"We, at the Bank," Fenwick continued, "know of Wussia in the extreme, Mr. Warren. Thank you, Farley."
The young assistant bowed out but left the door open.
"Our dealings, shall I say," Fenwick went on, "with 'that country' have been more than—'one-sided' is perhaps the right phrase?"
Austin was perplexed by the pause when it was obvious a reply was expected. Fenwick sniffed and continued.
"The Crimea, Mr. Warren, bled us here in England from our pockets as well as our veins."
"The war?" Austin asked thankfully, remembering the conflict, two decades past, of several years' duration.
"Indeed so, Mr. Warren. Our reputation . . ." Here Fenwick paused, the word he was forming obviously distasteful to him. "... suffered."
"The charge of the Light Brigade surely regained what was lost, Mr. Fenwick?" Austin was now proud of himself. In his boyhood it had been news; how, in history, it had become a somewhat colored legend.
"A glorious chapter," said Fenwick, once more aglow with the pride of being English.
"And," said Austin, "perhaps foolhardy?"
Fenwick's expression froze at this mild criticism.
"As I remember it," finished Austin.
"As you say, Mr. Warren—as you remember it."
The atmosphere had lost its cordiality—a reminder to Austin to tread warily where criticism of the British was concerned.
"Our Civil War in the intervening years . . ." Austin desperately sought the right words to placate this neither too short nor too tall, too fat nor too thin Britisher. "... has filled our American minds, Mr. Fenwick, with the idea that there is nothing in war that can be deemed glorious."
The Assistant Manager softened, remembering the horrifying weekly reports from the United States during those terrible years. He put out of his mind the jubilation of many of his customers as their bank balances grew large—the result of increased revenue after the collapse of American competition, together with the clandestine export trade of "goods" to both North and South (despite the international ruling of European neutrality, officially strictly enforced by the British themselves). Fenwick had been counseled to ignore certain facts along with the word "munitions"; thus he reminded himself to forget and assumed the appropriate emotion of sympathy.
"Indeed, Mr. Warren, indeed—we have all suffered."
Austin charted the change in Fenwick—transparent enough to be graphed. He swallowed some anger and made his request. "My appointment was at eleven."
"I am quite selfish, Mr. Warren. I apologize, of course. Come through; you shall meet Colonel Francis." Fenwick indicated the door. Both men stepped into the hallway and took the four paces to a large door, and as Fenwick heard the word "Come" from within, he turned the brass knob, made in the shape of a lion roaring.
§
In 1872, Britain and the United States could well have gone to war against each other. The Prime Minister, Gladstone, averted any final declaration by acceding to demands that were, to say the least, unpopular in Britain. So much so that, without doubt, the Alabama Affair, as it was called, did much to oust Gladstone in favor of Disraeli.
The British contended that throughout the American Civil War they had remained strictly neutral. The Americans claimed that because Britain had allowed the Southern privateers Alabama, Georgia, Florida and Shenandoah to be refitted in British colonial ports, then to "escape" (the Southern sympathies of Britain were not entirely secret), she was directly responsible for (a) the direct damage resulting from the destruction of vessels and cargoes by these Confederate privateers, (b) the losses occasioned by the transfer of the American shipping trade to the British flag, (c) the considerable expenses imposed on the United States by the necessity of chasing the privateers, (d) the losses from the increase of insurance premiums, (e) the enlarged war expenditure caused by the prolongation of hostilities.
Arbitration was delayed but finally convened on June 15, 1872, at the Hotel de Ville in Geneva, Switzerland. The august body was august indeed: Her Britannic Majesty's Sir Alexander James Edmund Cockburn, Baronet, a member of Her Majesty's Privy Council, Lord Chief Justice of England; His Majesty the King of Italy; His Excellency Count Federigo Sclopis de Salerano, a Knight of the Order of the Annunciata, Minister of State, Senator of the kingdom of Italy; His Majesty, the Emperor of Brazil; His Excellency Marcos Antonio d'Aranjo; Viscount d'ltajuba, a Grandee of the Empire of Brazil, Member of the Council of His Majesty the Emperor of Brazil and his Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary in France; Her Britannic Majesty's Charles Stuart Aubrey, Lord Tenterden, a Peer of the United Kingdom, Companion of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Assistant Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs; M. Jacques Staempfli of Switzerland. Charles Francis Adams, Esquire, represented the United States, together with J. C. Bancroft Davis, Esquire.
