Back Bay (2 page)

William Martin

Boston, July 2012

October 1789

H
orace Taylor Pratt pulled a silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. He hated snuffboxes. They were small, delicate, and nearly impossible for a man with one arm to open. Whenever he fumbled for snuff, Pratt cursed the two-armed world that conspired against him, but when he wanted a clear head, he had to have snuff. This evening, he wanted wits as sharp as a glasscutter.

He slid the box open, took a pinch of black powder, and brought it to his nose.

“Father!” The young voice cracked, and Pratt turned to his son, a handsome boy of thirteen. “You’re not going to sneeze in the presence of his majesty, are you, Father?”

Pratt looked around, his fingers poised theatrically just below his left nostril. “Majesty? I see no king, Horace.”

Two hundred of Boston’s most prominent citizens sat with the Pratts at a great, three-sided banquet table in Faneuil Hall. The gentlemen were dressed in their finest satins, brocades, broadcloths, and silks. The table was covered in Irish linen and laden with fruits and cheeses. Candles glowed against October’s early dusk. John Hancock’s personal stock of port filled crystal stemware. The guest of honor, seated between John Adams and Governor Hancock, was America’s most royal figure.

“I mean His Presidency.” Young Horace looked toward the middle of the table, where a hulking man with powdered hair chewed on a piece of cheddar while Hancock and Adams conversed around him. “You can’t take snuff in front of George Washington.”

Pratt leaned close to his son and whispered, “He looks rather bored sitting between those two Massachusetts magpies. I daresay he’d love a dash of snuff himself right now.”

Pratt inhaled the tobacco and took another pinch in his right nostril. He closed his eyes. He felt the tingle spread through his sinuses. His mouth opened, his back stiffened, and he reached for his handkerchief. Before he could cover his face, the sneeze burst out of him, and Washington jumped as though startled by a British musket. Pratt sneezed again, more violently. Conversation stopped all about the room. John Adams shot an angry glance at Pratt. Young Horace slumped in his chair and counted the stitches on the hem of the tablecloth. Pratt sneezed once more, a final, satisfied bark. Then he blew his nose and looked around. Every eye was on him.

When Horace Taylor Pratt wanted attention, no discreet clearing of the throat or subtle shuffling of the feet would do. He glanced toward the center of the table. Washington was still staring in his direction, and John Adams’s bald head was blushing crimson, the color of Washington’s satin frock.

Pratt stood quickly. “Before John Adams, in the high dudgeon for which he is famous, chides me for taking a bit of snuff, let me propose a toast.” He lifted his glass. “To the health of our Federal Republic and its new President.”

“Hear, hear,” grunted Mather Byles, the old Tory minister seated next to Pratt.

John Hancock raised his glass. John Adams lifted his crankily. And the gentlemen of Boston toasted the President.

Then Washington stood slowly and raised his glass to Pratt. “To you, Mr….”

“Pratt. Horace Taylor Pratt.”

“To you, Mr. Pratt, and to all your peers in Boston. We certainly hope that your snuff comes from fine Virginia tobacco.” Washington smiled, and everyone else laughed politely.

Pratt had introduced himself to the President. When he spoke out later, Washington would know him. He finished his wine and sat down as conversation began again in the banquet hall.

“I must offer Mr. Washington some of my English snuff after the ceremony,” whispered Pratt to his son.

“English snuff?”

Mather Byles leaned into the conversation. “Your father may have bad manners, Horace, but he has excellent taste in snuff.”

“The English know how to make it,” explained Pratt, “along with most other things.”

“You have such admiration for British craftsmanship,” said Byles, “I sometimes wonder that you weren’t a Tory.”

“Reverend, fourteen years ago, the British Crown stood between me and a fortune. Had men like me remained loyal, the British would still be here, and I’d still be poor.”

“You’d still have your left arm.”

“A small price to pay.” Pratt smiled, but he showed no pleasure. His deep-set eyes and prominent nose gave him the look of a predator, a man who never rested. Although he was only thirty-nine, his gaunt frame had already begun to bow and his hair showed considerably more gray than black.

Byles looked at the empty sleeve. “You never know when you might need two arms, Horace.”

“My son is my left arm, Reverend, stronger and more reliable than my own limb.” Pratt wrapped his right arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Byles looked at young Horace. “Does the boy enjoy being one of his father’s extremities?”

Horace didn’t notice the sarcasm. “I’m a Pratt, Reverend. One day, I’ll take my place at the head of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile. It is in my best interest to help my father in whatever way I can.”

“The warmest of filial sentiments,” said Byles.

The sound of silver tapping gently on a crystal wineglass interrupted the conversation. John Hancock was ringing for quiet.

“Watch closely,” whispered Pratt to his son. “Your lesson for today is about to begin.”

“Mr. President and gentlemen,” began Hancock, “you will forgive me for not standing, but the gout keeps me in my chair.”

“Three days ago, Hancock was strutting around like one of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers,” whispered Byles. “He has no gout.”

“The silly ass is play-acting,” said Pratt. “When the presidential entourage arrived, Hancock wouldn’t visit Washington until Washington visited him. Some foolishness about the governor being sovereign in the state and the President merely his guest. Washington would have none of it and browbeat Hancock into paying the first call. To save his pampered face, Hancock announced that
he was indisposed because of the gout. He had his feet wrapped in bandages, ordered three men to carry him to his carriage, and then from his carriage into the President’s lodgings, where he visited Washington like some Catholic martyr.”

“And the charade continues,” said Byles.

“Aye. He wouldn’t visit Washington’s living quarters, but now he’s about to kiss Washington’s hindquarters.”

