The Witch of Wall Street
Intro
Chapter One
Chapter Two
From New York Times bestselling author Marie Benedict comes the story of the richest woman of the Gilded Age, the brilliant and controversial Hetty Green.
The Gilded Age, New York City: Hetty Robinson is not your average young woman. Instead of marrying a proper young man as her family and society expects, Hetty defies their rules and joins her father in business, where her brilliance and daring investment strategies create enormous wealth.
Her heart is eventually captured by a handsome businessman, whose ambition matches her own. But after a shocking betrayal, Hetty vows never to depend on anyone ever again. As she forges a financial empire independent of her father and husband, she outmaneuvers the titans of Wall Street, like Andrew Carnegie and J. P. Morgan, who despised her and gave her the notorious nickname “The Witch of Wall Street.”
Yet behind the legend is a woman far more complex than history remembers: a fiercely determined, deeply compassionate mother, wife, and daughter who also saved the city of New York from financial ruin. In The Witch of Wall Street, Marie Benedict presents an achingly human portrait of Hetty Green—a Wall Street legend and the self-made richest woman of the Gilded Age.”
Act I
“A girl should be brought up as to be able to make her own living, and should understand the principles of business. Whether rich or poor, a young woman should know how a bank account works, understand the composition of mortgages and bonds, and know the value of interest and how it accumulates. Watch the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves.”
—Hetty Howland Robinson Green
Chapter One
New Bedford, Massachusetts
February 10, 1864
I weave through the crowd gathering at the chilly wharf, trying to keep up with my father. I pass a man with a child clinging to each limb of his body. A woman—she must be his wife—stands next to him, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. There is never any guarantee that all these fathers and husbands and sons will return from one of our whaling expeditions. From here in New Bedford to the Azores and Cabo Verde, then around Cape Horn to the Arctic or Oceania and back, the work is dangerous, and a single journey can take three to four years. This moment is a true celebration, a relief, and the emotion is palpable, but I can’t linger. I have no time to lose.
The clanging of the town’s church bells announcing this momentous return rings through the air, sending a charge through my body and propelling me onward. I hoist the hem of my heavy coat and my dark cotton skirts up just a little higher—not enough to be indecent, mind you, not enough to show my stockinged calves—so that I can keep my father’s pace. Townspeople offer hearty cries of congratulations to Father and me as we make our way to the Howland Pier, which juts out into the Acushnet River. The sound of my wooden heels changes as the stones of the wharf meet the wooden planks of the pier, and we get closer and closer to the Isaac Howland, the ship named for my great-grandfather.
Coming to a stop when I reach the four-hundred-ton vessel, I look up. The ship’s three enormous masts—the central one is over one hundred feet high, for goodness’ sake—loom over the pier and dwarf everything in sight. Boy, I am glad to see this behemoth. No one had heard from the Isaac Howland in months, and people had begun to despair. Some of the sailors’ wives had started stopping by our offices, begging for information. Their anguish made our worry about the cost of a lost expedition seem small by comparison, although, in fairness, the economic health of New Bedford has historically risen and fallen on the success of these ships.
As my father and I wait for the captain to disembark, we give each other an excited glance. This ritual of passing control of the whaling ship from the captain to the shipowner is more than mere ceremony. It is the last moment that the ship’s contents are assessed and agreed upon. Time is of the essence; we’ve all heard stories about cargoes making their way around the globe, only to be stolen or hidden just as they dock in a harbor.
Captain Reuben Hobbs straightens his frayed and very wrinkled uniform as he descends the gangway from the ship to the pier, where he shakes Father’s hand. “It is my honor to turn the Isaac Howland back to you, Mr. Robinson.”
I can scarcely believe how unrecognizable this man has become in the three years since I last saw him. How weathered and old and exhausted. But I suppose everything has changed in those years. War has broken out between the North and South, after all.
“We thank you for bringing her and her crew home safely to New Bedford,” my father replies, giving the captain the firm handshake for which Edward Robinson, who everyone calls Black Hawk, is well-known.
To most, Black Hawk Robinson is a dark storm cloud—tall black hat, sweeping black coat, gray-black muttonchops, black eyes, and a nickname to match—and always threatening to unleash a tempest. But I see the twinkle in his eye and the ready smile on his lips, and I hear the words of encouragement and praise. I would do anything to earn and deserve them.
