Mac looked at the others: they appeared to be waiting. He gave the two blue paper bills to George, who looked at them only a moment, then put them down near the piece of white paper with only the four signatures written clearly on it. Mac took up his pen once more and wrote quickly, Alphonse de Rothschild. The copy from the bill was as perfect as the eye could detect.
"Are you sure," asked Austin, "that you made the copy from the original as well as . . ." He stopped. Mac looked hard at him.
"We're all in this, Mac," said George gently; "we have to be confident that—"
"I'm sure," said Mac decisively. He put down the pen and leaned back.
George gazed at Mac a moment without moving. "It's the biggest, Mac—what you asked for—and being so, is perhaps the most dangerous."
"Why?" asked Mac. He was angry that his abilities were in question.
"Because it's unusual," replied George.
"They were happy enough with it at 'the Old Lady,' " said Austin in Mac's defense. "Colonel Francis called it a 'document.' "
"That," said George decisively, "is what will get it looked at all the more." All eyes now watched George as he reached into his side pocket and took out a small, translucent sheet of paper. On it was scribbled a name. George placed it carefully first over the signature on the copied Rothschild bill, then over the newly written signature Mac had put on the white sheet. It fitted almost exactly. Mac's eyes blazed.
"I copied it from the original on this tracing paper, Mac," said George. "We had to know for sure." He gestured to the others. "All of us." He looked at Austin and Noyes, who were obviously impressed. "We can't afford mistakes," George finished softly—"this time."
Mac began to smile, then laughed openly at the test to which George had put him.
"Do I pass?" he asked.
George said nothing, and that was everything.
Austin stood up as George took the two blue bills of exchange. "See you, boys."
"Take care," said Mac, eyes suddenly moist.
"Good luck," said George impassively.
Austin reached for the end of the cigar he had put down after coffee. Ash fell on the tracing paper as he put the still-burning tobacco to his lips.
"Where are you goin'?" asked Edwin Noyes.
"The Caribbean," Austin replied.
"So it's to be the sun, eh, Austin?" George said, badly concealing the conviction in his mind that it was the poor alternative.
"Nothing will go wrong," said Austin quietly. "Tell me in ninety days when we're with you," stated Mac with a grin.
"It's a place where money buys anything," said Austin, "and we're going to have plenty of what buys!"
"Why not?" said Mac, looking at George.
"It's your own decision, brother," said George.
"It's a big place," said Noyes. "Where've you a mind to settle—exactly?"
Austin took time to answer; he looked at his cigar as if seeking inspiration, but the tickets, bought already, belied this. "Havana," he said, "Cuba."
Hands were shaken. George threw a feint at his brother's chin and ducked beneath the return he'd taught Austin. They clasped each other tightly a moment, then stood apart. A pause lasted of a duration none of them could afterward honestly define, and suddenly Austin was gone. It was a beginning; and that was the beginning of the end. Outside the alcove, through now half-open curtains, the three men could see the boisterous group who had begun to sing loudly a Christmas carol.
God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. For Christ was born our saviour, was born on Christmas Day.
The three men in the alcove were no longer an invincible force about to test a great institution. They were three individuals, separated, alone, solitary and afraid, aware of their mortality and dwelling on the punishment should they fail, rather than the pleasant vision of rewards from success.
The carol faded away as port became a more attractive alternative for the majority of brokers at the large table in the center of the dining room.
Glad tidings of comfort and—joy.
But there were none for the trio in the alcove, and suddenly, even though gas-fired, Garraway's was very cold.
Smiles between the three men were not enough, and already, to George, it seemed that he had not merely bidden au revoir to Austin: but that he had lost his brother. Goodbye, he thought quietly, but spoke words of a different meaning to Mac and Noyes. "Here we go, boys," he said. They were committed. This time a toast was made with coffee, and never more apt: from here on, they would have to be fully alert for any eventuality.
