“Railroads? I thought the man was into shipping.”
“The shipping company is coming along fine. Railroads have always been his passion though. He really built his steamship company to better serve the railroad. He worked for a freight-forwarding company until ’66 then formed his own transportation and warehouse agency on property leased from the Saint Paul and Pacific Railroad. That was the beginning of it all. Since his firm was especially designed for easy transfer of cargo from steamboats to railroad cars, it was immediately successful. John won contract after contract.”
“You admire the man,” Karl said.
“I do.” Brad paused briefly. “Just always work with John, not against him. As long as you keep that in mind, you can work well with him. Get in his way, and you’ll be run over.”
“I’ll consider it fair warning. But I doubt I’ll even meet the man. My business is bound to be complete before he returns from Canada.”
“You never know,” Brad said with an infectious smile. “John Hall cuts a wide swath. And he likes seamen. Says that a man of the seas is his kind of man. You’re a captain?”
“First mate.”
“Champing at the bit to be behind the wheel, eh?”
“Oh, I get my fair share of wheel duty. It is the idea that the ship would be mine that appeals.”
“And you have your mind set on steam.”
“I do. It is the wave of the future, is it not?”
“I think so. But the sailers …” Brad’s eyes took on a faraway look. “I’d give my eyeteeth to sail on the open seas again.”
“You captain a steamboat on the river?”
“Used to. Lately John has me working on some new business ventures.”
“A promotion?”
“In some ways. Though I prefer the wheel to a desk. I’m considering asking for a demotion.”
The two men laughed together and continued chatting amiably until they reached the docks.
Karl leaned out the window. There along the docks were five steamboats, fresh from the yard if the new paint was any indication. He glanced over at Brad, who smiled like a proud parent.
“Finest fleet on the Red River,” he said. “Come meet the men. They can’t wait to tell you all you want to know about steam.”
After the fifth full day of work down at the steamboat yard, Karl bathed at the hotel in a deep copper tub, then dressed in the ridiculously fine clothing that Brad had insisted he buy the day before. There was a ball at a business associate of Hall’s tonight, and Brad had finagled an invitation for Karl. The only stipulation, he said, was that his new friend would not embarrass him by wearing anything outdated. “We want to attract the women, Martensen,” he had said, “not repel them.”
Now Karl stood before the full-length looking glass, appreciating the tailor’s work. The fine blue wool suit had a short jacket with a waist seam, covered buttons, and what the tailor called a ticket pocket. The cuffs were shaped and very stylish. With a laugh, he picked up the walking cane that Brad had insisted he purchase and shook his head at his folly. What had become of the sailor? He looked like a citified prig.
A knock at the door distracted him, and he went to welcome Brad. His friend wore a similar suit in a rich brown. “We will have no trouble attracting the ladies in this finery,” Karl said. “But I warn you now, Brad. If I have to stay in this straitjacket for long, I’m likely to burst.”
“The dancing will help with that. You’ll be staring into some gorgeous debutante’s eyes, and you’ll think no more of your suit. But she will. It was a fine purchase, Martensen.”
“Thank you,” he said doubtfully. He followed Brad out of the room and down the hall to the small, elegant elevator with its open brass grillwork. As they rode down to the lobby, Karl marveled again at the city’s technology.
In minutes the two were safely ensconced in a warm hackney en route to the ball. They drove along Third Street, and Karl watched as they passed the myriad shops. There was the Boston One Price clothing store and R. A. Lanpher men’s furnishings, where he had purchased his suit that day. There was D. W. Ingersoll & Company and Mannheimer Brothers for dry goods, Griggs & Company for groceries, George Lamb’s smoked meats—a fitting name, Karl mused—and the tropical fruit store of L. B. Smith. Yes, Saint Paul was a nice city. The weather was fairly inclement, but after years at sea, Karl could adapt to anything. Perhaps I could live here, he thought. Perhaps this is where God would have me move. Just as soon as Ramstad Yard was up and running strong.
