Carnegie

by Peter Krass

  36. Warren, p. 137.

  37. AC to Henry C. Frick, November 31, 1897, quoted in Warren, p. 138.

  38. AC to J. G. A. Leishman, January 4, 1896, ACLOC, vol. 35.

  39. J. G. A. Leishman to AC, January 11, 1896, ACLOC, vol. 35.

  40. AC to J. G. A. Leishman, January 27, 1896, ACLOC, vol. 36.

  41. AC to J. G. A. Leishman, January 28, 1896, ACLOC, vol. 36.

  42. AC to Henry C. Frick, February 5, 1898, quoted in Warren, p. 138.

  43. Mark Hanna to AC, October 17, 1896, ACLOC, vol. 39.

  44. AC to Wayne McVeagh, October 26, 1896, ACLOC, vol. 39.

  CHAPTER 25

  A Point of Disruption and Transition

  On November 5, Election Day, McKinley won the Electoral College and took the popular vote by a larger margin than any president since Grant. The weather was fair, unseasonably warm for November, a sign of better times to come, Carnegie hoped; but during the McKinley presidency Carnegie would reevaluate his priorities as there were significant changes in his personal life and the country went to war. While dealing with personal and political disruptions, he would also have to conduct his own war in business as new powers arose to challenge him. At least for now, he could rejoice that the Republicans were back in power and order in his political world was restored.

  During the last Republican administration under Harrison, Carnegie had enjoyed a favorable status, especially with his friend James Blaine serving as secretary of state. By contrast, during Cleveland’s term, he had suffered a series of attacks from Navy Secretary Abner Herbert, Attorney General Richard Olney, and sundry congressmen. Now it was time to take immediate advantage of McKinley to protect his company’s flank, and it was Frick who proposed the most opportunistic idea. Knowing the company’s attorney, Philander Knox, and McKinley were friendly, Frick thought Knox might just have a chance at being appointed McKinley’s attorney general. How better to protect the company’s interests than by having the country’s top legal eagle in the bag, so, on December 16, Frick submitted the idea to Carnegie: “Am satisfied you could secure the selection of Mr. Knox for this position, as I know the President-Elect would do almost anything you asked.”1

  Considering Carnegie’s financial support of McKinley, Frick’s observation was quite correct. The next day, Carnegie wrote McKinley, opening with a humble apology:

  If there was one thing which I had resolved upon, it was that you should never be troubled by me about appointments. I pity you too much. . . . I cannot refuse, however, to comply with Mr. Frick’s request to say a word about Mr. Knox, who ranks with me as the best lawyer I have ever had for our interests, a veritable “little giant,” and one of your real friends from the start.

  However, in calling men into your “official family,” I think you entitled to consider their “Congeniality” to yourself, as the Father of the family. Should you like to adopt Mr. Knox as one of your “happy family”—which I hope is to be—I for one will rejoice.2

  There was no hesitation on McKinley’s part to appoint Knox, who would indeed protect big business.

  The planets had aligned with the moon, and the goddess Fate blessed Carnegie with good fortune and cleansed his conscience of doubt. The most incredible piece of evidence that Carnegie was a chosen one lay inside his wife. Louise was showing—she was pregnant! Shortly after their romantic stay in Venice, somewhere in the Tirol, perhaps, the sixty-year-old Carnegie’s seed had taken. What had been accepted as impossible had happened. Louise would be turning forty in March 1897, the month their baby was due; and while that was old for a first birth, this was no time to worry about physical limitations, this was a time to celebrate. But then the harsh winter weather, compounded by business concerns and the excitement of impending fatherhood, took its toll on Carnegie.

  In late February, he fell ill with pleurisy, stricken with a fever, a cough, and labored breathing. With the baby due in March, a trip to Florida to regain his health was out of the question, so Louise, Stella, and he went to Lucy Carnegie’s home in Greenwich, Connecticut, to escape New York City’s smog, thick with winter stoves burning. As the time neared for the birth, Louise returned to the Fifty-first Street mansion to be attended to by the best doctors, while Carnegie remained in Greenwich, under Stella’s care.

