_The Story of a Jewish Money Lender of the Revolution._
Jonas Schmidt, one of the jailors of the Provost, the grim old prison
in New York, where the British had confined their numerous French and
American prisoners after capturing the city from Washington in 1776,
stood before Sir Henry Clinton, the English commander, shifting
uneasily as he fumbled his cap with his great, hairy hands. Sir Henry
looked him over coldly with his quiet, keen eyes that cowed man and
horse alike; then he turned to his companion, General Heister,
Commander of the Hessian mercenaries, purchased by the British king
and sent overseas to fight his battles.
"We can get nothing out of this man," he said in a tone of cold
contempt. "He is either too stupid--or clever enough to appear so!--to
answer our questions." He nodded to the embarrassed jailor. "You may
go now. But remember: if escapes become too numerous, I may find it
necessary to use the gallows in the courtyard yonder and find another
jailor for my prison."
Jonas bowed respectfully and lost no time in putting the door between
him and Sir Henry. Tory though he was, the old man hated the English
commander with all the strength of his simple soul. He had been eager
enough to secure the situation of jailor at the Provost, never
dreaming of the horrors he might see there. Now, sickened with the
prison stenches, with the half-starved prisoners wasting away with
fever and dying before his eyes, he thought longingly of his little
farm up in the hills where his placid wife and two stout daughters
lived as peacefully as though the colonists had never rebelled against
the mother country and hardly knew that the British held New York.
"Too stupid to answer," muttered the old man, swinging his heavy keys,
as he passed down the prison corridor. "But I am wise enough to hold
my tongue when it profits me nothing to endanger the necks of better
men than Sir Henry Clinton. Let him use his own eyes, if he will; mine
will be shut when good Mr. Salomon chooses to walk abroad," and he
chuckled softly as he passed down the dark, damp corridors.
Sir Henry's teeth clicked angrily as the door closed behind the
jailor. "Well?" he demanded of the Hessian Commander. "Well, since
this man seems to bear out the reputation for honesty you gave him, it
seems that we are on the wrong trail. Yet I mistrust this Haym
Salomon, though our friendly jailor declares that he knows naught
against him. It might be well to keep a stricter watch on this Jew
broker in the future."
General Heister nodded emphatically. He was far too good a diplomat to
quarrel with Sir Henry or to waste breath defending a man whom the
Englishman mistrusted. "I only know that he is a man of rare parts,"
he said, "a man who has traveled much before coming to America and has
become versed in many tongues. That is why, when I found him among
the captured Americans two years ago, I deemed it better to use him
and his talents rather than confine him with the others to rot and die
of the prison fevers. So I have allowed him greater freedom than the
other prisoners and found a place for him in the commissariat
department where his knowledge of tongues and his Hebrew shrewdness
have proved of great value to me."
Sir Henry gave a short laugh. "That Hebrew shrewdness of your learned
friend may have proved of equal value to several of the French and
American lads who have lately escaped from our prison. No, do not
remove him--just yet. Give the rogue a long enough rope and he may
find it dangling around his own neck on the scaffold out yonder." He
turned to the sheaf of papers before him, pushing back his fine lace
ruffles. "Enough of Haym Salomon. He will be my care hereafter. Now go
over these lists with me, Heister," and he began to turn the closely
written sheets with his long, nervous fingers.
At that moment Jonas, the jailor, was talking in low, excited tones to
a man he had stopped in one of the prison corridors, a grave-faced man
with shrewd eyes and a tender mouth which smiled now at the other's
earnestness.
"I can only warn you, Mr. Salomon," repeated the little jailor, "that
Sir Henry is watching you as a chicken hawk watches a tender pullet.
Many a time have I lost a choice fowl through the appetite of those
accursed thieves," he added, half to himself, as his mind wandered
back to his quiet farm. Then, pulling himself back to the present: "I
know that many things go on in this prison which--which might not suit
the pleasure of his majesty over seas, but," with a shrewd chuckle, "I
cannot be every place and if a lad or two does escape--well, may the
dear God be as gracious to my one boy should he fall into the hands of
your George Washington and his rebels. But, Mr. Salomon," detaining
the quiet man in the black coat who was about to pass on, "do not take
too many risks just now. Do not allow your kind heart to lead you into
danger. For if you are discovered being--ah--too kind to some of our
prisoners, I cannot save you from Sir Henry. Promise me," laying one
of his great, red hands on the other's arm, "promise me, you will
attempt no more 'prison deliveries' until his suspicions are quieted."
