Miles Feversham had subsided, dumbfounded, into his chair; his self-sufficiency had deserted him; for a moment the purple color surged in his face; his chagrin overwhelmed him. But Marcia, seated in the front row outside the bar, showed no confusion. Her brilliant, compelling eyes were on her husband. It was as though she wished to reinforce him, and at the same time convey some urgent, vital thought. He glanced around and, reading the look, started again to his feet. He began to retract his denunciation. It was evident he had been misinformed; he offered his apologies to the witness and asked that the case be resumed. But the prosecuting attorney, disregarding him, continued to explain. “In the Daniels' manuscript, gentlemen, a coroner's inquest exonerated the man who was responsible for the death of the papoose; this the magazine suppressed. I am able to offer in evidence James Daniels' affidavit.”
Then, while the jury gathered these varying ideas in fragments, Lucky Banks' treble rose. “Let's hear what the lady wrote.” And some one at the back of the courtroom said in a deep voice; “Read the lady's letter.”
It seemed inevitable. Mr. Bromley had separated a letter from the bundle of papers. Involuntarily Marcia started up. But the knocking of the gavel, sounding smartly, insistently, above the confusion, brought unexpected deliverance.
“It is unnecessary to further delay this Court with this issue,” announced the judge. “The case before the jury already has dragged through nearly four weeks, and it should be conducted as expeditiously as possible to a close. Mr. Bromley, the witness is sustained.”
Marcia settled back in her place; Miles Feversham, like a man who has slipped on the edge of a chasm, sat a moment longer, gripping the arms of his chair; then his shifting look caught Frederic's wide-eyed gaze of uncomprehending innocence, and he weakly smiled.
“Mr. Tisdale,” began the prosecution, putting aside his papers and endeavoring to focus his mind again on the case, “you have spent some years with the Alaska division of the Geological Survey?”
“Every open season and some of the winters for a period of ten years, with the exception of three which I also spent in Alaska.”
“And you are particularly familiar with the locality included in the Chugach forest reserve, I understand, Mr. Tisdale. Tell us a little about it. It contains vast reaches of valuable and marketable timber, does it not?”
The genial lines crinkled lightly in Tisdale's face. “The Chugach forest contains some marketable timber on the lower Pacific slopes,” he replied, “where there is excessive precipitation and the influence of the warm Japan current, but along the streams on the other side of the divide there are only occasional growths of scrubby spruce, hardly suitable for telegraph poles or even railroad ties.” He paused an instant then went on mellowly: “Gifford Pinchot was thousands of miles away; he never had seen Alaska, when he suggested that the Executive set aside the Chugach forest reserve. No doubt he believed there was valuable timber on those lofty peaks and glaciers, but I don't know how he first heard of a Chugach forest, unless”—he halted again and looked at the jury, while the humor deepened in his voice—“those Pennsylvania contractors, who were shipping coal around Cape Horn to supply the Pacific navy, took the chance of there being trees in those mountains and interested the Government in saving the timber—to conserve the coal.”
A ripple of laughter passed over the jury and on through the courtroom. Even the presiding judge smiled, and Mr. Bromley hurried to say: “Tell us something about that Alaska coal, Mr. Tisdale. You have found vast bodies— have you not?—of a very high grade; to compare favorably with Pennsylvania coal.”
“The Geodetic Survey estimates there are over eight millions of acres of coal land already known in Alaska,” replied Hollis statistically. “More than is contained in all Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Ohio combined. It is of all grades. The Bonnifield near Fairbanks, far in the interior, is the largest field yet discovered, and in one hundred and twenty-two square miles of it that have been surveyed, there are about ten billions of tons. Cross sections show veins two hundred and thirty-one feet thick. This coal is lignite.”
“How about the Matanuska fields?” asked Mr. Bromley.
“The Matanuska cover sixty-five thousand acres; the coal is a high grade bituminous, fit for steam and coking purposes. There are also some veins of anthracite. I consider the Matanuska the best and most important coal yet discovered in Alaska, and with the Bering coal, which is similar though more broken, these fields should supply the United States for centuries to come.”
