Glorious (6 page)

“Self-interest drives our great land,” he said. “Why would anyone
ever willingly do something for someone else if he himself doesn't benefit?”

As Mr. Douglass's holdings continued to grow, he needed the constant assistance of someone able to comfortably mix on all levels of business and politics—“Not only my eyes and ears, but sometimes my voice. My right-hand man will be you, McLendon. You'll extend my reach and have your fair share of all that you bring me. You'll have to work harder than ever before. I'll expect only the best results. Fail me and I'll discard you. Betray me and I'll destroy you. But serve me well and I'll raise you high.”

Besides even longer work hours and frequent trips—sometimes all the way to Washington or Philadelphia or New York—the biggest change in McLendon's life resulted from Mr. Douglass's insistence that he move into the mansion: “I want you at hand for discussion or action at any hour, but it's not just that. If you're going to represent me at the higher levels, then you must learn proper manners: which fork to use, how to act like a proper gentleman around the better people.” McLendon was given a room on the second story just over the kitchen, and woke in the morning to the delicious smells of brewing coffee and fresh-baked bread. Servants changed his bed linen daily, and he wore fine clothes handmade for him by Mr. Douglass's personal tailor. On most evenings he took dinner in the main dining room with Mr. Douglass and his wife and daughter. Mrs. Matilda Douglass was an elegant, mostly silent woman who wore jeweled necklaces and dangling earrings. Seventeen-year-old Ellen was given to sudden fits of uncontrollable giggling; it had certainly been her laughter that he heard on his first visit to the Douglass mansion six years earlier. She was blond and strikingly lovely, with prominent cheekbones and long, elegant fingers. Beyond her looks and laughter, McLendon learned very little about her. They were never alone together. Her mother or a stout
black woman named Mrs. Reynolds was always with her. Mrs. Reynolds didn't live with the Douglasses but came whenever they couldn't be with Ellen. McLendon, who'd never encountered a very rich girl before, supposed that they were always closely chaperoned. Whenever Ellen talked to him, it was in a teasing tone, and he could never feel certain what she really meant.

“Do you like living here in our house?” she asked him one night at dinner. “How long do you think that you'll stay?”

“I like it very much,” McLendon said, trying not to drip a spoonful of soup on the fine white linen tablecloth. “I'm grateful for your parents' hospitality.”

“It's my hospitality too,” Ellen said. “Are you grateful to me?”

“Of course, Miss Douglass.”

Ellen giggled. “Then perhaps I'll allow you to remain.”

Matilda Douglass spoke for the first time since the meal began. “Ellen, don't torment Mr. McLendon. Eat your dinner.”

Ellen didn't say anything further to McLendon, but a few times during the rest of the four-course meal he caught her staring at him curiously, as though he were an exhibit in a zoo.

•   •   •

M
C
L
ENDON'S NEW DUTIES
limited his time with Gabrielle. He was expected to meet with Mr. Douglass every evening for an hour or so to discuss the business of the day; sometimes the meetings lasted much longer, causing him to miss Sunday dinners with the Tirritos and helping with Gabrielle's reading classes. She never complained, which made him feel guilty. He knew she was waiting for him to formally propose marriage, but that wasn't something he currently had time to think about. There was too much to do for Mr. Douglass. In particular, there was a problem with the owner of a metal foundry.
Mr. Douglass had learned from a contact in the War Department that the government would soon call for bids on new munitions contracts. The Indians on the frontier were proving stubborn. President Grant was being urged by his confidants to blast them into extinction. The St. Louis foundry could be quickly converted to manufacture ammunition for cannons. Mr. Douglass wanted to acquire it, but owner Arthur Cory refused to sell. McLendon spent hours with Cory, pointing out the splendid profit he would make, but the man was adamant: He had worked hard to build his company, and he meant to keep it. After a week of nonstop effort, McLendon reluctantly reported to Mr. Douglass that Cory would not budge.

“Don't blame yourself; some men simply will not reason,” Mr. Douglass said. “I think we must take another approach.”

