E walked down Broadway next morning, and turned into Wall Street some fifteen minutes before the market opened. Suddenly we heard a shouting and the scamper of many feet behind us. A handsome man with a young woman brilliantly gowned was approaching, followed by a crowd of newsboys. The man, who had a reddish-blond mustache and a white carnation in his buttonhole, was laughing as he flung handfuls of coin into the air, which fell upon the scurrying crowd. The face and carriage of the man were familiar, and I wondered where I had seen him before. We entered a hallway and watched them as they passed, but my eyes saw only the familiar figure of the handsome man.
“It was Maud Manning,” said the gentleman, when they passed, “and the man was Jim Fisk, 'the Prince of Erie.'”
“Jim Fisk!” I exclaimed.
“Jim Fisk,” said he. “Used to peddle drygoods up North. Now he's a millionaire broker, and the greatest rake and dandy of his time.”
Then it all came back to me—that summer day when I saw him drive into Waterville with four white horses and a big red van, and the wonderful lady at his side, and how, later, I sold my stock of goods to him.
“I think that my danger is passed,” said McCarthy; “she has found bigger game.”
That historic day of February 19, 1868, had begun, and yet none of all those who crowded the Street and its offices before eleven o'clock knew what was going on, save two, and we had just seen one of them. Not even the Commodore, who sat calmly smoking in his office on Fourth Street, had any suspicion of the frightful snare that lay before him until midday. We found him there at two o'clock. He had invested some five million dollars in Erie stock that day, and held more, even, than was authorized by the charter of the road.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, it seems to me that this Erie stock comes very easy,” said the gentleman.
The Commodore was wearing his railroad look.
“Yes; they're up to their old tricks,” said he, with an oath. “They're running a printingpress. They've been enjoined from issuing more stock, but they've no fear of God or the courts.”
“I do not think that they are printing new stock,” said McCarthy, “nor do I think that the Erie Company is technically disobeying the court.”
“What, then?” the Commodore demanded.
“Well, when the injunction was served there was probably a large amount of stock all duly signed and sealed in the stock-books. I have reason to think that Fisk has stolen the books and put the stock on the market.”
The Commodore ripped out an oath.
“I'll put 'em behind the bars—the suckers!” he exclaimed, with some vehemence.
“I suppose you'll stop buying,” said the gentleman.
“Buying! How can I stop buying?” said Mr. Vanderbilt. “I've got to take all the stock they offer.”
He turned away from us, and, as we were leaving, added:
“If you have information, put it in writing and let me have it to-morrow.”
“I will,” said my friend.
“It's the most deadly trap I ever heard of,” said the gentleman, as we hurried away. “He's got to keep buying the stock as fast as they offer, it. If he doesn't, it will go to nothing and ruin about every one in the Street, including himself, for probably he's borrowed millions on the stock as collateral. And the lower it goes the richer Fisk and his party will become, for they have sold it short; and if the Commodore holds it even they will grow still richer, for they have only to tear it out of the book and hand it over. They have got him between two fires, so that he has to provide them with the weapons for his own destruction. His own fortune is being hurled against him.”
“Why do they wish to ruin him?”'
“Why, their only hope of escape is in his ruin. Don't you see that if they bring him to his knees they have nothing to fear? Otherwise they may go to prison.”
We walked in silence for a moment.
“I tell you, it's a critical time,” McCarthy went on. “The future of our country is involved in this battle.”
“How's that?”
“It will decide whether the work of progress shall be committed to brigands or remain in the hands of honest men. Our best hopes are in danger.”
He stopped, and looked at me out of troubled eyes.
“God!” he exclaimed, “suppose they cripple him and get control of the Vanderbilt roads! I shall sell everything I can and put the money at his disposal. Good-bye. I've got to hurry. Meet you at the St. Nicholas at seven.”
So saying, he halted a cab and hurried away in it.