Mr. Bromley looked at the jury. His smile said:
“You heard that, gentlemen?” Then, his glance returning to the witness:
“Why the most important?” he asked.
“Because all development, all industry, in the north depends on the opening up of such a body of coal. And these fields are the most accessible to the coast. A few hundreds of miles of railroad, the extension of one or two of the embryo lines on which construction has been suspended, would make the coal available on Prince William Sound. Used by the Pacific Navy, it would save the Government a million dollars a year on transportation.”
The prosecuting attorney looked at the jury again in triumph. “And that, gentlemen, is why the Prince William Development Company was so ready to finance one of those embryo railroads; why those Matanuska coal claims were located by the syndicate's stenographers, bookkeepers, any employee down here in their Seattle offices. Mr. Tisdale, if those patents had been allowed and the claims had been turned over to the company, would it not have given the Morganstein interests a monopoly on Alaska coal?”
Tisdale paused a thoughtful moment. “No, at least only temporarily, if at all. Out of those eight millions of acres of coal land already discovered in Alaska, not more than thirty-two thousand acres have been staked—only one claim, an old and small mine on the coast, has been allowed.” His glance moved slowly over the jury, from face to face, and he went on evenly: “You can't expect capital to invest without some inducement. The Northern Pacific, the first trans-continental railroad in the United States, received enormous land grants along the right of way; but the Prince William Development Company, which intends ultimately to bridge distances as vast, to tap the unknown resources of the Alaska interior, has not asked for concessions, beyond the privilege to develop such properties as it may have acquired by location and purchase. Surely the benefit that railroad would be in opening the country to settlement and in the saving of human life, should more than compensate for those few hundreds of acres of the Government's coal.”
“Mr. Tisdale,” said the attorney sharply, “that, in an employee of the Government, is a strange point of view.”
Tisdale's hands sought his pockets; he returned Mr. Bromley's look with his steady, upward gaze from under slightly frowning brows. “The perspective changes at close range,” he said. “The Government knows less about its great possession of Alaska than England knew about her American colonies, one hundred and fifty years ago. The United States had owned Alaska seventeen years before any form of government was established there; more than thirty before a criminal code was provided, and thirty-three years before she was given a suitable code of civil laws. Now, to-day, there are no laws operative in Alaska under which title may be acquired to coal land. Alaska has yielded hundreds of millions of dollars from her placers, her fisheries, and furs, but the only thing the Government ever did for Alaska was to import reindeer for the use of the Esquimos.”
Another ripple of laughter passed through the courtroom; even the judge on the bench smiled. But Mr. Bromley's face was a study. He began to fear the effect of Tisdale's astonishing statements on the jury, while at the same time he was impelled to listen. In the moment he hesitated over a question, Hollis lifted his head and said mellowly: “The sins of Congress have not been in commission but in omission. They are under the impression, far away there in Washington, that Alaska is too bleak, too barren for permanent settlement; that the white population is a floating one, made up chiefly o
f freebooters and outlaws. But we know the foundations of an empire have been laid there; that, allowed the use of the fuel Nature has so bountifully stored there and granted a fair measure of encouragement to transportation, those great inland tundras would be as populous as Sweden; as progressive as Germany.” His glance moved to the jury; all the nobility, the fineness, the large humanity of the man was expressed in that moment in his face; a subdued emotion pervaded his voice. “We know the men who forged a way through that mighty bulwark of mountains to the interior were brave, resourceful, determined—they had to be—but, too, they saw a broad horizon; they had patriotism; if there are any Americans left who have inherited a spark of the old Puritan spirit, they are the ones who have cast their fortunes with Alaska.”