  On March 30, Louise gave birth to a daughter, named Margaret in honor of Carnegie’s mother. The next day the New York Daily Tribune announced: “Andrew Carnegie had double cause for rejoicing to-day. He received news of the birth of a daughter in New York, where Mrs. Carnegie went several days ago, and he was also able to be out of doors to-day for the first time since his attack of pleurisy developed about five weeks ago.”3 Within days of the child being born, Carnegie took the train into New York and a coach to the Fifty-first Street mansion to visit with his little miracle. The strain of the journey and the excitement of seeing Louise and Margaret left him pale and shaken—hardly the man who had recently declared unbridled war on the competition. He didn’t stay in New York long.

  Immediately after returning to Greenwich, he wrote Louise a letter, reassuring her that he was becoming stronger. In it he expressed his amazement with their daughter: “Now since I have seen you and the Little Saint I seem always with you. Before this all was glamour—like a dream. Now as real as ever. Margaret a little ‘uncanny’ yet—fresh from heaven and not just earthly like ourselves. . . . I do so much wish to be well to welcome you. Only six days more after this. Hurrah! A kiss for Margaret and twenty for her mother. Ever, darling, your own Andrew.” The six days were too long in passing, and Carnegie wrote again, “Oh Lou, may this be our last separation. I hope many, many long years together are to be ours with the little Darling closer and closer to us. Ever your own, A.C.”4 When witnessing Carnegie in loving repose, it was difficult to reconcile the gentle family man with the fierce businessman. It simply wasn’t possible. Behind each mask was a distinctive personality.

  Now that they had a child, Louise wanted more stability in their lives, especially during the summer season in Scotland. She wanted a place to make home—their own home, not a leased property where they were at the whim of the owner, such as MacPherson, who owned Cluny. He was to marry and would most likely take back his ancestral home. The subject of buying their own Highlands estate had been broached, but now it took on more weight. Louise also wanted her husband to reconsider his priorities, and, to prompt a reevaluation, she elicited Stella’s help: “Please tell Andrew the most patriotic duty we can perform to our country—better than making armor plate—is the taking care of our wee Margaret so that she in turn may grow up a strong healthy woman and become the mother of men . . . therefore please urge him to take good care of his health, not only for our sakes, but for our country.”5 Apparently, Carnegie was more likely to listen to the earnest younger sister than the nagging wife.

  And so, the birth of Margaret initiated a transitional phase in Carnegie’s life. He had to think more of the family and how his actions might affect his child’s life, an added and weighty responsibility. And now he had to learn to share Louise’s affections with Margaret, and how to divide his attention between the two of them. Many doubts flashed through his mind. How would fatherhood affect him? How would it affect his leadership of Carnegie Steel?

  The ocean crossing that June did not have the usual soothing effect on Carnegie’s nerves, as the presence of Margaret, not yet three months old, added a certain tension. The crying, the nursing, the cloth diapers were completely foreign to the titan. And then there was the prospect of losing Cluny. As the Carnegies coached through the wild mountain land of the Grampian Hills and passed into Spey Valley, their eyes searching for the white granite turrets, they feared it would be their last journey to this raw paradise. Once settled in Cluny, Carnegie, determined to make Louise happy, approached MacPher-son about purchasing the castle, but MacPherson was equally determined to return with his bride to his ancestral home and would not sell. The search for a new summer home commenced at once.

/>   Carnegie had three criteria: a view of the sea, a trout stream, and a waterfall. To fulfill his quest, he enlisted the help of Hew Morrison, the resourceful librarian at Edinburgh Library, who was well acquainted with the historic homes of Scotland. The first estate that came to Morrison’s mind was Skibo, a Highland castle on the east coast overlooking the Dornoch Firth, and he brought maps, plans, and the deed to Skibo for Carnegie’s review. Because the castle itself was too small, had fallen into disrepair, and there was no waterfall, Carnegie dismissed Skibo. The duke of Sutherland had several magnificent estates that sounded promising, however, and a two-week coaching trip was organized to investigate the prospective properties and visit friends. Louise and baby Margaret did not join the charioteers.

  While Carnegie was traipsing across the countryside in search of a castle to conquer like one of King Arthur’s knights (or, perhaps, Don Quixote), a lonely Louise anxiously wrote her husband: “We now want to take root. We haven’t time to make mistakes; as many playthings and play places as you like and yachts galore, but a home first please, where we can have the greatest measure of health. . . .”6 Health, especially that of her aging husband, was of a foremost concern now that they had a baby. Meanwhile none of the Sutherland’s estates proved worthy; they were too far inland, and Carnegie wanted access to the sea.