McCarthy was only one of many honest men who rallied to the support of the Commodore that day. It seemed as if God himself took command of their hearts, and, indeed, I love to think so, foolish as I may be. The forces of decency and good faith hurried to the field of battle. The game old fighting-man stood bravely counting out his treasure until ten million dollars had been surrendered. Then the artillery of the courts began firing, and on March 12th the president of the Erie Railway and all his directors, including James Fisk, Jr., Jay Gould, and Daniel Drew, fled from New York by night, taking with them all the books, papers, securities, and funds of the company. They took refuge in a hotel in Jersey City.
A well-known newspaper printed this paragraph next day:
In the suite of the Prince of Erie, who fled from this city last night, was his friend, the well-known actress, Miss Maud Isabel Manning.
“Well, at last I'm free,” said McCarthy, as we read the item. “How do you suppose I learned about the theft of the stock-books of the Erie Company?”
“I've no idea.”
“It was through that somebody who has been sending me anonymous letters. For a day or two the books were in the rooms of Miss Manning.”
The gentleman left me to return to his work while I went to Philadelphia on a special mission. A week later I finished my task and returned to Albany, arriving there about eight o'clock in the evening. To my great surprise, I found McCarthy at our house. My sister was in her best gown, and never looked lovelier. She ran to meet me, and put her arms around my neck and gave me a hearty greeting.
“You shall not move another step until you have congratulated me,” she said.
“On what—your looks? They were never better or happier,” I answered.
“But I'm happier than I look,” she went on, “for I am to be the wife of the noblest gentleman in the land.”
“It must be McCarthy,” I said, as I turned to him.
“It is and it isn't,” said he. “But I'm glad to confirm the report that she's consented to marry me.”
“I congratulate you both,” was my answer, and we were all so happy then that we just sat down and looked at one another and laughed until there were tears in our eyes.
“Well, after all, mother,” I said, presently, “some good has come of that wretched journey of mine.”
“All things work together for good if we will let them,” said she.
“Then,” said the gentleman, “there is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we may.”
“Yes,” said my mother; “and that divinity is in our own hearts—there's the wonderful thing about it.”
ATE in March the astute captain of the outlawed army established headquarters in Albany, and sought the help of the legislature to save him and his comrades from the doom that threatened him. The dogs of the law were on his trail and in full cry. Only his intimates saw him, for he had rooms in the Delevan with a secret passage to the street. He came and went under cover of darkness and the protection of his friends. He had millions of dollars at his command. He wanted that illegal issue of stock, which had been forced upon Commodore Vanderbilt, to be investigated and indorsed and sanctified by the legislature itself. Any man that required buying was to be bought.
Then it was that the third house began its career of infamy, and the friendship of the gentleman and the Commodore came to its end. There were buying and rebuying on both sides.
One day a senator made a fierce attack upon the bill. In the midst of his speech a note was passed to him. He glanced at it, and continued his attack. Soon he veered about, saying: “But, gentlemen, while this is one side of the subject, I am glad to say that there is another and a brighter one, to which in fairness I must invite your attention.”
He went on with many and ingenious arguments in favor of the bill.
It was in the midst of this struggle that Bony came to me one day, and said:
“I want a frank talk with you. We have eaten and slept together, and you know me pretty well. I've always kept my word with you, haven't I?”
“I've no complaint to make,” was my answer. “Now, I'm going to be frank with you,” he went on. “This Erie bill has got to go through. It's very important to me. If you can induce McCarthy to favor the bill, it will be worth a hundred thousand dollars to you.”
“Oh, Bony! It's out of the question,” I said. “He's against it, and he's not for sale. You couldn't buy him with all the money in the land.”
“But he'll do anything for you,” said the tempter. “He's a friend of yours, and they tell me he's stuck on your sister. All you've got to do is ask him and your fortune is made. Old Vanderbilt will drop him one of these days—there isn't a colder-blooded pirate in America. McCarthy would do better with us.”
I was dazed by the calm assurance of the man who stood before me. It recalled the day when he waved the crowd out of our way as we were approaching the tent of the rope-walker.
I laughed as I looked at him, and rather enjoyed his anxiety.
