Back Bay (35 page)

She closed the book. As she reached for the whale-oil lamp, she had another thought. She opened the diary again.

A week later, Jason and Artemus Pratt awaited a visit from Patrick Tracy Jackson in Jason’s office on Long Wharf. Jason sat behind his desk, sipped port, and tore the front page of the daily paper into small strips. Artemus stood at the window, his hands clamped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the
Gay Head II
, a Pratt schooner entering the harbor.

Jason was now forty-six. His one passion was eating, and the
effort required to haul his corpulence about left him little strength for anything but more eating. He did not enjoy the responsibilities he had been born to, and he often wished that his brother Horace had lived to save him from the weight now resting on his shoulders. After his early insights, when he tried to convince his father to invest in textiles, he had become conservative, reactionary. The company made money because the China trade was flourishing. But the company had not grown since Jason had built the six Indiamen in 1826.

“I don’t know why Jackson should be coming here to visit me,” said Jason. “Ordinarily, when we have business to discuss, we meet at the Exchange, or I go to his office.”

“He must want something,” answered Artemus. “And you would do well not to look quite so nervous when he arrives.”

Jason stopped shredding paper and finished his port. “You must choose your friends carefully, son. It’s a terrible thing to be wrong about a man.”

“I would never give a man the opportunity you gave Curtis.” Artemus Pratt was twenty-two years old, with the patrician demeanor of his Lowell mother and the aggressive intellect of his Pratt grandfather. He stood six feet three inches tall, and he knew already that his great height could intimidate other men.

After distinguishing himself at Harvard in the classics and mathematics, Artemus had taken two years off to travel around the world, shipping from port to port on Pratt vessels. He had stayed seven months in Canton and familiarized himself with his family’s Chinese operation. He had visited India and the African Coast. He had spent two months in Rome, another in Florence, and two in Paris. He had concluded his trip in England, where he had stayed at the home of Henry Hannaford II, the son of Horace Pratt’s most trusted British associate.

In England, he had met George Stephenson and witnessed a race among Stephenson’s new locomotive, the
Rocket
, and those of two other British engineers. Stephenson’s engine won the prize of two hundred pounds sterling and the admiration of young Pratt.

Artemus was beginning to realize, as Abigail had five years before, that the future of America would travel on iron wheels. Just before returning to Boston, he rode on the Liverpool-Manchester
line, pulled by a Stephenson locomotive. He traveled thirty-one miles in the amazing time of ninety minutes, and he came home determined to convince his father that railroads were a sound investment.

Patrick Tracy Jackson had come today for the same purpose. He exchanged greetings with the Pratts, took a glass of port, and folded himself into Jason’s chair by the fireplace. He was almost as tall as Artemus, and wore a constant smile that never brightened the rest of his face. “My regrets, gentlemen, on the loss of the
Ephraim Pratt
.”

“A good ship, with a fine captain and a crew composed completely of volunteers,” said Jason. “To compound the tragedy, I discover that my closest friend and adviser has betrayed me.”

“A great pity,” said Jackson.

“You are very kind to make a special visit down to the wharf to bring your condolences.” In his dealings with his peers, Jason was never certain where friendliness ended and obsequy began.

Jackson smiled. “We have been associates for almost fifteen years, Jason. It is only natural that I should be here.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, assuming a most confidential tone. “Tell me, what is your financial condition as a result of the loss of your ship?”

Don’t tell him, thought Artemus. Don’t reveal a weakness.

“Losing the
Ephraim
has cost us a great deal, Patrick. Not only in cargo, but also in confidence. I expect that merchants will be much less inclined to ship with us, now that word about Mr. Curtis is about.”

“Indeed,” he said solemnly. “I’ve heard that sentiment expressed on the waterfront and at the Exchange. In light of your losses, I assume you have very little in the way of investment money.”

Jason nodded.

“A pity,” said Jackson. “Because I’ve come today to convince you to invest in the Boston and Lowell.”

