"Your Pa had let Brascomb carry on until there was nothing more to be said. The day he died, big Matt announced that he was coming home, meaning here to Duncannon, and that Brascomb was to handle the eastern end of the businesses and report his progress and profits to him every few months.
"Your Pa made it clear that reporting would be a one way path. What went on out here would be his business, and his brother would have no part in it."
China sighed deeply. "Two hours later, big Matt was dead. He simply fell over, Matt. The doctor said his heart just gave out, and that sounds right. I doubt the Captain even felt the floor. That is the only good thing in all of this—in passing, your Pa did not suffer an instant.
"Then Brascomb took over, and I mean he didn't waste two minutes. His clerk contacted a funeral parlor, and your uncle ordered Brado and me into his office. He didn't even bother to close the door or let us sit down. He told Brado that he would be let go when he settled conditions out here because Brado could not perform a man's work.
"Then he reminded me that I had never signed on and announced that he owed me nothing, and that I was no longer welcome on or around Miller properties.
"If your uncle grieved for your Pa's passing, I missed it. I tried to talk about informing you before big Matt was put underground, but Brascomb had taken charge. He informed me that I had no say in the matter, and that he had heard my unasked for opinions for far too many years.
"He called a clerk and directed him to escort me, Mister Smith, from the premises. I grabbed my sea bag and left. Your Pa was buried the next morning with little ceremony, and I was able only to sprinkle a bit of earth on his casket."
China stopped and raised angry eyes to Matt's.
"We should go inside now, Matt, and let the others hear what comes next. From now on they will be involved."
Within the office, Lukey Bates, Wilhelm Brado, and Roger Scribner were waiting. Brado had also cleaned up, and Scribner looked as pressed and polished as if he had just risen from his Philadelphia desk. The clerk had brought a large bundle of notebooks and ledgers, and he appeared ready to immediately resume work.
Matt had sweated more than a little. He felt dirty and inexplicably exhausted. His mind again wandered, but he forced himself awake. When he sought his chair, Matt found his hand fumbly, and he thought he needed a whiff from China's ammonia bottle.
When all were seated, China took the floor.
"After I was ordered away, I had no more than walked out Brascomb's door when both Brado and Scribner appeared. Brado was packed and ready to come back here."
China was admiring. "Wilhelm can move fast when he's a'mind to."
"Scribner? Well, the Captain had planned on bringing him, and Scribner had planned on coming. Still, Brasomb Miller now ran everything, and what could I offer?" China's smile was grim.
"Right away, Scribner said, ‘I'm going along, Mister Smith. The Boss's Boy won't stand still for Mister Brascomb Miller pushing him around, and I would greatly prefer working for him than for his uncle.'"
China's features relaxed a little. "Those were his exact words, but Brascomb has all of the law on his side—at least until you are twenty-one years of age, and he may not allow Scribner to hire on out here.
"I figured we had to be fast getting back because Brascomb will be close behind. Whatever plans he has for you and these businesses won't be pleasing, and if we are to do anything to back him off, we have to be ready and waiting."
China hesitated before adding, "And to tell you the absolute and complete truth, Matt, I haven't any idea of what can be done—assuming, of course, that you want to stand against your uncle."
Oh, Matt Miller would stand all right. He had plans, not firmed up schemes, but he had ideas that he had nurtured since his many months under Uncle Brascomb's thumb.
Growing boys planned revenges with utmost passion and luxuriated in their unfailing successes—if ever the opportunities appeared. Now the time had come, and the Boss's Boy would more than stand up. Using China Smith's naval terms, young Matt intended to sweep the decks clean.
First, Matt needed time to mourn his father's passing. He needed hours to gather his thoughts and organize his ideas into workable plans. He stood and explained the first part.
"You can bet your next pay that I am not going to roll over for my uncle. He is about to discover that this is not Philadelphia, and his rotten ways won't work with you or with me.
"We number five, and I will gather three or four more good men. Brascomb will not strong-arm us, that is for sure, but he may try. What I have to do is make sure that he leaves with no more than he should, and that he will not be back for more—ever.
"Right now, I would like to hear anything Scribner knows that might help, and I expect that some of it is within the ledgers he has brought along.
"Then we will separate until this evening. The men will be coming in from work, and I will want a few of them to sit in. Let's gather here at the office at thirty past the hour of seven. By then, I will have more to say."
Matt turned to his uncle's longtime clerk.
"The first point is that you now work out here for me, Scribner. Lukey will adjust your pay to what it should be and that will be a lot more than my tight-fisted uncle allowed. My father and I talked often about you joining us, and I am especially pleased to see you right now when difficult decisions have to be made."
Matt took a moment to choose his words.
"Do not feel that you have ingloriously abandoned Brascomb or are being somehow disloyal to him, Scribner. You suffered under him longer than most could have, and my uncle does not deserve personal loyalty, as he gives none himself.
"Welcome aboard. You are now a Miller Man, and out here, that stands for something."
Brascomb Miller left the Clark's Ferry Bridge angry almost to white heat. Their hurried travel from Philadelphia had been brutal with unrelenting crashing and banging on the almost impossible pike.