Haym Salomon shook his head. "I am sorry to cause you anxiety, my
friend," he answered, kindly, "for you have been a good friend to me.
And I will try to be careful--if I can. But first there is a promise I
must redeem. When that debt is paid, I will try to behave so
discreetly that even Sir Henry Clinton will own his suspicions of me
unfounded."
"A debt to be paid!" The jailor looked puzzled. "Why, you are one of
the richest brokers in New York. If you owe any money, give me a word
to your wife and I will see that the debt is discharged and your mind
at rest."
Salomon shook his head, smilingly. "It is a debt money cannot pay," he
answered. "I have pledged my word and that has never been broken, nor
can I break it now." He passed on and the jailor looked after him, a
look of mingled respect and affection on his fat, stupid face.
A place of horror even to a well man, the old Provost meant
unspeakable tortures to a youth slowly recovering from prison fever.
Young Louis di Vernon, lying upon the dirty wooden floor, faint from
the fever and sick for home, turned longing eyes toward the grated
door which had not swung open since Jonas had entered with his
breakfast of bread and water for the prisoners. But Haym Salomon had
promised to come later in the day and the boy waited confidently, for
like many others he trusted the quiet man with the shrewd eyes and
tender mouth.
At last the door opened and Jonas enter the room, wooden bowls of a
sticky, floury substance he called "gruel" on his tray. He passed
between the men, leaving his bowls besides them on the floor. When
they complained of thirst, he stopped for a moment to ladle out a
dipperful of water from the wooden pail he carried upon his left arm,
while now and then he stopped to hear some complaint of a weary man,
to promise aid or seek to jest away the prisoner's melancholy.
"The broth too salt?" he repeated, gravely. "How can that be when one
of your rebel friends serves behind the soup kettle this month? Now if
a poor Hessian or loyal Englishman like myself were cook, you might
have reason to complain that he spitefully over-seasoned your
victuals. Or is it that the cooking of your rebels is as evil as your
politics?" And again: "Too crowded, eh? Well, some folks are never
satisfied and you'd be among the growlers, my friend, if you slept on
down and fine linen. Why among the well prisoners, 'tis so cramped for
space that when their bones ache from the floor at night and they
would turn, they find themselves wedged in so tight that not a man can
budge till I give the order, 'Left, Right!' when they turn in a solid
body and ease their weary sides. And you, who sleep in what they would
consider a palace, poor souls, call yourself suffering for room."
He had reached Louis by this time and his quick eye noted how flushed
the lad was, while his eager glance kept turning toward the grated
door. With an impatient gesture the Frenchman pushed away the bowl the
jailor set beside him. "I am sick of prison fare," he cried, hotly.
"When I left France to follow Lafayette I never dreamed that I might
die of prison fever in a hole like this. Take away your food; the
sooner I starve, the sooner I am free."
Jonas looked him over sympathetically, but could say nothing of
comfort; instead he pushed the bowl toward him again, thinking,
perhaps, the dinner might do something to restore the boy's peace of
mind. But the prisoner again shoved him aside and sat up, his eyes
straining toward the grated door, where some one now rattled the bars.
"Let me in, friend Jonas," said the voice of Haym Salomon, "and I
promise not to steal any of the good dinner you have brought your
fledglings."
The heartsick prisoners smiled at the poor jest and more than one man
turned eagerly as Jonas unlocked the door and admitted the Jewish
broker, a prisoner like themselves, yet bringing with him the free
air of the outside world. Haym passed from one to the other, with
here a smile, there a word of comfort or bit of quaint philosophy.
Into the fever-hot hands of one flaxen-haired farmer lad lying half
delirious and dreaming of home, he dropped a few flowers plucked in
the prison yard that morning; to a lonely, discouraged Frenchman he
spoke in his own tongue, uttering a homely proverb that caused the
homesick foreigner to laugh back into his smiling face. At last he
came to Louis, and, with a nod toward the puzzled Jonas, lifted the
bowl of soup and placed it to the boy's lips.
