Virtue’s Reward (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 11)

by Andrew Wareham

  “What of you, Thomas?”

  “Horses, sir, I want to work in the livery and at the stud, sir, down at Widow Oliver’s, as soon as I am big enough.”

  “Mind your book and you shall as soon as you are Edward’s age.”

  He was much slighter in build than his brother, could have been born to be a horseman.

  “Ten years before I can hand over forge and stables to them, Mrs White. How do we go about discovering a minister for our chapel?”

  “A railroad, Mr Quillerson, to run from New York to Albany, to connect our greatest city to the state capital. Faster than steamers on the river and less reliant on the goodwill of nature. An engine will chug along through a gale where a steamship must tie up in port or at a quayside; drought will not render the rails unusable.”

  “You are certainly right, Mr Jamieson. Tell me, what is your exact proposal?”

  He was being sold a pup! John Quillerson had been about in the world of business long enough to detect a fraudster when he made his pitch – he could feel the false enthusiasm, the optimistic gloss, the simulated sincerity of the voice.

  “A joint-stock company, Mr Quillerson! A mutual venture to purchase the land in town and to lay the permanent way and then to build an engine and trucks for our line.”

  “Only to purchase in town, sir?”

  “Much of the land between New York and Albany is unclaimed, remains in the possession of the State of New York. Where the land is farmed we need but purchase or lease rights of way across it. In town we may have to demolish a few dwellings, of course, so we need to buy them.”

  Quillerson smiled his comprehension, had no further questions; he would sit down with the well-printed prospectus and he could almost assure Mr Jamieson of his favourable consideration.

  There was, he knew, a substantial quantity of land remaining in the hands of the state – inevitably because farmers could not make a living from it. The hills and the forested valleys were impractical farming land – and were equally undesirable terrain for a railroad. The steam engines required flat land and gentle gradients – just the acres that farmers wished to plough and seed. Purchasing rights of way from those farmers would not be easily done, or cheaply; they would not want to see their fields split in half or steam engines spitting burning cinders into their standing wheat. Besides that, building a station in the ‘heart of New York’ would not be cheap; any man who costed it would surely plump for the outskirts of town. He thought for a while then locked his office door and made his way towards the docks and the presence of Commodore Vanderbilt. He had been seeking a reason to make contact with the great man; Jamieson was an obvious crook but he gave the opening to discuss such a proposal with a man who was more likely to turn it into reality.

  The Commodore knew of Quillerson as a medium-sized businessman who regularly shipped goods, mostly provisions, to a network of stores in the villages north and west of Albany. He used the steamers on the Hudson and the barges on the Erie Canal and he paid his bills strictly to time; he was worthy of a few minutes consideration.

  “Have you come across this new railroad proposal, sir?”

  Quillerson passed the prospectus across. Vanderbilt gave it two minutes before snorting in contempt.

  “That is my opinion, sir. I wanted only to be assured that it did not have your backing before having enquiries made into this Mr Jamieson’s bona fides. It is crazy, sir. A station on the outskirts of town and track to follow the flat lands of the river banks to Albany might make sense, particularly if there were to be branch lines running from Albany through the farm towns. But this smacks of dishonesty to me.”

  “And to me, young man. Why do you need a railroad at all?”

  “Passengers, sir. A railroad can achieve thirty or more miles an hour. Few people care whether a truckload of coal takes a day to travel from New York to Albany, but passengers told they can make the journey in three hours will be inclined to use rail rather than water.”

  “So they will, sir. They will indeed.”

  “As well as that, sir, think of milk and butter. A railroad from, say Andrewstown to Albany – two hours at most. An hour to transfer the wagon to the New York line, and six hours sees fresh milk in New York, sir.”

  There were thousands of cows in the cellars and backyards of New York, and it was still difficult to buy milk in town. Butter was commonly close to rancid when it was bought, would hardly keep a day.

