The legends which surround the famous war which we are about to touch
upon are as dim as those of Troy or Tuscany. Decorous chronicles and
biographies and monographs and eulogies exist, bound in leather and
stamped in gold, each lauding its own hero: chronicles written in really
beautiful language, and high-minded and noble, out of which the heroes
come unstained. Horatius holds the bridge, and not a dent in his armor;
and swims the Tiber without getting wet or muddy. Castor and Pollux
fight in the front rank at Lake Regillus, in the midst of all that gore
and slaughter, and emerge all white and pure at the end of the day--but
they are gods.
Out of the classic wars to which we have referred sprang the great Roman
Republic and Empire, and legend runs into authentic and written history.
Just so, parva componere magnis, out of the cloud-wrapped conflicts
of the five railroads of which our own Gaul is composed, emerged one
imperial railroad, authentically and legally written down on the statute
books, for all men to see. We cannot go behind that statute except to
collect the legends and write homilies about the heroes who held the
bridges.
If we were not in mortal terror of the imperial power, and a little
fearful, too, of tiring our readers, we would write out all the legends
we have collected of this first fight for consolidation, and show the
blood, too.
In the statute books of a certain state may be found a number of laws
setting forth the various things that a railroad or railroads may do,
and on the margin of these pages is invariably printed a date, that
being the particular year in which these laws were passed. By a singular
coincidence it is the very year at which we have now arrived in our
story. We do not intend to give a map of the state, or discuss
the merits or demerits of the consolidation of the Central and the
Northwestern and the Truro railroads. Such discussions are not the
province of a novelist, and may all be found in the files of the Tribune
at the State Library. There were, likewise, decisions without number
handed down by the various courts before and after that celebrated
session,--opinions on the validity of leases, on the extension of
railroads, on the rights of individual stockholders--all dry reading
enough.
At the risk of being picked to pieces by the corporation lawyers who may
read these pages, we shall attempt to state the situation and with all
modesty and impartiality--for we, at least, hold no brief. When Mr.
Isaac D. Worthington obtained that extension of the Truro Railroad
(which we have read about from the somewhat verdant point of view of
William Wetherell), that railroad then formed a connection with another
road which ran northward from Harwich through another state, and with
which we have nothing to do. Having previously purchased a line to the
southward from the capital, Mr. Worthington's railroad was in a position
to compete with Mr. Duncan's (the “Central”) for Canadian traffic, and
also to cut into the profits of the “Northwestern,” Mr. Lovejoy's road.
In brief, the Truro Railroad found itself very advantageously placed, as
Mr. Worthington and Mr. Flint had foreseen. There followed a period of
bickering and recrimination, of attempts of the other two railroads to
secure representation in the Truro directorate, of suits and injunctions
and appeals to the Legislature and I know not what else--in all of which
affairs Mr. Bijah Bixby and other gentlemen we could name found both
pleasure and remuneration.
Oh, that those halcyon days of the little wars would come again, when
a captain could ride out almost any time at the held of his band of
mercenaries and see honest fighting and divide honest spoils! There was
much knocking about of men and horses, but very little bloodshed, so we
are told. Mr. Bixby will sit on the sunny side of his barns in Clovelly
and tell you stories of that golden period with tears in his eyes, when
he went to conventions with a pocketful of proxies from the river towns,
and controlled in the greatest legislative year of all a “block” which
included the President of the Senate, for which he got the fabulous sum
of----. He will tell you, but I won't. Mr. Bixby's occupation is gone
now. We have changed all that, and we are ruled from imperial Rome. If
you don't do right, they cut off your (political) head, and it is of no
use to run away, because there is no one to run to.