"Drink," he commanded gently, but gravely. "You must eat and drink and
grow strong or you will not be able to go back to your sweetheart in
France. I have not forgotten my promise to write to her for you, but
first you must please me and eat. And, now, Jonas, some of your good
clear water--as sparkling as the wines of sunny France. Did I ever
tell you, Louis, my lad, of the little inn where I ate my first meal
in your country and how the good landlord laughed at my blunders, for
then I knew little of your tongue?"
Never taking his eyes from his friend's face, the boy obediently ate
and drank and Jonas looked on, well satisfied. He knew that his
masters did not concern themselves whether the prisoners starved or
not; yet, somehow, it made him uncomfortable at times to see boys no
older than his own son wasting away before his eyes. He wondered
whether he was hardy enough to be an efficient jailor.
Something of his thoughts must have been written upon his broad, red
face, for Salomon looking up quickly, nodded as though he understood.
"Louis is a good lad, Jonas," he said, taking out his writing material
and spreading it upon his knees. "There are many good lads here--boys
like your boy who chooses to serve the king instead of the colonies.
My little one is not yet old enough for the army; such a tiny mite,
Louis!--but if he were, I should find it hard not to hate the man who
caged him here behind bars like a beast and kept him stiffling in the
prison darkness. You are too tender a man for such devil's work,
friend Jonas. Ploughing and milking your peaceful cows might bring you
less gold, but there would be no heart ache when the day's work was
over."
Jonas scowled heavily. Rumors had reached him before of certain
English sympathizers like himself who had found their work distasteful
after a quiet talk with Salomon and had suddenly left their posts,
declaring that they no longer desired to serve the king and his cause.
To be sure, he, Jonas Schmidt, would remain a loyal servant to King
George until the end of his days, and yet--why, should this quiet man
prod his sleeping soul with disquieting thoughts?
"And now," Haym spoke briskly to the young Frenchman, "we will write
to your sweetheart and tell her how well you are getting on and that
as soon as the wound in your hand is healed you will write to her
again." His pen raced over the paper. "Perhaps you will care to look
it over and correct my spelling which is even worse in French than in
English," and he handed the sheet covered with French characters to
Louis. The boy took it languidly enough, but his weary eyes brightened
as he read:
"Do not show any surprise, but I must communicate with you in this way
lest there be spies among the prisoners who would betray us. You are
to grow weaker and tomorrow morning the jail physician, whom I have
bribed, will find that you have died in the night. The grave digger
will turn your body over to friends of the cause who will help you to
leave New York and reach the Colonials in safety. If I am ever free
and you need a friend, call upon me without reserve."
The boy, his eyes filled with sudden tears, reached out and would have
pressed Salomon's hand, but the latter drew back laughingly. "Why such
gratitude over a mere letter which has taken me but a moment to pen?"
he said lightly, speaking loudly enough to be heard by those about
him. He folded the sheet carefully, placing it in his breast; as he
did so, he felt the eyes of a prisoner upon him; a newcomer who looked
him over carefully; then turned away with an indifference that Haym
believed was wholly feigned. But if Salomon felt that the man was an
informer he gave no sign. "Now I must about my work," he told Louis.
"I will see that your missive leaves by the next ship. So eat, my
little friend, grow fat, and cease to worry. _Au revoir._"
"_Au revoir_," answered Louis, with equal lightness. "I know my
betrothed will rejoice to see your letter."
* * * * *
In one of the darkest cells of the old Provost sat Haym Salomon with
chains about his wrists and ankles. From the courtyard he could hear
the merry laughter of the British soldiers and their Hessian comrades
as they smoked and jested after their evening meal. Like true
soldiers, they took it all in a day's work and there seemed to be no
lack of spirits among them even if they were assigned the grim task of
hanging a man upon the morrow. And Haym Salomon, being condemned to
death by a military court, smiled his grave, gentle smile to hear
their mirth. He had played the game of chance and he had lost, so why
should he complain?