“You're barking up the wrong tree,” I said. “There's nothing in it for you—not a thing.”
“Look here,” he said, “McCarthy wants money—don't he?—the same as the rest of us. Of course he does. Well, he can make thousands out of us for every penny that he gets out of the other side. Thousands, old boy! I'll double his fortune in a day—in a day, do you understand?” Again I laughed.
“He wouldn't listen to you,” I said. “McCarthy is honest.”
“Honest fiddlesticks!” he exclaimed. “So am I honest; so are you; but we're going to pick up money when it falls at our feet, aren't we—wads of it? Why, old boy, there's half a million dollars in this thing for you and me and McCarthy.”
He was almost on his knees at my feet, and I had just enough of the “old boy” in me to let him go on, and he persisted with singular blindness.
“Look here,” he continued, “I've got something up my sleeve. You're in love with the best girl in this glorious land of ours. I know all about it, and, old boy, I hold the key to that situation—do you understand? It's in my hand absolutely. She's promised to marry me. You do as I tell you, and I'll make the greatest sacrifice that one man can make for another. Now you can judge how important it is.”
“I'm surprised to hear you make a proposition like that,” I said, turning with disgust. “It's base, and unworthy of human lips.”
“Oh, you've got a grudge against me—that's what's the matter with you,” he added. “You can't forget that I won the girl in spite of you.”
“You didn't play fair,” I said. “You have deceived her and her father.”
“Rats!” he exclaimed. “All things are fair in love and war, aren't they? Don't be a fool.”
“Bony, there isn't an honest hair in your head,” I answered. “He's a knave who isn't square with the girl he intends to marry.”
“All right,” said he. “I'll see McCarthy myself and leave you out of it.”
“You'd better keep away from him,” I said, “or you'll get into trouble. We're against you and all men like you, and, as to the young lady, I warn you now that I shall do everything in my power to prevent the marriage.”
“Bosh!” he hissed, as I was leaving him.
That night McCarthy attended a committee meeting at the Capitol. I had some letters to write, and remained in our rooms.
The gentleman returned about midnight, hatless and dishevelled.
“What's the matter?” I asked.
“Why, I've just had a little argument—that's all. I was coming home by my usual route; the street was deserted; and by-and-by I came to a stretch where every light was out for some reason. I suppose the stage had been set for its drama. Suddenly a man approached me from behind.
“'Is this Mr. McCarthy?' he asked.
“'It is,' I said.
“'You don't know me, and it isn't necessary,' he whispered. 'I have a simple business proposition to make, and all you need to know about me is the amount of my roll: I'll give you a hundred and fifty thousand dollars now if you'll favor the Erie side in this fight.'”
The gentleman looked at me and laughed.
“I can imagine your answer,” I said.
“No, you can't,” said he. “It was the most telling, off-hand effort of my life.”
“You hit him over the head,” I suggested.
“So I did; and down he went,” said McCarthy. “It was brutal, but there's nothing in the books to tell a gentleman how he should act when a man tries to buy his honor.” He laughed again, and went on: “I just followed my own impulse and let fly. Sorry I lost my temper, but it's done now. It's a bad situation we're in here. Huge sums of money are dangled before men, and the weak go down. The Commodore has to hold up his end, I suppose. He's got to beat them or they'll ruin him, and then he finds some excuse in the great cause he stands for. I don't blame him so much, but I'm going to keep out of it for a while. It's got to be a matter of matching fortunes, and I'm sick of it. By-and-by I'll step into the firing-line.”
Before the skirmishing ended, however, Drew deserted his camp, and the other captains of the enemy quickly came to terms, and the breach in the foundations of the house of Vanderbilt had been repaired. But the Commodore had had enough of Erie, and decided “to let those miserable suckers alone.”
The battle was ended.
My friends, we may well regret the evils that came of it, but I, for one, rejoice that a commercial enterprise involving the growth and welfare of a continent remained in the hands of a builder and fell not to the kings and princes of destruction.
