Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude
time sightseeing. We were particularly interested in viewing the
battlefields around Paris--so interested, in fact, that we read up the
whole history of the mighty struggle with Germany, which ended in
throwing France into the dust. We, like most of the world here, got our
ideas of the war and the battles from the current news of the day, as
published in the newspapers, and we had a general idea that the
Frenchmen had not made much of a fight. That conclusion could only be
arrived at by a superficial knowledge such as had been ours.
Investigation upon the spot and a study of impartial authorities soon
opened our eyes to the fact that France only succumbed after a mighty
and most heroic struggle. The first few weeks of the war saw her entire
regular army captive, and transported prisoners across the Rhine. That
army had made a brave but unfortunate fight. Badly commanded, with the
transport and subsistence utterly demoralized, they were no match for
the mighty hosts that Germany poured across the Rhine. Perfectly
equipped, matchless in discipline since the palmy days of Rome,
commanded by the foremost military intellects of the age, they met the
French, overmatching them at every point of contact; enveloping their
columns with masses of infantry, or sweeping them with murderous storms
of shot and shell, or launching a magnificent cavalry at them, against
which French valor--ill directed as it was--proved futile, and that
splendid array of 480,000 men had to ground their arms, surrender their
colors, and, to their own unspeakable shame and humiliation, become
captive to their foes, leaving their beloved France defenseless. But the
loss of their army, no more than their thronging foes, dismayed France.
The heart of the nation was stirred, and from the Rhine to the Atlantic,
from the Channel to the blue Mediterranean, France rose as one man. They
saw the entire military force of Germany encamped on their soil, and in
their undisciplined valor, hurled themselves against it, and gave to
their astounded foes an exhibition of Titanic force and determined valor
whose story, when known, will become the admiration of all generations
of men.
It was against the decree of Heaven that France should win in the
struggle, but she fell only to rise the higher for the fall. The year
1871 saw France in the dust, with the armies of her foe encamped over
more than half her soil, with robber-like demands for huge sums of gold
ere the modern Goths would march home again. To-day she stands the
marvel of the world. Twice the France of 1870, with the busy hum of
industry through all her borders, an overflowing treasury, a contented
people and an army and many which are the awe of Europe. To-day the
enemy that flung her to earth twenty-four years ago, seeks safety from
her attack in defensive alliances with all the nations of the Continent.
We resolved to see Europe before returning to America, so the next few
weeks were spent in a pleasure jaunt.
In the course of it we visited Vienna, remaining there some time and
bringing away many and pleasant memories of that music-loving old city
on the Danube. We finally all returned to Wiesbaden together and visited
the Casino, watching the play and players with an interest that never
flagged. Here we saw such vast sums of money ever changing hands that we
almost insensibly began to think the thousands we had were as nothing,
and when divided up, the sum coming to each seemed almost beggarly.
Gradually we began to speculate as to the desirability of doubling our
capital once or twice at least, before we threw up our hands and gave up
the game. I need hardly tell the reader that what at first was a
philosophical speculation, an airy theory of a possibility, rapidly
crystallized into steadfast purpose and determinate resolve, and soon
our brains were working, and readily brought forth a new scheme. For was
not there the Bank of England, with uncounted millions in her vaults,
and was not I, as Frederick Albert Warren, a customer of the bank, and
as such were not the vaults of the bank at our disposition?
We rated our powers high and fondly thought that, speaking in a general
way, honesty was the best policy, yet in our case there was an exception
to the rule. We felt and acknowledged we were doing wrong, but since the
wrong (apparently) profited us, we would do wrong that good might come
thereby.
Finally we resolved to go on with our postponed assault upon the money
bags of the Bank of England, at the same time evolving a plan that
seemed to promise unbounded wealth and complete immunity for us all.
So we packed our baggage, bade farewell to Wiesbaden, and one early June
morning in 1872 saw us all once more in smoky London, resolved to rouse
that Old Lady called the Bank of England from her century-long slumber
spent in dreaming of her impregnability.
In Frankfort there are several firms, Fischer by name, all bankers, and
as soon as we determined to return to London, Mac wrote a letter in
French to the Bank of England and signed it H. V. Fischer, which, of
course, would leave the manager to suppose his correspondent was one of
the Fischer bankers. In the letter he said his distinguished customer,
Mr. F. A. Warren, had written him from St Petersburg, requesting him to
transfer to his account in the Bank of England the small balance
remaining to his credit on his (Fischer's) books, therefore he had the
honor to inclose bills on London for L13,500, payable to the order of
the manager, said sum to be placed to the credit of Mr. F. A. Warren.
I took this letter to Frankfort, and, having purchased bills of exchange
on London to the amount named, inclosed them and mailed the letter. A
day or so after I received a letter at Frankfort from the manager of the
bank, acknowledging the receipts of the drafts, and announcing that the
proceeds of the same had duly been placed to the credit of F. A. Warren.
