Back bay, p.28
Back Bay, page 28
part #1 of Peter Fallon Series
Jason rested his head on his chin.
“Your sister has invested,” goaded Jackson. “Ten shares at the public offering. Five thousand dollars from her own funds. A great deal of money for a widow.”
Artemus’ respect for his aunt grew tenfold.
Jackson poured himself another port, filled Jason’s glass, and sat on the edge of Jason’s desk. Unlike many of his peers, Jackson had a likable streak that he often used to his advantage. “I’ve come today, Jason, because I need your help. Your fellow stockholders need it. We must be sure that the right people are investing money in the enterprises that are building Boston and New England. Why do you think my brother-in-law originally offered you the chance to invest in the Waltham Mills?”
“Because my wife was his cousin,” said Jason cynically.
“Untrue.” Jackson spoke softly, sincerely. “That’s what he may have told you, because Francis Cabot Lowell detested flattery. He told me that he wanted the Pratts involved because the Pratts, like the Lowells, Jacksons, Appletons, and Perkinses, are responsible, worthy men.”
Jason grunted cynically. “I recall Francis Cabot Lowell telling me that my father had one saving grace—his missing arm. There was less of him to loathe. I assume we speak of the same Lowell and the same Pratt.”
Jackson laughed. “My brother-in-law had many opinions, but he always spoke highly of you. And he believed, as I do, that we are a special group. We are, if you will, a merchant aristocracy, related by blood”—he glanced at Artemus, whose mother was a Lowell—“marriage, religion, and pursuit. We are men of a kind, like minded, godfearing, aggressive, honest. We must always work together. Otherwise, the heathens of the business world will overrun us all.”
Jason was flattered in spite of himself. Rarely was he counted among the worthies. “Give me a few days to think it over. With the loss of the Ephraim, I’ll have to do some juggling to free a bit of investment capital.”
Jackson put a hand on Jason’s arm. “You know that your word is enough.”
“My father always backed up his word in specie.”
“As you will.” Jackson shook hands with both Pratts, exchanged a few words with Artemus about his world tour, and headed for the door. Then he stopped.
Artemus sensed the theatricality.
“There is one way that you can subscribe for a hundred shares at half price, or, if you are still timid, fifty shares for nothing.”
Artemus smiled to himself. He realized that Jackson was after more than Pratt support. He saw his father perk up.
“Your family owns nearly an acre of land on Pemberton Hill,” said Jackson. “Give it to the Boston and Lowell Railroad, and I personally will be good for half your subscription.”
“You would pay twenty-five thousand dollars for my father’s house?” Jason was quite surprised.
“We need the land. Mt. Vernon Hill was cut down to fill the edge of the Back Bay. Beacon Hill has been trimmed by eighty feet in the last forty years. Pemberton is the only hill left. This city is growing. We need to make better use of that land.”
“What do you propose to do?” asked Artemus.
“Cut off the top of Pemberton Hill and dump it into the water on the north side of Causeway Street. We’ll make new land for the Boston and Lowell depot, and we can develop a whole new residential area on the remnants of the hill.”
“Gardiner Greene owns a great deal more property than we on the hill,” said Jason. “And his includes the top of the hill. What is his reaction?”
“He refuses to sell. But if we begin to excavate on your land, he’ll have to give in.” Jackson did not wait for a reply. “Think hard, Jason. It’s impossible to build homes on a hillside, and you’ll never sell that land to anyone else for twenty-five thousand dollars.” Jackson donned his beaver hat and left.
Artemus stood in front of his father’s desk and leaned forward on the palms of his hands. “You must join this venture. I cannot believe that you’ve ignored it until now. The Boston and Lowell may be just the beginning.”
“Gardiner Greene loves that home, and his garden is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.”
“Progress can’t wait for an old man’s fruit trees. If the loss of the Ephraim Pratt has cost us so much that we cannot make a subscription, then we must give up the land.”
Jason didn’t need much convincing. “There’s one problem: Abigail. Your grandfather left the house to her.”
