Chapter 1
The instructions were clear. He was to speak to no one outside of his firm of the interview; the cab was to deliver him to the street corner where Broadway met Prince Street, and not to the doorway of the office; and he was to arrive precisely at eleven o’clock.
As he climbed the short steps of the Doric-fronted building, he could hear the bell of old Saint Edmund’s beginning to chime.
He was admitted at once. He handed his hat, coat and walking-stick to a servant, who beckoned him within the great brick building. Like most New Yorkers—indeed, like most people in the world—he had never been within the offices of the richest man in British America, John Jacob Astor: indeed, since a small bit of legal work that Van Allen and Van Buren had done for Astor and Son fifteen years earlier, Van Buren didn’t think he’d laid eyes on the man. But when a letter came into the office requesting this unusual appointment, he and his partner, his brother-in-law James Van Allen, had decided that he would be the one to answer.
A middle-aged man, perhaps ten years his junior, stood and extended a hand across the desk to take his own.
“Mr. Van Buren? I’m Fitz-Greene Halleck, Mr. Astor’s private secretary. I do appreciate your visit this morning under such unusual circumstances. Won’t you sit.”
“No trouble at all, Mr. Halleck.” Van Buren settled himself opposite. Halleck was a poet, he knew—talented and witty, part of one and another literary circle in the city. “One does not receive such—summons—every day.”
“No. No indeed. But Mr. Astor has a particular project in mind, and requires the services of a reputable and discreet legal firm. If he can retain you, it will be more than worth your while.”
“I am sure we fulfill both the requirements of reputation and discretion, sir.”
“Quite. Quite so.”
“What is the nature of the work, Mr. Halleck?”
“Mr. Astor wishes to purchase some land. A rather large amount, I daresay; what is more, he requires that the contractual arrangements be such that there is no chance—I cannot emphasize this strongly enough—no chance that the sale afterward be challenged.”
He already owns half of Manhattan Island, Van Buren thought to himself. Astor had come to the colony in 1784 from one of the German states, taken a loyalty oath to the King to become a British citizen in 1800, and through his business acumen and foresight had built up one of the greatest fortunes in the Empire. What could he possibly want to buy now?
“I am sure that we can draft such agreements. Mr. Van Allen and I have considerable expertise with the law, sir.”
“British common law.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you have any familiarity with the statutes of foreign nations, Mr. Van Buren? Surely in a city as cosmopolitan as New York, you must have had occasion to acquaint yourself with the law in lands other than our own Empire.”
The question took him aback for a moment. He paused to examine the questioner. Fitz-Greene Halleck was of medium height, not particularly stout; he had a receding hairline and affected side-whiskers but no beard. Neatly but modestly dressed, Halleck looked a proper man of business. Like Van Buren himself, he could have been another solicitor appearing before a royal magistrate—he conveyed no information in his eyes or posture.
“On occasion, sir. There are firms that specialize in overseas commerce: Van Allen and Van Buren is not one of them. We do have considerable expertise in land transfer and sale, however— —””
“Which is why I suggested the name of your firm to Mr. Astor,” Halleck interrupted. “Let me enlighten you with the reason for my inquiry. Anything I confide to you in this interview, Mr. Van Buren, must remain in the strictest confidence.”
“My word is my bond, Mr. Halleck. You have already said that you appreciated my firm’s discretion.”
“Just so.”
“Are there particular nations’ laws that you had in mind, sir?”
“Russia.”
Again Van Buren was given pause—but upon reflection, it might make sense: Mr. Astor’s experience in the fur trade, including a joint venture in the Russian colony along the Pacific Ocean, had helped create his vast fortune. But—a land deal?
“I’m sure that there are resources we could consult, Mr. Halleck.”
Halleck’s face settled into a smile. He leaned back in his chair. “But. You wanted to say ‘but,’ Mr. Van Buren—but why would Mr. Astor want to buy land in Russia?”
“Or Russian America.”
Halleck slapped the desk with his hand. “Bravo. Bravo, I say, sir. You have struck directly to the heart of the matter. Mr. Astor wishes to buy a considerable area of land in the eastern part of what the Russians call Novaya Rossiya—the former Spanish colony of Alta California. Young Mr. Astor—Mr. William—has been there for several years, paying particular attention to this project; but there is not a single lawyer in all of Saint Helena he can trust. Therefore, we will send him one.”
“What—are you proposing that I journey to Saint Helena?”
“I am indeed.”
“Mr. Halleck.” Van Buren drew himself up straight in his chair. “Mr. Halleck, I am sixty-one years old; I have no more desire for travel than I have had at any time in my life. I summer at my home in Kinderhook; a journey there, a hundred and thirty miles away, is a great adventure. It is out of the question: I am not interested in traveling all the way to Saint Helena.”
“Those are Mr. Astor’s terms.”
“I am afraid I cannot imagine why it is necessary.”
