Miskito

By Michael Molinski

Mixing adventure & historical fact, Molinski takes the reader on a thrilling ride through the faraway and mysterious Mosquito Coast of Nicaragua. Like James Michener, he mixes well-researched history in a story that includes adventurers, missionaries, Indians, the richest of American society and down-on-their-luck denizens. An exhilarating debut! -- Joan Kruckewitt, author of The Death of Ben Linder: The Story of a Northamerican in Sandinista Nicaragua and former ABC Radio correspondent in Nicaragua.
Who knew that the Mosquito Coast played such a large role in the start of U.S. imperialism, industrialization, slavery and the Civil War? Whats frightening is that the same thing seems to be taking place today on a global scale. -- Karl Taro Greenfeld, former Time magazine senior writer and author of Speed Tribes and Triburbia.
In this explosive novel of Central America and the United States, acclaimed storyteller and foreign correspondent Michael Molinski takes readers on a journey back in time to the days of pre-Civil War United States, when the U.S. was just beginning to be recognized as a world power. Competing countries, religions and capitalists were fighting over who would dominate and control the Caribbean and Central America, and the people of the region were doing their best to control their own destiny.
THE ROOTS OF IMPERIALISM
It is 1851 and Nick Malone is faced with a life-changing decision: should he remain as a Wall Street trader and marry his socialite fianc, or should he follow those who are seeking riches in the California Gold Rush. Or, should he choose a third option: an offer from wealthy American statesman Cornelius Vanderbilt to go to Nicaragua and open a new transoceanic transportation route and canal across Central America? Follow Nicks decision as he sets off on a series of adventures that plots the course for the future of Central America but also of U.S. imperialism, global capitalism, Civil War and Manifest Destiny; and how his romance with a strong-willed Moravian missionary affected all of that.

Miskito

It is 1864, 13 years after Nick Malone first set foot in Nicaragua, and Anna Henkel is preparing a speech:
This is the labor code of the United States of America, she said, holding up a thick book for all to see, her voice raising as she did so and growing stronger.
This is the labor code of the great country of England, she said, raising an even thicker book in her other hand.
She then picked up a blank piece of white writing paper.
This, she said, is the labor code of the Mosquito Coast
We are in the nineteenth century, yet we are living in the Dark Ages. Slavery is being abolished everywhere. The United States is fighting a war on the issue. And here on the Mosquito Coast we cant even give rights to white workers, let alone blacks and Indians. Mr. Malone is right. Business is going to pick up here once more foreigners like him realize the tremendous potential of our natural resources. Do we want to give them everything and get nothing in return? Because that is exactly what they will doand then they will leave, and we will be just as poor as when they got here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496945679

Michael Molinski

Michael Molinski was born in Bloomfield, NJ, and grew up mostly in Phoenix, AZ. He is an author, foreign correspondent and entrepreneur with over 25 years of experience working for Bloomberg News, Dow Jones MarketWatch, United Press International, and Charles Schwab and Co. He is the author of Investing in Latin America: Best Stocks, Best Funds (Bloomberg Press, 1999), and Small Business in Paradise (Nolo, 2007) and has ghostwritten, edited, and contributed to several other books on business and investments. He spent several years as a foreign correspondent, where he covered everything from the Contra War in Nicaragua to economic crises in Mexico and Brazil, to the Exxon Valdez trial in Alaska. He is also a cofounder of an investment research and communications company, Investing Across Borders, and is personal finance and retirement editor at Fidelity Investments. He was a recipient of the prestigious Knight-Bagehot Fellowship at the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism, and was named one of the world’s top 150 investors by Harriman House. He has undergraduate degrees in journalism and international relations from the University of Southern California, and holds an MBA from the Columbia Business School in New York. He resides in White Plains, NY.

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© 2014 Michael Molinski. All rights reserved.

Front cover art by: Regina Gelfer

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/26/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4568-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4566-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4567-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014918006

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Contents

Part One Year 1851 – New York

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part Two Year 1864 – Mosquito Coast, Nicaragua

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements

Biography of the Author

This book is f

or my parents, Ralph and Eileen Molinski.