Artemus resisted the impulse to leap into the discussion. At business meetings, a son listened in the presence of his father. He did not undermine his father’s authority by speaking out of turn or, in the presence of others, speaking against his father.

“I’ve seen the latest report of your committee on the Boston and
Lowell,” said Jason. “A six percent profit someplace down the line is not what we’re used to in the China trade. I’d rather gamble my money on ships. We make upwards of fifteen percent clear profit on every ship that returns from China.”

“I can’t argue with that, Jason, except to remind you that your ships are no longer returning regularly. Look around you. You’ll see that all your competitors in the China trade have diversified. Colonel Perkins is interested in the Boston and Lowell. So are the Appletons. Fifteen years ago, you wanted to invest in textiles, but your father preferred to concentrate on ships.” Jackson glanced toward Artemus. “Now, from the way he’s sitting over there about to burst, your own son wants you to leap into railroads, but his father is content with ships and textiles.”

Artemus tried to wipe any expression from his face. If Jackson could show nothing, Artemus would show less.

“You’ve made a thousand shares available to the public at five hundred dollars a share, but the public doesn’t seem interested.” Jason’s command of the figures surprised his son.

“Because the public has no vision, Jason, and the public has no interest in the Merrimack Mills. Do you think Merrimack stockholders would have invested if they had expected their only profit from return dividends? Of course not. The train runs to the mill. That is why we must control the line and set the rates. Your interest in Merrimack Manufacturing is as great as any. You must invest.”

Make a decision, thought Artemus. Don’t waver. Don’t give excuses. Accept or reject, but be decisive.

Jason studied his blotter and drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll admit there are advantages.”

Jackson rose. “At the moment, members of the Merrimack Manufacturing Company hold five hundred and eight shares. I personally have subscribed for a hundred twenty-four. A hundred more and we will maintain comfortable control of the line.”

“You’re asking me to put up fifty thousand dollars. In light of my recent losses, that is impossible.”

“You know that the subscriptions may never be called in, Jason. You’re simply pledging five hundred dollars a share, should construction of the line require it.”

Jason rested his head on his chin.

“Your sister has invested,” goaded Jackson. “Ten shares at the public offering. Five thousand dollars from her own funds. A great deal of money for a widow.”

Artemus’ respect for his aunt grew tenfold.

Jackson poured himself another port, filled Jason’s glass, and sat on the edge of Jason’s desk. Unlike many of his peers, Jackson had a likable streak that he often used to his advantage. “I’ve come today, Jason, because I need your help. Your fellow stockholders need it. We must be sure that the right people are investing money in the enterprises that are building Boston and New England. Why do you think my brother-in-law originally offered you the chance to invest in the Waltham Mills?”

“Because my wife was his cousin,” said Jason cynically.

“Untrue.” Jackson spoke softly, sincerely. “That’s what he may have told you, because Francis Cabot Lowell detested flattery. He told me that he wanted the Pratts involved because the Pratts, like the Lowells, Jacksons, Appletons, and Perkinses, are responsible, worthy men.”

Jason grunted cynically. “I recall Francis Cabot Lowell telling me that my father had one saving grace—his missing arm. There was less of him to loathe. I assume we speak of the same Lowell and the same Pratt.”

Jackson laughed. “My brother-in-law had many opinions, but he always spoke highly of you. And he believed, as I do, that we are a special group. We are, if you will, a merchant aristocracy, related by blood”—he glanced at Artemus, whose mother was a Lowell—“marriage, religion, and pursuit. We are men of a kind, like minded, godfearing, aggressive, honest. We must always work together. Otherwise, the heathens of the business world will overrun us all.”

Jason was flattered in spite of himself. Rarely was he counted among the worthies. “Give me a few days to think it over. With the loss of the
Ephraim
, I’ll have to do some juggling to free a bit of investment capital.”

Jackson put a hand on Jason’s arm. “You know that your word is enough.”

“My father always backed up his word in specie.”

“As you will.” Jackson shook hands with both Pratts, exchanged
a few words with Artemus about his world tour, and headed for the door. Then he stopped.

Artemus sensed the theatricality.

