The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "A part share in the business ..." May trailed off, her voice unable to convey thoughts newly implanted of a life now stretching ahead without worry or care.

  "I didn't never think . . ." She looked at Mac with gratitude that filled her eyes with tears.

  "Before I leave," said Mac quickly, "I'll buy it for you, lock, stock and barrel."

  May impulsively stretched over the bar top, encircled Mac's neck with her arms and kissed him in full view of the largely unheeding crowd about them. She whispered in Mac's ear, "I'd rather be havin' you."

  After that, with the key in his hand, the steps upstairs, through the side door, were only minutes away for Mac. He had undressed and been asleep an hour before he heard the door close softly in the outer room and saw May come to him through moonlight streaming in from the soft night outside. A light breeze stirred lace curtains at the bedroom window as the woman shed her clothes. Nervous now, and not yet naked, she stood by the bed awaiting the invitation to an initiation.

  As Mac's hand went out to this suddenly fragile creature, he knew that the second thing he wanted badly that evening would be found not in the taking of a woman in a moment of passion, but somewhere during the night in the ephemeral exchange two people add to the making of love by the precious knowledge of feeling a part of it.

  §

  The following morning, Mac took his breakfast privately in the small outer room of lodgings three floors up, above the Red Lion in Holborn. The lovely young woman who sat opposite him was attentive, loving and, with newly stimulated feelings, astonishingly accurate in her reading of Mac's behavior. It was with more than intuition that she guessed correctly.

  "When you goin' away?" she asked.

  "I didn't say," he replied.

  "When?" she asked again.

  'Not immediately,'' Mac said lightly.

  "When?" she repeated.

  Mac paused, drank his coffee, looked into May's eyes and spoke. "A week, maybe—ten days, perhaps."

  The statement created a silence. Outside, below in the street, shouts of ragamuffins, cries of traders and the rattle of passing carriages indicated the day already under way. The sun intermittently shone into the room. The air was fresh, borne on a wind that swirled between the roof tops. The morning smelled of a summer already come.

  "Where?" May asked.

  Mac paused, stretching with a yawn before leaning across the table to look into May's face lovingly. Softly he said, "If I told you, would you believe me?''

  "Yes," May said, wide-eyed at the thought that Mac might think for a moment she would not.

  "Then," answered Mac, making a joke of it, "I ain't sayin'." The kiss he gave her reminded them both of the night that had passed, and they were content then to be just two lovers seeking nothing more than the silent pleasure of each other's company.

  Fenwick

  MAY 29 was Derby Day. At ten forty-five, George, Austin and Mac were sitting in the lounge of the Grosvenor Hotel drinking coffee.

  "I fancy Cremorne at three to one against," Austin said. "He's the favorite."

  Mac's thoughts turned to the line-up of the Derby in a paper George now thrust at him.

  "Queen's Messenger for me," said George.

  The two brothers looked at Mac, who had already made his decision. Mr. J. Astley's horse was being ridden by a jockey named Chaloner, which was coincidence enough to bring luck. Of the commissions now collected, it was he, in Mac's opinion, who had done the best job. The scrollwork was perfect.

  "Brother to Flurry," Mac said. "I'll do a late bet and check the odds for us all."

  Mac looked at his pocket watch. It was approaching eleven o'clock.

  "Make or break, boys," he said.

  Mac and George looked at Austin. He took out the bill of exchange, purchased several days before, and placed it on the table.

  "How much is it for?" George asked.

  "A thousand pounds," Austin said. "On Blydenstein and Sons—ninety days to come due.''

  George dropped an envelope beside the bill and settled back in his seat with a grin. All three observed the illustration of a ship afloat at full steam to the left of the name Wilson that George had used to book passage.

  "I'll tell you," Mac said. "I'm ready for the tropic sun." He was about to develop the thought when Austin cut in seriously.

  "I tell you—I'm not sure about this."

  "I am not wrong," George said firmly.

  Austin slowly took up the bill, studied it vacantly for a moment, then looked at the envelope on the table.

  George saw his brother's worry and winked at Mac, indicating the envelope.

  "Tickets for Brazil."

  "Round trip?" Austin asked.

  "You want to look?" asked George.

