Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 17 – Bidwell · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 17Chapter 16
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 17
Chapter 16
BidwellEnglish
"SHOW ME YOUR LETTERS OF CREDIT."
Fate, Providence, call it what you will, seldom fails to upset wrongdoing, making it rocky for the wrongdoer.
By an irony of fortune we carried with us that which was going to balk all, or nearly all, our fine scheme.
In our letters of credit in some mysterious way the name of the sub-manager of the London and Westminster Bank had been omitted, although this was absolutely essential to the validity of the letters. There was also another error, an error of such an extraordinary nature--that of spelling "endorse" with a "c"--that it is enough to make any man contemplating an unlawful act despair of success, since we could be defeated by such mysterious and unforeseen accidents.
A few hours after our arrival Mac called at the bankers' and was well received by the manager.
He told the manager his letters of credit ran from L5,000 to L20,000 each, and that he should want L10,000 the next day. Would they have it ready?
The next day he went to the bank, George and myself being posted outside. In ten minutes he reappeared with a square bundle under his arm. He smiled as he passed us, and, turning a corner, entered a cafe, where he joined us. His bundle contained L10,000 in Brazilian bank notes. He assured us that everything was serene at the bank, that he could have L100,000 if he wanted to ask for it.
I had already been to the three largest money brokers and arranged to buy gold. So, leaving Mac and George, I got a sole leather bag we had for the purpose, and, hiring a stalwart black porter, went to the brokers. I bought sovereigns for the whole L10,000. It was ten bags with one thousand pounds in each. The weight was 168 pounds. The black fellow put it on his head, and followed me to my hotel, and found it a pretty good load, too. So here we had one big fish landed, and confidently counted on several more.
I related above how we had in some incomprehensible way omitted putting on the letter of credit the sub-manager's name. How could we have committed such a blunder? My answer is that this is only another example of the unforeseen "something" ever happening to defeat any anticipated benefit from ill-gotten gains.
The next day Mac went to the bankers again, and was requested by the manager to show the letter of credit on which was indorsed the ten thousand pounds he had drawn against it. Looking at the letter, the manager said: "This is singular; there is only the name of Mr. Bradshaw, the manager, on this letter; J. P. Shipp, the sub-manager's name, should be on the credit as well." And then he went on to say that some time since they had been notified by the London Bank that all letters issued by them would bear two signatures.
Mac was a man of nerve, but it required all he had not to betray his uneasiness. He said he really could not say how the omission had occurred; he supposed it must have been accidental, but he would examine his other letters as soon as he went back to the hotel.
The look of chagrin and vexation on Mac's face when he came out was a sight to see, and one that is as vivid in my memory now as in that far off day in 1872.
He went direct to the hotel, and there George and I soon joined him. We sat down and looked at each other. The game apparently was up, and we were a sorely disgusted party. We did not fall out with or reproach each other, but felt we deserved a kicking. We did not ask each other any questions, but I know our faces all wore a sadly puzzled look as we repeated mentally, "How could we have made such an oversight?" But soon another blunder--the misspelled word--was to crop up, that made this one of the omitted name seem as a fly to an eagle.
Mac and I thought the game up, and were mentally planning for flight. But George, being a man of extraordinary courage and resource as well, declared we could and would retrieve the blunder. He declared a bold step must be taken, that, as the bankers had only seen the one credit, the name of Shipp, the sub-manager, must be instantly put on the others. We had the genuine signature of J. P. Shipp on a draft, and Mac at once sat down to write it on all the letters. It was a trying ordeal for him, Mac's nerves having had a wrench. He was a temperate man, but under the circumstances we advised him to take a glass of brandy to steady his nerves. Then placing the genuine signature before him and the forged letters, he began to put in the name. The signatures were not well written, but under the trying circumstances they were wonderfully well done. All this had taken place within half an hour after he had left the bank.
It was a trying ordeal, but Mac was quite willing to do as George advised. That was that he should take several of the letters and march boldly into the bank and say: "Here are my letters; they are all right. Both signatures are on all my letters but the one, and from that the second signature has been in some way omitted." George's last word to Mac was: "Rely upon us to extricate you from anything. Keep cool. Act up to the character you have assumed. They can never fathom that the names could have been written in so short a time. Boldly offer them more exchange on London, and if there is any hesitation say you will transfer your business to the English Bank of Rio at once."
He started on his decisive errand, followed by us, in a miserable state of anxiety. He was not long in the bank, but returned empty-handed. Upon meeting at the designated place, he informed us the manager was evidently agreeably surprised when shown the letters with both signatures, and transferred the indorsement from the letter that had but one signature to one with two. Once more we had matters all right, and the broken place patched up again, but it behooved us not to do so any more. But we did.
