Triangle
A novel by Alex & Barbara Wilson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Alex Wilson
Other works by these authors available at www.wilsonwritings.com
The May 18 electronic newsletter of the London School of Economics (LSE) posted a brief notice in their ‘Notable and Quotable’ section:
We are pleased to welcome an esteemed colleague from Bowdoin College in Maine. Dana Ward, Ph.D in the history department of Bowdoin will be using the LSE as her base to research a book on the formation of present day fortunes that sprung from roots of the slave trade of the 1600 – 1700s. Dr. Ward has hosted several LSE faculty at Bowdoin during the past few years. We are honored to have her amongst us for an indeterminate number of months whilst she conducts her studies.
This innocuous sounding news note set in motion events that were to reverberate throughout England; in Parliament, at Scotland Yard, the media and the foundations of private fortunes.
* * * * * * *
Dana Ward had no previous idea of the depth and depravity of the history of the slave trade. Her immersion research into the long-running ‘Triangle of Trade’ had her hooked. She would lose track of time. A gentle tap on the shoulder from a prudish, round-faced librarian startled her from her reverie and, once again, she was politely reminded of the British Museum Library’s closing hours. The two women chuckled at each other. ‘Oh my, Mrs. Wills, kicked out again, am I?’
She reluctantly bundled up against the cold drizzle outside. The guard at the door had his hand on the lock ready to secure the entrance as soon as she passed.
Dana paused outside the door to organize her baggage. She was a strapping, big-boned 5 foot 11 inch Maine girl used to much more severe Maine weather than the drizzle and chill of London even in the summer. She hefted the shoulder straps of her computer carrier and messenger-style book bag stuffed with papers and notebooks and pulled the hood up on her rain jacket or anorak as they call it here.
It was mid-week, late and rainy. Few people were on the street. She turned onto Houghton St. to walk to the Whitechapel tube station. She didn’t make it. Dana’s mind was on arcane details of the slave trade, her head was down, her brolly up. Brolly. I love that word. My brolly, my flat, the lift. Everything here has such a wonderful lilt. I even love this rain. Her footsteps splashed a bit as she walked, masking other footsteps.
Without a second’s warning, she was hit on the back of the head…hard. Hard enough to put her face down on the pavement in the water with her book bag and computer bag thrown asunder. She didn’t know what had hit her. A club? A bat? A rock? She tried to roll to one side to see what or who had knocked her down. She had barely turned but not enough to get a proper look nor for her vision to clear before a cloth bag was pulled over her head, her hands cinched behind her and she was grabbed by the arms and dragged into a stairwell of a townhouse. One shoe was dragged off. She bumped down the stone stairs with each step damaging her spine. She knew she would have to fight and she tried as well as she could by thrashing her legs blindly and yelling. As she could not see what to kick, she actually did herself more harm by kicking the walk, railing and steps. Another blow to the head inside the bag finished her struggle with consciousness. She went black.
* * * * * * *
Josh Malley – former (never ‘ex’) Marine and investigative journalist had morphed his career into being a perceptive and valued corporate consultant. He was providing consultation for AK Steel at West Chester, Ohio when he received a call relayed from Rudy Ward, his wife’s father in Maine. Rudy had been contacted by the Metropolitan Police in London and informed that his daughter, Dana, had been attacked and seriously injured. She was in a coma and they were unable to locate Josh, the name listed in her effects as the person to contact in case of emergency. His angular features became even more pronounced as he involuntarily clenched his jaw in silent rage. His intense calm under dire circumstances was part of his past training. An observer would have thought, too calm.
‘What happened, Rudy? Tell me everything you know.’
‘I’m shaking, Josh.’
‘It’s okay, Rudy. Take your time.’
‘They told me it was an attempted rape while she was headed home from the library in London somewhere. After dark there, dawn here.’
‘Okay, I’ll get there as quickly as I can get a flight. What contact do you have there? What hospital?’
‘I’m sorry, Josh. I was too stunned to think clearly. I didn’t even ask what hospital but I wrote down the police number at Scotland Yard.’
Josh took the number, assured Rudy that he would report on all progress once he got on the scene and immediately called the number provided by the police. There was the customary two-ring signal and a prompt answer by a friendly, efficient woman’s voice.
‘Scotland Yard. How may I direct your call?’
‘I am calling from the United States. I just got word from a Detective Sergeant Clampert that my wife was attacked and injured. Connect me with him, please.’
‘I am connecting you. Please hold.’
In two rings a more rough and impatient voice growled into the phone. ‘Sergeant Clampert.’
‘Sergeant, I am Josh Malley, husband of Dana Ward. I just received word that she was attacked and injured. What can you tell me?’
‘Yes, Mister, uh, is it Malley? Please spell and give me your phone number in case we are disconnected.’
Josh complied impatiently. ‘Please, Sergeant, the details.’
‘Right. Hold on while I get the file on my screen. Yes, here it is. At about 2230 hours local time last night, your wife was accosted in what appears to have been an attempted rape.’
‘Explain ‘appears to be’ please.’
‘Her clothes were torn, she was restrained and had a bag tied over her head in a manner we have seen here repeatedly. It strongly suggests the work of a local serial rapist we’ve been after for awhile. She was pretty banged up and had taken some blows to the head, the cause of her coma. We are able to confirm, however, that the rape was not, repeat, not consummated.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘She was admitted to St. Thomas. I can provide the contact info there, if you like.’
After acquiring the information, Josh said, ‘I’m in Ohio but will be there as quickly as possible, leaving within the hour. Who’s leading the investigation?’
‘My Detective Inspector, Margaret Curtin, and I have been assigned. You have my contact numbers. We are located at New Scotland Yard, easy to find. Check in with us when you arrive.’