He paused again briefly, and his eyes rested on Foster. “Do you know?” he resumed, and his glance returned to the prosecuting attorney, “when I came out last season, I saw a ship at the terminus of the new Copper River and Northwestern Railroad discharging Australian coal. This with the great Bering fields lying at their side door! The people of Cordova wanted to see that road finished; the life of their young seaport depended on it— but—that night they threw the whole of that cargo of foreign coal into the waters of Prince William Sound. It is referred to, now, as the 'Cordova tea-party.'“
In the silence that held the courtroom, Tisdale stood still regarding the lawyer. His expression was most engaging, a hint of humor lurked at the corners of his mouth, yet it seemed to veil a subtle meaning. Then the jury began to laugh quietly, with a kind of seriousness, and again the judge straightened, checking a smile. It was all very disturbing to Mr. Bromley. He had been assured by one high in the administration that he might rely on Tisdale's magnetic personality and practical knowledge as well as his technical information in prosecuting the case; but while he hesitated over the question he wished to ask, Tisdale said mellowly, no doubt to bridge the awkward pause: “The Copper River and Northwestern couldn't mine their coal, and they couldn't import any, so they changed their locomotives to oil burners.”
Then Mr. Bromley said abruptly: “This is all very interesting, Mr. Tisdale, but it is the Chugach Railway and not the Copper River Northwestern, that bears on our case. You have been over that route, I believe?”
“Yes.” Tisdale's voice quickened. “I used the roadbed going to and from the Matanuska Valley. Also I went over the proposed route once with Mr. Foster and the civil engineers.”
“Was it, in your opinion, a bona fide railroad, Mr. Tisdale? Or simply a lure to entice people to make coal locations in order that they might be bought after the patents were issued?”
“It was started in good faith.” The steel rang, a warning note, in his voice. “The largest stockholder had spent nearly a hundred thousand dollars in opening his coal claim. He was in need of immediate transportation.”
“This was after the Chugach Company consolidated with the Prince William syndicate, Mr. Tisdale?”
“No, sir. It was previous to that time. The Chugach Railway and Development Company had chosen one of the finest harbors in Alaska for a terminus. It was doubly protected from the long Pacific swell by the outer, precipitous shore of Prince William Sound. But their greatest engineering problem met them there at the start. It was necessary to cross a large glacier back of the bay. There was no possible way to build around it; the only solution was a bore under the ice. The building of such a tunnel meant labor and great expense. And it was not a rich company; it was made up principally of small stockholders, young men, just out of college some of them, who had gone up there with plenty of enthusiasm and courage to invest in the enterprise, but very little money. They did their own assessment work, dug like any coal miners with pick and shovel, cut and carried the timbers to brace their excavations under Mr. Foster's instructions. And when construction commenced on the railroad, they came down to do their stunt at packing over the glacier—grading began from the upper side—and sometimes they cut ties.”
“And meantime,” said the attorney brusquely, “Mr. Foster, who was responsible I believe, was trying to interest other capital to build the tunnel.”
“Yes. And meantime, the Prince William syndicate started a parallel railroad to the interior from the next harbor to the southwestward. It was difficult to interest large capital with competition so close.” Tisdale paused; his glance moved from Mr. Bromley to the jury, his voice took its minor note. “Stuart Foster did hold himself responsible to those young fellows. He had known most of them personally in Seattle; they were a picked company for the venture. He had youth and courage himself, in those days, but he knew Alaska—he had been there before and made good. He had their confidence. He was that kind of man; one to inspire trust on sight, anywhere.” Hollis paused another instant, while his eyes turned to Foster, and involuntarily, one after the other, the jury followed his look. “It was then,” he added, “when other capital failed, the Chugach Company gave up their seaport and consolidated with the Prince William syndicate.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tisdale,” said the attorney for the prosecution. “That is all.”
Miles Feversham had, as Frederic afterward expressed it, “caught his second wind.” While he listened attentively to the testimony, he made some sweeping revisions in his notes for the argument which he was to open the following day. He laughed at, while he congratulated himself, that the Government's star witness, of whom he had been so afraid, should have proved so invaluable to the defense. And when court adjourned, and the trio went down the steps to the street, he assured his brother-in-law there was a chance for him to escape, under Foster's cloak. To Marcia he said jocularly, though still in an undertone: “'Snatched like a brand from the burning!'“ And he added: “My lady, had you consulted me, I should have suggested the April issue. These magazines have a bad habit of arriving too soon.”