So I had over $67,000 to my credit, and had now been a depositor for
five months.
George took up his residence at a private house in the west end of
London, while Mac and I went to the Grosvenor Hotel.
This hotel was one of the very few then in England which were allowed by
the aristocrats of London society to be what they called highly
respectable, that is, exclusive, and, therefore, a fit dwelling place
for their dainty selves. In Dublin there is one of these highly
respectable hostels, the Gresham, on Sackville street. This hotel was a
type of all of the sort I mention. I once stopped at the Gresham for a
week and became one of the "nobility and gentry" that frequent these
hotels. The waiters all wore full-dress suits, faultless in cut and fit,
and the chief event in their daily existence, the serving of the table
d'hote, wore white kid gloves. The bewildering changes of varied colored
dishes (I mean crockery ware), was something to make one stare. Course
number one brought on a soup dish of pale violet color, quite a work of
art, but its contents was a watery compound with an artistic name.
Course number two consisted of a unique plate, light green in color,
with little fishes wriggling through green waves, but bearing on it a
small insipid portion of a genuine inhabitant of the deep; and so on,
course followed course, each on a different colored plate. If the dinner
was intended for an exhibition of crockery, each one of the seven I had
there was a success, but, however gratifying to the eye the dinners
might be, they were lamentable failures so far as stomach and appetite
were concerned; but when I came to pay my bill I found the white kid
gloves and the fancy china again; they were all in it, and many more
things as well. The bill was more than a foot long, filled with such
items as soap, sixpence; one envelope, one penny; one sheet note paper,
one penny; bath, two shillings; extra towels and soap for same,
sixpence, and so on through the line.
We found the Grosvenor another Gresham. However, as we wanted to stop at
a swell hotel, we concluded--so long as we were there--to remain; but
after a few days we found the cuisine "highly respectable;" that is, for
dinner one could get roast--either beef or mutton. As for vegetables, we
were strictly limited to turnips, cauliflowers, cabbage and potatoes,
and, for dessert, the famous apple tart of England, more deadly even
than our mince pie.
The proprietor of a certain popular restaurant in New York has a fad for
hanging elaborately got-up Scripture texts--exhortations mostly--around
the walls of his restaurant. Interspersed with these are advertisements
of his eatables--also exhortations--such as, "Try our buckwheat cakes,
10 cents;" "Try our doughnuts and coffee;" between the two exhortations,
a third bidding one flee from the wrath to come; but the most fetching
of all are two companion cards. On the one is the legend, "Try our hot
mince pie;" on the other is displayed the apropos warning, "Prepare to
meet thy God."
So we resolved to sleep at the Grosvenor, but to avoid the apple tart.
We soon discovered a good restaurant near by, where we dined, and, as I
am on the subject of dining, I will finish this chapter with a little
narrative, the moral of which I will leave my readers to find: We were
now settled down in London, prepared to devote all our attention to that
Old Lady--The B. of E.--and, in accordance with a habit of ours, we
began to look for some safe place--hotel, cafe or restaurant--where we
could meet, run in at any time for consultation, or to write notes.
Three things were requisite--nearness to the money centre of the city, a
room where we could be secluded from people coming and going, and a
proprietor clever enough not to be inquisitive, with a genius for
minding his own business. A man who has a genius for that thing always
carries it in his face, just as his opposite--the busybody--carries
the traces of his restless inquisitiveness in the face and manner.
That same day we discovered, in a small street leading off Finsbury, a
shop with a sign over the door bearing the legend: "Licensed to sell
spirits and caterer." It had canned and potted meats, along with bottles
of wine, in the window, but was evidently fast going to seed. We pushed
our way in and found a bright, fresh-looking young Englishman,
evidently a countryman, but intelligent and civil, much like a
gamekeeper. We knew at once we had our place and man.
After some weeks we observed, now and then, a couple of sharp-looking
customers hanging about the place.
We feared being watched, and began to think it time to change, so
suddenly ceased calling at mine host's snuggery and took up new quarters
in a private house not far away. About two months later I happened to be
near and called. He received me warmly, and told me we had saved him
from bankruptcy. He had been a gamekeeper on a nobleman's estate, and
his wife had been a housemaid there. They married against the wishes of
their master, but they had five hundred pounds, and, coming to London,
started business on that. Custom was poor, and soon they were at the end
of their rope, when, happily for them, we came along and spent money
enough in his place to set him on his feet again.
CHAPTER XIX.
WITH NO REGRETS, WITH NO TORTURING REMORSE.
Although I had the very respectable balance of $67,000 at the bank, I
had not as yet, since my arrival in London, paid it a visit. This was in
pursuance of our plans. So far I had only done business with the
supernumeraries, and none of the people at the top had ever even heard
of me. But we determined that they should not long remain in ignorance
of the great American contractor, F. A. Warren.