The matter was handled so efficiently by Clampert that Josh unintentionally lapsed into military argot. ‘That is well, Sergeant. Out.’ He terminated the call with his mind already processing his travel planning. Josh Malley was just Dana’s height – slightly shorter on those rare occasions when she wore heels – but was not a man to be trifled with. He was angular and wiry and, from long combat discipline, a powerful package. The tip offs were his high-and-tight haircut and an intensity in his eyes.
During every step of the trip from CVG to JFK to LHR, Josh had to fight to control his anger, his blood-in-the-eyes anger. It was the normal and expected emotion of any man dealing with an attack on a loved one. Josh’s, fury was even more intense, if such were possible, since he was a trained and experienced killer. He had been a Force Recon Marine, a sniper and black ops mission leader on many occasions. He had killed many people. He had to fight back the instinct to find and kill someone. But, killing in war was one thing. Taking revenge in civilian environment was another. He was a rational and disciplined person, able to overcome and control his initial rage.
He arrived at St. Thomas Hospital with jet lag and bags-in-hand. He had steeled his emotions throughout the long journey but was eager now to see Dana. He was directed to Dana’s ward and almost ran through the hospital corridors to get to her room. He burst down the hall only to be blocked by a stern nurse who had the demeanor of a combat vet herself.
‘Hold up there, sir. This is an intensive care unit. You will respect the quiet and calm or you will be ejected.’
‘Sorry, nurse. I’ve been running since Ohio. My wife’…
‘Let’s start with your wife’s name, shall we?’
‘Dana Ward.’
‘Right. Now, if you will catch your breath and gain some measure of calm, I’ll take you to her. Are we ready?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’m okay now. Show me to her, please.’
Josh stood in the doorway of the hospital room. The kaleidoscope of emotions crossing his features indicated he knew at first glance the severity of Dana’s injuries. Josh was stunned to see Dana with her head bandaged heavily, an oxygen mask, tubes in her veins and monitors beeping steadily. He beat back another wave of anger. Josh slowly approached Dana’s bed. She was in a deep, deep sleep. His eyes followed the contour of her head, her arms, her still body under the immaculate white sheet. He searched for an open space in the maze of wires and tubes and gently took her lifeless hand in his. ‘Dana, honey, I’m here.’ For several minutes, Josh stool watching, matching his breathing to hers until he heard footsteps behind him.
‘Please brief me on her condition.’
‘That would be better handled by her doctor. I’ll get Dr. Howard straightaway.’
‘Mr. Malley, I am Janet Howard, Dana’s attending physician. I won’t delay as I know you want a prompt briefing on your wife’s condition. She was badly handled during the attack. The most serious injuries are to her head and spine. She was clubbed or beaten about the head and then dragged down some stone stairs that damaged some vertebrae. Her left foot was also broken in what looks like her attempt to fight back.’
‘Prognosis?’
‘We won’t be able to ascertain the likelihood of full recovery until she regains consciousness. Oh, the spine and foot injuries should heal fine in time but her mental acuity is an unknown for now. Our brain scans show normal activity but that doesn’t always tell the full story.’
‘I was a combat Marine for 18 years, doctor, so I have seen my share of head trauma. I understand the drill. I will be here every day but if I am away, may I leave my number with your nurse to call me the minute she regains consciousness?’
‘Of course. I hope you have already been told that your wife was not raped. The attack was interrupted, I understand.’
‘Thank you for that, doctor. The physical damage is enough without having to deal with that.’
Josh stayed for several hours and could see that Dana was stabile and well cared for. She was breathing regularly and the beeps of her monitors were regular and reassuring. He was contributing nothing at this point so he gathered his bags and headed for Dana’s hotel. Negotiations with the management allowed him access to her room where he bathed and went immediately to New Scotland Yard.
* * * * * * *
Dana gained semi-consciousness on several occasions. Josh was called and came immediately. The nurse recommended that he be soothing even if he were roiling inside at the injustice of her injuries.
‘Most of the time, even from such a deep slumber, the patient can hear all that is said and often remembers conversations spoken in their presence. I’m sure the sound of your voice must be reassuring to her,’ offered a perky, kind-faced nurse with a toothy grin. She was one of several on Dana’s day and night rotating shifts. She was in good hands.
There were bizarre dreams; murmured voices, ghostly apparitions floating vaguely back and forth, sometimes bright lights, sometimes almost none. Her head was bundled up in bandages which covered her ears further muffling the sounds. Everything was soft…if she didn’t move.
Several times Dana was semi-conscious. At least she thought so although it was tricky separating the murky dreams from the murky reality. Sometime she saw faces that floated away. Were they real? Sometimes she saw more light than at other times. One time a doctor or nurse shined a penlight directly into her eyes. She initially mistaken it for the sun and had a complete scenario about looking into the sun. It hurt her eyes so she looked away. Then, one night she awoke and saw the complete room in dim light. No one was there. She knew it was a hospital but the image didn’t last long. She drifted back to sleep.
When Dana finally regained full consciousness and her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a ceiling with rod-like towers holding liquid bags and she heard some beeping electrical sounds. The next thing she saw was Josh leaning close with anxious eyes.
She blinked at him. ‘Hello’.
‘Hello.’ Josh Malley, her beloved, committed companion and all-but-husband looked into her face searchingly. He could see her eyes wandering, fighting for focus. She moved her mouth and her lips stuck together.
‘Thirsty?’
She tried her dried lips. ‘Yes, actually. Wattaya got?’
‘Oh, let’s see. We can offer a left over hospital OJ or water with a bendy straw.’
‘Let’s try the water.’
She knew from trying to lift her head unsuccessfully to take the water that she was hurt pretty bad. A couple of sips with Josh’s hand under her head and she was glad to put it back on the pillow.
‘Looks like a hospital. How close am I?’
