Barney said, "Cornwallis could be completely cut off by sea power —he would be forced to surrender." He motioned to a waiter, got
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a pipe and regarded Gouverneur through a cloud of smoke. They had just finished breakfast; they were sitting at their ease in the London Coffee Shop, favorite meeting place for the merchants. Robert Morris' and Joshua's offices were across Second Street. Gouverneur produced a watch from his waistcoat pocket.
"We have a few minutes," he said. "How is the recruiting going?"
Barney said, "Ive bought the best gunner, officer in the States out of debtor's jail. Twenty of the British crew volunteered—I took them, for they were mostly topmen. The marines—" He grinned. "They're mostly Bucks county backwoodsmen. Lord, how they can shoot. They don't waste bullets; they shoot to kill, sir. Ever since they've been ten and allowed the use of a rifle, they've had to account to their fathers for the amount of bullets expended. They've got to have some game to show for those bullets. That's one thing the British can't understand; an American rifleman shoots to kill. Habit, sir." He drew on his pipe. "I'll make marines out of them."
"I'm sure you will," Gouverneur said, taking a pinch of snuff and brushing it off his elegant pink coat with its row of gold buttons. Then he pushed back his chair and stood, his wooden peg leg was in violent contrast to the elegance of his dress. He had a habit of tapping the peg for attention. A servant came dashing over with his cloak and hat. Gouverneur allowed him to place the cloak on his shoulders, and tipped him well.
"Intelligence reports that Rodney is sailing soon for the West Indies, Barney," he said. "You know there's nothing better than Washington's secret service."
"If you know what the enemy is going to do—" Barney flung out his hands.
Gouverneur could walk very fast on his leg, and he swung out the door. The few loungers on the wide wooden settee out on the brick pavement stared at the two men. They crossed Front Street. It was such a dark cold day they could see the oil lights shining through the windows of both Morris' and Joshua's offices. But it was with surprise that they saw Joshua himself.
He was using his cane, and he descended the one step down from his door with difficulty. He had negotiated it when he looked up and saw the other two men.
"You shouldn't be here," Barney said.
Joshua explained with a variety of oaths that he had stayed in bed three days. "And I've been conducting business with three clerks
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—two men and one bottle," Joshua ended. "I've had a hell of a time."
Gouverneur tapped his leg. "I know all about it, sir. But the stories I could tell you, of sympathetic ladies—which of course I am honor bound to keep to myself—those stories would tempt you to part with one of yours." He grinned, and threw open the door to Robert Morris' offices, which he shared. The two men were not related, even though they bore the same name. But they were carrying the burden of financing the war for the United States. The three of them entered Robert Morris' private office.
All three of them had nothing but admiration and affection for Robert Morris. Gouverneur and Joshua, born of wealthy and old families, differed thus from Robert Morris, who had made his own way, orphaned at sixteen, the son of a port agent for a British merchant firm. "Robert Morris," Joshua had said, "is a damned genius, a financial wizard. No one else could have done it; the United States of America owes him an eternal debt. When the treasury is worse than empty we can borrow as a nation, because Morris pledges his word."
As for Barney, he felt a kinship with Morris. Both men had lost their fathers early through accidental gunshot. Morris had sailed more than once around the world; if ever a man knew the value of a Navy, he did. "Where our ships go, so must our Navy; trade is the lifeblood of a nation, and it must be protected." He had taken time to write this to Barney. He had ended, "I will add, for myself, that if you continue to act with the same bravery and devotion, you shall always find me a friend ready and happy to serve you."
"Joshua," Robert Morris said, repeating Barney's words, "you shouldn't be here."
"I brought the bond," Joshua said. He had sat down gratefully before the fire. He produced the bond of which he had spoken. He handed it to Barney. "Read it, Barney," he suggested, a little wearily.
It was very familiar. "Know all men by these presents, that we, Joshua Harris, merchant, and Benjamin Barney, mariner, of the city of Philadelphia, are held and firmly bound to the Treasurer of the United States of America in the penalty of twenty thousand Spanish milled dollars or other money the equivalent thereto, by force of arms, to attack, seize, or subdue, the enemies—" Barney read fast. He finished and looked up at Robert Morris. "Privateering again," he said.
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Morris nodded. "Some day, Barney—" He broke off, and stood up. "I've been immured here, behind this desk, too long." He walked across to the fire. "Let it be a consolation to you, sir, that your summer cruises last year financed the whole of our diplomatic services abroad for all the years of the war, and are still financing them; that they helped most materially in drawing our allies into this war, and that from accounts sent me you have charmed the court of France with your forthright personality."
"Thank you," Barney said.
Morris picked up the bond. "Now you shall be, as soon as this is signed and witnessed, in possession," he read, "of the 'Athena,' of thirty-two guns, with a crew of three hundred and forty officers and men." He paused. "Every prize you take, every dollar that comes into the treasury, is much needed. Do you know what I'm going to do now? I'm going begging, for pay for the troops."
Gouverneur explained. "From door to door." He stumped over to the nearest chair and sat down, regarding his leg.
Barney said, "Are those buttons gold, Gouverneur?"
Gouverneur looked up and nodded. Barney reached in his pocket and handed over his knife. Gouverneur started to saw off the buttons. While he sawed he talked. "Christmas coming, and the troops haven't been paid for months; they're grumbling and I don't blame them." He laid the buttons one by one on the desk, and then looked at his coat. "Damn you, Barney," he said, "you're so practical."
Barney grinned. He was in the presence of three of the wealthiest men in the United States and none of them had a cent in cash. "I can raise a little cash," he said.
All three looked as though he were a wizard. "How?" asked Joshua.
"Simple," said Barney. "My little house is clear. I'll go over to Girard and borrow in Spanish dollars on it. As much as I can get."
"I'll give you a note for it," Morris said.
"Also," said Barney, "I've got a number of captured weapons— fifty guinea dress swords, and such—duelling pistols. There are many men in the city who'd pay high for them."
"Yes, there are, sir," Joshua said. "Do you have many, Barney?"
"Chests of 'em," said Barney.
Gouverneur burst out laughing.
"That damned Rodgers," grumbled Barney, "tossed his silver-hilted one in the Delaware but he surrendered a matched set of fowl-
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ing pieces with silver mountings. When you remember I took sixty ships last summer and spring alone, sirs, you realize a lot of men have handed me whatever weapon was handy when they surrendered."
"A parade of 'em," said Gouverneur, still convulsed with laughter. "I'll take over the selling of them," he said to Robert Morris. "Let's get this bond signed, and have a drink to it."
Morris smiled. "Get the whiskey, my friend," he said. "He's been working day and night, Joshua," he continued as Gouverneur went over to his desk and got out a bottle of whiskey. "Why don't you take him with you, Barney; inspect the parade of surrendered dress swords, and take the rest of the day. Have some fun."