§
Two days later, in the evening, the night train for Birmingham pulled out of Euston Station, slowly gathering momentum. The first bills would be dispatched before Christmas, along with a cordial letter to Colonel Francis, R.S.V.P. to Post Restante, Birmingham, written by Mac. Before the New Year they would know if all that had been planned was to succeed. If otherwise, they must be prepared to run immediately.
In the compartment where Mac and George lay back on the long seats with only two oil lamps above for comfort, silence was created by mood. As the train, now moving fast, began to leave the suburbs, Mac looked out the window and wiped away some of the condensation. Outside, were the lights of London—the last they would see until several hours later, when they would reach Birmingham, and the Queens Hotel, for the night. Mac began to smile.
"What is it?" asked George eventually.
"More important things" was all Mac said. He was thinking of May.
George thought only of Austin and wished him bon voyage, as he would to them all when the time came. He was soon in an unsettled sleep, full of fears from childhood.
Mac continued to look for the evening star.
§
The French steamer Martinique was sailing to Mexico, leaving Liverpool with a port of call in Lisbon. The first stop in the Caribbean was to be St. Thomas, eighteen days from Europe; then on to Cuba.
Austin and Elizabeth boarded early and were seated, waiting to dine, as the ship pulled out of harbor. Long blasts from the ship's horn faded into the night over the cold water toward the City.
Observing lights to port and starboard, the pilot eased his ship through a deep channel, then out into the open sea, where the little fog lying low on the water was thinning out. A half moon was up, and stars sparkled. It would be Christmas aboard unless the ship made Lisbon in good time, but not for the pilot: Liverpool was home; eagerly he jumped down into a following pilot cutter, whose small steam engine raced and took the last Englishman not traveling away into darkness.
The Martinique's engines went to full ahead, and movement was felt throughout the ship. Austin and Elizabeth gazed at each other with every indication of anticipated joy to come. They kissed in candlelight as the first murmurings of a waiter asked their "desire." Elizabeth's mind was full with only Austin and the future. Austin, even with this beautiful woman of his heart before him, could think only of the immediate past: his friends and brother—George, Mac and Edwin Noyes.
His mind raced over possible problems ahead or mistakes made; he could find none. He hoped he had done his part well. Suddenly confidence flowed into him, and he consciously dissolved his analysis and projection of the setup. He was here and now. And besides, he decided, as he smiled at Elizabeth, the plan was—perfect.
Winter
1873
The Final Play
ON the ninth of January, 1873, Prince Charles Louis Napoleon Bonaparte—the third Emperor of that family name—died at Camden Place, Chislehurst. His death was caused by the painful illness of a stone which had been undermining his constitution for several years. The Emperor's determination to rid himself of this debilitating affliction had driven him to accept surgery. The operation of lithotrity had apparently proved successful.
The night had passed in uninterrupted sleep. When Napoleon awoke, he was refreshed and apparently strong. That morning, he was able to rise from his bed; he was hopeful and well satisfied. The
Emperor was visited during the morning by his medical attendants, who saw nothing in his condition to excite any sort of apprehension. Arrangements were in progress for the administration of chloroform at noon, in order to complete a final operation to remove the last particles of that which had been the cause of so much distress.
The Empress paid her morning visit as she had done throughout the whole illness; her attention had been constant and her solicitude unceasing. Just before half past ten, as
several visitors were being ushered into the chamber where Napoleon lay, a sudden change became apparent. The man's pulse, which had been at eighty-four, rapidly fell; the action of his heart started to fail; he became prostrate and began to fade.
The Empress was instantly summoned and came to her Emperor's bedside, but he did not appear to recognize the woman; he was fast sinking, notwithstanding the small doses of brandy prescribed; immediately administered, they produced only a momentary reaction. The Empress ordered the young Prince Imperial and the Abbe Goddard of Chislehurst to be brought at once.
