The Titans

by John Jakes

  With another smack of his lips, the man the press liked to call Jubilee Jim completed his survey. He was a red-cheeked New Englander with a sizable paunch that Louis found reprehensible in one so young. Fisk was thirty-three, two years older than his crony, the melancholy Mr. Gould of the Wall Street brokerage firm of Smith, Gould, and Martin.

  At thirty, Louis Kent was trim, handsome, and urbane. His father’s Spanish blood showed in his coloring and the Latin cast of his features. Two more dissimilar conspirators could hardly have been found; Mr. Fisk looked deceptively soft and jocular. He enhanced his aura of good-humored innocence with his wardrobe—tonight dark blue trousers and a sea captain’s jacket aglow with brass buttons and dripping with gold frogging.

  It seemed improbable that this man who had once hawked tinware in the Green Mountains and shoveled up manure in Van Amburgh’s Circus was a power in the American financial community. Outwardly, Fisk deserved the opprobrius description uttered by the influential minister, Harry Ward Beecher: “The supreme mountebank of fortune.” But Louis Kent wasn’t deceived by catchphrases. He knew that behind the clown demeanor there lurked something far more substantial than a mind bemused by ballerinas and braid. Men who allowed themselves to be lulled by Fisk’s facade usually paid dearly.

  Louis didn’t intend to find himself suddenly included in that group—no matter what sort of trap Jubilee Jim was baiting.

  ii

  “Fascinating collection of trinkets,” Fisk declared. A pudgy hand rose to twist the points of his Napoleon III mustache. “Have some significance in the family, do they?”

  “They did at one time.” Louis handed him the brandy. “I should have gotten rid of them long ago. The sword, the rifle, and that tea come from my great-grandfather.”

  “The mean-looking fellow whose portrait’s in the drawing room?”

  Louis nodded. “He collected them before or during the Revolution. Apparently he found some inspiration in them that I fail to perceive.”

  To begin convincing Fisk that he was the right sort, he added, “I’ll stand with Sam Adams.”

  Fisk gulped the brandy as if it were water. “What’d he have to say?”

  “That there wasn’t a democracy in the history of the world that had not eventually committed suicide. I assume he meant common people were uniformly venal and gullible. I agree. I don’t noise it about, though. I prefer to take advantage of it while stump speakers divert the rabble with fairy stories about the goodness of democracy and humankind.”

  Fisk waddled to a chair. “Careful, now. In the Congressional elections a year ago last fall, you were a pretty hot stump speaker yourself.”

  Louis flicked a bead of sweat from his lip. The man was beginning to test him.

  “God forbid that you should ever find me standing on a stump, Mr. Fisk.”

  The visitor didn’t smile. “You addressed certain dinner parties. Quite a few, Jay reminded me.”

  A deliberate thrust, Louis decided. Jay was a name men feared. It was vital he not seem intimidated.

  “Certainly,” he snapped. He sat down opposite the fat man. “I waved the bloody shirt just as all good Republicans did. The objective was to pack the Congress, and we achieved it. This fall we’ll get that drunken tailor out of the White House and elect someone more amenable to friendship with business. General Grant, I hope.”

  Fisk meditated. “Andy may be out sooner than the fall. All I hear from Washington is talk of impeaching him. Thad Stevens and his Congressional crowd want his scalp.”

  “Johnson was a fool to defy the Tenure of Office Act by trying to remove Secretary Stanton from the War Department.”

  “Still can’t see why old Thad’s so hell bent on impeachment, though. Andy was whipped last year when the military reconstruction bills put the Cork in Lincoln’s bottle of sweet forgiveness. The five military districts down South will soon be filled with twenty thousand Federal soldiers. Including some nigger militia, I’m told. I s’pose you’re in favor?”

  Louis smiled and ignored the obvious bait. “Mr. Fisk, I don’t give a goddamn what happens down South unless it helps national elections come out the right way.”

  “Helps the industrial and financial sector?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You aren’t all wild to promote nigger freedom?”

  “Only when it serves the purpose I mentioned.”

