in a high, remote corner of the property. The big eight-inch smoothbore, cast around a water-cooled core by Rodman's method, had destroyed its crude wooden carriage and driven iron fragments big as daggers into the thick plank barrier protecting the test observers.
'I simply do not know,' George's superintendent of works repeated. It was the second failure this week.
'All right, we'll adjust the temperature and try again. We'll try till hell freezes. They're screaming for artillery to protect the East Coast, and one of the oldest ironworks in America can't turn out a single working gun. It's unbelievable.'
Wotherspoon cleared his throat. 'No, George, you misapprehend. It is war production. So far as I know, this works has never manufactured cannon before.'
'But, by God, we should be able to master —'
'We will master it, George.' Wotherspoon weighted the second word. 'We will meet the delivery date specified in the contract and do so with pieces that perform satisfactorily.' He risked a smile. 'I guarantee it because Mr. Stanley helped us win the bid, and I am not anxious to displease him.'
'I don't know why,' George growled, staring at the faces passing. 'You could knock him out with one punch.'
'True, but one ought to be frugal with time. That would be a squandering of it.'
The dry, donnish jest did nothing to improve George's mood. Still, he appreciated the young Scotsman's effort. And he knew Wotherspoon understood the reason for his impatience. It would be impossible for him to leave Hazard's or even think seriously about Cameron's offer until he was sure the company could fulfill the contract.
He had no doubts about Hazard's doing it, provided the problem wasn't one of method. He and Wotherspoon had repeatedly gone over the calculations together — and Wotherspoon was nothing if not thorough. That was one reason George had promoted the young bachelor so quickly.
Wotherspoon, thirty, was a slender, slow-spoken, sad-eyed sort with wavy brown hair and a merciless ambition concealed behind impeccable manners. He had apprenticed at a dying ironworks run by successors of the great Darby family at Coalbrookdale, in the valley of the Severn, the same part of England from which the founder of the Hazard family, a fugitive, had fled in the late seventeenth century. As the dominance of the Severn's iron trade diminished, Wotherspoon had chosen emigration to America over a shorter journey to the new factories in Wales. He had arrived in Lehigh Station four years ago in search of a job, a wife, and a fortune. He had the first and was still in pursuit of the others. If he solved the riddle of the flawed castings, George knew he could place day-by-day control of Hazard's in the Scotsman's hands and never worry. He was certain he must leave Lehigh Station and serve; his quandary was a simple question: Where? By pulling a few wires, he could certainly obtain a field command, lead a regiment. Although he loathed combat, it was not fear that rendered the idea unappealing, but a conviction that his experience would be of greatest use in the Ordnance Department, which meant Cameron and Stanley and Isabel. What a damned, dismal choice.
Wotherspoon broke the glum reverie. 'Why don't you go home, George?' Until a year ago, the younger man had addressed him as sir. Then mutual friendship and trust, and George's request, put them on a first-name basis. 'I shall spend a while reviewing the Rodman notes once more. Somehow or other, I suspect the fault lies with us. The inventor of the process graduated from your school —'
'That's right, class of '41.'
'Then he can hardly be wrong, can he, now?'
This time, George laughed. He lit another cigar and spoke with it clenched in his teeth. 'Don't try to sell that opinion in Washington. Half the pols down there think West Point caused the war. Stanley's last letter said Cameron intends to crucify the place in a report he's going to issue. And I'm thinking of working for him. I must be daft.'
Wotherspoon compressed his lips, his version of a smile. 'No, no — we live in an imperfect world, that's all. You might also consider this: It's conceivable that you could help West Point more there than you could here.'
'That's crossed my mind. Good night, Christopher.'
'Good night, my friend.'
Trudging the dusty street among lines of men flowing in both directions, George heard someone sneer about the test failure. He squared his shoulders and hunted for the offender, but of course couldn't find him. The jibe didn't bother him long; he knew that no owner could be popular with every person who worked for him. Besides, respect mattered more than popularity. Respect and peace with his own conscience. Hazard's paid fair wages. George operated no company store to hold his people in thrall. And he refused to hire children.
A headache started above his eyes. So many problems lately. The bad castings. Brett's unhappiness. The possibility of a War Department attack on West Point —
Stanley's letter, pretending to be informative, had actually been meant as an irritant, and George knew it. Referring to the Academy as a 'seedbed of treason,' his brother said the secretary had cited lax discipline and a vague but sinister 'Southern predisposition' to explain why so many regular officers had defected. He shouldn't even consider working for a hack like that.
Of course Wotherspoon had stated one good reason for a contrary view. George's Washington lawyer stated another. In two recent letters, he'd described the urgent need for men of talent and honor to offset the hordes of incompetents already placed in jobs by their political patrons. Thank heaven he didn't have to decide today.
The climb to Belvedere was tiring in the wet, heavy air of late afternoon. He took off his black alpaca coat, loosened his string cravat, and inhaled and exhaled vigorously as he walked. Occasionally some cigar smoke went scorching down his throat, but he was used to that.
On the dusty path, he stopped to gaze up at the mountains. He recalled the lessons his dead mother had tried to pass on to him. He saw the emblem of the most important one above him on the summits — the mountain laurel, tossing in the wind.
His mother, Maude, had instilled in George her own mystic feeling about the laurel. Hardy, it endured the worst of weathers. So did the Hazards, she said. The laurel was strength born of love, she said. Nothing save love could lift men above the meanness woven through their natures and all their days.
She had talked of the laurel when he wondered about the wisdom of bringing Constance to Lehigh Station, where Catholics were largely scorned. He had repeated her words when Billy despaired of Orry Main's temporary opposition to his marriage with Brett.
Endurance and love. Perhaps it would prove enough. He prayed so.
On Belvedere's long, broad veranda, he caught his breath. Sweat ran on his neck and soaked his shirt. He was home sooner than usual. It was a rare chance to relax in a tepid bath with a cigar. Perhaps he could reason out the cause of the cannon shattering. A frown on his face, he let himself in quietly and started upstairs, stopping in the library for the copybook containing his notes on the Rodman process.
'George? You're early. What a grand surprise.'
He turned toward the door.
'I thought I heard you come in,' Constance continued as she entered. Starting to kiss him, she held back. 'Darling, what's wrong?'
'The heat. It's infernal out there.'
'No, it's something else. Ah — the test. That's it, isn't it?'
He slung his coat over his shoulder, affecting nonchalance. 'Yes. We failed again.'
'Oh, George, I'm so sorry.'
She gave herself then, tightly and closely. One cool arm encircled his damp neck while her sweet mouth kissed. Amazing how it helped. She was the laurel.
'I have a piece of good news,' she said presently. 'I finally heard from Father.'
'A letter?'
'Yes, today.'
'Good. I know you've been anxious. Is he all right?'
'I don't know how to answer that. Come along and have a glass of cold cider, and I'll explain. The cider's turned a little — it'll lift your spirits better than cook's lemonade.'
'You lift my spirits,' he said, closing his fingers as she clasped his hand. He took pleasure in letting her lead him out of the library.
When George read the letter, he understood her puzzling answer. 'I can appreciate his disgust with Texas. Patrick Flynn loves a great many things about the South, but slavery isn't one of them. But California? Is that the
