15

Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship. Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile, his friends are everything.

WILLA CATHER

The wood flat they were towing up the muddy Mississippi behind the Rowena looked like any other, its facade huge and hulking, full of the fuel that stoked a steamer’s ravenous engines. Few knew that beneath its carefully constructed scaffolding, two dozen slaves were huddled. The Rowena’s crew, bound to secrecy and well rewarded for it, treated it no differently than an ordinary tow, except for the steward’s strange dispensing of rations on the midnight watch.

Years before, they’d hidden fugitives in the hold amid the cargo, but lately port authorities and searches were becoming more aggressive, penalties more harsh. Death in some cases. For every abolitionist on their side, there were a dozen who were rabidly proslavery. The rivers seemed to roil from the escalating tension between the North and the South, particularly on shores of states that proclaimed slaves free.

Nearly abreast of Island 37, the nest of Madder and his Mystic Conspiracy, they sailed past precarious chutes and reefs and rock bars that challenged James’s navigation skills and his temper. He’d not rest till they were in sight of Cincinnati and could offload the fugitives onto free ground. Thankfully Silas Ballantyne had forged contacts there that had stayed strong half a century. James prayed they would hold.

For now the danger was from the river itself—and the uproarious laughter from the captain’s quarters on the texas deck, where an intense game of chess was in progress. Though gambling wasn’t allowed in the Ballantyne line, or spirits, the officers were cutthroat competitors. Recently Silas had gifted Dean with a rosewood chess set from Scotland for his fortieth birthday.

James’s melancholy wouldn’t let him join them. It had taken all his nerve to maneuver past the graveyard—the site of the City of Pittsburgh’s explosion—half an hour before. Bits of debris still rode the water, a grim calling card in the moonlight. Trevor Bixby and crew hadn’t lived long. The loss had faded to a dull, disbelieving ache.

Uttering a low prayer, he tapped the bell three times, giving the signal to land.

The Rowena lapsed into a lonesome silence as the engines sputtered and stilled. In breathless seconds the wood flat emptied. Fugitive slaves, some clutching small pokes, set foot on the dark Ohio shore. Freedom’s shore. A few wagons awaited, their Quaker drivers committed to helping them north. No one said a word, communicating solely through hand gestures and facial expressions, ever alert to the torchlight of bounty hunters or the barking of bloodhounds. All that remained was for the wood flat to be carefully stowed in some secluded cove till needed again on a return trip.

Dean stood in back of James as he returned the steamer to the swift Ohio current. “That was a clever ruse back there in Louisville, Sackett, filling them with fear of fever. I’ve never seen port authorities call off an inspection so fast in all my days. They scattered like windblown leaves.”

James’s smile was thin, though his relief was potent. “It was more our lead engineer playing the part than anything I said or did.”

Dean chuckled. “He always looks ill, poor Perry, working around the boilers as he does. Filled to the brim with typhoid, aye.”

James took his gaze from the shore as the last of the wagons faded from view. “We’ll have to become more quick-witted if we’re to stay in the game. The stakes are getting higher.”

“The latest being the Fugitive Slave Act, you mean.” Dean took a seat, fishing out his pipe and striking a lucifer match on the bottom of his boot. “Now that any person can be deputized to assist in recapturing slaves, it raises the danger to a whole new level.”

“Some are predicting a war between the states.”

“It doesn’t help that Washington is sending mixed signals, abolishing the slave trade in the capital but letting slavery continue down south.” Dean grimaced and released a plume of pipe smoke. “That’s bound to make for mayhem.”

“Mayhem, aye.” James changed course, knowing it would be a long night if he kept Dean talking politics. “I spoke with Silas before we left Pittsburgh. He wants us to join him for a few days at Lake Lanark when we return.”

“His mountain retreat?” Surprise edged Dean’s voice. “It’s not like Silas to be away the end of the shipping season. Though Lord knows he needs it, with the Ashburton affair and inquest.”

Aye, and more besides. But James wouldn’t mention the turn in Silas’s health—or Dr. Hennessey’s frank appraisal. As far as he knew, only he, Silas, and the doctor were privy to that. “A few days fishing and hunting should do us all good.”

Dean was looking at him as if he suspected something was amiss. “Taking Bixby’s death so hard you’re in need of a respite yourself.” His voice dropped to a low murmur. “I’m also very sorry about Bennett’s fiancée, but I’m not sorry you kept your distance.”

“I was going to help her.” The truth of it had come to haunt him. A day’s delay had cost him everything, including Wren Ballantyne’s confidence. Though there could never be anything between them, her opinion somehow mattered. “I simply should have acted sooner than I did.”