  “You make a powerful argument, sir. The man who brought fresh milk to New York would be a hero to his fellow-citizens!" Commodore Vanderbilt was commonly seen as something less than heroic by most of his fellow men, was attracted by the prospect. "What do you know of the building of railroads, Mr Quillerson?”

  “Nothing, as yet, sir. But I do have connections in England with the Roberts Ironworks, which is involved in the business. I understand from letters that they actually have made parts for Stephenson.”

  “Will you use your connections for the benefit of the New York and Albany Steam Locomotion Company, Mr Quillerson? You would, naturally, be a director and manager.”

  Vanderbilt was known for the ability to make lightning decisions and also for keeping his pledged word. Quillerson accepted on the spot.

  “I will have your Mr Jamieson dealt with, Mr Quillerson. If he does happen to be an honest man, then I shall see if he has any actual knowledge of the railroad.”

  “I believe he will have far more knowledge of railroad shares than railroad building, sir. I will send letters to England immediately. My father served the late Lord Andrews for many years, and died standing in front of an assassin’s bullet aimed at him; such being the case, they believe I have a claim on the family, which owns Roberts.”

  Quillerson thought it better to explain in full his connections – the Commodore was not a man to be given anything less than the whole, unvarnished truth.

  “Your father sounds as if he was a worthy man, one to respect.”

  “He was, sir. I have been unable to return to England these many years. I really wish I could do so. My mother will be well into in her fifties now, I calculate…”

  Vanderbilt possessed many of the old-fashioned values as well as the more modern respect for the dollar; he agreed wholeheartedly that Quillerson should aim to see his mother again.

  "Rather than send letters, Mr Quillerson, could you not travel in person?"

  "I run my business almost single-handedly, Mr Vanderbilt. I have no fewer than eighteen stores now, sir, and each must be supplied with the stock they need. Not merely for my profit, though that is not unimportant to me, but for the farming community that each supports. They are a responsibility, sir and I cannot simply walk away from them for six months."

  "Nor should you, sir! I would suggest though that it might be possible to sell your business and move entirely into the world of railroads. I could find a man in your line, sir, and arrange for the financing of a purchase. Say at fourteen years, sir, which is a fair rate of return in the shopkeeping world, what would that amount to?"

  "I expect to clear nearly eleven thousand dollars this year, Mr Vanderbilt. Not huge returns, I know - something little in excess of ten dollars a week from each store; but it has the advantage that no competitor is able to undercut me. A round one hundred and fifty thousand, sir."

  Vanderbilt checked his calculations on a piece of paper and agreed them, commenting on his quickness to perform the sums in his head.

  "A knack, sir, no great virtue to it." Quillerson was dismissive of mental arithmetic, had always been able to feel the pattern of the numbers, was surprised that others found it hard.

  “Mr Henry Star, who may be known to you, sir, has spoken to me of his desire to undertake a railroad from New York to Washington, thinking that the country’s greatest city must be linked to its capital.”

  Commodore Vanderbilt had heard of Mr Henry Star and had a great respect for him, but could not approve of Mr Quillerson having two masters…

  Quillerson agree
d to send a letter to Mr Star stating that on mature consideration he still found himself unable to become involved in his railroad proposals; he had broached the matter to Commodore Vanderbilt who was very interested, however, and would no doubt make contact himself.

  They talked railroads for some hours, agreed finally that they must recruit an engineer from England - not that Americans could not do the job, but the English likely had experienced men who could save them from many mistakes.

  Their last discussion hinged around the creation of a company to actually build and run the railroad. Quillerson suggested that he should put one hundred thousand in so that he had a personal shareholding. The Commodore was against this, arguing that he would be both employer and employee, might experience a conflict of interests. This seemed a little strange to Quillerson.