“That’s a fine hardware store,” Brad said, pointing as they passed Adam Decker’s. “We’ll have to get there before you leave,” he added.
Karl watched as a pharmacy, a tobacco shop, and a host of others went by before they turned the corner out of the business district of the lower town. Soon they were in a fine residential area, with homes that each took up one-quarter to one-half of a city block. The streets were lined with giant oaks and maple trees; the barren limbs would be handsome come spring. Glowing gaslights lined the street.
The hackney pulled to a stop behind a dozen other rented coaches not far from one of the mansions.
“We’re waiting in line,” Brad explained when he saw his friend’s puzzled face. “Ever attended a ball such as this?”
Karl laughed. “I am a sailor from Bergen. What do you think?”
“No matter.” Brad smiled. “I will walk you through it, old boy. Just stick with me.”
When they reached the house, a footman opened their cab door, and the men climbed out. The Gutzian mansion was gorgeous, built in an ornate, French Second Empire style. It was constructed entirely of stone and featured magnificent, tall windows. A red carpet swooped down from the front entry over marble steps. At the door was a butler. “Invitations, gentlemen?” he asked formally.
Karl searched his ticket pocket and finally fished out his invitation. Brad had already handed the man his. Behind them, a couple climbed the steps. “You may go in, gentlemen,” the butler said with a cool smile.
Once inside Karl could hear the music and laughter. They handed hats and overcoats to a steward, and Karl followed Brad up the sweeping grand staircase. He had never been in a house such as this. Even Ramstad House in Bergen or the best in Camden-by-the-Sea did not hold a candle to it. The ceiling rose twenty feet above them on the first and second floors. When they reached the third floor, Karl realized that the entire level was dedicated to the ballroom.
At the far end a small orchestra played sweeping, marvelous music. Countless stewards and maids moved among the guests, offering trays of tall crystal glasses of champagne and elaborate hors d’oeuvres. And the women … it seemed that there were hundreds of young women in elegant gowns, many of them looking his way. Perhaps his heart had not died with Elsa. Perhaps he could find a new love, a new life, here in Saint Paul.
He fingered his collar uncomfortably. It was twenty degrees warmer here than at the entry, and Karl was soon glad for the lightweight wool of his suit. Brad grabbed two glasses from a passing steward and handed one to Karl. “To tomorrow.”
“ To tonight,” Karl returned, clinking his glass.
“I know what will drive the young ladies wild,” Brad said, a glint in his eye.
Karl cocked an eyebrow. “Brad …” he warned.
“Trust me, mate.” He turned to the couple nearest to them. “Clarence! Cassandra! Let me introduce you to my most fascinating new friend. He’s a shipping baron of late, but once was a sailor who saw the world.”
In minutes they were surrounded, and Karl was passed along from one group to another. The women seemed especially interested in his stories and listened with captive expressions as he told tale after tale. Karl enjoyed himself more and more, liking this feeling of being front and center for once, not just first mate. He felt attractive and witty as the girls laughed when he chose a funny turn of phrase. And then Brad introduced him to John Hall’s daughter, Alicia.
She had listened to his last story of fighting off mal
aria and beating a storm with a limited crew when he finally caught her eye. His words slipped, and he had to concentrate to finish his sentence. For Alicia Hall was captivating. A mere wisp of a girl in height, she was all woman in form. Her hair was the color of chestnuts, and her eyes a bewitching green. Her skin was a pale ivory, and her dress was cut seductively low. He coughed and looked away, trying to regain his equilibrium, but his eyes dragged back to hers like a lead anchor to the sea’s bottom.
Alicia smiled at him, parting the crowd as if she were a foot taller and twice as wide, then took his arm. “Captain Martensen,” she said. “I insist that you take me out to the dance floor.”
He did not bother to correct her on his true title, enjoying the notoriety and the thought, for once, that he could be captain. After all, his first steamboat would soon be done. If not this year, then next. As they whirled about, Karl felt happiness, true happiness, for the first time in months. He smiled down at Alicia, who brazenly held his gaze, and wondered at his desire to stare at her for hours and memorize each nuance of her face and hair and neck.
