Free Galveston by Suzanne Morris Page B

Driscoll’s faux pas over the Wharf Company.
    â€œBy the way,” he continued, “I’ve got a client who wants to lease some land along the north side of the channel for puttin’ up a warehouse. The petition goes before the council next Monday, but just between us, I don’t think it has a chance.”
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    â€œBecause goods stored in that warehouse would go directly aboard the sailin’ vessel, escapin’ the drayage and wharfage charge. The city wouldn’t pay it any mind if it was small pickin’s, but this one’s gonna be a considerable building and they’re not gonna like losing all that money. They haven’t got sense enough to see they’d make more revenue off taxes on the property if the warehouse was put up than they would from their interest in the wharfage,” Pete replied.
    Then Charles mentioned hearing a rumor that the already exorbitant wharfage rates were going up again pretty soon, and Pete said, “Could be; the Wharf Company’s got nothin’ to stop them—a closed corporation holding two thirds of the stock, and no competition!”
    â€œWell, can’t the city do something?” I asked.
    â€œNot likely,” he said, his face reddening. “It took a court rulin’ to get them their measly one third of the stock in the first place, and that much ain’t worth a pot of spoiled black-eyed peas.
    â€œI’m tellin’ you, it’s outrageous that a handful of individual stockholders could have a death grip on the best port on this part of the coast, and, mind you, if they don’t quit paying themselves dividends—seventy grand one year not so long ago—instead of usin’ their profits to expand the wharf facilities, they’re gonna play right into the hands of Houston.”
    I’d read newspaper stories now and then of Houston’s efforts at dredging their own channel, but hadn’t taken them seriously. After all, Galveston was situated on a natural harbor; Houston’s only connection with the open sea—fifty miles away—was a few tortuous, moss-hung bayous. However, Pete was obviously fired up about the subject, so I didn’t argue.
    â€œThat’s right,” Charles was saying, “and while we might be the largest cotton exporter in the South right now, how long before we lose our place when our channel continues to shoal and deepen according to the whims of nature? Right now it’s only eighteen feet deep and ought to be at least twenty-five, to handle the bigger ships. Our complacency is going to get the best of us one day.”
    â€œYou bet,” said Pete, then leaned back without another word, surprising me by giving Charles a chance to elaborate.
    â€œLook how many people already hate the Wharf Company,” he continued. “Take the cotton farmer, for one. Although Galveston draymen are willing to move his cotton from railroad car to shipboard for about fifteen cents a bale, they aren’t allowed on the wharves. Only Wharf Company people can put the cotton aboard, and they charge forty cents a bale. Now, after suffering the high cost of rail transportation to get the cotton here, the farmer doesn’t look too kindly on having a big wharfage fee slapped on him.”
    â€œBut what can be done?” Faye asked.
    Pete wiped the crumbs from around his plate and let them drop from his fingers onto the empty plate, then answered, “The city would buy the other two thirds of the stock and make the wharves free for public use. This has been talked about several times before, but mysteriously dropped. And maybe it’s just as well. The city needs revenue.
    â€œOn the other hand, maybe we could get a court rulin’ to force the corporation to go public—thereby bustin’ the monopoly. That’s unlikely, though, because there’s politics involved.”
    â€œBut if what you’re saying is