And soon, still more villagers moved close to the table – listening all.
Finally, when Joseph stopped talking, Henri spat, “Crook, he is! I ‘ear ye Joseph – I will be gettin’ my coin back tomorrow with ye!”
“Here, here!” shouted some of the other listeners.
William spoke up quietly. “I too will be there in the morning. Let us all see what happens.”
* * *
The next morning, a throng of seven – William, Henri, Joseph, and four others – stood at the base of the steps of the goldsmith’s office. The guards stood rigid – out in front of the entrance as the crowd gathered.
Ian soon pushed open a door, preparing his office for business. But he did a double-take as he looked down at the crowd. His expression took on a frown, and Henri could’ve sworn his face turned pale. Ian paused, and then he stepped up and announced to the throng, “The goldsmith’s office shall be open in 10 minutes.”
As murmurs and chatter grew louder from the crowd, Ian turned and walked back into his office. The door closed behind him, and the crowd waited.
Minutes later, the door opened and Ian reappeared. He stepped out and stood at the top of the steps. The crowd was larger, and they booed as he stood. He raised his hands, gesturing the crowd to lower their voices.
“My fellow villagers,” he began speaking as the shouting diminished, “your money is safe, it is. Secure, it is – in a very secret cache. If you will please come back tomorrow, I shall have it for you.”
Joseph stepped forward. With a shaking voice, he shouted, “where is my coin, Ian? Yesterday, you promised you would deliver my coin. Where, Ian. Where is my coin?”
The crowd seemed to get bigger even as Joseph stood out in front. Joseph shook his fist at Ian.
And then, old James Shipstead stepped forward from the crowd. “Ian,” he shouted, “you shall pay me my money, on demand, for my receipts. Where – is – my – money !”
And then several other people stepped out from the crowd. “Here, here!” They shouted. The din of voices grew still louder.
Ian gulped. And everyone could see his face turn ashen. He yelled a command to the guards and then he closed the door. And for the remainder of the day, the goldsmith’s office remained closed.
* * *
The Olde Skippers Pub was a favorite place for villagers to meet over ale or spirits. It was a fixture – having stood its ground near the centre of the village longer than many could remember.
On most any evening, a visitor to the pub would be greeted with a happy, festive atmosphere; and the villagers looked forward to a relaxing good time after a days’ hard work.
This evening was different. Joseph, Henri, and William were assembled around a table near the centre of the room. And many other villagers were also gathered around the table – most of them standing. The murmur of voices from the gathering was like the buzzing of bees around a hive.
“Worked hard, I ‘ave. My whole life I ‘ave saved my coin.” Joseph’s voice was loud and shaking. “Thievery of my coin, I shall not accept!” Joseph was becoming blind with anger as he hunkered over his ale. “I think that bloody bastard Ian has taken my money to enrich his own pockets.” And then he looked around at the other people in the gathering – he said to no one in particular, “does anyone know what ‘e is doing with the money?”
“Buying land, I’ve seen ‘im,” old Shipstead piped up. “I was wondering where ‘e was gettin’ the money.” The murmur from the crowd became louder – and angry voices came to the fore.
A voice rang out from the gathering. “You don’t suppose he’s lost our money. Do ye?”
“What would that mean if ‘e did?” Henri posed.
For just a moment, the room went silent.
“It would mean,” William answered, “that we be poor – the whole village be poor!”
“Right you are,” Joseph chimed in. “For these paper receipts are of no worth. Just paper, they are.”
Henri stepped forward. “I will be at the bastard goldsmith’s tomorrow to demand my coin!” He shouted. “Who will join me?”
Henri’s words were greeted by loud and angry shouting from the gathering.
* * *
The next morning, a large crowd formed at the base of the granite stairs – a raucous, vocal, angry crowd. Again, there was a guard stationed on each side of the entrance. The mob watched as the entrance opened a crack and Ian peered out.