It happened that they did, indeed, spend the next several hours together, talking, dancing, laughing. Karl found Alicia to be an intriguing combination of forwardness and aloofness, which gradually, by the end of the evening, gave way to warmth and friendliness. She was delightful. She even stood on tiptoe at the end of the night, as they walked in from the foyer and through the shadows, to give him a quick kiss.
Karl felt reborn. This was his place … a new home. He would return to Saint Paul, Minnesota just as soon as he could manage it.
Elsa sat on a stool, nervously painting on a large canvas while Fergus Long stood behind her, watching every move.
“You know, Mr. Long, it is difficult for me to do this with you watching me every second. Could you leave and come to check on me periodically?”
“Yes, yes. It is important, though, for me to watch your technique.”
Elsa turned to look at the short, squat, aged man. He had a firm look on his face, but kind eyes. “I beg your pardon,” she said contritely, feeling herself blush. “Of course you may watch if it will help you to instruct me.”
Fergus studied the canvas for a moment then took two steps back, studying her with his head cocked. “You are a fine woman, Mrs. Ramstad,” he said, ignoring her blush. “Perhaps we’re going about this all wrong. Let’s take the afternoon to get to know one another. We’ll talk while I sketch your face, and you sketch mine. Good?”
Elsa raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Faces? But I want to become adept at ships, not people.”
“It is all intertwined, my dear,” he said, handing her a sketch pad and a thick lead pencil. He took a seat five paces from her and picked up his own pad and pencil. “Now,” he said, beginning to sketch with a smile, “tell me about Bergen. Your family. Why you came to America.”
So began their friendship on that day in late January. In a matter of hours, Elsa knew a great deal about the man and liked him immensely. She learned that he was about seventy years of age, had been educated in Paris, had lived in Stockholm, London, and Hong Kong, and that he remained single. And he knew her story as well.
Long was also modest, and in contrast to most of his contemporaries, he did not moralize or construct allegories through his work. “Normally, I just do ships and coastlines, not beautiful women,” he said with a wink. They had laid aside their sketch pads, and he was showing her some of his work.
Elsa smiled and continued walking along his gallery, where painting after painting hung. His ships had an American spirit to them that appealed to her—a keen pragmatism, an inventive splendor of form. He combined scrupulous detail with a realistic edge. Most had been done in the ’50s and ’60s. Many artists had surpassed him in fame since then, but Elsa still thought him one of the best.
“There is a spiritual quality to your work that I would like to emulate,” she dared.
He looked up at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“The stillness, the nuances of light,” she said, nodding to a picture of Boston Harbor that resembled her own. “Your entire atmosphere seems ethereal. Somehow you’re able to remove yourself so that you do not come between the artwork and the audience. It’s a gift.”
Fergus guffawed. “Some would say it’s a curse.”
Elsa smiled at him knowingly. “Unable to accept a compliment even after all these years, Mr. Long?”
“As you will come to know, Mrs. Ramstad, a work is never quite right in the artist’s eye.”
Peder sat in the men’s lobby of the hotel, smoking a fine Cuban cigar and enjoying the conversation about him. He still felt like an interloper, a boy floating in men’s circles, and had to convince himself that he belonged there among them. He was, after all, president of Ramstad Yard, Camden. It was his duty to make friends among the decision makers of New York and around the world. For it was they who would make his shipping line successful.
“I tell you, Seattle lumber is some of the finest around. And they have scads of it,” said Henry Whitehall—of Whitehall Lumber Company fame—then took a sip of his Scotch whiskey. Peder glanced at the glass the man had ordered for him, which remained untouched and sweating on a cloth napkin. Whitehall was tall with black hair salted with gray and coal black eyes. His countenance was fearsome. “There’s a future there, and I mean to be a part of it.”
