Free Back Bay by William Martin Page B

Jason’s son Artemus might have a bright future, but young Horace was special. At fifteen, he was the image of his father, with the same lean frame and incisive intellect, with the same bright promise for the future of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile.
    Pratt turned expectantly when he heard someone at the door. Young Horace had promised to visit.
    It was Mr. Howe, Pratt’s secretary. “Excuse me, sir. There’s a military courier here, says he has a dispatch that must be delivered to you personally.”
    Pratt was puzzled. “Send him in.”
    Preceded by the clanking of spurs, the rider entered Pratt’s office and saluted. “From the President, sir.”
    Pratt recognized Dexter Lovell’s hand. Clumsily, he ripped the letter open and read it. He wanted to laugh out loud. He was venturing nothing in partnership with a man who was risking his life. If they were successful, he would split twenty thousand dollars, enough to keep the company intact for six more months. In one stroke, he was avenging himself on the Yankee merchants whose gift to the government brought nothing in return but embargoes and blockades. Although he read no verse but Milton, Pratt relished his poetic justice. The Golden Eagle Tea Set was returning to Boston.
    “I have other dispatches to be delivering in Boston, sir,” said the courier. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in a great hurry.”
    Pratt flipped him a silver dollar. “Be about your business, lad.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Young Horace III arrived as the courier was leaving.
    “Come in and close the door,” said Pratt cheerfully.
    Dressed only in knee breeches and cotton shirt, Horace was stilla boy, although his hands and feet had already grown into manhood. “Hello, Grandfather.”
    “Can you keep secrets?” asked Pratt.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Then read this.”
    Pratt gave the boy Dexter Lovell’s note.
    “What does it mean?”
    “That we are going to make a great deal of money with very little effort. It’s the sort of investment I like.”
    Pratt gave the boy pen and paper and told him to sit at the desk. Lacking a left arm, Pratt found handwriting difficult and dictated most of his correspondence. “Address it to Lord Henry Hannaford, 157 Leicester Street, London. ‘Dear Henry,’… Did you date it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Bright boy.”
    Horace had never seen his grandfather so enthusiastic.
    “ ‘Dear Henry, The Bird is aloft. Contact the buyer and make him bleed gold. ’ ” Pratt signed his initials and sealed the letter.
    Since American correspondence could not travel directly to England, a rider would carry Pratt’s letter to Halifax, and from there it would be mailed to London. It was the established channel.
    Pratt tossed Lovell’s note into the Franklin stove and blew on the coals, which glowed red and began to burn.
    “Must you destroy that?” asked the boy.
    “Yes.”
    “I’d like to keep the signature, Grandfather.”
    “Incriminating evidence, Horace. We can’t have it around.”
    The boy was accustomed to his grandfather’s indulgence. “Please, sir?”
    “No,” said Pratt firmly. “Now come along. I must send this dispatch. Then, we’ll have lunch.”
    The boy noticed that the flames in the stove were dying quickly. “Yes, Grandfather.”
    When they returned from lunch, Pratt stopped briefly in the outer office to confer with one of his bookkeepers.
    Young Horace entered Pratt’s office and looked into the stove.The coals had flamed and burned a few bits of trash on the grate, but the letter had barely been touched.
    He took it out and examined it. He knew of no one at school who owned President Madison’s signature, but he could think of several who would pay handsomely for it. If he used only the flap, he could still destroy the text of the letter. He heard his grandfather’s cane tapping toward the door. He jammed the letter into the back of the ledger on the desk. He would return later to claim his prize.

CHAPTER FOUR
    W illiam Rule