“It’s that Saunders fellow,” he said. “He’s hooked for certain now.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“You know that Pearson’s fled town?” Recollecting himself, he shut the door and then walked over to the calming fire to warm his hands.
“I saw him in New York,” I said. “He’s hiding from creditors.”
Dalton nodded. “His wife suspects something. She sent a note to Saunders.”
I felt something spring to life inside me. “What sort of note?”
“Now, how would I know the answer to that?” he asked.
“Get it,” I said. “Go to his boardinghouse, and if he isn’t home yet, get it. Pay the landlady what you must to give it to you and keep her mouth shut. Promise her more each week she helps us. She’ll not betray us if she thinks there’s more money to be had.”
“Why do you want to delay him?” Skye asked. “He’ll find out in the end.”
“That’s precisely why.” To Dalton I said, “When you pay the landlady, give your name as Reynolds. Make sure she hears the name and knows it. When Saunders finds out, as he must, he will begin to look to Duer.”
Dalton sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Joan. If Saunders stops Duer too soon, it’s all for nothing.”
“We need to make sure we can hobble Duer when we need to, so we’ll set Saunders to sniffing around, but after the wrong things. It will make Duer uneasy and more eager to trust me. We had been thinking of using Saunders only to keep Duer from growing too powerful too quickly, but now I see he can be much more than that. Through Saunders we can manipulate Hamilton. We can make certain he learns nothing before we are ready, and everything when we wish it.”
The two men left, and I was alone in the house, suddenly feeling content and at ease. I could not say why, precisely, but I felt certain that all was now in hand, or soon would be.
Ethan Saunders
I was on my own. So be it. I have worked alone in the past and I would do so again. Alone I would prevent William Duer from taking control of the Million Bank. I would have to remove from the game six men in the space of one morning, and to do that I would need to learn who they were, where they lived, and the nature of their personal arrangements. It would be difficult but eminently possible.
I began to go through Freneau’s papers anew. Freneau had taken detailed and useful notes regarding Duer’s scheme with the Million Bank. It was not clear to me why Freneau had not yet revealed his discovery to the public, and I could only conclude that rather than save the nation from a dangerous financial collapse, he would much prefer to see that collapse transpire. With Hamilton humiliated, Freneau would then be in a position to explain it. Fortunately, however, I was in a position to prevent that collapse from taking place. The key lay in Duer’s agents, and I studied Freneau’s papers to learn what I could of them, including their names and where they lived. I gleaned a little more from a few of the letters—this one was unmarried and lived alone, that one had a wife and two children. They were small details, but they might make all the difference.
Time not passed in discovering the details of Duer’s agents I spent in the Merchants’ Coffeehouse, where the air trembled with expectation—in part, I own, through my own machinations, for I never failed, when given the opportunity, to whisper that the Million Bank launch was imminent and that William Duer himself thought it the best investment of the season. Though cooler heads still regarded the new bank as a foolish venture, destined for failure, there were a number of traders—some of them clearly new to the world of speculation—being drawn into a bancomania.
At each turn, I congratulated myself that I did so well on my own. I’d had Leonidas with me almost the entire span of my disgrace and had regarded him as indispensable. I was not quite prepared to say I was better off without him, but I did well enough. I was lonely, yes, and I hated, truly hated, that I had no one with whom to share my thoughts, but I managed.
Duer did not show himself at Merchants’, and I saw no sign of Reynolds or Pearson, but Whippo did his job as he moved from table to table, predicting gloom for the Million Bank and attempting—unsuccessfully, I thought—to undo the damage I did by speaking constantly of Duer’s enthusiasm.