  “You aren’t thumping to get ’em treated just like white men?”

  “Absolutely not. They aren’t.”

  Louis drank too much brandy then. It scalded his throat. He was having a devil of a time convincing Fisk. The inquisition irritated him. He supposed it was the price of gaining the man’s confidence.

  He hadn’t done so yet.

  “Don’t mean to doubt you, Mr. Kent. Just trying to establish where you stand. You have been pretty closely identified with the Radical Republicans. You were quoted all over the East Coast before the sixty-six elections—”

  Fisk leaned back and closed his eyes in a drowsy way. “‘Every unregenerate rebel calls himself a Democrat.’”

  Louis’ hand constricted on the snifter. The foxy bastard knew his speech by heart!

  “‘Every man who murdered Union prisoners—who invented dangerous compounds to burn steamboats and trains—who contrived hellish schemes to introduce yellow fever into Northern cities—calls himself a Democrat. In short’”—Fisk’s eyes popped open; his lips curved into a cupid’s bow smile—“‘the Democratic Party may be described as a common sewer and loathsome receptacle.’” Fisk sipped. “You were quoted, Mr. Kent.”

  Louis gave it right back. “I arranged it, Mr. Fisk. For public consumption. Hell”—he waggled the snifter—“I stole most of those words from Oliver Morton of Indiana. I think it’s intelligent to be on the right side at the right time. But I never permit politics—or what the public perceives as my politics—to interfere with business. I chatted with Mr. Gould at that dinner for major shareholders—”

  “Made a good impression, too,” Fisk admitted.

  Louis concealed his excitement. The offhand remark partially answered a question he’d been pondering for the past five days—ever since he’d received the note from his guest written on the gold-embossed stationery of Fisk & Belden, Stockbrokers. The note had requested a confidential meeting.

  Louis had sent a reply via messenger, inviting Fisk to Kentland. But he hadn’t been sure whether Fisk had acted independently. Now he suspected he hadn’t. That made the visit twice as important. It also meant he was swimming with two sharks instead of one.

  He pressed his advantage. “Mr. Gould and I discussed a bit of politics. He said that in a Republican district, he’s a Republican. In a Democratic district, he’s a Democrat. In a doubtful district, he’s doubtful—but he’s always for the New York and Erie Railroad Company. That’s been my position ever since I started acquiring Erie shares three years ago.”

  The fat man’s eyes grew curiously opaque as he heaved himself up from the chair. “Damn fine brandy.”

  Louis jumped to take the empty snifter. He prayed Fisk would overlook the perspiration he felt on his forehead.

  He sensed a watershed had been reached. He hoped he hadn’t said the wrong things.

  iii

  While Louis poured with a hand less steady than before, another squeal of laughter drifted from the high reaches of the house.

  “Your comments are helpful, Mr. Kent. Don’t mind saying they’ve increased my confidence in the outcome of this discussion. With millions up for grabs, confidence is important.”

  Louis shuddered with relief. Fortunately Fisk didn’t notice. He had an eye cocked at the library’s arched ceiling. The woman upstairs was still laughing.

  “Time we got down to issues,” he said abruptly. “The ladies might grow impatient if we dawdle too long. I keep my wife Lucy up in Boston, but I don’t do it solely to free my schedule for business transactions!”

  He winked and snickered like a boy with a lewd se
cret. Louis gave him the snifter. “Many thanks.”

  Fisk walked to the stained-glass window and peered at the fog. Louis used the opportunity to whip out a linen handkerchief and wipe his brow. He had the kerchief hidden when Fisk turned.

  “I think you know the situation, Mr. Kent. In the next couple of months, the favors of the dear old Scarlet Woman are going to be fought for like the very devil.” The Scarlet Woman was the Street’s term for the Erie. “That’s why Jay and I decided to approach you now.”

  There it was. The suspicion confirmed.

  Fisk’s eyes lost any semblance of cordiality. “Just where are you going to stand when the war’s declared?”

  Louis didn’t want to appear too eager. He shrugged.

  “On the winning side, I trust.”