Nothing had gone right. A wheel had collapsed along the way, and almost a half-day had been lost replacing it. Moving by the canal would have been a hundred times more pleasant and far more dignified, but haste was necessary.
The disappearance of his clerk at the same time as Smith and the German boy's departure was highly suspect. Plots were being raised against him, Brascomb was sure.
Therefore, his driver was a hard man chosen for his reputation as an efficient protector of important people on their travels about the great city. Surely there could be no serious obstructing, the law was all on his side, but, as he saw it, Perry County was beyond the reach of civilized living, and his slugger would be there to prevent any lawless foolishness from his possibly unhinged nephew—or Smith, who might have rushed west to spread word of the Miller Company's changed leadership.
On crossing the last river bridge, his carriage driver had asked directions to Petersburg, and they were told to go north for three miles. Of course, Petersburg, or whatever its new name was, lay to the south, and the detour had been exasperating.
At the town edge a man had loitered. Again seeking directions, this time to the Miller Company itself, they had been directed through the town and across a stream to a large brick building on the right. There was no such building, and another hour was wasted turning back and finding the Miller headquarters.
Brascomb Miller was fit to be tied. He was physically exhausted and filthy dirty from long travel. To complete what he considered an utter humiliation, a washerwoman stepped from a shack's side door and without looking hurled a bucket of filthy water into the street—and directly onto both Brascomb and his driver. The wretched peasant apologized to their departing backs, but Miller suspected he heard laughter within her voice. Could some of this infuriating humiliation been planned? By his nephew—who had always been a most irritating and irresponsible brat?
Unlikely, Brascomb decided. Young Matt Miller was still a boy in the law's eyes, and he could hardly have summoned townsmen to engage in petty harassments.
China said, "I've got to admit that slosh bucket added a special touch, Matt. Brascomb looked about to explode. When he finds the office locked he will be ready to break down the door. Maybe we have thrown him off stride, but we'd better not linger too long."
Brascomb Miller was more than enraged. How could an office building be locked tight during the middle of a workday? It was no wonder that the western businesses had never returned their potential. He had suspected his brother of withholding profits, but perhaps casual working hours was equally responsible.
A group of men was working their way uphill, and after a moment Brascomb saw Smith, Brado, and young Matt among them. When he identified his clerk, Scribner, Brascomb recognized betrayal that would not go unpunished.
In fact, Brascomb resolved to hold Matt Miller responsible for everything that had gone wrong on this side of the river. His nephew would discover that Brascomb Miller was not a person to be trifled with. To his added chagrin, the group paused at the higher road to speak among themselves and to point out something across the river.
Surely, they had seen him waiting. The humiliation was deliberate, but young Matt Miller was playing with fire, and Brascomb resolved that this time he would get burned.
When he reached the door, Matt had his key in his hand. He said, "Good afternoon, Uncle. How did you get so wet?"
Brascomb thought the brat's voice was irritatingly knowing. He gestured at the door lock and said coldly. "Open up." Matt obliged and stood aside for his uncle's entrance.
Brascomb found his brother's office to be much as he expected. Two clerk desks and a number of filing cabinets were to a side, and a large soft wood desk (apparently home-carpentered) was centered with a chair behind it. Beyond the large desk a solid, new-looking wall featured a pair of doors leading to something behind the office building. Pathetic.
The large desk would have been his brother's, so Brascomb headed for it. A pair of side chairs was against a wall, but no one else attempted to sit down. The group stood and stared at Brascomb, but if they believed they appeared intimidating, they were mistaken.
The hired guard saw it differently. Two of the group had focused on him, and they were both fighters. Smith he had seen before, but he was old, and the Philadelphia tough could not recall what he had heard about the man. The second fighter was an Irishman. He was young, and although his face had suffered from hard-driven fists, he was rocking on his toes and was clearly willing to be turned loose.
There was a third man. A large and tough-as-a-nut Irishman with hands the size of mauls. He did not have the battered features of a bare-fist fighter, but he was the kind of man who drove other tough men. That one alone would be very difficult to handle.
The odds were not in Brascomb Miller's favor, and the brawler hoped that Mister Miller understood that, if fisticuffs began, their side had no chance at all.
Brascomb was finally pleased with his position. He sat, they stood, and he held all of the cards. His mind ignored the unpleasant looking workers and turned its attention to his nephew and the clerks.
His voice cold, Brascomb explained. "Your father is gone, Matt. Until you are twenty-one and your majority is recognized by lawful authority, I am your guardian. I control all of your father's resources—including everything out here in this wilderness."
There seemed to be no response other than interest, and that pleased Brascomb. He doubted he could endure juvenile outbursts. When they returned to Philadelphia, he would retrain young Matt's attitudes into those more befitting a young gentleman of position.
More importantly, he would reform the businesses to ensure his own profitability no matter what Matt chose to do when he inherited.
"You, Matt, can plan on moving to Philadelphia, unless you choose to proceed on your own, of course." Brascomb's smile was coldly inviting. It would please him greatly if young Matt just disappeared for the next half a year—or longer.