For some two weeks we saw nothing of Bony, and when I met him one day at the entrance of the Capitol I observed a red scar on his forehead.
To my surprise, he stopped and greeted me.
“What's the matter?” I asked.
“Oh, that's where a mule kicked me.”
“A mule!”
“Yes, and I didn't know he would kick,” said Bony.
“All's fair in love and war,” I quoted.
“Well, I'm not kicking,” he said, with a smile, as we parted.
HAD seen Pearl often in hurried visits to Rushwater, but not since the Erie war began. For three years he had been hard at work in every department of the growing shop as superintendent. Its voices had turned from anger to affection; its people loved this man, for the years had proved him. He was like a father to them. I can think of scores of men and women who followed his counsel in those days of their youth and poverty.
I found him, soon after the events I have been describing, ill in his room at Rushwater. His eyes had been failing; one of his old wounds, which had cut deep into his head, was giving him sore trouble and affecting his sight. I was grieved to learn that he could scarcely see me. A young man from the shop was taking care of him.
I had been thinking of my gains, and they were large, for McCarthy had been kind and generous, and I was to have one of the highest offices in the gift of the State. But now, as I saw the failing of my old friend, I began to think of my losses, and was sorry—sorry that I had missed so much of the companionship and counsel of one of the greatest men I ever knew.
“I've missed you, Jake, I've missed you,” he said, with trembling lips, as he held my hand in his.
I would have given it all then—all the money and the honor which had been mine—for that I had lost, and I have never changed my mind about it.
“My friend and fellow-citizen,” said he, cheerfully, after a moment, “the Committee on Love and Marriage will now report. Has your heart changed, old boy? Do you still think of Jo?”
“As much as ever,” I said. “Strange how it clings to me!”
“It's the real old-fashioned thing, an' rare as gold,” said he. “I know what 'tis.”
“I shall never marry,” I said.
“Yes, you will,” said he, with confidence. “Why do you think so?”
“Because she loves you—that's why.”
“But you told me that she was going to be married on their return.”
“So she is; and to you, old boy. You didn't understand me, did ye?”
“No.”
“Wal, I didn't want ye to. I see that Squares had made himself solid with the Colonel. Squares had prospered, and won the friendship of grand folks. Squares had flattered the old man and spent loads of money on him. The Colonel was bound to have Jo marry Squares. I told her to take her father out of the country and stay until I sent for her. He was drinking badly, and, anyhow, I thought it would do him good to get away from his old friends. Jo and he made a kind of treaty: he promised not to write to Bony, and she promised not to write to you.
“The Colonel wanted to travel, and Jo had plenty of money—her grandfather left her his fortune. They stayed a year in England, where Busby was born, and were three years in Italy, India, and Australia. She wrote me that she'd spent the time in study, and felt sure that you wouldn't be ashamed of her. Why, Jake, she's never forgotten ye fer a minute! She was anxious to know whether your love would last or not, and made me promise to report to her every month, and I did. They've heard all the news about you and all the news about Bony.”
“Where are they now?”
“On their way to Rushwater,” said Pearl. “They'll be here in this room at eight o'clock to-night.”
I met McCarthy in the office of the shop, and when our work was finished we went to Pearl's room. It was 7.30, and I paced up and down, feeling the slowness of the clock-hands, while the gentleman sat by the bedside talking with our friend. Suddenly there came a loud rap at the door. McCarthy opened it, and in stepped the Colonel, erect as a statue, with his goldheaded cane in one hand and his shiny silk hat in the other. He was magnificent in a frock suit and silken waistcoat. He bowed and stepped lightly to the middle of the floor, and stopped as he saw Pearl lying on the bed. He gave me his hat and cane, and put his arms around the shoulders of the sick man.
“Old friend, I love you—I love you!” he said.
The Colonel turned with streaming eyes, and in a moment said to us: “My God, gentlemen, here is old Pearl Brown, the bravest man since Julius Caesar! There is not one of us that's good enough to black his boots. I saw him lead a charge at Bull Run when the bullets were trimming him and cutting his coat to rags; but he didn't mind. He went right on—the bloodiest thing that ever stood on foot. Went right over the works of the enemy, and hit a gunner on the head with his flag-staff.