It was Isaac D. Worthington--or shall we say Mr. Flint?--who was
responsible for this pernicious change for the worse, who conceived the
notion of leasing for the Truro the Central and the Northwestern,--thus
making one railroad out of the three. If such a gigantic undertaking
could be got through, Mr. Worthington very rightly deemed that the other
railroads of the state would eventually fall like ripe fruit into their
caps--owning the ground under the tree, as they would. A movement, which
we need not go unto, was first made upon the courts, and for a while
adverse decisions came down like summer rain. A genius by the name of
Jethro Bass had for many years presided (in the room of the governor and
council at the State House) at the political birth of justices of the
Supreme Court. None of them actually wore livery, but we have seen one
of them--along time ago--in a horse blanket. None of them were favorable
to the plans of Mr. Worthington and Mr. Duncan.
We have listened to the firing on the skirmish lines for a long time,
and now the real battle is at hand. It is June, and the Legislature is
meeting, and Bijah Bixby has come down to the capital at the head of his
regiment of mercenaries, of which Mr. Sutton is the honorary colonel;
the clans are here from the north, well quartered and well fed; the
Throne Room, within the sacred precincts of which we have been before,
is occupied. But there is another headquarters now, too, in the Pelican
House--a Railroad Room; larger than the Throne Room, with a bath-room
leading out of it. Another old friend of ours, Judge Abner Parkinson of
Harwich, he who gave the sardonic laugh when Sam Price applied for the
post of road agent, may often be seen in that Railroad Room from now
on. The fact is that the judge is about to become famous far beyond
the confines of Harwich; for he, and none other, is the author of the
Consolidation Bill itself.
Mr. Flint is the generalissimo of the allied railroads, and sits in his
headquarters early and late, going over the details of the campaign with
his lieutenants; scanning the clauses of the bill with Judge Parkinson
for the last time, and giving orders to the captains of mercenaries as
to the disposition of their forces; writing out passes for the deserving
and the true. For these latter, also, and for the wavering there is a
claw-hammer on the marble-topped mantel wielded by Mr. Bijah Bixby, pro
tem chief of staff--or of the hammer, for he is self-appointed and
very useful. He opens the mysterious packing cases which come up to
the Railroad Room thrice a week, and there is water to be had in the
bath-room--and glasses. Mr. Bixby also finds time to do some of
the scouting about the rotunda and lobbies, for which he is justly
celebrated, and to drill his regiment every day. The Honorable Heth
Sutton, M.C.,--who held the bridge in the Woodchuck Session,--is there
also, sitting in a corner, swelled with importance, smoking big Florizel
cigars which come from--somewhere. There are, indeed, many great and
battle-scarred veterans who congregate in that room--too numerous and
great to mention; and saunterers in the Capitol Park opposite know when
a council of war is being held by the volumes of smoke which pour out
of the window, just as the Romans are made cognizant by the smoking of a
chimney of when another notable event takes place.
Who, then, are left to frequent the Throne Room? Is that ancient seat
of power deserted, and does Jethro Bass sit there alone behind the
curtains, in his bitterness, thinking of other bright June days that are
gone?
Of all those who had been amazed when Jethro Bass suddenly emerged from
his retirement and appeared in the capital some months before, none
were more thunderstruck than certain gentlemen who had been to Coniston
repeatedly, but in vain, to urge him to make this very fight. The most
important of these had been Mr. Balch, president of the “Down East”
Road, and the representatives of two railroads of another state. They
had at last offered Jethro fabulous sums to take charge of their armies
in the field--sums, at least, that would seem fabulous to many people,
and had seemed so to them. When they heard that the lion had roused and
shaken himself and had unaccountably come forth of his own accord, they
hastened to the state capital to renew their offers. Another shock, but
of a different kind, was in store for them. Mr. Balch had not actually
driven the pack-mules, laden with treasure, to the door of the Pelican
House, where Jethro might see them from his window; but he requested
a private audience, and it was probably accidental that the end of his
personal check-book protruded a little from his pocket. He was a big,
coarse-grained man, Mr. Balch, who had once been a brakeman, and had
risen by what is known as horse sense to the presidency of his road.
There was a wonderful sunset beyond the Capitol, but Mr. Balch did not
talk about the sunset, although Jethro was watching it from behind the
curtains.
