The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  McFee appeared stunned by the offer, and Matt thought he might settle a point before Mickey had to raise it.

  "Alex Donovan would also be a good choice, but I am looking for someone who will be with me for a long time.

  "Alex is a lot older. I would guess he is almost China's age. Before we can hardly turn around, Alex will be asking to be let go, so that he can go over and work part time at China's boat building."

  Matt nodded his head in agreement with his own words. "That is the way it should be. The old move on, and we young guys move up, but it could prove valuable to have the old men nearby. They know things that we haven't yet seen, and we can turn to them when we have to."

  Matt said, "I am assuming that you and Alex can work out you being both his boss and his son-in-law. I doubt he will have trouble with either, but you would know most about those details.

  "You don't have to decide at this moment, Mick, but the sooner the better. Just let me know when you can."

  Mickey McFee felt success and a recognized contentment blossoming within his soul. In a single instant, he had gone from being one of the better men to almost exalted leadership with financial security in hand. In his line of work, which was hard, physical construction laboring, no position could be more rewarding or more permanent in nature than standing at Matt Miller's shoulder.

  Mickey had, of course, dreamed of such advancement even before he had become a full time worker (who did not, after all?), and Mickey had long recognized that young Matt and he had, somehow, forged bonds of friendship (beyond the boyish who-was-best fist fighting) that he highly valued.

  Mickey McFee did not waste time or inject foolish speculating. He bobbed his big square head in understanding and appreciation. He thumped a fist into an open palm to show sincerity, and his words were clear and positive—the way Matt had hoped they would be.

  "There's no wait needed, Boss. I've been eyeing either Alex or China's job ever since China first muttered about retiring."

  Mickey shrugged his shoulders in reflexive surprise adding, "I really thought you would want Alex for China's place, Matt. I make no claims to knowing anywhere as much about anything as he does, but if you want me, I am your man, and as you know, I will do my very best at it."

  Matt said, "Then you've got the job, Mick."

  They shook on it, and Matt was pleased that McFee did not begin asking about how much he would make or what his hours would be. Men hiring on who asked those questions too soon rarely worked out. Matt wanted men who wanted the job, not men who wanted just the payday. Wages were important, and the money would be on McFee's mind.

  As a laborer, Mickey had earned his seventy cents a day—until Matt had raised all Miller Men to eighty cents. Big Matt had paid regular Commonwealth wages, and as a foreman, McFee had made one dollar and twenty-five cents per day. At Matt's side, he would have to make as much as Alex Donovan, which was supervisor's pay at two dollars and fifty cents six days a week. Mickey McFee was getting up in the world.

  Matt rose and dusted his pants' seat with his hands. "Stick with this gang today, Mickey, and start with me tomorrow.

  "Pick your replacement, but remember that whomever you choose will be taking your place all along the line, not just finishing this road."

  Matt was walking away when he added, "And don't expect to use my boxing gear, McFee. If you have to punch bags, keep going over to Klubber's—after your work is done."

  Mickey's retort was, of course, instantaneous.

  "I'm glad you brought that up, Boss. Now that China is retiring, I'm wondering if I am free of my ‘no professional fighting' promise? It seems as though I might be . . ."

  Matt's answer was short and extremely clear.

  "No!"

  He did not pause or look back, but he could sense Mickey's grin. Yep, he was going to enjoy working with the Irish Hurricane.

  Chapter 26

  They had ridden a canal boat to Newport. The only livery in the town rented them a horse and wagon along with directions to Rob Shatto's home on Little Buffalo Creek.

  The creek road was worse than either Matt or Mickey McFee had expected, and their rattling and bumping passage along the barely passable trace made them further appreciate their own recently improved road.

  "Maybe Juniata Township would put up money to have this route made tolerable." McFee added, "We could all retire on the profit from changing this mess to a road."

  Matt said, "We should have rented horses, and I'm not sure we are out of Oliver Township yet. This road is terrible."

  McFee complained, "Newport, if that is the name they are going to stick with, is one of the prettiest layouts in the county. The gentle slope to the river is purely handsome. They have a creek upstream and another below the village. They should have bridges. Reider's Ferry is slower than pouring molasses in January, but they do not get anything done."

  Matt was not supportive. "Good Lord, Mickey, almost nobody lives in the town yet, and most people cross the river upstream below the rope ferry—where the canal crosses.

  "When they get more people, more work will get done. Look at our village. Even with all of the Susquehanna traffic and business, we can't lay out a decent borough square or get a permanent horse water built."

  McFee remained unsympathetic. "Horses can water at the river, so I'm not for spending money to build horse troughs. Anyway, a man can't go a mile in this county without crossing some sort of running water."

  Mickey proved his case. "This trace we are on is a good example. We follow the stream so close we can water this nag any time we want to."

  Matt changed the subject a little. "That's another thing. Roads should follow the Indian paths, and you will almost never find an Indian trail running along a stream. The land is driest and smoothest half way to the nearest ridge, not down here in Bogsville. The Indians discovered that about a million years ago. I don't know why we can't stick to those routes."