Captain Hobbs turns to me. “Thank you for coming out to greet us, Miss Robinson. It’s very kindly of you.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Captain Hobbs. Your safe return means the world to this town and our company.” I smile. “Not to mention, I have a job to do.”
He smiles back, as if I’ve said something funny. “A job?”
I nod and hold up the document delivered to our business offices only half an hour ago. “Yes, I’m here to confirm the first mate’s inventory of what’s in the hold. The transfer of control of the Isaac Howland will then be complete.”
Captain Hobbs meets my gaze. “Miss Robinson, you don’t want to go into the ship’s hold. Even though we’ve aired it and cleaned it, it’s not a fit place for a young woman. Not any young woman, but certainly not a young woman of your station.”
I’m used to people trying to shield me because I’m a young woman, because I was raised as a Quaker, and because my family has amassed considerable wealth. Their intentions, like those of Captain Hobbs, are usually good; they simply assume I’m soft and in need of protecting. It does not behoove me to become irritated. So I smile and say, “I appreciate your concern, Captain Hobbs.
But I assure you that I’m more than capable of handling it and very willing to do so. I’ve undertaken this task nearly a dozen times before when other ships in our fleet have returned home.”
Staring at my father now instead, the captain says, “Surely she’s mistaken, Mr. Robinson.”
“My daughter is more than fit for the task, Captain. She’s second in charge of I. Howland, Jr. & Co., after all, and she’s got a vested interest in assessing this ship’s bounty.” As he says this, I swell with pride. I know Father believes in my skills, but it means the world to hear him compliment me to another.
“Shall I begin?” I ask, now careful to keep my eyes on him and averted from the captain’s still incredulous expression.
He nods and says, “I’ll inspect the exterior with Captain Hobbs.” The first mate gestures for me to follow him, and I begin my ascent up the gangway and onto the deck of the Isaac Howland. I can only imagine how much this sailor dislikes having me, of all people, double-check his inventory list and put a price on their hard-earned cargo, but what he probably doesn’t understand is this: I know the ledgers intimately, and like everything else in this world, this ship buoys not on the sea but on money.
New Bedford, Massachusetts
February 10, 1864
As the first mate unlocks the cargo hold, I stand on the deck and take in the elevated view of the harbor. The tall rigging of dozens of ships; the jetties stacked high with barrels; the wooden and brick structures lining the docks; the stone building with a Dutch-cap roof that houses I. Howland, Jr. & Co., the business founded by my great-grandfather and run by my father; the cordage factory, where the only ropes strong enough to hold fast to whales are handmade by the other women regularly at the harbor; and the church steeples piercing the sky behind it all. These places are as familiar to me as my own face.
“Ready, Miss Robinson?” the first mate asks.
“Ready,” I answer. Then I take a good, long gulp of the fresh, bracing, frigid air and wrap a scented kerchief around my nose. I know what I’m up against in the hold. Even though whale oil is the strange, familiar scent of my upbringing and heritage, the precious substance that fuels much of the country can be pungent.
Scrambling down the ladder into the hold, he announces, “I will spot your descent from here.”
He needn’t do so, but I don’t tell him. I’ve been up and down ladders like this since I was a girl traveling in my grandfather’s wake as he inspected ships, questioned crew, and reviewed routes. I remember feeling like a pirate as I climbed those rickety, wooden rungs, and even saying as much to Grandfather—until he promptly explained that these men wouldn’t take kindly to the comparison since they fend off real-life pirates in their travels.
So instead, I say, “Thank you.”
Landing on the floor of the hold with a thud, I give my eyes a second to adjust to the relative darkness of the windowless space. The first mate is holding two lamps; he hands me one and lifts the other up to spread its illumination. I take in the room, which is full but not brimming because the supplies stored here at the expedition’s outset have been used.