Down the damp corridor came the shuffling of feet and a moment later
Jonas Schmidt entered, a lantern in one hand, a straw basket on his
arm. "Your wife has sent you something for your evening meal," he said
gruffly, placing the basket on the bench beside the condemned man. He
spoke loudly as he noticed a red-coated Briton loitering at the end of
the passage. "Faith, she has sent you enough to feed a regiment. But
women are ever foolish. My own wife is waiting for me below. She has
come all the way to New York merely for advice about our milch heifer
and traveled weighted down with cakes and eggs and butter--which all
her careful packing could not shield enough from the August sun, and
it has oozed through her finest linen napkin and she is sorely
grieved. But not an egg is broken and tomorrow Sir Henry Clinton will
eat eggs laid by loyal Tory hens for his breakfast with my
compliments."
Haym glanced sharply at his old friend who seldom indulged in such
lengthy speech. He was about to the basket, touched at his poor wife's
thoughtfulness, when the jailor gave a warning gesture and tiptoed to
the door. Then he came back, nodding, well pleased at his own craft.
"The lobster has disappeared," he whispered. "I thought that my
chatter would mislead him. But we have not a minute to lose. Open the
basket and dress quickly in the woman's raiment you find there." Then,
as Haym stared at him bewildered, "Dress, I say," and he pulled from
the basket a calico dress, tightly rolled, a gay shawl and a woman's
deep straw bonnet. "When you were pronounced guilty--and every man in
New York knew what the outcome of your trial would be--I said that I
for one would not have your blood upon my hands. No, no, Haym Salomon.
You may be an infidel Jew, but you are a better Christian than all who
worship in Trinity Church every Sabbath. By the will of God, my son
passed through New York on his way home for a moment's visit with his
mother. I entrusted him with a letter I dared not send through the
post, telling her to come to me at once, bringing a set of garments
exactly like those she herself would wear." He chuckled. "She came,
thinking me quite mad, but obeying me as is her habit. In a moment, I
had told her all. She left the extra clothes in that basket with me
and now waits us beyond the courtyard, where Sir Henry and his friends
will find an empty scaffold tomorrow."
Thus the little jailor, unlocking Haym's chains as he spoke.
"But I do not understand--" Haym was still bewildered, after his long
hours of torturing doubt and uncertainty--"You never spoke to me of
escaping."
"I dared not raise your hopes too high. What if Sir Henry decided I
was not so stupid after all and put another jailor in my place? But
now all is ready. The sentinels below have seen my wife visit me today
and I took pains to let them believe she was dining in my room,
whereas she slipped away when the guard was being changed. Now when
you leave the prison with me, I have but to say that I am taking my
good dame to the stage coach." Again he chuckled, half forcing Salomon
into the calico dress. "Instead, we will meet her at the appointed
place, you will slip off these flounces--she cautioned me that you
should not tread upon them and tear them down, as she loves this frock
dearly,--and seek your good friend, General McDougall, who commands
the rebel forces in our neighborhood and will grant you protection,
while my wife and I will hurry back to our little farm."
"But your position here--" Haym fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons of
the dress.
"I do not care to remain here and have Sir Henry Clinton try me in his
court," answered the other, simply. "So a week ago I handed in my
resignation--my rheumatism cannot endure this prison dampness--my wife
insists that unless I come home for the harvest, she will come to
fetch me--and other strong proofs that I must leave the dear old
Provost. And, fortunately, my friend, the noble gentleman who secured
this post for me has fallen in battle, and no one else knows where to
look for the stupid jailor who helped Haym Salomon to escape."
"But, my friend, I cannot allow you to take such a risk for me,"
protested Salomon. "And even if you are not punished--do you care to
give up your post for my sake?"
"I, too, have grown tired of this devil's business," answered the
little jailor. "Even if you were to die tomorrow, I should give it up
and go back to my little farm where I might feel myself an honest man
again."
Suddenly Haym sat down upon the bench, his mouth grim and stubborn. "I
will not go. My name has always been spotless. But if I escape, there
may be some who will believe that the charges brought against me are
true, that I have acted as a secret agent for General Washington,
endeavoring to burn the British warships and warehouses at his
instigation. Whereas you know that my one crime was helping those few
poor lads escape from their torture."
"Will you stay here and argue until morning when the guards will take
you below to let you swing for your folly!" muttered Jonas, now
thoroughly exasperated. "You and I and the world know that not even
Sir Henry himself believes the charges brought against you at your
trial. It was only when that young Frenchman escaped two months ago
and one of Sir Henry's ready spies betrayed you, that you were clapped
into his cell to face charges in his court. I warned you then how it
would be and you would not heed my words. Now let me save you before
it is too late."