It was not the only time I saw Whippo. I was down by the docks, returning to my room after researching the address of one of Duer’s men, when I observed him from a fair distance speaking in animated terms to a grocer. I watched while the grocer shook his head. Whippo spoke some more and the grocer shook his head once more. Whippo’s color rose; he waved his hand excitedly as he spoke. This time the grocer nodded and then grinned, the way a man does when he achieves some small victory over a social superior. He disappeared into his shop and returned a moment later with a purse, which he gave to Whippo. In return, Whippo handed the grocer several small pieces of paper. They shook hands, and Whippo wandered off.
I then approached the grocer and introduced myself rather vaguely, but inquired immediately of his business with Whippo.
“What?” the grocer asked. “You want a bit for yourself?”
“A bit of what?”
“The loans. That fellow’s master, Duer, is borrowing at six percent.”
“It is a fair rate, but nothing to get overly excited about,” I said.
“Six percent per week.”
The very notion was absurd—it was as though Duer was giving money away—and I could not think what it meant.
I left the grocer immediately and headed toward Fraunces Tavern, but my path was blocked. There, before me, was the cadaverous form of Isaac Whippo. He stood with legs apart, his sunken chest thrust outward and his head back. He glared at me as though he had some hope of intimidating me. And perhaps this time he did, for my good Mr. Whippo was not alone. By his side stood a rough-looking fellow, broad in the shoulder, uncouth in manner. It was James Reynolds, who looked at me with a very unsavory expression.
“What pit of vomit have you crawled from?” Whippo inquired.
“Why, good afternoon to you too, my friend,” I answered. “Your eyes are looking particularly hollow today. How do you accomplish that?”
“I notice you don’t insult this gentleman,” he said, gesturing at Reynolds.
“I would not insult a man with so beautiful a wife. It cannot be easy to have convinced such a gem to marry a man of your stripe.”
“She’s a slut,” said Reynolds.
“Well,” I said brightly, “that is good news.”
“Enough banter, Saunders. Why are you following us?”
“I was not following you,” I said. “I merely happened to see you and thought I’d ask that grocer about your personal and private business. You don’t object, do you?”
“I advise you to stay out of my affairs,” he said, “lest I ask Reynolds to keep you away.”
“If he asks, it is something I’m paid to do,” said Reynolds. “I think you may depend upon it. That is what I think.”
“Do you know what I think?” I asked. “I think it is a bad policy to lend at six percent a week. Unless, of course, one’s aim is to lose everything. You might wish to pass that along to Mr. Duer.”
“Stay away from us and Mr. Duer,” Whippo said, “or I’ll ruin you.”
“Too late, for I come already ruined.”
“Then Reynolds will break you.”
Reynolds snarled at me, showing a mouth of yellow teeth. No doubt feeling that their threats eliminated all possible retorts, they began to walk off.
“I’m also broken,” I called after them, but they did not turn around, so busy were they in seeking out tradesmen to whom to offer their lucrative interest rates.
It was the evening before the Million Bank launch. It was early yet, perhaps half past four, but already dark. I had work to do, but not yet, and the sound thing would have been to retire to my room to sleep until the small hours of the morning. And yet I knew sleep would not be possible. The entire city was stretched taut with anticipation, waitin
g to see what would happen. Half the city predicted the Million Bank would be a disaster, the other half a wealth-generating engine. I did not know or care which, so long as the bank fulfilled its destiny without being controlled by Duer.
Too anxious to remain still, I decided to take a stroll about the city for an hour or two in the hopes I would become relaxed enough to sleep. Perhaps I had grown too arrogant, but I don’t think so. Rather, I think it safe to say I misunderstood the malice of those against whom I had set myself. I walked north in the direction of the pleasure gardens and considered briefly taking a turn inside, though it was early in the evening and cold, which meant there would be little to distract me. Yet I looked at the gates as I passed, with their graceful stone arching and inviting, vaguely lurid statues of women, something wanton in their eyes.