‘Bang on, as they say here. I’m not supposed to stay too long. You have some healing to do and the police are eager to learn what you remember of your attack.’
‘What do you know about my attack?’
‘You were mugged strongly and there was the beginning of a rape attempt but they were scared off before he or they got to you.’
‘You mean I wasn’t raped?’
‘You were not raped but they had most of your clothing off in preparation. But, no consummation.’
‘I better go but can you tell me anything about the attack?’
‘Not much, Josh. One moment I’m walking along trying to avoid the puddles and the next moment I’m face down in them. You say ‘they’. I don’t even know if it was one person or more. He – or they – got a bag over my face before I could get a look. Sorry.’
‘Okay, honey. I am working with the Metro Police. We’ll figure this out. Meanwhile, your only job is to rest up and let that beautiful body heal. Here’s a cell phone with my number programmed in. Just hit ‘program’ and #1 and I’ll answer.’
‘Thanks, Sweetheart. I’m drifting back to dreamland. Bye bye.’
* * * * * * *
In 1780, the Khan clan lived in Hyderabad, then a chaotic, dusty medium sized town. It was overwhelmingly Hindu but there was a small and growing Muslim section that coexisted with little issue. Hyderabad was a way station for commerce for the British East India Company (BEIC) that had, over the years, gone from being one of many trading companies throughout the region to being dominant in ways beyond commerce. It was a presumptive government in itself and was ruling people’s lives beyond the buying, selling and movement of goods. It was British and operated alongside other British government agencies and enterprises. There was rumor that the British government would take control of the BEIC but it would matter little who was driving the cart. Ordinary citizens were but the beasts of burden for the British. Some of the clan leaders had tried to resist but the British army and British mercenaries – many of them Indians – had squelched revolt.
Macarama Khan had been forced from his land and had brought his family to Hyderabad to be in the company of fellow Muslims who had preceded him. The family had been farmers for generations but now, without land, they had to learn to be craftsmen and merchants and traders. They were not too proud to take work from the BEIC or from the British governmental presence. Those at the university who knew of such things said the increased British presence was due to their troubles in the American colonies. If they lost that war, the British might turn their attention and power more intensely to the subcontinent, Allah forbid.
But, despite all the dislocation, it was becoming obvious to the Khan clan that they were getting on to the business of the city service economy and were gaining a foothold and generating enough rupees to allow the family to enjoy security and some measure of material luxuries. Perhaps the dislocation caused by the British would end up being beneficial.
It was never a garden for Muslims in India. In fact, there wasn’t even an India until fairly recently. The British East India Company ran the subcontinent from 1757 until 1813 as a company store. The Muslims living there were just another oppressed minority.
Early to mid-century 1800s was a time of progress for India. The progress was slow and uneven throughout the country but there were visible signs here and there. India had become important to England as a market and as a source of raw material so there was much cross fertilization taking place. It was a colonial ‘possession’ of Great Britain, part of The Empire, and England was afire with innovation. Some of the innovations from the outside world that were finding their way to India included the revolver, telegraph, bicycle, sewing machine, typewriter, photography, anesthetics and the steam locomotive. Steamships were bringing England closer. Victoria ascended the throne in 1837 and, with Prince Albert’s help, ushered in the Industrial Revolution with all its wonders and progress. There were parts of India that could have been mistaken for the Stone Age but in the trading centers, enlightenment sputtered to life.
Olandomar Khan was the keeper of the Khan flame in Hyderabad in 1850 and business was good. The family had both consumer and commercial services to offer. The heart of the business was in wholesale distribution of the latest machinery and tools from England and the reciprocal trade of raw Indian cotton and Madras woven goods. Access to these products put them in the enviable position of having first pick of desirable items to sell at retail at an enhanced profit margin, albeit at smaller quantities. They were complimentary businesses and the family was doing well, well enough to allow, nay, require, the employment of a small army of laborers in the warehouses and stores. The Khans were becoming managers. But, they were still a minority, a fact that was brought home from time to time by the Hindu majority or by the British shadow rulers. The family learned to keep a low profile but it was increasingly difficult as they became undeniably prosperous.
In 1857 there had been efforts toward and even more unfounded fear of forced conversion of Muslims to become Hindus in the various armies raised to sustain BEIC hegemony. The Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus alike were pressed into service as part of the Commonwealth response to WW I and WW II. The Muslim League was on board, as well. But, at the end of WW II, the citizens of India had had enough of foreign rule and were on an unstoppable tide of independence that swept The Empire. Then the explosion took place.
In 1946 Calcutta, religious fighting broke out between Muslims and Hindus. Hellish does not begin to capture the terror and destruction; neighbor on neighbor, family against family, a slaughter that knew no bounds. There was a plan being formulated to partition the country into separate Hindu and Muslim sections but the Calcutta riots moved up the time table dramatically and in 1947, Pakistan on the west and Bangladesh on the east became Muslim enclaves with the Hindus and Sikhs occupying the center, the bulk of the land mass. Even the migration of the Muslims to their new homelands was fraught with ambushes and more slaughter. In all, some 500,000 to one million people died in partition violence. The final count will forever remain unknown. Many families emigrated from the subcontinent if they could.
Galandanod Khan, his wife and one child, Ikram, were fortunate to have some favors owed to them. Galandanod had fought for England during WW II and had not only distinguished himself in combat, he had saved the personal skins of several of the British officers. Unlike many wartime debts, these officers had not forgotten theirs. As they hastily closed down the British units under their command to get clear of the religious slaughter that had erupted, a small group of those officers conspired to get Galandanod and his little family stowed away on a troop ship. They were kept in the officers’ quarters and food was spirited to them. They were not allowed to show themselves on the decks, however, even at night. The crowded ship had troops on deck at all hours of the day and night. It was a confining ordeal but the family was grateful to have been plucked from the horror of the partition riots. When the ship reached England, the family was spirited off and sent out to survive on their own. Happily, Galandanod had learned English while in service.