“Aunt Abigail is a very sensible, hardheaded woman. I’m certain that when the facts are explained to her, she will gladly sign over the house.”
Abigail steadfastly refused. Jason went alone to Pemberton Hill, he explained Jackson’s proposal, and she refused. Then, for two days, she waited. She knew that her brother would come to her again.
On Saturday morning, she climbed into her carriage for her weekly trip around the Back Bay. It was to be the last time that Sean would drive her. As the carriage turned onto Tremont Street, Abigail heard Jason’s voice. The carriage stopped and Jason’s face appeared in the window.
“Abigail, we must talk.” He looked as though he hadn’t slept in several nights.
“Very well.”
Jason climbed into the carriage. Artemus followed.
“Good morning, Abigail.” Artemus kissed his aunt on the cheek and embraced her lightly.
Abigail loved Artemus. She saw her father in his black eyes and tireless intellect. “How are you, dear?”
“He’s not well,” said Jason. “And neither am I.”
Abigail rapped her walking stick on the roof of the carriage, and they began to roll down Tremont toward the Neck. “I suppose you still want me to give up my house,” said Abigail.
“You are the one who wanted to invest in railroads,” said Jason.
“And I have. Without you.”
“We should have listened to you, Abigail.”
“But you didn’t. You listened to James Curtis instead.”
“And our ships have shown a profit for the last five years,” defended Jason.
“They will show no profit this year, thanks to Mr. Curtis.”
“Abigail, you must reconsider,” pleaded Jason. “P. T. Jackson is a very influential man. I would prefer not to disappoint him in this matter.”
Abigail laughed, a single, derisive burst.
“I don’t think that should be your attitude, Father,” said Artemus softly.
“That has always been his attitude,” responded Abigail. “Your father has never considered himself the equal of those men, and if a man does not think highly of himself, who else will?”
“Dammit, Abigail, this is not the time to be running me down in front of my son. We need to make this investment.”
“Then I suggest you sell one of your ships or your stock in the Merrimack Manufacturing Company.” She gave the advice because she knew he would reject it. She would never support the sale of their mill holdings.
“I will not sell stock that is making money.”
“Then you will not invest in railroads, because I have no intention of giving you my house.” Abigail stared out at the tide pools and channels reflecting silver in the morning sun. Jason glared at her.
For a long time, they traveled in silence. The coach rolled down Lenox Street, then turned north and clattered past the mills and foundries on Gravelly Point. Abigail did not intend to speak until her brother spoke. She could see him grappling with his own inadequacy. She knew that he was trying to find the courage to break an oath. She sensed his discomfort; she magnified it by saying nothing.
Finally, Artemus spoke. “Aunt Abigail, the house is quite large. Do you really believe you need all that space?”
“It is the ancestral home, Artemus. I’ll not see it destroyed so that the Boston and Lowell Railroad can have a depot. I have greater respect for my heritage than that.” She spoke evenly, firmly, and looked out the window again.
Artemus couldn’t help but admire his aunt. She seemed soft and delicate, but beneath the damask, she was flint and steel.
The carriage reached the Mill Dam and stopped. This was the halfway point in the trip, and Abigail usually climbed out here to survey the city. A mile to the east, Beacon Hill and Boston rose out of the receiving basin. Off to the west rolled the hills of Brookline, brown and leafless in the November light. On the north side of the dam, the Charles River flowed out to Boston Harbor. On the south side, the waters of the Back Bay spread like a film across the flats. Abigail was making her weekly pilgrimage to the treasure, which sat out there beneath the shallow water, a half mile from any solid land.
Abigail looked at the two men sitting opposite her in the cramped carriage. “I’m here for my Saturday stroll. Would either of you care to join me?”
“Abigail,” blurted Jason, “I have decided to break a promise to you that I made on our father’s grave.”
She smiled. “I expected as much.”
