A heated but unidentified voice interrupted.
"You are the Boss's Boy's trainer, China. You'll be on his side."
China did not rise to the bait. He said, "You can listen and decide.
"One of you threw a bucket full of beer at the Boss's Boy. Suppose it had struck, and the Boy could not have toed the line. Would you have declared the fight a non-contest? Not in a week of Sundays."
A man shouted, "Those things happen, Smith. A fighter has to expect them."
China went on. "Suppose Boots Van Horn's head had struck one of the rope posts when he got thrown and knocked him cold. Would you have said a fighter should expect those kind of things to happen? Or would you declare the fight a non-contest?"
No one spoke up. China said, "The Boss's Boy's throw is within the rules, is it not, referee?" The referee allowed that it had been a legal throw.
"All of you examined the square. Did any of you request it be moved to a safer spot?" He looked around, "Of course you did not.
"Boots Van Horn is the fighter noted for charging wildly and slamming opponents to the ground. If anyone was going to go through the rope it would most likely have been the Boss's Boy. If he had landed among you, would any of you have kicked or punched him?"
Men snorted and vowed they would have gotten in a lick or two. China's smile was grim.
"And if it had been the Boss's Boy who had gone over the bluff would you be here now asking that the money be given back to those who laid bets?"
Smith did not wait for replies. "The Boss's Boy won with no rules broken. The money has been paid out, and that is the end of it.
"Most of you are in strange country, and there are not many of you. The local people might not take to you agitating around here, so my advice is that you mount up and ride. Load into your wagons and get gone while the mood is still good and you have daylight to see by."
There was ferocious complaining, but frenzy had gone from the moment. Boots Van Horn was brought up the bluff nursing a shoulder strained in the fall and many contusions from men falling on him.
China Smith stood in the box of the banker's wagon waiting until most of the crowd had departed. He wanted no rumors spreading that he had fled the scene or feared to face Van Horn's supporters.
A tall and powerful rider on a sturdy looking spotted-rump horse moved his animal close alongside. The rider wore leather and a rifle rode in a scabbard along his leg. Beneath a broad brimmed westerner's hat the man's eyes were coal black and matched the hair that fell to his shoulders.
He gestured to China to step closer, and his mouth smiled broadly.
"Mister Smith, many years ago, my grandfather fought a human giant not too far upriver from here. The gist of the many-times told tale is that my ancestor flipped the monster over a cliff just as your man did a half hour ago."
The horseman extended a large and powerful hand for shaking. "Whether it was planned or accidental, it was damned well done, and a pleasure to see. Congratulate the Boss's Boy for me, and when he fights again, I will be there to enjoy it."
China shook the offered hand. "Many thanks, sir. I will explain your appreciation to Matt. May I have your name, sir?"
"I am Rob Shatto from beyond Bloomfield. Mister Matt Miller, who I assume is the fighter's father, is well thought of in this county."
The man turned his horse, and China saw that the rider had a peg left foot that boasted a gold band below the knee.
A man of influence, China expected and filed the name Shatto in his mind. He stepped from the wagon, and the banker's driver hurriedly drove away.
China hustled up the hill to explain the outcome to young Matt. He figured he had better spend more than a little time making certain that the Boss's Boy did not begin to believe that he had whipped Boots Van Horn and go out seeking other professionals to throw over bluffs.
Chapter 16
The winter had been brutal. Snowfall did not break records, but deep and bitter cold arrived and hung on week in and week out. Both rivers froze so solidly that loaded wagons crossed without maneuvering around thin spots.
Traveling was miserable. Stone-hard roads with teams slipping and sliding forced injurious falls.
The Captain and Lukey Bates spent most of January in the city because returning to Perry County—only to retrace their route in a few weeks—would be painful and wasted effort. Separating the businesses was proving far more difficult than big Matt had expected, and Brascomb Miller fought it all of the way.
With Matt Miller owner of everything except Brascomb's home, the transfer should have been simple. Big Matt saw the separation as giving both he and his brother even freer hands with opportunity to increase their profit. Brascomb saw the changes as reducing his importance and perhaps his income. The Captain could not know Brascomb's secret hunger to own it all.
Without important contact with the western projects, Brascomb believed his ability to influence Miller enterprises would be greatly lessened. How could he know what was happening out there? He knew that big Matt withheld profits and used them along the rivers, and Brascomb hated even that loss of involvement.
Brascomb Miller was not an evil man who regularly wished misery on others, but the thought of how he could take charge and move the companies forward if young Matt were not there to inherit appeared often. Brascomb knew with all of his being that young Matt Miller was not the man to run important and moneymaking operations.
Big Matt could prattle all he wanted about the ideas his son came up with, but ideas did not make money. Close figuring and careful bargaining did. Young Matt was a mere youth who liked (actually liked) to fist fight, who was pathetic with the accounts, and whose mind wandered instead of sticking to the figuring and calculating. If only . . . Brascomb did not dare think further.
