The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  The South Atlantic was now behind as Austin took a last quick look, then turned to survey the distant town—revealed more clearly, as the mist lifted, as a large, picturesque colonial city, spread out along the shore beneath a brilliant sun in a cloudless sky. Two more miles at half ahead slow; then, with a juddering of engines, the ship lost all momentum and rattling anchor chains told all aboard they had arrived safely at their destination below the Equator, just inside the Tropic of Capricorn—Rio de Janeiro.

  Austin leaned against the rail and watched activity below on the foredeck: preparations to receive the many small boats coming out from docks called the Cais Pharoux to off-load passengers and cargo. Suddenly the peace of ocean travel was over and here were the exuberance, noise, squalor, pleasure and excitement of South America.

  Like Mac, Austin too now felt the heat and humidity. He wiped his brow. Voices from boats all around shouted up at the sailors aboard, who let down ropes and ladders toward a glittering sea. To Austin, all appeared confusion, and he watched a moment longer as loud exchanges in an unfamiliar language floated back and forth over the water. As other passengers now crowded out onto the deck, Austin went inside to prepare for disembarkation.

  The trio went ashore onto the Cais Pharoux and saw beyond the customhouse an extraordinary labyrinth of narrow streets. Already their senses were assaulted, overwhelmed by an aroma, even as they stood on the wharf: coming from sacks, bags, boxes; on trays, in cups; ground or in original form—the beans were undeniably coffee.

  From sixteenth-century Cairo, kahwah found its way to Europe and thence, in 1723, from France to the tropics. The plant, brought to Rio by Judge Joao Alberto Castello Branco, thrived in its new habitat; a Dutchman, John Hopman, was first to export what was to be the basis of Brazil's wealth, rescuing a trade which had almost exhausted the gold and precious stones that had created the prosperity enjoyed by the Portuguese colony.

  As coffee consumption in the Old World rose, so productivity in the New increased. Fortunes were made and reinvested for further expansion. Financing was readily available should loans be required. The banks and business firms dealt in large sums and were unperturbed by the arrival of foreigners, willing to invest, with money drawn on letters of credit or bills of exchange: provided the papers were in order, cash was immediately forthcoming.

  Maua and Company was the most considerable firm in all South America. George, Austin and Mac knew this much. Utilizing the work he'd had done by the London engravers, Mac had concocted their introductions to this company. He had painstakingly prepared letters and, having surveyed them minutely aboard the Lusitania, felt they could not be faulted: a letter of introduction from the very respectable London and Westminster Bank in England, which had dealings with Maua and Company; a letter of credit stating that the holder was a man of considerable means and several bills of exchange, apparently issued from different British banks but copied to precision by Mac—the first of many from genuine originals.

  §

  The English engineer Charles Neate and Brazilians Andre Rebongas and Borja Castro had begun the year before, in 1871, to construct a Customs area with its own dock fully equipped for the growing commercial trade into and out of the city. It took time to complete, as things do in South America; so unfortunately, it was into this semi-operational area of the Cais Pharoux that the passengers of the Lusitania had been thrust on arrival.

  The aplomb of first class melted quickly. When Customs and Police had finished their inquisition, all were free to go. Never had all men been so equal. Brows glistened, faces glowed and even the women would attest to the fact—perhaps months later, when the embarrassment wore off—that as they all plunged on into the city proper, even they had physically declined the verb to sweat.

  Exceptionally, in that year of 1872, the climate remained unkind. Gentlemen in chaos, Austin thought as they walked into the crowded streets of the city from a square beside the wharf called the Praca Maua. Disheveled by the sun's heat and the heavy atmosphere, all three Americans looked as if they were in a Turkish bath. The chilled claret of the voyage emerged in continuous perspiration.

  Coats slung, baggage carried by Negro slaves, they followed a guide provided by the shipping line who indicated the route ahead through a market ablaze with color from a variety of fruit. An occasional carriage made an attempt to pass amidst the throngs of multicolored "Cariocas"—white, black, yellow, red and all the half-caste variations thereof— but it was almost impossible to gain headway, as the trio could well see. Whilst they were not altogether content to walk, they knew their destination would at least be achieved sooner on foot, as the guide had explained.