Wooden barrels line three of the four walls. These contain the primary cargo—whale oil. I consult the inventory list provided to us and then inspect the casks one by one. Not only do the numbers need to be correct, but the barrels themselves need to be intact, or the product within could be subject to spoilage. I unseal one of the barrels to test the quality—sniffing the oil to ensure its freshness and checking the color to see if it’s the preferable pale shade—and find it satisfactory. Almost instantaneously, automatically, I tabulate the portion of the income our company will take in. Factoring in our large initial investment and subtracting the percentage the captain and crew will receive, I deem it a good haul. But I try not to think of the majesty of the creatures that gave their lives for it.
“All seems in order with this portion of the cargo,” I inform him, and he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “Now, where do you store the baleen?” These flexible sheets of material come from the mouths of whales and are used to filter fish.
This secondary cargo must be kept in a dry area of the hold. He points to a roped-off corner where large bundles lie on special mat-ting. These will be used for products like corsets and umbrella ribs. I walk over to this section, take off my coat, fold it up, and kneel down on the floor. “Miss!” the first mate cries out in alarm. “You don’t want to be lowering yourself down here. There’s . . . there’s bound to be critters.”
Giving him a disarming smile, I say, “I’ll just be but a minute.”
Pulling a folding wooden ruler out of my skirt pocket, I measure the length of the baleen in the bundles. It matches the figure listed on the inventory. I then count the number of bundles and find the sum to be three less than recorded on the list. I recount, then do so again to be absolutely sure. There is a discrepancy. One that could be worth a significant amount.
I push myself to standing, turn to the first mate, and, keeping my tone light, I say, “Will you excuse me a moment?”
He looks confused, but I know I can’t explain. Not until I speak with my father. A large amount of money is at stake here, and this could become contentious very quickly.
I hurry up the ladder, pull down my handkerchief as I cross the deck, and call to him. “Father, might I have a word?”
His footsteps thump across the gangway and onto the deck as he approaches me. I whisper in his ear, “We seem to be short three bundles of baleen.”
“Could it be a counting error on the part of first mate?” he asks, and I appreciate that he’s looking for the least acrimonious resolution, that we aren’t starting with accusations.
“Possibly,” I reply, “but he seems quite competent, so…”
He fills in the blanks. “It could be theft on one of the sailors’ part.”
“Yes, although no one could have made it off this ship with a bundle of baleen—let alone three—without everyone noticing. And the Isaac Howland has only been at the wharf for a couple of hours. So, I’m guessing, if someone is trying to squirrel them away, those bundles are hidden somewhere on this ship. And if we could find them—”
This time, he interrupts me. “We could avoid a battle.”
“One we don’t want, especially since this might be one of our last voyages,” I say with a sigh. The declining population of whales
has combined with a rise in popularity for crude oil. Father and I are planning a change, one he’s been reluctant to consider until recently.
“Why don’t I occupy Captain Hobbs and the first mate with some manufactured problem on the exterior hull while you take a look around?” Father suggests.
I wait until the men are otherwise engaged and begin my search. Thanking the heavens that the only two sailors remaining on this ship are the captain and the first mate, I hurry through the first-level captain’s cabin—I don’t think he’d risk his payment over the baleen—but I linger longer in the forecastle, where the ordinary seamen bunk, and the steerage, where the petty officers stay. Finding nothing, I stop in the main dining room and finally the small, filthy kitchen. There, tucked under a long worktable underneath a tarp, sit the bundles of baleen.
I know what I must do. Climbing back up to the deck, I call down to the men who are studying some imaginary flaw Father concocted.
“Gentlemen, I am sorry to interrupt you. But—silly me—I took a wrong turn as I headed back down to the hold, and I found the darnedest thing!”
“What’s that, Hetty?” my father calls back
“It seems that someone mistakenly placed three of the baleen bundles in the kitchen, of all places!” I yell, watching the color drain from the captain and first mate’s faces. This doesn’t incline me to believe that they were involved in the malfeasance, only that they understand the magnitude of what one of the crewmen has done. What I say next is very, very important.
“If we can arrange for one of your sailors to bring them back to the hold, I think the cargo will match the list on the inventory. In that case, I’ll be able to sign off on the shipload.”
The first mate starts running back up the gangway, and the captain is fast behind him. “We’ll take care of it!” Captain Hobbs yells to me.
Father doesn’t rush behind them, but instead pauses and beams at me. We’ve salvaged the homecoming of the Isaac Howland, which we desperately want to be a success. Because it might be our very last one.