by David Liss
Leonidas said nothing for several long moments. Then, finally, he nodded. “If I can learn anything, I shall let you know.”
I stepped forward with my hand out. “You are a good man. I knew I could depend upon you.”
He only stared at my hand. “It does not mean we are friends. It only means I will not let others suffer because you have earned my enmity.”
I sniffed. “Right. Well, thank you, even so.”
“If I have more to say to you, I will go to you. You are not to return to my home. Not under any circumstances. Now leave.”
The two of them followed me to the door, as though I could not be trusted to find it, or to leave without helping myself to some of their goods on the way. Leonidas opened the door. I stepped through and turned, removing my hat and bowing.
The lady of the house met my eye, daring me to turn away. “I do not find Spenser at all dull,” she said.
Her husband slammed the door.
Hamilton had not brought me into government service, not really, but here I was, speaking to him, to Washington, working alongside his principal spy. I could not ignore what I knew, and I could not leave him to his own peril.
That being the case, the next day I rose early, just after nine in the morning, dressed myself neatly, and strolled to the Treasury offices on Third, where I casually asked to have an audience with the Secretary. He saw me almost immediately, and I took a seat across from him in his small spare office.
“How can I help you this time, Captain?”
I coughed into my fist. “I wonder if there has been any progress in your dealings with Duer.”
He leaned back in his seat. “When this matter is resolved, I want you to come see me. I wish for you to work with Lavien, if you think you can do so. You’ve proved your worth to me, and you seem to have mastered yourself considerably. This is the second time you’ve been here without the stench of drink upon you.”
“I am flattered, and you may depend upon me, but why must we wait?”
“Because at the moment there is nothing for you to do—either for you or Mr. Lavien. I am in touch with my men in New York, and I know what Duer plans. He is still attempting to control the six percents; he is still borrowing dangerously. And he is about to learn that we have begun proceedings against him for the money he embezzled while upon the Board of Treasury. The word will spread—on its own or with our help—and it is but a matter of weeks, perhaps only days, until Duer collapses and the bank is safe. You have played no small role in this, Captain, and I am grateful. You may be certain I will do all I can, in addition to offering you employment, to make certain the world knows you and Fleet were falsely maligned those many years ago.”
“Lavien told you.”
“He did.”
“If all this is true, why do you keep me at arm’s length now?”
“You are of no use to me,” he said. “I cannot depend on you.”
I tried hard not to show my anger. Or was it my shame? “What do you mean?”
“I mean you ask about Duer because you are interested and involved, but it is not what is upon your mind. You want to find Pearson, the man who destroyed you, killed your friend, and stole the woman you loved. You want to find his much-abused wife and children. The Revolution is won, and while I don’t doubt your patriotism, I do not expect you would be able to put any assignment I might give you before your duty to Mrs. Pearson. Find her, bring her to safety, and then you may come work with me.”
I stood up and bowed. “I see you are a man who understands the human heart.” I returned to my seat.
He turned away. “When it comes to our passions, we do as we must.”
I coughed again. “It is upon that subject that I have come, in part, to see you. I’ve spoken to no one, and to my knowledge I am the only other person who knows about this. I say this first to spare you the pain of asking. I must advise you to end your liaison with Maria Reynolds. Her husband is closely connected with Duer. I do not know that your dealings with his wife have any bearing on these other matters, but I need not tell you that this is a powder keg that could explode in your face.”
He remained still for a moment. “How did you learn of this?”
“I followed you.”
His face turned dark at once. His fists clenched and unclenched like a baby’s. “You followed me?”
“Colonel, Reynolds was waiting outside your office. My man had already seen you giving him money. I had to know the connection.”
He nodded. “He discovered my intimacy with the lady several months ago and has been allowing it to continue in exchange for money, money I truly don’t have. It has been a nightmare, but I know not what to do about it. He presses me whether I see Maria or not.”
“And so you might as well see her.”
