Sixteen

Wednesday, July 28, 1852

There was a light chop in the sea on that midsummer afternoon, and a moderate breeze crossed the starboard bow of Commodore Vanderbilt’s new yacht, the North Star. But the sun was bright, and the sky over the North Atlantic was cloudless. It was a glorious day. And the ship, in spite of the chop and the breeze, was making excellent time. The captain believed that if the weather continued to hold, the ship would make New York, its home port, by the following Monday. And this would mean that the North Star had made one of the fastest ever Atlantic crossings and returns.

The North Star had left Philadelphia (after being fueled and provisioned in record time) on July 11, a Sunday. It sailed into Southampton ten days later, on July 21. And two days after that it was at sea again.

The ship carried no cargo, only passengers. On the way out, a man and a woman. And on the return these two were joined by another, older man.

The Commodore’s chief instruction to his captain was to treat these people like royalty. And the captain did his best to comply, even though the very recently built North Star was rushed into the voyage unprepared and only partially fitted with the normal conveniences and appointments, not to mention many of the luxuries the Commodore had acquired for installation in his own personal yacht.

Not that the ship was comfortless. The passengers dined in a dining saloon whose walls were ligneous marble with panels of Naples granite, and on whose ceilings were medallion paintings of such characters in American history as Columbus, Washington, Webster, and Clay. And at night the man and the woman danced (the chief steward played a better than fair piano) in a ballroom covering half the deck, which was paneled with satinwood and rosewood.

So the passengers weren’t inclined to complain about the lack of some creature comforts, to the captain’s great relief, for he was mortally afraid of the Commodore.

In fact they were interested more than anything else in speed, for the three of them were brimming over with some incredible but very secret excitement, which would find its release only after they reached New York.

After speed, the two Philadelphia passengers were primarily interested in each other. The man and the woman hardly left each other’s company during the entire course of the voyage out to England.

On the return, the new man, an English aristocrat and industrialist, had some kind of call on their time and attention. But they still found plenty of moments to be alone with one another.

This moment on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, however, was one of the few times on the voyage that they did not spend in each other’s close company. The woman, Kitty Lancaster, was standing by herself up near the ship’s bow, while the man, John Carlysle, reclined in a chair several paces behind her on the foredeck, in the sun.

Behind him, near midships, the great broadside wheels that propelled the North Star churned mightily. And huge billows of black smoke swelled out of the twin stacks.

But neither the man nor the woman paid attention to that. Even though they were apart from one another at this particular time, their minds were tightly joined. And his eyes gazed fondly at her, drinking her in, while she looked out to sea, her face to the wind.

The breeze became her. Its fingers passed gently through her hair, lifting loose strands like dark ribbons and sending them flying behind her. When she shook her head, not to straighten her hair, but to allow the breeze greater access, she glanced back over her shoulder at John Carlysle to make sure he was watching her.

He was—always.

“Ah, John,” a voice called out, “so there you are!” It was the passenger the North Star had raced to England to fetch: Sir Charles Elliot.

John looked up to acknowledge him. “Sir Charles,” he said.

“I thought you would be taking advantage of the grand weather,” Sir Charles said. “Both of you.” He indicated Kitty with a tilt of his head.

“Correct, as usual, Sir Charles,” John said with a smile. “There’s another chair,” John said, pointing. “Pull it up next to me.”

“I think I’ll do just that,” Sir Charles said. And a few moments later, he was in a deck chair, reclining next to John.

“How long have you been out of doors?” Sir Charles asked.

“An hour or so I think. We both came out after dinner.”

At that moment Kitty turned once more to look at John. And seeing Sir Charles, she smiled.

“Come sit with us,” Sir Charles called out, making a come-hither motion with his hand.

But Kitty shook her head no. Then she realized she’d better explain herself. “Later, Sir Charles,” she called. “I need some time to myself… to think.”

“What’s a lovely girl like that need to think for?” Sir Charles asked in a low voice to John. “She only needs to be seen. And caressed.”

John laughed. “The chief attraction of this one, my dear friend, is that she does think. And she does it rather well— for a man or a woman.”

“Then you are very lucky, John,” Sir Charles said, suddenly serious.

“Yes,” John said, “I’m sure I am.”

“You will marry her, won’t you?”

John nodded.

“Soon?”

“That’s why Kitty is standing there meditating.”

“She’s not meditating whether, I take it, but when?”

“Exactly, Sir Charles.”

“Ahh,” Sir Charles said, slowly. Then he looked up at John sharply. “I hope I’ll be invited to the affair. I’d like to have the pleasure of… giving away the groom.”

John laughed again. “I have every expectation that you will still be in the United States when the marriage takes place.”

“Ahh,” he said again, slowly. His face broke into a wide grin but was then transformed into a mask of age and decrepitude. “Oh my,” he forced out in an outrageously exaggerated mockery of an old man’s croak, “I should wonder if my poor old heart will bear up under all this excitement.” His hand fluttered to his brow. “There’s you to get rid of first. And then me spinster daughter.”

