This acute involvement puzzled him, because, ever since Orry Main's visit two weeks ago this very night, George had been submerged in a strange, numb state. He felt at a distance from most life around him and especially from that of the nation, one part of which had seceded and attacked the other. The Union was sundered; troops were mustering. As if that somehow had no bearing on his existence, or any impact on his emotions, George had resorted to self-willed isolation.

On horseback, he raced from the rear of the mansion he'd named Belvedere and down the twisting hillside road toward the fire. The strong wind gusts blew like blasts from one of the furnaces of Hazard Iron; the foreman's house must have become an inferno. Was the volunteer company on the scene? He prayed so.

The road, high-crowned and bumpy, required tight control of his mount. The route took him by the many buildings of the ironworks, generating smoke and light and noise even at this hour. Hazard's was running continuously, rolling out rails and plate for the Union war effort just commencing. The company was also about to sign a contract to cast cannon. Just now, however, business was the farthest thing from the mind of the man riding swiftly past the terraces of the better homes, then into the flat streets of the commercial district toward the heat and glare of the fire.

The trouble in Fenton's house had been known to George for some time. Whenever a worker had a problem, he usually heard about it. He wanted it so. Occasionally discipline was required, but he preferred the remedies of discussion, understanding, and advice, wanted or no.

The previous year, Fenton had taken in his footloose cousin, a muscular, energetic chap twenty years his junior. Temporarily without funds, the young man needed a job. The foreman found him one at Hazard's, and the newcomer did well enough for a month or two.