North and South: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “I am aware of the South’s increasing isolation in commerce and politics,” Brunel said with a bob of his head. “Anti-slavery societies are quite active in this country, you know. Well, if you are serious, I’ll show you my drawings and specifications, share as much information as I can. I suppose I needn’t tell you that many find my design suspect. My babe is the first ship in history to be built without ribs. They say she’ll hog, arch up in the center, break apart—”

  “I’ll take your opinion rather than those of your critics.”

  The engineer smiled. He seemed to lose some of his own negative feelings as he described the great four-cylinder screw engines he had subcontracted to James Watt’s company. “Then there’s the paddle shaft. Forty tons. The single largest forging ever attempted by man—”

  He talked with mounting enthusiasm as they walked on through the drizzle. Flocks of crows were perching on the deserted souvenir stalls. A section of canvas flapped. Shipyard workers on scaffolds hailed Brunel, but he missed most of the greetings; he was speaking too rapidly. So rapidly that Cooper could barely keep up with the writing of notes.

  Cooper took his family out to a plain little churchyard in Beaconsfield. The children didn’t understand why he stood silent, with his head bowed, at the grave of a man named Burke. But even four-year-old Marie-Louise dimly grasped that the place meant something special to her father.

  The children were much more interested in the Thames River tunnel, the monumental nineteen-year project Brunel had finished after the death of his father, who had done the original engineering work. Brunel had already shown the Mains a model of his Great Shield, a huge, compartmentalized iron work-face in which thirty-six laborers had stood with pick and hammer removing the soil of the riverbed a little at a time.

  The family entered the pedestrian tunnel from the Wapping side of the river. It was a cool, eerie place, and Judith was somewhat put off by the sight of so many derelicts sitting or sleeping against the walls. But Cooper, with Marie-Louise held in his left arm and Judah hanging onto his right hand, saw only the grandeur of the concept. His eyes shone.

  “If free men can do this, why on earth does anyone keep slaves?”

  The whisper brought a shiver to Judith’s spine. Cooper looked as if he had glimpsed the face of God. She slipped her hand around his right arm and squeezed, loving him more than she ever had.

  Next day, Cooper and Brunel planned to go over rough cost estimates for Leviathan. Without warning, Cooper postponed the appointment and went chasing off in a new direction, on behalf of George Hazard.

  What started the chase was a four-word headline in the Mail.

  The issue was weeks old. It had been picked up from a railway-station bench and used to wrap the cores of some apples the children had eaten on the return trip from Beaconsfield. Cooper found the remains of the apples and the paper on a table in the foyer of their hotel suite. He was about to toss everything away when a headline caught his eye:

  BESSEMER SEEKS AMERICAN PATENT.

  A student of inventors and inventions, Cooper recognized the name at once. Henry Bessemer was a successful inventor best known for developing a method to put the proper spin on projectiles fired from a smoothbore gun. He had done the work during the Crimean War, with the aid and encouragement of Emperor Napoleon III of France.

  What was he attempting to patent in America? Two short paragraphs supplied the answer. “Good Lord, fancy that!” Cooper exclaimed. He was already beginning to sound somewhat British.

  Judith appeared from the parlor. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Quite the contrary. Have a look. Chap named Bessemer claims to have invented a fast way to convert pig iron to steel. He’s going after an American patent. I wonder if George knows. I must look into this for him.”

  And so he did, canceling his appointment in order to do it. Most of his investigation consisted of searching through old newspapers. He also sent several notes to Bessemer requesting an interview. The inventor never answered.

  “Not surprising,” Brunel told him several days later. “Bessemer claims he was pressured into revealing the existence of his process too soon.”

  “How did he reveal it?”

  “He read a long wheeze of a paper before the Association for the Advancement of Science. The Times reprinted it in toto.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime in August, I recall.”

  “I didn’t look back quite that far.”