  “All very well to generalize, but I traveled up here for specifics! The first test is right around the corner. Through the board members he controls, the Commodore wants us to cancel our rate reductions on freight. He’d like us to go back to charging the same as his Central Line.” Fisk licked his lower lip. “But to do that would only settle the dispute his way. I hope you don’t object to candid remarks about the Commodore, sir?”

  More bait. Louis decided not take the whole piece. He knew the information Fisk was after, but withheld it.

  “Not at all. I’ll be even more candid. The Commodore may be seventy-two years old, but he still wants to gobble any competition that confronts him. That’s always been his style. We both know he’s after absolute control of the passenger and freight business between here and the Great Lakes.” Carefully Louis revealed a bit more of his feelings. “Christ knows where the foul-mouthed old vulture found his passion for railroads so late in life.”

  It was working. Hearing the word vulture, Fisk had almost smiled. He put in softly, “Same place we all did. In our pockets.”

  “He swallowed up the Harlem and Hudson lines. Then he got hold of the New York Central but he still wasn’t satisfied. Now he’s bought into the Erie and aims to fix the rates.”

  Fisk’s eyes looked tiny and piercing. “And with the Erie in his pocket, the game’s won. Everyone but the Commodore comes out a loser.”

  “I don’t propose to be a loser, Mr. Fisk. He’s not going to win.”

  “You sound as if you’re offering guarantees.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I don’t have a majority position with the Boston group. I do have large holdings, however. The group listens to me. I can offer a substantial degree of advice. And I’m willing.”

  A genuine smile then. “Capital!”

  Louis tried to contain his excitement. To be allied with the two shrewdest and most powerful men on the Street not only meant unbelievable opportunities for profit; it meant prestige. He’d been jockeying toward this goal for months. Fisk’s note had abruptly opened the door. Coming so close was almost dizzying.

  He feigned a thoughtful, sober attitude.

  “But before I say anything further, I must tell you I do not fully understand the current situation. I need a clearer picture.”

  “You just said you’re pals with Elbridge and Jordan!”

  “But not privy to every one of their secrets. Or those of the Erie board.”

  Fisk pondered. “All right. I assume you’re aware Mr. Elbridge of your group was Vanderbilt’s handpicked president of the Erie?”

  “Of course. I was getting at the current relationship of Drew and the Commodore.”

  “Strictly business,” Fisk snapped. “Vanderbilt and Uncle Dan’l used to play cards together, but that’s over. So is any pretense of friendship. Ever since the Commodore started acquiring stock, he’s been very exercised about Uncle Dan’l’s fondness for using Erie money as if it were his own.”

  Louis nodded. On the Street, Drew was sometimes called the Speculative Director. He’d literally purchased the job of Erie treasurer by means of loans he’d provided when the road was foundering. Fisk went on.

  “Dan’s tapped as much as sixteen million to operate in the Street. So when Vanderbilt said he wanted Uncle Dan’l off the board last fall, your friend Elbridge jumped through a hoop.”

  “And you and Mr. Gould were somehow spared.”

  Fisk had no comment. Louis didn’t pursue the matter. He’d be foolish to insist on knowing how that little rescue operation had been arranged.

  “But Vanderbilt reneged—” he prompted.

  A vigorous nod from Fisk. “On his own. There was no consultation with your group, was there?”

  “None.”

  “Thought so. Vanderbilt didn’t consult anyone, just forced his position on us through the board members he owns. The truth is, he got scared. He thought Dan Drew might be more dangerous out of sight with his shares and his money than he would be at our table. The rest of us agreed. So back on the board he came.”

  “Not everyone agreed,” Louis said. “Frankly, those of us in the Boston group considered Vanderbilt’s sudden reversal a sellout.”

  “Even Elbridge?”

  “Yes. I’m still puzzled, though. Follow me a moment, if you will.”

  He felt like a man on a rope that spanned an abyss. A wrong step and he was through.

  “Vanderbilt removed Drew from the board, then brought him back. You and Mr. Gould are allied with Drew. It’s possible all three of you could still be allied with Vanderbilt.”

