Distant Dreams Page 6

  His father . . .

  It seemed James had already spent two lifetimes trying to please the man and make him proud. However, he had started to give up on that nearly futile task even before he’d finished college. His growing unrest and sense of rebellion began to rear up with his very choice of colleges. Instead of attending his father’s alma mater, Franklin and Marshall, James had chosen another Pennsylvania college, Moravian, in Bethlehem. The innovative liberal college, founded in the middle half of the previous century, had opened James’ eyes to much. The college supported not only education for all—poor as well as rich—but the administration and faculty followed the philosophy of John Amos Comenius. This seventeenth-century bishop of the Moravian Church was often frowned upon for his spirited ideas in regard to education. Not only were men encouraged to study a variety of subjects, but there was a firm belief in education through experience. Comenius even went so far as to advocate the education of women.

  James enjoyed the approach and found the proposal of women students to be questionable in worth, but not totally out of consideration. It would never have met with his parents’ ideas for genteel society, but he could see the possibilities.

  At first, to appease his parents’ disappointment, James had taken the courses prescribed by his father, all geared toward business and banking. But such courses proved boring to James’ active and creative mind. Thus, encouraged by the college’s philosophy of broad course study, he had added science and history. But unable to completely defy his father, he ended up with a double load. Luckily he was intelligent enough and hardworking enough to successfully master it all.

  But how far would he go trying to live a double life to please his father? And would it ever please the man? When James graduated fifth in his class with two degrees, one in business and one in engineering, Leland had only commented that James could have been first if he had stuck with business alone. James rebelled further against his parents’ wishes when he decided to stay a few weeks longer in Bethlehem to meet Philip E. Thomas, the president of the B&O Railroad. Thomas, there to meet with an ironworks owner, had cordially received James and encouraged him to come to Baltimore. Given the chance to observe the workings of the railroad, James had followed eagerly. It had proved to be the most exciting three weeks of his life, but had also thrown his life into a spin.

  Though he’d always known he didn’t want to be a banker, it had seemed a more reasonable prospect at one time. It had even seemed acceptable for his parents to arrange a suitable match for him in marriage. All that had changed after he went north to school. He had seen too much and learned that beyond the political scraping and social frivolity of Washington there lay an entirely new world—a world James wanted to be a part of.

  Now the very thought of sitting behind his father’s desk shuffling papers and hefting ledgers horrified him. In the past he’d never had any clear focus about what he did want, thus he had easily placated his father these last few years. But that, too, was changed now. The railroad had at last lent focus to his life.

  He recalled how that passion had begun to take root in him when he had stood in the railroad office looking over plans for a new engine. The plans were intricate, almost artistic in his perception. They had placed one fundamental piece upon another. A spring here, a metal bar there, a cylinder, an axle—it had all pulled at James as nothing ever had before. And his engineering training and his natural aptitude combined so that he actually understood many of the fine nuances of the detailed blueprints. Closing his eyes now, he could still picture the sketch before him. Two sets of lead wheels, two large sets of drive wheels, and no trail wheels. A 440, he remembered, each number representing the wheels on the engine. The most powerful locomotive yet to be made.

  And somehow James knew he must be part of it!

  The only question now was if he was strong enough to stand up to his father and devastate his mother. He just wasn’t sure.

  James picked up another rock but gave it only a halfhearted toss into the water. He really wasn’t in the mood for this solitary walk, nor for the miserable process of self-debate. He was a man of action, not one of great introspection. He headed back to town seeking some diversion.

  He wasn’t surprised when his footsteps led him to the rail yard. The big locomotive he had come into town on was there, and men were busily working around it. He ambled into the yard, watching the men’s labors.

  A big fellow with red hair and a freckled ruddy face was railing at the men. “This ain’t never gonna get done for the early morning run. Edwards, Collins, can’t you two move a little faster?”

  “You want speed or precision, boss?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Edwards. I expect the job to get done, that’s all!” The red-haired boss stalked away.

  The four workers shook their heads and raised their eyebrows, grumbling under their breath. James moved closer.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “Bad iron,” answered Edwards, not bothering to question this stranger’s presence. Maybe he thought that James, with his fine clothes, was one of the big bosses. “Driving rod is in bad shape. Looks like it was made out of cast iron instead of wrought.”

  “Cast iron would never stand up to the pressure,” James said, looking over the man’s shoulder.

  “True enough and the proof is right here,” Edwards agreed. “Who knows what else we’ll find.”

  “That ain’t all,” put in the fellow named Collins. “We’ll have to figure a way to fabricate our own parts ’cause they don’t have what we need here.”

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  “Be our guest—say, are you one of the owners or something?”

  “No, just an interested bystander. But I’ve got some engineering knowledge, and I’ve been told I have a way with machines.”

  “Well, I don’t reckon you can do any harm.”

  James tossed his jacket and beaver hat carelessly on a pile of crates. He was just rolling up his sleeves when a voice called out.

  “James Baldwin, is that you?”

  Turning, James spied Phineas Davis, a well-muscled man in his forties and chief mechanic for the B&O Railroad. Why, the very engine before them had been created by none other than Davis.

