The Whiskey Rebels (50 page)

No one had yet noticed me, a quiet lady, as I sat alone in that most masculine of taverns, but I observed many men as they went about their business. I especially observed Mr. Burlington Black, upon whom so much depended. He was a soft-looking man of perhaps fifty, inclined to be stout, but his was a softness like the pliable fat of an infant.

I had been in place, sipping my tea slowly, when at last Mr. Burlington Black lumbered to his feet to show the world the unusual shortness of his legs. He then called to another speculator across the room.

“Mr. Cheever, correct me if I am mistaken, but did you not wish, the week before last, to acquire Bank of North America issues?” His voice was far deeper and steadier than I would have supposed. He was in appearance quite foolish but in utterance impressive. “I have some number of shares that I am ready to part with, if you are so inclined. If not—” He shrugged his shoulders to signal his indifference.

The Mr. Cheever to whom he addressed this speech, an elderly gentleman who rose to his feet only with the aid of a cane in one hand and a younger supporter lifting his elbow, readied himself and returned his address to Mr. Black. Like Duer’s agent, he shouted across the large tavern room, but then I had already observed this to be the custom, close conversation and whispering being regarded as mean things. “You were not so ready to part with them two weeks ago, when I offered a reasonable price.”

“I am merely shifting my holdings, as does any man,” answered Mr. Black. “I believe you offered me some twenty-seven hundred dollars two weeks ago, and I stand ready now to accept.”

Mr. Cheever, in return, barked out a laugh. “I’ve done too much business and seen you go about your affairs far too often. You know something about the issues, don’t you? Some trouble at that bank, is it? I would not buy for
twenty-three
hundred.”

The other men in the room continued to trade and go about their own business, but I could see that each one had one ear or eye upon this transaction, for it was also their business to sense when something might change, and there were signs of such a thing about to happen here.

Mr. Burlington Black swallowed hard, sending a wave of undulation along the wattle of his throat. “I shall sell you the portfolio discussed for twenty-one hundred dollars.”

Now, indeed, trades fell silent and the other speculators turned to watch, for what happened next would determine if they would buy more of the bank’s holdings or sell what they already possessed. Mr. Cheever peered at the other man with much skepticism. “I decline,” he said, with the wave of a withered hand.

Silence befell the room.

Mr. Black, to his credit, reddened considerably and appeared extremely agitated. I know not if his response was from anxiety about the burden placed upon him or mere theatrical skill, but in either case he created the impression of a man most distressed. “Nineteen hundred,” he said, his voice tremulous, “and you know you have a significant bargain.”

A serving boy came in to collect some of the dirty saucers, and one of the speculators shushed him as he dared to clink dish upon dish.

Mr. Cheever evidently scented trouble. “I don’t like your urgency, and I shall decline.”

Now a gasp arose from the room. In but a few minutes, the value of these holdings had fallen by a third, and the speculators were for a moment frozen as they attempted to form their strategies. Those who owned issues from the Bank of North America plotted how best to relieve themselves of the unwanted things. Those who did not scrambled to determine how they might profit from this sudden shift.

It was at this moment, when all was in flux and no one knew yet what he would do, in the seconds before someone would decide to buy and send the main room of the City Tavern into a bacchanal of buying and selling, that Mr. Duer always made his move. I knew this from the dispatches sent by Mr. Dalton. He would rise and announce that he had faith in one of this country’s great banks, and he would be glad to accept Mr. Black’s offer. He would then gather to himself similar offerings, reduced by a third, and when he turned around and sold them in New York, he would be praised as a sagacious businessman who scented the wind far better than his brothers of that trade.

I rose from my chair. “I shall buy for nineteen hundred,” I called in a clear voice.

It is difficult to say if my willingness to purchase or my being a woman produced more surprise, but there was a momentary outburst as all shouted at once, and an expression of terror and confusion washed over Mr. Black’s face.

By the accepted rules of the City Tavern, Mr. Black could not pick and choose to whom he would sell, and his offer to Mr. Cheever, once rejected by that gentleman, might be fairly taken by any other. I had done what any man might do, and my actions might be condemned as improper because I was a woman, but they could not be rejected.

Mr. Black, however, must have weighed his options and determined that he could not sell to me at such a price. He turned a near purple color as he struggled to find some escape, and at last he shook his head, sending his cheeks to shuddering. “I must decline to sell. I do not trade with ladies.” Then he decided he would make himself into a scoundrel if he must in order to save his trade and added, “Or with women, for that matter.”

Once more, the floor erupted. Men called
no!
and
custom!
and
the rules!
One man shouted, “You must sell!” and received general approbation. Encouraged, he added, “If you do not, you are no longer welcome here. We cannot have a man who will not observe our customs.”

This comment received general assent, and, at last, knowing that he had been backed into a corner, Mr. Black nodded. Indeed, he looked somewhat relieved. I supposed he had told himself he had done all he could and Duer could not reproach him.

I strode over to him, and Mr. Black offered me a bow. “I am unused to trading with ladies, and my passions overcame me. I beg your forgiveness.”

I smiled and curtsied and shook his hand, to signal completion of the trade. It was done, and he could not now rescind without ruining his reputation. “It is no matter, sir. You have not harmed me. Indeed, you have served me well, for I know that these issues retain their full value. If I can find no one to buy them here, I doubt not I can sell them in New York, where my agents tell me they will sell quite readily.”