  “Mr. Kent,” Fisk purred, “if that were true, would I be here?”

  “You could be testing the opposition.”

  Louis’ audacity brought a grudging chuckle from Fisk. “You’re shrewd, just like Jay said. But it’s tit for tat, sir. Elbridge of your group was Vanderbilt’s tame dog.”

  “No longer. Not since the sellout.”

  “Are you speaking personally, or for the group?”

  “Well, Elbridge and Jordan and the others—I suppose it’s conceivable the Commodore could placate them somehow.” He put the offer in plain sight. “Provided someone in the group isn’t actively working to prevent it.”

  “Such as yourself?”

  “Draw your own conclusions.”

  “No, sir. I want it said plain. Are you ready to sell the Commodore out? Form another alliance? Influence your group to stand fast against him?”

  “If the reward is sufficiently generous.”

  “How generous?”

  Louis’ fingers curled against his palms, pressing hard. His gaze remained locked with Fisk’s.

  “I had in mind a seat on the board. A directorship.”

  Fisk didn’t react. Louis was sure he’d asked for too much. Overstepped—

  Then Jubilee Jim’s laugh boomed.

  “That’s a coincidence, Mr. Kent. Jay sent me up here to offer you just that.”

  Chapter II

  The Tame Dog

  i

  “WELL, SIR? DO WE have a bargain?”

  Louis wanted to give Fisk an immediate yes. He was more than willing to be bought; he was eager. But he didn’t want the man thinking him too compliant.

  “We’re very close.”

  Fisk’s smile disappeared. “There’s something else?”

  “I’d like a further clarification of your connection with Vanderbilt.”

  “There is none!”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s Drew. You and Mr. Gould are again closely associated with that hymn-singing old robber.”

  Blandly, Fisk said, “Dan Drew brought Jay and myself onto the board last October. Since then, we have never been disassociated. But as I indicated before, the friendly relationship between Drew and the Commodore has been dissolved.”

  “Does the Commodore know?”

  Fisk’s grin was sly. “He will before long. Don’t be too concerned with appearances, Mr. Kent. When you’ve gained a bit more experience in this sort of thing”—tact prompted Louis to let the deliberate slur pass without reply—“you’ll learn that only two things matter. How much stock you control, and whether you’re in a position to influence the price.�
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  The fat man was right, of course. In the last decade, the Erie line from Jersey City to Buffalo had been a speculator’s dream. After insinuating himself as treasurer, Drew had repeatedly used his position to advantage. His biggest and most spectacular killing had been in ’66, when he’d played his favorite role—the bear.

  Erie stock had been trading at a relative high of ninety-five. Bemused by false hopes of a price rise, the bulls had agreed to buy shares from Drew which they assumed he did not as yet own. They believed the old man was mistakenly gambling that the value of Erie shares would fall.

  But Drew hadn’t been gambling. He’d known exactly what he was about. He quickly manipulated the price of Erie downward from ninety-five to fifty by dumping twenty-eight thousand units of unissued stock along with other shares resulting from conversion of roughly three million in Erie bonds. Something like fifty-eight thousand shares all told deflated the price just as Drew had planned. It had come out later that he’d amassed the secret hoard of stock and bonds as security for one of his loans.

  The bulls were trapped. Because of their prior commitment, they were forced to pay ninety-five for shares worth fifty. There was no regulatory agency to even wag a finger. Those not involved laughed—enviously. Those who’d been caught recalled too late the caustic maxim of the Street: “Dan’l says up, Erie goes up. Dan’l says down, Erie goes down. Dan’l says wiggle-waggle, Erie bobs both ways.”

  Louis himself would be in a position to participate in such a coup if he gained a seat on the board. It all depended on the outcome of this conversation. Three factions were involved. One was Vanderbilt, who wanted the freight rates fixed.

  The second faction consisted of Drew and his newfound friends, Gould and Fisk. They wanted to dominate the line for precisely the reason Louis hoped to ally himself with them—the profit that could be milked from stock manipulation.