“To be blunt,” said Hamilton, “I am not entirely certain that she did not begin to attract my attention with this scheme in mind. She is very beautiful.”
“I have seen her.”
“Then you know. She is lovely, but flighty and inconstant and—well, not particularly clever. Yet I cannot help myself. I vow never to see her more, yet I return.”
“When it comes to our passions,” I said, “we do as we must.”
This time he met my gaze. His stare was raw with shame.
“Yet in this case you must not,” I said. “If Jefferson or his minions were to learn of this, it would destroy you. They would destroy you. They would never believe—or they would pretend never to believe—that this is a mere personal impropriety, but portray it as evidence of a larger corruption. You must vow never to see her again.”
He said nothing, but I knew he understood. I expected to feel some satisfaction in standing upon the moral high ground with Hamilton, but all I felt was sympathy and something not entirely unlike friendship.
I wish I could say that the next several weeks were productive or eventful, but they were not. I spent my time doing little but attempting to find Pearson and having no luck. I made regular visits to the City Tavern and other establishments that catered to businessmen. I spoke to anyone with whom the Pearsons had a personal connection, including the mighty Bingham family, but no one could say where they had gone. Burr in New York wrote me to say no one had seen Pearson and promised to write again if he learned anything. I received regular updates from Lavien and Hamilton on Duer, as he slid toward destruction. Around the city, construction slowed as the Bank of the United States withdrew its loans to protect itself, but the loans were for the most part being repaid, and Hamilton felt confident that the bank was safe. I saw no more of Mrs. Maycott, and I could only imagine that she herself was satisfied with Duer’s current troubles. I heard nothing from Leonidas.
For the most part I continued my efforts at reform. I did not eschew drink entirely, for a man must not die of thirst, but I was temperate, if not precisely frequently, then certainly more often than before. I admit, however, that one afternoon at the City Tavern I had far too much wine and began demanding of anyone who would listen that I had grown weary of waiting for information. I would go to New York, I said, and find Duer and demand he tell me where I might find Cynthia Pearson. A kindly young trader escorted me to the door, and I made my way home myself.
That would have been the end of the incident, but the next afternoon Mrs. Deisher announced that a delivery had been made to me—a crate of ten bottles of good Spanish sherry. The accompanying note was from William Duer, and it announced that he hoped I knew how well my efforts had served him, and the wine was a gift of gratitude. The words were spare and to the point, yet there could be no doubt of a kind of gloating. Perhaps he had been in town and learned of my drunkenness. It hardly mattered, for I would not be goaded into anything, even regret, by a man such as he, on the brink of ruin.
I was still contemplating these developments, and sampling one of the bottles—for it ought not to be wasted—when Mrs. Deisher announced that I had a visitor below. She appeared out of sorts, and when I went into the
parlor I saw Leonidas standing with his back to me. He wore a fine new suit, and he held a handsome leather hat in his hands, and yet for all this grand appearance he looked somewhat abashed. His eyes were cast to the ground, and his fingers worked uneasily at the brim of his hat.
He turned to me, his face grave. I noticed, for the first time, lines forming about his eyes, as if he had aged five or ten years since last I saw him. “Good afternoon, Ethan.”
“I did not expect you to come calling.” I kept my voice calm and even, yet how my heart leaped to see him. Not since the war, not since I had studied under Fleet’s tutelage, had I known a friendship like his, and to think that it was over, that Leonidas could not forgive me, nearly staggered me. Yet I would not show it. I could not.
“I never intended to call, but I thought you would wish to hear what I have to say. You asked me to inquire into the Pearsons, and I did so, though until now I have learned nothing of import. But just this morning I received a visit from one of the former kitchen maids who heard, if somewhat belatedly, that I was willing to pay for information. In exchange for two dollars she told me that she knew their fate with absolute certainty.”
I stepped forward. “Well?”