  “Phineas!” James said, thrusting forward his hand for a hardy shake. “I thought I’d left you to better times in Baltimore.”

  “I came down to accompany Mr. Thomas on a fund raiser. What’s the problem here?”

  “Well, in spite of your wonderful design, some fool has put cast iron in the place of wrought iron.”

  Davis stepped forward to view the problem for himself, muttered a low growl of inaudible words and threw off his coat. “We might as well get at it or we’ll pay the price come morning.”

  Within a half hour the men were deeply into the task. Lengthy discourse and tedious inspection proved their worst fears. Not only was the driving rod in bad shape, but the link rod was nearly broken in two at the return crank.

  “Cast iron,” James muttered.

  “Somebody’s going to hear about this,” Davis bellowed.

  “Thought the B&O had more sense than that,” Edwards retorted. “Weren’t they the very ones to demand American production rather than British, on account the Brits roll in cinders to make cheap iron?”

  James straightened and wearily nodded. “Cheap iron has no place in a locomotive. This ought to be constructed from wrought iron. The best we can do is find a blacksmith and see if he can duplicate this piece enough to get it back to the B&O shops in Mt. Clare. It’s either that or send for the piece.”

  “Glad you two came along,” said Edwards. “This thing could have broke clear through while it was moving, and heaven knows what damage it would have done.”

  They worked for another two hours before the redheaded boss returned.

  “Who are you?” he asked James, after nodding cordially to Davis.

  James straightened up from where he had been bending over
some machinery. “James Baldwin.” He extended his hand, then realizing it was covered with grease as was most of his clothing, he withdrew it and smiled sheepishly.

  “I don’t recall hiring you,” said the boss.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Just helping out. I’m an engineer.”

  “You don’t look like an engineer.”

  “I’m not a locomotive driver, if that’s what you mean. I’m trained to build things—bridges, dams, railroads, whatever.”

  “Just be glad that ‘whatever’ took the form of locomotive engines,” Phineas threw in. He was attempting unsuccessfully to clean the grease from his hands.

  The boss scowled. “I can’t afford to hire no one else.”

  “I’m not looking for work. I just wanted to help.”

  Edwards added, “Hey, boss, you should see what he’s done.” He proceeded to show the boss James’ contributions.

  The boss let James stay. Why not? It wasn’t costing him anything.

  And James felt in his element, up to his elbows in pipes and gears and wheels. He loved it. The greasy smell, the complicated mechanisms, the challenge of troubleshooting a problem.

  When the job was completed around ten that night, he felt truly accomplished. The men let him know they would never have finished so far ahead of schedule without his help. They invited him to the tavern to celebrate. Only then did James remember that his mother had been expecting him for dinner. Thus, he was even more eager to join the railroad men in order to postpone another confrontation with his parents, this time over his tardiness.

  The ale flowed freely, and although he looked far more able to pay than his new friends, none would let him pay a single coin. He felt as if he had made friends for life. When Eddie Edwards lifted his voice in an off-key but loud song, James chimed in merrily.

  “From whence have ye come and where are ye bound? From Baltimore way to Ohio ground. How will ye pass the mountainous load? We’ve engaged a passage by railroad.”

  They all burst out laughing. A barmaid poured more ale. The song had originated from a celebration in 1828 when the B&O had laid its first cornerstone. Old Carroll Carrollton, the only surviving signer of the Declaration of Independence, had bantered the staged words back and forth with a Baltimore shipmaster during the parade. It was just the encouragement the railroad workers needed, and it was only moments before someone picked up the chorus again. But just as they started, from the opposite end of the tavern, a new song was raised.

  “I got a mule, her name is Sal, fifteen years on the Erie Canal! Low Bridge, everybod-y down, low bridge, ’cause we’re coming to a town . . .”

  The railroad men stopped singing, twisting around to see from whom this intrusion was coming. A group of four or five men reclined at a nearby table. There were no smiles on their faces. They glared at the railroad men.

  Undaunted, Eddie, who was six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds, said, “Hey, do you mind waiting ’til we’re finished with our song?”

  The other group glanced around at one another as if silently debating the question, then a fellow who was nearly as big as Eddie folded his arms across his broad chest and said in a defiant voice, “This is a free country; we can sing when we want.”

  “Come on,” said Eddie, warning not pleading, “don’t make trouble.”

  “You railroad people are the only ones making trouble!”

  “We’re just having a peaceable drink,” put in James, thinking he could reason with the thugs.

  “We were here first.”

  The men in the corner rose as a body and all but faced off with the railroaders.

  “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” said James.

  “Look who the dandy is calling silly.”

  Eddie had been studying their new adversaries. “I’ve seen a couple of you blokes before. You’re canal people, ain’t you?”

  “Maybe railroad people ain’t as stupid as I thought!”

  “Why you—!” Eddie lunged forward.

  The tavern keeper tried to intercede. “I don’t want no trouble in my place.”

  “Then you shouldn’t ’ave let in these dirty railroad scum—” slurred the canal man.

