Free Back Bay by William Martin

ocean;/they sailed and returned with a cargo;/Now doomed to decay, /they have fallen a prey/to Madison, worms, and Embargo.’ ” Jason Pratt sat on the edge of his father’s desk and recited a popular lyric.
    Pratt slammed his hand on the desk. “Our world shrinks with every sunrise, we face the loss of our two newest ships because we lack the cash to meet their payments, and all you can do is recite poetry.”
    “I’m sorry, sir.” Jason was thirty years old, but in his father’s presence, he seemed frozen at fifteen. He had his mother’s features, a large frame, and a flabby body that he dressed in the latest fashion. He did not look like a Pratt.
    “ ‘Madison, worms, and Embargo,’ indeed,” Pratt hauled himself out of his chair and began to pace about his office. “Those goddam Virginia Presidents. Washington, Jefferson, Madison, they’re all the same, with their foolish wars and expansionist dreams. Who needs Canada? Who cares that a few English deserters were taken off American ships and sent back to the Royal Navy, where they belong?”
    “The English were impressing American seamen, Father,” said Jason softly.
    “None of mine. Pratt ships hove to for the British hundreds of times without incident. This whole war was cooked up by Southerners and Westerners out to feather their own nests at the expense of the New Englanders who got the damn country started in thefirst place.” His voice rose sharply and his complexion flushed deep red.
    “Father, remember your apoplexy.”
    “Damn my apoplexy. We fought a revolution so that American ships could sail the world without interference from any government, foreign or domestic. Now, a Pratt ship can’t sail five miles beyond Boston Light without fearing a broadside.”
    Jason Pratt knew his father well enough to listen politely whenever a tirade began.
    “I intend to support Senator Pickering’s resolution for secession. If our government is so blind to our needs that they’re willing to declare a war we can’t possibly win, with an enemy who doesn’t want to fight in the first place, I say we break off and make our own peace.”
    “An excellent idea,” Jason agreed, simply to quiet his father’s anger.
    The old man paced back and forth, studying the pattern in his Oriental carpet and stopping at every turn to inspect the model of the
Gay Head
displayed on the mantel. “That was a ship,” he muttered. “Fastest damn schooner I ever saw. She once made the China run in ten months. Now we’re facing ruin.” Pratt turned to the window and gazed out at the empty harbor.
    Jason approached him. “I think it’s time we looked away from the sea, Father. The future is in textiles.”
    “Textiles?” Pratt grunted.
    “Yes, sir. Francis Cabot Lowell has completed a mill in Waltham, and several shippers have invested in it. It’s an intelligent way to use our capital.” Jason hesitated. He could never tell if his father was listening to him. The firmness in his voice diminished. “They believe that within a few years, textile manufacturing will be one of the major industries in America. Perhaps if we free some of the capital that we have invested in—”
    “Perhaps nothing.” Abigail Pratt Bentley stood imperiously in the doorway, her yellow dress attracting all the light in the dark office. She had her father’s prominent nose and firm jaw, but femininity softened her features and made her seem less resolute than she was.
    “You have no right to eavesdrop on private conversations,” said Jason.
    “I hear my daughter.” Pratt smiled but did not turn from the window.
    “Good afternoon, Father.” She approached him and kissed him on the cheek.
    He enjoyed the attention but always protested. “Find yourself a young man to kiss. I’m too old.”
    “You’re the only man in my life, Father.”
    “More’s the pity,” cracked Jason. “Twenty-four-year-old widows should worry about spinsterhood and leave business to the men.”
    “To