Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  Mr. Vanderbilt considered my words but not for long. “You are the expert in the realm of the spirit, my dear. If that is what you advise, that is what shall be done.”

  The next day dawned clear and beautiful, one of those perfect autumn days where the sunlight and breeze danced as they caressed the skin and the sky appeared endless. Sitting outside the stock exchange in my carriage, the future was full of infinite possibility for me as well.

  Gold had opened at one hundred fifty dollars when trading began, but I wasn’t ready to make my move, and neither was Mr. Vanderbilt. To sell all our shares too soon would send a signal something was going on, attracting attention neither of us wanted, so we sold most off quietly in small increments, reserving some for later when we would make a grand gesture that others could follow. The price would likely rise before coming back down again—that was when we would sell.

  As a woman, I wasn’t allowed in the exchange, but I had plenty of men to work for me. Not even an hour into trading, they were coming to me with outlandish stories of the chaos taking place inside.

  “You should see it, Mrs. Woodhull. It’s a madhouse in there,” Dirk O’Malley reported in his thick Irish brogue. “Men are sweating like they’re facing the headsman while they’re telegraphing their clients. That poor fountain in the middle of the room is getting the worst of it; I saw half a dozen brokers splashing their faces with the water in the pool, and two even dunked their heads in the streams coming from the golden dolphins’ mouths.” He laughed. “Ain’t never seen anything like it.”

  As the morning progressed, a crowd formed in the street nearby. Without being asked, my driver took on the role of my personal guard when I needed to leave the carriage, but for the most part, the crowd was peaceful, merely curious. As prices continued to rise, more and more businessmen joined them, loudly shouting orders over one another at their brokers, openly fretting and more than once coming to blows over disagreements of strategy.

  I was paying for my lunch at a nearby restaurant when a commotion drew my attention to the street. Straight as a set of stick pins, a unit of Seventh Regiment National Guard soldiers approached the crowd. Their weapons and grayish-blue uniforms left no doubt of their orders to keep the peace. I eyed them cautiously as I made my way back to my carriage.

  I took a deep breath as I settled in for the afternoon’s trading. While I was away, another carriage containing at least three passengers had pulled up on the opposite side of the street. The silhouettes of two men in bowler hats were visible beyond the frame of a busty brunette. That had to be Josie with Fisk and Gould, the orchestrators of this scheme. Nothing else made any sense. Feeling suddenly sick, I sank back into my seat and hoped they would have no reason to look in my direction. I didn’t want to have to explain my presence.

  From outside the carriage, a soldier said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t allow you to approach.”

  For a moment, I feared it was Fisk or Gould come to inquire about my business here, but when the man protested, I relaxed. It was Dirk.

  “It’s all right. He’s one of mine,” I called.

  Dirk appeared at my window, diving in without preamble. “Tensions are running high inside. Gold has shot past 150 to 164.”

  That was even higher than Josie had said. Mr. Fisk and Mr. Gould were losing control of the market. “Sell what we have left. Get us out before the whole thing comes crashing down. Make sure Mr. Vanderbilt’s assets are protected before those in my name.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a tip of his cap, he was off.

  It wasn’t long before unrest once again surfaced in the waiting crowd, and with it came an increase in grumbling. Without warning, brokers burst out of the exchange like water from a dam, frantically consulting their clients in the crowd.

  “What is it?” I asked as Dirk approached once more.

  He blew out a deep breath. “We got out just in time, right at one hundred fifty. As soon as word came from Treasury Secretary Boutwell that the government is going to sell gold tomorrow in order to prevent a national collapse of the markets—which they should have done days ago—the price started falling. If I thought it was crazy before, I was wrong. People are actually crawling over one another to sell off their stock. This is going to be a disaster.”

  He was right. It wasn’t long before prices plummeted to $132 a share. Brokers wandered aimlessly in the streets, shirtwaists untucked, suits rumpled, wearing forlorn expressions.

  “We’re ruined,” one cried.

