Quicksilver

  Eliza still knew little about Gomer Bolstrood and his scheme; but it was obvious enough that he was in league with some merchant or other, who was the owner of one such estate, and that he had gotten permission to use the hunting-lodge as a pied-à-terre. A canal ran along one side of the game-park and connected it—if you knew which turns to take—to the Haagsche Bos, that large park next to the Binnenhof. The distance was several miles, and so it might have been a morning’s or an afternoon’s journey in the summer. But when ice was on the canals, and skates were on the traveler’s feet, it could be accomplished in very little time.

  Thus Monmouth had arrived, by himself, incognito. He was seated on the chair that Bolstrood had likened to an ogre’s throne, and Eliza and Bolstrood were on the creaking faggot-chairs. Bolstrood tried to make a formal introduction of the Client, but—

  “So,” Eliza said, “as you were saying a short time ago: fighting battles with muskets and powder is an outmoded practice and…”

  “It suits my purposes for people to think that I actually believe such nonsense,” Monmouth said, “and women are ever eager to believe it.”

  “Why—because in battle, women become swag, and we don’t like being swag?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’ve been swag. It didn’t suit me. So, for me, your little lecture about modernity was inspiring in a way.”

  “As I said—women are eager to believe it.”

  “The two of you are acquainted—?—!” Bolstrood finally forced out.

  “As my late Dad so aptly demonstrated, those of us who are predestined to burn in Hell must try to have a bit of fun while we are alive,” Monmouth said. “Men and women—ones who are not Puritans, anyway—know each other in all sorts of ways!” Regarding Eliza warmly. Eliza gave him a look that was intended to be like a giant icicle thrust through his abdomen—but Monmouth responded with a small erotic quiver.

  Eliza said, “If you play into the comte d’Avaux’s hands so easily, by diverting your affections from Mary—what use will you be when you sit on the throne of England?”

  Monmouth drooped and looked at Bolstrood.

  “I didn’t tell her, exactly,” Gomer Bolstrood protested, “I only told her what commodities we wish to purchase.”

  “Which was enough to make your plan quite obvious,” Eliza said.

  “Doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Monmouth said. “As we cannot make the purchases anyway without putting up some collateral—and in our case the collateral is the throne.”

  “That’s not what I was told,” Eliza said. “I’ve been assuming the account would be settled with gold.”

  “And so it will be—after.”

  “After what?”

  “After we’ve conquered England.”

  “Oh.”

  “But most of England is on our side, so—a few months at most.”

  “Does most-of-England have guns?”

  “It’s true what he says,” put in Gomer Bolstrood. “Everywhere this man goes in England, people turn out into the streets and light bonfires for him, and burn the Pope in effigy.”

  “So in addition to purchasing the required commodities, you require a bridge loan, for which your collateral will be—”

  “The Tower of London,” Monmouth said reassuringly.

  “I am a trader, not a shareholder,” Eliza said. “I cannot be your financier.”

  “How can you trade, without being a shareholder?”

  “I trade ducat shares, which have one-tenth the value of proper V.O.C. shares and are far more liquid. I hold them—or options—only long enough to eke out a small profit. You will need to skate about forty miles that way, your grace,” Eliza said, pointing northeast, “and make connections with Amsterdam moneylenders. There are great men there, princes of the market, who’ve accumulated stacks of V.O.C. stock, and who will lend money out against it. But as you cannot put the Tower of London in your pocket and set it on the table as security for the loan, you’ll need something else.”

  “We know that,” Bolstrood said. “We are merely letting you know that when time comes to effect the transaction, the payment will come, not from us, but—”

  “From some credulous lender.”

  “Not so credulous. Important men are with us.”

  “May I know who those men are?”

  A look between Bolstrood and Monmouth. “Not now. Later, in Amsterdam,” Bolstrood said.

  “This is never going to work—those Amsterdammers have more good investments than they know what to do with,” Eliza said. “But there might be another way to get the money.”

  “Where do you propose to get it from, if not the moneylenders of Amsterdam?” Monmouth asked. “My mistress has already pawned all of her jewels—that resource is exhausted.”

  “We can get it from Mr. Sluys,” Eliza said, after a long few minutes of staring into the fire. She turned to face the others. The air of the lodge was suddenly cool on her brow.

  “The one who betrayed his country thirteen years ago?” Bolstrood asked warily.

  “The same. He has many connections with French investors and is very rich.”

  “You mean to blackmail him, then—?” Monmouth asked.

  “Not precisely. First we’ll find some other investor and tell him of your plan to invade England.”

  “But the plan is a secret!”

  “He’ll have every incentive to keep it secret—for as soon as he knows, he will begin selling V.O.C. stock short.”

  “That, ‘selling short,’ is a bit of zargon I have heard Dutchmen and Jews bandy about, but I know not what it means,” Monmouth said.

  “There are two factions who war with each other in the market: liefhebberen or bulls who want the stock to rise, and contremines or bears who want it to fall. Frequently a group of bears will come together and form a secret cabal—they will spread false news of pirates off the coast, or go into the market loudly selling shares at very low prices, trying to create a panic and make the price drop.”