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Part One

Year 1851 – New York

Chapter 1

Nick woke early after a restless night. His nightmare had struck again—that same putrid white face, and then all that blood, and he awoke sweating though it was 10 degrees outside. He went over to the wash basin, splashed cold water on his face and almost froze his whiskers. Bare-chested, he stood back from the wash basin and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He had the build of a professional boxer, and his straight posture made him appear even taller than his six-feet, though he was beginning to see a little flab around his abdomen. His skin was white as milk, and it had been years since his hands had calluses. He walked to the window and clutched the red velvet drapes in his fist as he looked out at the thin coat of snow on the ground. On the inside, his apartment looked like that of any other member of New York’s upper-middle class. Nick could not quite be considered one of the movers of social, political and financial life in New York, but he was, he thought, finally accepted as part of the social elite and had to play the part accordingly. Rugs that fit in well with the hue of the drapes, red but intricately patterned with gold-colored threads, covered the hardwood floor. Reddish-brown mahogany furniture dotted the room—two end tables, a coffee table, and four big sitting chairs padded with red velvet. He turned from the window and sat at the breakfast table as Thomas served him pancakes.

New York is beautiful this time of year, isn’t it Thomas?

Yes it is. But it colder than a penguin’s penis.

Nick laughed. How do you know how cold a penguin’s penis is?

Boss, I don’t even know what a penguin is. I just repeatin what I heard the other day. Sounded mighty cold to me.

They laughed together as Nick threw on his scarf and headed out the door.

He passed the docks every day on his way to the bank. It was a few blocks out of his way, but the detour was worth it. He passed Battery Park, and as he rounded the bend on South Street he caught his first glimpse of the heavy clipper ships. One always sat at the main dock, either unloading or preparing for departure. Others sat anchored in the bay, waiting their turns. There were even a few steam ships, which Nick thought were bulky and ugly.

The destinations of the ships varied, but inevitably every week or two Nick saw what he looked forward to most—a passenger ship carrying hundreds of Easterners to the West Coast, giving up the civilized comfort of home to test their luck in the California gold rush. Just the thought of the voyage excited him—through the Caribbean to Panama, across the isthmus by riverboat and pack-mule, then onto another ship and up the Pacific Coast of Central America, Mexico and California to that gem of a city, San Francisco. To be sure, most of the people going to the Gold Rush went by wagon train. But there were some who chose the ocean route, and that was what appealed to Nick—it wasn’t the ocean travel, but the faraway places that he would see, new cultures, and new people.

Each passenger had his own tale of a distant relative or a friend of a friend who had returned from the West with stories of riches.

On this particular day in February of 1851, the ship at the dock was the St. Regis, destination Panama with 250 passengers eventually en route to San Francisco.

Nick tightened his scarf and overcoat to keep out the bitter cold wind blowing in off the sea before going on deck. The guard at the ramp shouted recognition and waved him aboard.

Morning Mr. Malone. Bought a ticket for this one?

No, Harley, just came to watch like always. I envy all these people, but I got no reason to just pack up and go. I’ve got too much to keep me here in New York.

The passengers were as varied as the population of New York City—rich, poor, black, white, Polish, Italian, Jew, Catholic. And as in the neighborhoods of New York, they all had their own separate areas. On the First Class deck, each family had its own private cabin, complete with beds, a small table that folded out from the wall, chairs, a wash basin and a porthole from which they could view the sea when it was too cold to go on deck. They ate their meals in the First Class dining room, and the meals resembled those that might be served at one of New York’s better hotels, with French wines to accompany them and desserts to follow. Second Class was on the floor below, but everyone there slept in one large room that was separated by curtains for each family. Irish families were next to Irish families, Italian next to Italian, and so on. The dining hall formed part of the same room, and no one from that class was allowed to venture onto the First Class deck, where virtually everyone was Protestant.

Third Class was in the hold. There were no cabins there, no curtains and no showers, and it was always the most populous section of each ship. Those who had nothing to lose by going West inevitably were more apt to do so, and they were the people who filled Third Class. By the end of the journey, the hole would smell like disease and rotting bed linens, and many of the passengers would not survive the trip.

Nick almost always ran into people he knew in First Class—clients, members of other banking firms, people from the club, people he had graduated with from Princeton. He had fewer acquaintances in Second Class and even fewer in Third, but once in a while he ran into a shoe-shine boy from Wall Street or an Italian-ice salesman from Central Park. It irked him to think that the ice cream salesman might be richer than him in a matter of months. He talked to them all, and even to some he didn’t know.

He recognized a young advertising executive from The New York World in First Class and, suddenly uncharacteristically, Nick tried to rush ahead without making eye contact.

Malone!

Too late.