When Ikram arrived in England in 1948, his family was down to their last shilling. Their inquiries led them to the growing Pakistani enclave of Branford. Their first few meals were eaten at a soup kitchen supported by the local store front mosque and they found a room for their initial shelter. It was a flop house, really, with a hand drawn sign on the gate saying ‘Rooms to Let’ without the popular addendum, ‘No Pakis’. Through the mosque, Ikram found his first job as helper on a moving and storage truck. They were busy as the incoming diaspora of Pakastanis displaced the established residents, a UK version of the US ‘white flight’ where whites abandon their neighborhoods when blacks began moving in. It was the same there-goes-the-neighborhood sentiment towards a newly arrived minority.
Ikram carried the opportunistic, survival genes that had sustained his family for generations in India. He observed the community and saw more of what was not there than what was. He saw people needing to buy clothes and clean them. He saw the old line English food shops closing as their owners fled to the suburbs. He saw fresh, ambitious talent with entrepreneurial juices but little availability to the financial fuel to seed their enterprises. So, Ikram worked the moving truck during the day and, at night, he organized the Pakistani community to pool their money to fund new ventures to serve community needs.
It came so naturally to Ikram that he could not understand why everyone couldn’t grasp the full picture of the migration of Indian Muslims into Brandford and the seismic effect it was having on the community. Perhaps there was some ‘big picture’ gene he was carrying. The needs were obvious – at least to him – and the question was simply a matter of mechanics, logistics. Those ‘minor’ logistical problems were real, nonetheless. He had no time or money for school but he worked diligently on his English, both written and spoken, and drew books from the public library to bulk up his technical knowledge. The technical knowledge he needed was in finance. How books were kept. How businesses were described in numbers. How to make those numbers speak loudly and persuasively. If you wanted money from bankers and investors, you had to speak their language.
He also ingratiated himself with Branford’s bankers who thought his initial advances cheeky and presumptuous. He was initially frozen out. But, he persisted and became more adept at selling his story.
The story that Ikram Khan was promoting was that of a rich opportunity for the haughty bankers – who were losing their customer base anyhow – to fund new businesses for the burgeoning immigrant community. The first lenders in could even charge inflated interest by being the first movers. He helped entrepreneurs draw up business plans and profiled the demographics and economic base of the underserved community. One of the first banks to grasp the opportunity was Padgett Trust. Although eventually they were joined by other competing banks in serving this growing and thriving economic engine, Padgett was recognized and appreciated by the next generation of Pakistani merchants and industrialists as ‘their’ bank. It formed a working, symbiotic relationship as it is supposed to be between a local lender and the local business community.
Ikram was observant and planned his meetings with precision. His suit/tie/shirt/shoes were those studied on the bankers he has watched. He wanted to mirror their personal presentation to the last jot. The outfit had strained the family budget but he saw it as as much a business investment as signs or display cabinets for merchants or a well maintained delivery truck for a bakery. Clothes do not make the man but they sure preclude casual dismissal for overt sartorial reasons. He carried his plans and reports in a quality briefcase and they themselves were professionally rendered on appropriate quality paper and chart stock. Ikram was thorough. His only differentially noticeable characteristic was his tawny skin tone and the dark eyes with the dark raccoon-like surround of his eyes that is so emblematic of those of the sub-continent.
After an interminable and unexplained wait, he was admitted into the inner sanctum of Jeremy Randolph, a perfectly coiffed and Bond Street tailored bank president in his made-for-the-movies setting of paneled office with thick Persian carpet, imposing oak desk without a paper or even paper clip visible, high backed leather chair and even the gilt-framed portrait on the wall behind. Did he really need all this staging to prop up his position?
Jeremy Randolph did not rise but merely gestured for his visitor to occupy one of the side chairs in front of his tennis court sized desk. ‘So, Mr. Khan, sorry for the wait, but, as you can imagine, we have many pressing matters that demand our attention. I hope they made you comfortable during these two hours.’
‘No, frankly, Mr. Randolph, I find it a personal insult to have been kept waiting so long after our confirmed appointment.’
‘Well, why did you wait, then, sir? Why not go on your way and save us both annoyance?’ Jeremy Randolph’s chin tilted up as he delivered the line and he steepled his manicured fingers. It was his best disapproving head master posture and it reliably worked to deflate effrontery. It was intended to make short work of this dark skinned man of average build and thinning hair. It proved ineffectual this time.
‘Because I feel our meeting might yield something of value to us both.’
‘Excuse me if I am skeptical, sir. Although I think that exceedingly unlikely, I have extended the courtesy of a brief meeting out of deference for one of our most valued clients but I do not think that should give you license to be disrespectful of that extended courtesy.’
‘Time for us to move beyond your injured pride, Mr. Randolph, in the interest of discussing serious business.’
‘And, you think you have something of what you call ‘serious business’ to offer?’
‘I do, sir. If, at the end of this meeting, you do not agree, I will pledge to you that you will never again be troubled by financial proposals from the growing Pakistani business community right beneath your upturned nose.’
‘My good man’…
‘Don’t my-good-man me, Randolph, if you want to participate in the growth of the vibrant and, have no doubt about it, inexorable Pakistani business community of Branford.’
‘Inexorable? Well, I hardly think’…
‘That’s right. You hardly think. This is your last chance, sir. Will you hear me out or shall I make my offer to your competitors? Think before you answer this one.’
There was a kaleidoscope of attitudes and emotions that crossed Randolph’s face before he drew his breath and answered.
‘I am prepared to honor my offer to hear you out. Please make it brief as I have many important matters to attend to.’
‘Are any of those matters more important than the future of your bank here in Branford?’