Britain ended up paying. Three million—pounds sterling.
§
"Good morning, Fenwick—and thank you."
The voice was firm, well modulated, and indicated, without effort, authority—difficult to achieve unless its owner was to the manner born.
Mr. Fenwick thanked his Manager as if even words from him were to be cherished. He left the room and closed the door without any further communication with Austin. Now he was on his own. The two men looked at each other, the one seated at his desk—a heavy antique, surrounded by what was familiar: the ostentatious agglomeration of Victorian taste, everything that was supposed to impress, as it did the majority.
Large windows, long draperies, Persian carpets, Louis Quinze cabinets, Reynolds paintings. Austin smiled. The Colonel, as Fenwick had declared him to be, remained seated and indicated the comfortable chair to his client. Austin took it and relaxed. Eyes absorbed first impressions.
"Mr. Warren," said Austin; "F. A."
"Colonel Francis," said the Manager of the Bank of England; "P.M."
"Frederick Albert," said Austin.
"Peregrine Madgewick," said the Colonel.
The Manager lay back in his seat and touched fingertips.
"Well, Mr. Warren—Russia!"
Austin became alert instantly.
"Did you go to St. Petersburg?" asked the Colonel.
"Austin nodded and spoke. "Indeed I did."
"And how ..." said Peregrine Madgewick with some curiosity "... was it?"
Austin was about to invent a series of opinions when some instinct stopped him. He smiled in question.
"Have you been?" he asked.
"Indeed I have," said Colonel Francis.
With a small—almost involuntary gesture, Austin pinched his nose and thanked his lucky stars.
"Then I am probably unable to add anything to what you yourself know of the place," he said.
"Most interesting, didn't you think?" asked Madgewick.
"Most interesting," affirmed Austin.
Seemingly satisfied with this exchange, the Manager referred to some papers on his desk.
"You have," he began, "an excellent record of business." He paused as if unable to continue. He looked up at Austin and changed the conversation. Austin could see that the man's mind was racing.
"I unfortunately," he went on, "when you came to us —that is, were brought—I was—"
"Vacationing, I gather," finished Austin.
Colonel Francis nodded absently, directly at Austin. He again referred to the papers a moment. Silence held, interrupted eventually by the Manager's drumming fingers. Then he sat up in his chair and with a firm voice asked, "What is it exactly—your business?''
Austin knew how to handle direct questions from normally indirect people, so now he relaxed: his advantage.
"I have been looking for an opportunity some while, and now"—Austin paused to light the cigar he had taken from his pocket—"by courtesy of Mr. Pullman"—he struck a match —"I think"—he took the first puff—"I have found"—he puffed again—"one"—the cigar was lit; he shook the match out—"for which my experience well equips me."<
br />
"And that is...?" questioned the Manager.
"Sleeping cars," said Austin, and leaned back, blowing out the first delicious taste of fine Havana.
"I see," said Peregrine Madgewick. He did not.
"My brother," Austin went on, "has been in and out of railroad carriages in America, and what I've picked up I've learned from him." He took another puff of his cigar, savored the smoke and blew it out. "Distance," he said, "that's what we have in America, and"—he paused and drew on the cigar again—"comfort"—the word came out wreathed in smoke—"that's what you have in Europe."
"In Great Britain also, Mr. Warren." said Colonel Francis with an admonishing smile.
"I meant this Island—also," said Austin, temporarily thrown from his train of thought.
"The one word," the Manager began, deciding that now was the time to reveal to this American just exactly what he, Francis, represented, "is insufficient; Europe," he continued with growing relish, "is a—place. Great Britain is—an Empire"—the word seemed to spark and glow the way he said it—"upon which the sun never sets, Mr. Warren." The express was on the straightaway now and would not be stopped. Austin attended.