I was, I suppose, too distracted, for I did not notice that of the conveyances upon the street, one—a covered cart—kept near pace with me. Cleverly it stayed behind me, where I was least likely to notice it, though notice it I did at last, when it pulled even with me, and I caught a glimpse of the driver. First I observed that he was better dressed than the drivers of such carts—he wore the spotless gray coat of a gentleman—and, though he kept his face carefully pointed away from mine, there was something familiar about him. I quickened my pace for a better look. He turned away so I could see only the back of his head, but I observed his hands on the reins—massive, bestial hands—and so it was I knew him. It was Jacob Pearson driving the cart alongside me.
I stopped and stiffened, needing a moment’s immobility to attempt to understand what this meant and what I must do. Then, being able to reach no immediate decision, I decided I would apprehend him now, and, once done, I would decide what to do with him. I tensed to spring forward when all went dark. A heavy leather bag had been thrust over my head. A pair of powerful hands gripped my arms just below my elbows and pressed them to my sides so hard they were pinned there. At once I smelled tobacco and sweat and sour clothes. Whoever had me was not only unclean but strong, far stronger than I, and though I did not wish to submit, I was not going to extricate myself from this encounter with violence.
It had all happened quickly—it would have to be quick if they were to avoid attracting the attention of others on the street. The man who pinned my arms to my side thrust me forward and into the back of the cart, throwing me down on the rough floor. It smelled of hay and manure; human beings were not the usual beasts conveyed in the vehicle, though that told me nothing. Whoever had me might easily have hired the cart from a farmer for the afternoon. The man who had me released one arm for an instant, grabbed my hair, and knocked my head against the floor. He did this hard but not brutally so. The impact hurt, and I felt a wave of nausea and dizziness. It soon passed, however, and when it did, even under the leather hood, I understood a few things. I understood that my assailant had pulled the heavy tarpaulin cover over us both, encasing us in smothering darkness. I understood that he acted alone and that he alone must concern himself with me while Pearson drove the cart, for otherwise he would not have needed to knock my head in order to buy a few seconds to cover us up in the flat of the cart. He now straddled me, placing his full weight upon the small of my back while he held my arms flat by the wrists. He said nothing, so I learned nothing of him that way, but among his many unpleasant odors—and I thought it significant—I did not detect whiskey like the Irishman from outside the Statehouse. So that was the third thing I understood. Whoever had me pinned to the bottom of this cart was the same man who had attacked me at my home in Philadelphia and had been shot at by Mrs. Deisher.
“Good evening.” I attempted to alter my voice. My words were hard even for me to hear, lost in the leather hood and the tarpaulin and the rumble of the wheels upon the road. “My name is Mr. Henry Rufus, and I cannot help but think you have taken me by mistake.”
“Shut up, Saunders,” he answered. “I’m not an idiot.”
I knew that voice. I could almost place it, but the noise of the road and the muffling made it impossible for me to put the sound with its owner. “Look, what is it you want with me?”
“Quiet yourself,” he said again. “I’ll not speak with you. There’s no point, and you’ve a devil’s tongue. Pearson will tell you when he’s ready.”
When he’s ready turned out to be perhaps an hour later. We drove for some time, and I could detect little except that the sounds from our surroundings grew fainter and less frequent. We drove someplace unpopulated—neither surprising nor comforting. At last the cart stopped. We remained motionless for a moment, and I listened to my own breath in the hood and my assailant’s heavy breath over me, and beyond that something else: the lapping of water against the shore. Next I heard a rapping, like a cane against wood. It struck four times, no doubt a signal, and the man atop me eased up the weight upon me. He raised the tarpaulin, letting in a refreshing wave of cool air. Next he grabbed me by one arm, now less concerned that I might attempt to run away. I knew not where I was, so how could I run? He pulled me from the cart and onto the ground, where my other arm was gripped hard by a second man.
“Mr. Pearson, I imagine,” I said. “I am so very flattered that you would trouble yourself to call upon me, but I must inform you that we would be much more comfortable at my inn than here. I have a most agreeable line of credit, at least with the wine.”