Young Matt watched the rivers with trepidation. He had moved a small fortune in logs behind Halderman's Island, and they were tightly secured, but when the Susquehanna rose, anything in the river's way was likely to end up in Chesapeake Bay. In full flood, entire islands and every log in the river could disappear downstream.
As the winter wore on and expected melting did not appear, Matt measured the snowfall accumulations and judged that the approaching spring thaw might reach flood records. His logs should be moved to high ground, but the time and effort involved would be considerable. The Boss was again in Philadelphia, and Matt believed he should not wait for his father's approval.
Matt needed ox teams that could pull heavy logs from their frozen berths and drag them across the river ice into storage near the sawmill high above possible flooding. The oxen would have to come from nearby farms.
Most local farmers were German, and Matt had discovered that the Germans were as clannish as the Scots, the Scotch-Irish or the Irish. They trusted their own and looked with suspicion on all others. A stubborn German made a mule seem cooperative. When he bargained with the German farmers, the Boss's Boy met stolid resistance. Matt turned to the Baron.
There was information to be gleaned from the men tearing crop-yielding fields from virgin forests. In many times fought-over Germany, no such land existed—nor were there small landowners who owed nothing to governments or influential noblemen.
Such independent men interested the Baron. Deiter Haas believed he could enjoy meeting with local farmers. Haas spoke their language. He had the noble bearing and background that many German's respected, and he could summon comforting and interesting details of conditions and happenings in their distant homeland
Haas would speak for young Matt. The Baron would strike the best deals and might gain agreements that Matt Miller could only hope for.
Von Haas made a single request. He asked that Wilhelm Brado accompany him.
The Baron said, "I will return to Germany, perhaps this summer, Matt. I have already been away too long." Von Haas smiled a bit grimly. "I have relatives with hungry eyes, and they wonder if I will ever return or if I am really alive and writing the letters they receive." The Baron's teeth flashed, "It is time
I returned to count my cattle and weigh my coffers.
"Young Brado will stay here and, in time, his language skills could be valuable to you. Now, we see a boy little more than a child, but before we grow much older, Wilhelm Brado will become a man, and you and your father should bind him to your company.
"I can begin Brado's introductions to the local farmers. The men will like Wilhelm, he will soften them, and the women will wish to mother him. He—and you—can build on those acquaintances until the farmers lose their ingrained suspicions and think of the Millers as trustworthy friends."
Matt could see the sense of it, and Wilhelm Brado, who was already filling out into normal appearance, went forth with the Baron to meet Germans.
Bargaining could become close, but the Boss's Boy's ambassadors had some things going for them. Draft animals stood idle in the winter months and turned little or no profit for their owners. Something coming in would have great appeal to farmers who struggled to more than feed their families.
The Millers paid in gold and silver, not in county scrip or through barter—unless a farmer requested boards or coal. The Boss's Boy wanted the ox teams cheap, and he wanted to gain the farmers' goodwill. Cash payment would speak loudly.
Young Matt had other plans not yet mentioned. Local farmers were forced to sell most of their produce in Harrisburg, which was not yet a large market. Downriver markets might prove better, and if the Miller Company provided a canal and river boat that would transport their produce of corn, wheat, or whiskey directly to Baltimore or perhaps to the Columbia railhead for sale in Philadelphia, everyone might find legitimate profit.
Over the winter, the Miller Company would become friendly with the Germans, and during the harvest, further mutual profit might appear.
With the departure to the west of many of the Irish and Scotch-Irish workers, one Miller hotel was unused, and a second was half-empty. Both were conditions the Millers abhorred. To young Matt's satisfaction, Germans again provided a solution.
As the winter bore down with exceptional cold, a delegation of Germans came to the Miller office. They were five in number, and Matt found their faces, if not their names, familiar. Invited in, the workers shuffled and twisted, apparently discomfited by the Miller Company's power and position.
Matt exchanged ritual handshakes, introductions, and short, almost military bows. He found the nervous workmen seats, offered a warm drink, and prepared to listen. Matt had called Wilhelm Brado from the attached quarters where they had their cots. Brado could provide interpretation of the often-polyglot language the workers employed. An uneasy spokesman began, and his English, to Matt's satisfaction, was reasonably clear.
The Germans came with proposals. The spokesman noted that the German workers living along the Little Buffalo Creek numbered seventeen. Three had wives and children. Two had families en route from Baltimore. With many of the Irish workers moving on, the German workers almost equaled the Irish Miller Men in numbers.
The Germans, Matt was informed, also considered themselves Miller Men. For more than two full years they had worked for no one else, and they believed they had demonstrated their worth and their loyalty.
The spokesman pointed out that living conditions were increasingly abysmal along the creek. In anticipation of moving on, the Germans had not built permanently, but they liked Perry County with its dominant German population, and they liked the steady work provided by the Millers—even if they did not always receive the Irishmen's wage of seventy cents a day.
That explanation out of the way, the crux of their visit was quickly described. The German workers wished to be considered Miller Men—to move into the empty hotel with the advantages of deferred rent until spring labor began and preferential hiring when work became available.
Matt had made up his mind almost before the request was presented, but he took his time, plucking at an upper lip, and appearing to weigh the proposal.