  "You are not, perhaps, at home in the world of high finance, Mr Quillerson. It might, for example, be the case that it became wise to reduce the price of our shares on the Exchange, or possibly to push them up. One might envisage a situation in which a creditor was persuaded to accept a shareholding rather than take cash for his goods. One could discover an advantage then in permitting the share price to fall quite substantially, and perhaps to very kindly buy back those shares through an intermediary unknown to him, offering him a few cents premium as an encouragement. Was there to be a need for a bank loan, perhaps, then the shares could show a steady and healthy rise in their value... Better for you not to be directly involved, perhaps. A nominal holding to qualify you to be a director, and certainly an issue to you annually as part of your remuneration, myself to control them still, would be the better course."

  Quillerson admitted that he knew nothing of the world of high finance, but he could recognise fraud when it was placed openly in front of him.

  "Are you entirely certain, sir, that this is the way forward for the railroads?"

  "They must make a profit for their owners, Mr Quillerson. As well, if it is my railroad then I have the right to set its share price and control its every aspect. If people do not like it, sir, well, they are at liberty not to invest!"

  "You may well be right in that point of view, sir..."

  "I am. Now then, Mr Quillerson, if you are to work wholly for me as a manager of my railroads, then you must be salaried. Shall we start at fifty thousands, sir?"

  Quillerson thought that to be an excellent idea and discovered that his reservations about shares and their prices were quite unjustified.

  "Might I make a request, Mr Vanderbilt, that you should place the monies due to me from the sale of the stores into sensible investments? You are expert in this field, sir."

  Vanderbilt graciously assented - he could find time to look after that little matter.

  "Thank you, sir. I think it best, sir, if I take passage to England at the earliest possible moment. A mail packet will be fastest, I understand."

  Again, Vanderbilt agreed and said that he would make arrangements for Mr Quillerson to have access to an account in Liverpool - he would need money. Tickets for his passage would be available, probably by the next morning, though he did not know when the next sailing was.

  "Do not concern yourself, Mr Quillerson. I have secretaries whose function it is to perform these simpler tasks." Vanderbilt rang a little bell on his desk, glanced at the large clock on the wall, counting off the seconds, it seemed.

  A young man, very formally dressed, overdressed one might say, rushed in from the outer office.

  "Sir!"

  The young man bowed his head on receipt of his orders and left at little short of a run.

  "I do not pay them to delay, Mr Quillerson."

  A waiter appeared with coffee, evidently part of the orders. Quillerson was parched from long talking, welcomed the cup.

  Five minutes brought the secretary back to say that a mail packet was due to sail on the next evening's high tide – soon after dusk.

  "Mr Quillerson will be aboard in the best cabin. His bags to be packed and taken aboard. He will wish, I presume to visit a bookshop, account to be opened for him. See to his comfort - I do not know what the food is like on the mail packets."

  Vanderbilt rose courteously and escorted Quillerson to the door, having demonstrated his power to his new underling. It was better, he had discovered, to employ able young men and pay them very well, but also to leave them with an understanding of their lesser status.

  Quillerson left in a state of near shock; he had achieved all, and more, he had wanted and was now employed by the biggest man in the State and had quadrupled his income, with every expectation of making far more in the early future. He had also put his tail in a trap - he must perform, produce all that was asked of him and more, every day without fail.

  He obediently made his way to the bookshop of the underling's choice and bought for the voyage, thoughtfully, certain that a list of his purchases would cross the great man's desk. He made quite sure that the 'Wealth of Nations' was high on the manifest.

  He gave a little thought as well to the purchase of presents to take back to his mother and sisters and brother, seeking something out of the ordinary and very American. He decided on buffalo robes, utilitarian as well in the damp, cold English winters.

  Grace performed her duty as was incumbent upon her, producing the daughter they had hoped for. Henry remained at her side until he could be sure that all was well, spending the tedious weeks in coming to understand the plantation he owned and in entertaining his neighbours from the plantocracy.

  He sat across the dining table from Grace of a late evening, his guests departed to drive home under a full moon.