“If you are willing to undertake this fight against consolidation,” said
Mr. Balch, “we are ready to talk business with you.”
“D-don't know what you're going to, do,” answered Jethro; “I'm going to
prevent consolidation, if I can.”
“All right,” said Balch, smiling. He regarded this reply as one of
Jethro's delicate euphemisms. “We're prepared to give that same little
retainer.”
Jethro did not look up. Mr. Balch went to the table and seized a pen and
filled out a check for an amount that shall be nameless.
“I have made it payable to bearer, as usual,” he said, and he handed it
to Jethro.
Jethro took it, and absently tore it into little pieces, and threw the
pieces on the floor. Mr. Balch watched him in consternation. He began to
think the report that Jethro had reached his second childhood was true.
“What in Halifax are you doing, Bass?” he cried.
“W-want to stop this consolidation, don't you--want' to stop it?”
“Certainly I do.”
“G-goin' to do all you can to stop it hain't you?”
“Certainly I am.”
“I-I'll help you,” said Jethro.
“Help us!” exclaimed Balch. “Great Scott, we want you to take charge of
it.”
“I-I'll do all I can, but I won't guarantee it--w-won't guarantee it,”
said Jethro.
“We don't ask you to guarantee it. If you'll do all you can, that's
enough. You won't take a retainer?”
“W-won't take anything,” said Jethro.
“You mean to say you don't want anything for your for your time and your
services if the bill is defeated?”
“T-that's about it, Ed. Little p-private matter with both of us. You
don't want consolidation, and I don't. I hain't offered to give you a
retainer--have I?”
“No,” said the astounded Mr. Balch. He scratched his head and fingered
the leaves of his check-book. The captains over the tens and the
captains over the hundreds would want little retainers--and who was to
pay these? “How about the boys?” asked Mr. Balch.
“S-still got the same office in the depot--hain't you, Ed, s-same
office?”
“Yes.”
“G-guess the boys hev b'en there before,” said Jethro.
Mr. Balch went away, meditating upon those sayings, and took the train
for Boston. If he had waked up of a fine morning to find himself at
the head of some benevolent and charitable organization, instead of the
“Down East” Railroad, he could not have been more astonished than he
had been at the unaccountable change of heart of Jethro Bass. He did not
know what to make of it, and told his colleagues so; and at first they
feared one of two things,--treachery or lunacy. But a little later
a rumor reached Mr. Balch's ears that Jethro's hatred of Isaac D.
Worthington was at the bottom of his reappearance in public life,
although Jethro himself never mentioned Mr. Worthington's name. Jethro
sat in the Throne Room, consulting, directing day after day, and when
the Legislature assembled, “the boys” began to call at Mr. Balch's
office. But Mr. Balch never again broached the subject of money to
Jethro Bass.
We have to sing the song of sixpence for the last time in these pages;
and as it is an old song now, there will be no encores. If you can buy
one member of the lower house for ten dollars, how many members can you
buy for fifty? It was no such problem in primary arithmetic that Mr.
Balch and his associates had to solve--theirs was in higher mathematics,
in permutations and combinations, and in least squares. No wonder the
old campaigners speak with tears in their eyes of the days of that ever
memorable summer. There were spoils to be picked up in the very streets
richer than the sack of the thirty cities; and as the session wore on
it is affirmed by men still living that money rained down in the Capitol
Park and elsewhere like manna from the skies, if you were one of a
chosen band. If you were, all you had to do was to look in your vest
pockets when you took your clothes off in the evening and extract enough
legal tender to pay your bill at the Pelican for a week. Mr. Lovejoy
having been overheard one day to make a remark concerning the diet of
hogs, the next morning certain visitors to the capital were horrified
to discover trails of corn leading from the Pelican House to their
doorways. Men who had never seen a receiving teller opened bank
accounts. No, it was not a problem in simple arithmetic, and Mr. Balch
and Mr. Flint, and even Mr. Duncan and Mr. Worthington, covered whole
sheets with figures during the stifling days in July. Some men are so
valuable that they can be bought twice, or even three times, and they
make figuring complicated.