“She’s scarcely twenty-five, you old goat.”

“Twenty-five going on forty,” Sir Charles said.

“Well, you lost your chance for the best man for her,” John said.

“Meaning you?” Sir Charles smiled.

‘Take whatever conclusion you like.”

“Hers is a good match now,” Sir Charles said. “Actually.” The jovial mood had now passed, and his eyes were lightly focused on a pair of high clouds.

“I’m glad for her, too,” John said. “Actually. I’m sure the earl of Aylwen will make her very happy, and every bit as rich as you are.”

“You would like Axel,” Sir Charles said. “Perhaps someday, when you are in England, I’ll arrange a meeting for you if he is there. Axel has contracted one of our national diseases. He likes to travel in strange, exotic locales with a bag slung over his shoulder and stout boots on his feet.”

“She can go with him,” John offered.

“Diane? Never. There are only two poles to her life, John: London and country houses. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t think she would suit you.”

“And she would suit him—the way he is?”

“Like hand to glove. She will remain in England, and he will travel… But there, life as man and wife will be interesting.” He laughed. “I wonder what would happen if she actually lifted up her roots and tried to live in Siam. Or Nepal. Or in a villa in Bali.”

A steward appeared, carrying a tray with a tea service on it. “Would either of you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?” he asked. They both told him they would.

After the steward departed, Sir Charles, sipping his tea, caught John’s eye. “You were telling me,” Sir Charles said, “of your marvelous adventures in the Pennsylvania wilderness.”

“I thought I’d already told you all there is to tell,” John said with a smile, “a dozen or so times.”

“Perhaps you have. Perhaps you have. But have pity on a failing old man”—as he said this he raised his hand, which was trembling uncontrollably—”and tell it to him again.”

“All right. All right,” he said. “Where shall I begin?” And then as an aside he whispered, “This is like bedtime stories for boys.”

“I heard that, boy!”

“I intended you to,” John said, straight-faced. “So where would you like me to begin?”

“Deep in the wilderness, at the country home of George Kean.”

“It was a home in the country,” John corrected, “but not a country home, Sir Charles, as you know that term.”

“Yes, I understand that. So go on, tell me what happened.”

And John repeated for Sir John the story of the raid on the powder wagons and the rescue of the captives. And then the ride to Tyrone, and the train trip that very nearly ended in disaster.

When John finished telling him how George Kean had surrendered rather than risk being blown off the earth, Sir Charles held up his hand to make John pause. “Wait there for me,” Sir Charles said. “Stop.”

“Yes?” John said. “Something doesn’t make sense?”

“Actually, no,” Sir Charles said. “I’m flabbergasted that that slip of a girl would stand there as calm as you or I and watch that fuse burn down to the bomb. That took some kind of courage.”

“She is some kind of a courageous girl.”

“And from the bogs and mires, is she?”

“Do you mean is she Irish?” John asked. “Yes… and I must say proud of it.”

“Amazing.”

“I have to add, of course, that the Keans had plans to hang her. So that gave her no little encouragement to do what she did.”

“Still, it took nerve to do that.”

“Well, if that’s what it took, then that’s what she had.”

“And you think she and your son will stay together?”

“I’ll wait and see. I certainly wouldn’t mind having her in the family. She’s a bright girl and educated, in addition to everything else you’ve heard about her. And she’s a smashing beauty as well. She and Graham might do well together.”

“What of the Keans?”

“They have been charged by the magistrates in Philadelphia. And there will be a trial. I’d guess they will go to jail for a good many years.”

“We’ll see,” Sir Charles said, doubtfully.

“Oh?”

“My experience of these things is otherwise,” Sir Charles said. “If, as you say, George Kean is a powerful and well-to-do man, then he doubtless has the political and financial wherewithall to ensure that he suffers very little for his crimes.”

John considered that, then shrugged. “At any rate, his spirit is broken. Observing him on the trip back to Philadelphia would convince anyone of that.”

“Possibly. But the man sounds damned resilient. I’d be interested to hear about George Kean in a year or so.”

“I’ll keep you informed.”

“And did the other teamsters cause any trouble after the Keans were captured?”

“None. We’ve had no further trouble with them at all.”

“Ahh,” Sir Charles said, “that doesn’t surprise me. But there is another thing that does intrigue me.”

“Yes? What’s that?”

“There were two more men in your little merry band, my Robin. What were their names?” He paused to recall the names. “Ah, yes, it was Stockton… and another Irishman. What happened to them?”

“When?”

“While your train steamed away from Tyrone,” Sir Charles said. “According to my recollection, Stockton and the other man were directed to report to you on the movements of the Keans.”

John smiled. “Oh, that!” he said, laughing. “Francis got lost.”

“Lost?”

“Right. Francis became lost in the wilds of Pennsylvania. He thought he knew from their original direction where the Keans were heading. So Francis tried a shortcut to get in front of them. But it turned out to be rather the reverse of what Francis expected.”

“So he failed you?”