During our stay in Rio we saw much to interest us. The negro was very much in evidence. Slavery was still the law of the land; all the toil and burden-bearing falls to the poor slave's lot. One day we all three took an early train and alighted at a small hamlet on the border of a stream about thirty miles from Rio, beyond the ranges of mountains that hem in the city. We managed to find some saddle mules and started to see the country. We rode for some miles through a land covered with moundlike hills, no sooner coming to the bottom of one than we were ascending another. These hills are covered with coffee bushes filled with red fruit, about the size of a cherry, each containing two kernels. The coffee was being picked into large flat baskets by slaves, which, when filled, they carried away on their heads to the drying grounds.
The roads were bordered with orange trees loaded with luscious fruit, to which we helped ourselves. After a time we turned into a bridle path and rode some miles through a dense forest. We emerged upon the outskirts of a coffee plantation, where the slaves were just on their way to dinner, and another half mile brought us to the planter's residence. Thirty or forty slaves of both sexes and all ages were grouped upon the grass, engaged in eating a black-looking stew out of metal dishes, their fingers serving for knives, forks and spoons. Seeing three horsemen ride out of the forest, they stared in stupid wonder, until one more intelligent than the others went in search of the overseer. Presently a white man appeared, and, in response to Mac's "Parlate Italiano," came the smiling answer, "Si, Signor," proving, as we wagered he would be, a native of beggarly, sunny Italy.
The overseer showed us over the place, and explained all the processes of preparing coffee for the market. In one corner of a large, unpainted building was what he called the infirmary, and a comfortless looking place it was. He said there was no doctor employed, and that he dealt out medicine to the slaves himself. After being served with coffee we thanked him for our entertainment and returned to Rio by an evening train.
The mail steamer Ebro was advertised to leave Rio for Liverpool on Wednesday of the week following the exciting events narrated in the last chapter. This was the mail that would carry the draft for L10,000 on the London and Westminster Bank, along with a letter from the Rio bank, stating that they had cashed Mr. Gregory Morrison's draft upon the letter issued by them.
Twenty-two or three days after the steamer left Rio the London bank would know their correspondents in Rio had been victimized, but 8,000 miles of blue water was between them, with no way to bridge it but by steam; so we had at least forty-four days more to gather in our harvest. I ought to say, apparently forty-four more days, for by an amazing blunder we were about to bring a storm upon our heads.
The steamer we purposed to load our money on and ourselves, too, was the Chimborazo, advertised to arrive on Tuesday and to leave for the River Plate and the west coast the next day. So it was agreed that on Monday Mac should go to the bank and arrange to cash his letters for twenty or thirty thousand pounds, and go the next day for the money. As soon as Mac came from the bank and announced that all was well, another of us was to call at the Bank of London and Rio and the River Plate Bank, present his letters of introduction and ask in each bank to have the five thousand pounds or ten thousand pounds ready the next day. They purposed to call about 11 o'clock, so as to give me time to exchange the Brazilian bank notes for sovereigns, and to buy my ticket by the Chimborazo, to secure my stateroom and to take the gold to the steamer, and, above all, to get my passport vised by the police.
Monday came. We expected a nervous day, not such a paralyzingly nervous one as it proved to be. In fact, a nervous Tuesday followed a nervous Monday. My reader must remember that we were in the tropics, with a blazing sun looking down on us with an intensity that made one long for Greenland's icy mountains to cool us.
We went into the public park for our last consultation before our fortune, which never came, was to come.
Mac had in the little morocco case in his pocket two letters each for L20,000. Certainly no man in the world, save him, could have carried off such a game played for such high stakes. Handsome in person, faultless in address, cool in nerve, a master of all the languages spoken in Rio--Portuguese, Spanish, Italian and French. Above all, he had a boundless confidence in himself. What an honorable future might have been his but for his youthful follies! Truly he could have achieved a wonderful success in any honorable career. Unhappily for him, he, like thousands of our brainiest youth, had entered the Primrose Way. In our youthful fire and thoughtlessness we saw only the flowers and heard the siren's song, but at last the Primrose Way led us down into a gloom where all the flowers withered and the gay songs turned into dirges.
Looking at his watch Mac jumped up, saying: "It is 10.45 and time to be off." So he started for the bank, we following at some distance, our nerves all on the stretch. We felt that our lives and fortunes were trembling in the balance. The minutes dragged like hours. While watching we saw several persons enter or leave the bank, and still our friend delayed his appearance.