Frederic, released from the long day's strain, did not take this facetiousness meekly, but Marcia was silent. For once the “brightest Morganstein” felt her eclipse. But while they stood on the curb, waiting for the limousine to draw up, a newsboy called: “All about the Alaska bill! Home Rule for Alaska!”
The special delegate bought a copy, and Marcia drew close to his elbow while they scanned the message together. It was true. The bill, to which they both had devoted their energies that season in Washington, had passed. Feversham folded the paper slowly and met his wife's brilliant glance. It was as though she telegraphed: “Now, the President must name a governor.”
CHAPTER XXXII. THE OTHER DOCUMENT
The argument, which Miles Feversham opened with unusual brilliancy the following morning, was prolonged with varying degrees of heat to the close of another week; then the jury, out less than two hours, brought in their verdict of “Not Guilty.”
And that night, for the first time since Tisdale's return, Foster climbed to the eyrie in the Alaska building. “I came up to thank you, Hollis,” he began in his straightforward way. “It was breakers ahead when you turned the tide. But,” he added after a pause, “what will the President think of your views?”
Tisdale laughed softly. “He heard most of them before I left Washington, and this is what he thinks.”
As he spoke, he took a letter from the table which he gave to Foster. It bore the official stamp and was an appointment to that position which Miles Feversham had so confidently hoped, with Marcia's aid, to secure.
“Well, that shows the President's good judgment!” Foster exclaimed and held out his hand. “You are the one man broad enough to fit the place.” After a moment he said, “But it is going to leave you little time to devote to your own affairs. How about the Aurora?”
Tisdale did not reply directly. He rose and walked the length of the floor. “That depends,” he said and stopped with his hands in his pockets to regard Foster with the upward, appraising look from under knitting brows. “I presume, Stuart, you are through with the syndicate?”
Foster colored. “I put in my resignation as mining engineer of the
company shortly after I came out, at the beginning of the year.”
“And while you were in the interior,” pursued Tisdale, “you were sent to the Aurora to make a report. What did you think of the mine?”
“I thought Frederic Morganstein would be safe in bonding the property if he could interest you in selling; it looked better to me than even Banks' strike in the Iditarod. This season's clean-up should justify Weatherbee.”
“You mean in staying on at the risk of his reason and life?”
Foster nodded; a shadow crossed his open face. “I mean everything but—his neglect to make final provision for his wife.”
Tisdale frowned. “There is where you make your mistake. Weatherbee persisted as he did, in the face of defeat, for her sake.”
Foster laughed mirthlessly. “The proofs are otherwise. Look at things, once, from her side,” he broke out. “Think what it means to her to see you realizing, from a few hundred dollars you could easily spare, this big fortune. I know you've been generous, but after all, of what benefit to her is a bequest in your will, when now she has absolutely nothing but that hole in the Columbia desert? Face it, be reasonable; you always have been in every way but this. I don't see how you can be so hard, knowing her now as you do.”
Tisdale turned to the window. “I have not been as hard as you think,” he said. “But it was necessary, in order to carry out Weatherbee's plans, to— do as I did.”
“That's the trouble.” Foster rose from his chair and went a few steps nearer Tisdale. “You are the sanest man in the world in every way but one. But you can't think straight when it comes to Weatherbee. There is where the north got its hold on you. Can't you see it? Look at it through my eyes, or any one's. You did for David Weatherbee what one man in a thousand might have done. And you've interested Lucky Banks in that reclamation project; you've gone on yourself with his developments at the Aurora. But there's one thing you've lost sight of—justice to Beatriz Weatherbee. You've done your best for him, but he is dead. Hollis, old man, I tell you he is dead. And she is living. You have sent her, the proudest, sweetest woman on God's earth, to brave out her life in that sage-brush wilderness. Can't you see you owe something to her?”
The Rim of the Desert Page 35
