The superintendent remarked wryly that Gideon might be surprised, but agreed to give him a try. The man’s expression said he didn’t expect Gideon to last long. That only increased Gideon’s determination to succeed.
The work did prove as dangerous as Miller had suggested on that afternoon at Relay House. A man was killed or injured every few weeks. Gideon constantly had to soothe Margaret’s anxiety, reminding her he’d finally found employment that would keep him out in the weather, which he liked. Except, of course, during these blasted Northern winters.
Besides the appalling toll of deaths and injuries, the other discouraging element in the young family’s situation was the move across the river in August of ’67. It was necessary if Gideon planned to work steadily. During the cold months, ice drifting in the river made ferry service undependable at best.
Moving to Jersey City sharply limited their chances to see Jephtha and Molly. But Gideon and Margaret bore the new isolation without complaint. Finding a cottage for rent adjoining the Miller place helped. Daphnis Miller became not only his friend but his mentor. He willingly showed Gideon the tricks of the switchman’s trade, and arranged for the younger man to be assigned to his own shift—dusk to dawn. Tonight, Miller would come along as usual about six-thirty, and the two would set out on their half-hour trudge to the yards.
He decided he mustn’t tell Margaret about listening to Bill Sylvis. Luckily he’d made a second stop while he was out of the house. It would explain his absence.
He didn’t want his wife to think he was flirting with a cause which might lose them what little security they enjoyed. In truth he wasn’t. After the war he’d sworn he would never again fight for any so-called lofty principle such as state’s rights. Mere survival was struggle enough. He worked a twelve-hour shift for the magnificent sum of one dollar and a half per day. Mr. Greeley’s Tribune estimated an average family needed $10.57 per week to meet minimum expenses. Only Margaret’s sewing enabled the family to reach that figure.
Nevertheless, Gideon and his wife repeatedly refused the gifts of food and clothing offered by Jephtha and Molly. Occasionally—and this was one of the occasions—he wondered if he’d been a lunatic to tell his father he wanted no financial help. A word to Jephtha, and he, Margaret and Eleanor could enjoy a secure life. Eat decently. Inhabit an adequately furnished home over in Manhattan.
He sighed. Independence surely had its price. Was it fair to ask Margaret to continue to pay it? Pride was fine, but it couldn’t fill stomachs, or refurbish worn-out wardrobes.
Stop, he thought, irked with himself. He shoved a hand through his long light-colored hair and bunked his right eye to clear it of a speck. He’d made the decision. He’d stick by it, build a future with his own labor and his own wits—even though he frequently felt the latter were still pitifully inadequate.
He was doing something about that, however. Every night. Every spare moment His goal wasn’t unrealistic. Many men were self-educated, including Sylvis. The Philadelphian had told the saloon gathering that his family had hired him out for farmwork when he was eleven. He’d taught himself to read because he could afford no other teacher. Later in life he’d struggled to master extremely complex material, because a grasp of it was essential for a union organizer. Sylvis had mentioned names that meant nothing to Gideon. Adam Smith. David Ricardo. Karl Marx.
He rubbed the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Lord, it was cold! His bladder felt full. But he had no desire to tramp out to the privy in the howling wind. The threatening sky continued to remind him of Kolb.
During the last blizzard, Augustus Kolb had gone to his switchman’s job, had slipped on an ice-covered rail, and been crushed between shunting cars. Before midnight, a sawbones had removed both legs at midthigh. He would never work again.
And all Kolb’s pregnant wife and two small children had received by way of compensation was a flowery note of sympathy written by some high-living, faceless Erie nabob.
“You can do nothing unless you organize.”
“Gideon? Your food will be cold!”
“Coming.”
iii
He trimmed the parlor’s one kerosene lamp to conserve the fuel. As always, he kept his head turned slightly to the left while using his hands. The flame spurted once, throwing a quick highlight on the black leather patch covering his left eye socket. Then darkness claimed the room.