  Cooper wrote another note to the inventor; Brunel wrote as well. That turned the trick, but Bessemer’s reply said Cooper could have no more than ten minutes of his time.

  Brunel’s genius lay in conceptual thinking, ideas that could not be patented and that he was glad to share. Henry Bessemer’s inventions were different, each a specific device or process and hence to be protected—or stolen. Cooper found Bessemer a suspicious, defensive man.

  “The announcement was premature. It brought down a wild pack of wolves. They’re fighting with me and among themselves for a share of my discovery. The steelmakers of Sheffield are deriding me, as of course they must. It currently takes them a fortnight to obtain a small crucible of cast steel from pig iron. If I can make five tons of steel in a half hour, they’re finished.”

  “What can you tell me about your process, Mr. Bessemer?”

  “Nothing. I have said all I am going to say to the public or to you. Good day, Mr. Main.”

  Cooper already knew one reason for Bessemer’s hostility. There were problems with his process. Again digging through old newspapers, Cooper located the Times article and learned more about the nature of the controversy surrounding the inventor. He copied out everything that might interest his friend in Lehigh Station.

  Bessemer had been led to his discovery while working with Napoleon III’s armaments expert, Minié, on the problem of projectile spin. An intensely curious man, he had been drawn into other aspects of ordnance, including a study of possible substitutes for the fragile cast iron currently used to make cannon. What resulted from this line of inquiry was Bessemer’s process to manufacture quality steel in quantity and the necessary machinery—an egg-shaped converter, a hydraulic apparatus for operating it from a safe distance, and what he called his blowing engine for sending an oxygen-rich blast of air over the pig iron.

  In theory the process was astoundingly simple. But that was the case with many revolutionary inventions. One month after making his sensational revelations, Bessemer was licensing his process to various firms for thousands of pounds. A month later the press was branding him a charlatan. “A brilliant meteor which flitted across the metallurgical horizon, only to vanish in total darkness.”

  By the time Cooper arrived in England, the public furor had died down. Bessemer still had faith in his process and was pursuing his American patent, but English ironmasters were after his head. Those who had paid to use his process declared it a failure and a hoax. The steel was unsatisfactory. Frantic to find the reason, Bessemer was now committed to nonstop laboratory work. The reason for the failure seemed to lie in the high phosphorus content of all the ore mined in Britain. Unwittingly, the inventor had used Swedish ore in his experiments, an ore virtually free of phosphorus.

  Brunel told Cooper that even this discovery did not solve Bessemer’s problem. However, there were persistent reports that an anonymous steelmaker from Wales had found a way to make the process work and was planning to patent his own method. No wonder Bessemer felt threatened and angry. He had rocketed to prominence, then fallen, all within three months.

  Still, Cooper was impressed with the man and believed that he was onto something. What persuaded Cooper were the frequent public statements of the Sheffield manufacturers—they continued to denounce Bessemer and the theoretical base of his process. Anytime an idea was opposed that vehemently, there was usually something to it.

  He continued to clip old papers, building up a thick file and supplementing it with his own notes. He intended to take the file to George th
e moment he was back in America.

  “After all,” he said to Judith as they traveled to Southampton for the voyage home, “if I’m going to ask him for a couple of millions to build my ship, I’d better do him a favor first.”

  42

  “WHAT’S THE NAME OF this mysterious fellow who is Bessemer’s savior?” Stanley Hazard asked.

  The question carried not only skepticism but a sneer. To be sure, the sneer was faint—this was, presumably, an occasion governed by politeness—but it was there. Cooper despised Stanley’s narrow mind almost as much as he despised his smug face, whose resemblance to an overflowing bowl of gruel grew more pronounced every year.

  Recalling the larger purpose of his visit helped Cooper curb his anger. “I don’t know, Stanley. His finery is in Wales, but beyond that, nothing is said.” He pushed the thick file across the table. “All I could learn is in here.”

