by Ron Carter
He looked into her eyes and realized as never before that she had endured the terrible struggle of a widow trying to provide for herself and her two children, from the black day the man appeared at their door with the message that broke her heart: her husband was dead.
Tenderly Billy took her rough hand in his and for a time he held it and touched it gently. “We’ll be all right.” He heaved a great sight. “Is Matthew home?”
“Yes. Four days ago.”
“Is he all right?”
“Fine.”
Billy nodded. “I’ll go see him tomorrow. We’d better go back to the parlor. Trudy will wonder.”
Later, in the blackness of his room, Billy threw back the sheet and swung his feet to the rag rug. He had to strike the steel to the flint three times to draw a spark large enough to ignite the shredded linen, and another few seconds to transfer the flame to the lamp wick with a sliver of burning pine. The small yellow light dispelled all the demons of darkness that had tormented his sleep and awakened him, and he glanced at the small clock on the shelf beside the bed. It was fifteen minutes before one o’clock. For a moment he studied the clock. It was a John Phelps Dunson clock, beautifully carved, and accurate within thirty seconds each month. A gift from Matthew and his father, a master clockmaker and gunsmith, fifteen years before.
He turned from the clock and sat in his nightshirt, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the remembrances came flowing.
He was back at his desk in the Potter & Wallace Counting House, keeping records for owners of many kinds and sizes of businesses that were vibrant and thriving until hard money failed. Lacking gold or coin to support their credit, some withered, and he experienced again the pain of watching them die. The stoop-shouldered Hubert Potter was there, sharp face scowling as he shook his finger in the faces of his six employees and pounded it into them—there are many reasons a business will fail, but none so certain as to find itself lacking in gold or hard coin to back its credit. The lifeblood of commerce is gold. Hard coin. That’s what feeds and clothes a family, or a city, or a country. Never forget that, he had repeated. Never!
Hubert Potter was a dour, hard-headed, practical New Englander, but for all that he had a sense of fair play, and a heart. When Billy left Boston to join the battle for liberty, Potter had promised him his old job upon his return. And now, Potter was gone. Somehow it had never occurred to Billy that Hubert Potter would ever die. Billy shook his head. Maybe the only thing that could have taken him was the loss of his beloved counting house.
Now, Potter’s words rang in Billy’s head.
The lifeblood of commerce is gold. Hard coin. That is what feeds and clothes nations. Never forget.
The thought brought questions that struck fear into Billy’s heart.
How far has the lack of hard money spread? How many businesses and farms are gone and how many more are threatened? How many states are in trouble? Is the Continental Congress in trouble? How bad? How do I feed and take care of my family? Pay taxes? If Potter & Wallace is gone, where do I find work?
He recoiled at the next thought.
How many failed businesses and farms will it take to destroy the United States?
He sat for a long time staring vacantly at the wall in the yellow light of the single lamp before he turned down the lamp wick.
I’ll see Matthew tomorrow. Maybe he’ll know more.
Notes
For the ironing of clothes in colonial times see Ulrich, Good Wives, p. 28.
For the process of taking a bath in a wooden tub in the kitchen, see Pool, What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew, p. 201.
For the habits of women wearing bonnets in colonial America, see Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days, p. 285.
The reader will recall that Billy Weems was employed by the Boston firm of Potter & Wallace to keep business accounts, as what we would now call an accountant. See volume 2 of this series, The Times That Try Men’s Souls, p. 48. Both Billy and the Potter & Wallace firm are fictional.
Boston
Late June 1783
CHAPTER XIV
* * *
Billy never knew how the Dunson family learned of his homecoming, or that the Weems family was coming to see Matthew. He only knew that at nine o’clock the following morning, Margaret and her children were at the great Thorpe home standing with Matthew and Kathleen and two-year-old John at the gate, waiting for the Weems family to arrive. The morning street traffic paused to stare down their Boston noses at the unseemly sight of women hugging women, and a man hugging a man openly for all of Boston to see, amidst tears and exclamations of joy. Inside Billy, something that had been dormant too long came alive as he clutched Matthew to him, and the two embraced without a word. Billy faced Brigitte, confused, not knowing what he should do, when she stepped to him and threw her arms about him as a beloved friend. For a moment he stood stunned, and then he wrapped her in his arms and held her while his heart pounded.
Margaret clasped him to her as one of her own. “Oh, Billy. You don’t know how good it is. We’ve worried.”
Billy stopped short, staring at Adam and Prissy. “What happened?” he stammered. “You were . . . you’ve grown up!”
Everyone laughed.
“Come inside,” Kathleen exclaimed, “while breakfast is still hot.”
Billy looked at Matthew. “Breakfast?”
Matthew shrugged. “Blame the women, not me.”
The house was filled with the aroma of baked ham, steaming griddle cakes, maple syrup, coffee, and milk. The huge table was set with white linen and china and crystal and silver. Billy stopped short, wide-eyed and staring, struggling to absorb it all. He looked at Kathleen.
“What’s all this . . .”
She cut him off. “You’re home,” she exclaimed, and gave him no chance to respond as she pointed and continued, “Matthew, you there at the head of the table. Billy, the other end of the table. Dorothy—you put your family there, and Margaret, yours goes there.”