“When we picked him up his clothes were red, and one arm was dangling.
“'Boys,' he whispered, 'they shot my head off back there in the field somewhere. I saw it fall on the ground, an' I picked it up an' ran like the devil with it under my arm until I got here. It's right here beside me, an' I wish you'd bring it along—might need it some day.'
“When he lay sick in the hospital, Lincoln went to see him, and pinned a medal on his breast.” The Colonel paused.
My dear old friend lay calmly holding the hand of Colonel Busby.
“I'm not to blame for it,” he said, presently. “I didn't know what I was doin' after that piece o' shell hit me. I thought I saw my head on the ground, an' that I picked it up and ran as hard as I could, for I heard you fellows comin' an' thought you'd get it away. I forgot the enemy, an' was just runnin' to save my head. I struck that gunner because I thought he would take it away from me. Here is a braver man than I am.”
He took my hand and drew me near him, and added: “Look at the scars on his face; they're a better badge than I have. Took that blow to save me. Do you remember him, Colonel? You used to know him as Cricket Heron.”
“To be sure,” said the Colonel; “but I would not have known him, he's grown so big and tall. If he is your friend, he is mine. Excuse me, I'm going to get Jo; she's over at the inn. Perhaps you'll have the kindness to go and fetch her,” he added, turning to McCarthy.
They came in five minutes, the gentleman and Jo, and never have I seen the like of her. She was twenty-four past that day, and stood tall and erect, with glowing cheeks and eyes, in the full splendor of her young womanhood. I was ashamed to show my scarred face to her, and yet I would have travelled half my life to do it and know what she would say. She could not hide her joy, nor I mine. Our eyes filled as we greeted each other, and, somehow, I felt the truth in her little right hand—that she loved me.
Pearl made me blush with praise, and when I tried to disclaim the credit which he put upon me—knowing how small a thing it was—Jo commanded me to be silent, and said that I had no right to belittle her pride in a friend. The Colonel rose and stood erect, and stroked his white imperial.
“Attention!” he commanded, with that fine military manner of his. “Heron, old boy,” he went on, as he touched his forelock and swung his hand in the air, “I salute you, and apologize for all the indignities of the past; and, dear friends, while we are giving out the medals of honor, I would respectfully invite your attention to this young lady. She is the greatest of all women—the dearest daughter in the land.”
He turned to me, and continued: “You will remember, sir, my fondness for the flowing bowl and my many follies, which I would blush to mention. She—she, sir, with the tenderness of true womanhood, with the love that passeth all understanding, has lifted me up and made a man of me.”
The Colonel was interrupted by applause, led by the gentleman, who rose and said:
“Mr. Chairman, I move that we give the young lady a vote of love and honor, and that we recommend her for promotion from daughter to wife, with the title of Mrs. and the rank of a great-hearted woman, as soon as we can find a man worthy of her. Greater than the man of the sword is the heroine of the home who has subdued its enemies with the strong hand of love.”
“I second the motion,” said Pearl.
“Question,” I urged.
The Colonel bowed low, and in look, word, and manner rose to greatness, it seemed to me.
“Those in favor will salute her with a kiss,” said the old gentleman, as he embraced his daughter.
Then he led her to Pearl, who recorded his vote, after which he pinned one of his medals on her waist, and then the hand-made gentleman supported the motion. It was my turn next.
She laughed and turned away from me, her cheeks red as roses. Then she ran to the corner of the room, and hid her face in her handkerchief and cried a little, and I stole up and kissed her cheek and led her back to her chair, and every man of us had wet eyes for some reason.
“Now,” said the Colonel, cheerfully, as he rose and went to the fireplace, “with your kind indulgence, I will sing you a song.”
He sang an old lyric entitled The Man of Scars, pointing at Pearl and me as he roared along, and, really, it took all the shame out of me which had come of my injured looks. I sat down by her, and we had a little talk of “old times,” as we called them.