Two days later, Mr. Douglass welcomed a mysterious visitor to his home. The towering, thick-shouldered fellow was ushered into the book-lined study at the same time that McLendon routinely met there with his employer. Now he was kept waiting while Mr. Douglass and the newcomer met privately. McLendon paced restlessly in the vast backyard, poking at shrubs and croquet goals. Once, when he looked up, he spied Ellen gazing at him from an upstairs window. When she saw him looking back, she moved out of sight. Finally, a servant came to say that Mr. Douglass now required him.

“Meet Patrick Brautigan,” Mr. Douglass said. “He's lately from Boston, and highly recommended.”

Brautigan's hand was much wider than McLendon's; Cash flinched as they shook, as it was clear that Brautigan could have easily crushed his knuckles. But he exerted only enough pressure for a firm shake and then dropped back into his chair.

“A pleasure,” he said to McLendon. There was a complete absence of emotion in his voice and in his deep-set, opaque eyes.

“Brautigan is a man of certain persuasive skills,” Mr. Douglass said. “He joins us on a permanent basis. Initially, he will assist with this man Cory, who Brautigan will call on in the very near future.”

“Arthur Cory is a decent man, but stubborn,” McLendon said to Brautigan. “I'll come along with you, of course, though I doubt we can persuade him to be smart and sell.”

“No need,” Brautigan said. “I'll manage on my own.” He stood and made a slight bow to Mr. Douglass.

“I want that foundry,” Mr. Douglass said.

“I expect to soon report satisfactory results,” Brautigan replied. He nodded to McLendon and turned to leave. Even though the floor was carpeted, Brautigan's heavy boots thudded as he walked. McLendon noticed that the toes of the boots were reinforced with polished steel plates.

Mr. Douglass handed a thick sealed envelope to McLendon. “Tomorrow, take this to police chief Kelly Welsh at City Hall. Be discreet when you do. We must always demonstrate respect for public officials.”

Three days later, the St. Louis newspapers reported that Arthur Cory, the fifty-six-year-old owner of a local metal foundry, had been found dead behind a riverfront saloon. His head was so damaged by repeated strikes from some hard, blunt-tipped object that he had to be identified by the rings on his fingers rather than his pulped facial features. When he saw Brautigan that night, McLendon looked again at the plating on the toes of his boots. It seemed to him that the steel toe on the right boot was freshly scraped. Chief Welsh announced a full investigation, but nothing came of it. Not much later, Cory's widow sold the foundry to Rupert Douglass.

McLendon was so shaken that he confronted Mr. Douglass.

“Why has this happened, sir?” McLendon demanded. “Is the
ownership of one factory among so many worth the cost of a human life?”

“It's not just the factory,” Mr. Douglass said. “Word was around town that I wanted to buy it and Arthur Cory refused. If one man so publicly defied me, more might find the gumption to attempt the same. This act was necessary to send a message, and the blame for it is all on Mr. Cory. He would not let reason prevail.”

“I thought that we respected the law,” McLendon said.

“We do, lad, we do. It's a rule of mine that my people must never openly break or defy the law. It's just that as practical men we must sometimes circumvent it.”

After that, McLendon rarely encountered Patrick Brautigan and was glad of it. He privately nicknamed the man “Killer Boots.” For a while he was panic-stricken at the possibility that Salvatore Tirrito would be the hulking monster's next victim, and thought about warning him. But he eventually decided that Mr. Douglass wouldn't consider an obscure dry goods store worth killing for, if in fact he remembered Tirrito Dry Goods at all. Brautigan mostly kept busy discouraging union organizers at Mr. Douglass's factories. McLendon tried hard not to think about how Killer Boots served their mutual employer. He told himself that it had nothing to do with him.

•   •   •

T
HAT WINTER,
McLendon accompanied Mr. Douglass on a train trip to Washington. They met with a highly placed official who coordinated government dealings with the railroads. A plan to place additional tracks in St. Louis included the annexation of some factory property owned by Mr. Douglass, who didn't want to give it up. During the meeting the official argued that Mr. Douglass couldn't always get his way. Several of President Grant's closest friends were
involved in the railroad plan. Friends of the president got what they wanted. Mr. Douglass would just have to be a good loser this time.