  "Well, Matt, mostly we do, but Indians just lived where they stopped. We civilized people reshape everything so that it fits what we want. A hundred years from now all of these roads will probably be cobblestoned, and a man won't hear anything except iron horse shoes and wheel rims clashing on the rocks."

  They had gone to discuss stump pullers with Mister Rob Shatto, who owned the only decent puller Matt had ever seen.

  Shatto had willingly shared his knowledge, showed them his magnificent mountain horses, fed them a noon meal, and urged them to reach Newport before dark caught them on the road. The Shattos, Matt gathered, were busy training horses and wasted little time gabbing.

  Rob Shatto was big, physically powerful, and carried a gun at all times. He had also lost a foot in a shooting and wore a gold-rimmed, wooden peg leg.

  Shatto commented on the various bare fist battles about the area and remarked how he would like to see the Irish Hurricane take on his boss in the squared circle.

  McFee announced that they were both retired from professional fist fighting—which surprised Matt because he had made no such promise.

  Banging and crashing back down the miserable road, both ex-fist fighters believed the trip had been worthwhile. Mickey would go to Philadelphia and have the same skilled mechanic that Shatto had used make him three of the powerful screws that were the hearts of the iron stump pullers.

  Matt planned on laying out drawings of the massive iron tripod that supported each screw for Tim Cameron's perusal. Cameron could then visit his iron master contacts downriver and contract to have three tripods cast.

  Matt expected that within four or five months, probably in the spring (when the earth was soft and roots would pull easily), he would have stump-pulling crews working steadily. That would be good business.

  They reached Newport before dark. There were no canal locks en route to find closed until daylight, and an ark was heading down-canal with intent to travel through the night and layover at the aqueduct turning basin. Matt chose to go aboard. He and Mickey could walk home in the dark or in early mo
rning light on their greatly improved road.

  A few miles below Newport, Matt pointed across the river. "Do you recall that clay bank they hit when building this canal?"

  "Of course, Matt. Some of our people helped clear the river bottom right below here so that clay- loaded wagons could cross easily. The canal we are running in right now is lined with that clay."

  Matt said, "I've been talking with the landowner, and I've about closed a deal. The canal section superintendent is boating in clay for maintenance and repair, so the landowner can't profit from that business anymore. He's a farmer, and the clay pit is useless to him."

  McFee's eyebrows rose. "But it isn't to us, Boss?"

  "Bricks, Mickey." Matt Miller seemed to savor the word. "We all want bricks. Sheriff Hipple floated in seven thousand of them from way down river. I want a pile for the house I intend to build for Erin and me. You will probably build out of straw, but your father-in-law would like to build with bricks, and if we can make them fast and reasonably priced, a lot of people that are planning on stone houses will use bricks."

  McFee pretended indignation. "I would pick bricks, like most would, but a clay bank doesn't make a brickyard, Boss. I don't know anybody that knows about brick making, so I hope you do."

  Matt's voice was unworried. "I can't say that I know a brick maker, but I know a potter who is a Miller Man—Emil Bower, you know him, Mickey.

  "I can't see that making bricks is much different than turning out clay bowls. I spoke with Bower about it, and he is working on ideas for brick furnaces and a huge bunch of brick molds made out of wood that China will make at his mill.

  "Bower said that the secret is to make the molds exactly the same and dovetail all of the edges so the molds last a long time. The molds, he says make the bricks."

  Matt was clearly enjoying his explanation, and McFee listened carefully because, as sure as he listened, most of the actual construction and organization would fall on him.

  "Bower says we will need huge mixing vats above ground where we can blend water with the clay. The vats should be close to the building platform where greased molds will be filled on a flat surface.

  "When a mold is filled, it goes aside to air dry. Once the new brick is set up a little, the mold is knocked off, and the green brick sits for many days until most of the moisture is gone and the brick feels dry and hard.

  "Bower will make some kind of beehive furnaces out of green bricks and harden the furnaces by firing inside. When he makes bricks, the green ones will be stacked inside in special ways that allow air to pass between them. The fire in the furnace will be built low and stay that way for days so that the bricks dry all the way through before they are fired with a hot fire that will harden them, like bricks ought to be."

  Micky said, "It sounds slow and a lot of work, Matt."

  Matt nodded. "It sure does, but once the bricks start coming out the end, they will pile up at a hellish rate. We will have to float or drive the brick loads across the river and shift them onto canal boats."

  Matt pointed to a wide spot in the canal with dock remains alongside. "The flood took the dock, but right there is where the clay wagons off-loaded onto boats and carts. We will use the same place."

  McFee said, "Then you had better arrange to buy or rent that ground, Matt."

  Matt grinned, "Big Matt bought that land and a lot more along the canal from the state way back, Mick. Most of the land between the canal and the river is state owned and cannot be purchased, but big Matt knew someone who knew someone, and we got the land.

  "Pa claimed that someday people would want to live along the river with the canal protecting their backs or making transportation easy from their mill or river landing."

  Matt pondered, "It could be that our brickyard will be the first of such businesses put up all along the river."

  McFee suggested, "That potter could make crocks and jugs as a sideline, Matt. Miller Pottery could be shipped all over the country."