It’s me. Tim Rooney. We played tennis at the club.

Rooney. Strange to see you here. I thought The World just doubled its number of pages. You can’t be out of a job.

Not at all, Rooney said sharply. I quit. Nine-to-five in this city is no way to make a living. There’s a lot more money and a lot more life to be had out in California. If I were you, I’d think about it too. Or do you get enough excitement behind that desk of yours at the bank?

Nick restrained his temper. This weasel had always appeared to be the epitome of laziness, Nick thought. Lousy at tennis. Never played polo. And flirted with women only when they were someone else’s guest. Now here he was going to California to hunt for gold. It didn’t make sense.

Funny, Rooney, but I just can’t imagine you with a pick in your hand.

Surely you’re joking, Nick old boy. I would never get my hands dirty. I’ll leave that to the poor bastards down there in Third Class. Then I’ll give them 50 percent of the value of their gold at my assayers shop.

Nick managed to squeeze out a polite, Have a safe trip before he steamed down the passageway and descended the ladder to Third Class.

Now he felt more relaxed. He always did in Third Class. Although he had spent the past several years fighting to be accepted by New York’s social elite, he felt most comfortable here with the people of his roots. There were no pretensions. No worries about how to look, or whether or not he said the right thing in the right way. It’s not that the people in First Class weren’t real people too. But down here, people knew who they were, accepted it, sometimes felt belittled by it but never tried to pretend they were someone or something that they weren’t.

The only person who did feel out of place was Nick, with his tailored, pinstripe business suit, accented as always with a tasteful, white silk ascot.

Malone?

Not Again? Nick thought.

He turned to face a short, red-haired man who appeared to be about 30 years old, with a strong build and an even stronger odor.

Nicholas Malone? the man repeated.

Yes. Do I know you? Nick asked, and as he was asking something in the man’s face took him back to a game of stickball from long ago. The face became clearer.

Seamus?

Seamus O’Casey was 11—the same age as Nick—when his family moved out of Orange, New Jersey, where they had both grown up together.

The foul-smelling man hugged Nick unashamedly, then pulled back embarrassed when Nick stiffened.

Seamus O’Casey. I never expected to see you again. What? Or where …?

Everything and everywhere, Seamus replied in a half bitter tone, glancing at Nick’s suit.

One failed risk after another. Now comes the biggest risk of them all—California. May God grant that this doesn’t fail as well.

I wish ya all the luck in the world, man, Nick said, surprising himself at how easily he slipped back into his Irish brogue. But tell me. Why California?

Why California?! Why not, man. Look around ya. Could all these people be wrong? Could the ships and wagon trains full of Easterners all on their way to California be headed to a mythical pot o’gold? My only worry is that by the time I get there the pot will be empty. But look at you, man. Looks like you’ve already found your pot o’gold.

I found it a penny at a time, Seamus. And sometimes I think of giving it all up to do what you’re doing.

Nicholas, take some advice from a poor Irish drunk. Leave risk to the poor man who has nothing left but his dreams. Hold onto those shiny threads and that fat salary. The rest of us would kill for it. But tell me, how did you do it?

I was lucky, Nick replied. Remember ol’ man Jameson?

No-jaw Jameson. That fat old lard. Sure I do.

Well, I talked him into getting me into Princeton. Spent two years studying law and banking, and while I was there I met a guy named Charles Jones whose father offered me a job at his bank. So here I am, and Nick motioned his hand to display his own clothes.

The two men, so different in appearance despite their similar roots, chatted for a while about the old days in Orange. Stickball just outside the factory wall. Christmas parties at the Hennigan home over the drugstore. Skipping altar boy practice to play Don’t Get Wet in the brook.

They shook hands as Nick got up to leave, and Nick placed a $10 bill in Seamus’s palm. Seamus was proud, but he was also poor—he accepted the money and nodded his thanks.

Nick walked up South Street, turned onto Wall Street and stopped before entering the banking office. He looked up. Securing a desk behind the impressive limestone letters of Macklovich, Jones and Porter had been a dream come true.

That night, he took Jeannine to Maxwell’s for dinner. They ordered a bottle of French wine, steak, and Spanish flan for dessert. Jeannine’s hair was in a neat pile on top of her head, but as she dipped her spoon gently into the rich custard, Nick imagined the long blond strands falling caressingly over her naked breasts. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever met, and although it cost him half a week’s salary to take her to dinner at Maxwell’s, he did so because he was proud of the admiring looks she attracted from everyone in the restaurant—both men and women. And besides, it made Jeannine happy.