He closed his eyes, as though bracing himself, and then looked at me boldly, as would a man offering a challenge. “It seems that Pearson has taken his family west, to Pittsburgh. They hired a guide and a team of animals, packed up a minimum of belongings, and departed.”
“Pittsburgh.” I whispered the word and then sat.
Falling into old habits, Leonidas poured me a glass of Duer’s sherry and then sat across from me. His hands were on his knees, and he leaned forward paternally. “I know the woman, and she is not prone to fabrication. If she says she is certain, I believe it must be true. I am sorry. I know this is hard news.”
I drank down the sherry at once. “I’ll go after her.”
He rose, refilled my glass, and handed it to me anew, this time nearly to overflowing. “Do you think that’s wise? I understand that you feel the need to save her, but is that something for which you are prepared—a wilderness conflict with a man as willful as Pearson?”
I drank half my glass. “Are you mad? You think I am not fit to confront Pearson in city or wilderness? She depends upon me to go after her. I must prepare at once. Thank you, Leonidas, for telling me. I know you are angry, but you have done the right thing.” I finished the drink. Already I felt the sherry flowing through me, and with it the inexorable energy that came with the first warmth of drink, and I felt shame, a deep and burning shame, that what Leonidas had taken from our years together was that I was not the man to save Cynthia. How wrong he was. I would go at once.
Leonidas studied me as though attempting to take some measure. “I shall leave you to your preparations, then.” He held out his hand for me to shake.
I took it, but a terrible unspoken truth hung over this parting. I saw the distress in his gaze, and I understood it for the same trouble I felt in my heart. Once, not so long ago, the two of us would have faced these difficulties together. Now I was alone. I dared not ask him to join me, and his pride would never let him volunteer. Perhaps when I returned, when all these troubles had passed, Leonidas and I could begin to build the friendship anew. Perhaps this was my test. Only once I’d proved I did not depend on him could he trust me enough to befriend me.
I went upstairs and began to pull things from my trunks, things I could not do without. I would have to travel light and travel fast. They were several people. Including children. They had animals carrying their packs. They would be slow. They had a significant head start, but I would travel by horse and do so alone or perhaps with Lavien. If I were swift and made do with little sleep, I could hope to overtake them.
I looked at the crate of wine upon my floor, the bottles still—for the most part—nestled in their straw. There was a time, and it was not so long ago, when it would have been enough to stop me, or at least slow me down.
I looked at the crate again, which bore the name of the vendor stenciled upon the side. At once I grabbed my hat and coat and headed out to the street. It was but half an hour’s walk to reach the wine merchant, and I burst inside, demanding at once to speak to the owner.
It was later than I realized, and the man before me had been preparing to close his shop, but he needed only to look upon my face to understand that he would be better served saying nothing of this to me. This man, tall and balding and with a very red face, announced that he was Mr. Nelson, the owner. I put my question to him at once.
“I am Captain Ethan Saunders. You delivered to me a case of wine this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir. I trust there was no trouble with it. It was among our finest Spanish.”
“The wine was excellent, but I must know where it came from. Who placed the order?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said, looking confused rather than sinister.
“Was it Mr. Duer of New York? Did he write to you?”
“No one wrote to me,” he said. “A man came in and placed the order directly. A big and very black fellow he was, but very polite and speaking like a white man. He didn’t give his name, and I didn’t need it. He paid me with good money, and as there could be no harm in sending a man a crate of good wine, that was all there needed to be between us.”
I hardly heard the rest, for I wandered from the shop. Why had Leonidas done these things? There could be no other explanation but that he was attempting, by various means, to manipulate me for Joan Maycott. I would either collapse into drunkenness or drop everything to chase the Pearsons to Pittsburgh. All of which meant I would not do what I had threatened in public to do—go to New York and confront Duer.
Now I understood everything, or at least enough. I understood why Leonidas had fled once he learned of his freedom; he could not bear to betray me once he learned I had not betrayed him. I understood why he had been so cruel to me when I visited him at his home—there could be no friendship between us while he served my enemies. Most of all, I understood how much I had been manipulated—how much we all had.