Some one spoke of Bony.
“By the blood of the martyrs,” said Colonel Busby, “he hasn't a scar on his body, and never will have unless he meets with an accident!”
“Which he has done,” said the Pearl of great price, as he smiled at McCarthy.
“I think we'd better go,” said the gentleman. “I'm afraid that our dear friend on the bed there is growing weary.”
We shook his hand and bade him good-night, and then McCarthy and I walked to the inn with Jo and the Colonel. They were to start for Merrifield at six o'clock in the morning.
“You should see our shop before you leave here,” I said.
“You take my father to see the shop, and I'll try to entertain Mr. McCarthy while you're gone,” she suggested.
The Colonel and I went together to the shop, then running night and day. We tramped through its long, busy floors, and by-and-by sat down, with our cigars, in the office.
“My friend,” said the Colonel, presently, “I should be proud to have you visit me at Merrifield.”
“That cannot be,” I said, “until I have your permission to propose to Jo.”
“Heron, I've been a fool,” he said. “I hate to confess, but I can't help it, and then it doesn't matter much, for the fact is generally known. Forgive me, sir, and, believe me, I should be proud to have you for a son-in-law.”
We returned to the inn.
“Mr. McCarthy has been telling me about his stables,” said Jo to her father. “Perhaps he would be kind enough to show them to you.”
“Glad to take you there,” said the gentleman, as he went away with the Colonel.
“Did he invite you to Merrifield?” Jo asked. “Yes, and more. He has consented—”
“Merrifield is delightful,” she interrupted. “We live in the old house that was built by my grandfather. I've always said that if I ever had the luck to be engaged and married, I'd like it all to happen there.”
I took her hand and said: “Look here, young lady, I've made up my mind that I shall turn the key in that door and keep you a prisoner until you've promised to marry me. You've established a sort of precedent in your treatment of poor Sam—don't you remember it?”
“Dear old Sam!” she exclaimed. “I couldn't have forgotten you if I had tried. He was forever talking about you, and to every letter he added a postscript, which contained the last news of C. H. He's watched your career very closely.”
I sat down by her side, and drew her close to me.
“I really cannot wait,” I said.
“Nor I,” she whispered; and then I felt her soul in her lips, and I need say no more of that day, best of these many of which I have tried to tell you, save this: Jo sad her father promised to delay their home-going to meet my mother and sister, who would be with us in the morning.
ROSE early and met my dear friends, and told them the news, and received their congratulations. Then I told of Pearl's illness, and at my mother's request took them with me to his room. We entered on tiptoes. He was stroking the ear of his old dog, who lay by his bedside. His “jacket” hung on a chair, turned wrong side out, within reach of his hand, the medals pinned to its lining.
“Happy New Year!” he exclaimed, cheerfully, as he took my hand. “I've got to tell ye the truth now. My name is Brown—Henry Machias Pearl Brown, full-jewelled and a yard wide. I confess and throw myself on your mercy. I've lied like the devil. Do you blame me?”
“It's the man and not the name that's important,” I said.
“It's a long story, but I'll make it short.” he went on. “When I was a boy my father moved west—settled in northern New York. There I fell in love with a lily of a girl—oh, she was wonderful! I couldn't make up my mind that I was good enough for her. The minister used to tell us that we were all a lot o' worms, an' we believed it, but I thought she was the one great exception. I recollect that old text:
“'... The stars are not pure in His sight; how much less man, that is a worm.'