“Oh, no. He simply made an error. Francis is full of confidence in himself and in his abilities. Now and again his confidence is misplaced. And in the event, even if he had managed to keep the watch on the Keans, there was little he could have done to prevent what happened.”

Sir Charles nodded, then turned the full force of his steely, gray-green eyes on John. “And now, Mr. John Robin Hood Carlysle”—John laughed hard at that—”I have one final question for you.”

“I’ll answer it if I can,” he said, with a mocking laugh.

“About that bomb that the girl had lit, the one in the saddlebags.”

“Yes?”

“Would you have let her go through with it?”

“Let the fuse run its course?”

“Yes.”

“Certainly, Sir Charles. I would have happily done that.” Then he laughed again. “Earlier, I’d worked that fuse so its other end came nowhere near the gunpowder.”

Sir Charles opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “And the girl wasn’t aware of that?”

“No. She thought the bomb would detonate.”

“Does she know the truth now?”

“She doesn’t. And I’ll never tell her.”

“I’ll keep that secret between us,” Sir Charles said, smiling. “But I do want to meet that girl.”

“You will, Sir Charles. You will.”

Then John rose to his feet and turned toward the bow and Kitty. “But now it’s time for me to see my bride… in case she has ideas about a date for the wedding.”

“You do that,” Sir Charles said. “And I will stare at the sky…and dream of beautiful, young, and unattached women.”

Thursday, July 29, 1852

Mr. Daniel Drew, after spending a few pleasurable minutes on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange— not to trade in stocks which was conducted by his lieutenants, but to observe the action—walked the short distance to his favorite tavern, the Tontine, on Beaver Street. Once inside he made his way through the lunchtime crowd to the comer table that was reserved for him.

There he was met by two oi” his lieutenants, Mr. Will Sutherland and Mr. Leonardo Grimaldi. Sutherland was young, hollow cheeked, eager, and hungry looking. Grimaldi was older, more distinguished—with a mane of silver hair swept back from a high, noble forehead—and fleshier, with the air of a man who has achieved in life what he set out to achieve. Grimaldi emigrated from northern Italy, and he claimed a proximate relationship with the Grimaldis who were the royal family of Monaco.

When Drew approached the table, both men rose to greet him.

“I’ve just come from the exchange floor,” Drew said, waving them back to their seats, starting up immediately with the subject foremost on all their minds. “And I like what I see there.”

Sutherland and Grimaldi smiled at one another, basking in the pleasure the great man took in their work.

“You’ve both done good for me,” Drew went on. “And when this business is finished, you’ll see your rewards. That’s a promise I’m sure to keep.”

There were, of course, more than a few promises that Daniel Drew did not keep. But no one at the table would have seen fit to mention that unhappy truth.

“There has been considerable activity all week in Pennsylvania stock,” Sutherland said.

“And the stock has started to slide,” Grimaldi said. “It’s down to forty-eight now. And I’ve heard from two or three of my informants that some of the larger holders of Pennsylvania will be offering large blocks tomorrow or Monday— hoping to cut their losses.”

“Excellent, by God! Excellent!” Drew said. “By midweek the stock will have fallen to forty-three or forty-four.” He looked at Sutherland. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m dead certain of it.”

“Excellent. Excellent. Then on Thursday or Friday we’ll start purchasing in small blocks, so that we can begin to make delivery on the stock we’ve shorted. But,” he cautioned, “go slow on this. No large blocks. I want to make sure there’s a real panic in Pennsylvania stock. That’s when I’ll make my large move.”

“We understand perfectly,” Leonardo Grimaldi said.

*   *   *

After Drew had finished his lunch and was sitting alone over a glass of brandy—Sutherland and Grimaldi having returned to the exchange floor—a recent acquaintance of his approached the table.

When Drew looked up and saw who it was, he cursed inwardly: The man’s name was Tom Collins.

“Afternoon, Mr. Drew,” Collins said, with a deference that verged on abjection. As an accomplished liar himself, Drew was well aware that the man’s manner was a façade. And so he ignored it.

“Collins,” he asked, “what brings you here?”

“This is where I was told I could find you.”

“That you have accomplished,” Drew said. “And I’m willing to wager that that isn’t all you intend to accomplish during the next few minutes.”

“That’s true, Mr. Drew,” Collins said humbly. “I have a few items of business that I trust you can spare the time to discuss with me.”

Drew looked at him. It was a long, hard, assessing stare. Then he said, “I don’t see any reason why I should have any more business with you, Collins. You have been paid for your work.” He raised his hands a little off the table, turning his palms up. “What more have you and I to discuss?”

“Well, sir,” Collins said, lowering his eyes, “that the affair of Mr. Gibbon—”

At the mention of Gibbon’s name, Drew raised his face up, suddenly intensely alert. Then he lifted a hand in warning. “Do not—” he stopped, then resumed. “Do not ever mention that name in my presence.”

“Well, yes sir. Of course, sir,” Collins said. “Anyhow, after I completed and accomplished your instructions in that matter so that the person in question would never be able to testify as to his connection with… certain other people…”

“Yes? Go on,” Drew said, with growing impatience.