  Mac, out of the corner of his eye, saw Austin reaching for a large apple amongst the rainbow of fruit displayed. "Austin—the Purser warned us about fresh fruit." Austin rubbed the apple.

  "Mac," he said, "I ain't so long in the tooth I can't take myself an apple when I choose."

  Mac saw that George was now beckoning from the distance, and as he moved off he prayed his hotel would have the cool spring water and the large ceiling fans newly installed and run by electricity that he'd heard talk of aboard the ship. Mac took his friend by the arm, but Austin tossed the stall holder a coin, put the apple to his lips and said—partly to Mac, partly to the dark eyes of the Negro clutching his silver piece, who stared blankly back at him—"I've the digestion of a goat." He took a deep, hard bite.

  Two hotels served for accommodation. The International in Santa Theresa, near the Central Station, was the place George chose, whilst Mac and Austin checked in separately at the New Hotel Estrangeiros, behind the ocean frontage of Avenida Beira Mar.

  George arrived to visit before dinner and discuss plans for the following day, but found only Mac, bright and fresh from a long bath, relaxing in Austin's suite. George greeted Mac, who continued engrossed reading of a financial paper, then he crossed to the long French windows leading onto a balcony.

  As he stood watching the evening breeze stir the palms, George heard what may well have been a first intimation of the unforeseen events to come: dry vomiting. Mac spoke from behind his paper.

  "Exchange rate is goin' up."

  George flashed a look at Mac, who winked and nodded toward the bathroom. George closed his eyes and shook his head helplessly.

  "Hey!" shouted Mac. "Goat!" There was no answer. "George is here!" Mac waited for a reply from Austin. It came—loudly, as before.

  George crossed the ornate, high-ceilinged room and sat opposite Mac, who put down the paper.

  "It better be me tomorrow, George."

  "Well, we've taken the precaution of separate registration in our hotels," said George, "so if anything should happen to one of us, at least we're able to count on each other for help."

  In the bathroom, Austin vomited once more, then pulled the flush. George stood up.

  "Let's take another look," he said.

  Mac joined George at the wide table where letters and bills were laid out. Mac had added last-minute touches to several of the letters, having yet again compared them with the originals.

  "They look all right to me," George said. He took up and scrutinized the letter of credit. "Here's the original," said Mac, "from the London and Westminster."

  George looked and saw several figures that had been changed in the copy—namely, a one hundred to ten thousand, and the date. Mac's letter was made out to a Mr. Morrison.

  "But," said George, "the original is nine months old?"

  "Well, I needed a real one to copy—it was all I could get," said Mac. "It's on Maua and Company, at least. They have the biggest turnover here in Rio, so I'm thinking no questions will be asked when we put in for large sums—cash."

  George might well have argued the point that paper, design, wording or even procedure can change during a nine-month period and it would have been safer to copy a more up-to-date letter issued for credit—perhaps even relinquishing the idea of Maua and Company. But as thoughts assembled themselves in his m
ind, Austin came into the lounge—white, shaken and altogether alarming in his appearance.

  George pointed at the bathroom and grinned quickly.

  "Mac's goin' tomorrow, brother," he said, "so you just go back about your business."

  "I'm going to be all right," whispered Austin hoarsely.

  "We were just talking," said George, "of tropical prisons where they throw lawbreakers, then chuck away the key."

  "Look," said Austin, as well as he was able, "I said I'll be . . . Jesus !" He broke off, unable to finish, the renewed spasms racking his body as he stumbled back toward the bathroom. Mac and George could see him as he collapsed beside the toilet seat once more. Mac was genuinely worried.

  "Should we get a doctor, George?" George's opinion of the local aid available was not encouraging.

  "In these parts," he said, "they'd only take a fat fee, then recommend an apple a day."