“It is necessary,” a voice said behind him, “because I deem it so.”
Van Buren stood up only slightly more quickly than Halleck himself, who came around his desk to assist the man who had just entered the office. It was Halleck’s employer and—potentially—Van Buren’s client: John Jacob Astor himself.
“Mr. Astor——” Van Buren began, but the old man waved him off along with Halleck, causing his secretary to stand aside.
“Van Buren, isn’t it?” Astor said, slowly making his way to the seat behind the desk. “You were solicitor-general for the royal governor a few years ago, weren’t you?”
Halleck stood behind him. At a nod, Van Buren took his seat.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Close the door.”
A servant closed the door behind him. Astor looked up at Van Buren; the old man was clean-shaven, stout, and plainly dressed, his expression fierce and expectant.
“Has Halleck named my terms as yet?”
“We had not reached that point in our discussions, Mr. Astor.”
Astor named a figure. It was more than three times the prevailing rate for a solicitor at the court of Queen’s Bench in New York. “Along with travel and incidental expenses to get you to Saint Helena.”
“It is a very generous retainer, Mr. Astor. I do not find fault with it.”
“Then we are agreed. You will depart——””
“I beg your pardon,” Van Buren said. “I did not say that I had agreed to undertake the commission—merely that I did not find fault with the compensation.”
Astor considered this for a moment, never removing his eyes from Van Buren.
“Some of my fellow men of business dislike haggling, Van Buren. I relish it. What is required in order for me to engage you?”
Van Buren wanted to say, I would not travel to Saint Helena for all of the tea in China—but he hesitated. Even if the firm had to hire a solicitor to replace him for a year, enough time for him to travel across the continent and back again, the sum Astor proposed would more than cover it.
It wasn’t about the money—it was the reason for the journey.
“I need to understand the nature of the commission.”
“Didn’t Halleck explain it to you?” He cast an annoyed glance at his private secretary, who retained an impassive expression.
“He said that you wished to purchase an amount of land and that you needed a reputable and discreet attorney to draw up defensible land transfer contracts. What I wish to know is why.”
“Hmm.” Astor rubbed his chin. “I must take you into my confidence, Mr. Van Buren. If you were to disclose what I am about to tell you, the consequences would be dire. Dire, indeed. Am I understood?”
Van Buren knew what dire consequences must mean, coming from the richest man in British America. A word from John Jacob Astor could completely ruin his firm—and it might already be in jeopardy as he sat here in Mr. Astor’s place of business. Two years ago another firm involved with the New Netherland Hotel had made some false step—and within a few months it was shuttered.
“You are understood, sir.”
“Bring me the map, Halleck.”
Fitz-Greene Halleck inserted a key from his watch-chain into a wooden cupboard. He opened the door and withdrew a large survey map which he unrolled carefully on the desk. It delineated the entire Pacific Coast, from the islands of Russian Alaska to the Spanish fortified mission town of San Diego. The old gentleman took an ornate letter opener with the Astor crest and sketched a line just north and east of the great double bay east of the Russian settlement of Saint Helena.
“There is a vast area here, east of Saint Helena in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. This land, Van Buren, which I propose to buy, is at present of no particular interest to the servants of the tsar. They rightly pursue fishing, seal-hunting, and fur trapping. They have taken the collection of hovels that the Spanish called Yerba Buena, and made it into Saint Helena—not a city in the way that my beloved New York is a city, but perhaps someday . . . in any case,” he continued after a moment of reflection, “I have learned something about this land that will make it extremely valuable in the coming years—something that the tsar’s servants do not know; that Her Majesty’s Government does not know, of which even the Spaniards, who claimed the land before the Russians did, remain ignorant.
“Under these hills lies an immense amount of gold.”
“And if anyone learned this——””
“There would be a scramble for land rights, Van Buren. When it happens—and it will happen: some lucky farmer or fisherman will find traces—I want the scramble for mining rights to lead directly to the door of Astor House.”
✽✽✽
Thus Van Buren decided to undertake the sunset journey, as Fitz-Greene Halleck might have termed it in one of his more hyperbolic turns of phrase.
Van Buren had taken up the law nearly forty years before in New York. It was the only career he had ever known: as a solicitor in His Majesty’s courts—and now Her Majesty’s courts—in the Crown Colony of New York. He had established a professional reputation that was the envy of many of his colleagues—they called him the Little Magician, as if he was a performer in the court rather than a duly appointed officer—but he took it with good grace. Everyone from old Judge Van Ness to his own sons told him that he would have been a capable politician, either as a part of New York’s Assembly or in the great Colonial Assembly in Philadelphia: but the latter remained a place for men with English (and not Dutch) surnames. His world began and ended with the city and colony of New York.