  Austin stood up. He put the bill of exchange into his wallet, knowing that upon the next hour would hang their entire scheme. They would, all of them, soon know if the impossible that George had described was a fact.

  Referring to the tickets as he took his hat to go, Austin said to George, "I don't have to look at them. I dropped into the shipping agent's early this morning."

  The laughter of Mac and George disturbed two ladies by the door who were taking morning tea in the sedate, mannered English way the unattractive of that species do. Their momentary consternation served only to relax Austin as he jauntily tipped his hat to the two women and strode out to his waiting cab.

  §

  Mr. Fenwick was not too fat or too thin. He was neither too short nor too tall. His color did not have the pallor of the unhealthy or the ruddiness of robust overindulgence. He was certainly not well off, but then, he was not poor. He dressed not without taste, but decidedly was not ostentatious. He observed Sundays with respect, but was not overly religious, preferring Hampstead Heath of an afternoon to church of a morning. He was not a stern man, but then, no one could say he was lax or did not command the respect of his staff. He was not married, but then, he was not altogether what it was thought a bachelor ought to be—and even he disputed that definition (after all, he was not a priest); his preference was the occasional liaison with an eligible Englishwoman approaching her prime, as he graciously put it.

  He was not teetotal, but he drank sparingly. He enjoyed his work and appreciated the responsible position he held; his zealousness was always directed toward productivity in the younger employees. Eventually he made them all aware of the position of trust they held, exalted amongst men and women, gracing, as they did, the very corridors that were like arteries of the Empire itself. Even if the job was merely to carry tea, it1 was one in which to take pride, Mr. Fenwick would say, since it was within the portals of the greatest banking institution of this world or any other.

  Mr. Fenwick liked his tea. Very much, in fact. But then, that spoke more of his patriotism and embellished his obvious loyalty. The conditions of the workers who dropped like flies in the Colonies, picking leaves that months later found their way into Mr. Fenwick's cup, were of no concern to him. Tea aided concentration, and his job was important. His concern was only for the realm to which he gave his all. Reputation, Fenwick mused: that was what gave dignity to a man's life. Then a thought struck him. Why, someday even the little Queen Victoria herself might know of him by name.

  The very idea caused Mr. Fenwick to pause mid-sip, so he put down his teacup into its saucer for a moment. Fenwick of the Bank. Good heavens, he thought: now, that would be a mark hit for a man's ambition. Thirty years' work since boyhood had made him what he was and put him where he sat at this desk, in his own office at the bottom of a long corridor—the wrong end as yet, but time would perhaps solve that, he vaguely hoped.

  In fact, for the likes of Mr. Fenwick, ambition would always stop here. Beyond, at the top of the corridor, lay a larger office, a greater responsibility and the weight of it that a figurehead of society must accept with a job representing a peak, respected by all in the world of finance. One would have to be born to different circumstances than those which had surrounded
Fenwick's first blow, breath and cry in this world to be even considered for the post. In his heart, Fenwick knew he had arrived and would go no further. All in all, he was basically content. This made Fenwick a most perfect Assistant Bank Manager.

  §

  At eleven fifteen, Farley, Mr. Fenwick's assistant, brought in three files for Mr. Fenwick's attention and took out the empty cup and saucer, drained to the last few leaves of the tea remaining. At eleven twenty-five, Fenwick had familiarized himself with the recent transactions of all three clients he would see before lunch. At eleven thirty he stood up as the wall clock struck the half, checked his pocket watch and crossed to the window.

  Fenwick was in this position, looking down at the horse traffic below, when his first appointment was ushered in by Farley.

  "Mr. Warren, Mr. Fenwick." 'Thank you, Farley."

  Fenwick gestured to Farley to leave, crossed to the young man standing relaxed behind the chair opposite his desk, shook hands, indicated that he should sit, then made his way around to his own seat. Fenwick and the young man looked at each other a moment, and both smiled.

  "Well"—Fenwick spoke first—"you've been doing brisk business these past weeks, Mr. Warren.''

  He looked down at the top file, more for effect than to substantiate the remark with figures that he could anyway not see without his glasses. With clients he seldom wore them, thinking his image better served with' a clear eye and firm stare.

