David Liss - The Devil's Company

There was an elevated platform at the front and, upon it, a podium. When we entered the room a member of the Court of Proprietors was busy holding forth on the merits of a particular colonial governor whose worth had been questioned. As it turned out, this governor was also the nephew of one of the principal shareholders, and opinions ran, if not exactly hot, then at least toward the lukewarm.

Elias and I took seats in the back, and he immediately slouched into his chair and pulled his hat low. “I rather hate an anticlimax,” he said. “Please be so good as to wake me if anything happens.”

“You may leave if you like,” I told him, “but if you stay, you must stay awake. I need someone to entertain me.”

“Or you shall surely fall asleep yourself, I suppose. Tell me, Weaver, what do you expect to happen?”

“I’m not entirely certain. Perhaps our actions will have no perceptible consequences, but there has been much coming to a head. And, most importantly, Mr. Ellershaw’s fate hangs in the balance today. Forester will make a case against him, and even if the hand of Celia Glade is not visible in the outcome, even if the business with Cobb turns out to be irrelevant, I wish to see for myself how it plays out.”

“And for this I must stay awake?” he asked. “That’s not what I call friendship.”

“Neither is attempting to bed the woman I like,” I noted.

“I say, Weaver, I thought we had agreed not to speak of that anymore.”

“Except when I am attempting to manipulate you into behaving as I wish. Then I shall bring it up.”

“It’s rather rotten of you. How long do you plan to play me so?”

“For the rest of your life, Elias. If I don’t make light of it, it shall surely turn sour.”

He nodded. “I cannot argue with that. But I notice you say the rest of my life, not the rest of yours. Have you some secret of longevity I have not learned?”

“Yes. Not attempting to bed women desired by one’s friends. You must try it sometime.”

He was about to answer when I held up my hand.

“Hold,” I said. “I would hear this.”

One member of the Court of Proprietors, whose task it appeared to be to act as a sort of formal master of ceremonies, was in the process of informing the room that Mr. Forester, of the Court of Committees, needed to address the room on a matter of rather urgent business.

I suspected that when a gentleman wished to address the length of nails used in crates it was described as a matter of urgent business, for no one took particular notice. The sleepers dozed, the diners dined, the chatters chatted, and the scholar studied. My attention, however, was firmly upon the podium.

“Gentlemen,” Forester began, “I am afraid that there are two matters of urgent business upon which I am to speak today. One bodes well for the future of the Company, should we manage it well. The other is rather more unpleasant, and though I am loath to mention it at all, I fear it is my duty. But let us attend to productive things first.”

Forester signaled to a servant I had not seen before, who dashed over with a decorative lacquered box, swirling with gold and red and black, surely a product of the Orient. Upon the top was a handle in the shape of an elephant, and Forester lifted it and handed the top back to the servant. From the box itself he took out a compact roll of cloth. With this in hand, he returned the remainder of the box to the servant, who dashed off. Clearly there had been no need for the box at all, but I saw that Forester was a man who liked his drama, and I began to sense we would now observe a rather fascinating performance.

“I hold in my hand the future of the East India Company,” Forester announced. “As I need not tell you, it was one of the most disappointing moments in our organization’s history when Parliament passed the legislation making the domestic sale of India cloth so problematic. We are but weeks away from being forced to bar access to the cloth in our warehouses to our own citizens. Though there have been efforts to expand the markets for the few remaining cloths we may sell, the truth is that our Company failed to mount a proportionate counterattack to the wool interest, and now we may soon find ourselves with declining revenues. I will speak more of that later.”

I had no doubt, for Forester wished to lay the blame squarely upon Ellershaw’s shoulders, and unless Ellershaw could credibly promise a repeal of the legislation, his days were surely numbered.

“What has happened in Parliament is surely terrible,” he said, “and there have been rumors of more terrible developments to come. We have all heard it. There is a new engine, it is said, one capable of turning American cotton into an exact replica of India cloth-every bit as light and comfortable and elegant. Certainly the domestic dyeing industry has been perfecting its trade for years, and much of the India cloth enjoyed in this kingdom has been dyed here, so that if this American cotton could be spun in the mythic engine and then dyed here, it would be impossible for the consumer to tell the difference. I have no doubt that the experts of Craven House could find the slight variances, but not the consumers. Such an engine could mean the end of our cloth trade with the East.”

At this the crowd became far more energetic. Hisses and cries of nay filled the hall. Indeed, Elias, who had been feigning boredom, was now fully alert. “He knew of it all the time,” he whispered.

“I am here to tell you two things, gentlemen. First of all, the engine is real. I have seen its works.” The cries drowned him out, and he had to wait several moments before the Court was quiet enough to proceed. At last he did, though the din of the room made it difficult to hear. “Yes, it is true. The engine is real. But the second thing I must tell you is that this is not a moment of defeat but one of triumph. The engine has always been viewed as an enemy of the Company, but not if we own it. If it is ours, if we can use it as we like, for our profit-that, my friends, means riches beyond our imagination.”

He had the full attention of the Court. “Think of it. We continue to trade with India. We have our infrastructure there, and all of Europe craves India cloth. But we cease expansion in India and invest instead in North American cotton production. We obtain the cotton from the Americas, have it spun here on engines owned by Craven House itself, arrange for the dyeing, and then sell it domestically. Instead of being at odds with domestic textile production, we are woven into it, if you will excuse the play on words. Yes, the men of the wool interest will continue to give us trouble, but they will no longer be able to argue that we take bread from the mouths of domestic workers. Indeed, we will provide new employment and we shall become the idols of those who seek work. And since we will own the engines, their ability to dictate wages to us will be limited. With these new engines, we shall have absolute power over the textile industry, gentlemen: Indian cloth and foreign markets, American cotton and the home market.”

The room turned into an excited mass of voices. Men were standing and pointing, waving their hands about, nodding or shaking their heads. But most, from what I could divine, were excited about the notion.

For my part, I hardly knew how to understand it all. Everything I had done had been for nothing. The Company already had the engine; it would profit from it and turn the London laborer into its drudge. I could only take some pleasure in the fact that this revelation meant that not only had Cobb’s French masters lost out on their bid to control the engine but so had Celia Glade and her British masters. The Company had beat them all.

After some minutes of chaos in which Forester tried, unsuccessfully, to regain mastery of the room, I heard a loud call for attention.