McLendon made a suggestion. Mr. Douglass owned additional property not a mile from the disputed site. There was room on it not only for the new track but also for a fine new public park that could be named in honor of the president. Wasn't President Grant planning to seek reelection? In that eventuality, such positive publicity in a major city like St. Louis would surely be helpful. Mr. Douglass would, of course, need to be appropriately compensated by the railroad for the land used for the track, but perhaps the park property could be donated. The railroad would have its track, and the people of St. Louis would enjoy a new park. Everyone would benefit, the president most of all. The official took the offer to the White House. He informed Mr. Douglass the next day that President Grant accepted and was personally grateful.

“The president now considers you, Mr. Douglass, to be his friend,” he added. “If he can ever be of help to you, send word to him through me.”

On the return trip to St. Louis, Mr. Douglass suggested to McLendon that they repair to the train's dining car. It was late at night, and no one else was there.

“That was a most impressive performance,” Mr. Douglass said. “There is even more to you than I thought, and you've earned the most significant of rewards. I propose that soon Mrs. Douglass and I announce your engagement to our daughter.”

Mr. Douglass said that he wasn't going to live forever. He'd worked every waking hour to establish and expand his business empire, and he was damned if he'd allow it to be frittered away after his death. On the contrary, he meant for it to flourish and grow further, securing comfortable futures for his daughter and the grandchildren that he
hoped would come. What he needed—what he had to have—was the right husband for Ellen, and McLendon had just convinced Mr. Douglass that he was the one.

“In many ways, you and I are very much alike,” Mr. Douglass said. “I myself started with nothing but my wits. There's one critical difference. You've got no stomach for the hard action that's sometimes required, and I doubt that you ever will. But when I'm gone you'll have Patrick Brautigan, who understands the need for a hammer when a smile's not enough.”

For once, McLendon was at a loss for words. He finally managed, “But about Ellen, sir. Would she even have me?”

“She likes you well enough.” Mr. Douglass lit a cigar and pointed the glowing tip at McLendon. “Take time to consider my offer, though not too much. I'm confident you'll have the sense to marry Ellen and give up your Italian girl.”

In his confusion, McLendon hadn't thought about Gabrielle. He blurted, “You know about her?”

“You're not my only watcher. Put the Eye-tie aside.”

McLendon's initial, private reaction was that he couldn't even consider marrying Ellen Douglass. He loved Gabrielle. He'd refuse Mr. Douglass's offer, leave his employment, marry Gabrielle, and help run the dry goods store. But then he considered Mr. Douglass's reaction if he refused. By whatever means necessary, Mr. Douglass would have revenge, at least by opening a rival shop and putting the Tirritos out of business—or even, if he were outraged enough, setting Killer Boots on Salvatore and Gabrielle and perhaps McLendon himself. By being noble and choosing Ellen, whom he didn't love, he might be saving the life of the woman he really loved, and her father's, to say nothing of his own.

He sent word to Gabrielle that he was ill and lay anguishing in his
room at the imposing Douglass mansion. At first he thought mostly of how Gabrielle's entire face glowed when she smiled, but then he pictured Ellen, beautiful and mysterious. He contrasted the Tirritos' small house behind their shop with the imposing Douglass habitation, and the small family shop to the Douglass business empire. McLendon remembered being a panicked little boy whose mother was dead and whose father had disappeared, and the terrible feeling of being poor and helpless. Gabrielle was wonderful, but Ellen was so beautiful, and so very, very rich. . . .

Cash McLendon, who was so good at convincing others, convinced himself that it wasn't the Douglass fortune that was the deciding factor in his decision. He was sacrificing his own happiness to save Gabrielle and her father from the wrath of Rupert Douglass.

“I'll be a good husband to your daughter,” McLendon told his employer.

Mr. Douglass looked hard at McLendon. “From this moment forward, have no contact with the Italian girl. I want your word on this.”

McLendon took a deep breath, then said quietly, “You have it.”

•   •   •

T
HE
S
T.
L
OUIS
newspapers made much of the engagement, noting that Rupert Douglass, father of the prospective bride, was a leading businessman and philanthropist. McLendon wondered if Gabrielle would read the stories. Because of his promise to Mr. Douglass, he couldn't tell her in person.