“When I met an angel I naturally hesitated about offerin' her a worm. It didn't seem to me much of a compliment. Oh, I tell ye, we had to look out for the early birds! Ye see, the worm referred to was a caterpillar, and the minister didn't tell us about the butterfly. I tried every way to improve myself, but I waited too long. She married another an' a better man. I went away to the war, got my face all scrambled up by a piece o' shell, an' crawled into a lot o' bushes to die. I lay there an' kicked till my feet made a hole in the ground, but I didn't know what I was doin'. By-an'-by I felt suthin' pinchin' my hand. Seemed so 'twouldn't let me die; kep' a nippin' away till I raised my head. I could see a little out o' one eye, an' there was an' ol' settin' hen with her nest hid in the bushes, an' she was peckin' my hand. She gave me a cuff with her wings, an' told me t' git up an' go on 'bout my business, an' I did—crawled out on my hands an' knees, an' they found me an' patched me up. I felt all right, but I had this face on me. Come north, an' behaved 'bout as bad as I knew how. Got 'shamed o' my character as well as my face, so I dropped Brown, for that was the name o' my father, an' no better man ever lived. When I met you, Jake, I was nigh the end o' my rope. You made a man o' me. You was her boy—that's the reason.”
His voice broke, and he pressed my hand to his lips.
My mother came and stood beside me with streaming eyes, and said:
“Henry Brown, I am Anne Jones.”
“Anne Jones, come here,” he said.
He felt her wrinkled forehead and her white hair with his hand. He seemed to be vainly trying to see her face. He was like one looking far away. “Oh, I can see you!” he said. “Hair as yellow as a com-tassel, an' blue eyes an' cheeks as red as roses, an' feet like a fawn's. You are beautiful, an' I love you, Anne, I love you. I've wanted to tell you—these forty years.”
It may be that she loved him, also, for she never left his side until one June day, more than a month later, we saw for the last time this modest, gentle, unknown hero of war and peace.
HERE was a double wedding at Merrifield in September, and, next to McCarthy and myself, the happiest man there was Sam, who shook my hand before the ceremony to give me courage, and spoke a cheering word.
“You'll be glad you done it when it's all over,” he said.
So glad have I ever been that I hold my peace when I think of that day and of her, the dearest blessing of my life. There are things which had better be let alone, even though one had the tongue of an angel. Such is that sense of pride and joy that came to me when I put my arms around her, and knew that she was mine at last. And, after all, the loves and marriages of the gentleman and myself are only small incidents of our history, which has to do with the loves and marriages of commerce, and there is yet a little to be added.
We went to Saratoga on our wedding journey. The day we arrived I met my old friend Swipes in the office of the Grand Union Hotel. He was cashier in the great gambling-house of John Morrissey. He told me that Bony had lost fifty thousand dollars in play the night before.
“It broke him,” said Swipes. “He had to borrow a hundred dollars from the old man.” That very day I met Bony on the street. “Look here, old chap,” he said, as we stepped aside, “I'm broke, and if you'll lend me ten thousand dollars I can do you a favor.”
He paused and looked into my eyes, but I made no answer.
“I know that McCarthy has been looking for evidence against the Erie party for their sins in Albany,” he went on. “That's why he split with the Commodore. I can help him. I could tell him things that would put some of them behind the bars. The consolidation of the Central and Hudson River systems will be coming on this fall. I'll put a whip in your hands that will keep them out of Albany.”
I found McCarthy, and brought the two men together. The gentleman listened while Bony set forth his evidence and promised two affidavits in support of it.
“All right,” said McCarthy, “bring your witnesses to me. If they're satisfactory, I'll buy your note for one year for ten thousand dollars, on the understanding that we're both acting in the interest of public decency.”
Jo and I left for New York a few days later.
I had a letter in my pocket to the Prince of Erie. It was from the Hon. Bonaparte Squares, and advised the Prince of certain facts in our possession, and gave him a word of warning. We thought that the letter should go straight to his hands, and I undertook to deliver it.
“He'll know who you are, and that will set him thinking,” said McCarthy. “You may talk, if necessary, but don't say a word.”
I turned into Broad Street with the letter early in the afternoon of Black Friday—that memorable twenty-fourth day of September, 1869. Those two cunning men, Fisk and his partner, had a corner in gold. For an hour its price had been mounting by leaps and bounds.