  Eddie didn’t let the man finish. He flew at him with all his weight. Phineas rolled his eyes as if used to the conflict, while James, without hesitation, leapt at another of the canal men. In another two seconds the entire tavern had erupted into a brawl. Anyone not involved in the battle made hasty exits or hid with the tavern keeper behind his bar.

  James was a novice at barroom brawls or fisticuffs of any sort. But he threw himself into the melee with the delighted relish of a young man who knew he’d have to pay dearly for his actions later and thus wanted to make the most of them while he could. However, after his initial attack, he found himself hopelessly outclassed by the seasoned and rough canal men. He landed but one more punch—a quite ineffectual one—and then spent the next two minutes on the defensive, until a fist aimed at him hit its mark and he was sent sprawling on the floorboards.

  Slightly stunned, it took him a moment before he could lift his head and shake away his double vision. But when he was seeing clearly again, the first thing he beheld was one of the canal men lifting a chair over Eddie, who was unaware of his impending danger because he had his back to the man while busily fighting another. James struggled to his feet and, swaying and dizzy, lunged at the fellow with the chair. His effort spared Eddie by forcing the attacker to retreat, but the canal man was still on his feet and still holding the chair. James stumbled, still off balance from his previous blow. Before he could recover, the chair came crashing down on James’ head. Everything went black.

  When he woke, he saw a couple policemen out of the corner of his fuzzy vision. The fighters were being quickly dispersed.

  “Next time you’re all heading for the tollbooth,” warned one of the police. “Now clear out.”

  Eddie staggered over to James and put an arm under his shoulders. “Can you get up, Jimmy, my boy?”

  “Oh, sure . . .” But the minute James tried to stand, his knees buckled under him.

  “I’ll help him,” Davis muttered, staggering to where they stood. He wasn’t in much better shape than James, but at least he could walk on his own.

  “Tommy,” Eddie called to one of his comrades, “give us a hand.”

  Propped between his two friends, James was propelled from the tavern. The fresh air did wonders for his cloudy brain. But it also made him painfully aware of several open cuts on his lip and cheek. He raised a hand to them, then grinned.

  “I’ll bet you never been in a fight before, have you, lad?” said Eddie.

  James shook his head, the lopsided grin still plastered across his battered face.

  “Well, you acquitted yourself fine. The boys told me what you did for me. I’m beholden to you.”

  “My pleasure,” said James.

  “Here’s your jacket and hat,” said Tommy, handing James the items. The jacket was dusty and rumpled, the hat crushed pathetically. “ ’Fraid they’re plenty worse for the wear.”

  James looked at his things, which only a few hours ago had been fine and practically new. “They’re beautiful!”

  8

  Lace and Locomotives

  “But I simply can’t wear this ghastly thing to the Baldwin party,” Virginia cried, throwing the powdery pink satin to the bed. “It makes me look like a child. Give it to Carolina to wear!” Virginia’s voice betrayed her desperation. At eighteen, she was no longer considered the belle of Falls Church and Washington City. In fact, she was desperately close to being an old maid in the minds of many of her peers.

  “We can’t possibly arrange for another gown by Friday,” Margaret said, thoughtfully considering the discarded dress.

  “But I want to look like a woman, not a child,” Virginia whined. Upon receiving her mother’s reproachful glance, however, she softened her tone. �
�Whatever do you suggest, Mother?”

  “There is a dress in my wardrobe that’s never been worn. It’s a lovely shade of rose that I believe would complement your complexion. I can have one of the girls in the sewing house take a look at it and remake it for you. A few tucks in the waist and a few more frills and it will be perfect.”

  Virginia’s face broke into a satisfied smile. “I knew you would rescue me from this. Just don’t let that sassy Hester have any chance to get her hands on it. She hates me and always makes my gowns to hang oddly.”

  “Now, now. Don’t worry,” Margaret clucked. “Hester has her hands full with other tasks. I’ll personally see to the adjustments if you see to putting a little lemon juice on those freckled shoulders of yours.” Virginia nodded and hurried to the kitchen for lemons, nearly knocking Carolina and Penny over in her wake as they approached Virginia’s bedroom.

  “Whatever is her hurry?” Carolina asked, to which her little sister only gave a perplexed shrug.

  Penny scampered to her mother’s side and lifted up a small treasure. “See what I found in the garden?” It was a tiny perfect rosebud.

  “How lovely,” Margaret replied. She gave Penny a distracted kiss on the forehead, then turned her attention to her older daughter. “Carolina, have you given thought to what you will wear to the Baldwin party?”

  “Do I really have to go?” Carolina hoped that she could somehow avoid the ordeal. No doubt her mother would put her and Virginia on display. “I haven’t even ‘come out’ yet, Mother. I’m still in short dresses!”

  “Most girls your age would be thrilled to be allowed such a grown-up opportunity. And there will be several eligible young men there. Though, of course, you will only participate in dinner and perhaps just a bit of the dancing,” Margaret said, picking up the pink satin. “This would look lovely on you, and your sister has made it quite clear it isn’t in her taste to keep it.”

  Carolina sighed in complete exasperation. “I’m not even sixteen yet. No one would seriously expect me to have a husband lined up just yet.”