‘Well, I hardly think’…
‘Yes, we have already established how you hardly think. Now, listen carefully. Your town is changing fast and perhaps more deeply than you are willing to see. I have with me information about the new town that is emerging and the needs and opportunities it has to offer. If you are doing any more than warming that leather chair, you should be awaking to the fact that your bank will either serve the new community or you will go out of business. Are we on the same page here?’ Ikram Khan paused, awaiting an answer, but his fierce steady gaze was disquieting.
Randolph stared in disbelief. He was not used to such straight unadulterated talk. He was used to deference, deserved or not, and was having instead a bath of cold water. He swallowed and said more gently, ‘Perhaps we should see what you have to show me, Mr. Khan.’
The rest of the meeting went increasingly well with Randolph carefully studying the papers, charts and maps Ikram had prepared culminating with a list of business proposals marshaled from the best of the business plans of the Pakistani entrepreneurs straining for establishment or expansion of their ventures. As the presentation unfurled, Randolph began asking questions of clarification. At the conclusion of the meeting, Randolph was fully enlisted and willing to take the issue to the Board. He saw in it an opportunity to be a hero and perceptive leader in the eyes of the bank’s principals. Ikram made it plain that he was not interested in claiming credit or authorship. Under the rubric of ‘there is no end to what a man can accomplish if he doesn’t care who gets the credit’, he was comfortable in being the power behind the throne and quietly accepting his recognition from the Pakistani community. It worked well for both of them.
In his facilitation of business formations and in judiciously using his growing network of contacts in the old line UK financial network, Ikram was in the catbird seat to be the silent partner of the many enterprises he helped birth. Eventually, he either bought out his partners or let himself be bought out. Either way, Ikram Khan quietly profited from being the champion of the Pakistani diaspora in the midlands. There was a tipping point at which non-Paki business people found their way to Ikram Khan’s equity capital firm for the financial backing they, also, needed. Although this led to Ikram’s venture capital firm, Sub-Continent Funding, going ‘mainstream’, he never lost his position in the thriving Pakistani UK business universe. Through his carefully constructed staff of investigators and analysts, there was nothing of significance happening -- or about to happen – that escaped his awareness. He had become pivotal in a crossover world.
* * * * * * *
Thadius Moubray didn’t know what to do with it. The broad beam three master had been heavily used to haul logs and had not had much care and maintenance in return. He hadn’t intended to be in the shipping business but it was the only thing of worth his debtor, Oliver Hardcastle, had to offer. Hardcastle had leased a great sweep of land in the midlands from Moubray with a sure fire plan to grow corn and wheat and make his fortune. Alas, the summer of 1780 was exceptionally dry and hot and the crops had failed. Thadius Moubray was not about to allow Hardcastle to walk on the debt so, with a few of his more menacing associates in attendance, a meeting was held to explain to Hardcastle his options for continuing above the sod, as it were. When Hardcastle realized that this was no idle chatter among friends, he suddenly remembered that he had title to a sailing ship. With some shedding of tear, it was signed over as payment of debt and continuance of life.
When Moubray first saw the Mary Frances, he almost decided to give it back and just go ahead and kill Oliver Hardcastle and be done with it. But, before he did that, he asked around. Perhaps there was some value in the old scow that he was overlooking. Moubray was a cattleman, not a sailor, but he knew how to ask the right questions of the right people.
Although wealthy by any standard, he was by profession a farmer and tended to dress more like a field hand supervisor than the laird of the manor. Effete he was not. He was a bit dumpy and was easily overlooked on the streets or in public buildings.
Since he was at the docks anyhow, he stopped into a quayside tavern frequented by both ships masters and hands. It was a noisy and smoky scene in Queen of the Waves. He knew what to look for from the few times he had been at a port and observed seamen. It was officers and men, a severe distinction. The men were common seamen equivalent to enlisted men in the land army. They dressed in utilitarian clothes; shoes that facilitated climbing in the rigging, a head scarf to lessen the ravages of the sun, rough cloth clothing to survive abrasion of hawsers. The officers wore clothing of pretention; shoes with an elevated heel and buckles, stockings, knee-length pants, a cutaway coat with epaulets or other marks of rank, a substantial fore-and-aft hat.
As expected, common seamen were spending their meager wages as quickly as they could with drink. Small fights erupted occasionally and there was a smattering of painted ladies helping the sailors dispose of their money. But, through the smoke and noise, Moubray saw a table in the corner with men in uniforms sporting evidence that they were the senior officers of the ships in the harbor. Thadius approached.
‘Gentlemen. Excuse my intrusion but I have a problem you may be able to help me with.’
‘Aye, and why should we take our valuable time from our sober deliberations, pray?’
‘Because I will pay your tab to the proprietor for what you have consumed so far and what you will consume during our discourse.’
The four men rocked back in their chairs and roared with laughter. ‘You have just joined our secret society, laddie. How can we help you? Wait, we have empty flagons here and you be in need of something to clear the dust from your landlubber throat, as well. BARKEEP!’
When all had fresh libations in their hands and they had been sampled to ward off scurvy, Thadius cleared his freshly washed throat. ‘I own a ship and don’t know what to do with it.’
The four sat silently for a two-count before bursting with another roar of laughter, some choking on their drinks to the point of requiring back pounding.
‘You have come to make our day, have you, sire? First drinks, then jokes. Oh, you are a scallywag, to be sure.’
‘Nay. I am not making sport. I got title to the Mary Frances in payment for a debt. I am not a seafaring man, as it is plain to see’…
Mumbles and chuckles all around…
…’so I need some thoughts from experienced hands like your ownselves. I am a businessman and need to know if money can be made from operating the vessel or if I should just sell it, scrap or not, and go back to the land and my cattle.’
‘He seems to be sincere, mates. Let’s give it a thought…at least until his keg runs dry.’