Jethro Bass did no calculating. He sat behind the curtains, and he must
have kept the figures in his head.
The battle had closed in earnest, and for twelve long, sultry weeks it
raged with unabated fierceness. Consolidation had a terror for the
rural mind, and the state Tribune skilfully played its stream upon the
constituents of those gentlemen who stood tamely at the Worthington
hitching-posts, and the constituents flocked to the capital; that able
newspaper, too, found space to return, with interest, the attacks of Mr.
Worthington's organ, the Newcastle Guardian. These amenities are much
too personal to reproduce here, now that the smoke of battle has rolled
away. An epic could be written upon the conflict, if there were space:
Canto One, the first position carried triumphantly, though at some
expense, by the Worthington forces, who elect the Speaker. That had
been a crucial time before the town meetings, when Jethro abdicated. The
Worthington Speaker goes ahead with his committees, and it is needless
to say that Mr. Chauncey Weed is not made Chairman of the Committee
on Corporations. As an offset to this, the Jethro forces gain on the
extreme right, where the Honorable Peleg Hartington is made President of
the Senate, etc.
For twelve hot weeks, with a public spirit which is worthy of the
highest praise, the Committee sit in their shirt sleeves all day long
and listen to arguments for and against consolidation; and ask learned
questions that startle rural witnesses; and smoke big Florizel cigars (a
majority of them). Judge Abner Parkinson defends his bill, quoting from
the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence and the Bible;
a celebrated lawyer from the capital riddles it, using the same
authorities, and citing the Federalist and the Golden Rule in addition.
The Committee sit open-minded, listening with laudable impartiality; it
does not become them to arrive at a hasty decision on a question of such
magnitude. In the meantime the House passes an important bill dealing
with the bounty on hedgehogs, and there are several card games going on
in the cellar, where it is cool.
The governor of the state is a free lance, and may be seen any afternoon
walking through the park, consorting with no one. He may be recognized
even at a distance by his portly figure, his silk hat, and his dignified
mien. Yes, it is an old and valued friend, the Honorable Alva Hopkins,
patron of the drama, and sometimes he has a beautiful young woman (still
unattached) by his side. He lives in a suite of rooms at the Pelican.
It is a well-known fact (among Mr. Worthington's supporters) that the
Honorable Alva promised in January, when Mr. Bass retired, to sign the
Consolidation Bill, and that he suddenly became open-minded in March,
and has remained open-minded ever since, listening gravely to arguments,
and giving much study to the subject. He is an executive now, although
it is the last year of his term, and of course he is never seen either
in the Throne Room or the Railroad Room. And besides, he may become a
senator.
August has come, and the forces are spent and panting, and neither side
dares to risk the final charge. The reputation of Jethro Bass is at
stake. Should he risk and lose, he must go back to Coniston a beaten
man, subject to the contempt of his neighbors and his state. People
do not know that he has nothing now to go back to, and that he cares
nothing for contempt. As he sits in his window day after day he has only
one thought and one wish,--to ruin Isaac D. Worthington. And he will do
it if he can. Those who know--and among them is Mr. Balch himself--say
that Jethro has never conducted a more masterly campaign than this, and
that all the others have been mere childish trials of strength compared
to it. So he sits there through those twelve weeks while the session
slips by, while his opponents grumble, and while even his supporters,
eager for the charge, complain. The truth is that in all the years of
his activity be has never had such an antagonist as Mr. Flint. Victory
hangs in the balance, and a false move will throw it to either side.
Victory hangs now, to be explicit, upon two factors. The first and
most immediate of these is a certain canny captain of many wars whose
regiment is still at the disposal of either army--for a price, a
regiment which has hitherto remained strictly neutral. And what a
regiment it is! A block of river towns and a senator, and not a casualty
since they marched boldly into camp twelve weeks ago. Mr. Batch is
getting very much worried about this regiment, and beginning to doubt
Jethro's judgment.