"But my wife and little son," murmured Salomon, as the other adjusted
the heavy shawl about his shoulders. "Who will care for them?"
"You can send for them when you have found shelter. And if you stay
and are hanged, who will protect them?" He pushed the large bonnet
upon Salomon's head, nodding with satisfaction to see how it concealed
his face. "Now, remember, say nothing and try to walk slowly--no, no,
shorter steps! And put the basket on your arm." He stepped back to
admire the result of his scheming. "Mr. Salomon," he said, seriously,
"if I did not know that my good wife was waiting for me outside I
would swear she stood before me. Come, take my arm,--remember, walk
slowly--" and the two passed out into the sultry August night.
* * * * *
The Revolutionary War was over, and young Louis di Vernon, still very
much of a boy despite the down upon his lip and the manly assurance
achieved by almost seven years hard soldiering, leaned back in the
shabby arm chair and looked questioningly at his host across the
table. Since his escape from the old Provost, he had often heard tales
of Haym Salomon's great wealth, the magnificent sums he had lent the
government, his generosity toward the nation's unpaid representatives,
especially his young friend Madison. And yet this man of almost
fabulous wealth, this patriot who with his business partner, Robert
Morris, had made it possible to feed and clothe Washington's starving
and naked soldiers, this financier who had negotiated loans with
Holland and France, now sat before him, meanly dressed, his brows
wrinkled with care, his drooping shoulders too expressive of defeat
for one who had helped his country win a glorious victory.
"It is good to see you again," said Haym, slowly. "I have not
forgotten you, but I thought you might have forgotten me." He coughed,
a hard, dry cough, leaning his fast graying head upon his hand.
"We are used to having our friends forget us," murmured his wife, who
sat sewing beside the lamp. She was a brisk, dark-haired woman, a
member of the famous Franks family which had served the country so
well during the dark days of the Revolution. "Of the many youths my
husband aided in prison, you are the first one who came to thank him
for his service."
"Nay, Rachel," her husband chided her gently. "I did not seek for
thanks. And it was not those brave soldiers I tried to serve, but
freedom." His tired eyes glowed with a warm light as he turned to
Louis. "I was born in unhappy Poland, so it is not strange that I
loved freedom with all my heart and with all my soul. And when I was
in prison, no longer free to serve this country which had welcomed me
so heartily, I thanked God that I was permitted to aid those who were
fighting her battles and seeking to make her free before the world."
"And after he escaped here to Philadelphia," added his wife, a note of
pride in her voice, "he fought for the colonies just as surely as
Colonel Franks upon the battlefield. You have heard of the vast sums
of money he lent the bankrupt government--and without a bit of
security, too."
Haym held up his hand in protest. "What security did I need? If I
could not trust my country, whom should I trust?" he asked her in
quiet sincerity.
She bent her dark head over the little garment she was mending, her
lips curved a bit scornfully. "I try not to be impatient. I know that
even though peace has come, commerce is still languishing; that it
will take many, many months for the government to pay its debts. Yet
it hurts me to see you so worried, so hampered because you lack
capital to go on with your business." Her dark eyes sparkled with
indignation. "You are only forty-five, Haym," she declared, almost
fiercely, "and yet your many cares make you seem almost an old man."
"I am glad to have been able to give my youth to my country," he
answered. Then, turning to Louis di Vernon: "Do not think my wife too
bitter? She has had sore trials," and he gently patted her work-worn
hand. "I know it is not for herself she grieves, but she is troubled
for me and for our little ones. And, in truth, things have grown dark
for us of late. My business has suffered during the war and I was
obliged to neglect it while I attended to affairs of state. And now
that peace has come at last, I find that my old good fortune has
deserted me."
"If you had only kept the remnant of your fortune," sighed his wife,
"the sixty-four thousand dollars you lent to Mr. Morris for his bank
would have tided us over these evil times."
"But I could not allow the National Bank to fail," protested Salomon.
