§
Even Meyers was hot before the longboat drew into the Cais Pharoux. Ebro was out of sight, having left only a smudge of smoke in the sky where she had rounded Acticar. Meyers watched the well-wishers helped ashore. Two Brazilian women, servants no doubt; a young Portuguese male and . . . Meyers swore . . . only the two Negro rowers. Where was... ?
The American had not come ashore, obviously. The Negro rowers were fighting for the white and pale-check English coat, using very basic language. He saw that the young Portuguese was about the same height and shape, and from a distance could well be mistaken for the American.
For a moment, Meyers, astute as ever, toyed with the idea of examining the coat, checking the label, referring to the name and beginning a lengthy process of investigation based only on instinct; but suspicion of this nature was insufficient. Meyers suddenly felt tired. Proof was required to initiate such steps, and he had nothing but unanswered questions. The search would, no doubt, continue in the city. As he walked slowly toward his carriage in the hot square of Praca Maua, he thought to himself, Thank God the responsibility of the ten thousand is not mine.
§
Like an animal catching a scent, the Ebro seemed to leap forward when the open sea appeared ahead—smooth and calm as the bay behind. Her engines went to full ahead both, creating a passage of air that swept through the ship, reviving the packed crowd in steerage, sweltering in their particular hell.
In the humid corridors of second and first, where on either side the exhausted passengers sprawled in their cabins, it was the first reminder of a temperate climate.
To those on deck, heads turned to see the South American continent recede, cool air soothed the hurt of parting, was a first consolation for the end of tropical adventure or became a stimulus for thought of the immediate future—either aboard and of the hope-for romance at sea or of a destination in Europe and the continuance of life there. Such a wind, the first at sea commencing a voyage, is a philosopher's wind. Even children pause after the excitement of departure to speculate and wonder.
George, Austin and Mac stood together on deck isolated by their own private thoughts. Having bathed in Mr. Wilson's cabin, they were refreshed; their one remaining problem money could solve.
"I am your Purser for the voyage, gentlemen. Welcome aboard."
The British voice was a wonderful thing to hear as they turned to greet the smartly dressed officer in whites.
"And I," said George, "am Mr. Wilson."
"Ah, yes, sir," said the Purser; "the ticket agent in Rio advised me to be sure of your welfare aboard."
"Then," said George, "he put it very well."
He handed the Purser the unheard-of sum of one hundred pounds, in a single note. Unabashed, the Purser merely said, "Thank you, sir."
"Now," said George, "these two friends of mine were in fact awaiting tickets from the agent. Unfortunately, he was"—George paused and looked at both Austin and Mac—"not to be found."
"I see, sir," said the Purser. "Then they have a problem."
" We" said George meaningfully, "have a problem."
"Quite," said the Purser, looking at his accommodation list. He continued.
"I take it, sir—money—is not an obstacle?" "You may so take it, Officer," said George with a twinkle in his eye.
"Good," said the Purser. "Then there will indeed be no problem at all; I have several unoccupied staterooms." He stopped himself and looked up from his clip file. "Will you be taking luncheon?"
"Indeed we shall, Officer," said George.
"For three, then, Mr. Wilson," said the Purser.
"Mr. Morrison," said Mac. The Purser wrote it down.
"Mr. Warren," said Austin. The Purser wrote it down.
"Thank you," said George.
"A pleasure, sirs," said the Purser. "Perhaps I can persuade you . . ." The Purser turned to the young waiter hovering behind him with a tray of full champagne glasses. "A custom for first-class passengers, you understand."
"Of course," said George. Austin and Mac each took a glass. The Purser handed one to George, wished them a pleasant voyage and continued to the port side and a railing where several unaccompanied Portuguese ladies were giggling together.
Mac, exhausted still, but thankful he was literally out from under, said quietly, "That's as near as I ever want to get."
"We're ten thousand in gold better off," began Austin, reminding his friend of the reason for their now successful expedition.
"An' our heads are brimmin' over with experience," Mac finished.