  “Ruined!” echoed another.

  Others simply sobbed.

  I stepped out of my carriage and placed a gentle arm on a passing broker’s shoulder. “Please, I cannot undo what has happened today, but let me help.” I pressed a handful of coins into his palm.

  Slowly, as though waking from a dream, the man looked at his hand then at me. Instead of thanking me, he spit in my face, throwing the coins back at me. I recoiled, using my handkerchief to wipe away his saliva. I picked up the discarded money, straightened my dress, and tried again.

  The next man shrugged me away.

  The following growled that he “was no rich woman’s charity case” and shoved me aside.

  Finally, I met a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes.

  “Sir,” I said, approaching him slowly like an unfamiliar animal, “may I offer you a bit of assistance? It’s not much, but it should buy your family a meal and board tonight.” I held out my open palm so the coins were clearly visible.

  The man stopped before me, studying my palm. Then a grin lit his face, chased by twin tears from each of his eyes. “God bless you, ma’am. I was praying for a miracle, and here you are.” He held up a brown glass bottle. “I was of a mind to drink myself into the arms of death this night, but you’ve saved me.” He embraced me. “Thank you.”

  By closing, newsboys were shouting from the street corners about extra editions with headlines declaring “Black Friday.” They carried tawdry stories about brokers hanging themselves or leaping from tall buildings—twenty men dead in all. Some gloried in the public drunkenness of businessmen who had lost everything and the wailing of newly made widows. Other articles speculated on the effect the crash would have on businesses and what the government could do to reverse the disaster that had left many with nothing.

  I had read the papers, but the misfortune of others was far from my mind as I stood in the parlor of the Vanderbilt mansion, surrounded by my family and his. Champagne was flowing; music filled the air, and laughter bubbled along with light from every window. My burning cheeks reflected my joy, warm from not only the wine but also the heady realization I was now a truly wealthy woman even after I paid Josie handsomely for her help. My personal speculating had netted me a small amount; my main income was related to Mr. Vanderbilt’s success.

  He raised a glass to his guests. “I would like to make a toast to Victoria Woodhull, the woman of the hour. Without her guidance, I would be crying in the streets tonight rather than celebrating a great financial coup. You may have guessed I came out on top today, but I want you to know just how well this bold operator guided me. I made more than 1.3 million dollars today, half of which is hers according to our agreement.”

  I ducked my head, embarrassed by such a public declaration of my newfound wealth.

  “I’m sure you will agree with me”—Vanderbilt pinioned William with a sharp glare—“that Victoria and Tennie have more than proven their worth as brokers in their own right. Agreeing to take them on as my protégées was the one of the smartest decisions I’ve ever made.”

  “Hear, hear,” James said.

  The company followed suit, lifting their glasses and sipping their drinks.

  “What are you going to do with all your money?” Mrs. Vanderbilt asked. “If you are interested in charitable donations, I may be able to make some recommendations.”

  “Certainly you deserve a rest after such an accomplishment,” William put in. “My offer of a European vacation still stands.”


  “Thank you, but we will be staying nearby for the time being.” I blew out a breath and glanced at my sister, who nodded slightly. “Up until half an hour ago, I would have told you I had no idea what I should do with my unexpected good fortune. But the spirits are guiding me once again. They say that instead of going to secure staterooms for Europe”—my gaze flickered briefly to William before alighting on his father—“we are to go down to Wall Street.” I forced the rest of the words past my lips. “To secure a banking office.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt’s hand fluttered to her lace collar. “Why, whatever for?”

  I hesitated but continued when a hand softly squeezed my elbow. James. He both knew about and approved of my plans. “To open our own brokerage firm.”

  FEBRUARY 1870

  Beginning a business on Wall Street wasn’t nearly as easy as I had imagined. I couldn’t simply hang a sign on the door and wait for customers to arrive, not if I wished to be successful. Mr. Vanderbilt helped by establishing a line of credit in my and Tennie’s names with his friend, the banker Henry Clews, and introducing us to his many connections. Luckily, all it took to get them to extend their allegiance was Mr. Vanderbilt’s blessing and a witty remark from me or a beguiling glance from Tennie.