Nick’s mind was not on his meal, and it certainly was not on his manners, but he noticed Jeannine cringe when he used the wrong fork for his salad. He thought of the ship, and of Seamus, and with his mouth half full he blurted out, What do you think about California?

She gave him a long, inquisitive look from across the table. Jeannine wasn’t one to mince words, and she knew Nick wasn’t either. He wasn’t one to just blurt out an issue like California like that for casual conversation. Deep down, a feeling of fright came over her, a feeling that the stability that she was beginning to feel in their relationship could come unraveled. I hear it’s wonderful—for people who like the wilderness, she replied matter-of-factly. I don’t. So the answer to your question is, I don’t think much about California.

He had hoped she would leave a little room for argument, but he had anticipated her reaction. She was a New Yorker, of well-groomed British and French ancestry, and in the city she belonged.

In the following weeks, Nick never mentioned California to Jeannine again, but he continued to pass by the docks on his way to work, and he continued to let himself become envious of those who were dubbed the 49ers. At his desk at work, or in his bed at his small but costly apartment in Greenwich Village, his thoughts always ended with Seamus O’Casey, and Seamus’s words did not make him think less of California, but more. Seamus’s defense of Nick’s lifestyle made Nick even more distasteful of it, and his thoughts of California became more and more inflated, more and more glorious. What was keeping him from going? Why not? Nick thought.

Chapter 2

In April, as the last of the winter ices melted away and New York was at its most pleasant, the young girls in the city began to dress more gaily. Bright cottons and silks garnered their dresses; necklines were lowered; skirts flared out, and occasionally they removed their shoes and stockings to wade in the cool water of the Hudson, giving the young men a rare glimpse at their ankles.

But Nick’s mind was on other things. The climate was now warm enough to allow more pleasant ocean travel, and more and more New Yorkers were taking advantage of the Panama route. Nick noticed also that more of them were taking steamships rather than clippers or schooners. As he arrived in his horse and buggy outside the Goddard’s house in Brooklyn, he told his driver to wait and walked to the door to call on Jeannine. The negro butler answered and showed Nick to the living room where Jeannine’s parents, Doctor and Mrs. Goddard, sat having tea. They greeted him politely.

Upstairs, Jeannine put the finishing touch on herself for the evening—a dab of French perfume that her Aunt Louise had sent. She spent an hour in the park that day, getting just enough sun to give a natural rosy color to the creamy white skin of her cheeks. She even borrowed a chiffon dress from Elaine, the daughter of the mayor. She and Elaine were friends on the outside, but inside they were bitter rivals.

Jeannine descended the stairs, and Nick got up, politely said goodbye, and escorted her to the buggy. They traveled silently for the first 15 minutes, then Jeannine finally blurted out, Well?

Well what? Nick asked.

Oh, she snapped. I spend an hour in the park with my face in the sun, then I borrow a dress from Elaine Kingston, who I hate. I put on the newest and most expensive perfume money can buy, and you say, Well, what?"

Nick looked at her patiently, then chuckled, and Jeannine’s angry red cheeks got even redder.

What are you laughing about?

Well, Nick said, your rosy cheeks are truly beautiful, but you’re even prettier when you’re purple with anger.

Jeannine laughed too, and Nick grabbed her and kissed her, taking both of her lips in his and then running his tongue gently but hungrily along the outside of her upper and lower lips.

Why did you insist that I be ready so early? Jeannine asked as she rested her head on his shoulder. The party doesn’t start until eight o’clock.

As she was talking, the buggy veered off the main road and came to a stop on the bank of the Hudson near a grove of apple trees. The apple blossoms were in bloom, and the grove looked like a scene from one of Henry David Thoreau’s books—candied trees lined a river of floating diamonds that reflected the sun’s warm rays through the swaying branches and onto the soft velvety grass. Hummingbirds darted from flower to flower. A squirrel looked up from his chestnut at the buggy, then picked up the nut and scurried behind the tree to finish his meal in private.

Nick took her hand and helped her from the buggy, and they strolled in silence for some time before Nick said, Sweetheart, I have made an important decision. I must go to California.

The surprise and hurt were obvious in Jeannine’s eyes, but Nick went on:

I know California is no place for you, but if I don’t go I’ll never forgive myself. I won’t be happy. It won’t be for long. Just long enough to try my luck in gold and business, then return here a wealthy man.

