Among the lucky merchants of New York, therefore, a feeding frenzy had developed. Southern gentlemen, not privy to what was afoot, were glad to find eager takers for any paper they cared to sell. Until they discovered the truth. Then there was an outcry.

“You accursed New York Yankees—you’re feasting upon the sorrows of the South.”

“If you weren’t short of cash, or understood the market, you wouldn’t be in this mess,” the New York insiders cruelly responded.

Such insider dealing might still be legal, but one thing was certain: New York was hated. And not only by the South. Anyone who’d sold their paper cheap felt aggrieved. As for Jefferson, as a Virginia plantation owner himself, there was no doubt where his sympathies lay. He looked upon the New York profiteers with loathing.

And John Master was just about to give Jefferson a few choice words about the shortcomings of improvident gentlemen from the South when, seeing James and Weston’s embarrassed faces, he paused, and checked himself.

What was he thinking of? In a short while, his grandson would be departing for Harvard. James, too, would be departing, for God knows how many months, to England. Did he really want to incur James’s anger, and leave young Weston with the memory of his grandfather making a scene with the great Thomas Jefferson?

James’s journey was necessary. It was some years since Albion had retired from his business in London. Despite what he saw as Grey’s poor behavior, John Master had continued to do business with the senior Albion, but on his retirement the Masters had selected another agent, who had proved to be unsatisfactory. James was going over to London to find another. In a way, Master wished that his son were not going just now.

“You’re traveling to Europe at an interesting time,” he had remarked to him. But a dangerous one also, in his estimation.

When the news of the revolution in France had reached New York in the fall of 1789, many people had rejoiced, including James. Before long, James had received a letter from his friend the Count de Chablis. “He says that Lafayette and his friends are all supporting it. They want a new republic. America is their model.” Soon, even young Weston had been talking about the blessings of the new French freedoms—Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. It all sounded very fine. But not to John Master.

“It will end in a bloodbath,” he warned them. “Lafayette may dream of America—I dare say he does—but this French business isn’t the same at all. It’ll turn into a civil war, and civil wars get ugly.”

James did not agree. Chablis was confident, he told his father, that a compromise would be reached and that the French would soon be living with a limited monarchy, run by a parliament—something like England. John Master, however, had reminded James and Weston bleakly: “You forget the power of the mob. When there was a civil war in England, they cut off the king’s head.”