He said nothing. Perhaps he wished to torment me, but I don’t think so. I believe he was afraid. I believe he knew it was dangerous to engage in conversation with me and would not risk it. I made several further attempts, but he said nothing. We walked, first upon grass, and then upon soft dirt. Wet dirt, I believed. Then we walked briefly along a stone path. They led me next down a set of slick stairs. More clearly now I heard the sound and smelled the tang of a river: waters both clean and stagnant, the scent of dead fish washed ashore. The air was cool and wet, and soon I was walking in the mud. At last one of the men pushed me forward, and there were subtle differences—a shift in the darkness, the disappearance of the wind—that led me to believe I was now in an enclosed space, a room of some kind, except the earth beneath us was still wet and I could hear the river just as distinctly.
The stronger of the two men—that is, not Pearson—pushed me to my knees, and held me down. Pearson then began to bind my arms behind me with heavy rope. Next he bound my feet together at the ankles. I felt him fumbling with the ropes, and though he pulled hard to make certain his knots were tight, I knew he was inexperienced in these arts.
Once this operation was complete, they pulled me to my feet once more. With a sharp tug, the hood was yanked from my head, and I stood in near-total dark. Only inches from my face I observed the malicious grin of Pearson; by his side, also grinning, but in the easy simple way of dogs, was Reynolds.
“So this is all Duer’s bidding,” I said, “and you, Pearson, are but one of his puppets?”
“I work for Duer,” said Reynolds, “but I am willing to serve other men when time allows. At the moment I work for Mr. Pearson.”
“And the evening my landlady chased you away from her house, were you in Mr. Pearson’s service then too?”
“Aye,” he said.
My eyes having had a moment to adjust, I now looked around me. All was still in darkness, but in shades of gray I determined a few things, none of them encouraging. The earth was wet mud, and it caked my stockings and breeches from when I’d knelt. All around me were the iron bars of a prison, though this cell was very small, not four feet in length or width, wide enough for a man to sit but never lie down. It was perhaps seven feet in height, and there was a single iron door that opened along a square stone slab. The cage rested only inches from the river, and above us was blackness. I smelled the decay of old wood; perhaps we were under a disused pier.
Pearson saw my appraising glances and chose to answer my unspoken questions. “It’s an old dock, used by the British during the occupation, but it was damaged in the war and has never been repaired. A friend
of mine, a British colonel, told me of this cage, and I wondered if it might someday become useful.”
“A friend of yours,” I said, “a British colonel? How shocking.”
“You may make all the quips you like, but I have you and may do with you what I wish.”
“And what do you wish?” I asked. “Why go to all this trouble?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, “the Million Bank launches. Duer wishes me to invest heavily, to deploy my own agents to buy as much as we can, keeping the share within the circle of his acquaintance. I know he has tried to dissuade investment in the launch, but you have been singing its praises. I wish to know why and what you have in mind.”
“What I have in mind,” I said, “is making certain Duer does not gain control of the bank. Listen to me, Pearson. Keep your money out of the Million Bank. You’ll lose everything. That bank will fail in a matter of months.”
“Duer doesn’t think so.”
“Duer doesn’t care,” I said. “The Million Bank can be destroyed in half a year, and it won’t matter to him. All he cares about is controlling the bank for now, using the credit such action will grant him to gain control of the market for six percents and, later, the Bank of the United States. But you didn’t know that, did you? He convinced you to use your own money in lowering the price of six percents, so he could buy them cheaply. He convinced you to buy four percents to raise the value so others would come flocking to sell their six percents in order to buy four percents. But now the four percents are worthless. Don’t lose even more in the Million Bank.”
He paused, just long enough for me to see that my words disquieted him. “And why should I believe you? Why should I take your advice on any of these matters?”
“For the sake of your wife,” I said. “The only reason she has not fled from you is because a woman and two children enduring poverty exposes herself to more dangers and abuse even than living with you. I could not endure to see her living in poverty and with you.”