Back Bay (8 page)

“Well, mister,” announced Dawson cheerfully, “you’re in Chesapeake Bay. Henry, let’s open some canvas and get this gent where he’s goin’.”

Henry leaped into the rigging. Captain Jack and Jeff walked toward the bow.

“I’ll be takin’ that three hundred now, sir, and I’ll be findin’ out where we’re headed.” Dawson casually placed his hand on his pistol. Without warning Lovell stood and fired a ball the size of a marble into Jack Dawson’s skull. Like a giant cat swatting birds, Jeff Grew slashed his machete into the rigging. Henry Dawson opened from his balls to his throat. Blood and intestines slopped onto the deck, and Jeff Dawson froze in horror. Lovell leveled the second pistol and fired. It was over in an instant.

Dexter Lovell felt no remorse as he watched the bodies float on the morning tide. They were scum planning to steal his treasure. He did not wonder that they had risked their lives and their ship to bring him past the British Navy. They were simply trying to dull his senses by proving their honesty. But his senses were sharp and getting sharper.

“I never kill three men so fast in all my life,” said Jeff Grew.

“We couldn’t trust them, Jeff. We had to kill them.”

“You can’t trust no one, Dexter Lovell.”

The black is right, thought Lovell, no one. He smiled and patted Grew on the back. “Now I’ll teach you ’ow to be a sailor.”

“Where we sailin’ to?”

“Boston.”

August 1814. Two hundred and fifty ships, their masts and yardarms stripped, their boards shrinking in the sun, rode at anchor in Boston Harbor. Goods rotted in warehouses. Sailors and dockhands sat in the gloom of waterfront taverns and waited for the war to end. Grass grew through the planking on the wharves. Seagulls circled like buzzards above the fleet. And four miles offshore, the British Navy patrolled the coast, waiting to pounce on anything that made for the open sea.

Every Boston business related to shipping, and that meant every business, suffered through a depression. Ropewalks made no rigging. Sailmakers made no sails. The counting houses needed no help because there was nothing to count. In the offices of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile, on the corner of State Street and
Merchants Row, only four men held jobs where fifteen were working in 1811.

Horace Taylor Pratt closed the ledger for the third quarter of 1814 and cursed softly. Not one Pratt ship had cleared for a foreign harbor in months, and since the British had closed their blockade to New England coast trade, his vessels had made no money at all. He ran his hand through his thinning hair and gazed out at the harbor. He was sixty-four years old, his eldest son was dead, and he feared that his empire was beginning to crumble.

“I never thought I’d see a day when Boston Harbor looked like a graveyard,” he said softly. “It’s a tragedy.”

“There’s little we can do, Father. The port is closed. ‘Our ships in one motion,/once whitened the ocean;/they sailed and returned with a cargo;/Now doomed to decay, /they have fallen a prey/to Madison, worms, and Embargo.’ ” Jason Pratt sat on the edge of his father’s desk and recited a popular lyric.

Pratt slammed his hand on the desk. “Our world shrinks with every sunrise, we face the loss of our two newest ships because we lack the cash to meet their payments, and all you can do is recite poetry.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Jason was thirty years old, but in his father’s presence, he seemed frozen at fifteen. He had his mother’s features, a large frame, and a flabby body that he dressed in the latest fashion. He did not look like a Pratt.

“ ‘Madison, worms, and Embargo,’ indeed,” Pratt hauled himself out of his chair and began to pace about his office. “Those goddam Virginia Presidents. Washington, Jefferson, Madison, they’re all the same, with their foolish wars and expansionist dreams. Who needs Canada? Who cares that a few English deserters were taken off American ships and sent back to the Royal Navy, where they belong?”

“The English were impressing American seamen, Father,” said Jason softly.

“None of mine. Pratt ships hove to for the British hundreds of times without incident. This whole war was cooked up by Southerners and Westerners out to feather their own nests at the expense of the New Englanders who got the damn country started in the
first place.” His voice rose sharply and his complexion flushed deep red.

“Father, remember your apoplexy.”

“Damn my apoplexy. We fought a revolution so that American ships could sail the world without interference from any government, foreign or domestic. Now, a Pratt ship can’t sail five miles beyond Boston Light without fearing a broadside.”