  "Quite substantial business at that, if I may say so," Fenwick concluded.

  "Thank you, Mr. Fenwick," said the young man.

  "Our Manager," continued the Assistant Manager, "will be with us again soon, and he is, I know, most anxious to meet you."

  A pause held as Fenwick awaited a courteous response to this last. The young man remained relaxed and silent, his clear eyes and firm stare appearing to Fenwick much as Fenwick hoped his own eyes and stare appeared to his customer—impressive. Mr. Warren took his time. He removed his gloves and placed them on his lap as he crossed his legs.

  Mr. Fenwick was almost mesmerized. He was about to speak when the young man began:

  "That mutual pleasure must wait."

  "Oh?" said Mr. Fenwick.

  "I shall be away and gone some while, shortly," said Mr. Warren.

  "I hope business does not tempt you abroad' said Mr. Fenwick. Then, realizing that it probably did, he continued: "If so, for not too long an absence from us?"

  Mr. Warren merely smiled at the obvious and seemed, to Mr. Fenwick, to be in no mood to discuss his travel plans. Fenwick coughed and decided, not for the first time, to stick to business and cut the pleasantries. The trouble was that he liked people, and the fact that people might not have a complimentary opinion of him never entered his head.

  "I shall need substantial funds," said the young man, "so in addition to my balance, I shall put through this bill." He paused a moment.

  Fenwick saw only the open smile of the mouth. He should have watched the glint in the eye.

  "I hope there will be no delay?" finished Austin.

  Mr. Fenwick was charmed. He took the bill from Mr. Warren, stretching across the desk to do so, resettled himself and looked at it. He smiled back at the pleasant young man. It was nice to see youth with money—a gentleman, that was—even if he was American. Well, that was the way of the world; we can't all be British, he thought.

  "A century of service," Mr. Fenwick began, "can discount that fear as it will this bill."

  Good, that, he thought. Somehow he managed to use the

  sentence every day, but always it came out as if new. Now he would laugh and pardon the expression.

  "If you will excuse my levity." Here Fenwick giggled a little, as if he and Warren were mortals sharing a secret in trepidation of omnipresent gods somewhere in the large room.

  The young man's attempt at a smile was dismal.

  "Must it be cleared?" he asked firmly.

  Fenwick coughed again and repeated to himself, Stick to business; cut the pleasantry.

  "Why, no," he said; "you are obviously as good as it is." Here he referred to the bill again. "Thus one journey will be sufficient for the bill, Mr. Warren..."

  The young man, Mr. Fenwick noted was now quite immobile; for a moment it seemed he was carved from rock. Even his color appeared to fade.

  ". . . the journey which takes it to the finance house—ah"—he looked at the bill—"Blydenstein, in—ah, yes—ninety days."

  Austin Bidwell looked across at Mr. Fenwick and could hardly believe his ears. By God—George was right. He saw the man before him at the desk speak, his face seemingly perplexed at something.

  "Mr. Warren?" Mr. Fenwick said.

  "Why, yes, Mr. Fenwick." Austin recovered and became quite animated. He stood up.

  "If you will then, credit me for withdrawal, and I shall be off."

  "You will leave a sufficient sum to maintain your account, of course?" Fenwick asked.

  "Of course," smiled Austin.

  "You will be using us again on your return, I hope?"

  Until the following year—in March, to be exact—Mr. Fenwick would not know the import of the words Austin now spoke in reply to his question.

  "Of that," he said, "you may be quite sure."

  "Then," said Mr. Fenwick, as he came around the desk to his young client, "I will say only, as they do across the Channel—aurevoir”

  Austin only smiled. They walked to the door. "Where does your business take you, Mr. Warren, if I may be so bold?"

  "Oh," said Austin. He turned to Mr. Fenwick so that they were face to face. Quite blatantly, and with a cool eye, Mr. Fenwick remembered, Austin Bidwell said, "Why, St. Petersburg, Mr. Fenwick, then on to southern Russia."

  "How interesting," Mr. Fenwick replied.

  "As you say," said Austin, "au revoir."

  Putting on his gloves and waving a cursory good-bye to the Assistant Manager, Austin was led out of the Bank to the large foyer by Farley. He took back his hat and cane and thanked Mr. Fenwick's assistant for his aid. He breathed deep.