  Suddenly he pressed his hand to his lips and coughed. George was excited by Cooper’s news. He showed it by smoking faster than usual, quick, nervous puffs of the cigar clenched in his teeth. When Cooper’s fit of coughing continued, George waved his hand through the layers of blue smoke, stirring and dispersing them a little.

  “Sorry, Cooper.” He strode to the window and raised it. Cool night air flowed into the small private dining room of the hotel.

  In New York, Cooper had put Judith and the children on a steamer to Charleston, then come straight on to Lehigh Station. He had arrived in the middle of the night and secured a room at the Station House. The hotel was located a block from the depot. It had been built soon after the railroad came through. It was small, but modern in every respect. Each guest room had a bathtub in a smaller room adjoining, and the entire place was lit by gas mantles.

  After a good breakfast, Cooper had sent a note up the hill, informing George of his arrival and inviting him to bring his brother to supper that evening. Cooper really didn’t want to present his ship design to Stanley, but felt he must. George was in charge of all direct spending by Hazard Iron, but the ship would be a different sort of expense, an investment, and one so large George probably wouldn’t dare authorize it without consulting his brother. Better to have Stanley on their side than working against them.

  George was still riffling through the notes and press clippings. “You know, this sounds remarkably like Kelly’s process.”

  Cooper forked a last morsel of rabbit pie from the deep dish in front of him. “Who’s Kelly?”

  George told him about the Kentucky ironmaker. “But if Bessemer has already applied for an American patent—”

  “Did I forget to tell you?” Cooper interrupted. “He got it before I left London.”

  “Then Kelly may be out of luck. In any case”—George’s cigar had gone out; he struck a match and puffed—“I’m going to book passage at once. I can send Constance off to see the French cathedrals while I look into this.”

  Stanley began, “I think you’re a fool to risk—”

  “Risk what? My time? The price of a trip? Good Lord, Stanley, unless you want to stand still in business, risk is inevitable. Why can’t you ever understand that? Suppose Hazard’s could obtain an American license for Bessemer’s process. Think of all we’d stand to gain by being first in the market.”

  “Gain—or lose,” Stanley countered. “Is it not a fact that this process is still producing steel of unacceptable quality?”

  Unexpectedly infuriated, George pounded the table. “What difference does it make to you, goddamn it? I’ll pay for the whole trip out of personal funds.”

  Stanley leaned back and smiled. “Yes, I would be much happier if you did that.”

  George pressed his lips together, drew a long breath, then addressed the visitor. “I’d like to see Bessemer personally. Perhaps he’ll be less suspicious of me since I’m in the iron trade.”

  A thin smile from Cooper. “Not likely. Practically the whole of the British metal working industry is laughing at him.”

  “What do you suppose they know that we don’t?” Stanley asked with a sigh. He stood up.

  George drew the cigar from his mouth and peered at his brother through a squiggle of smoke. “Stanley, I know it’s been years since you practiced good manners, but try to remember how you behaved before you took up with politicians. Cooper did us a great favor by coming here. We owe him the courtesy of listening to whatever he cares to say. There was something else, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes,” Cooper said. Disgusted, Stanley sat down.

  With a sinking feeling, Cooper reached for his valise. He hated to present his drawing of the Star of Carolina in this atmosphere of skepticism and hostility.

  He moved dishes and silver, then unrolled the drawing, which by now had become smudged and dog-eared. Slowly, earnestly, he began to speak. He started with the specifics of his design. He enthusiastically described the great steamer’s capacity and cargo flexibility. Finally he revealed his plan to build the vessel in Charleston. He concluded by saying:

  “Our family has capital to put into the project, but not enough for a venture of this magnitude. If the Hazards came in as partners, we could proceed, and I think both families would stand an excellent chance of making a profit. Perhaps a very large one.”

  Stanley’s quizzical eyes skimmed the drawing again. “What do the banks say about this?”