  In the bathroom, Austin, now angry, shouted an obscenity, then pulled hard at the flush in an attempt to be rid of the residue of his own stupidity.

  §

  The streets of old Rio were narrow, with here and there a small square called a praqa. The one wide street was the Primeiro de Marco. Here the kaleidoscopic charm of Cairo or Constantinople was emphasized by the bright and gaudy apparel. People bustled about their business, bartering with the joyous temperament strong sunlight and extreme warmth seem always to elicit.

  Above Mac, as he strode toward Maua and Company on the morning arranged to present himself, was the other aspect of street life—the lookers on. The Carioca girls at the windows, Rio wives and Brazilian widows, perched on a balcony or leaning over the sill, with or without baby, were future, present and past in the marriage market, eyeing all movement below, to dream or sorrow if their gaze should linger on such as Mac.

  He plunged on into the melee, despite the heat quite enjoying himself. Street vendors competed with staccato or dolorous cries above the level of noise; fish, fruit, wine, old bottles, wickerwork, sweets, clothing, laundry, bread, flour, ice water—all were declared loudly amidst the jostling multitudes.

  Eventually, Mac reached the square surrounded by palm trees. He was exhausted but light-hearted, and he sat down on a bench beyond which some old men were playing a game of bowls on a sandy area. Mac looked at his pocket watch as George appeared, a few minutes late.

  The building across the way was imposing enough to sober them both. George took the bench; Mac crossed the cobbled street, narrowly avoiding a carriage and pair, then stepped onto the mosaic-patterned pavement. In front of him, steps led up to a large portico.

  A clock chimed eleven. In the square, George checked his watch. Mac entered Maua and Company.

  §

  The old men at bowls finished their game. Starting another, they paused for ice water from a vendor. Hitching up their trousers once more, the two men began a third game. At that precise moment, Mac stepped out of Maua and Company across the way and stood atop the flight of steps. George saw Mac give the signal of a doffed hat. All was well. Beneath Mac's arm was a package.

  Mac entered the square at a leisurely pace and paused only momentarily beside the bench.

  "We've ten thousand pounds in Brazilian notes, George," he whispered excitedly as his friend took the parcel. "They were only too pleased to do business."

  "Then," said George, "we'll go again tomorrow."

  Ploy

  ON the afternoon of July 1, 1872, May stood in Hyde Park and waited with the rest of a gathered crowd for the Queen of England to arrive. Sun shone intermittently from a sky that threatened thunder. May had walked from the Red Lion in Holborn to the Serpentine Lake where she had watched the horses in Rotten Row parade their riders past each other.

  The royal carriage reached Hyde Park Corner, turned west in front of the Duke of Wellington's mansion and slowly completed the distance to Prince Albert's Gate. May cheered with the crowd as their little Queen climbed down from her carriage. Accompanied by the Duke of Edinburgh, Princess Louise, Princess Beatrice and Prince Leopold, she mounted the pyramid of beautifully chiseled gray granite steps of what was to be a Memorial.

  At the top, she entered the barricaded area beyond which the gathered Londoners were unable to see. The official opening was to be the following day; this was merely an inspection for approval. The decoration was superb, it was agreed by the elite within the hoarding; everything was as it should be, the Queen remarked. The builders congratulated themselves silently. It was then that the Queen noticed an omission which caused immediate consternation. Her entourage assumed the stiff faces of disapproval.

  "Where," asked the Queen, "is the object for which this entire structure has been conceived?"

  "Mr. Foley," it was explained, "is the sculptor. His health," she was told, "is not of the best."

  "It is unfortunate," the architect, Sir Gilbert Scott, said.

  "The date set for the official opening can be postponed," it was suggested.

  "There will be no delay," the little Queen said determinedly; then left, it was noted by the cheering crowd, a little more rapidly than she had come.

  The following day, all the country knew what Society agreed was something of a farce: the statue of the Queen's late husband, Prince Albert, was missing.