He looked at his son. “On the day we buried my father, Abigail told me of a treasure somewhere in the waters around Boston. She told me she was the only person who knew its nature and location, and she said it was always there if ever we needed it.” He looked at Abigail. “We need it now. Since you are so adamant about giving up the house and so convinced of the rightness of railroad investments, you must be willing to give up something for the good of the company.”
Abigail laughed again. “Sell your ships, Jason. Act like a businessman. Learn that life provides no easy escapes from crisis.”
Jason’s anger flared. “Do you want me to reveal your secret?”
“You’ve already revealed it to Artemus.”
“It’s the Revere tea set,” he said triumphantly, “and it’s someplace out there.” He gestured toward the Back Bay.
Abigail was not surprised. He had enough of the facts, and he had spent five years putting them together.
“I know it’s the tea set, because the government investigated Father after its disappearance. I know it is in the Back Bay, because that’s where young Horace drowned. There is no longer any secret and no need to keep the treasure hidden.” Jason sat back and tried to look smug.
Abigail smiled. “If you think it’s the tea set and it’s in the Back Bay, you have my permission to look for it.”
“Is it the tea set?”
Abigail stared out the window and said nothing.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s in the Back Bay, and I’ll find it.” He tried to speak firmly.
“You have several hundred acres in which to look, dear brother, and you don’t even know what you’re looking for,” responded Abigail.
“I’ll drag the bottom of the bay. I’ll cover every square inch, if I must. But I will find it. It’s a family legacy. It’s part of my birthright.” Jason spat as he spoke.
“Apparently, our father disagreed with you, Jason. I am the only person who knows what it is and where it is. I shall determine when, if ever, it is to be retrieved. Moreover, dragging the bottom of the Back Bay will be an expensive proposition, and you will certainly attract unwanted attention. Someone may get the right idea and start dragging along with you.” She was cool, imperious.
“I can handle anyone I have to deal with,” said Jason, beginning to bluster.
“And when they ask one of Boston’s leading businessmen what he is looking for out there in a rowboat, what will you say?”
“Nothing. Let them mind their own business.”
Abigail laughed derisively again. The breeze changed, and the stink of a mudflat low tide filled the carriage. She held a perfumed silk handkerchief to her nostrils and rapped again on the roof of the carriage. “Take us back to Long Wharf, Sean.”
“You can’t turn me away so easily.” Jason sounded like an angry child.
“However, I can turn away from you.” Abigail shifted her eyes onto the Back Bay.
Soon, Abigail, Jason, and Artemus were rocking gently down the Mill Dam toward the city. Abigail had said all that she had intended to say, and she stared out the window, as if to discourage further conversation.
Artemus realized that Abigail had beaten his father, who sat with his fists clenched on his knees and his eyes fixed in hatred on his sister. Artemus knew that his father was a failure, an inconsequential man too weak to battle in the holy wars of New England business, too weak to control his own sister.
As he listened to the rhythmic clap of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, Artemus Pratt resolved never to be weak. Like his grandfather, he would be relentless and unbending. He would brook no opposition from politicians, competitors, or recalcitrant relatives. He would never lose control of himself. And he would learn from Abigail to communicate as clearly through silence as through well-chosen words. He would force an issue when he could and avoid it when he couldn’t. He would put his faith in business, in the manipulation of goods, capital, people, and events. Treasure hunting he would leave to men like his father.
The fire burned brightly in Jason Pratt’s study that night, almost as brightly as it burned in his belly. He had been drinking port since early afternoon while staring alternately at the logs on the grate and the pile of Pratt ledgers on his desk. He had not even eaten supper, but still, he had no solutions.
Jason Pratt wanted to be part of the merchant aristocracy that Jackson had described. His father or son would have told him that the Pratts were already the first family of Boston merchants, but Jason lacked such confidence. He needed acceptance. To gain it, he would gladly give over the house on Pemberton Hill or the family’s secret treasure.
He sent for his sons. Artemus, Elihu, and Philip appeared at the door. Their mother was visiting an aunt in Maine. Elihu, a Harvard sophomore, of rather retiring nature, looked to his older brother for counsel. Philip, seven years old, was a bright, handsome child, the product of one of his parents’ last couplings.