The ground was icy, and the sun had by now set, casting the city in darkness. Still, I ran. I ran past pedestrians and pigs and cows and carts and cart men who shouted at me to watch where I went. I was called a brute and a damned fool, but I did not care. I ran until I reached Lavien’s door, and I pounded and pounded and pounded until the miserable old woman answered and I pushed past her at once without a word.
Lavien sat at dinner with his wife and children and looked up at me in alarm.
“We must go,” I said. “We must go to New York. Now, at once.”
He rose. “What has happened?”
“The whole time we were wrong. We thought to prevent the collapse of the bank, but we have done everything conceivable to bring about the bank’s destruction. It wasn’t Duer, it was us. We are the plot against the bank.”
He set down his knife. “What are you talking about?”
“We were so convinced that Duer was the danger that we did not see the obvious truth. It is Duer’s failure that will destroy the bank. That is why they don’t want me to go to New York. They don’t want me to see Duer, to understand how much in debt he is, how precarious is his situation. If he goes bankrupt, he could well bring the country with him.”
Lavien remained still for a moment. Then he said, “We must see Hamilton.”
Eliza Hamilton made us tea while I sat in Hamilton’s study. He remained impassive while he listened to us. Only a tapping foot gave away his agitation. I explained to him what I had concluded, and why I had concluded it. He understood. He insisted I wait, however. The night was too dark to ride out now, the roads too covered in snow. I would leave, I said, an hour before dawn, and ride by the lights of the city until the sun rose. Hamilton then began to write out another letter, this one for Duer.
“I am explaining all to him,” he said. “I hope to appeal to his better nature. You must do the same. You must augmen
t this letter as best you can, but you must convince him to reverse course. He will have to sell what he can, clear out what debt he can. He will have to sacrifice his dreams of conquest in exchange for an opportunity to avoid complete ruin and ignominy.”
“I cannot imagine Duer accepting such a trade,” I said.
He nodded, his quill still making its methodical way across his heavy sheet of paper. “Neither can I. Nevertheless, it is the choice he will have to make. He must understand the consequences of ruin. He cannot be allowed to be exposed as a bankrupt. He cannot allow the public to know of his debts. If that happens, if he is exposed, he is ruined, and that will produce a chain of events so devastating I cannot endure to think of it. England survived its South Sea Bubble because it was an old and large and entrenched economy, but France, where modern finance was new, never recovered from its simultaneous Mississippi Bubble. If Duer is exposed, we will be lucky to—like France—see no more than our economy ruined and our people pauperized. Banks will fail, so merchants will fail, and then farms. And then starvation. And that is the best we can hope for. I dare not think of how much worse it could become, but the resulting turmoil could put an end to our system of governance.”
He paused in his writing.
I had been staring at the fire, thinking of all those with whom I now knew Leonidas to be involved, but most of all Joan Maycott. I knew she hated Hamilton and had some grievance with Duer, but could this be what she wished? Could that lady and her whiskey-smelling associates truly wish to see the destruction of American republicanism in its infancy?
“You will have to offer him something if he is to agree,” I said. “Duer never acts, not even to save himself, if he cannot see something shining and glittering at the end of it. You may have to promise him some kind of quiet bribe, money with which to live when all is settled.”
Hamilton hastily scratched a few words onto the page and then began to blot. “No. I cannot have it be said, when all is finished, that I paid this man a reward for his work of nearly destroying the nation. Even if Duer understands what he has done to himself, and even if he understands that a quiet reversal is his only hope, he will later feel resentment. He will tell himself he was tricked and bullied into giving up his scheme, and so he will complain of it to all who will listen. I cannot have Jefferson’s republican faction learning that, in essence, I’ve bribed a scoundrel for nearly ruining the nation.” He now looked at Lavien. “You will have to make certain he agrees to everything. You understand me.”