  §

  As May walked away from the scene that afternoon, lightning flashed across the sky, heavy with black rain clouds; a rumble of thunder, and first drops began to fall. May saw an empty hansom cab and thought of the authoritative shout with which Mac would have hailed it. She put up a hand, and to her astonishment the vehicle stopped; the cabbie leaned down with a smile and asked her destination. She got in, as if she took cabs everywhere. In fact, it was the first time in her life, without Mac.

  She lay back in the seat and thought fondly of her gentleman friend. Silently she blessed him, wherever he was. Perhaps, if indeed God was not at that moment preoccupied with falling sparrows, it was that heartfelt honest blessing which saved Mac—just.

  At the moment May's eyes closed to conjure a vision of her love, eight thousand miles away in South America, on what, in Rio, was only the morning of July 1, Mac mounted the steps of Maua and Company a second time and walked through the imposing doorway into deep and totally unexpected trouble.

  §

  Mac was ushered down the long corridor. An immediate relief from the heat outside; cool air lingering from the night before, stirred by several lazily revolving fans beneath the high ceiling, wafted gently toward a thick-carpeted floor.

  All sound seemed to be absorbed by the surroundings; Mac felt for a moment that he was penetrating a sanctum. Involuntarily, he shivered suddenly, then was into the familiar anteroom where the previous day he had remained patiently ten minutes before entering the Manager's office. Today Mac saw the oak door already open. He was taken straight through to two men waiting for him. One he knew: this was Braga, with whom he had so successfully concluded his first transaction. His size and shape were tailored to the richly furnished room. Stout, but tall, the man bore himself well; the assumed pomposity and slow smile, merely necessities of his job as Manager of Maua and Company. He seated himself once again behind his enormous mahogany desk.

  His assistant was a grim-faced little man, whose eyes slithered about beneath glasses that were thick, tinted and gold-framed. The assistant's clothes were dull and poorly tailored, Mac noted, ill-fitting a figure that was as spare as was possible in a healthy human being. His mouth was wide, his lips narrow; in a large, sallow face his features appeared disproportionately small. He was almost bald on the crown of his head, with overlong sideburns to compensate. His eyes did not leave Mac for one instant. Mac sat down.

  "Well, Senhor Morrison?" Braga said. He paused as Mac smiled in return. "What is it we are able to do for you?"

  Mac thankfully felt cool air from the ceiling fan and was pleased to see shutters on the sun side of the building closed. These Portuguese coped well in the tropics, he thought. Nonchalantly, he said, "I wish t
o purchase some additional exchange."

  "I see." Braga smiled slowly. "May I, then, once again see the letters—both of credit and of introduction—please?" Braga's smile left his face as he went on, "A formality, of course. Banking, as you must know, is full of them."

  Mac felt no premonition of trouble. He knew how well his letters had been copied and had the success of the previous day to justify his confidence. But small things are clues to great disasters, and it was the eagerness with which the grim-faced assistant took the letters that put Mac on his guard. He became suddenly very alert. The assistant did not pass either letter to the Manager, but examined them himself. He stiffened and looked slowly first at Mac, then at his superior. He shook -his head. Braga pursed his lips, weighing possibilities. Seconds passed.

  "Is something amiss?" Mac asked.

  Braga spoke slowly and firmly. "I am afraid so, Mr. Morrison."

  Mac's body underwent an immediate change. Even in the cool room, die rush of blood could not be prevented from forming a film of sweat on his brow. Mac swallowed, smiled and awaited explanations.

  "Communications," Braga began, "between ourselves and Europe, even in this age of wonders, remain, unfortunately, at the pace of the fastest steamship."

  Mac could not yet even guess the nature of the suspicion that had been aroused. The Manager droned on. Mac felt as if he were fading from the scene; already he wished himself away and out of the situation. A sudden silence and look of suspicion from both Braga and the assistant brought Mac to his senses.

  "The name of Mr..." Braga hesitated.

  "Bradshaw," prompted the assistant.

  "Sim—Bradshaw," said Braga. "He is the Manager of the London and Westminster Bank issuing your credit; his name is on the letters."