Wall and Broad streets were like brimming rivers full of boiling rapids and roaring whirlpools and slow eddies and deep undercurrents. Now and then one heard a shrill cry like that of a man drowning. The currents swept me along, wavering from curb to curb. A friend touched my arm and shouted:
“Shake, old man! We haven't much to lose, and we're lucky. Every minute now somebody is going broke.”
I took my letter to Fisk's office. By that time the price of gold had begun to tumble. Fisk's door was open, and I walked in. There, in the middle of a large room, stood the greatest gambler of an age of hazards. He wore a coat of blue velvet with a white flower in its lapel. He stood by a small table, and was pouring champagne into a row of glasses. A basket of wine lay at his feet. The chairs around the room seemed to be filled with dead men, their faces ghastly white, their eyes staring. A colored boy passed the wine. The Prince of Erie raised his glass, and said:
“Boys, when you're picking a goose, the point is to get as many feathers as you can every grab, with as little squawking as possible.”
He took the letter I carried, and went with me into the outer office, reading as he walked. Men crowded about us, seeking a word with Fisk. He turned to me, and said:
“Sit down a minute; I'm very busy now.”
I took a chair, and watched the great gambler as he spoke to the men who pressed about him. He was jocular, good-natured, kindly.
“Cheer up, old fellow,” he would say, with an affectionate tap on the shoulder, “your turn will come one of these days.”
I waited for an hour or more.
The market closed. The half-crazed players in this temple of fortune were moving out of its door. Soon the place was empty of all save the clerks and the Prince himself and two or three hangers-on.
As Fisk was turning to me a man of clerical dress and manners accosted him.
“Mr. Fisk,” said he, “we need a fence around the cemetery up there in Bennington, and I've come to ask you to help us.”
What a finish for that deadly day of torment!
The Prince laughed.
“A fence around a cemetery!” he exclaimed. “You don't need it. Those who are in can't get out, and those who are out don't want to get in, so what's the use; but here's fifty dollars.”
He gave him the money, and turned to me, and said:
“Sorry I kept you so long. Come into my room a minute.”
I followed him, and he sat down beside me. He had carefully considered his plan.
“I've had a hard battle,” he said. “War is war, whether you fight with guns or money. Here in Wall Street we cut close to the heart sometimes, but we don't kill, and we don't try to make ourselves believe that God is on either side—at least, nobody but Uncle Dan'l, and, you know, he builds a church whenever he grabs a million as a reward to Providence. We're like a lot of soldiers. We take what we can get, and when we're surrounded we cut our way out if we can. Do you like Albany?”
He smiled as he put the question.
“Very much,” was my answer.
“Well, I don't,” said he. “I'm going to keep away from there, and so are my friends. It's full of temptations. Think of that bargain counter! There's nothing like it in the world. I never saw such an array of jewelry, and all so cheap!”
We laughed, and I left him, and thought of the wise, far-seeing gentleman who had sent me there. I thought, too, of the long war of the Rebellion, and of all that its years of slaughter and pillage had cost us—a loss of respect for sacred things, which was, somehow, signalized in the character of Colonel Fisk, to whom business was war and property the prize of battle.
I had other things to do, and when I walked up Broad Street, in the early evening, the banks were all open and the Street crowded, and I saw numbers of men who had been rich that morning sitting dejectedly on the curb together eating sandwiches, and among them was Bony.
That night I heard General Hampton say, in the lobby of the St. Nicholas, that there would have been no war if our railroads had run north and south instead of east and west, and it was true.
There was a great awakening in the land. It was the age of invention. Hundreds of corporations, with millions behind them, joined the armies of steam-power and marched upon the capitals demanding favor. Enthusiasm ran high. Many a captain forgot other considerations in thinking of the greatness of his cause. They did much harm, but they were building the pyramids for us and our children forever, and we may say now, as we gather the fruit of their toil: Poor fellows! how little time was given them in which to regret or enjoy the things they did! After all, we can afford to repair the evil for the sake of the good.
I thank God that I have lived to see the harnessing of the swift horses of Niagara, and the great earth laced with streams of power that turn night into day and day into immeasurable service.