“I tell you, Bass,” he said one evening, “if you allow him to run around
loose much longer, we're lost, that's all there is to it!” (Mr. Batch
referred to the captain in question.) “They'll buy up his block at his
figure--see, if they don't. They're getting desperate. Don't you think
I'd better bid him in?”
“B-bid him in if you've a mind to; Ed.”
“Look here, Jethro,” said Mr. Batch, savagely biting off the end of a
cigar, “I'm beginning to think you don't care a continental about this
business. Which side are you on, anyway?” The heat and the length
and the uncertainty of the struggle were telling on the nerves of the
railroad president. “You sit there from morning till night and won't say
anything; and now, when there's only one block out, you won't give the
word to buy it.”
“N-never told you to buy anything, did I--Ed?”
“No,” answered Mr. Batch, “you haven't. I don't know what the devil's
got into you.”
“D-done all the payin' without consultin' me, hain't you, Ed?”
“Yes; I have. What are you driving at?”
“D-done it if I hadn't b'en here, wouldn't you?”
“Yes, and more too,” said Mr. Batch.
“W-wouldn't make much difference to you if I wasn't here--would it?”
“Great Scott, Jethro, what do you mean?” cried the railroad president,
in genuine alarm; “you're not going to pull out, are you?”
“W-wouldn't make much odds if I did--would it, Ed?”
“The devil it wouldn't!” exclaimed Mr. Balch. “If you pulled out, we'd
lose the North Country, and Peleg, and Gosport, and nobody can
tell which way Alva Hopkins will swing. I guess you know what he'll
do--you're so d--d secretive I can't tell whether you do or not. If you
pulled out, they'd have their bill on Friday.”
“H-hain't under any obligations to you, Ed--am I?”
“No,” said Mr. Batch, “but I don't see why you keep harping on that.”
“J-dust wanted to have it clear,” said Jethro, and relapsed into
silence.
There was a fireproof carpet on the Throne Room, and Mr. Batch flung
down his cigar and stamped on it and went out. No wonder he could not
understand Jethro's sudden scruples about money and obligations--about
railroad money, that is. Jethro was spending some of his own, but not in
the capital, and in a manner which was most effective. In short, at the
very moment when Mr. Batch stamped on his cigar, Jethro had the victory
in his hands--only he did not choose to say so. He had had a mysterious
telegram that day from Harwich, signed by Chauncey Weed, and Mr. Weed
himself appeared at the door of Number 7, fresh from his travels,
shortly after Mr. Batch had gone out of it. Mr. Weed closed the door
gently, and locked it, and sat down in a rocking chair close to Jethro
and put his hand over his mouth. We cannot hear what Mr. Weed is saying.
All is mystery here, and in order to preserve that mystery we shall
delay for a little the few words which will explain Mr. Weed's
successful mission.
Mr. Batch, angry and bewildered, descended into the rotunda, where he
shortly heard two astounding pieces of news. The first was that the
Honorable Heth Sutton had abandoned the Florizel cigars and had gone
home to Clovelly. The second; that Mr. Bijah Bixby had resigned the
claw-hammer and had ceased to open the packing cases in the Railroad
Room. Consternation reigned in that room, so it was said (and this was
true). Mr. Worthington and Mr. Duncan and Mr. Lovejoy were closeted
there with Mr. Flint, and the door was locked and the transom shut, and
smoke was coming out of the windows.
Yes, Mr. Bijah Bixby is the canny captain of whom Mr. Balch spoke: he
it is who owns that block of river towns, intact, and the one senator.
Impossible! We have seen him opening the packing cases, we have seen him
working for the Worthington faction for the last two years. Mr.