  The canal boat had been late in arriving at the basin. A horse had thrown a shoe and then fought the replacement as if it were a deadly enemy. Again underway, the second animal had begun tossing a hoof and examination showed that it too had loosened a shoe.

  McFee groaned and sought a more comfortable position among meal bags stored on deck. Dawn was near when the boat pulled close to the bank above the basin docking, and the two men hopped ashore.

  Tired and irritable, both had sought their comfortable beds and planned on speaking to no one before noon. Matt had hardly fallen asleep when Lukey Bates knocked vigorously on his door. Matt vowed that it had better be important.

  Lukey was fast and clear. "I'm glad you are back, Matt. There are two men at the hotel. They are down from the coal regions near Maux Chunk."

  Matt grumbled, "Who cares, Lukey. They won't have business for us. What are they doing down here, anyway?"

  Bates was firm with his explanations and made his words serious enough to catch Matt's attention.

  "They call themselves Organizers, Matt. They are here to talk with our men, and they have been doing just that for two days."

  "Talking about what?" Matt reached for his pants.

  "They claim that workers are being cheated out of decent living by greedy owners who pay them about half of what they are worth. They say that by organizing, they can force bosses to pay more, a lot more, because contracts have to be filled, and businesses can't wait. They say . . ."

  Matt was short. Pulling on his shoes he said, "I know the rest of it, Lukey. I heard those kind of people pushing their unions and clubs up at the coalfields a few years back.

  "Some of what they are saying is true, but they agitate and cause troubles that you would not believe. A lot of men have been injured, and a few have already died in the rioting their organizing caused, but I didn't see any improvement in working conditions despite the dues miners are paying to their unions."

  Matt scratched at his unshaven chin before asking, "So, why are they aiming at our people? We pay more than most around, and we provide a lot of benefits others do not."

  Bates had no certain answers, but he had ideas. "I think they figure if Miller Men, who are better paid sign on, about everybody getting less will line up."

  "Are they getting listeners?"

  "Well, they buy a few beers and speak long to anybody that is handy. I can't tell if any of our men are interested, but about everyone likes to hear that he should get paid more. They won't be doing us any good, Matt."

  Matt nodded. "Get Mickey up, and . . ." Matt hesitated before adding, "Tell McFee to bring his gloves."

  "His gloves?" Bates did not follow.

  "Yes, his gloves. Mickey will know. I'll meet him here." Matt thought for a moment. "Once McFee is on his way up here, have Willie Brado round up those two Organizers and invite them to stop by and talk to the head men here at our office."

  Bates hurried away, and Matt located his own leather fighting gloves and stuffed them into a rear pocket. He did not expect to fight anyone right away, but he had seen union organizers work up at the coalfields, and they could be brutal and overpoweringly demanding. Mine organizers called Molly Maguires had been locally infamous and particularly rough in their dealings. The odds were that these two Organizers had been through those sometimes-bloody insurrections, and Matt planned on being ready.

  McFee came at a trot. He was already wearing his gloves and was clearly ready to begin battling.

  McFee said, "Who are we fighting, Matt? How soon will they be here? How many of them are there? Have you sent somebody for China?"

  Matt got him calmed and explained in detail.

  "What these men do, Mick, is stir up workers until they hate everybody in charge of anything. The workmen begin by slowing their work while they make demands for more of this and a lot more of that.

  "As it goes on, and the owners or foremen do not comply, they break equipment and send things to the wrong places. They rarely get caught or punished because while one is d
oing something rotten, others are watching out, and no one ever admits to anything. Guys like these Organizers do all of the talking, and they do not honestly bargain."

  Matt paused to gather his breath. "This may not be like it was up at the mines. Miners were and are treated like dirt. Organizing was grasped by darn near everyone, but mine owners could outlast workers who already owed them for food and lodging, and needed all of their pay just to stay alive. So far, unions have caused a lot of trouble, but they haven't done much good.

  "Mine owners easily hired other workers because there are so many looking for work—any kind of job. The regulars causing trouble ended up fighting the new men in brawls that broke bones.

  "Real work darn near stops, and off and on, times have been desperate up in the coal regions. I don't know when it will get straightened out, but I don't plan on any of that happening here—not to our men, not to our business, and not to those around us."

  The Organizers arrived wearing open smiles and offering hearty handshakes. They were large, strong, and experienced, men who had done their time in the coal pits but had now moved on to better lives. If they were surprised by the young men waiting for them, they disguised their satisfaction. They seemed not to notice the greeters' thick and rough gloves.

  The two had clearly done organizing work before. Their words were smooth and honest sounding. Many would believe they spoke from the heart, and that their efforts were about to produce marvelous rewards for common working men.

  Matt Miller was not among those believers.

  Joseph Boleski was clearly the front man, but Frank Pavlovic nodded at every word. Many of the laborers at the mines in Carbon and Lackawanna Counties were Polish. Most were peasant immigrants who struggled with the English language and marginally survived on pittance wages paid to coal miners. The Organizer leaders apparently shared the Polish blood, but these men were of at least a second generation and were born to English speaking.