Henri stepped out from the crowd and shouted. “Where’s our money, Ian! Where’s our money!” It was not a question.
But even as Henri stepped forward, the mob took their cue and stormed the doors, pushing the guards aside. Ian attempted to close the doors, but the guards and the doors were overwhelmed by the speed and intensity of the mob as it swarmed through the entrance and into the building.
“Wait! Wait!” Ian shouted as several of the mob grabbed him – first pushing him to the floor, and then dragging him outside. The crowd was chanting, “We want our money! We want our money!”
Henri stepped forward and gestured the mob to quiet – the shouting subsided. Henri looked sternly at the goldsmith, and said, “Our money, Ian. Where is it?”
“I don’t have it,” Ian squirmed as he whimpered. “I bought land over in another county. They demanded coin. So I spent it. I’ve – I’ve been living off receipts,” he confessed.
The noise, the shouting from the mob increased, louder and louder. Ian’s face turned ashen; his lips, his hands, quivering with fear.
Henri held up his hands, gesturing the mob to quiet. “You ‘ave been living off receipts!” Henri shouted, his voice quivering with anger. “Counterfeiting our money, you ‘ave!”
Hearing this, the shouting from the crowd again rose, louder still. Ian’s fear was palpable, and it seemed to make the crowd even more aggressive.
Henri held up his hands, gesturing the mob to quiet. The shouting from the mob subsided.
“What will we do with him?” Henri shouted.
Someone from the crowd yelled, “hang ‘em.” A crescendo of cheers arose from the mob, and then they began to chant: “hang ‘em, hang ‘em ...” The chant went on and on as several men dragged Ian to a nearby tree. Someone produced a rope, and it was quickly tied around his neck. Someone else slung the rope over a stout branch.
“Hang ‘em. Hang ‘em …,” the crowd continued their chant as Ian stood with the rope around his neck, his face ashen, shivering in fear, and standing in a puddle of his own urine.
Several members of the mob started to pull, raising Ian’s feet off the ground. The angry voices of the mob became still louder, cheering at the sight of Ian’s kicking, his struggling, his thrashing. Ian’s eyes were bulging as he held his hands between the rope and his neck – trying with all his might to delay his impending death. But soon, his strength gave out and his feeble kicking gave way to a thick fluid dripping from his legs. The angry voices diminished as Ian lost consciousness.
The mob turned away, leaving Ian’s corpse to swing in the breeze.
* * *
Somewhere out of sight, the Sheriff listened. He knew what was going on; and yet he did not intervene. But sometime later, after the crowd had dispersed, he made the trek to the goldsmith’s office. He cut down the corpse and turned the body and effects over to the proper authorities.
* * * * *
That evening . . .
His eyes wide open, Colin again turned over in his bed. Not to be, sleep is, he thought. There’s a light coming from under the door! Colin arose from his bed and walked out into the great room.
He found William at the kitchen table, writing into his diary. “Hello, Father,” Colin said.
“Hello, my son,” William replied.
“I can’t sleep,” Colin said simply.
“Nor can I,” William replied. He put his quill down and gave his attention to Colin.
“What are you writing, sir?”
William sighed and then said, “I am merely wri
ting down the day’s events and what they mean for us, and for the townspeople.”
“And what does it mean?”
“The Sheriff informed me that Ian lost the wealth in risky investments. And so, Ian’s passing means that the townspeople are now poor.” William sighed again and continued, “Stole the people’s money, he did. And paid with his life, he did that too.”
“But why are you writing it down?”
William looked into Colin’s eyes and said, “My son. This can happen to anyone. It can happen in any place and at any time. And thus we should record these events, so that we remember, and so these memories are passed down to our descendants, ... with hope and prayer that others will not allow goldsmiths this much power.”
“Does that mean you want me to tell the story too?”