The actuality was—the Germans' desire matched his own. It was perfect! He believed that the Germans had skills he needed. The Company would require early-spring manpower, and it was increasingly clear that the Irish were heading west and would never return.
He pondered how best to bind the German contingent to him—to the Miller Company was a better way to put it.
The Miller Men concept held the best possibilities. Big Matt had never actually put the idea to the men or even into words, but Big Matt did hire the same men and, on their own, workers had come to believe that they were special. To be a Miller Man held status, and to be accepted as one made employment steady, with proper payment always on time—a facet of labor many employers did not religiously observe.
Workers who stuck with the Miller Company through good times and bad had profited both the company and themselves, and they chose to call themselves Miller Men. The Miller Men concept was genuine.
As if still considering, Matt strode across the office, paused as if examining the building's wall, then returned to his seat seemingly decided and ready to speak.
As he began, Matt wondered how his father would react to his preemption of authority, but in the Captain's absence, he was in charge, and the Germans' request was fortuitous and needed an immediate decision.
Matt said, "As you know, our regular Irish and Scot workers are moving west, and they are unlikely to return."
Of course, the Germans knew, just as they knew of the hotel standing empty, but Matt wished to establish mutual understandings that he hoped would make his acceptance of their hopes even more important in their own minds.
"We are loyal to our workers—Miller Men, as many describe themselves. While they were among us, the Irish were given first hiring and a standard wage. Those who remain will continue to be Miller Men with whatever privileges that title provides.
"In the spring, we will again be hiring. We have, of course, noted the quality of your work and your willingness to provide a fair day's work for agreed upon pay."
Matt allowed a small smile to touch his eyes and mouth. "I also remember our Germans, you among them, standing ready to defend all of us after Boots Van Horn fell over the river bluff. Mister Smith and I have appreciated your willingness to act as Miller Men."
There was rough laughter. The Germans were relaxing, and Matt could feel anxiety thinning.
"Your proposal is well timed. We have been considering the best way to replace the men departing.
"Our Germans, including all of you, know how we operate and what we require. You have learned that we are fair in hiring and prompt in payment. You say that you like it here in the county, and that you would like to stay. We want workers who are likely to remain with us for many seasons, and we believe that hiring German workers would be most advantageous.
"So, here is my offer.
"The Germans desiring to work for us must be able to cooperate with our Irish. Old world disagreements must be laid aside. If difficulties between groups arise, I must be notified before rioting or Donnybrooks break out. We have no tolerance for Irish versus German disagreements. You must, as they must, be Miller Men first, and failure to follow that rule will mean departure for them or for you."
Matt found it necessary to rise and pace because he was now treading on personal ground. He chose his words with care.
"I am aware that I am speaking to fully grown and independent men. We Millers hire you to labor. How you choose to live your lives is not part of most labor agreements, but we see ourselves as a closely-knit company. As best we can, we look out for your welfare.
"You in turn are part of this company, this family, if you will, and you must blend in and strengthen us. In this manner, all will profit, and that, after all, is why we labor. Therefore, I have other, perhaps intrusive conditions upon which I insist.
"Perhaps most important is that everyone do their best to learn to speak English.
"That requirement is not frivolous. America will be an English speaking country. This is your new home, and if we do not all speak the same language, d
ifferences will multiply rather than diminish. If we cannot comfortably communicate there will be barriers of understanding between us. Instead of becoming one, we will remain a nation of many, and we will be weaker for it.
"Although I speak directly to you, the Irish, or the Poles, and the English, or the Dutch, or the Italians—if they appear, must work together in the Miller Company. They must work side by side without rancor over preferences or wages or ancient national traditions.
"That may not be easy, but it is essential to our progress."
Matt paused. "Is there agreement so far, or must you council with the others?"
The Germans turned to each other to exchange nods before acknowledging that they understood and agreed. Matt had expected no less. He could only hope that the stubborn Germans and the prickly Irish could perform as easily as they would agree.
The Boss's Boy sighed inwardly. Even if they fought, pushed, and shoved, eventually the troublemakers would be removed, and his workers would blend into one homogenous group of Miller Men—he hoped.
There was more. "Have you all worked for Alex Donovan?" Most had. "Mister Donovan will be foreman for most of the canal maintenance and repair crews. Some of you will work for him or for the sub-foremen he appoints."
Matt moved onto less solid ground.
"Since his father's death, Mickey McFee has acted as foreman for our headquarters crew. He will remain in that position. Can you all work for Mister McFee?"
Matt waited their reply with some trepidation. Mickey was young for the job, but he had been familiar with the projects, and the Irishmen liked him. It had been convenient to appoint him, and McFee had done well.
A German laughed and spoke in his language. The other Germans—including Willy Brado joined in the laughter. Matt turned to Brado for interpretation.
"The Irish Hurricane is well known, Mister Miller. The men say that if they did not work well for him, he would lump them as he did Frederick the Great. They will work for Mister McFee as they would for Mister Donovan."
The Boss's Boy Page 16