“I decided to examine some of the personal records of the person in question… in order to ascertain whether or not some of these might also implicate certain other gentlemen.”

“I see,” Drew said, gradually becoming aware of the place that Collins was leading him. “And I take it that your search achieved some kind of success.”

“It did.”

“And, I take it, you are prepared to provide some evidence to that effect.”

“That I am,” Collins said and produced from a pocket of his coat two pages. “I’d be pleased if you would take a glance at these,” Collins said. “Though,” he added, “you should know that these two only represent a small portion of the… materials that are now in my possession.”

“I would never dare to fault you, Collins, by suggesting that they are,” Drew said. Then he scanned the two documents quickly and handed them back.

“So what are you proposing?” Drew asked, tight lipped, angry.

“Well,” Collins drawled. The deference was no longer in his voice. “I don’t plan to fall into the same trap that the man whose name I daren’t mention did. So I’ve placed these documents in the care of a trusted friend…”

“I wonder to what lengths you went to find a friend who would trust you,” Drew said.

Collins sailed blithely on, however, refusing to take notice of the dig. “And in the event that some accident or other befalls me, then my friend has instructions to reveal these documents to certain people known to you.”

“A sensible move,” Drew said.

“And I have also written a narrative account of events in which I have participated, including the names of people who gave me my orders.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“And that, too, is in a safe place. Its existence would be revealed should I meet with an accident.”

“I can see that you are a man who puts his trust in careful preparation,” Drew said. Then he snapped to the point. “So what do you want from me, Collins?”

“Not a great deal, Mr. Drew,” he said, spreading his arms like a statue of Jesus crucified. “Very little in fact, considering.”

“Tell me,” Drew said.

“All right then, I’ll do that,” Collins said, warming up to a job he found wonderfully pleasurable and exciting. “First of all, as you know, Mr. Drew, I am—have been—a labor contractor. I’d like to continue in that profession.”

“You would, would you?” Drew’s brows raised into fine, joyful arches at that. Praise the Ijjrd! he thought to himself. have just the perfect job for Tom Collins: the Isthmus Railroad! Across Panama! Yellow fever! Malaria!

“Yes sir, I’d like that very much.”

“And I take it that isn’t all you’d like?”

“There is more, sir.”

“I suppose I’d better listen,” Drew said. And he put an intent look on his face, but he only heard Collins with half an ear. He preferred at that moment not to dwell on the little man and his little schemes. He’d pay Collins off, and the man would go away.

But the manipulation of the Pennsylvania stock … that was a matter of vast scale and grandeur. And so it was upon that that he rested his mind, as Tom Collins related his demands.

Sunday, August 1, 1852

At ten in the evening of the final night of the voyage, John Carlysle paced restlessly and expectantly in front of the wide, double glass doors that were the formal entrance to the great ballroom of the North Star. John was dressed in formal evening clothes, and he was waiting for Kitty Lancaster, who, he knew, would be wearing her best and newest gown. Somehow she and Diane Elliot had found time in London, during their brief stopover there, to purchase it and have it almost instantaneously tailored to fit. And tonight was the night she had chosen to wear it.

For tomorrow he and she both would be forced back into the world of commerce, industry, and financial manipulation.

But now on a luxury yacht they practically had to themselves they would dance their last, private ball together.

And then he saw her coming toward him, across the wide open space that separated the ballroom from the dining saloon. And she was magnificent, from her hair, newly folded and curled, to her satin slippers. The slippers were the color of pale roses. And the gown itself was an equally pale peach, a peach that was also touched with roses. Her shoulders were bare, but there were pearls about her neck. The waist was narrow, and the skirt was full.

As she approached, her smile grew wider and more radiant.

“You’re glorious!” he said to her as he took her hand to lead her through the glass doors.

“I hope so,” she said. “It’s the only way I could possibly match you.”

He laughed. “I didn’t mean that as flattery. It was the simple truth.”

“You don’t think I’d stoop to flattery myself,” she answered, her eyes bright and daring, “at a moment like this.”

Inside they passed by the empty tables directly to the dance floor. Across the floor was a single table lit by a single candle and a pair of champagne glasses. Beside the table was a bucket containing an unopened bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Above them the lamps were turned low. And the sconces on the walls, at John’s command, had not been lit. He did not want to dance this evening in a blaze of light.

The steward, Mr. Leiber, an Austrian from Salzburg, was standing next to the piano. They walked up to him before they began the dancing, for John had ideas about the music, just as he had ideas about the lighting.

“Sir. Madam,” Leiber said, bowing slightly. He, too, was dressed in formal evening clothes. “How can I help you?” As he said that, he indicated with a slight but unmistakable gesture that there were servants in the shadows prepared to accomplish their slightest wish.

“Tonight is our last night with you, Mr. Leiber,” John said.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

“And I’ll very much miss”—he waved his arm broadly— “all this,” John said.

“As will I,” said Kitty.

“And so we would both like this last night of dancing to be particularly memorable,” John said.