  The coaching trip now brought them to Bonar Bridge, on the coast of the North Sea and within eight miles of Skibo Castle. Again, Morrison suggested they look at the estate. Carnegie relented, but refusing to further inconvenience his fellow charioteers in what had turned into a wild goose chase, he insisted they go alone. Morrison and he rented a wagonette and driver at Bonar Bridge and set out for Skibo along a winding coastal road that passed through picturesque hamlets and deep woods of bracken, oak, birch, and larch. The beauty did not escape Carnegie as they approached the Dornoch Firth, where the air was strangely mild and embracing, like the northern Riviera. The prevailing winds and sea gave the area its own unique climate zone, Morrison explained; the place was still lush in mid-October, and in some years the rhododendrons bloomed in January. Carnegie began to sense that he was entering a romantic and magical realm, rich with history. In fact, Skibo was the simplification of the name originally given the castle in the year 1225, Schytherbolle, which, depending one whether one was Norse, Celtic, or Gaelic, was loosely translated as either a place of peace or a fairyland.

  The wagonette turned onto an unpretentious, narrow avenue that opened into the castle’s main drive, lined with ancient beech trees and yews. They came to a halt in a circular drive before the white sandstone castle. Although abandoned, Skibo was impressive in its Scottish baronial style, with ornate bay windows and third-story cupolas, gabled roofs, and a circular turret. As they walked the stone terrace, covered with lichen, Carnegie had a commanding view of the countryside: the sparkling firth, the blue hills, the rocky streams, the woodland, and the pasture. It was not the rugged yet enchanting terrain of Cluny; it was a magnificent, bucolic panorama. The castle’s parklike grounds encompassed twenty-two thousand acres, about four thousand under cultivation. There was plenty of wild game; the region was renowned for delicious grouse and herds of roe deer. The fishing was excellent, too, for both salmon and trout, and the firth, shining silver beneath the hills, was ideal for a yacht. But there was no waterfall. That can be built, Morrison suggested slyly.

  When the two men entered through Skibo’s main doors, they stepped into a great hall with a sweeping, circular staircase that a king and his queen might descend with great pomp and circumstance to greet their guests. The musty smell of the wood, the stone fireplaces, the long cast of sunlight through tall windows and still air stirred Carnegie’s imagination. History was alive here. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Skibo had been home to the bishops of Dornoch Cathedral, four miles distant. It then became a clan fortress and passed through a number of owners and families who couldn’t seem to keep it due to death or bankruptcy. In 1882, Ewen C. Sutherland-Walker purchased the castle, then enlarged and renovated it. He had to borrow heavily; thirteen years later, he was forced to declare bankruptcy and was expelled from the premises. There was an evil spell on the castle, according to the locals, who pointed to the fact that for the last 150 years, no family had possessed the lands for more than one generation. Regardless, the rich history enraptured Carnegie. He was enchanted. He had found his heaven on earth, as he would lovingly refer to Skibo.

  When Carnegie returned to Cluny, he overwhelmed Louise with his enthusiasm as he described Skibo, the grounds, its location. It was four miles from the parish of Dornoch, which had its own castle, as well as an eleventh-century cathedral and a renowned golf course, second in reputation only to St. Andrews. And ten miles away lay Macbeth’s castle—Macbeth—Shakespeare—all signs. She had seen this semicrazed look and behavior before, impetuous and headstrong; and, like his business partners, she reigned him in. A deep breath was needed, as the cautious Harry Phipps would say. They discussed the fact that Louise had not seen Skibo, nor would she that summer, and agreed it would be better to lease the estate for 1898 with an option to buy.