Jason Pratt knew his father well enough to listen politely whenever a tirade began.

“I intend to support Senator Pickering’s resolution for secession. If our government is so blind to our needs that they’re willing to declare a war we can’t possibly win, with an enemy who doesn’t want to fight in the first place, I say we break off and make our own peace.”

“An excellent idea,” Jason agreed, simply to quiet his father’s anger.

The old man paced back and forth, studying the pattern in his Oriental carpet and stopping at every turn to inspect the model of the
Gay Head
displayed on the mantel. “That was a ship,” he muttered. “Fastest damn schooner I ever saw. She once made the China run in ten months. Now we’re facing ruin.” Pratt turned to the window and gazed out at the empty harbor.

Jason approached him. “I think it’s time we looked away from the sea, Father. The future is in textiles.”

“Textiles?” Pratt grunted.

“Yes, sir. Francis Cabot Lowell has completed a mill in Waltham, and several shippers have invested in it. It’s an intelligent way to use our capital.” Jason hesitated. He could never tell if his father was listening to him. The firmness in his voice diminished. “They believe that within a few years, textile manufacturing will be one of the major industries in America. Perhaps if we free some of the capital that we have invested in—”

“Perhaps nothing.” Abigail Pratt Bentley stood imperiously in the doorway, her yellow dress attracting all the light in the dark office. She had her father’s prominent nose and firm jaw, but femininity softened her features and made her seem less resolute than she was.

“You have no right to eavesdrop on private conversations,” said Jason.

“I hear my daughter.” Pratt smiled but did not turn from the window.

“Good afternoon, Father.” She approached him and kissed him on the cheek.

He enjoyed the attention but always protested. “Find yourself a young man to kiss. I’m too old.”

“You’re the only man in my life, Father.”

“More’s the pity,” cracked Jason. “Twenty-four-year-old widows should worry about spinsterhood and leave business to the men.”

“To you?” she said evenly.

“We’re discussing something of vital importance,” said Jason. “I would appreciate it if you left us in peace.”

“You’re being most disagreeable today, Jason,” said Pratt. “This textile business has certainly fueled the fire in that fat belly of yours. Who approached whom about this venture?”

“Francis Cabot Lowell talked with me after services last Sunday. I rode with him yesterday to the Waltham mill.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that someone so closely related to our competitors would ask you to join him in what promises to be a very lucrative investment? And stranger still that Lowell’s own relatives on the Cabot side have not invested a nickel?” His sarcasm had the intended effect.

Jason began to speak, then fell silent.

“You wish to free capital,” said Abigail softly. “What capital? Seventy percent of our money is tied up in the harbor. Four Indiamen schooners, and half the property on the waterfront. To sell any of that in this economy, you sell at a loss.”

“Quite so,” said Pratt.

Ordinarily, Jason did not persist. “We could sell the tobacco lands in Connecticut, our interest in the New Hampshire granite quarries, or the foundry in Vermont.”

Pratt did not even look at his son. “Your brother learned well, but I sometimes wonder if I’ve taught you anything. You do not sell land or business that is earning an excellent profit in order to invest in an industry that, in the past, has shown only the most
marginal returns. I see no reason for Mr. Lowell to have any more success than any of his predecessors.”

The conversation was over. Pratt dismissed his son with the wave of his hand.

“We will talk again, Father.” Jason’s eyes shifted to Abigail. “When we can speak without interruption.”

“My mind is set,” said Pratt.

“Your mind can be changed, but you cannot change the future, once it becomes the present.” Jason stalked out of the office.

“Our brother is sounding rather bold today,” said Abigail.

“Bold, but stupid.”

“I agree with your decision, Father. We must try to hold on until the war is over.”

“That’s all we can do.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Would you care to have lunch with me?”

Abigail worried about her father. Since the imposition of the British blockade, she had been visiting him each day at his office. Early in the war, the British had left the New England ports open in the hope of encouraging secession, and Pratt’s trade had flourished. He also had made large profits in the Peninsula trade, supplying wheat to the British troops fighting Napoleon in Spain. Now, the pressures of the blockade weighed heavily on him. He looked forward to his daughter’s visits and the distraction she brought. But today, she couldn’t brighten his mood.

