“No, I wouldn’t think that very likely,” Art agreed.
Ashley took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Art. “This is a letter to Joe Walker,” he explained. “Joe is in command of a fort built by the American Fur Company. We may be competitors in business, but they’ll have as much an interest in having peace with the Indians as we do, so I reckon Joe will treat you all right when you get there. Also, if you need to replenish any of your supplies, this letter promises that I’ll make it good to them.”
“Thanks,” Art said, taking the letter and putting it into his saddle pouch.
By now several early-rising St. Louis citizens had turned out to watch the departure. While this was neither the first, nor would it be the last fur-trapping party to leave the city, it was the largest and it was being sent out by William Ashley, the most important fur trader in St. Louis.
“Sun’s up,” Art said, looking across the river. “I expect we’d best be going.”
“Good luck to you, Art,” Ashley said, reaching out to shake Art’s hand. Then he called to the others. “Good luck, good trapping, all you men!”
“Mount up!” Art commanded as he swung into his saddle. Twisting around, he waited until Hoffman, the last man, was mounted. “All right, let’s go!” He waved the party forward.
The convoy of eighteen horses, six men, and one dog stretched out for nearly a block as Art led them forward. He planned to go north to the Missouri River, then turn and follow that river all the way to its head.
* * *
From her bedroom window on the second floor of her house, Jennie watched Art and the others leave. She had thought he might come to her again last night, hoped that he would, and purposely turned away customers so she would be ready for him. But he didn’t show.
When she finally realized, well after midnight, that Art wasn’t going to come see her again, she was angry and hurt. But as she considered it, the anger and hurt left, to be replaced by a terrible sense of sorrow and longing for what she knew could never be.
“Oh, Art,” she said quietly. “Why couldn’t we have met at another time and another place—you a farmer, and I an innocent young girl?”
“Miss Jennie?” one of her working girls called from downstairs. “Miss Jennie, will you be coming down to breakfast?”
“Yes, Lily, I’ll be right there,” Jennie called back. Before she turned away from the window, she kissed her fingers and blew the kiss toward Art, who was now so far up the street that she could barely see him.
“Go with God, dear Art,” she said quietly.
* * *
The River Bank of St. Louis had assets of nearly one million dollars, and that figure was proudly displayed on the front window of the building. In keeping with its success, the bank occupied one of the most substantial buildings in St. Louis. Built of brick and stone and iron grillwork, it sat squarely on the corner of Fourth and Market.
Although the bank was owned by a consortium of St. Louis businessmen, it was managed by its chief teller, Theodore Epson, a New Yorker who had been hired by the Board when the bank was opened. Epson arrived every morning exactly one hour before the bank opened. During that quiet hour, he would go over all the transactions from the day before, often finding a mistake one of his tellers had made.
Epson enjoyed finding mistakes, because it gave him an opportunity to berate the hapless teller who made it. It also gave him a sense of self-satisfaction and reinforced his personal belief that, without him, the bank would fall into insolvency.
One of the most difficult tasks Epson had was in controlling the loans granted by the bank. It seemed that every board member had a close, personal friend who had fallen into financial difficulty and could survive if only they could secure a loan. Epson tried to explain to the board member concerned that the bank was not in the business of lending money to help people, but was in the business of lending money to make more money.
On the other hand, a few of the board members were after him to deny some of the more solvent loans. One example was the mortgage note the bank held on the House of Flowers. Mrs. Abernathy and her Women’s Auxiliary League for the Betterment of St. Louis had done their job well, and now there were many St. Louis citizens protesting against Jenny and her House of Flowers. There were many who wanted Jenny’s note called and her loan terminated, because they considered her business to be unsavory.
“Unsavory it might be,” Epson told them. “But it is certainly a profitable business. Would that all our accounts paid as promptly as the House of Flowers.”
Closing the book of yesterday’s transactions, Epson checked the Terry clock that stood against the wall, and saw that it was less than a half minute until time to open. He walked over to the front door, raised the shade, and saw several people standing just outside the door. The man first in line expected Epson to open the door at that precise moment, but it wasn’t yet time. Epson remained standing behind the glass, staring at the clock.
“Let us in, Epson! It’s time to open the door!” someone shouted.
Holding up his finger, Epson shook his head, indicating that it was not yet time. As the crowd grew more frustrated, Epson continued to stare at the clock. The moment the minute hand reached the twelve, the clock began to chime. Then, and only then, did Epson reach for the door.
“Well, it’s about time!” one of the customers said, his irritation clear in the tone of his voice.
“You know the hours, Mr. Warren,” Epson said. “Our bank opens its doors promptly at nine o’clock. Not one minute sooner and not one minute later.”
The customers poured into the bank, then hurried to the two teller cages. Epson watched with a sense of smug satisfaction, then returned to his desk. He had been there for no more than five minutes when William Ashley arrived. Stepping inside the bank, Ashley looked around for a moment, then came straight to Epson’s desk.
“Mr. Epson, I wonder if I might have a word with you?” Ashley said.