‘The Mary Frances is not familiar to me, sire. For what has she been used?’
‘It is lashed to the quay not three minutes walk from where we sit. But, I can tell you, it has been used to haul logs.’
‘Sounds like a coastal scow. That’s probably why it is unknown to us. We be deep water sailors, taking to and picking up from distant lands. Can the Mary Frances sail beyond sight of land?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps if one or all of you would come take a look, you could advise me. It would be worth several quid apiece to you beyond our ale.’
‘I have to relieve meself of your generous liquids, anyhow. Let’s have a look, shall we. Ned, you hold the table for us and order another round.’
Three of the four ships officers accompanied Thadius down the quay until they had a good view of the Mary Frances.
‘Well, ‘tis no ship ‘o the line, that one,’ said one.
‘She’ll be needing some heavy outfitting afore she takes to sea,’ said another.
The third took longer to render his opinion. ‘If brought up to repair, she could possibly make fair weather crossings. That she is as broad beamed as me sainted wife and appears to have an ample and open hold would open her to a number of possible cargos. She wouldn’t handle heavy weather, that one. Low freeboard. But, I could see her making some good runs down to Africa. There is business growing there and not many ships willing to take the risk.’
‘What risks?’
‘Pirate risks, sire. They be thick along that coast. You could lose it all, including your ship.’
The party repaired back to Queen of the Waves for more comfortable and better lubricated discussion.
‘And, what needs to be taken to Africa?’
‘Lots of manufactured goods. Practical things we take for granted; lamps, candles, farm tools, clothes, window glass, building hardware, muskets and powder. They don’t have anything and they need everything. There is a market in Africa for every single thing we make or build here.’
‘And, how do they pay?’
‘In goods. They have valuable resources. The most valuable are people.’
‘People?’
‘Aye, people. Big, strong natives. Real workhorses they are. They are rounded up and given in payment for goods.’
‘What would I do with people? I am guessing they be slaves.’
‘Slaves they be and we can’t put them to much use but the growers in the American colonies can. They are developing vast farms – plantations, they call them – to grow cotton, tobacco, rice, sugar. All need a lot of labor. Slaves are the best way so those planters will pay well for strong field hands.’
‘And, what would I bring back to England?’
‘Why, that’s the beauty of it, sire. You bring back those crops.’
Moubray had been lucky and had gotten the nub of the opportunity for the price of a couple of kegs of grog. He counseled with more wellborn sources but they added little to the basic story of the triangle of trade from England to the West African coast to the colonies and back. What they did add were specifics of where to land and who to look up and what to take; operational detail. What it took was either payment on the barrelhead for the initial cargo of manufactured goods to be taken to Nigeria or Sierra Leone and provisions for the ship or major credit with the suppliers at this time when credit was not practiced. The manufactured goods paid for the captured natives. The natives paid for the crops in America. The crew was given their pay from the sale of the crops in England. A virtuous circle. And, of course, the ship owner got the largest share of the reward. Entrepreneur means ‘the risk taker’ in French and who was taking the largest risk? Who was pulling the entire enterprise together?
Moubray debated with himself long and well as to what to do with this strange new concept. He was used to raising cattle and selling them to slaughterhouses for decent profit. Once you had the land that grew grass – and, he had the land – the rest was straightforward; fatten and negotiate sales. Full stop. But, this business was fraught with peril. Would the ship be seaworthy on the open ocean? Would the pirates take his ship and goods? Would the weather be benign? Would he get fair prices or better for his three disparate cargos from people he had not dealt with in trading games in which he was the amateur? And, if the commerce failed at any leg of the journey, would he be able to pay off his financial partners? Was it a risk worth taking?
He could not answer the questions in his own mind. He needed to flesh out a proposal and see if it would float – along with the Mary Frances – under the flinty eyes of money men. So, he went back to the Queen of the Waves, invested more in the liberal application of its crude alcohol to finding more information. It took several trips until he found the right ships and crews in the harbor who knew about what was being paid for goods in Africa and what goods were in most demand. He found another very rough crew that had worked on ‘slavers’ out of Africa and knew first-hand what it cost per head for the natives and what the cargo brought at auction in Kingston, Savannah and Charleston. For specifics of the last leg cargo value, he just went to the trading center and noted what the current buy/sell postings were for cotton, tobacco, rice and other commodities. From his notes, he was getting a clearer picture of the amount of commerce he could expect from a successful circuit.
To complete his proposal, he engaged several shipwrights to estimate what it would cost to bring the Mary Frances to seaworthy condition and learned from some other sea captains at the Queen of the Waves how much provision was necessary to sustain his crew and, on the Africa-to-America leg, the cargo. He was surprized at how little provision was allocated to the slaves in transit and learned that there was also a ‘shrinkage factor’ recognized for those natives that did not survive to market. He managed to block the moral issues and simply ramped up his attendance in church to compensate for whatever trivial matter there was to losing chattel at sea.
After making his proposals known to various well-monied members of the elite and some not so elite, Thadius Moubray found the financial backing that would get the project out of the slip but with codicils and conditions. He was required to make the initial run himself and he would have to forfeit virtually all the reward for the first circuit to make up for the extra risk his inexperience entailed. If all went well, he would have enough left over to finance the start of the next sailing and would receive a proper reward only if that one was successful. The reward was still tantalizing but the risks were going up. More quandaries.
The issue was decided, as so many are, by a woman.