"Somehow," turning to his guest, "I have grown like the old
philosopher of my people who was so unfortunate that he once declared
that if he took to making shoes everyone would go barefoot, if he
became a shroud maker, no one would die." He laughed softly, then grew
suddenly grave. "The merchants to whom I have extended credit have
failed. There have been losses at sea--" he shrugged, and became
silent, his eyes grown strangely large in his thin white face, seeming
to look into the far future. "Mr. Madison and my other friends will
not forget me," he said slowly, "and my country in whose keeping I may
have to leave my wife and infant children before long, will be glad to
repay her debt and care for them." A strange look of peace swept over
his tired face; it was well that his dimming eyes could not see the
long years during which his country would forget to be grateful and to
repay.
A feeling half of pity, half of shame filled the young man's heart.
"I--I am sorry," he stammered.
"You need not pity me." Salomon smiled his old gentle smile. "I have
been given a chance to serve the cause of freedom with my fortune; I
have been of service to my own people, too, the Hebrews of
Philadelphia, and it gladdens my heart to believe that my children's
children will worship the God of our fathers here in this place in the
synagogue I have helped to build. I do not think my life has been such
a very great failure after all," he ended, naively. "And it is good to
know that what I have done has borne fruit. That is why your coming
here tonight to thank me has heartened me more than news of the safe
arrival of those missing merchant-ships at port."
Louis arose, his honest face red with shame. "I did not want to hurt
you," he said, speaking with difficulty. "When I came here tonight and
you both thought it was just to thank you before I set sail for
France, I was ashamed to tell you the reason of my visit. For I am
like the others; I would not have come to thank you for favors past;
not knowing of your misfortune, I only came to ask new bounties; that
is why I am ashamed."
"Then why do you tell me now?" Salomon's voice had grown very tired.
"I should have liked to believe that you were not here for favors."
"I could not go away and have you believe a lie. You are too honest a
man to lie to, Mr. Salomon. Are you sorry I told the truth?"
"No. That takes the pain away." A long silence while the January wind
howled outside. At last Haym spoke. "What did you wish of me--though
now I may be unable to grant it."
"I leave shortly for France," answered the young man, flushed beneath
the other's quiet gaze. "Although I return a poor man, my betrothed
has waited for me and I desired to buy a bit of land for my own that
we might become householders as our parents were before us. I knew you
would trust me and that is why I came to you, my one friend in
America."
"Now I am truly sorry for my losses," answered Salomon. "If I could
only help you--but, perhaps, Mr. Morris--yes, I will give you a note
to him, and though I am not prosperous today, he will be willing to
trust me as your security."
But Louis di Vernon shook his head. "I cannot think of it," he
answered, stubbornly. "Do not insist, or I shall be sorry that I told
you of my desires. Please have this visit as it should have been; to
thank you for your great kindness to me; not to ask more favors."
"As you will," answered Haym with a smile. "But you must not leave us
without a little token for your betrothed." Going to the mantel piece,
he took down a silver cup, quaintly carved, and slipped it into the
young man's unwilling hand. "Nay, lad, take it, it is all I can give
you--this and my blessing for your future." Again the wind shook the
window pane. "It is a bitter night outside. We have no guest chamber,
but if you care to sleep beside our fire----"
"Nay, after Valley Forge a soldier is not afraid of the storm,"
laughed the Frenchman. "And I cannot thank you for this--and all your
kindness. But she is a woman and when I tell my Mairie, she will write
you all the love and gratitude that is in our hearts." He bent over
Mistress Salomon's hand with all the courtly breeding of his race.
"It is only _Au revoir_ tonight, Madame, for I will try to see you
again before I leave Philadelphia."
He gathered his cloak about him and went out into the storm, leaving
Salomon to meet his wife's reproachful eyes. "Yes, I know, heart's
dearest, that I should not give silver cups to beggarly Frenchmen," he
told her with a whimsical smile, "for who knows when we will have to
pawn the little that remains of our silver. But until then--" he
shrugged goodnaturedly, and a fit of coughing drowned the rest.
Several days later young Louis di Vernon sat in a coffee house, his
traveling bag and a bundle of toys and goodies for the little Salomon
children at his feet. Over his cup he read the latest edition of the
"Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser," pausing to stare at a
modest notice tucked in an obscure corner of the sheet. He put down
his cup untasted and read it again with whitening lips: "On Thursday
died Haym Salomon, a broker."