chapter 39

Taking Stock

winter 1819

Simon Bidwell waited patiently in the back room of the Black Swan. Located in rural Massachusetts, the tavern was remote enough to ensure neither he nor his guest would be recognized. And since the tycoon occasionally provided the owner with an “indentured servant” at a good price, privacy was assured.

It was dark when his guest arrived. John Quincy Adams tied his horse to the rail at the side of the tavern. He walked around to enter the back room unobserved. He was alone.

Adams did not look forward to these clandestine meetings. Afterward, they left a bad taste in his mouth and the feeling he needed a hot bath. But he couldn’t ignore the man’s wealth and influence and still be secretary of state.

Bidwell was standing near the fire when the secretary entered the small room. The physical difference in the men was striking—Bidwell towered over Adams, his powerful build contrasting with Adams’s almost portly shape. However, Adams’s intelligent, piercing black eyes and stern face framed by blooming white side-whiskers contributed to an appearance as formidable as that of the powerful merchant. These men met as equals.

Never comfortable with pleasantries, the secretary nodded and drank the glass of Madeira the shipowner had poured for him. Adams set the glass back on the table.

He said, “It appears our ruse was successful. They signed the treaty earlier this year. The Spanish were pleased we had a man down there, sowing suspicion among Bolívar’s caudillos.”

Simon poured himself another glass and refilled Adams’s. “We’re doing them a favor by taking Florida off their hands. They should be paying us to take it.”

The secretary of state answered, “It’s only because the Spanish are so overextended, fighting rebellion in all their colonies, that they’re more than happy not to fight us as well.”

Ignoring Adams, Simon added, “And the Brits appear happy with their own trade agreement.”

This drew a sharp look from the secretary.

“Don’t be surprised, Mr. Adams, I know everything that’s happening—or will happen—on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“And your son?” Adams asked. “There’s been no word in some time.”

Bidwell spoke, “He knows how to take care of himself. He was certainly better prepared than any of those whiskey-swilling lackeys of yours who would otherwise have been sent.”

Simon Bidwell walked to the fire. “I understand Monroe will be getting the support he seeks from the Crown, Mr. Secretary, for his dream of keeping the Europeans out of our part of the world—the Brits will be more than happy to keep the rest of the world for themselves.”

He drained his glass. “Now let’s see how long they can keep it from us.”