  Carnegie had wearied of the business merry-go-round—tariffs, mill renovations, wages, and bickering over dividends—and he made it known he was considering selling out. The closest he would come to it that summer was a rumor circulating through the papers in July, a yarn about the Russian government being interested in buying his steelworks. With Carnegie and Frick overseas, the story couldn’t be confirmed, but it wasn’t bloody likely the Star-Spangled Scotchman would sell out to Russians. One Cluny guest that summer, Charles Flint, who had made a fortune in South American trade, noticed that the only time his host turned dour was in dealing with “that base and common drudge ’twixt man and man”—business. Such was the case when Schwab proposed major additions to Homestead and renovations to Duquesne. After reviewing the proposals, Carnegie cabled “No.” Schwab cabled back, “I’ll guarantee it’ll be a success.” With a twist of humor, Carnegie replied, “Who guarantees the guarantor?”7

  Schwab convinced the rest of the board to approve his proposal, anyway, forcing Carnegie to respond with a stinging “Notes on the Minutes,” in which he questioned how such a large project could be passed unanimously.8 Disappointed that Schwab had not provided a detailed analysis to justify the work, Carnegie blasted him in a blunt letter: “Show us why the blooming mill at Homestead is one of the best expenditures we could possible make. You must have arrived at this opinion from some data. You have not founded it upon nothing. Why do you keep this data from your Board and partners?”9 He had no tolerance for slapdash proposals and, clearly, fatherhood had not mellowed him. Quick to appease his master, Schwab wrote two lengthy letters full of data. “You are a hustler!” a satisfied Carnegie fired back, but he also realized he would have to closely monitor Schwab’s activities.10

  In late August, Carnegie and Louise, along with a party of friends, went yachting among the striking Hebrides, a group of five hundred islands off the west coast of Scotland. (Only now, with Margaret almost six months old, was Louise willing to leave her with Aunt Stella and a nanny.) It was a last summer hurrah, a weaning from Cluny. But the dramatically carved islands did little to assuage their melancholy over leaving the Spey Valley. Perhaps it was mere coincidence, but on the eve of departing Cluny, Carnegie again became quite ill. The family went straight to London to consult with the best doctors, who advised them not to return to New York, where, during the harsh winter, he would be susceptible to pneumonia, putting his life in danger. Instead, they rented the Villa Allerton in Cannes for the winter. Poor health was beginning to nag at Carnegie.

  In hopes of restoring his robustness, Carnegie inhaled the Mediterranean air, his elixir, during walks on the beach and through the town, which entertained an old section with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century churches. Venerable William Gladstone was there, too, that winter, hoping the Mediterranean might give his eighty-eight-year-old body another breath. (Gla
dstone would die of cancer of the palate on May 19, 1898, and would be buried in Westminster Abbey.) There was an enclave of British dignitaries in Cannes with whom the Carnegies socialized and with whom Carnegie debated the day’s issues. In particular, they were concerned with the American jingoists ranting for war with Spain.

  For several years, Cuban nationalists had been engaged in a bloody insurrection against their Spanish occupiers, who had oppressed them for some five centuries. Due to war-hungry William Randolph Hearst and his fellow yellow journalists’ vivid stories, a wave of passion supporting the Cubans now swept the United States. As for the less sentimental expansionists, including Assistant Secretary of the Navy Teddy Roosevelt, who carried a smoking Manifest Destiny, Cuba was ripe for the taking to strengthen the U.S. presence in the Caribbean. Then came the eruption of violence. On the evening of February 15, 1898, an explosion rocked the American battleship Maine in Havana harbor, where it was stationed on a courtesy visit to protect Americans. The forward section was shattered and quickly sank into the mud. Of the 354 men on board, 266 were killed. Hearst’s New York Journal headlines blared: DESTRUCTION OF THE MAINE BY FOUL PLAY.11 A black, calamitous mood gripped Washington as debate immediately erupted over what had caused the explosion—accident or treachery? Secretary of the Navy Long believed it to be an accident; whereas Roosevelt, who supported the accident theory publicly, raged for war in private. McKinley resisted the war fever initially, but the irresistible slogan To Hell with Spain! Remember the Maine! would wear down his convictions.

  Cables reached Carnegie on February 16, announcing the Maine’s sinking, and later in the day, while holding court with his companions—“distin-guished men of European nations”—he relayed how his company had bid to provide the armor for the Maine years earlier. The old men deliberated over the circumstances of the explosion and who would win if war were declared. “The opinion was universally held by them that for a time the Spanish Navy would be master over us,” Carnegie recalled, “although it was admitted the superior resources of the United States must eventually ensure victory.”12 For his part, the ever-fervent Republican boasted that America’s ships were more modern, better armed, and manned by superior men, and would send the Spanish war ships to a watery grave. February came to an end and March passed, and still there was no declaration of war from McKinley.