“I’m not hungry.”

“A glass of port might relax you.”

“Secession would relax me more. I have a great deal to do, Abigail, so please leave me in peace.”

“Very well, Father.”

“I’ll be home for supper.”

For a time, she stood beside him in silence as he gazed out his window at the ships rotting in the harbor. Then, she slipped out.

A younger Horace Pratt might have jumped into textiles. He had been the first to send ships to the Pacific Northwest, where his agents had traded trinkets for otter pelts with American Indians, then otter pelts in Canton for the riches of China. Now, short-term
solutions seemed safer than visionary schemes. Horace Taylor Pratt II, heir to Pratt Shipping and Mercantile, was dead, the victim of Jefferson’s Embargo Act. Jason Pratt was a dabbler and daydreamer with none of his brother’s perseverance. And Abigail Pratt Bentley was a woman. Only the prudent management of existing resources would keep the company solvent until Horace III grew to replace his father in the Pratt hierarchy.

Pratt smiled whenever he thought of the boy. He liked his other grandchildren well enough and thought that Jason’s son Artemus might have a bright future, but young Horace was special. At fifteen, he was the image of his father, with the same lean frame and incisive intellect, with the same bright promise for the future of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile.

Pratt turned expectantly when he heard someone at the door. Young Horace had promised to visit.

It was Mr. Howe, Pratt’s secretary. “Excuse me, sir. There’s a military courier here, says he has a dispatch that must be delivered to you personally.”

Pratt was puzzled. “Send him in.”

Preceded by the clanking of spurs, the rider entered Pratt’s office and saluted. “From the President, sir.”

Pratt recognized Dexter Lovell’s hand. Clumsily, he ripped the letter open and read it. He wanted to laugh out loud. He was venturing nothing in partnership with a man who was risking his life. If they were successful, he would split twenty thousand dollars, enough to keep the company intact for six more months. In one stroke, he was avenging himself on the Yankee merchants whose gift to the government brought nothing in return but embargoes and blockades. Although he read no verse but Milton, Pratt relished his poetic justice. The Golden Eagle Tea Set was returning to Boston.

“I have other dispatches to be delivering in Boston, sir,” said the courier. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in a great hurry.”

Pratt flipped him a silver dollar. “Be about your business, lad.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Young Horace III arrived as the courier was leaving.

“Come in and close the door,” said Pratt cheerfully.

Dressed only in knee breeches and cotton shirt, Horace was still
a boy, although his hands and feet had already grown into manhood. “Hello, Grandfather.”

“Can you keep secrets?” asked Pratt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then read this.”

Pratt gave the boy Dexter Lovell’s note.

“What does it mean?”

“That we are going to make a great deal of money with very little effort. It’s the sort of investment I like.”

Pratt gave the boy pen and paper and told him to sit at the desk. Lacking a left arm, Pratt found handwriting difficult and dictated most of his correspondence. “Address it to Lord Henry Hannaford, 157 Leicester Street, London. ‘Dear Henry,’… Did you date it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bright boy.”

Horace had never seen his grandfather so enthusiastic.

“ ‘Dear Henry, The Bird is aloft. Contact the buyer and make him bleed gold. ’ ” Pratt signed his initials and sealed the letter.

Since American correspondence could not travel directly to England, a rider would carry Pratt’s letter to Halifax, and from there it would be mailed to London. It was the established channel.

Pratt tossed Lovell’s note into the Franklin stove and blew on the coals, which glowed red and began to burn.

“Must you destroy that?” asked the boy.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to keep the signature, Grandfather.”

“Incriminating evidence, Horace. We can’t have it around.”

The boy was accustomed to his grandfather’s indulgence. “Please, sir?”

“No,” said Pratt firmly. “Now come along. I must send this dispatch. Then, we’ll have lunch.”

The boy noticed that the flames in the stove were dying quickly. “Yes, Grandfather.”

When they returned from lunch, Pratt stopped briefly in the outer office to confer with one of his bookkeepers.

Young Horace entered Pratt’s office and looked into the stove.
The coals had flamed and burned a few bits of trash on the grate, but the letter had barely been touched.