The bedroom was cold on the parlor side, warmer near the kitchen. The iron stove radiated welcome heat. As he headed for the lighted rectangle of the doorway between the rooms, another remark made by Sylvis slipped into mind: “Until you have a union, they’ll take advantage of you. There are only two classes in the United States. The skinners and the skinned.”
The statement reminded him of his second cousin once removed. He’d never met Louis Kent. Jephtha detested him and, though related, never saw him. But Gideon often read about Louis in the papers. He was a major stockholder of Erie. On a night like this, he certainly wouldn’t be shivering and shaking in his fine new mansion on Fifth Avenue, or his palace up the Hudson.
Again Gideon scored himself for envy. He didn’t want wealth handed to him. But he did feel men such as Louis should display some responsibility when an employee was maimed for life.
Ridiculous to expect that, though. Louis was one of the skinners. Even before he’d met Sylvis, Gideon had begun to realize gentlemen such as Mr. Louis Kent lived at the expense of others. While Kolb’s wife, heavy with child, tended him and probably cried herself to sleep because of the family’s predicament, Louis Kent occupied himself with parties, voyages to Europe, and financial manipulations Gideon didn’t begin to understand.
He’d tried, certainly. He read every available newspaper account of the current struggle for control of the Erie. None made much sense. He was still hard put to differentiate between “bulls” and “bears,” and utterly failed to comprehend what a “pool” was, or a “combination,” or a “corner”—
“Gideon Kent, what are you doing out there?”
“What? Oh—” He hadn’t realized he’d stopped four paces from the kitchen.
“Why are you standing in the dark? What are you thinking about?”
“You can do nothing unless you organize.”
“Nothing important,” he said, submerging a pang of guilt and hurrying to her.
Chapter V
The Family
i
He stepped into the warm kitchen, lifted from his pensive mood by the sight of his wife and daughter.
Five-year-old Eleanor stood fidgeting in a washtub. Kneeling beside the tub, Margaret whipped a piece of nappy toweling called a rubber around the little girl’s pink rump.
Eleanor Kent was one of the delights of Gideon’s life. She was a happy, sturdy child with her mother’s dark hair and eyes. Now, though, she was frowning.
“Papa, she’s taking the skin off me!”
Gideon chuckled as he sat down at the old table where a plate of stringy beef and boiled potatoes awaited him. “She knows best, Eleanor. That hairbrush”—he pointed to the bristly object lying beside a lump of homemade soap—“does a lot more than warm you up.”
“I’m too hot now, Papa!”
“Stop that. All the doctors say children need a good scratching after a bath. Makes the blood run properly.”
“I don’t care,” Eleanor declared. “The scratch brush hurts like the devil!”
“Please don’t use that word, Eleanor,” Margaret said, delivering a light swat through the rubber she was using to dry the child.
Margaret Marble Kent was Gideon’s age. Nearly twenty-five. She was a slender but full-bosomed young woman with pretty features marred only by a stubby nose she despised. Gideon had met her in Richmond at the start of the war. He loved her deeply and had never regretted his decision to marry her.
She was a strong-minded person and not timid about letting others know her convictions. An embroidered motto on the kitchen wall typified that characteristic.
/> A NEAT, CHEERFUL HOME KEEPS SONS FROM BECOMING FAST AND DAUGHTERS FROM BECOMING FRIVOLOUS
The sight of Margaret jogged Gideon’s memory about the present he’d bought after leaving the meeting. He rose, walked to the cupboard, pulled the parcel down, and hid it behind his back.
“Eleanor, kindly stop wiggling like an eel!” Margaret brushed a loose lock of hair off her forehead. She laid the rubber aside and started to drag a heavy nightgown over her daughter’s head.
From within the folds, Eleanor answered in a muffled voice, “I will if Papa sings a song.”