Mr. Leiber gave a warm smile in answer to that. “I am, of course, at your complete service,” he said.

“What we would like, then, tonight,” John said, “is nothing but waltzes.”

“Of course,” he bowed.

And then to Kitty John said, “Come.” He extended his hand. Together, they moved to the center of the floor. When they reached it, they paused for a time, poised, expectant. And then the music began.

They danced for over an hour without a pause. And when they stopped to rest it was more for Mr. Leiber’s sake than for their own. As soon as they reached their table, a waiter appeared, opened the champagne with an impressive flourish, and poured some into their glasses.

After he backed away, Kitty lifted her glass to John. “A toast,” she said.

“Absolutely. A toast.”

And then she hesitated, for a moment at a loss for the perfect words. Finally, with her eyes locked on his, she spoke, softly, firmly, “This glass I offer… to your children … and to ours.”

“To … all of them,” John responded in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, and then he touched her glass with his.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Leiber struck a grand, introductory chord. And John and Kitty rose to dance again.

Later still—it was now well past midnight, but neither of them was ready to slow down—she spoke to him as they swung around the floor. “It’s Monday now, isn’t it?” she said.

“I imagine so,” he said. “But I haven’t checked. Shall I?” He made a move to pull out his watch.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “It will come soon enough.” She said these words darkly. A shadow had crossed her face.

“You’ve begun to worry,” he said. “Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “a little.” She looked up at him. “Tomorrow … we’ll be… it will start. The labor and the anguish. The schemes and the money and the manipulation.”

“Don’t let that spoil this moment, Kitty, my darling.”

“That’s easy to say, but not to feel.”

“What you’re saying is all true. But then, on the other hand, look around you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here.” He stopped dancing so that he could better direct her mind. “Look at the place where we are now. Look.”

She turned her eyes here and there. “Yes. All right. I’ve looked. Now what should I see?”

“You don’t see it yet?” John asked, then paused and cocked an ear. The music had ceased.

When he saw them stop dancing, Mr. Leiber stopped playing. For he was growing weary, and he hoped they would soon call it an evening.

“No, no,” John said to Mr. Leiber, loud enough for him to hear. “Please keep playing. We’ve only stopped for a moment.”

After Mr. Leiber resumed playing, John, with his hands on her waist, gently turned Kitty completely around. “Now?” he asked. “It’s really perfectly obvious.”

“What?” she said, exasperated. “What’s your secret? What’s your mystery? What do you want me to force myself to perceive? You tell me. I can’t guess it.”

“It’s not a secret, Kitty. No mystery. It’s exactly why we’re here tonight, in this room. It’s the reason why we mustn’t let our minds fill up with worries and anxieties about what will happen when we reach port tomorrow.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re getting at,” she said.

“The very thing that is here tonight, my love—the reality —is the two of us. Alone. On this grand dancing floor, initiating it. Practically the only passengers on the maiden voyage of one of the greatest and swiftest ships in the world. Racing for her home port. This is the last and only ball that will ever be… like this.” And then he added, “On the last night in the world… the most beautiful night.” He looked at her. “Don’t you understand that?”

And then she understood.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes misty, “I think I do.”

“So then let’s dance some more,” he said, moving once more to the music of the waltz Mr. Leiber was playing.

“All right,” she said, smiling, her eyes gleaming.

But a little later, she said, “John?”

“Yes, Kitty?”

“I never thought you could be like this.”

“Like this? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “You know exactly what I mean.” But there was now a new look in her eyes, a look that John had never before seen.

And not long after that, he discovered what that look meant.

“It’s time,” she said, “to end the ball.”

“So soon?” He laughed. “It’s early still. It can’t be three o’clock yet.”

“Yes, I know,” she said with a melting smile. “I’d love to dance on into the night. But it’s time. Come with me.” And then she walked quickly over to Mr. Leiber. “We’ll be stopping now,” she said to him. “I’m sure you’ve deserved your rest.”

“As you wish, madam,” he said. Scarcely concealing his relief, he rose to his feet to escort the couple to the door.

When they were alone outside, Kitty turned to him. “I want you to come to my room with me.”

He looked at her.

“Would you stay this night with me?” she continued. “Please?”

He paused. Then answered her. “I’d like nothing better,” he said, powerfully grasping her hand.

“First you have to kiss me,” she said and turned to face him, stepping toward him, pressing against him. “And tell me that you love me. I don’t want to make anything easy for you.”

“But kissing you and telling you that I love you are the easiest things in the world,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

Tuesday, August 3, 1852

On the Tuesday morning following the arrival of the North Star, four men met in a quiet back room of Cornelius Vanderbilt’s house at 10 Washington Place, near the square: Vanderbilt himself, John Edgar Thomson, Sir Charles Elliot, and John Carlysle, who was present more as an observer than a participant, but he was an observer whom both Elliot and Thomson wanted very much to be present. They discussed that morning and for the rest of the day and late into the evening the strategy they would use to prevent the precipitous slide in the stock of the Pennsylvania Railroad that would allow Daniel Drew to make the financial killing he hoped to make.

