “It’s hard to believe, but Thomas Sinclair actually gives every single one of his workers a ham for Easter! Pays out of his own pocket. A ham! Now, I ask you, Miss Barrett, what does your average Serb or Croat want with a ham for Easter?”
“Well, I guess that’s America for you, Mr. Krakauer.”
“Mmm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Right you are there, Miss Barrett.”
Tentatively I said, “If you’re wondering about Mr. Sinclair’s old friends, maybe you should ask him.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, but it’s not the sort of question a man in Sinclair’s position would take well to, now, is it?” There was a harsh undertone in his voice.
“That’s why I was asking you.”
All at once I was truly frightened of him. Irrationally, wildly frightened. My heart was racing. I fought the urge to fist my hands together. “Truly, Mr. Krakauer,” I said quietly, in a tone I knew sounded like pleading but that I couldn’t control. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t respond. I wasn’t certain he’d even heard, for he had turned to the window and his gaze was unwavering. The squatters’ shacks had given way to South Park and its glass conservatory, which in turn gave way to the grain elevators. Now our rail line joined dozens of others in a band of tracks half a mile wide, leading to the vast coal trestles of the Lehigh Valley Railroad. Leading to the Buffalo Harbor—the greatest inland port in the history of America, people called it; the sixth busiest port in the world. There—so close—were our skyscrapers, dwarfing the church steeples, outlined against the fat white cumulus clouds that now swept the horizon. How beautiful was our city, how exquisite; it filled me with awe. And all the while, Frederick Krakauer stared out the window with that look of his, watchful but unfocused. Concealing and protecting the interests of Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan.
CHAPTER XV
Greetings, all!”
On the first Monday evening in May, Elbert Hubbard arrived at my salon with a flourish of high spirits. Elbert was the founder of the Roycrofters, an artists’ community in the nearby village of East Aurora. He was decked out in his uniform of Stetson hat (long brown hair curling around its brim), farmer’s brogues, loose corduroys, flannel shirt, and flowing cravat.
With Elbert’s arrival, mail-order soap king John Larkin abruptly quit his conversation with board member John Scatcherd and left my house without a word to anyone, not even to me. Elbert’s sister was married to Larkin, and as a result Larkin was privy to certain private moral irregularities that Elbert himself shrugged off with a sheepish grin.
Once upon a time, Elbert had been the marketing genius behind the Larkin Soap Company, but in early 1893, with a hefty financial settlement, Elbert left the company to take on the mantle of “writer.” Now Elbert was famous throughout the country—throughout the world, he would say—as Fra Elbertus, the Inspector General of the Universe. His magazine, The Philistine (which was basically an advertisement for himself, filled with his homilies and fooleries), had one of the highest circulations in the country.
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