“Yes, son. Tell your children and grandchildren, and everyone else you meet throughout your life.” And then their eyes met as William grasped Colin’s shoulders. His voice quivered as he said, “My first born son, you are. As such, I shall someday pass this diary to you. We must always know, Colin. We must always remember.”
* * * * *
“Damn!” Tim interjected. “They sure did him in!”
“But how sad the village lost so much of their wealth,” Squirt chimed in.
“Yep,” the old man snorted, “there was a time when counterfeiters were executed by hanging. Even in the United States. Hell, it was considered a crime against the people; not just against an individual. And that’s truth!”
“So why would people even use a goldsmith or a banker to store their money?”
The grizzled old man frowned. And then he said, “They go into the deal because they're looking for security. In this case, people wanted to keep their valuables safe. But they didn't believe they could do it themselves, and so they got the goldsmiths to keep it safe for ‘em.” The old man's toothless grin spread from ear to ear. “But everyone has to learn – you really can't trust anyone except yourself.”
“So,” Tim interjected, “I’d have thought an episode like this would put a stop to money printing. But that must not be true since we just had a major collapse.”
The grizzled old man nodded. “That's right, sonny. For some of these people, it's not easy to change their stripes. Hell, some are just plain evil through and through.”
“So, what happened next?”
“Next? Well, the bankers had quite a few tricks up their sleeve. And so, just 40 years later, in 1690, they began to use 'em . . .”
Episode 2 – An Incident of England
Whoever controls the volume of money in our country is absolute master of all industry and commerce…when you realize that the entire system is very easily controlled, one way or another, by a few powerful men at the top, you will not have to be told how periods of inflation and depression originate.
- James Garfield, 20th President of U.S. Assassinated 1881
First Interlude . . .
THE BLAZING FIRE dances in the massive brick fireplace, sending its tentacles out into the room. And with the dancing flames, we catch a glimpse of the room; a room with a low ceiling, with a pine floor made of rough-hewn planks. And the walls ... well, the walls are an indeterminate color, an indeterminate texture ... they are walls distant from the light; lost in the flickering shadows.
And arranged in a semi-circle facing into the dancing flames are four chairs. Upholstered in leather, the chairs are occupied by men. There is a fat man, puffing on a cigar. There is a thin man, waving a snifter of brandy under his nose. There is a tall man – maybe 6 feet tall – scratching his ear. And there is a short man, sitting unperturbed.
A gleam in his eye, the fat man wheezes as he begins to speak. “Well, gentlemen. I believe we are nearing our objective.” He looked to the thin man, and then continued. “Do you have a report on the formation of the cartel?”
“Yes, my Lord,” the thin man sniffed and then responded. “We have contacted all of the goldsmiths and presented our proposal to them – explaining how a cartel can benefit us all.” The thin man frowned, and then continued. “Our proposal has been well received for the most part. But we have also encountered resistance.”
The fat man's eyebrows raised. “Oh? From which quarter?”
“Aaron Silverstein. He is the most prominent, I think. Although there are a few less prominent who also resist.”
“Silverstein ... Silverstein ...” The fat man’s voice trailed off. “Oh yes. He owns the goldsmith shoppe on the outskirts of London - Bexleyheath, I think.”
“That is correct, my Lord.”
“Well,” the fat man addressed the thin man. “How shall we handle this – this Silverstein character?”
“Well, my Lord. We have infiltrated his operation. I think we should see how that proceeds.”
“Very well. Now, on to our other business ...”
Chapter 1 – Circa 1690 A.D.
Seated behind his desk, Aaron Silverstein was going through the month's transactions; checking his bookkeeper's work and scratching notes where appropriate.
He paused. Looking up from his desk, he glanced around his office. But preoccupied as he was, he didn’t notice that he was surrounded by books, all arranged neatly and in rows on their respective bookshelves. Nor did he notice the mahogany woodwork – the trim around the entrance door, and the crown and baseboard moulding. Nor did he notice how the woodwork's colours complemented and enhanced the look of the red-oak floor, adorned as it was with plush woven rugs imported from some far away Asian land.