In the course of the day, the four men agreed that the way to accomplish this end was to attempt to corner the stock of the Pennsylvania. For this vast and risky operation, Sir Charles Elliot would provide most of the investment capital, while the Commodore would pilot the group through the labyrinths of the Stock Exchange. And Thomson would preside over the railroad and coordinate its operations with the two financiers.

As stock owners sought to unload their declining shares— declining, of course, because of Daniel Drew’s designs against the railroad—before they plummeted dangerously, the agents of Elliot and Vanderbilt would acquire such blocks of shares as became available. This operation had to be performed with greater than surgical care, for the Elliot-Vanderbilt-Thomson consortium had to take care that they didn’t bid the stock up so high that they’d overpay for it. But neither could they let the price of any of the blocks fall so low that Drew would be tempted to buy them in order to cover his short sales.

And they had to have enough capital themselves to cover every possible contingency. In effect, that meant that they had to have available enough capital to acquire all the stock of the Pennsylvania—though if they were lucky, that wouldn’t be necessary.

If the comer worked as planned, Drew would have to pay more for delivering the stock he borrowed than he had sold it for months ago, when he borrowed it. And in the best of all possible worlds, he would be forced to short even more stock, in the hope (and gamble) that he could cover his losses more easily later.

If that happened, Drew could lose many more hundreds of thousands of dollars, because by then the consortium would have cornered even more Pennsylvania stock.

By then the consortium consisting of Elliot, Vanderbilt, and Thomson would probably own the majority of the outstanding shares of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Monday, September 13, 1852

“GODDAMN IT TO HELL!” Daniel Drew yelled, his face livid and contorted with rage. The man he was screaming at was Leonardo Grimaldi, who was standing in front of Drew’s desk with his head bent down—the perfect image of a man lowering his head to place his neck on a block. “WHAT KIND OF TRICKS HAVE YOU BEEN PLAYING ON ME?”

“I’ve played no tricks on you, Mr. Drew,” Grimaldi said. “I followed your instructions to the letter.”

“Impossible!” Drew said. “Inconceivable! There has to have been a betrayal. And you’re the logical traitor. There’s no other explanation for it.”

He was referring to the recent rise in the price of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. It was now being quoted at fifty-one. And rumors were circulating that it might go up to sixty or even seventy. If that happened Daniel Drew and Leonardo Grimaldi both knew that Drew would be pretty nearly ruined.

‘There’s been no betrayal by me,” Grimaldi repeated. “Or by Sutherland either, if you’re thinking of him. We both took care of your business, exactly as we agreed.” Sutherland had taken a recent opportunity to travel to Savannah, where he had business interests.

“Damn!” Drew said. “If you’d done that, the stock would be selling at twenty-five! So now I want to hear how come it’s not selling at twenty-five? Can you tell me that?”

“The exchange is a marketplace, Mr. Drew,” Grimaldi said. “Somebody offers something for sale, and somebody else makes a bid to buy it. And if somebody else bids higher, then he gets the deal.”

“Don’t give me no fucking lectures, Mr. Grimaldi. I know how the exchange works.”

“Please forgive me, Mr. Drew, for seeming to remind you of truths you already know. But those are still the facts of the case. There were moves to unload Pennsylvania stock, just like we knew there’d be. But every time a block of Pennsylvania was unloaded, a buyer would come and pick it up. There are many people, it seems, who still want to acquire Pennsylvania stock, in spite of all we did to make the company appear unsound. There was nothing further we could do to change their minds.”

“You still ain’t telling me anything I don’t know,” Drew said.

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“That’s because you’re stupid and incompetent.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Well, shit,” Drew said, shaking his head with frustration and anger. “That’s exactly the way I feel. And you’re not going to help me through it. So get out of here so I can work something out.”

Grimaldi obeyed swiftly, leaving Drew to work out his ,plans… and to turn his wrath on himself. Grimaldi didn’t need any more of Drew’s rage. He’d had enough for a lifetime during the past three weeks.

And Daniel Drew racked his brain for some brilliant new scheme that would pull him out of the fix he was in.

But his mind remained that day and for several months afterward empty and unencumbered by brilliant new schemes.

1855

At precisely noon on the first day of November in the year of Our Lord 1855, train service between the cities of Philadelphia and Pittsburgh was inaugurated. The first official train connecting the two largest cities in Pennsylvania departed Philadelphia on the newly completed main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Before the inaugural train began its journey, various dignitaries—state and city officials, men of the cloth, and officers of the railway—delivered inspiring, or at least impassioned, speeches. And as the train started up, bands played rousing marches, and choirs sang soaring hymns.

Hundreds of people stood beside the rails, cheering the powerful new locomotive and the grand, gleaming passenger cars. Flying above the locomotive and cars, as the train proceeded west, were bright-colored flags and banners; red, white, and blue bunting was strung beneath the windows along the sides of the cars; and flags, banners, and bunting lined the right of way.