  "Are you a betting man, Mr - ?"

  "Farley, sir—Oh, no, sir."

  "It is Derby Day, is it not, Farley?"'

  "Indeed, sir, I believe so."

  "Then take a tip, boy," said Austin: "the favorite."

  The boy nodded his thanks and watched Mr. Warren walk out, down the steps and into the crowd outside the great open doors of the Bank.

  §

  Austin crossed the road onto the island pavement between Threadneedle Street and Cornhill, and stood stock-still a moment—a man in a dream. Now he had only to walk in and collect from the cashier. It was unbelievable. Two familiar faces appeared in the crowd, and the solitary figure standing amidst the rush and bustle of the city became a group of three.

  Only the beggars and trinket sellers noticed the sudden jubilation of the trio as a few words were spoken by the man who had stepped out of the Bank.

  The more active of two beggars dragged his limbless mate toward a better site in Lombard Street. They'd already had a shilling apiece from the two men who had been watching the Bank half an hour, pacing up and down Finch Lane. And what did they care for the feelings of others? Their welfare was of consequence only to themselves. Life was a pain, joy a myth, and happiness a lie. Almost in unison, both creatures spat into the gutter.

  The three Americans were in a different world.

  "Rio, boys." said Austin.

  "Return," said George.

  Mac only smiled.

  That afternoon, Mr. Savile's horse, Cremorne, the favorite, ridden by Maidment, won the Derby at odds of three to one in a time, recorded by Dent's chronometer, of two minutes forty-five seconds. The issue hung in the balance until the last stride, but the verdict of the judge was adamant. Brother to Flurry came second, and Queen's Messenger was third.

  Many said it was a fluke and, as the race had been hard run, just pure luck; but then, most winners are accused by the less fortunate of one thing or t
he other. At the end of it, generally, the opinion was that it had been a good day for all.

  Summer

  1872

  Plot

  MORNING of the twenty-second day from their European embarkation brought landfall for all aboard the good ship Lusitania. As the cry "Land ho!" circulated amongst the passengers, all those who were able found some vantage point to see the horizon and the land that was appearing.

  In a state of high excitement, the three Americans, only half-shaved, in shirt sleeves, already damp under the arms, looked from the railing of A deck outside their cabins and absorbed first impressions.

  George had a guidebook with maps and gave names to the vision of hills, peaks and ravines now in the distance: Urea, Leme, Cantagello, Formiga, Nova Cintra, Novo Mundo". The curious aspect of the stone giant all three Americans could see clearly: a colossal human body lying on its back—morning haze affording a soft mattress; the face composed from the highest elevations of Gavea and Tijuca mountains, the body and legs by those of Corcovado, the feet by the thrusting pinnacle of Pao de Acficar.

  Islands began to emerge from the land mass, and before them George, Austin and Mac could now see the Dedo de Deus, a slender elevation of the Organ Mountains; the lower part resembling a clenched hand; the upper, the shape of a huge finger pointing to the sky. Mac wiped his brow as the first effects of the tropics made their mark.

  "Know what I'm thinking of, Mac?" said Austin.

  He stopped a moment, shut his eyes and saw the vision clearly. "Cold snow, a closed carriage and my cozy Countess all snuggled up in furs and rugs."

  George grinned. "Let's go inside; I want to see our letters of credit. Did you finish them?"

  "The ink's still wet," answered Mac.

  "Dry now," George retorted. He turned brusquely and went into the cabin behind them.

  Mac lifted a loose shirt sleeve to his face once more. "Well," he said, "I'm not."

  Only Austin remained on deck as the ship's bow cut into a smooth sea and nosed toward the majestic panorama.

  At the mouth of the channel into the Great Bay is the Island of Lage, dividing it into two passages. Austin heard bells sounding out all over the ship as speed was cut by half and the readiness of the crew was signaled by their sudden appearance on the decks—at winches, davits and guardrails, each to his station. More bells clanged; then a long blast from the ship's horn sounded out over the bay as the Lusttania's prow entered the broader western channel, almost a thousand yards wide, close by Pao de Acticar, the almost barren Sugar Loaf rock.