No. He was not at all aware of his surroundings. Instead, Aaron wore a frown. A frown borne of thoughtfulness? Curiosity? Who knows ...
What we do know is that Jason entered the room at just that moment. I hope my grooming takes hold, Aaron thought, as his son approached the desk.
“Hello, Father,” Jason offered, his deep brown eyes looking at Aaron expectantly.
“Hello, son. What is on your mind?”
“Father. I want to take over the Depository operations.”
Aaron put down his quill and leaned back in his chair, looking into his son’s eyes.
“My son. We have previously talked about this,” Aaron replied. “My answer is still 'no'. And that is my final answer.”
“But Father,” Jason continued as though he had not heard Aaron's answer. “I'm ready – as ready as I will ever be.”
“What did I just say?”
Aaron watched as Jason's face turned red; but he nonetheless stood firm in his resolve.
“Bastard, you are!” Jason’s face turned crimson as he shouted, “I know I can do it!” And then Jason paused, tears welling up in his eyes as he looked at his father. “A good job with the Depository, I will do. Please, Father. I want to run it. I want to run it now,” Jason pleaded, tears streaming down his young face.
Aaron remained resolute, watching as his son worked through a tantrum.
And when the tantrum was finished, Jason looked at his father, forlorn, with tears rolling down his cheeks. “Well, Father? Please. Please let me do it –”
Aaron patiently interrupted him. “But you still refuse to adhere to the Depository’s guidelines for loan approval. How can I trust you?” Aaron paused and then continued, “And you have no understanding of our metals trading program. France and Germany are important customers, and I don’t want to lose them because of your lack of experience.”
Aaron looked back at Jason, his chiseled square jaw now firmly set. “You may think you are ready to run the Depository, but your loan policies and your inexperience will ruin this business.”
With these last words, Jason's face turned beet red. “Go to hell,” he spat. “If you won’t let me run it, then I shall find another way.” Jason stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Aaron’s pent-up tension flowed out of him as he exhaled. I just do not know what to do with him. Twenty-three years old, and he is yet a child!
Aaron did not sleep well that night.
* * *
The next morning, Aaron Silverstein arrived at the Olde Guardsman Goldsmith Depository. Built of brick, stone, and mortar, and with granite steps leading up to the entrance, the Depository was a monument to Bexleyheath – a smallish village situated east of London.
Damn, I'm tired, he thought. He pushed the unkempt strands of hair out of his face as he walked purposely up the steps. I wish I knew how to work with Jason – make him a true partner, he thought. But so irrational, he is! Tall and gangly, he moved through the small throng of people waiting for the Depository to open. His narrow lips and wide mouth formed a jagged crinkle as he said, “Excuse me,” and then he nodded with a reserved English smile, his hair again falling into his face.
Reaching the door, he nodded to the guards stationed at the building’s front corners. Then, he turned and addressed the throng. “Open in just a few minutes, we shall.” Aaron turned and entered the Depository.
When the doors opened for business, Aaron was stationed at a teller position. In short order, his first customer of the morning stepped forward – Helen Farnsworth.
“Good morning, Mrs. Farnsworth. Are ye well today?”
“I am,” she said in a hurried manner. And then her voice diminished to a whisper as she leaned over the counter toward Aaron. “I wish to deposit some of my silver.”
Aaron just smiled. As usual, Mrs. Farnsworth was secretive about her affairs, he thought. Well, perhaps we should all be a little more secretive!
Mrs. Farnsworth laid out several silver coins. “That will be fine, Mrs. Farnsworth. Let me write out a receipt for these.”
In short order, Aaron gave her a receipt for the coins and deposited the coins in his teller's drawer.
He looked up from his drawer and nodded to her. “My wish is that you have a fine day, Mrs. Farnsworth.”
“Ugh!” She replied. She turned and walked away from the window.
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