Margaret ‘Meg’ Miller did not find herself in the shipping business by taking a crapped out boat in payment for debt but from the more conventional route of inheriting a shipping and forwarding company upon the death of her father. In the absence of a male heir, Meg, who had worked casually in the shipping company offices, stepped up to take charge in order to support her mother and younger sister. The rough men of the docks tried to intimidate her but soon learned that she had a spine of wrought iron. She knew the business, was fair and ethical and took no guff. Many deals were cancelled rather than accept the slime and bullying that were tried on her. Slowly, her reputation for fair dealing made its way through the shipping community and the business thrived, in fact better than it had under her father. The prosperity of the firm was helped by the steadily increasing shipping commerce especially with the American colonies.
The dockside shops and offices were, as expected, either serving the commerce of the port like stevedore services and trading companies or providing services to the sailing crews with pubs, houses of ill repute and small shops selling cheap clothing and souvenirs. Miller & Company was a particularly well tended freight forwarding shop with current commodity prices posted on a chalk board outside and clean windows through which an orderly office could be seen. Clerks could be observed at the counter bartering cargo and doing the attendant paperwork. The shop fairly hummed with commerce.
When Thadius Moubray wandered into the office one day to learn more about the risks and rewards of intercontinental commerce, he found Meg Miller to possess a trove of solid, common sense knowledge and a straight-from-the-shoulder manner that was more than a little attractive and in contrast to his mousey, limited perspective wife who cared not a whit about the business that supported her frivolous lifestyle of teas, salons and endless cribbage. Thadius returned repeatedly to Miller & Company, Cargo Specialists ostensibly to learn ever more about the business of shipping commerce. Eventually it was obvious that his visits were less about commerce than an excuse to spend time with Meg.
Meg, for her part, found Thadius to be open and respectful of her knowledge and opinions. And, she admired his intellectual adventurousness. He was plunging into a trade about which he knew little and was doing it in an orderly and systematic way that she recognized as the product of a first class mind. In short, they hit it off. This, despite his not being conventionally handsome nor physically imposing as was she. Yes, Meg had another attribute that commanded respect; she was a strong, big-boned woman who, although well formed, could throw a bale or barrel with any deck hand. Yet, she was clean and neat and her penmanship was clear and firm. Her clothing was feminine but utilitarian. Although she dressed as a woman and dressed well, she eschewed any fragile finery of lace or delicate fabrics or jewelry. Too impractical for the requirements of her working day. She was a full six inches taller than Thadius but neither of them seemed to notice. They enjoyed each other’s company immensely. It was her first soul connection with a man and it was deep and profound.
When Thadius made his commitment for the voyage, had the finances secured and the Mary Frances in the chandlery, Meg was excited by the adventure aforming and in awe of his courage in the face of the layers of risk he was assuming. Meg, not his wife, was his champion and increasingly close advisor. She drew up the list of provisions and equipment. She was the one who vetted candidates for captain and crew. She became his organizational partner. As the voyage was approaching date certain, Meg Miller made her own adventurous decision. She decided to go with him.
When she announced her decision to Thadius, he was flabbergasted and delighted.
‘But, what of your business, Meg?’
‘I have trained a man in the office to continue the work. He is quite capable and I have engaged a solicitor to oversee the handling of funds. My biggest problem was mother. It took some convincing to overcome her fears of continued support even more than her fears for my welfare. I now know clearly my place in the family. She’ll do all right. She will be provided for.’
‘From all our talk, you know better than I the risks that could await us. Why do you want to put yourself at risk? I care for you and am not comfortable with the thought that something untoward might befall you. Please reconsider.’
‘Thadius, you have been every inch the gentleman in our discourse. I must be plainly honest with you. I want to be with you. There, I’ve said it. Better it be out. Perhaps I presume too much. You have your decision to make, also. Will I be a burden or embarrassment to you?’
‘Oh, my precious Meg. I may swoon from happy emotion. Those words have made me the happiest and most unworthy man in the world. You know, of course, that I am married. What say you of that?’
‘I have come to know you well enough to know that your marriage is dry and formal. If I am a hussy for my commitment to you, so be it. I care less for the formalities and niceties of this stuffy society than for the prospect of adventure and heart connection with the man I have come to love. Tell me now what we should do?’
‘We shall, by God, have our life, Meg Miller. You have lit a fire in me that only lives when we are together. I am your servant. If you are ready, I will initiate the process of separation from my wife so that we can marry.’
‘I don’t see that as necessary, my dear Thadius. I have no interest in causing pain to your wife. If she is happy in her society life and you are willing and capable of continuing your support of her, let her continue in her comfort and happiness.’
‘What a bonny woman ye be, Margaret Miller. How have I deserved the affection of one so bold as ye? We be off on adventure, then, and may we survive and thrive together. My breast is bursting.’
And, so began a hereditary chain of brigands, risk takers, innovators and, sometimes, heroes that led through many generations to the house of Padgett. They were characteristically bold and insightful, especially when it came to commercial trends and opportunities. Ergo, the accumulation of fortune grew, unevenly, but always in response to the changing times and needs.
The lifelong alliance of Thadius Moubrey and Meg Miller was solid and productive. She was invaluable on the first voyage in dealing with traders in Africa and America. She did, however, have a problem with the plight of the captured natives. The Mary Frances had an open hold to allow the maximum cargo of manufactured goods for the African market. Although the Mary Frances carried the chains and iron fittings necessary for the conversion for the securing of the natives below deck, the wooden racks to which they were secured had to be built in African by local craftsmen to the plans brought from England. They were built as specified with surprising craftsmanship by the African carpenters.
For the most part, the Africans that were traded into slavery were captured by other Africans in inter-tribe conflicts or just kidnapped from their villages. There was little in the way of white men doing the capturing from the interior or transporting to the coast. They were bargained like cattle – exactly like cattle – and turned over to the white traders and seamen for shipment.
Although Thadius and Meg found the whole slave trade transaction uncivilized, bordering on barbaric, they were able to play their role in the bartering process until the men, women and children were herded aboard and locked down on the racks like securing butterflies to a display board with pins. It became even more horrific when the layers of racks were put in on top of the ones below leaving mere inches between. At the sight of this layering of humanity in misery, even the no-nonsense side of the practical Meg recoiled but not enough to cancel the shipment. She simply made arrangements to not have to see it.