I had not said this in anything above a conversational voice, but I knew I would be heard and the surety with which I spoke would destroy Duer’s ability to perpetuate his scheme. It was not that my opinion carried any weight, for the traders did not know me, and I was only a woman, after all. Yet, the certainty with which I spoke would break the spell cast by Duer’s agent’s efforts, and no one would be anxious either to buy or to sell until more could be learned.

My business being concluded, I went back to my table and collected my things, making a show of preparing to leave. I hoped I would be stopped. I hoped my sagacity would, after this one trade, be enough to attract interest, but I could not be certain. If not, I would have to risk more trades, though there would be diminishing returns, for each new success would be regarded less with admiration and wonder and more with suspicion.

I need not have worried, for I felt a hand fall upon my elbow, and when I turned, my smile quite prepared, I met the eye of none other than Mr. William Duer himself. I had not known he was present and had not seen him arrive. I had hoped he would be on the scene to watch his little deception, and here he was, witness to my own. He stood before me, the principal villain of my life’s woe, the man who had, through his conniving and greed, destroyed everything I loved. This man had murdered my child and my Andrew, and he now smiled at me.

“Madam, William Duer of New York at your service.” He bowed to me. “Though I observe from a thousand little things that you are new to the business of trading, you have impressed me with your knowledge and your coolness. I wonder if you would honor me by joining me for a dish of chocolate upstairs, where the rooms are far quieter.”

I met the monster’s gaze directly. “Mr. Duer, I should be foolish indeed to neglect the attentions of a man so well regarded as yourself.” And thus it was that we went upstairs together.

Ethan Saunders

I
have never enjoyed traveling long distances by road. The movement of the coach prevents any reading or other amusement, and there is little to do that passes the time other than conversation with strangers, yet the quality of strangers in a coach is never high. Instead one must endure perpetual jostling, an ongoing merciless rump paddling, combined with rough swaying and shoving. In winter, when the windows must be closed against the cold, the stench is of stewing bodies, of breath and garlic and onion and unclean breeches. Above that is the smell, too, of old damp wood, wet wool and leather, and inevitable flatulence. It is an unkind experience.

The roads, at least, were clear. It had not snowed hard in several days, and the precipitation on the King’s Highway had been well tramped down by previous expresses. Our coach was typical of the sort: a long enclosed cart capable of holding nine people, divided into four benches with leather curtains that could be drawn for the slender pretense of privacy. It lacked storage for our bags, so we were forced to set our allotted fourteen pounds’ worth before us. The four horses that pulled us made good time, but even so there was little to do but watch the scenery pass.

Having Leonidas by my side did make matters pass more agreeably, for it provided me with someone to whom to whisper disparaging comments about our fellow travelers. And soon enough I discovered that I might gain at least something from the journey, for it turned out that, typical of this run between New York and Philadelphia, nearly every man aboard was a speculator traveling upon business. One of our companions, a tall man with narrow diabolical eyes that rested under bushy brows, asked me my business. I thought it a good idea to hold out bait and said I went to New York in order to put a lately deceased cousin’s estate in order. I received some questions regarding how much money I’d been left and if I had any interest in investing in this fund or that project, but otherwise I did not excite much interest among my fellow travelers.

Soon these speculators forgot that we were even present, and they began to speak freely among themselves. Their talk centered largely around the price of six percent government issues. They were in agreement that Duer banked upon the decline of government securities and that his agents were shorting them significantly in Philadelphia. Beyond this, much of what they had to say regarded how cheaply loans were to be got, both from the Bank of the United States and the Bank of New York. This made investment in the funds logical, but one of the principal problems in doing so seemed to be that Duer was so active in shorting the funds that only a fool would buy when he might sell.

To ensure that this line of credit would continue, should there be a curtailing on the part of the two major banks, Duer had involved himself in a scheme to found a new bank in New York, to be called the Million Bank.

Leonidas and I barely risked exchanging glances. I showed no particular interest but merely asked how long this plan had been in the works.

The wart-nosed speculator turned to me. “If you have some interest in investing in the new banks, you may call upon me in New York. I can broker any investment you choose.”

“I would need to know more before I could invest any money.”

“You need only know that, if you hesitate, someone else will take your place—and willingly too. Interest in the banks has risen so high that investors are calling it a
bancomania.
I promise you that you will find my commissions to be very reasonable, but the Million Bank launches this coming Wednesday, so if you wish to benefit from this opportunity you will need to act quickly.”

He handed me his card, and I pretended to look at it with interest.

One of the other speculators turned to me. “You may be sure he speaks the truth. If you do not act quickly, you may lose the opportunity. However, that may not be a good enough reason to invest.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“The Bank of the United States was born under the guidance of the Treasury Secretary, who is a capable man, and the Bank of New York and the Bank of North America have stood the test of time. But these new banks are only ventures designed to make money for the first investors. There is no thought of the bank’s future prospects, which, because neglected, must be poor. Take my advice and act with caution.”

The wart-nosed man turned to his colleague. “I say, that was rather unkind of you, frightening off a customer. ’Tis rather rude to do that to a man who is sharing your coach.”

“Is he not also sharing my coach?” the other asked.

The wart-nosed man pondered this question for a moment. “Perhaps so, but I stood to make money by enticing him. You stood to make none by dissuading him. That sort of thing—well, ’tis hardly better than vandalism.”