Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude
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,