“Let it go, James. Think instead of what’s ahead.”

He gave Dean a long, questioning look. The future was hardly promising. Madder’s threats . . . Bennett’s extravagance . . . Silas’s demise. “Lake Lanark holds little appeal as matters stand.”

“Well, I’m not averse to a little fishing and hunting and dining. Who all will be joining us?”

“Silas didn’t say.”

Dean drew hard on his pipe. “Well, if Silas has anything to do with it, there’s likely to be a few surprises. An interesting time will be had by all.”

The fall season, muted in the city with its crush of buildings, was an outright explosion of color in the mountains of western Pennsylvania. Russet and crimson and gold lit the woods like fire, defying description. James was glad he’d come. Here he could see for miles and draw a clean breath, away from the hustle of the city. Even the trouble with Bennett seemed less pressing. Charlotte’s passing more distant. Only Wren seemed to have followed him. Would she find the fall color here as glorious as her Kentucky hills?

“Beautiful as it is, I’d rather be in the Highlands.” Dean cast his line into the lake’s still waters, where a gentle mist had begun to hover. “Nothing like salmon fishing along the Tay in autumn.”

James watched the lure drift lazily atop the water. “Since I’ve never been to Scotland, I don’t know what I’m missing.”

“You only need marry to go. Silas’s generous offer still stands if you’re willing.”

“A Highland honeymoon?” James examined his line, unsnarling a kink of silk near the tip. “Doesn’t that entail finding a bride?”

“Word is you have a paramour in every port, Sackett.”

The timeworn rumor nearly made James roll his eyes. “If that were true, I’d likely be in Scotland now instead of listening to your lies.”

Chuckling, Dean gave a shrug. “Oh, you know the papers, forever creating a story when there is none.”

“Like the Madder–Mystic Conspiracy affair.”

“Unfortunately, that one seems to have merit.” He watched as James recast, snapping the bamboo rod back and forth in several fluid motions. Dean’s amusement faded to amazement as the line tightened and jerked.

James flashed him a grin as he reeled his catch in. “If only fishing for Mrs. Sackett was as simple.”

“Ah, if only . . .” Wading into the water, Dean netted the catch in one swoop and held up a sleek black bass. “By heaven, James. We’ve been out less than an hour. Will you best me in the shooting match tomorrow too?”

“I seem to remember Malachi Cameron besting us both last time.”

“Only you—by a hair. I didn’t make it past the first heat.” Bending low, he extracted the hook. “He’s here, you know. I saw him arrive with his grandfather earlier. Apparently they’ll be joining us for dinner.”

“I haven’t seen Malachi for a year or better. Not since his father died.”

Dean grimaced. “Terrible calamity, that. Cut down in the prime of life, along with a good portion of Pittsburgh.”

“Typhus plays no favorites,” James muttered, the memory of the mass burials all too fresh. He’d stood alongside the small Cameron clan as the ornate coffin was lowered into the hard winter ground, the only sound that of the wind and Mina weeping. From the stricken look on Malachi’s face, it seemed he wanted to be buried with it. He still had his grandfather, at least, though Cullen Cameron was nearly as old as Silas.

“Speaking of dinner . . .” Dean reached into his pocket and extracted a watch. “It’s nearly six o’clock. If we don’t start back now we’ll be late, and you know how Silas likes everyone to be on time. Besides, I wouldn’t want to miss whatever the evening has in store.”

“My guess is there’s to be some announcement. Though with Ansel, Peyton, and Bennett absent, one doubts how much business can be done.”

Dean nodded and started up the leaf-strewn path to the lodge. “Shall we?”

Coming downstairs ahead of the dinner hour, James saw Silas on the lodge’s front veranda. Just beyond the open front door he stood, dressed informally though finely, the walking stick he sometimes used nowhere in sight. It was unusual to find Silas alone. Usually he was surrounded by business associates, family, and friends.

The Ballantynes had purchased the surrounding six hundred acres several years prior, though the building was but three years old, its white and red exterior and polished interior a favorite retreat of Pittsburgh’s elite. All who came hunted and fished and sailed, bunking in the lodge or one of the cottages along the shore, sometimes bringing their wives but most often not. James was staying upstairs in the room he usually occupied, its wide windows overlooking Lake Lanark as it spread west.

A few men were gathering, all informally dressed and talking business. The aroma of roast lamb mingled with woodsmoke, the crackling fire in the immense, ceramic-tiled fireplace the focal point of the lodge’s main room.