Bixby was very willing to open boxes, and to make himself useful and
agreeable; but it must be remembered that a good captain of mercenaries
owes a sacred duty to his followers. At first Mr. Flint had thought he
could count on Mr. Bixby; after a while he made several unsuccessful
attempts to talk business with him; a particularly difficult thing to
do, even for Mr. Flint, when Mr. Bixby did not wish to talk business.
Mr. Balch had found it quite as difficult to entice Mr. Bixby away from
the boxes and the Railroad Room. The weeks drifted on, until twelve went
by, and then Mr. Bixby found himself, with his block of river towns and
one senator, in the incomparable position of being the arbiter of the
fate of the Consolidation Bill in the House and Senate. No wonder Mr.
Balch wanted to buy the services of that famous regiment at any price!
But Mr. Bixby, for once in his life, had waited too long.
When Mr. Balch, rejoicing, but not a little indignant at not having
been taken into confidence, ascended to the Throne Room after supper to
question Jethro concerning the meaning of the things he had heard, he
found Senator Peleg Hartington seated mournfully on the bed, talking at
intervals, and Jethro listening.
“Come up and eat out of my hand,” said the senator.
“Who?” demanded Mr. Balch.
“Bije,” answered the senator.
“Great Scott, do you mean to say you've got Bixby?” exclaimed the
railroad president. He felt as if he would like to shake the senator,
who was so deliberate and mournful in his answers. “What did you pay
him?”
Mr. Hartington appeared shocked by the question.
“Guess Heth Sutton will settle with him,” he said.
“Heth Sutton! Why the--why should Heth pay him?”
“Guess Heth'd like to make him a little present, under the
circumstances. I was goin' through the barber shop,” Mr. Hartington
continued, speaking to Jethro and ignoring the railroad president,
“and I heard somebody whisperin' my name. Sound came out of that little
shampoo closet; went in there and found Bije. 'Peleg,' says he, right
into my ear, 'tell Jethro it's all right--you understand. We want Heth
to go back--break his heart if he didn't--you understand. If I'd knowed
last winter Jethro meant business, I wouldn't hev' helped Gus Flint out.
Tell Jethro he can have 'em--you know what I mean.' Bije waited a little
mite too long,” said the senator, who had given a very fair imitation of
Mr. Bixby's nasal voice and manner.
“Well, I'm d--d!” ejaculated Mr. Balch, staring at Jethro. “How did you
work it?”
“Sent Chauncey through the deestrict,” said Mr. Hartington.
Mr. Chauncey Weed had, in truth, gone through a part of the
congressional district of the Honorable Heth Sutton with a little
leather bag. Mr. Weed had been able to do some of his work (with the
little leather bag) in the capital itself. In this way Mr. Bixby's
regiment, Sutton was the honorary colonel, had been attacked in the rear
and routed. Here was to be a congressional convention that autumn, and a
large part of Mr. Sutton's district lay in the North Country, which, as
we have seen, was loyal to Jethro to the back bone. The district, too,
was largely rural, and therefore anti-consolidation, and the inability
of the Worthington forces to get their bill through had made it apparent
that Jethro Bass was as powerful as ever. Under these circumstances
it had not been very difficult for a gentleman of Mr. Chauncey Weed's
powers of persuasion to induce various lieutenants in the district
to agree to send delegates to the coming convention who would be
conscientiously opposed to Mr. Sutton's renomination: hence the
departure from the capital of Mr. Sutton; hence the generous offer
of Mr. Bixby to put his regiment at the disposal of Mr. Bass--free of
charge.
The second factor on which victory hung (we can use the past tense now)
was none other than his Excellency Alva Hopkins, governor of the state.
The bill would never get to his Excellency now--so people said; would
never get beyond that committee who had listened so patiently to the
twelve weeks of argument. These were only rumors, after all, for the
rotunda never knows positively what goes on in high circles; but the
rotunda does figuring, too, when at length the problem is reduced to a
simple equation, with Bijah Bixby as x. If it were true that Bijah had
gone over to Jethro Bass, the Consolidation Bill was dead.