They each stood by their chairs until the room quieted and Matthew spoke.
“Let us kneel.”
Each knelt beside their chair, clasped their hands, and bowed their heads.
“Almighty Creator of us all, for delivering Billy back into our midst, we thank Thee. For the bounties of this table, we thank Thee . . .”
Matthew finished the prayer, everyone repeated his “amen,” and the women wiped at misty eyes as they all arose to take their places at the table. For more than half an hour the cares of the world were forgotten as talk flowed and laughter abounded around the table. Platters of smoking ham and steaming griddle cakes made the rounds, were refilled, and made the second round.
Billy asked Matthew, “Are we missing Caleb?”
“You’ll never guess. We put him ashore at Head of Elk with about ten wagon loads of African slaves and told him to move them north to a place they would be safe.”
Billy’s head thrust forward. “You what? Where did you . . . how did you come by ten wagon loads of African slaves?”
“Rescued them from a sinking ship.” Matthew laughed out loud. “We claimed them as abandoned cargo, and I signed them over to Caleb as his property so he could show ownership if anyone challenged him. And I also made him first mate on an American ship of war. So we’ve got an American officer who owns ten wagon loads of slaves moving them north somewhere. Caleb has turned out to be a man of stature and property.”
Billy chuckled. “Whoever would have thought?”
Coffee was poured, and they all sat for a time, sipping, talking, while they let their breakfasts settle and gathered themselves for the business of cleaning up and returning to the daunting burdens of the world in which they now lived.
Prissy and Trudy swept John into their arms and spirited him away into the parlor to dote on him, while Adam stood, unsure whether on this day he was a child, or a young man. Margaret spared him the pain of making the decision by pointing at the table, then the kitchen, and he began
to carefully stack the china and carry it to the kitchen cupboard. Matthew set out the tub for washing dishes and went for water from the well while Billy put the kettles on the stove and poked kindling into the firebox.
Forty minutes later the women hung damp dish towels on the kitchen line and removed their aprons.
“Well,” Margaret said, “that’s finished. I’ll get the men.”
She walked to the backdoor and called, “You two have talked enough. We have water that needs to be dumped.”
Matthew and Billy carried the wash and rinse tubs to the far back fence to dump the water into the grass while the women fled the heat of the kitchen to sit at the table in the parlor. When the men returned, Matthew faced Kathleen.
“Billy and I need some time. Could we be gone for an hour or two?”
Kathleen looked at the other two women, and Margaret shrugged. “Just as well declare this a holiday.” They all laughed.
“An hour or two,” Kathleen said, and the two men walked out the front door into the late morning heat. They walked steadily east, toward town, aware that there was less morning street traffic than usual for Boston. They had gone the first block before Billy spoke.
“Spent much time in town in the last four days?”
Matthew nodded. “Yes.”
“Is it bad?”
“Bad.”
Billy glanced at him. “Mother said Potter & Wallace closed. Them and a lot of others.”
“Too many. Bankrupt. Seized by the banks.”
A little time passed before Billy asked, “Anyone have any money?”
“No. Probably a million dollars in paper money in Boston, and it’s worth nothing.”
“State money, or Continental?”
Matthew shook his head. “Both. Some will take Massachusetts paper money at a ninety percent discount. No one will take Continental paper money at any discount.”
Billy took a deep breath. “How were you paid when you were discharged? Massachusetts money or Continental?”
“Neither. A written promise from Congress to pay me in the future. You?”
Billy answered, “The same. I had to trade my musket and bayonet to get food to come home.”
Matthew shook his head and said nothing.
They entered the south end of King Street and walked steadily on until they came to the closed office of Potter & Wallace, where Billy slowed and stopped. He was not prepared for the desolate feeling that rose in his breast when he saw the chain on the front door handles and the paper nailed to the door declaring the business closed under bank seizure. He cupped his hands about his eyes and leaned close to the glass in the door to peer inside. The interior was stripped of everything—tables, desks, lamps, wall murals, filing cabinets—everything. A knot rose in his stomach at the remembrance of the vibrant office he had known, and he turned away, unwilling to stare longer at the dark void inside.
They turned onto Fruit Street and walked to the wharves and docks that lined the south, east, and north sides of the Peninsula. The familiar smells of the sea and decaying fish washed up from beneath the heavy timbers, along with the aromas of spices from the Orient and rum from the West Indies drifting from the ships undulating at anchor in the harbor and tied to the docks. Dockhands of every hue and dress and language sweated as they moved the goods of the world to and from ships. But there were great vacant gaps along the docks where ships should have been tied, and the bustle of dock laborers was thinned. Those nearest Matthew and Billy paused to study them as they passed, and in their eyes was the fear that somehow these two intruders would rob them of the few days’ work they had begged for and the few pennies it would put in their pockets.