Hancock was reaching one of the flourishes in his speech. “It is being said, Your Excellency, that men from Massachusetts and men from Virginia led the Revolution, and together we will lead a new nation into the nineteenth century. Let it be so. From the South will come abundant food and raw materials. From the shores of New England will venture forth the bravest merchant fleet the world has ever seen. And the commerce of the nation will thrive.”

The businessmen in the hall, most of them certain that Hancock was referring to the brave fleets in which they had interest, applauded his vision. Hancock accepted the ovation as a tribute to his eloquence, nodded his thanks like a gracious monarch, and allowed the applause to last a reasonable length of time before tapping his wineglass again. “Gentlemen, thank you. Your generosity is too great.”

“It most certainly is,” squawked Pratt, and once again everyone was looking in his direction.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pratt?” Hancock did not like to be interrupted.

“I was agreeing with you, sir. Please go on.”

Hancock glared at Pratt, whose gaze never wavered, then he continued. “You were last here, Mr. President, in 1776. When you drove the British from Boston on that day in March, you also drove from our midst Tories and British sympathizers who preferred rule by a monarch to government by their peers.” Hancock sounded to Pratt as though he were trying to rouse the populace against a Royalist uprising. “Those who fled left behind homes and property which the state confiscated and sold to pay for its war effort.”

“Most commendably, I might add,” said Washington.

“Thank you, sir. However, we retained a store of Tory gold and silver, some of it in plate, some of it in unworked form. For several years, we were at odds over its best use.”

“I agree with that as well,” announced Pratt, but Hancock ignored him.

“Now, Your Excellency, as a gift from the people of Boston to the new government, as a sign of goodwill from the businessmen of Boston to the new President, this precious metal has taken form sublime. To present it, I introduce a great patriot, a master craftsman, and your fellow Freemason, Paul Revere.”

Although Pratt couldn’t stand him, Paul Revere was among the most respected men in Boston, and his peers greeted him warmly. He wore a brown broadcloth frock, tan breeches, and waistcoat. At fifty-four, he looked as solid, prosperous, and handsome as his own best work. He bowed to the President, then gestured to a servant, who wheeled a cart into the middle of the room.

“Welcome back to Boston, Mr. President.”

“It’s a pleasure I’ve long awaited, Mr. Revere.”

“It’s our pleasure, as well, sir.” Revere rarely spoke in public and spent no further time on introductions. “Now, Mr. President, it is my honor to present to you and the American people a gift which it has been my greatest honor to create.” Revere nodded to the servant, who removed the velvet cover from the cart. “The Golden Eagle Tea Set.”

For a moment, there was silence. Even Horace Taylor Pratt was dazzled. The tea set seemed to vibrate in the candlelight as though it had been touched by St. Elmo’s fire. The men of Boston were transfixed.

Revere had created thirty-one pieces of flawless silver in the Federal style: a majestic coffee urn with an ivory handle, a paneled teapot, creamer, sugar urn, wastebowl, tea tongs, serving tray, and twenty-four spoons. Expanses of shimmering silver, graceful lines, and delicate engravings offset the central decoration, America’s coat of arms. On each upright piece, a small golden eagle, talons clutching arrows and olive branch, eyes ablaze with pride, spread its wings against a background of silver.

Finally, someone whispered, “Bravo!” and the applause burst forth.

“The inscription”—Revere began to speak over the ovation—“the inscription on the urn reads ‘To President G. Washington, on the Occasion of His Visit to Boston, October 29, 1789. In Commemoration of His Victorious Siege of Boston, Ended March 17, 1776.’
We hope that this tea set will remain in the President’s House for generations to come as a reminder of our esteem for George Washington.”

Washington stood and bowed deeply. “I accept this work of art with the deepest humility and gratitude. I am honored.”

Adams rose and began a toast: “To our President and to Paul Revere…”

A single fist pounded into the table like a sledgehammer. Horace Taylor Pratt leaped to his feet, shrieking, “Seek the high ground, Mr. President! The enemy has surrounded you!”

“That man is out of order!” barked Adams.

“I will have my say!” Pratt slammed his fist on the table again.

“Be careful, Pratt. That’s how you lost the other arm,” cracked Byles.

Pratt ignored the nervous laughter that skittered across the room. “The hypocrites are praising your name, they’re fawning at your feet, and they’ll have their hand out to you in the morning!”

“Are you referring to the gentlemen of Boston, sir?” asked Washington.

“I’m referring to the men in this room, and damn few of them are gentlemen!”

Hancock jumped up like a dockhand in a tavern brawl. “Least of all yourself, Pratt!”

“A miraculous cure, Mr. Hancock?” Washington’s voice dripped bile.

Hancock remembered his bandaged feet and sat quickly. “Such words are hard to bear, Mr. President.”

“The truth always is, sir,” yelled Pratt. “You have no gout, and that tea set is no memorial to Mr. Washington.”

“This is an outrage!” boomed Henry Knox, Secretary of War.

Pratt’s hand shot toward the tea set. “That is an outrage!”

“If Mr. Pratt sees no gentlemen in the room, perhaps by example he could show us the look of one!” cried Revere.

At the sound of the silversmith’s voice, Pratt seemed to grow several inches in every direction. “You dare ask me to act like a gentleman? You see this, sir?” He began to wave his stump in the air. It was one of his favorite tricks. “I once had an arm, a hand, and fingers just like yours, but I lost them and a brother at Bunker
Hill. You escaped the Revolution with nothing but a few saddle sores, yet you have the gall to ask me to act like a gentleman! When I am confronted by hypocrisy and stupidity, I do not act like a gentleman!”