The celebration on board the train showed no sign of slowing even after the train had pulled many miles out of Philadelphia. There was as much champagne and wine and whiskey and beer as any person could possibly desire, as well as food, from the daintiest of tidbits to the heartiest of roast beefs. The party was boisterous and happy. All were glad to be aboard.

Not far out of Lancaster, a reporter from the Nyles Weekly Register took the chief engineer aside to ask him a few questions. In order to avoid the din, they conducted the conversation outside on the rear platform, even though it was a chill, raw, autumn day.

The chief engineer was not much impressed with the reporter whose name was Bill Richardson, when the two initially met. Richardson, a cadaverous man, burning with a dark hunger for a truth more hidden and mysterious than mere facts could provide, approached the subjects of his interviews as though no other person could come near his own intellectual or moral stature. So the chief engineer contrived to disappoint him as much as he was able.

“Mr. Carlysle,” the reporter said, “this is quite an impressive scene. You must be quite excited.”

“It’s been a good deal of work to come this far,” John Carlysle said. “I’m glad that it’s finally seen fruition, and we can all reap the rewards of it.”

“You’ve been working on the Pennsylvania for several years, haven’t you?” Richardson asked, glancing at his notes. “Since 1852?”

“Since the spring of ‘52,” John agreed.

“And so you participated in the events of 1852?”

John smiled. “What events?”

“Well, for starters, there was the collapse of the Gallitzin Tunnel,” he said, glancing at his notebook. “And then I understand that there was a great deal of labor trouble. And this was followed by near open warfare with a group of disgruntled teamsters. And then there was a run on your stock.”

“It was an awfully busy year,” John acknowledged blandly.

“I’d be much obliged if you would give me your version of those events, in your own words.”

John looked away from him for a time and stared down the tracks vanishing behind him. “There’s so little for me to tell, really, Mr. Richardson. I’m neither a teller of tales nor a maker of them. I’m an engineer, a practical man. I work with machinery and processes and not with people.”

“I’m sure you saw much of what happened during that extraordinary year,” Richardson pressed on. “I’m sure you could talk to me about the things you’ve seen. And participated in.”

“You’d be disappointed with what I could relate to you. I’d bore you with facts and figures… miles of road graded and track laid, and such matters.”

“Surely you were present when the runnel collapsed?”

“Oh, no,” John said. “I was in Philadelphia then. I wasn’t actually employed by the railroad at the time.”

“But you must have been on the payroll by the summer of ’52, during the time of the labor crisis?”

“One of the contractors went beyond his brief, and the laborers resisted. The matter was solved relatively easily, and to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“You were not involved in that?”

“I was present at Gallitzin when the difficulties arose. But I was there as an engineer. I tried not to concern myself with the labor force.”

Richardson glanced again at his notebook. “My information is that you were much more involved in those events than you are telling me.”

“Most stories magnify in the telling.”

“And after that,” Richardson said, moving on, “you were, according to my informants, very closely involved in leading the action to stop the teamster raids on Pennsylvania property and equipment, isn’t that so?”

“As I told you earlier,” John said, “it was a most busy time. And many of us were involved in doing what we could to keep the line going. But I was hardly as involved as many others—Mr. O’Rahilly, for instance, the labor contractor. He’s on the train now somewhere. You should talk to him. And so is Mr. Stockton, the chief engineer of the western division. He’s also on the train. Or my son Graham, though he is, unhappily, not here now. He and his wife moved west last year. Or Mr. Thomson himself. All of them would be much more competent to talk to you than I am.”

“You’re not being very helpful to me, Mr. Carlysle,” Richardson said, as though that were a moral failing.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Richardson. But you’d do much better to talk with those who are more competent to discuss these things than I am.”

“Do I take it that you are refusing to tell me your part in the events of that year?”

“I didn’t say that at all. There are many events of 1852 …and 1853, 1854, and 1855, for that matter… that I would be more competent—as an engineer—to talk to you about.”

“For instance?”

“The digging of the Gallitzin Tunnel.”

“What can you tell me about that?” Richardson asked, hiding his impatience imperfectly.

“After the collapse of the tunnel in the spring of ‘52,” John said, “and after the labor reorganization of the summer of that year, work proceeded on the tunnel at a record rate. And indeed, in spite of all trie difficulties we encountered, the tunnel was completed on schedule.”

“Really?” he sighed.

“Yes. The Gallitzin Tunnel, in fact,” John continued, “was open for business in February of 1854, later than we expected. And I’d be delighted to provide you with the tonnage of rock and soil removed from the mountain during the tunnel excavation.”

“Very interesting,” Richardson said, closing his notebook and stifling a yawn. “And I suppose you could provide me with more of this sort of information… if I should require it?”

“As much as you can handle,” John said with a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlysle.”

“It was my pleasure.”

A few seconds after the reporter returned to the party, Mrs. Carlysle made her way out to the rear platform in order to join her husband there. She was convulsed with laughter.

“You are a terrible, terrible man!” Kitty Carlysle said to John. “Mister simple, dull, practical engineer! I heard you through the door—I kept it cracked open—every word.”

“What do you mean, ‘terrible’?”