To our suspicious minds there appeared to be strange movements about the bank that boded ill for us. A thousand suspicions born of our fears came and went through our minds, until at last, unable to endure the suspense, I entered the bank myself, and stood there, pretending I was waiting for some one. I sharply scrutinized every one and everything. Mac was somewhere out of sight in the private offices. The clerks were gossiping together, and that fact to me was suspicious. Then, to my alarm, a bank clerk entered from the street with an eagle-eyed man, a Hebrew, evidently, of about 45 years of age. Both passed hurriedly into the private office, leaving me in an agony of suspense. My only relief at that moment was the thought that George and myself had not as yet compromised ourselves, and could, in the event of Mac's arrest, manage to save him, either by bribery or a rescue.
Without appearing to do so, I watched that dingy, mottled door leading into the private office until every crack and seam in it was photographed indelibly on my brain.
In the trying periods of one's life, when the heart and soul are on the rack, how strangely trifling details of the objects about one will be noticed and remembered. It seems some cell of the brain, quite separate from the cell of feeling and sensation, works calmly and steadily on, photographing the material of one's surroundings.
I can never forget a flower worn by a lady guest at my table, when, in the midst of enjoyment and surrounded by friends, the hand of the law in the form of a burly detective was laid on me in Cuba. In all the misery and humiliation of that scene I remember the peculiar color of the wood of a cigar box standing on the sideboard. Doubtless each of my readers will recall some similar phenomenon in his own life.
At last, unable to endure the suspense, above all, the uncertainty, I went to the little door, and, opening it, looked in. To my intense relief I saw Mac sitting there apparently talking unconcernedly with Braga, the manager, and the Hebrew. As I had not attracted attention I closed the door, went out in the street and gave George the pre-arranged signal that all was well. Just then our partner appeared but with telltale face. It was flushed with chagrin and vexation, and there was gone from the contour of his body that indescribable port that tells, better than words, of confidence and victory.
We went by different routes to our rendezvous, and I will leave it to the imagination of my readers to picture our state of mind as we listened to his recital of woe--the tale of Priam's Troy over again.
Mac had been cordially received by the manager, and had told him he would require L20,000 the next day; would he please have it ready? The manager replied that he did not require any more exchange on London, but that he would send out for his broker, who would sell his bills on the exchange. He (the manager) would indorse the bills of exchange and indorse the amounts on his letters of credit. Of course, Mac could only acquiesce, and Mr. Braga sent a clerk to his broker, Mr. Meyers, to come around. This was the sharp-eyed Hebrew whom I saw enter.
The manager introduced Meyers to "Mr. Gregory Morrison," and explained that he was to sell exchange for L20,000 on Morrison's credit, which the bank would indorse. Meyers said: "Please show me your letters." Putting his hand into his breast pocket and pulling out the little morocco case containing the two letters, he handed the case and contents to Meyers, who, probably without suspicion of anything being wrong, unrolled both letters, and holding them in his hands, ran his sharp eyes down one of them and read right through the body of the letter. They came to the "note," which read: "All sums drawn against this credit please endorce on the back, and notify the London and Westminster Bank at once." Here he suddenly halted, turned his hawk's eye on Mac and said: "Why, sir, here's the word indorse misspelled. Surely the clerks in the London banks know how to spell!"
Here was a thunderbolt, indeed, that pierced poor Mr. Gregory Morrison through and through, but he showed no sign. He coolly remarked that he did not care to have his bills sold on the exchange, but would go and see the people of the London and Rio and River Plate Banks, as they probably would want exchange and would doubtless let him have what money he required. Meyers said very sharply, "Have you letters to those banks?" "I have," said Mac, at the same time producing two, one to each bank, and each bearing the stamp of their respective banks.
That he had these letters was a happy thing, and no one under forty days' time could say for a fact that they were not genuine. The dramatic production of these letters lulled the fast gathering suspicions, and would have called a halt had they purposed any serious action, for the reason that during the forty days it would take to communicate with London the credits could not be proved to be forgeries. That such letters existed at all was due entirely to the foresight which had provided to meet just such a contingency.
We all were for a brief few seconds utterly dumfounded, but quickly aroused ourselves to the necessity of instant action to protect our comrade. We saw that we must at once give over all thought of trying to do any more business in Rio, and set all our inventions and energy at work to save the L10,000 and to smuggle our companion safely out of Rio. But how?
Spotted a mistake or have an idea?
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison 18