Both men looked at George, who smiled slowly. They raised glasses.
Champagne sparkling in the tropic light, sea gulls wheeling overhead, pale blue sky bleached by the hot sun, indigo sea and the creaming wake of the ship: all these things were to be often recalled by the trio years later—separately.
But at that moment, as the gong sounded out in the dining room for the haute cuisine luncheon, they wanted only words to bless their union of glasses and spirit. Three young men with the future before them, and George had to go and say:
"The Bank of England."
Autumn
1872
Edwin Noyes—Recruited
THE Noyes family were taking tea with God. His earthly representative was the Reverend Mr. Evans, who smiled occasionally at Mrs. Noyes and her daughters between sips of the warm beverage which he drank delicately from a china cup with a glazed bottom. He disliked glazed bottoms to his cups—at least, those of the people it was his duty to visit. Glazed bottoms clink; and cups, saucers, clink; tea and sandwiches had become something of a nightmare to him.
Conversations in small communities tended to repeat themselves, and as a catalyst, the Reverend Mr. Evans was not so much running out of subject matter as he was of the need to convey what he had already taken out, hung up and beaten to death at least twice already during each day that passed. Always he encountered sincerity in his flock. As they were not with each other, they were almost without exception with him; they would lean forward dewy-eyed, obliging, respectful, hearts bared to reveal innermost thoughts.
The Reverend Mr. Evans was unmarried. Mrs. Noyes was as aware of this fact as she was that her daughters were eligible and provided for, albeit in a small way, by what her husband had left to them all. Her apportioning of the money available had not favored her son, but then, as she constantly reminded herself, he was a man and should take care of himself.
Her praise of Dora's qualities as a cook and Claris' excellent husbandry about the house (a term she was careful to define, with a smile, not unaware of its ambiguous reference) was interrupted by her son, Edwin Noyes—sprawled in a corner chair turning several pages of the paper he was reading.
Although Edwin still sensed shame amongst his family privately, time had eased the attitude of the local community toward his prison record. He had allowed himself to relax—but his mother, ever vigilant of his manners since her son's fall from grace, would have none of it.
"Edwin," she began, authoritatively, "it ain't manners to sit readin' when a man o' God is a-takin' tea with the family."
"Your occupation with the material world, Edwin," said the Reverend Mr. Evans, "seems to afford you little time to think o* the next."
"The Reverend's speakin' to you," said Mrs. Noyes. Edwin put down the paper, looked at the clergyman, revealed a cigar and began to chew off the end.
"You ain't gonna smoke that in here," Mrs. Noyes said. "Like I tol' your father a thousand times, you got a choice!" She paused emphatically.
The grandfather clock chimed five. As all eyes eventually fell on Edwin, he stood up.
"Edwin!" exclaimed his mother.
He moved to the door, taking out matches.
"Come back here," said Mrs. Noyes. It was an imperious command, but her son was already out of the room.
"He's smokin' it, Ma!" cried Dora, whose vantage point allowed her to see Edwin lighting up. From outside, Edwin kicked the door shu
t.
Ambition destroys many fine things in a man, and Edwin had been sucked into the whirlpool of New York like so many others. Unprotected, he had been vulnerable, and he had been sacrificed to protect others more powerful than he. Now money sent from Mac and the quiet life he led, waiting as Mac had instructed, kept him, if not buoyant, at least afloat.
Months had passed since the cable from Mac. A brief letter from South America, unsigned and evasive in content, obviously concealed a great deal. Edwin was most intrigued and for some time now had grown more impatient. He hid this in sullen moods, uncooperative behavior and a general lack of communication with anyone but the clerk at the office of The Western Union Telegraph Company. Every day but Sunday, he'd walk to town to make inquiries. His faith was strong—in Mac.
§
In the late afternoon of a day that was to become memorable in his history, Edwin Noyes entered town at the end of his five-mile walk from home. He made his way to the Western Union office, where the clerk was just closing.