“Certainly, Mr. Ashley,” Epson replied, standing to greet him. “It is always a pleasure to greet one of our fair city’s most powerful businessmen. How are you doing, sir?”
“I’m doing fine, Epson,” Ashley said.
Epson’s eyes squinted and he continued the conversation in a somewhat more guarded tone. “I must say I’m a little surprised to see you, though. I’ve been given to understand that you have started your own bank for the fur trappers.”
Ashley shook his head in the negative. “Not at all,” he said. “All I’m doing is keeping some of my trappers’ earned income on the books for them.”
“Isn’t that what a bank does?”
“I suppose. But I’m only doing it as a favor for my trappers. Most of them don’t like to carry any more money than they need.”
“Nobody does,” Epson said. “That’s what banks are for. You could steer some of your accounts our way, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Ashley replied. “And I fully intend to, over a period of time.”
“Really?” Epson asked, brightening. “So, have you brought me a deposit today?”
“Not a deposit, but a payment.”
“A payment? I don’t understand. A payment for what? You don’t have a loan here.”
“It isn’t for me. It is for one of your customers. It’s more than a payment, actually. I intend to pay off the entire mortgage.”
“Why would you pay off someone else’s mortgage” Epson asked. He frowned. “Wait a minute. Have you made the loan yourself? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re paying off the loan because you have made it yourself. You are going into banking.”
“No. All I’m doing is paying off the loan on behalf of an interested party.”
“I see. And what loan are you paying off?”
“I’m paying off the loan on the House of Flowers.”
“You are paying off the whore’s loan?
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you do such a thing?”
“I assu
re you, sir, I am not paying the loan from my own funds. I am doing so on behalf of an interested party. He doesn’t want this Miss Jennie to know that he is doing it.”
Epson stroked his jaw as he studied Ashley. “Are you saying that she doesn’t know her loan is being paid off?”
“That’s right.”
“I am curious. Who is her benefactor? Some businessman in town?”
“I don’t believe I’m at liberty to say who it is,” Ashley said. “I wasn’t told that I couldn’t tell, but I wasn’t given permission to tell either. Therefore I feel ethically bound to keep his identity a secret.”
“Ha!” Espson said. “I was right, wasn’t I? It is some local businessman. And of course he would come through someone else, if he wanted it kept secret. Like as not, it’s one of the same men who, in public, call for that house to be closed, while in private, are her biggest supporters. Who is it? The mayor?”
“I told you . . . I don’t believe I’m at liberty to say. It doesn’t matter anyway. All I intend to do is pay off the note. Now, are you going to accept the money, or what?”
“Yes, yes, of course I’ll accept the money.”
* * *
Later that same afternoon, Jennie herself called at the bank. Seeing her the moment she stepped through the door, Epson went over to meet her.
“Yes, Miss Jennie,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I wonder if we could speak in private for a few moments?” Jennie asked.
“Yes, of course we can. Come over here to my desk. We can talk there without being overheard.”
There were no other women in the bank, but there were several men customers, most of whom knew who Jennie was, many of whom had been paying customers at the House of Flowers. It would have been easy to pick out the ones who were the customers, for while the others stared at Jennie in unabashed curiosity, her customers looked away pointedly, pretending as if they didn’t even see her.
Epson led Jenny through the gate of the small, fenced-in area that surrounded his desk. He offered her a chair, then sat as well.
“Now, Miss Jennie, what is it that we can only discuss in private?”
“Recently, some people have been attempting to close down my business,” Jennie said.
Epson scratched his cheek with his forefinger. “Ah, yes,” he said. “You would be talking about the Women’s Auxiliary of the St. Louis Betterment League.”
“You know about it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you also know that chief among these women is Mrs. Abernathy.”
Epson nodded. “Sybil Abernathy, yes.”
“Doesn’t her husband have something to do with this bank?”
“Yes indeed, he is the chairman of the board of directors of the bank.”
“I thought as much.” Jennie opened her portmanteau and fished out a piece of paper. “According to the contract, even if I am not in arrears, the bank can call in the remainder of my loan at any time. Is that right?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“That’s what I thought. That’s why I want to pay off the entire loan today. That way there will be no chance for the bank to foreclose.” Jennie began writing a bank draft. “I believe the amount is four hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
Epson was silent for a long moment, and Jennie looked up at him questioningly. “Am I not right?” she asked.
Epson wondered what he should do. He had accepted the money from William Ashley to pay off her debt, but was instructed not to tell Jennie.
“Mr. Epson, is four hundred and seventy-five dollars correct?”
“Uh, yes,” Epson said. He would take the money now, and decide later what to do.
Jennie wrote the draft and handed it to him.
“I’ll, uh, take care of this for you,” Epson said.
Jennie smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. “I may be worried for no reason at all, but Mrs. Abernathy seems to be quite a determined woman, and I fear she may convince her husband to exercise the foreclosure clause in the contract. I would rather just own the house free and clear so that there is no question.”