Nodding to the attorney and chief counsel to the Ballantynes, James joined Silas on the veranda. Since his collapse, James had sensed an unspoken urgency about him, that matters be resolved and left in order, all loose ends neatly tied, whatever they might be. The growing ache in his throat . . . his heart . . . confirmed time was short.

Silas turned. “Evening, James. The Lord has given us a fine sunset, aye?”

“None finer.”

“A shame Pittsburgh has become auld reekie like Edinburgh and deprived us of such pleasures.” Not one to complain, he smiled as if to soften the words. “Everything is to your satisfaction here, I hope.” At James’s nod, he said easily, “Captain Dean has been crowing about your catch earlier today. You’d think it was his instead.”

“Dean has always been a good sport, on the river or otherwise.”

Silas’s gaze returned to the lake. “He’s given his approval regarding the pilot who’s to take your place this winter.”

“Yes, matters are settled there.”

“It’s been a long time since you were last lying in port under wages. Heaven knows you’ve earned such.” Silas looked back at him, thoughtful. “Now seems a good time to thank you for coming to my aid in my office when I fell ill recently—and for keeping the matter hushed. I’ve no wish to alarm anyone unduly, though the episode has made me take stock of a few matters.”

“No thanks needed,” James replied, suddenly troubled by the sight of Bennett walking along the shoreline of the lake. So he’d come after all. If Bennett was present, Peyton was never far.

“Simply put, I’ve decided to make some lasting changes.” Silas spoke with deliberate care, his aged features resigned. “I’m assigning you the new Ballantyne-Cameron alliance while you’re off the river, and leaving older, less significant business to Bennett and his father. Any future enterprises will be handled by Ansel and, in my absence, overseen by him completely.” He hesitated as if weighing the wisdom of his next words. “I have the utmost faith in you and Ansel, James. I only wish I could say the same of everyone.”

James felt nearly light-headed with relief, yet a tug of sympathy remained. Rarely did Silas speak disparagingly about family, but he had become increasingly frustrated with Bennett’s disastrous business acumen and Peyton’s utter lack of vision.

“I’ll make the announcement tonight following supper when everyone is present.”

The shrewdness of the plan was not lost on James. When it was delivered to everyone at once, Peyton and Bennett would not be able to defy Silas or circumvent the process. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks, though the unprecedented changes meant Silas was letting go.

“I hope all of this will make your respite from the river more palatable.” Silas’s solemnity gave way to a familiar, sharp-eyed clarity. “I’m optimistic our new agreement with the Camerons will transition into our becoming a part of the transcontinental rail system in the future and lead to further business ventures in California.”

James felt a hitch of surprise. They’d talked about the gold rush in the past, of fortunes made and lost and the opportunities to be had there. “I’m on board,” he said with an interest and enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in months.

“Very well, then. We have much to look forward to.”

Moonrise gilded the lake silver, the surrounding stillness so hushed it felt hallowed. James sat in the shadows of the veranda, thoughts racing, the cadence of his pulse as steady as the crickets’ pulsating calls. Looking back on the lengthy dinner hour, he could barely recall what had been served or whom he’d sat beside. Once Silas had made his announcement, the room held a startled hush as everyone grappled with the sweeping changes, Peyton and Bennett foremost. They’d masked their discomfiture none too well, but the die had now been cast and there was no turning back.

“I’m afraid Pittsburgh is nearing the end of its heyday in the steamboat trade with the coming of the railroad,” Silas had told them. Resignation tinged his tone, but it was followed by a beat of optimism. “’Tis time for a new venture. We need to be looking west. I have every confidence that these changes will solidify our standing in Pittsburgh and move us into more exciting endeavors beyond its limits.”

At Silas’s announcement, James’s gaze had drifted five seats down to Malachi Cameron, who’d broached a different proposal a week prior. Delivered to the boatyard office, the telegram was as forthright as Malachi could make it.

Need freight agent for the Pennsylvania Railroad. Are you the man?

Either offer was the making of a fortune. A future. Gratitude swelled inside him. How had an orphaned boy come so far? By the grace of God. And the Ballantynes.

A creak on the stair through the clubhouse’s open door broke James’s concentration. He went completely still. The slant of the moon told him it was half past four. Likely a servant laying the breakfast fires. Sunrise came late to the autumn woods.

A shadow darkened the moonlit veranda. Barefoot, clad in shirtsleeves and trousers, russet hair on end, Malachi Cameron looked anything but the owner of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

“Morning, Malachi.”