"We, in Great Britain, are guardians of nations. Millions of our subjects need our help, seek our advice, owe fealty and give loyalty. This—Island"—he emphasized the word Austin had used, sardonically—"is the cornerstone of that Empire, and I like to think, I believe not incorrectly, that this Bank is the cornerstone of our Island; more than that..." Colonel Francis made a note that today he was inspired, galvanized by this arrogant American "... inasmuch as this Bank houses the wealth of generations of world-wide trade and fruitful business, attracting to it the inventive, the industrious, the honest and the successful, all of which"—Francis had decided to -personalize these attributes to flatter, if not accurately describe—"I gather, you are, Mr. Warren."
Austin was unable even to mutter an affirmative noise. Francis continued immediately.
"Inasmuch as we, the Bank of England, do that, I like to think of us as the... the..." Peregrine paused only to enjoy the thought to be pronounced. "... heart of the Empire, Mr. Warren."
The speech was over. Austin had the measure of his man. He smiled, as now did the Manager. "Hearts," said Austin, "stop."
Colonel Francis was John Bull—tailor-made by time, heritage and experience to sit just exactly where he sat. Normally the cat with the cream. This American seemed not to understand the might and pride of this paragon of civilizations. Perplexed and not a little irritated, Madgewick got down to business.
"Distance and comfort, Mr. Warren," he said.
"Yes," said Austin, "and large sums of money required to combine the two and conquer the one."
Every aspect, angle and attitude to money Colonel Francis understood. He relaxed again: his advantage.
"At five dollars to our single pound sterling, Mr. Warren," he said patronizingly, "you in America may be used to dealing with larger figures, but I feel we"—and with this he made it quite certain Austin was not a part—"we here in Britain are used to transacting greater values."
"Then it appears," said Austin concisely, suppressing all emotional reaction, "that I should have little trouble in my business should I decide to base myself here in England."
"You are a gentleman of obvious acumen," said Francis. "Should the vestige of a problem arise, do not hesitate to call upon our experience.''
"You are most hospitable, Colonel Francis," said Austin. He meant it.
"You in America, sir," began Francis—determined to beguile this American (Austin was aware only that this man was cosseting)—"are, to my way of thinking, our 'country cousins,' as it were, to whom we are indebted inasmuch as you reminded us, almost a century ago now, that generosity from the father is an attribute as worthy as quiet counsel..." He paused, knowing Mr. Warren would interrupt. On cue Austin spoke, irritated still.
"I don't follow you, sir."
Colonel Francis knew his speech from repetition and enjoyed leading initiates through its changes.
"When our dear King George," the Royalist said, "gave"—he emphasized the word—"to you the seaboard States of the American continent and said, 'There, they are yours, I relinquish them,' the world must have taken great note at that time of his magnificent gesture."
All that Austin knew of his history had been swept away in a sentence. General Burgoyne's beleaguered army had been decimated, left with no course but to surrender; words read in his boyhood had imprinted that much upon Austin's memory. They had leaped from the pages of his books, conveying the pain, agony, exhilaration and final victory of the ragged representatives of a new people over the colonial tenacity of an old nation. This man was rewriting facts fought and won with blood, not paid for with money.
"Gave... ?" Austin actually spoke the word.
Catching the reference, Francis smiled, "Yes—gave."
"And the War of Independence?" It was Austin who blurted it out, not F. A. Warren. The moment was dangerous.
Colonel Francis laughed at what was, to him, the obvious.
"The formality of honor, Mr. Warren," he said. "As a master might play at swords with an arrogant pupil, so we—"
Austin interrupted, now firmly Mr. Warren; he no longer trusted himself.
"Do you," he said, "perhaps"—he breathed deeply —"have some coffee?"
"Indeed, Mr. Warren," said the Manager smoothly, quite unperturbed at the flushed gills of the young man before him and the quite obviously angry eyes flashing with indignation. "We may have coffee; but I feel sure we have tea."