Epson nodded again. “Yes, I’m sure you are doing the right thing,” he said. He picked up the draft and put it in his pocket. “I’ll have the title delivered to you.”
“Thank you again,” Jennie said, getting up from her chair. Epson stood quickly, then walked with her to the door. He stood in the door and watched as Ben helped her climb into her carriage. Then he returned to his desk and sat there for a long moment, contemplating what he should do.
Opening one drawer of his desk, he removed a letter he had received from a bank back in Philadelphia.
“So, in conclusion, Mr. Epson,” the letter read, “our bank is prepared to offer you a rather substantial salary should you accept the offer to become our chief of tellers. Please let us know, soonest, should you be interested.”
Epson studied the letter for a long moment before he returned it to the desk drawer.
“Mr. Epson?”
Looking up, Epson was startled to see one of his tellers standing there. He had not noticed the teller’s approach.
“Yes, Mr. Franklin?”
“I noticed the lady customer with you. Is there some business transaction you would like me to take care of?”
“Uh, no,” Epson said. “Nothing at all. She just had a few questions she wanted answered. Please return to your teller’s cage.”
“Very good, sir,” Franklin said.
* * *
By nightfall Art and his party were already fifty miles upriver. They were still in the settled part of Missouri, and when they made camp that night, they were within sight of a farmhouse.
“After it’s dark, me’n Caviness will go down there and get us some eggs,” McDill offered.
“Why would you wait until after dark?” Art asked.
“What do you mean, why? Wouldn’t you love to have some fresh hen’s eggs with your breakfast come mornin’?”
“That would be good,” Art agreed.
“Me too, but I don’t want to get shot in the ass by some farmer for stealin’ ’em,” McDill replied, as if he were explaining something to a child.
“I see,” Art said, masking his disgust. “You were planning on stealing the eggs.”
“Of course I was planning on stealing them. You don’t think he’s goin’ to just give them to us, do you?”
“No,” Art said. “But he may sell us some.”
“Sell us some? You mean you want to buy eggs?”
“Yes.”
McDill and Caviness laughed. “This here will be my seventh trip up the river,” McDill said. “And I ain’t yet bought a hen’s egg, or a chicken.”
“Well, we’re going to buy them this time,” Art insisted.
“Huh. I reckon next thing you’ll have us doin’ is sayin’ our prayers and singin’ church hymns,” Caviness said.
“A few prayers and hymns wouldn’t hurt either one of you,” Art replied. “But you’ll not be getting them from me. All right, I’ll go down and buy us some eggs. Who wants them?”
“I do,” Montgomery said. Matthews and Hoffman also wanted some.
“I reckon a fip apiece will be enough to buy us a couple dozen.”
“A fip? You ain’t getting’ no five cents from me,” McDill announced.
“Fine,” Art replied. “You aren’t getting any eggs.”
Art collected from Montgomery, Matthews, and Hoffman.
“Uh, I’d like some eggs,” Caviness said, pulling a coin from his pocket.
“You, Ben?” McDill asked.
“Well, five cents ain’t that much, Percy. And I be damned if I’m goin’ to sit here in the morning watching everyone else eat eggs while I don’t have none.”
McDill waited for a moment, then sighed. “All right, all right,” he said, handing a coin to Art. “I’ll go along with it. But I’ll be damned if I don’t think this is about the dumbest thing I’ve ever se
en, payin’ good money for eggs when they’re that easy to steal.”
With the money collected from the others, plus his own, Art saddled his horse. Dog came over, ready to go with him.
“Dog, I’ll be back soon. You stay here and watch my things,” Art said.
When Art swung into the saddle, Dog stayed behind and watched him. Not until Art was out of sight, did Dog go over to where Art had made his own camp. Dog did a couple of circles on the bedroll, then lay down.
“The way this fella is acting, he’s prob’ly going to say we have to pay the Indians for whatever beaver we trap,” McDill complained.
“My pa is a farmer,” Matthews said. “It’s hard, honest work. I don’t think he would appreciate someone stealing from his henhouse. Besides, five cents isn’t too much to pay.”
“I agree,” Montgomery added. “Buyin’ eggs is better’n getting shot for stealin’ ’em.”
“What about you, Hoffman? Everyone else is putting in their two cents worth. What do you think?”
“I think Art is our leader,” Hoffman said. “We signed on to obey, we should obey”
“Ahh, he’s got all of you buffaloed,” McDill said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked over toward Art’s bedroll and packs. “Wonder what he’s brought with him.”
McDill started toward Art’s packs.
“What are you doing?” Matthews asked.
“I’m going to look through his packs.”
“You got no right to do that.”
“You going to stop me?” McDill challenged.
Matthews shook his head.
“I didn’t think so.”
Matthews grinned. “I don’t have to stop you. He will.” He pointed to Dog.
“Ha. That dog’s not going to do anything. He knows me now. Don’t you, Dog?” McDill said as he started toward Art’s packs.
Dog stood up and watched him.
Preacher's Peace Page 10