  “I haven’t approached any banks. I wanted to give you first chance.” To George: “Of course there are risks—”

  Stanley snickered and under his breath said something snide. George heard the word understatement. He shot his brother a dark look. Stanley sat back with folded arms and half-lidded eyes.

  George said: “You’ve already explained those. More than adequately, in my opinion. But I’m not qualified to evaluate this sort of proposal. I know nothing about ship construction.”

  “All I know is what I’ve learned from personal study,” Cooper responded. “I intend to bring the best New England shipwrights and naval architects to Charleston—”

  He talked for another ten minutes. He might have saved his breath. Arms still folded, Stanley announced:

  “I’m opposed, I wouldn’t put a half-dime into it.”

  Cooper’s face fell. George toyed with the corner of the drawing. Then he sat up, squared his shoulders, and said to the visitor:

  “How much do you need?”

  “To start? Something around two million.”

  The older brother snorted and got to his feet again. George glared. “For Christ’s sake, shut up, Stanley. I’m sorry I invited you. This will be my money. I’ll mortgage my assets or, if I can’t, liquidate them. No one will trifle with your precious income.”

  Stanley was taken aback. “Where did you get assets worth two million?”

  “I’m not sure they are, quite. I’ll have to ask the bankers. But I have plenty of money you don’t know about. I made it while you were busy ingratiating yourself with Boss Cameron. Each to his own,” he finished with a shrug that sent Stanley back to his chair, speechless with humiliation.

  George extended his hand to Cooper. “We’re partners, then. At least we’ll explore the feasibility of a partnership. It will take me a week or so to learn whether I can in fact raise the money.”

  “You’re reckless,” Stanley exploded. “You’ve always been reckless.” He leaned toward Cooper. “Just how many years will it take to design and launch this great vessel of yours? Five? Ten?”

  “Three. She can be in service by 1860.”

  “Fine,” Stanley sneered. “Then you can make it the flagship of the navy of your new Southern nation. The one all those traitors in your state keep prophesying.”

  He reached for his hat, stick, and overcoat. George said, “His friend Cameron is flirting with Republicanism. Stanley’s trying on the party rhetoric for size.”

  This drew another hateful look from Stanley. He pointed his stick at the drawing. “That thing is a joke. You’ll all come to ruin, mark my word.”

  He m
arched out. George sighed. “He didn’t even thank you for supper. If he weren’t my brother, I’d wring his neck.”

  Cooper grinned, holding up the rolled drawing.

  “Never mind. We’re launched without him.”

  Within two weeks, George pledged one million nine hundred thousand dollars of capital to build the Star of Carolina.

  A draft for fifty thousand, matched by a similar amount from the Mains, would pay for the initial steps. These included a survey and plan of the James Island acreage, clearing of the land, and a deposit in an escrow account representing three years’ salary for a man Cooper had traveled north to steal from the Black Diamond firm. The man’s name was Levitt Van Roon; he was one of the country’s top naval architects. Cooper soon had Van Roon moved to Charleston with his family. He then sent Van Roon to England to visit the Millwall Yard and confer with Brunel.

  Articles incorporating the Carolina Marine Company had to be prepared, along with the partnership agreement between the Mains and George Hazard. For this work Cooper went to Ashton’s husband; Huntoon was expensive but expert. Cooper approved the twenty seven-page partnership document and gave it to Orry, who forwarded it to George.

  Several weeks later Orry said to his brother: “George tore up the agreement.”

  “Oh, Lord. Is he pulling out?”

  “No, nothing like that. He doesn’t think a contract’s necessary. He said the two of you shook hands.”

  “And on that basis he’ll trust me with nearly two million dollars?”

  Orry nodded, amused by his brother’s reaction. For his part, Cooper understood more graphically than ever before why Orry had such great respect and affection for the stocky little man from Pennsylvania.

  In the spring of 1857, Billy finished his short tour at Fort Hamilton. There he had assisted the senior officer in charge of repairs on the twenty-three-gun terreplein and, additionally, undertaken a project assigned to him alone.