“Papa must eat his dinner before it turns to icicles.” She lifted the child from the tub. “The weather’s abysmal, Gideon. They should close the yard when it storms—why on earth are you looking so smug?”
He bounced on the soles of his cracked boots, the small package concealed behind his back. “Got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” She jumped up, smoothing her stained skirt. “Is that where you went after you woke up? To buy something we can’t afford?”
“Didn’t cost me all that much,” he fibbed. “You’ll have to pay for it, though.”
Eleanor scampered to him and tugged the leg of his heavy corduroy trousers. “Papa, will you sing?” He slipped a hand around her head, fondling her hair.
“In a minute. First your mama and I must make a little exchange.”
He rattled the paper with his other hand. He leaned forward and kissed Margaret, then revealed the parcel and bellowed a kind of fanfare.
Margaret looked increasingly pained. “Whatever it is, we definitely can’t afford it. I’ll return it.”
“Impossible. I already got my kiss. You have to take it.”
He pressed the parcel into her red-knuckled hands and picked up his daughter. She giggled while he pulled out the chair and plumped her on his knee.
“Any favorites, Miss Eleanor?”
Arms around his neck, the little girl continued to wriggle. “‘Yellow Rose.’”
“Fair enough.” He began to jog her up and down in rhythm as he sang in a strong baritone.
“Where the Rio Grande is flowing,
And the starry skies are bright—”
Eleanor joined in, her voice clear and sweet:
“She walks along the river
In the quiet summer night.”
Eleanor jumped down, planted her fists on her hips and hopped from foot to foot—her version of dancing. Gideon clapped and kept singing.
“She thinks if I remember
When we parted long ago,
I promised to return,
And not to leave her so!”
Booming the last words, he seized Eleanor’s waist and hugged her so hard she squealed.
“For heaven’s sake don’t encourage her!” Margaret said. “Ever since three, she’s been the most incurable show-off I’ve ever seen.”
“You told me children always show off at age three.”
“It’s supposed to stop.”
Gideon had to admit his daughter was unusually outgoing. He said wryly, “Perhaps the Lord sent us an actress who’ll support us in style when we’re old.”
“An actress? I hope not! I want no child of mine in a scandalous profession like—”
“Margaret, I’m teasing.”
“What’s an actress?” Eleanor wanted to know. She had no difficulty with the word; she’d learned to handle complex words and sentences long before most children of a comparable age. “Is it something nice?”
“An actress is a disreputable person who displays herself and—never you mind!”
“Go ahead and open the present,” Gideon prompted.
Still looking perturbed, Margaret unwrapped the brown paper. She uttered a little gasp of delight when she discovered a small, wrinkled lemon and a large brown egg.
“Gideon, how much did you pay for these?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Margaret gazed at the purchases as if trying to decide whether to continue the discussion of cost or just enjoy the unexpected gift. She did the latter, bending down and tapping Eleanor’s cheek.
“Stand aside and let me kiss him again, miss.”
She put her head between her daughter’s and Gideon’s and pressed her mouth to his. “You’re a foolish spendthrift. But I love you for it.”
“Well, God—uh, heaven knows”—he corrected as Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes—“a woman who works as hard as you deserves something nice once in a while. The Tribune says all the fancy young ladies whose broughams dash up and down Fifth Avenue beautify themselves with egg and lemon. If it’s proper for society girls, it’s proper for you, Mrs. Kent.”
“I’ve read it truly does work wonders,” Margaret said, carefully placing the egg and lemon between Gideon’s plate and a book lying on top of a copy of Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly. A subscription to the popular periodical had been one of Jephtha’s and Molly’s Christmas presents.
“Softens the skin,” she added. “I could use that. The cold weather makes mine rough as bark.”
“Always feels fine to me.” Gideon grinned. He stuffed a frayed napkin into his collar and began to eat. “I wanted you to have something for yourself.”
“Even though we haven’t the money.”