“You treated that poor reporter like an ignoramus,” she said. “You led him on a leash, and you told him nothing at all worth repeating.”

“But,” he said, smiling, “isn’t that the way reporters deserve to be treated?… Assuming, of course, that I treated him badly. I don’t think I did, as I think back on what I said. I’m an engineer. I told him what an engineer should tell him. No more, no less.”

“You teased him, darling. And every time he rose to the bait, you put on an innocent face and protested ignorance.”

“I wouldn’t do a thing like that,” he said. “I’m much too simple for that sort of thing.”

“I didn’t marry a simple man,” she said fondly.

“Oh, really? I thought you married me because I was an engineer, like your father.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s exactly why I married you.”

At that moment, the train drew to a clanking and rattling halt. They were out in the middle of nowhere, and there was no apparent reason for the stop.

But the mystery was soon ended when Kitty’s father passed through the cars making an announcement. “Would everyone please be kind enough to descend from the train? We have a man on board—Mr. Mathew Brady—who has come with photographic apparatus. He’ll make daguerreotype photographs of the members of the party. And he’d like to try to place the train and the party within a rustic setting. So we’ve stopped here for him, in the country.”

“Sounds like a lovely idea,” Kitty said to John. “Have you ever been photographed?”

“Never,” John said, as he climbed down the steps to the ground. “And I’m not certain I want to be.”

“Why not?” she asked, with a teasing scowl. “You’re so shy and stuffy! And you’re such a prude!”

“Give me your hand.”

She extended her hand so he could help her down. “Why not?” she repeated.

“It steals your soul.”

“You’re mad. It does not,” she said. “It immortalizes you. Who could quarrel with that?”

And he laughed. “Perhaps. But still, I’d rather not be caught forever on some photographic plate.”

“It’s not you, darling, it’s your image.”

“That’s what frightens me.”

“Oh, look,” she said, glancing about. “We’re the first outside of the train. We can be first to have our daguerreotypes taken.”

They were not, however, completely alone, for Mr. Brady and an assistant were setting up the photographic apparatus in a field along the side of the track.

“You heard your father,” he said, correcting her. “Mr. Brady won’t be taking us one at a time. It will be the whole group.”

“Oh, drat,” she said. “I don’t want to be one of a crowd.”

“But I do,” he said, “in a photograph, at any rate. There’s safety in numbers.”

“You’re just being difficult, John,” she said with a laugh, “because you didn’t like that reporter.”

“I’m never difficult with you, Kitty. You know that.”

“Playing the innocent yet again, Mr. Carlysle?” she said with a roguish twinkle in her eye.

But then her roving eye caught the locomotive, with its flags and pennants and banners. “Come on,” she ordered, taking his hand and leading him toward the locomotive.

“You have an idea,” he said. “I don’t trust you when you have ideas.”

“Come on. 1 do have an idea…an inspiration!” A few moments later she reached the front of the locomotive.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carlysle, Mr. Carlysle,” the locomotive driver called out, recognizing them.

“Hello, Gillon.”! should congratulate him, John thought, for the job he is doing. “It’s been an especially smooth ride.”

“Thank you.”

Kitty, meanwhile, had scrambled up on top of the pilot. “There,” she cried. “Yes! It’s wonderful here! Just the way I remember it!”

“You’re mad, Kitty, my love,” John said.

“Not at all, John Carlysle. This is how I met you. I think it’s how I should like to be immortalized. But this time I won’t be alone. I’ll entice you up here with me. For you must join me. And when the daguerreotype is taken, here we will be together. Forever.”

“Kitty!” he said. “I have a position to maintain. I stopped acting like a child fifty years ago.”

“You weren’t born fifty years ago.”

“Which is exactly my meaning.”

“I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t come up here,” she said, grinning like a gargoyle.

But at that moment Mathew Brady came scurrying up. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Excuse me, but I like very much the look of the lady there on the pilot. I’d be delighted to take her picture there before the others take their places.” He waved an arm at the relatively empty space beside the train. “They seem to be taking their time disembarking.” He looked at John. “Or I could even take both of you together up there, if you’d care to join her.”

“Come on,” she implored.

John stared at her, deciding whether to indulge her in her whim.

“All right, my lady Kitty,” he said finally. “I’ll do it. I’m coming up.”

“I knew you would,” she said, laughing gaily.

And while Brady and his assistant rearranged their equipment, John and Kitty—at her instigation and his reluctant acquiescence—struck a comic-heroic pose on the pilot at the front of the locomotive.

A few seconds later, Brady scurried back to them. “I’ll be using a magnesium flare as a light source to supplement the sun,” he said. “So don’t be frightened when the light breaks.” He turned to go back to his machinery. But before he vanished beneath the black hood behind it, he looked at John and Kitty and called out, “And I’m delighted with your pose. Most men and women are much too solemn when they are photographed. They always look like they are about to be robbed.” He slipped under the cloak.

And then for a brilliant instant, stunning white light dazzled and enveloped and captured them in a blazing and splendid flash.