The Empress, the Duke de Bassano, Viscount Clary, Count Davillier, M. Pifitri and Mme. le Breton were kneeling by the bedside when the priest arrived to administer the last sacrament to His Majesty. Nothing could be heard in the bedroom but prayers of the priest and the sobs of those present. As the religious ceremony terminated, the Emperor appeared to give some signs of consciousness. His Empress approached for a final embrace. The movement he made was slight—an indication that he wished to give a last kiss to his wife; after which he heaved two deep sighs and expired from this earth. It was exactly a quarter to eleven.
§
Unaware of the great and tragic event that very moment taking place some miles away at Chislehurst, the Assistant Manager of the Bank of England looked up to receive Farley with the morning beverage.
"Tea, Mr. Fenwick?" asked Farley as he always did, quite needlessly.
"Yes, Farley," replied Mr. Fenwick. It was their ritual. Fenwick opened a large buff envelope, part of the morning's post on his desk. Inside he found six bills of exchange. He looked them over and checked the date and signatures of each.
Fenwick paused a moment, his thoughts (quite genial and without suspicion) directed toward the young American whose name, was scrawled at the bottom of the short accompanying letter. Farley was about to leave.
"Credit these to Mr. Warren's account, Farley, as I did the first batch."
Farley took the bills and buff envelope. He looked at the postmark. "From Birmingham, Mr. Fenwick?" He was clearly perplexed.
"Colonel Francis has made an arrangement with Mr. Warren," replied Fenwick tartly. "They're ninety-day bills, so store them in the vault, and with the receipt reply the usual—'Hoping you ... et cetera.' Bring it to me for signing. It is to go to the Post Office, Birmingham, Poste Restante."
"Yes, sir," said Farley, and as instructed, went into the outer office to prepare a reply of acceptance. To Mr. Fenwick it was just another part of the morning's business, as, that day, dying had been for the Emperor of France.
Fenwick, humming to himself, unaware as yet that with this second batch of bills from Birmingham accepted, he had committed himself to be part of something great and tragic also, began to open several other letters as he took a first sip of hot tea.
It was exactly a quarter to eleven.
§
On the return trip to Birmingham at the beginning of the New Year, George and Mac had discovered from the letter Colonel Francis sent on receipt of the bills, which arrived after Christmas, that they had indeed been accepted. The letter was cordial in tone and hoped that Mr. Warren was recovering from any effects of the fall from his horse, and that he might have the pleasure of seeing him in London soon—he remained, dear sir, Yours faithfully—P.M. Francis. It had been signed by a Mr. Fenwick on the Manager's behalf.
It was impressive. For the first time George realized how well Austin had behaved as his alias.
When Mac read the letter, he smiled at George, sharing his now soaring confidence. Mac's inventiveness had added the horse in a letter accompanying the bills sent before Christmas, mindful of the injuries George still displayed. It maintained the human touch that Austin had assured them would be well received and continued the personal aspect of the relationship Austin had established.
The second batch went in and were received on the ninth day of January, as the next receipt and accompanying letter stated—now written by Mr. Fenwick and countersigned by a Mr. Farley. At this the trio's jubilation was difficult to contain. Acceptance of the first dispatch might well have been a singular favor to her valued client, Mr. Warren—but "the Old Lady's" crediting of the second batch of bills indicated strongly that the process—long planned by George; set up by Austin; prepared by Mac and served by Noyes—would work.
George, Mac and Noyes were now absolutely sure of themselves, and they set their timetable: sixty days. So it began.
§
On January 21, Edwin Noyes stepped out along Lombard Street (the Wall Street of London, as he liked to refer to it). Just before twelve o'clock, he entered the Continental Bank and walked over to the teller, now of his acquaintance, to make his demands—with charm.
Mr. Richard Amery had taken to short chats with Mr. Noyes, wherein he learned a good deal about the feelings of "our cousins across the sea." He knew Mr. Noyes to be the confidential clerk of Mr. Horton and, as his business appeared to be booming since Christmas, was suitably impressed.
"Well, Mr. Noyes, what'll it be today?" said Mr. Amery. "Good morning to you, sir," greeted Edwin cordially. "Four thousand pounds." "A deal of money," said Amery. "To go in," smiled Edwin.