“Let me worry about the money. Time in this life is short, Margaret. I’ve been thinking a lot about Augie Kolb—”
“Is that what kept you standing like a statue in the bedroom?”
He nodded. “I wondered if Augie had ever bought his wife a present. He should have. Now he’s crippled, and he’ll never earn another half-dime—” He flung his fork on the plate. “It’s damned unjust. Augie sweated eight years for the Erie. But now that he can’t work, Mr. Louis Kent and the rest of the muckamucks have forgotten him. Something should be done to remind them.”
“You sound like one of those trade unionists.”
He looked away hastily, fearful his face would reveal his guilt.
“Thinking of Louis just about ruins my appetite. Don’t let it ruin the present.”
“It couldn’t! Oh, Gideon—” Her eyes misted a little. “You are utterly foolish sometimes. But I can’t get angry with you.” She touched the lemon. “I’ll try this tonight. You’re supposed to scoop the pulp out, then beat the egg white and let the lemon peel sit in it. The oils mix. The lemony white whisks away all the wrinkles.”
Quietly: “I’m giving you those a lot faster than you deserve. I’ve forced you to live like this.”
She squeezed his hand. “You know I never quarrel with anything you decide after we talk it over.”
“Including the decision not to ask Father for money?”
“Yes, including that. You make me very happy, Gideon.” She leaned closer, her breast touching his arm and creating a familiar, comfortable warmth. “Especially when you indulge that Virginia gentleman’s temperament and buy presents.”
She kissed him again, her lips lingering. Eleanor sighed and let her attention wander elsewhere.
Gideon forked a chunk of boiled potato toward his mouth. “I know I didn’t make you happy by taking the yard job.”
“I only fret when the weather’s bad. You told me most of the other men never show up on a night like this. You could stay home.”
“Shades of Richmond! ‘Don’t ride off with old Jeb, Gideon.’”
She flushed. “I’m sorry.”
Soberly, he said, “I didn’t mean to tease so hard. Truth is, I’d like to stay home. But I’d have to say I was under the weather, and I’ve never been much good at lying. Besides, we need the money.”
Perched on a stool, Eleanor was rubbing her bare toes together. “What about the book, Papa? I want to hear some of the book.”
“Oh, dear!” Margaret exclaimed. “I got so excited over the present, I forgot the child’s feet—”
She rushed to the bedroom and returned with coarse woolen stockings. Gideon listened to the whine of the wind. The cottage
creaked. A roof shingle tore loose and went rattling away. An arduous twelve hours lay ahead.
But before he left, he still had the pleasure of the evening ritual.
Margaret finished forcing the stockings on Eleanor. The little girl looked eagerly at her father. She didn’t understand half the words during a reading, but they fascinated her because they fascinated him.
“All right.” Gideon smiled. “We’ll have the book in just a minute.”
ii
Margaret brought him a hot cup of coffee from the claw-footed stove. Jephtha and Molly had ordered the stove installed as a surprise present when the couple moved to Jersey City.
While Gideon sipped, Eleanor raced to a corner to pick up a wire carpet beater. She pretended to capture imaginary insects in an imaginary net. Margaret emptied the woodbox and fed the kindling into the stove.
When he picked up the book he noticed the Leslie’s cover engraving for the first time. The engraving was a composite of three oval portraits. One of the men pictured, squint-eyed and narrow-lipped, was considerably older than the others. A decorative ribbon beneath his picture identified him as Drew.
The plump, sleepy fellow with the luxuriant mustache was Fisk. The third, sporting a fan-shaped beard so large it concealed his cravat, was Gould. The cover was captioned:
AT WAR WITH VANDERBILT—THE ERIE TRIUMVIRS
Gideon had never seen likenesses of the men who were part owners of the line for which he worked. He studied them avidly. He was especially fascinated by Gould. If the portrait was accurate, it created a deceptive impression. The infamous Mr. Gould looked about as dangerous as a poverty-stricken clerk.