"Something for me today?" Edwin asked, crossing to the counter in the office.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Noyes," said the clerk. "Just come in. A cable."
Edwin turned away, opened the sealed message and read it with mounting excitement.
"Gonna be a reply?" asked the clerk.
Edwin was rereading the magic, stilted sentences.
" 'Cause I wanna close up," finished the clerk.
Edwin Noyes looked at the familiar face behind the counter—one he had seen, day in, day out, for months, when the same reply of "Nothin' " had thrown him once again into a dejection that deepened as he made his way across the fields back to the small property he called home. Today he had everything to thank that face for: it had given him the world. The cable was from Mac.
"What's the address say, Luke?" Edwin grinned.
"Why"—the clerk looked at it—"Great Britain." He looked closer. "London."
Edwin took out of his pocket the last from his cherished box of Havanas and gave it to the clerk.
"Then, Luke," said Edwin, "have a cigar."
Peregrine Madgewick
INNOVATIONS throughout the seventh decade of the nineteenth century had added greatly to the comfort of passengers at sea. Steam heat, electric bells and gas lighting had all been instituted by 1871. The ornate, spacious salons, coal-burning fireplaces, heavy furniture and sweeping stairways provided for the traveler, at least in first class, a cocoon, creating confidence—as if, even during a growing storm, he were merely in a large room, perhaps on a Scottish estate, defying elements angered by a successful day's hunt. The "seeming," of course, lost all credence when "weather" was encountered.
In fact, when the sea "got up," there was little anyone could do but pray—as even the most sophisticated devices of Victorian ingenuity still fell far short of those required to guarantee complete safety. Ships sank, were rent upon rocks, became helpless in storms, grounded in uncharted shallows. But still, sea travel grew.
In the Atlantic, commuting began for businessmen, emigrant trade escalated in the packed compartments of steerage, and trips abroad began with a "sea cure": damaged emotions were provided with the antidote of "a change"—lovesickness replaced by seasickness. But many were of the view that the voyage "across" should not be numbered amongst the pleasures of a trip abroad.
"When I hear people who profess to enjoy the steamer passage to Liverpool," said a contemporary traveler, "I always think how unhappy they must have been at home." Opinions were divided. "Ship-shape and Bristol fashion, the massive hull glides over the quiet waters, when one can observe the sheen from shining brasses, of glistening air-ports glazed white and lacquered black."
Publicity slowly reversed the fears of sea travel, still regarded as somewhat of an "enterprise"; not to be taken unless necessary. Ships became palaces afloat—segments of society one could enter for a fee, something more than mere conveyances. Even steerage, "the cellar on an ocean," packed and stacked as it was in most cases, provided better accommodation (and at least regular meals) than the slums from which the emigrants had escaped.
International travelers were divided largely into two categories: the well-off and the destitute. "Passengers of First and Second class," it was stated, "are requested not to throw money or eatables to the steerage passengers, thereby creating disturbance and annoyance."
Even more bleak were the deep unknown regions down by the keelson of the ship where passengers seldom ventured; descending levels of winding stairs led to the glare of opening and closing furnace doors where lived and toiled a body of grim, blackened and oily stokers, machinists, coal carriers, fire feeders and machine tenders, who knew as little of the upper ship as it knew of them. In these subterranean recesses of the hull between brick and iron walls, amidst the deafening sounds; pitch-black, with only fiery glimpses of these poor creatures at work, all sense of being at sea was lost as if the watcher were at a coal face or in a vast night factory of the new Industrial Age.
The Ebro was delayed for a week in Lisbon—her voyage interrupted by equatorial winds, slowly bearing northward weather that eventually became destructive thunderstorms. They broke over a wide area of Great Britain on the first and second, then sixth and seventh of August, causing much damage to life, limb and property. The ensuing floods George, Austin and Mac witnessed, through pouring rain, on the train journey south from their port of arrival—Liverpool.