“There is one way that you can subscribe for a hundred shares at half price, or, if you are still timid, fifty shares for nothing.”

Artemus smiled to himself. He realized that Jackson was after more than Pratt support. He saw his father perk up.

“Your family owns nearly an acre of land on Pemberton Hill,” said Jackson. “Give it to the Boston and Lowell Railroad, and I personally will be good for half your subscription.”

“You would pay twenty-five thousand dollars for my father’s house?” Jason was quite surprised.

“We need the land. Mt. Vernon Hill was cut down to fill the edge of the Back Bay. Beacon Hill has been trimmed by eighty feet in the last forty years. Pemberton is the only hill left. This city is growing. We need to make better use of that land.”

“What do you propose to do?” asked Artemus.

“Cut off the top of Pemberton Hill and dump it into the water on the north side of Causeway Street. We’ll make new land for the Boston and Lowell depot, and we can develop a whole new residential area on the remnants of the hill.”

“Gardiner Greene owns a great deal more property than we on the hill,” said Jason. “And his includes the top of the hill. What is his reaction?”

“He refuses to sell. But if we begin to excavate on your land, he’ll have to give in.” Jackson did not wait for a reply. “Think hard, Jason. It’s impossible to build homes on a hillside, and you’ll never sell that land to anyone else for twenty-five thousand dollars.” Jackson donned his beaver hat and left.

Artemus stood in front of his father’s desk and leaned forward on the palms of his hands. “You must join this venture. I cannot believe that you’ve ignored it until now. The Boston and Lowell may be just the beginning.”

“Gardiner Greene loves that home, and his garden is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.”

“Progress can’t wait for an old man’s fruit trees. If the loss of the
Ephraim Pratt
has cost us so much that we cannot make a subscription, then we must give up the land.”

Jason didn’t need much convincing. “There’s one problem: Abigail. Your grandfather left the house to her.”

“Aunt Abigail is a very sensible, hardheaded woman. I’m certain that when the facts are explained to her, she will gladly sign over the house.”

Abigail steadfastly refused. Jason went alone to Pemberton Hill, he explained Jackson’s proposal, and she refused. Then, for two days, she waited. She knew that her brother would come to her again.

On Saturday morning, she climbed into her carriage for her weekly trip around the Back Bay. It was to be the last time that Sean would drive her. As the carriage turned onto Tremont Street, Abigail heard Jason’s voice. The carriage stopped and Jason’s face appeared in the window.

“Abigail, we must talk.” He looked as though he hadn’t slept in several nights.

“Very well.”

Jason climbed into the carriage. Artemus followed.

“Good morning, Abigail.” Artemus kissed his aunt on the cheek and embraced her lightly.

Abigail loved Artemus. She saw her father in his black eyes and tireless intellect. “How are you, dear?”

“He’s not well,” said Jason. “And neither am I.”

Abigail rapped her walking stick on the roof of the carriage, and they began to roll down Tremont toward the Neck. “I suppose you still want me to give up my house,” said Abigail.

“You are the one who wanted to invest in railroads,” said Jason.

“And I have. Without you.”

“We should have listened to you, Abigail.”

“But you didn’t. You listened to James Curtis instead.”

“And our ships have shown a profit for the last five years,” defended Jason.

“They will show no profit this year, thanks to Mr. Curtis.”

“Abigail, you must reconsider,” pleaded Jason. “P. T. Jackson is a very influential man. I would prefer not to disappoint him in this matter.”

Abigail laughed, a single, derisive burst.

“I don’t think that should be your attitude, Father,” said Artemus softly.

“That has always been his attitude,” responded Abigail. “Your father has never considered himself the equal of those men, and if a man does not think highly of himself, who else will?”

“Dammit, Abigail, this is not the time to be running me down in front of my son. We need to make this investment.”

“Then I suggest you sell one of your ships or your stock in the Merrimack Manufacturing Company.” She gave the advice because she knew he would reject it. She would never support the sale of their mill holdings.

“I will not sell stock that is making money.”