  One of those leads secured our office space. As the former home of Williams & Grey, the building had been hastily abandoned by its occupants: a forger, bank robber, swindler, and murderer. In their haste to flee, they took only what they could carry, so as a result, the heavy walnut desks trimmed in gold, oak chairs upholstered in green silk, and rich carpets were included.

  “It is perfect,” I declared before James and I ever set foot inside.

  Down the street to the right, the massive Greek columns of the New York Stock Exchange cast wide shadows across the street, obscuring men and horses in pockets of darkness though it was barely past noon on a sunny winter day. Four doors to the left of the office, a brightly painted sign marked the office of Jim Fisk. Hold your enemies in nearest regard had been another of my father’s lessons, one I could practice well from this location, especially after what Mr. Fisk had pulled in September. Above the street, telegraph wires crisscrossed in a spider’s web, connecting the many businesses in the financial district to one another and to our clients, assuring the most up-to-date information. One glance inside at the fine furnishings and we made a deal.

  Tennie’s budding relationship with Johnny Green—whom she had begun dating once Mr. Vanderbilt got married, though she hadn’t stopped being his lover—proved an unexpected benefit. Thanks to his coverage of the financial crisis, he had been promoted at the Herald, relinquished the title of professor at Madame de Ford’s, and taken the lead on preparing the public for our eventual leap into the public sphere as stockbrokers.

  “Here is something for the consideration of Susan B. Anthony and her sister apostles in women’s rights,” he wrote in the Herald. “With what complacency must she and they regard the success which has so far attended their efforts. If finesse is woman’s gift, why not finance also? We all know the skill with which she administers the domestic exchequer. And as to Wall Street, she would be quite in her element.”

  Articles like this helped draw crowds to our doorstep for the grand opening of our firm on February 5. As our carriage rocked over stones and ruts, I drew in long, slow breaths, closing my eyes against the bouncing that was doing nothing to quell my queasiness. The whole situation was like a dream that could shatter into wakefulness at any moment. Who would have thought two poor, nearly unlettered sisters from Homer, Ohio, were about to become the first females in the country to run a business buying and selling stocks—and at a company that bore our names, no less?

  As if sensing my distress, Tennie squeezed my hand. “The hard part is already done. All we need to do today is greet our clients and conduct our business as best we can. I’m sure we will have detractors, but they will be no different than those who mocked our spiritual skills. And like them, we will show these ninnies how wrong they are.”

  I smiled and was still smiling when the carriage pulled up to our office. But my amusement faded quickly when faced with crowds lined up for blocks in either direction.

  “There must be a thousand people out there,” Tennie said.

  My stomach flipped on its side. I leaned around Tennie, gawking. “They can’t all be here for us.”

  Tennie grinned as she stepped out of the carriage with me close behind. “I believe they are. Put on your theatrical face, Vickie. We’re about to make our debut on the Wall Street stage.”

  Women whispered behind their hands to one another, and men openly ogled us, taking in our matching outfits, chosen precisely for our entrance into the male world of finance. We’d traded in jewelry and makeup for silk bow ties and white rose buds. Eschewing corsets and bustles, we wore blue jackets embroidered with rich velvet which were broad at the shoulders but tapered to contoured curves at the waist over matching skirts that brushed the tops of our shoes—a carefully planned statement designed to draw attention and remind onlookers that while we were too modest to show our ankles like common whores, we also were no ordinary women.

  Two uniformed police officers escorted us from the carriage up the front walk, pushing back anyone who dared get too close to the Bewitching Brokers, as we were already coming to be known. Reporters, protesting men, and curious onlookers shouted at us, but I couldn’t make out anything specific in the general clamor.