Billy looked at Matthew, who shook his head and remained silent as they moved on. They passed Griffin’s Wharf, with three hundred yards of open, vacant space where ships should have been moored, and Billy looked to his left at the shipping firm offices facing the sea. The doors of India Trading Limited, Worthington Corporation, and Tappan Partnership were all chained shut, and there were papers tacked to them. They walked on to Long’s Wharf, then the North Battery, both directly in line with the shipping channel leading to and from the Atlantic. Four more office doors were chained shut with court papers nailed to them, two of them formerly the largest shipping firms in Boston.
They rounded the east end of the Peninsula and came to Copp’s Hill where they counted two more offices that were closed, windows vacant, bank papers tacked to the doors. They turned west to walk past the Mill Pond, where Matthew gestured and they sat down on a worn bench.
“You’ve seen it,” Matthew said quietly. “Nine shipping firms gone. Boston’s in trouble. Serious.”
“You tried to find a position?”
“Since the day I got home.” Matthew shook his head. “Nothing. Not in the business of ships. I’ve tried to find other work. Anything. I’m still looking.”
“Heard anything from Caleb?”
Matthew shook his head. “Not a word. Don’t know where he is.”
“Are the farmers around here in trouble?”
“Bad. Bankruptcies. Bank seizures.”
“How about other cities? States? New York? Pennsylvania? Connecticut?”
“The newspapers say they’re about the same as here. States are beginning to set up border tariffs on incoming goods to raise money. There’ve been bad disputes between them. The same with the major rivers. Quarrels over which states have the fishing and shipping rights.”
For a time Billy sat in silent reflection while the seagulls squawked and argued over the remains of fish and refuse left on shore by the tides. Finally he turned to look at Matthew.
“Are the states going to pull apart? Are we going to lose everything we thought we had won in the past eight years?”
Matthew slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s the direction it’s all moving right now. Congress doesn’t have the power to change it. The states know nothing except independence. It’s possible they could go to war with each other. I can’t see the end of it. I only know I have mouths to feed, and I can’t find a way to do it.”
“You have any money?”
“Almost none.”
“Root cellar?”
“Mostly empty.”
“Same with us. Am I going to have to leave Boston to find work somewhere? Move inland? You have any plans for work?”
A rare, cynical smile passed over Matthew’s face. “No. I’ve talked with three shipping companies about a position as navigator, or captain, or first mate, or even bos’n. Nothing. I talked with a bank. They’ve foreclosed on so many shipping companies they’ll give you one of them if you’ll just assume the debts against it. Nobody’s interested, because the debts are double what the line is worth, and there’s no hard money to pay them. Just worthless paper currency that nobody will take. No way to pay the crews. Buy goods for resale. Food. Sailcloth. Rope. Repairs. Insurance. Books of account.” He shook his head. “The shipping business is dying, and Boston with it.”
“Same with counting houses. Potter & Wallace is gone, and one of the other two big ones in Boston is closed. I suppose I can learn something else, but what? The lack of hard money is bringing down the whole country.”
Matthew glanced out at the Boston Back Bay. “The only thing I have is the promise of Congress to pay me some day. A lot of discharged officers are discounting those papers by ninety percent to get money to live on.”
“I have the same paper. I might have to take the discount and sell it.”
For a time they sat in hopeless contemplation, minds working, twisting, turning, trying to find a crack in what seemed to be a solid wall. Suddenly Billy straightened, and Matthew turned to look at him, waiting.
Billy’s face was drawn down in question. “Just a minute. Did you say some banks would give a shipping firm to anyone who would assume the debts against it?”
Matthew nodded but said nothing.
“What would happen if two discharged officers put up
two written congressional promises for future payment in gold or hard coin to buy a shipping company?”
Matthew’s eyes widened and Billy went on.
“While I was with Potter & Wallace I had connection with most banks in Boston, one time or another. Some of them will remember me. I can tell you right now, any right-thinking banker would a lot rather have a written Congressional promise to pay in gold sometime in the future, than a note they know is absolutely worthless because it can be paid with paper currency that is worth less than the cost of the paper. What do you think?”
Matthew sat bolt upright, his mind leaping ahead. “It hadn’t occurred to me.”
“You run the ships. I’ll run the office.”
Matthew swallowed while his thoughts raced. “How do we buy merchandise? Who do we sell to with no hard money available?”
“I don’t know. But if things are as bad as they look, a lot of merchants are going to be willing to make any agreements they can to stay alive. They’ll have to share the risk, and some will do it.”
“But who buys?”
“Maybe someone in the South. Virginia. The Carolinas. They don’t have manufacturing down there like we do up here. Plows. Nails. Stoves. Anything manufactured.”
Matthew thoughtfully rubbed his palms together while he slowed his mind. “I don’t know. Nine shipping firms have already closed down because they couldn’t find a way to survive. If they couldn’t survive, why could we?”
“You may be right. So let’s look at the alternative. We stay out of the shipping business and go looking for work where there is none. How far would we have to go from Boston to find something that will feed our families? Philadelphia? New York? Richmond? Charleston? Savannah? Maybe we could get land up in Vermont and farm it. Move our families up there. Any ideas?”
Matthew shook his head. “Let’s take a little time and think on it.”
“I agree.”
They both rose and walked west, with the great green grassy slopes of the Boston Commons one block to their right. They were halfway home before Matthew broke the thoughtful silence.