"Everything out here will be terminated as quickly as it can be managed. You, Mister Bates will be allowed to handle those closures. Your earlier performance in my office was adequate, and I will place you in Mister Scribner's position of responsibility—seeing he has so disgracefully abandoned my service." Brascomb Miller was almost luxuriating in his unchallengeable position of absolute control.
He gestured widely toward the other men gathered in the office. "The rest of you are not needed here, and you will promptly remove yourselves. Later today, Mister Bates will provide any payment due you." Brascomb focused his eyes on the hapless workers and announced, "That is all."
Matt wished to laugh. So he did. The laughter was not tension release or some sort of face saving. His laughter was full-throated and deep-chested. Matt Miller was clearly amused. There was softer chuckling among the other men, including the still- hired clerk Lukey Bates.
Brascomb Miller was thunderstruck. He was being mocked, mocked by these uneducated of-no-importance laborers and his apparently deranged nephew. His head turned red, then sickly livid. His voice choked in his throat. His eyes sought his bodyguard, but young Matt's voice brought him back and the younger man's words further staggered his mind.
Matt spoke as if explaining to a recalcitrant child. His words were deliberately patronizing, and like razors they slashed Brascomb Miller's pride and self-importance.
"Uncle Brascomb, you have been a self-serving jackass for as long as I can remember. For just as long, you have been aching to control Miller businesses. Now you think you have the chance.
"Well, Uncle, yours is not even the chance of fat in a fire. I have other plans, and I will take them up with you in a moment.
"First, I must thank you for burying my father with such loving and tender care and for offering me, his son and your nephew, such heartfelt condolences on his passing. Your sensitivity and compassion are gratefully accepted."
The sarcasm was blatant, and Brascomb sought words, but Matt did not pause.
"I hope that you enjoy sitting in my father's chair because your honor will be short. That chair, and all that goes with it, is now mine."
Matt turned to Brascomb's bodyguard, and again his words bit like knives.
"The gentleman standing slightly behind you is China Smith, one of the world's great fist fighters. This is Mickey McFee, the Irish Hurricane. I sometimes fight as The Boss's Boy.
"I offer you the opportunity to wait for your employer at your carriage. If you choose to remain, we will immediately beat you so thoroughly you will be unable to perform any duties for many days." Matt waited.
The wait was short. The hired muscle was not stupid. He nodded acceptance of an impossible situation and stepped outside.
Brascomb Miller exploded. He surged to his feet spitting his words. "You young fool. I will have the law on you so heavily that you will beg to be freed from confinement. You . . ."
Effortlessly, the huge man with immense fists pressed Miller back into his chair.
Matt said, "This gentleman is Alex Donovan, Uncle Brascomb. If you do not control your outbursts, he will pummel you until you decide to listen and absorb what you should already understand."
Matt chose to stride a little while arranging his words properly. Everyone, including Brascomb Miller waited.
"Uncle Brascomb, this is not Philadelphia. In this county, we are strong. Out here, your name and position are unknown, and no one will care what you think about anything. You speak loosely of confining me?" Matt turned to Wilhelm Brado and nodded. Brado stepped outside, and they heard his voice.
A form filled the doorway. The man entered and, dressed in a worn business suit, he appeared larger than anyone already present. The stranger was of middle years. His shoulders were immensely
developed, and his arms were almost waist-thick. Eyes as hard as steel focused on Brascomb Miller as if hungry to begin punishing, and large crooked teeth appeared behind drawn lips.
Matt pointed to a glittering silver star on the man's chest. "This is Sheriff Timothy Cameron. He represents the law out here."
Matt's lips smiled, although his eyes did not.
"Sheriff Cameron has been informed that you might attempt a completely illegal takeover of my father's business, and if such an attempt were to develop, he is prepared to place you within his jail until the matter is thoroughly settled, including lengthy appeals, within the court system.
"Believe me, Uncle. You will not like our jail. As you have too often noted, we are primitive west of the Susquehanna, and we are not willing to sacrifice much of anything for individuals accused of wrongdoing."
Brascomb Miller's voice had grown defensive, but he did not surrender. "You cannot get away with this travesty, you whippersnapper. You will pay a hundred times for your threats and insults. You …"
The large and powerful man that had sat him down said, "Shall I hand him over to the sheriff, Mister Miller?"
Matt appeared to ponder, and Brascomb belatedly realized that he really could be jailed in a small town hell hole and that other authorities might be long in being notified and much longer before securing his release.
Who would come to his aid? He knew no one in Harrisburg, and despite rapid thinking, no one in Philadelphia came immediately to mind. He could rot in whatever Petersburg called a jail for months. By the time he was released, Matt Miller might have reached his majority, and where then would Brascomb Miller stand? Nowhere was the answer. He would be jobless with bills overdue, and—Brascomb Miller's certainties fled as if they had never existed. His soul longed for the security of his ledgers and his Philadelphia office.
What could he do? Nothing, it appeared. Somehow, young Matt had effortlessly gained the upper hand, and he doubted the youth's charity would run strongly in his uncle's favor.
Matt pulled a chair close to the desk and seated himself facing his uncle.
The Boss's Boy Page 21