“Morning, James. Can’t you sleep?” He rubbed a hand over his eyes as if he’d been sleepwalking and was surprised to find himself out of bed. “I’m so used to working round the clock I don’t know dawn from midnight.”

“I can make some coffee.”

“Why? So I can be up all day too?” With a lopsided grin Malachi took the nearest chair, suddenly sobering. “I’ll admit it’s not business that keeps me awake.”

James relaxed, glad of it. He needed time to sort through all the changes. Time to prayerfully consider the future. A cold gust of wind sent a shower of dry leaves off the roof and onto the porch, leaving a scarlet trail. He crossed his arms against the chill, his own bare feet like ice.

“I thought perhaps coming here would be the respite I needed. Help me forget.” Malachi steepled his fingers and looked out at the lake. The utter quiet called for confidences not to be had in a crowded dining room. “Since my father died, I can’t seem to get my bearings.”

“It’s not been a year yet,” James said, but the reassurance came too fast. Time, in this case, didn’t matter. Some wounds never healed, including his own.

“Being here in autumn brings it all back.” Malachi’s voice was low. Oddly sentimental. “There are things I wish I’d said. Done. I don’t think I told you what my father said to me at the last. That his greatest regret was to not see me married . . . know his grandchildren.”

James stayed silent. There was nothing he could say to lessen what could never be.

“I’d not given it much thought till then. But lately it’s all I think about.”

“Marrying, you mean.”

Malachi nodded. “I’ve even let my aunt Mina talk me into coming back for the winter social season.”

“That’s bound to make some Pittsburgh belles happy.”

He grimaced. “The idea of an endless round of dances and dinners and making small talk leaves me cold. I want to cut to the chase. Marry and get on with it.”

“What you need is a woman who makes you forget about work.”

“Is there such a thing?” Frustration peppered his tone. “As fond as I am of Mina and her meddling, it’s your judgment I trust, James. You have ties to everyone in the city. You know who’s worthy of courting and who’s not.”

“Are you asking me to turn matchmaker?”

“Just this once.” Malachi was watching him, expectant, ever intense. As serious as if he was talking business. “I won’t hold you responsible if the courtship is less than I’d hoped. Surely there’s some woman you can recommend.”

A dozen Pittsburgh belles danced in James’s head at the request, most of them unsuitable. He held his tongue, willing the matter to go away.

“Name one, James.”

One. James still balked. Stubborn seconds ticked by. Pushing Wren from his mind, James let go of Izannah. “You need look no further than Miss Turlock.”

“Izannah?” Malachi ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “I haven’t seen Izannah in years.”

“You’ve seen little of anyone in years, given you’ve been laying track.”

“Last I heard she didn’t finish her season.”

“True enough. Someone cut her one too many times and she refused to attend another function.”

“Someone?” Malachi’s surprise faded to a grim smirk. “I recall hearing it involved Alice Mellon. Miss Malice, Mina calls her.”

“Some of the older, moneyed families can’t get past the Turlock taint.” James worked to keep the bitterness from his tone. “Pittsburghers have long memories.”

“I seem to remember Izannah outdistancing me in the schoolroom when we shared the same tutors in years past.”

James nodded. “She’s intelligent, yes. She’s also beautiful, amiable, sensible.”

“Her father dotes on her, so I’ve heard. Won’t let her out of his sight.” He expelled a ragged breath. “I’ll admit you tempt me. If she’s anything like her mother, there may be a wealth of sons in the bargain.”

“Ten at last count.” James took his pipe from his waistcoat pocket and felt for his tobacco pouch. “You could simply court her and circumvent the social season altogether, if she’ll have you.”

Malachi took out his own pipe, igniting a match. The lucifer flared, illuminating a wicked half smile. “You sound half in love with her yourself, Sackett.”

With a chuckle, James played along with the jest. “I’m little more than a river pilot with few prospects, remember.”

“Few prospects indeed.” Malachi raised a brow. “Rumor is Silas made you an offer tonight that may well trump mine. It’s also circulating that a certain river pilot bought a hundred thousand shares of stock before news of the Cameron-Ballantyne alliance was made public, and then when the news became print, the shares doubled and he sold them.”

Their combined laughter was a low rumble. James shrugged. “There’s no reward without risk, as Silas says.”

“Well, business aside, it’s time to settle down.” Malachi was studying him again, all seriousness, as if they’d entered into some binding agreement. “I’m approaching thirty now and getting older by the minute.”

“Then we’d best be about the business of finding you a willing bride,” James replied.