  “But how do they make money from this?”

  “Never mind the details—there are ways of using options so that you will make money if the price falls. It is called short selling. Our investor—once we tell him about your invasion plans—will begin betting that V.O.C. stock will drop soon. And rest assured, it will. Only a few years ago, mere rumors about the state of Anglo/Dutch relations were sufficient to depress the price by ten or twenty percent. News of an invasion will plunge it through the floor.”

  “Why?” Monmouth asked.

  “England has a powerful navy—if they are hostile to Holland, they can choke off shipping, and the V.O.C. drops like a stone.”

  “But my policies will be far more congenial to the Hollanders than King James’s!” Monmouth protested.

  Bolstrood meanwhile had a look on his face as if he were being garrotted by an invisible cord.

  Eliza composed herself, breathed deeply, and smiled at Monmouth—then leaned forward and put her hand on his forearm. “Naturally, when it becomes generally understood that your rebellion is going to succeed, V.O.C. stock will soar like a lark in the morning. But at first the market will be dominated by ignorant ninehammers who’ll foolishly assume that King James will prevail—and that he will be ever so annoyed at the Dutch for having allowed their territory to serve as spring-board for an invasion of his country.”

  Bolstrood relaxed a bit.

  “So at first the market will drop,” Monmouth said distractedly.

  “Until the true situation becomes generally known,” Eliza said, patted his arm firmly, and drew back. Gomer Bolstrood seemed to relax further. “During that interval,” Eliza continued, “our investor will have the opportunity to reap a colossal profit, by selling the market short. And in exchange for that opportunity he’ll gladly buy you all the lead and powder you need to mount the invasion.”

  “But that investor is not Mr. Sluys—?”

  “In any short-selling transaction there is a loser as well
as a winner,” Eliza said. “Mr. Sluys is to be the loser.”

  “Why him specifically?” Bolstrood asked. “It could be any liefhebber.”

  “Selling short has been illegal for three-quarters of a century! Numerous edicts have been issued to prevent it—one of them written in the time of the Stadholder Frederick Henry. Now, if a trader is caught short—that is, if he has signed a contract that will cause him to lose money—he can ‘appeal to Frederick.’”

  “But Frederick Henry died ages ago,” Monmouth protested.

  “It is an expression—a term of art. It simply means to repudiate the contract, and refuse to pay. According to Frederick Henry’s edict, that repudiation will be upheld in a court of law.”

  “But if it’s true that there must always be a loser when selling short, then Frederick Henry’s decree must’ve stamped out the practice altogether!”

  “Oh, no, your grace—short selling thrives in Amsterdam! Many traders make their living from it!”

  “But why don’t all of the losers simply ‘appeal to Frederick’?”

  “It all has to do with how the contracts are structured. If you’re clever enough you can put the loser in a position where he dare not appeal to Frederick.”

  “So it is a sort of blackmail after all,” Bolstrood said, gazing out the window across a snowy field—but hot on Eliza’s trail. “We set Sluys up to be the loser—then if he appeals to Frederick, the entire story comes out in a court of law—including the warehouse full of lead—and he’s exposed as a traitor. So he’ll eat the loss without complaint.”

  “But—if I’m following all of this—it relies on Sluys not knowing that there is a plan to invade England,” Monmouth said. “Otherwise he’d be a fool to enter into the short contract.”

  “That is certainly true,” Eliza said. “We want him to believe that V.O.C. stock will rise.”

  “But if he’s selling us the lead, he’ll know we’re planning something.”

  “Yes—but he needn’t know what is being planned, or when. We need only manipulate his mental state, so that he has reason to believe that V.O.C. shares are soon to rise.”

  “And—as I’m now beginning to understand—you are something of a virtuoso when it comes to manipulating men’s mental states,” Monmouth said.

  “You make it sound ever so much more difficult than it really is,” Eliza answered. “Mostly I just sit quietly and let the men manipulate themselves.”

  “Well, if that’s all for now,” Monmouth said, “I feel a powerful urge to go and practice some self-manipulation in private—unless—?”

  “Not today, your grace,” Eliza said, “I must pack my things. Perhaps I’ll see you in Amsterdam?”

  “Nothing could give me greater pleasure.”

  France

  EARLY 1685

  But know that in the Soule

  Are many lesser Faculties that serve

  Reason as chief; among these Fansie next

  Her office holds; of all external things,

  Which the five watchful Senses represent,

  She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes,

  Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames

  All what we affirm or what deny, and call

  Our knowledge or opinion; then retires

  Into her private Cell when Nature rests.

  Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes

  To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes,

  Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams,

  Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.

  —MILTON, Paradise Lost

  JACK RODE BETWEEN PARIS and Lyons several times in the early part of 1685, ferrying news. Paris: the King of England is dead! Lyons: some Spanish governorships in America are up for sale. Paris: King Looie has secretly married Mademoiselle de Maintenon, and the Jesuits have his ear now. Lyons: yellow fever is slaying mine-slaves by the thousands in Brazil—the price of gold ought to rise.