“You plan to take off for some forsaken corner of Northern America?” asked James Kingsley, himself an iron baron and an old friend of Whitehall’s. In contrast, he was short and stocky with a closely trimmed, gray beard. “I can just see Augusta’s face,” he added with a wink toward Peder. “No, I think you will spend the rest of your days in New York. She’s as firmly ensconced in society here as my own dear Hazel.”
“Well, if I can’t convince the old woman to take off to territory unknown, then perhaps I’ll simply invest.”
“Here, here,” said Kingsley, raising his crystal glass. An alert waiter came and filled it again after he sipped, pouring from a crystal decanter. James looked over at Peder. “Perhaps our young friend Ramstad here has the perfect entrée into the northwestern lumber market, eh? See there? He does not even imbibe. A wise man, I’d wager.” He raised his glass again in a silent salute. Peder found it ironic.
Henry pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and looked Peder over. It was the first he had looked his way since James had introduced them. After a moment he nodded a bit. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Ramstad? Where will you take your ships? To the Far East? Or would you be satisfied running lumber for my company?”
Peder drew on his cigar and slowly exhaled. He hoped he posed as dramatic a picture as he sought to portray and was not turning green from the foul tobacco. “I would be happy to supply your company with lumber,” he returned, “with a fat slice of profit for myself.”
Both men laughed at his audacity. “You’ll do fine,” Henry said, nodding with appreciation at the younger man. “And I like your spirit. Let’s talk some business, shall we? Tell me why you’re building a schooner instead of a steamboat.”
“As a matter of fact, we’re planning on building our first steamboat soon after the next schooner. My partner is in Saint Paul now, gathering more information and the last of his financing. But I’ll play straight with you, gentlemen: I am a sailing man through and through. It’s my partner, Karl Martensen, who has the passion for steam. I want to try my hand at sailing a schooner. They’re faster than clippers and wider at the bottom, perfect for hauling cargo such as lumber.”
“Will your steamboat not be more reliable? And faster?”
“At times.” Peder paused to look directly at both men. “But I prefer to trust the winds that God sends me to power my way. I have been successful so far. We’ll try our hand at a steamship, but they are temperamental and given to boiler explosions and other disasters. I much prefer nature’s way of travel—wind.”
“I admire your spirit,” said Kingsley. “I
wish I were younger. I’d like to travel with you to Washington Territory.”
“You’d be welcome,” Peder said. He hesitated. “After all, I’m considering taking my wife along on our next voyage.”
Both men looked up at him to see if he jested, then at one another. Whitehall smiled first.
“I believe I saw your wife in the lobby this morning with you,” he said. “If you will permit me, I’ll tell you that she is admirable in her carriage.”
“He means stunning,” James translated.
“Yes, well,” Henry said with a glint of humor in his eye, “I only mean to say that I can see why a man would not like to leave a young wife such as Mrs. Ramstad for long.”
“Hear, hear,” James said.
Peder smiled and nodded, enjoying the subtle confirmation of his decision. After all, captains frequently took their wives along these days. Fretting over Elsa’s safety was old-fashioned. And these last months had only further convinced him that he wanted her near, twenty-four hours a day. He exhaled and watched the fragrant smoke dissipate into the air, visualizing her amidst it.
Tora noted that Kristoffer stayed at the house later than usual after dinner, long after the boys were in bed. Outside, the wind howled and the snow swirled. She wondered if he was aggravated at having to leave the cozy little home and warm fire for the Spartan boards and makeshift bed in the mold loft each night. It mattered little, really. In a few months she would be gone, and he could once again reside in his own home. Silly conventions, she thought. They had not even kissed, and yet society demanded they sleep in separate buildings.
The fire cracked and popped noisily, and she looked up from her book, a novel by an American upstart named Twain. She liked the writer’s spirit. But thoughts of the author left her as she glanced at Kristoffer and found him staring intently at her. “What?” she asked nervously.
He looked uncommonly handsome in the flickering light of the fire, and Tora understood that tiny seeds of love might be sprouting in her heart for the man. She stood and nervously bid him good night, moving as fast as she could, given her advanced pregnancy.
Northern Lights Trilogy Page 20