Jeannine ran off and plopped onto a patch of grass facing the river. When she finally turned to face him, tears streamed down her face.

You’re already a wealthy man, she cried. You have more wealth than most men dream of, and I’m not just talking about money. You have a powerful position and respect and people who love you. Her sobs continued.

Nick was taken aback. He had never seen Jeannine so emotional. She was always so cool, so confident. He had never seen her cry, and he had never expected to. But those were real tears, and that was the first time she had used the word love in a reference that, he realized, must refer to her feelings for him.

Not knowing what to say, he hugged her and said, I love you Jeannine, and I’ll come back a rich man and make us both happy.

I love you too, she said, crying now in mixed happiness and sorrow, but you are a very arrogant man to think I’ll wait.

In distant silence, Nick and Jeannine returned to the Goddard home so Jeannine could fix her tear-ruined make-up and straighten her wrinkled dress before proceeding to the party.

I forgot my purse, she said to her father as she whisked in and out.

The Buckingtons’ party was the social event of the season in New York. People came from the capital, and from as far away as Chicago to attend—powerful people, people with property and money who knew how to control their wealth, and control other people. Whether they made their money in railroads, cotton, banking or shipping, they were there not just to socialize but to do business.

Nick and Jeannine arrived late. Here comes the hard part, Jeannine thought, and she cringed as she prepared to introduce Nick to the elite friends of her family. He’s smart as they come, but does he have to speak like he’s fresh off the beanfield? In deep conversation, Nick impressed almost anybody with his intelligence. But during presentations and small talk, his lower-class roots showed forth.

Nicholas, please try to remember to pronounce your Rs when they appear in words, and do not when they are not. Wash does not have an R in it. Word does.

Nick sent her a dirty look.

The walls in the house were covered with original works by the Spanish masters—Goya, Velazquez, El Greco—and Jeannine identified each by title and year. Six Waterford crystal chandeliers lit the ballroom, and Persian carpets covered the floor. The hosts greeted the guests in the foyer.

How beautiful you look tonight, my dear, Mrs. Buckington chimed. And is this the handsome young man who has made you the envy of half the young girls in New York?

Mr. and Mrs. Buckington, may I present Mr. Nicholas Malone, Jeannine said politely without blushing.

Even in such elegant company, Nick and Jeannine drew stares from everyone as they entered the crowded ballroom. Men let out their breath as Jeannine walked by, and Nick was not without his share of glances from young women eager to meet this handsome newcomer to New York’s society set. Nick returned most of the smiles, but he stayed close by Jeannine.

Midway into the evening, Jeannine overheard a conversation nearby and excused herself from Nick’s side.

Pardon me, she interrupted three men involved in a business discussion. The men were so obviously pleased with the interruption that Jeannine permitted herself a slight giggle.

Did I overhear you men mention my uncle Cornelius?

Why yes, one of them said. We were just upstairs talking with him and …

He is here? Jeannine said.

Yes he is Miss. In the smoking salon.

Oh, how wonderful. It has been months since I’ve seen him. You’ll all have to excuse me while I go upstairs and say hello.

Why certainly, Miss, but the smoking salon is strictly off limits to …, well to …

To women, Mr. Burke? That’s quite all right. I’ll just wait in the hall until he comes out. I wouldn’t want to interrupt those dreadfully important discussions they must be having up there. Her mind raced back to the events of the afternoon. If there was any way of stopping Nick from going to California, she was going to find it. This could be her chance. She casually walked back to Nick and lied that she was going upstairs to powder her nose.

She detested smoking rooms. Just another way to keep women out of the fun stuff, but that was okay with Jeannine. She couldn’t bear the smoke for more than a few minutes. Thank God her Nicholas would never keep her out of conversations, she thought.

She found the room and paced the hallway in front of it for some moments before she got restless, grabbed the doorknob and gently swung the door open and poked her head in.

Oh, excuse me sirs. I thought this was the powder room. I’m deeply sorry to interrupt … Why, Uncle Cornelius! she said in mock surprise, pushing her way further into the room. I didn’t know you were here. How very nice to see you. You know, I’ve been meaning to drop by your office. My mother made an apple pie the other day, and she said it was your favorite. I thought of taking it to you.