  "Boring, uneducated, self-opinionated and fundamentally stupid, ma'am. That of course proves that they really are of the aristocracy!"

  "The boys must not grow up to be as them, sir."

  "True indeed, my dear. Should we move our dwelling place? Should we perhaps travel further upriver? There are many towns we could consider. We might indeed progress as far as Chicago or the new iron towns growing near the Lakes."

  They agreed that he should investigate the possibilities. Henry laughed quietly to himself - he was locked into his family now, could never leave - he was rich but he was tied into domesticity. It was not what he had ever envisaged.

  He travelled back to New Orleans, thoughtful, wistful almost, ruing the youth he had put behind him. Mr Clapperley was awaiting his return and Henry was in just the frame of mind to deal with that little man.

  "Mr Star! Ti Henry, I should say, perhaps?"

  Henry smiled in acknowledgement.

  "Four artillery batteries, sir - each of six field guns, all six-pounders. Limbers and forage wagons and portable forge and spare wheels, all as laid down in the official establishment. Eighty mules to each battery, sir, again as laid down. All here in New Orleans, sir, pastured at the edge of town, a barn hired as well. I was able to obtain a very fair price, sir, against cash."

  Mitch was present, nodded to Henry. They took a pair of cabs to view the guns, Henry and Mitch together.

  "He has paid for the guns, Ti Henry. Used all the cash he had and credit for the mules. Shipping them here took every last cent he possesses - his hotel bill is on the slate!"

  "Poor man!"

  Mitch grinned - he did not like Mr Clapperley either.

  They inspected the guns with much head-shaking, called for a smith to inspect them, and a carpenter to examine the gun-carriages and limbers, retired from the scene to await the tradesmen's reports.

  "All will be to hand tomorrow morning, Mr Clapperley. Will you come to my office at ten, please."

  Mitch wandered off to Clapperley's hotel, begged a word with the manager.

  "Mr Clapperley, sir."

  "Room Ten - and his account getting longer, Ti Mitch."

  "Mr Star will guarantee it, Mr Ducas. That is not, of course, to prevent you from telling Clapperley that you want to see his gold by the end of the week."

  Ducas smiled his agreement - any favour given to
Mr Star would be amply repaid.

  From the hotel Mitch visited the Sheriff's office, informing him that a Mr Clapperley was running up accounts that he could not cover. Mr Star would see that all was right, but it might be well to escort the gentleman onto the cheapest berth of an early sailing ship.

  "Where to, Ti Mitch?"

  "England, eventually, sir!"

  "Cracked trunnions, Mr Clapperley; honeycombed touchholes; carriages left without maintenance and badly worn; limbers with shakes in their timbers. These guns are deadly, Mr Clapperley, but to their users, not to the Mexicans! Get them off my premises, sir."

  "But..."

  "The door is over there, Mr Clapperley."

  "But I was told that they were in good working order, Mr Star!"

  "And now you have been told the truth, sir. Good day to you."

  Mitch appeared and very kindly put Mr Clapperley into a cab to his hotel, paying the driver in advance.

  Ducas presented his bill as Clapperley appeared, informed him that he would, most regrettably, be forced to hold his baggage pending payment. A pair of Sheriff's officers appeared, one at each shoulder and presented an account for the purchase of four separate batches of eighty Kentucky mules. They put him in irons when he requested time to pay the bills.

  Clapperley was taken to the docks next morning and marched up the gangplank of an elderly brig, was presented to her master.

  "Carrying hides to Bristol, mister. You are cook's mate."

  The little vessel stank of rotting meat - few sailors took passage with a cargo of hides if they could avoid it. She was slow. Three months, the master expected to be on passage.

  "Excellent, Ti Mitch! We will ship the batteries to Anahuac this week. I really did not like that young man, you know - a person of dubious character, I felt, in much need of reform - and they say that a little of tribulation is good for the soul."

  Book Eleven: A Poor Man