The spirits of the three Americans fell as each mile the London Express traveled brought them nearer England's capital. Perhaps it was the different climate or the familiar language; certainly the euphoria of their escape from Rio was replaced by depression as they looked out the carriage windows at the dull countryside fading into an early rain-misted twilight.
"Mr. Warren" was to stay the night at the Golden Cross, where Austin still retained rooms. "Mr. Morrison" would reside at the Grosvenor, Victoria, which Mac preferred, until he found a set of rooms, which he did later in the month at number 7 St. James's Place; George, in the name of Wilson, decided on Durrant's in George Street, as it was quite central and whimsically apt. As they came into the station where they were to split up and go separate ways, until a rendezvous several days later in Garraway's, George read aloud, from the American volume he carried with him, words of Henry James.
Six years before, he too had entered London on such a wet, black Sunday after dark. George stopped a moment, seeing the others silently observing the very same arrival into Euston, "miles of house-tops and viaducts, the complications of junctions and signals through which the train had made its way to the station, gave some scale of its immensity, this City—London."
George decided for the trio there and then that they would first cable, then await Edwin Noyes and, should this mood persist, shake it off with a week or more in Paris before Austin, now too disconsolate to create a good impression, made the next move in their plan. Although the three men parted, each in his own cab, off into the wet night to the selected destination, they shared one thing, which came with an awareness of the enormous task that lay before them: utter misery.
Brilliant sunshine on a clear morning gave zest to that day at the end of the second week of September when Austin Bid-well walked briskly along Threadneedle Street to the Bank of England. Autumn weather at its best: the temperature was cool enough to be bracing, the moving air stirring, then sweeping away fumes that seemed always to hang upon the City in still weather—the bane of industrial expansion.
Austin crossed confidently to the other side of the street, avoiding the noisy horse traffic as wagons, broughams, cabs and carts jostled with riders, messengers and the ever-present destitute element, selling, shouting, quarreling and begging. Seeing the uniformed attendants at the great entrance of the Bank, Austin paused in mid-stride to throw away his cigar—half smoked. Auspicious day, he thought, as he nodded to the two smartly dressed men. They recognized him, even after the long interval away, and smiled a greeting. He entered the Bank at one minute to eleve
n.
. §
Farley escorted Mr. Warren not to his immediate superior's office, but along the corridor to the anteroom set to one side at the end near the Manager's door. He had not taken the advice given to him at the last meeting and merely shook his head when asked if he had laid a bet on the horse that won the '72 Derby. Austin had expected nothing more, but it made polite conversation and reminded Farley that he was not wholly unforgettable.
In the anteroom, Mr. Fenwick stood as he did mostly, without company or immediate work to occupy his attention, at the window observing the horse traffic of the City outside.
"Oh, welcome back, Mr. Warren," he began enthusiastically as Farley ushered the customer into the room. Fenwick crossed to Austin and shook him warmly by the hand.
"1 hope the caviar was sufficient consolation for what I hear are dreadful conditions even under such an illustrious Czar?"
A warm smile from the perfect assistant bathed Austin in its glow so that, for a moment, Mr. Warren did not exist. The man was so damned nice, Austin thought; he said, "What?" . "Why," said Fenwick, allowing only the shadow of a frown to cloud his countenance, "Wussia, Mr. Warren— Wussia!"
The mispronunciation was at first faintly amusing. Then Austin concentrated on the man he was supposed to be. What the hell was it in Russia? He began to think hard.
"Why, yes, Mr. Fenwick," he started, "caviar and— Schnapps . . ." He stopped immediately as the face before him questioned, first with its eyes, then with its mouth.
"Wodka, in Wussia?—surely, Mr. Warren."
Austin realized now how precarious his situation had become. He knew nothing about Russia and would certainly not survive questioning from one who knew even a little of the place. He cursed himself for ignoring the importance of his whimsical farewell.
To Austin, Russia was only a word. Worse was to come.
"As you say"—Austin tried to curtail the conversation— "wodka, Mr. Fenwick." The light laughter and imitation of the pronounciation he attempted merely wiped the smile from the nice man's face.
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