Jason loved the youngest boy best of all. “I want to talk to your big brothers, Philip. You may go and play.”
Philip retreated into a corner. He kept a large box of wooden soldiers on a bookshelf beside the Collected Works of Shakespeare. He took it down and dragged it into the middle of the room.
Jason offered Artemus and Elihu a glass of port. Neither accepted. “Then sit down, sons. We must talk.”
Artemus leaned against a bookshelf. Elihu reclined in his father’s reading chair. Philip, now engrossed in play, filled the room with the sounds of a child’s imaginary battle.
“What do you gentlemen suggest that I do with regards to this railroad business?” When he talked business with his sons, Jason always tried to sound very officious.
Artemus spoke first. “That we sell the Pegasus and the Star of Canton, cover the Curtis losses, and subscribe for a hundred shares of the Boston and Lowell.”
Jason looked at Elihu. “Your brother has apprised you of the situation?”
“Yes, and I agree with his judgments.”
“What about Abigail?” asked Jason.
“She refuses to move. There is nothing else for us to do,” said Artemus.
“We can find the treasure. I’m certain that it’s the Golden Eagle Tea Set, and I’d stake my life that it’s in the Back Bay. If we find it, we can do all that you’ve suggested without selling a single yardarm.” Through the port-wine haze, Jason could see no other solution.
The two brothers exchanged glances. Artemus had prepared Elihu for this and had told his younger brother not to respond.
“Well,” said Jason, “will you help me?”
“I refuse to involve myself in such foolishness, Father,” announced Artemus. “We’re businessmen. We’re Pratts. I’m sure we can find a way to absorb the loss, keep the ships, and still invest in the railroads. But I would prefer not to invest if we must first hunt for some mythical treasure out on a mudflat.”
Jason looked toward Elihu, who cast his eyes toward the fire.
“My own sons refuse me.” Jason finished his port and stood as decisively as a drunken fat man could. “I will find it alone.”
Artemus could see the obsession on his father’s face. Or perhaps it was the flush of the wine. “We refuse you nothing, Father. You have our affection, our respect, and our willingness to discuss this problem in the morning.” He casually picked up the decanter, which was nearly empty. “Now, let us see you to bed.”
“I carried you both to bed countless times. I don’t need either of you to help me into my nightshirt.” He flopped into the chair beside the fireplace. “My own sons.”
Artemus looked at his brother and gestured toward the door. The young men left the room.
Jason Pratt stared at the flames for nearly five minutes before he felt a presence beside him. He looked into the eyes of his youngest son.
The boy wore an expression of the deepest concern. He didn’t fully understand the discussion he had just heard, but he realized that his father was deeply upset. “I’ll help you, Papa.”
Jason embraced the boy and kissed him on the cheek. Philip smelled the sweet aroma that he always associated with his father, the aroma of port wine.
“You help me by being a good boy.”
“I can help you find this thing.”
“No, son. It may be dangerous.”
“Please, Father?”
“I’ll tell you how you can help me.” He took his keys from his pocket and handed Philip the one for the wine cellar. “Go downstairs to my wine room. Just to the right side of the door, on the first shelf, you’ll find a row of green bottles. Get one and bring it to me.”
The boy took the key and bounded for the cellar.
“Why do I hate my brother so?” asked Abigail in her dairy that night.
I wish I knew. It would make it much easier for me to drive him from that office. I have planned for so long, the plans are now in motion, and suddenly, I pity him. He sat in my carriage today, a drowning man grabbing for the rope which I threw and let fall just out of his reach.
I must not soften! Jason is weak and malleable. I could not destroy him if he had his brother’s strength. I would not even try. He does not deserve to direct our affairs. He has done nothing new or aggressive in five years. I will give him the house if he gives me ten percent of his stock and agrees to step down in favor of Artemus. I will consider giving him the secret of the tea set if he gives me twenty percent of the stock and a half interest in the company.