Cornelius Vanderbilt sat in a plush leather armchair, surrounded by men of all ages seeking his advice, trying to gain his favor. But when his pretty niece approached, he chuckled, ended the conversation and, despite the disapproving stares of the men in the room, grabbed Jeannine’s hand and sat her down next to him.

Jeannine glanced furtively around the room. So this is what it’s like, she thought. It smells terrible.

Child, you must know this room is no place for pretty young ladies. As you are my favorite niece I will make an exception. But come now, let us talk in the room next door and leave these men to their smoking.

Mr. Vanderbilt rose a bit unsteadily from his chair and led Jeannine to an adjoining parlor. My dear, you look just like your mother did when she was your age. And I’ll bet the young men chase you just as much as they used to chase her.

Oh, Uncle, you do know how to flatter. I suppose the boys do chase me, but I have allowed only one of them to catch up: a man, not a boy. I guess you could say we’re in love.

Who is this lucky fellow?

His name is Nicholas Malone. He is employed at Macklovich, Jones and Porter. And he is the most wonderful man in New York. Next to you and daddy, of course.

Malone? An Irishman. Name rings a bell.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve heard of him, she said proudly.

Why don’t you tell him to come work for me?

"Uncle Cornelius, I can’t even talk him into staying in New York. He wants to go to California, and I’m afraid nothing I can say will change his mind.

But maybe if YOU were to talk to him, she said, trying not to sound rehearsed. Everyone respects your judgment.

Child, if that man is foolish enough to go to California and leave a treasure like you behind, I doubt if I’ll be able to talk sense into him. But send him up. I’ll see what I can do.

Thank you, Uncle. You’re a peach, and Jeannine kissed him on the cheek and rushed downstairs.

She found Nick surrounded by three young women, all smiling up at him. Uninhibited, Jeannine brushed them aside and grabbed Nick’s hand.

Sweetheart, could you get me a glass of champagne, please.

Nick excused himself from the young ladies.

Jeannine knew that calling him sweetheart would stun them, and she also knew that asking for champagne at her age at a public party was a bold move that none of them could match.

Why Jeannine, I didn’t know you were accompanying Nicholas.

Yes you did Cynthia. Just as I knew you were escorted here by your father.

Nick smiled as the three women turned and walked away.

You look like a cat that has just finished off its prey, Nick said as he handed her a glass of champagne.

Whatever are you talking about? she said, feigning innocence.

Nick laughed.

Sweetheart, before I forget, Uncle Cornelius is upstairs and would like to speak to you.

Nick almost dropped his whiskey.

Cornelius Vanderbilt is here?

She nodded.

And he wants to speak to me?

Jeannine was pleased. It was not often Nick was impressed by anyone or anything, but she knew he had wanted to meet her uncle for a long time.

Nick found the Commodore, as most of New York referred to Vanderbilt, in the smoking room. Disguising his nervousness, he introduced himself and firmly shook his hand.

Mr. Malone, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My niece speaks very fondly of you. I trust you know how lucky you are.

That I do, sir. That I do.

You know, some of my associates have also mentioned you, rather begrudgingly I might add. Seems you’ve got the jump on them on several land investments.

Nick tried to control his smile, but the wise old man stopped him. I like that. My men are the best, and it’s not often they get beaten. Keeps them humble.

Just doing my job.

Yes. Pity it’s not for us. So what’s this about California? Jeannine tells me you’re thinking of heading West.

Yes sir. I’ve been considering it for some time. I’m planning to leave next month.

You would leave a beautiful woman, a high-paying job and a bright future in banking for a risky shot at striking gold half a world away? Why, may I ask?

Well sir, I’ve never been outside New York and New Jersey. I love the countryside, and I want to see some of the world. If I fail, I can come back. I have my whole life to be a banker. But I’m craving some adventure, and I think California is it.

Well, if those are your reasons then there is no stopping you. But if you’ll excuse me for a minute while I speak with one of my associates, I just might have a proposal that could satisfy your taste for adventure and help me at the same time.

Joseph White was on the veranda chatting with a young woman when Vanderbilt found him. The two men were as different from each other in their social lives as they were in their business dealings, but they were successful in both nonetheless, and they made good partners. Mr. White wore formal attire—a charcoal suit emblazoned with his initials on the chest and highlighted by a white silk ascot around his neck. He excused himself from his conversation to address his powerful associate.

Your timing, as always, is impeccable Cornelius. What is it you want?

"Just a simple business matter, my friend. Have you had any success finding someone