Tea was a British tradition, as the world knew. His finger went to the button of the newly installed electric bell to summon the beverage and as if to declare "game" in the mild confrontation.
"Tea," said Austin, "would be most agreeable."
"Good," said Peregrine Madgewick, finger poised.
"If," finished Austin between gritted teeth, "it is from Boston."
Austin's cigar went out, as did the patronizing glint in the eye of the Manager of the Bank of England.
Austin smiled generously. Francis said something like "Yes, quite." Fenwick arrived moments after the button was released and, outside, the bell stopped ringing. Austin pressed out his cigar in the ash tray on the desk in the Manager's office. It was not Havana ash that he could smell as he lay back in his chair to present further financial details to Colonel Francis; it was the contents of broken boxes a century before, thrown into a harbor with patriotic fervor. The history read in childhood was indelible and still conveyed to him the smell of what his mother had called civilized afternoons.
Fenwick had brought papers into the office and was obviously going to join his superior and the customer, Mr. Warren. Austin blessed his mother silently as he recalled her saying with that wan smile of hers, "Tea for one in drinking, tea for two is two for tea, but tea for three is a party!" Only then would she pour the contents of an old china pot for herself and her two young sons.
To the momentary consternation of both Fenwick and Francis, Mr. Frederick Albert Warren actually began to laugh out loud. He never told them why; they would find out themselves—eventually.
§
Mac and George were waiting for Austin when he arrived outside Gangway's for lunch at one o'clock. Austin was brusque and to his companions appeared offhand.
"Is Noyes here?" Austin asked.
"We're all to dine this evening," said Mac slowly.
"Austin?" questioned George. "You all right?"
The walk from Threadneedle Street, and in fact for almost an hour, through the business City's maze had calmed Austin from his explosive mood on leaving the Bank. He pursed his lips, collected spittle in his mouth then spat on the cobbled way.
"Boys," said Austin, "this is going to be a pleasure." George frowned. Mac was quizzical. He asked, "What was he like?"
"Well," Austin said, "he made me think." He looked long and hard at both Mac and George.
"But for a sign
ature on a piece of paper declaring peace, what we're about to do would make out of us heroes, not criminals."
"You mean," said Mac, "if we were still at war with John Bull?" "Yes," Austin replied.
"Well"—George grinned—"I ain't heard o' no peace treaty, boys."
"Safe as the Bank"
DINNER at Garraway's was a celebration. Noyes made a quartet, and old stories, adventures and escapades were repeated until they had all become a little less than sober. The three men, George, Austin and Mac, had been putting on weight. They had lived regularly, eaten well, drunk good wine and lacked for nothing but exercise. Even George had become lax in his discipline. Mac had been the first to create measures of control. Perhaps his excellent upbringing in genteel circumstances had had something to do with his new regimen; whatever, he had cut out drinking alcohol and ate only half of what he now carefully chose.
His example had been followed by both Bidwell brothers, who after some harmless ridicule of their friend had only to look at their waists to see the sense of Mac's discipline. Edwin Noyes had no such qualms, and his immediate influence was to revert the trio to bad habits. But for the one night at least, their pleasure at seeing again a friend after so long a time apart banished conscience.
Edwin Noyes was wide-eyed, not only at being in Europe, or more especially in Great Britain (as Austin reminded them
with a casual imitation of Colonel Francis), but at the concept George now outlined to him. The meal over, curtains drawn in the alcove, the group around the table, now cleared of all but brandy glasses and coffee, waited for Edwin to speak.
In the main dining room, noise continued; in the alcove only the gas lamps hissed. Edwin was sitting absolutely still as if in a state of shock. He looked at his friends—incredulous.
"The Bank of England?" His voice wavered as he spoke the words slowly.
"In or out?" asked George. * "Well..." Noyes hesitated, looking at Austin, who said nothing.
"But..." he continued.
"Ed!" Mac's voice was low—dictating the answer.
Noyes paused long; he remembered the thousand dollars the trio had sent to him in New York, the ten-day voyage to arrive in England; saw in Mac's eyes the friendship he valued and felt the spirit of camaraderie that prevailed around him.
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