  It was disconcertingly like working for someone—just the sort of arrangement he’d given up, long ago, as being beneath his dignity. It was, to put it more simply, too much like what Bob did. So Jack had to keep reminding himself that he was not actually doing it, but pretending to do it, so that he could get his horse ready to sell—then he would tell these bankers to fuck themselves.

  He was riding back toward Paris from Lyons one day—an unseasonably cold day in March—when he encountered a column of three score men shuffling toward him. Their heads were shaved and they were dressed in dirty rags—though most had elected to tear up whatever clothes they had, and wrap them around their bleeding feet. Their arms were bound behind their backs and so it was easy to see their protruding ribs, mottled with sores and whip-marks. They were accompanied by some half-dozen mounted archers who could easily pick off stragglers or runaways.

  In other words, just another group of galley slaves on their way down to Marseille. But these were more miserable than most. Your typical galley slave was a deserter, smuggler, or criminal, hence young and tough. A column of such men setting out from Paris in the winter might expect to lose no more than half its number to cold, disease, starvation, and beatings along the way. But this group—like several others Jack had seen recently—seemed to consist entirely of old men who had no chance whatever of making it to Marseille—or (for that matter) to whatever inn their guards expected to sleep in tonight. They were painting the road with blood as they trudged along, and they moved so slowly that the trip would take them weeks. But this was a journey you wanted to finish in as few days as possible.

  Jack rode off to the side and waited for the column to pass him by. The stragglers were tailed by a horseman who, as Jack watched, patiently uncoiled his nerf du boeuf, whirled it round his head a time or two (to make a scary noise and build up speed), and then snapped it through the air to bite a chunk out of a slave’s ear. Extremely pleased with his own prowess, he then said something not very pleasant about the R.P.R. Which made everything clear to Jack, for R.P.R. stood for Religion Pretendue Réformée, which was a contemptuous way of referring to Huguenots. Huguenots tended to be prosperous merchants and artisans, and so naturally if you gave them the galley slave treatment they would suffer much worse than a Vagabond.

  Only a few hours later, watching another such column go by, he stared right into the face of Monsieur Arlanc—who stared right back at him. He had no hair, his cheeks were grizzly and sucked-in from hunger, but Monsieur Arlanc it was.

  There was nothing for Jack to do at the time. Even if he’d been armed with a musket, one of the archers would’ve put an arrow through him before he could reload and fire a second ball. But that evening he circled back to an inn that lay several miles south of where he’d seen Monsieur Arlanc, and bided his time in the shadows and the indigo night for a few hours, freezing in clouds of vapor from the nostrils of his angry and uncomfortable horses, until he was certain that the guards would be in bed. Then he rode up to that inn and paid a guard to open the gate for him, and rode, with his little string of horses, into the stable-yard.

  Several Huguenots were just standing there, stark naked, chained together in the open. Some jostled about in a feeble effort to stay warm, others looked dead. But Monsieur Arlanc was not in this group. A groom shot back a bolt on a stable door and allowed Jack to go inside, and (once Jack put more silver in his pocket) lent him a lantern. There Jack found the rest of the galley slaves. Weaker ones had burrowed into piles of straw, stronger ones had buried themselves in the great steaming piles of manure that filled the corners. Monsieur Arlanc was among these. He was actually snoring when the light from Jack’s lantern splashed on his face.

  Now the next morning, Monsieur Arlanc set out with his column of fellow-slaves, not very well-rested, but with a belly full of cheese and bread, and a pair of good boots on his feet. Jack meanwhile rode north with his feet housed in some wooden shoes he’d bought from a peasant.

  He’d been ready and willing to gallop out of there with Arlanc on one o
f the spare horses, but the Huguenot had calmly and with the most admirable French logic explained why this would not work: “The other slaves will be punished if I am found missing in the morning. Most of them are my co-religionists and might accept this, but others are common criminals. In order to prevent it, these would raise the alarm.”

  “I could just kill ’em,” Jack pointed out.

  Monsieur Arlanc—a disembodied, candlelit head resting on a great misty dung-pile—got a pained look. “You would have to do so one at a time. The others would raise the alarm. It is most gallant of you to make such an offer, considering that we hardly know each other. Is this the effect of the English Pox?”

  “Must be,” Jack allowed.

  “Most unfortunate,” Arlanc said.

  Jack was irritated to be pitied by a galley slave. “Your sons—?”

  “Thank you for asking. When le Roi began to oppress us—”

  “Who the hell is Leroy?”

  “The King, the King!”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  “I smuggled them to England. And what of your boys, Jack?”

  “Still waiting for their legacy,” Jack said.

  “Did you manage to sell your ostrich plumes?”

  “I’ve got some Armenians on it.”

  “I gather you have not parted with the horse yet—”

  “Getting him in shape.”

  “To impress the brokers?”

  “Brokers! What do I want with a broker? It’s to impress the customers.”

  Arlanc’s head moved in the lantern-light as if he were burrowing into the manure—Jack realized he was shaking his head in that annoying way that he did when Jack had blurted out something foolish. “It is not possible,” Arlanc said. “The horse trade in Paris is absolutely controlled by the brokers—a Vagabond can no more ride in and sell a horse at the Place Royale than he could go to Versailles and get command of a regiment—it is simply not done.”