When they were in the city, his sons came to visit him at his Manhattan house. On the Sunday afternoon following his interview with Halleck and Astor, his three eldest sons were at his table—Captain Abraham, Councilman John, and his namesake Martin, who clerked in his office; his youngest, Smith, was up in Albany serving as an aide to Governor Bouck. There had been five, though one—little Lawrence—had died in infancy: he was remembered with a small oval portrait on the mantelpiece in the drawing room, next to a similar one of his dear wife Hannah, the mother of his children, gone a quarter-century earlier to consumption.
Once soup and bread were on the table, he outlined the offer and the plan to travel to Novaya Rossiya.
“It’s quite an interesting place, Father,” Abraham said. “The Spaniards have been there for more than two hundred years.” Abraham Van Buren was the only one of his sons with any military training—he had served in the Governor-General’s guard and was now a militia captain in New York.
“Then why don’t they own all of it?” Van Buren asked.
“Well, they claim they still do,” Abraham said, sampling a piece of the loaf. “Truthfully, they claim that they own all of the New World—except the part that the pope gave to the Portuguese. But His Majesty made an accord— —””
“The Anglo-Russian Treaty,” John said. “Dividing the spoils.”
“That’s the one,” Abraham continued. “It kept the tsar out of the arms of the French King.”
“We’re not at war with the French,” Van Buren said. “No money in it. Mr. Peel doesn’t see them as enemies.”
“As long as they’re near neighbors in Canada, they’re enemies, Father,” Abraham responded. “We should have knocked them out of America thirty years ago when we had the chance.”
John snorted. Young Martin snickered; he had watched his two older brothers argue before—they seldom agreed on anything.
“Jackson’s army should have marched right up to Saint Louis in 1816,” Abraham added. It was an old argument.
“And Lord Nashville would have spent the next twenty years fighting Indians,” John answered. “The French sold off most of their claims in America anyway, without being tossed out by Old Hickory. Better he rested on his laurels as governor general and enjoyed his new earldom than spend the rest of his life kicking over hornets’ nests. He had enough on his hands with the Nullifiers in the Carolinas.”
“That’s utter nonsense— —”” Abraham began, but the elder Van Buren held up his hand.
“I’m far more interested in the Russian part of America than what remains of the French part,” he said. “So His Majesty’s government let the tsar sup at the table when the Spanish Empire was being taken apart, and his share was California.”
“Alta California,” Abraham said. “Only as far as . . .”
“Thirty-four degrees thirty minutes north latitude,” younger Martin interjected. The older brothers and his father stopped and looked at him. He took a slow drink from his mug, watching the attention shift to him.
“You had that information at hand?” Van Buren asked, smiling.
“I looked it up.”
“You looked it up?” Abraham asked.
“As soon as I heard something about California—Novaya Rossiya—I went to the Astor Library and learned what I could. In 1809, His Majesty’s government signed a treaty with the tsar that assigned Alta California north of thirty-four and a half degrees north latitude to Russia. Spain protested, because Monterey and a third of their missions were in Russian territory, but the government ignored it—we were at war and the Spanish were allied with the French.”
“That was Lord Liverpool, wasn’t it?” Abraham asked.
“It was the Duke of Portland,” Martin said. “I——””
“You looked it up,” Abraham said, half-scowling, at his younger brother. Martin smirked. “So the Russians have been in California for thirty-five years. You’d think they’d have attorneys out there.”
“None that Mr. Astor trusts. Either Mr. Astor. So——”” Van Buren raised his hands. “So, I am to travel to Saint Helena.”
“Alone?” Abraham asked.
“I would not take you away from Angelica and the children,” Van Buren said. He was very fond of his son’s wife, a southerner Abraham had met during his service in Philadelphia. They had two toddler children—his only grandchildren. “But I thought perhaps young Martin might want to come along.”
“He knows the geography,” John said, and the four Van Buren men laughed. “Now, if only he spoke some Russian.”
✽✽✽
Travel from the eastern to the western coast was no trivial matter in the spring of 1843. It meant a shipboard voyage either all the way around Cape Horn, a few months at least depending on the weather, or a shorter sea journey to the Isthmus of Darien, several hours on the new (and somewhat perilous) railroad across the narrow stretch of land to Fort Cornwallis on the Pacific, followed by weeks at sea traveling along the Pacific coast to Saint Helena.
Van Buren opted for the shorter travel route. The clipper Wellesley was to set sail within two weeks: Astor-owned packets moved between Fort Cornwallis and the Russian coast at regular intervals bearing cargoes of fur pelts and whale oil bound for British America; Van Buren and his son arranged passage, fitting themselves out with steamer trunks full of clothing and books—law references and so forth, since it was unclear what might await him in Novaya Rossiya—mostly at the expense of John J. Astor and Son. Letters had already been sent overland—by way of rail as far as the western terminus, and then by wagon through the mountains, intending to arrive in Saint Helena a month or so before the party from New York.
Thus equipped, Van Buren father and son took their leave of their home city, unsure when they might see it again.