"Ah, we are always pleased to hear that," smiled the teller, reaching under the grille to accept the Bank of England check now on the counter.
Edwin watched the man stamp the paper. He looked up and shook his head.
"From Mr. Warren again? That's good business Mr. Horton has, I'd say."
"Yes," Edwin agreed, "and two thousand to go, in gold, if you please." Edwin had decided not to beat about the bush.
Gold would, of course, take several moments longer than paper currency—the bags would have to be checked and weighed—but Edwin was prepared for this. He leaned on the counter and watched the rest of the large bank continue about its business.
"There's the rich, an' there's the poor . . ." the teller behind the grille began to say, as if confidentially, to his financial equal, "... isn't that so, Mr. Noyes?"
"There is indeed," replied Edwin sagely, maintaining his role.
"An' never the twain shall meet," said Mr. Amery wistfully. He handed over the two bags; they were heavy.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Edwin quickly. He signed for the gold in four places in the required spaces of the form presented to him, bade Mr. Richard Amery a pleasant good day and left the Continental Bank soon after twelve fifteen.
Finding a cab into the West End took time, as the traffic was congested from the river to Trafalgar Square, so it was past one o'clock when Edwin Noyes finally got transport. He had walked some distance with the two bags weighing more than fifteen pounds each (not too dangerous a thing to do, as during the day the City area was well stocked with policemen, dissuading any street robbery); then, when he left his cab—stuck in a St. James's Street jam, where a heavy beer dray had overturned—he walked again down St. James's Place, to number 7.
Edwin upended one of the Continental bags, and gold spilled onto the table. George and Mac were visibly moved. It was not the first, nor would it be the last, amount they would see, and there would be larger to come; but two thousand gold sovereigns, tangible evidence of all they had worked for, gave them good cause to be stirred.
Edwin was cold, and George handed him a glass of mulled wine from the fireplace, where flames were roaring brightly. Edwin told George, in detail, of the atmosphere he had encountered in the Continental, and George affirmed, with a smile at his joke, that he too was now "content at the Contin
ental." They turned to Mac, who was writing at the table.
"For deposit," he said quietly, concentrating still. He had just signed Mr. Frederick Albert Warren's name with a flourish. "Eight thousand pounds," he continued, "for Mr. C. J. Horton's account." The check was on the Bank of England. Taking a different pen and changing the angle of his hand, Mac again wrote, on a clean sheet of paper, Make payable to Mr. Noyes the sum of six thousand pounds—cash. He signed the note with Horton's signature. It looked totally different.
For each withdrawal Edwin made on the Continental, whether attached to the ingoing check or presented by itself, there was a note, authorizing his clerk to collect, signed by Mr. C. J. Horton—written, of course, by Mac.
George took up his black leather bag and moved to the table. Edwin Noyes watched the ink dry on the paper before Mac. George began piling the sovereigns m stacks of ten.
"I'll take these," he said, "to buy bank notes; you'll have them tomorrow, Ed, to order the U.S. Bonds from Jay Cooke."
With notes numbered from the Bank of England it might be possible, George assumed, to trace their passage in the City. Thus, he always cashed notes for gold, or exchanged gold for notes, whichever Edwin drew out of the Continental. Only then would George allow Edwin to collect United States Bonds—currency in themselves—from Jay Cooke, Mc-Culloch and Company.
George, Mac and Noyes had enjoyed a pleasant entry into the year of '73, with prospects of a new life never more real. They gave themselves until the end of February this New Year before their need for flight became acute. That would be the end of their sixty days. This was the plan. With thirty days before the first bills came due, they would have the entire world in which to get lost.
George stopped counting out the sovereigns as he remembered once again the date. This was their twenty-second day.
"Know the weight of ten thousand pounds in gold, Ed?" said George with a wink to Mac.
"Not yet," replied Edwin, falling in with the exuberant mood that had developed.
"Austin had a baby getting it out of Rio," laughed George.
"I ain't had that good fortune," said Edwin.
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