The ever-resourceful Meg scoured the docks until she found another and better appointed vessel that was bound for Charleston and booked passage on it for Thadius and herself. It was faster than the Mary Frances and left a day before the Mary Frances heaved anchor so they were in Charleston almost a week before the she hove in sight. They were spared the agony of the natives during the slow, rough crossing. They were also spared experiencing the ‘shrinkage of cargo’ when natives expired in passage. Nonetheless, there was enough useful cargo that, after holding in the arrival pens, cleaned and fed, there was good return at auction. Even the slave racks were stripped of their hardware and the lumber sold for building material.
The week in Charleston before the Mary Frances arrived did not go to waste. They had scant time to enjoy the gracious beauty of the city with its lovely homes, paved streets, solid commercial centers. Charleston was afire in 1783. After being occupied and humiliated by the British in 1780, it was abandon by the British in 1781 as the British army moved north in a futile effort to finish off the Revolutionary War. Instead, it was surrounded and trapped on a peninsula on the Chesapeake called Yorktown and was defeated. As soon as the war wound down, the depleted British economy needed commerce with the newly established United States. This caused Charleston to thrive as transit point for high demand southern crops, notably cotton, rice and tobacco. And, of course, the engine of that commerce was the muscle and sinew of slave labor. Charleston was abustle.
Meg and Thadius visited various auctioneers and preparers and sat in on several sales events. They observed the auctions at the Customs House, the Exchange Building and Ryan’s Nigger Jail on Queen St. The business required that one avoid any subjective identification of the Africans as actual people. They were chattel, inventory, stock but unrelated to ‘our’ form of humanity.
The auctions were advertised in the newspapers and on handbills. The slaves – either fresh off the boats from Africa or being resold between plantations – were herded into ‘nigger prisons’ and were prepped for sale. The preparations were done by the auctioneers who wanted to bring the top dollar for their merchandise as if they were horses or cattle. The men, women and children were given a bit of rest, fed, required to bathe and shave and given clothes; suit, shirt and shoes for the men, calico dresses and bandanas for the women. All received coaching as to how to stand and how to respond promptly and politely to the inspection questions of the buyers. The more compassionate auctioneers would sell in lots; a lot being a family unit. Others gave no concern about that. Slaves were slaves and they could be sold singularly or in mixed groupings at the pleasure of the buyers. It was the same when Thadius bought and sold his cattle. But, in this case it occasionally caused outbursts of grief that might have to be subdued by whip or bludgeon.
But, business was business and Thadius and Margaret were not in Charleston to trouble themselves about local social issues. They found the contacts and intermediaries they required for ongoing business and they now knew the drill for the slave leg of their triangle of trade. Their Africans brought fair prices and they had the reward in hand from the first two legs. On to the next…
Meg came fully into her own in selecting and negotiating for the crops and craft goods that would be taken on the last leg to England. She knew that market well having handled the shipments in and out for years at Miller & Company.
The money gained from the first triangle voyage of the Mary Frances paid the investors in full and on time and left enough for a self-financed next voyage which was much more profitable without the need to pay off financiers. Thadius and Meg did not need to make subsequent voyages having acquired all the names, connections and procedural detail necessary to organize the growing enterprise.
On its fourth circuit of the triangle, the Mary Frances was set upon by pirates off the coast of Africa and lost. The crew was put into slavery, the cargo sold, the ship renamed for new owners.
By then, Meg and Thadius had the resources and the investor confidence to continue unabated. They bought larger vessels better suited to the slave transit in particular and better armed to repel pirates. They even modified the way the natives were secure and cared for. They found that they had more healthy arrivals in Savannah or Charleston if they did not pack the natives so tightly, fed them better and even allowed them deck time exercise in small groups and closely guarded. It was not a move to more humane treatment as it was for practical protection of their investment. Less ‘inventory shrinkage’ -- fewer dead natives -- equaled more sales with a higher price per head. Just pragmatic business practice.
The first child of Meg and Thadius was conceived on the Charleston to Portsmouth leg of their first voyage. Thadius’ wife was so removed from his actually life that she never knew of his second family. When she died of plague, Meg and Thadius did, finally, marry and had several more children one of which, a boy, Rodney, was identified as having the interest and temperament for business. He was tutored by his parents to develop the entrepreneurial instincts that were to continue in the chain of succession clear through to the 21st century. The die was cast.
* * * * * * *
There is some confusion as to exactly what Scotland Yard means. Is it a separate branch of security like the FBI in the US? Is it a place? What does it have to do with Scotland?
When Sir Robert Peel, ergo the ‘Bobby’ reference to London policemen, set up the Metropolitan Police Service in 1829, it was located in a building at 4 Whitehall Place whose back door was on a street named Great Scotland Yard. Over the years, the Metropolitan Police Service, the ‘Met’, has come to be referred to as ‘Scotland Yard’ much as the financial commerce of the US has come to be called ‘Wall Street’ whether it is located on the actual Wall Street or not. After several moves and additions to their housing, the Met operates from a number of buildings but the home office, if you will, is New Scotland Yard at 10 Broadway. The offices, despite the presumption based on too many Sherlock Holmes movies, is thoroughly modern with enough cubicles and computers to be mistaken for an insurance company or telemarketing firm. It is calm and professional and is where Josh found Detective Sergeant Ted Clampert, an open faced young plain clothes officer with sensible shoes and shirt/tie/suit of style to preclude interest or attention. Clampert met Josh at the elevator and directed him to a glass walled conference room with vertical blinds that could be closed if visual privacy were needed. They were left open for this meeting.