  Sighing in relief, I crossed the threshold of Woodhull, Claflin, and Company for the very first time as its proprietress. I embraced James, who stood in the doorway to his office. He would help manage the business and serve as my secretary—as well as be the firm’s silent partner.

  “I am so proud of you,” he whispered into my hair. “No matter what happens today, remember that.”

  I cupped his cheeks and kissed him. “I will.”

  Behind me, a man loudly cleared his throat. I turned. There stood my father, almost unrecognizable with his well-groomed hair and beard, dressed in a fine brown suit with polished shoes.

  “I always knew you two had heads for business.” He held his arms open wide as though to embrace us. “That’s why I employed you from such a young age—but I never imagined anything like this.” He discreetly wiped a tear from his one good eye.

  I must have inherited my acting talent from my father. It is thirty years too late for him to suddenly become the devoted patriarch. I still didn’t want to let him anywhere near our business, but Tennie’s argument that we owed him at least a token position for the role he’d played in our introduction to Mr. Vanderbilt won out. Ignoring his show of emotion, I ushered Pa behind the ornate desk we had reserved for him.

  “Remember, if anyone asks, you taught us law and what you knew of finance before falling on hard times and becoming impoverished,” I stressed, making sure he would play his part in the tale we were paying him handsomely to uphold.

  “It’s not far from the truth.”

  “Anyone can hang up a shingle and call themselves a lawyer, Pa. It’s the training that establishes a professional, and that is what you lack.”

  “Ignore her.” Tennie sent me an admonishing glance. “She’s just nervous.”

  While Tennie made sure everything was in place in our shared office, I checked on the back room, which was hidden from casual view by a walnut partition decorated with glass. This room, accessible by its own entrance from the outside—but only from within through the office Tennie and I shared—was set aside specifically for our female clients, who for various reasons may not have wished to be seen conducting their transactions. On a small side table, chocolate-covered strawberries rested on a block of ice, and a bottle of champagne chilled in a nearby bucket. Only the best would be served to the women to whom we owed our first livelihood in New York.

  Once I was seated behind my desk, I took in the room one final time, trying to see it as our clients would. The office was elegant, with oil paintings on the walls, marb
le statues in the corners, and ample upholstered sofas and chairs for clients. In truth, it was more like a parlor than an office, but we wanted people to be comfortable, not intimidated, as was the case in some other offices. On the wall behind me, directly in the sight line of each client as they sat facing me, was a small frame containing Tennie’s handiwork, the words “Simply to the cross I cling” in careful cross-stitch, while next to it was a photo of Cornelius Vanderbilt. It never hurt to remind people of the two men in which we female brokers placed our trust.

  A nearby clock struck ten.

  Taking one more deep breath, I switched on the ticker-tape machine at my right. “It’s time.”

  “Open the doors,” Tennie called to the doorkeeper we had hired to help control the crowds until they dwindled to our normal clientele.

  Our first visitor of the day—a tall, bearded man in an old-fashioned long coat—introduced himself as Mr. Edward H. Van Schalck. After taking a seat in a chair positioned squarely between us, he declared, “I would like to place an order of stock. I’m told that is what you do here?”

  Tennie ignored the slight condescension in his voice and answered politely, “Of course, Mr. Van Schalck.” She removed a solid gold pen from behind her ear—a gift we each had received from Mr. Vanderbilt—and prepared to write. “We expect to be overwhelmed by the crowds today, so if you would please let us know in what companies you are interested and how much you’d like to purchase, we’ll gladly make the purchase as soon as we are able.”

  After we took down his order, the gentleman bowed and left the room, pausing to speak with James and Buck. Callers continued this way for about an hour before Mr. Van Schalck returned, this time freshly shaven, his cheeks still rosy from the barber’s blade. Accompanying him was a motley group of companions, all of whom he introduced quite cordially before taking up his previous post in the chair facing us.

  The shortest of the bunch, who resembled a pig ready for the spit, exclaimed, “By God, I thought you were joking. There are two women doing business on Wall Street.”