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.
I t 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, waiting 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.