Immediately, Florence wanted to start for the office. Having no close relatives, and approaching an age beyond which she could not reasonably hope for a proposal of marriage, and when even speculative second looks from rakish or lonely widowers had grown rare, her whole life centered in the office. Western Union didn’t expect her to open the wire until eight, but she was usually a bit early.
Afternoons, she dreaded the relentless downsweep of the hour hand, which at five guillotined her day.
After five, nothing awaited her except lovebirds, tropical fish, and vicarious journeys back to more romantic centuries via historical novels. In the office she was part of a busy and exciting world, a necessary communicating link in affairs of great importance to others. On this day of crisis, she could be the most important person in Fort Repose.
Yet she allowed Alice to persuade her not to start at once. For such a wisp of a woman, Alice seemed remarkably brave and cool. Alice pointed out that Florence had better eat breakfast, because she’d need her strength and it might be many hours before she’d have an opportunity to eat again. And Alice had volunteered to go to town with her, although Florence had insisted it wasn’t necessary. “Who’s going to do any reading today?” she asked. “Why bother with the library?”
“Maybe a good many people will be reading,” Alice said, “once they find out that Civil Defense pamphlets are stocked in the library. Not that it’s likely to be much help to them now, but perhaps it’ll help some. Bubba Offenhaus claimed they were taking up too much space in his office. So I offered to store them.”
“You were farsighted.”
“Do you think so? When two ships are on a collision course, and the men at the wheel inflexibly hold to that course, there is going to be a collision. You don’t have to be farsighted to see that.”
And Alice had suggested that it would be wise for them to use their time and resources to buy provisions while they were in town. “Canned goods would be best, I think,” she said, “because if the lights go out, refrigeration goes too.”
“Why should the lights go out?” Florence asked.
“Because Fort Repose’s power comes from Orlando.”
Florence didn’t quite understand this reasoning. Nevertheless, she followed Alice’s advice, listing certain essentials they would need and filling pails and bathtub with water before they left.
Florence and Alice passed the dead woman and pillaged wreck on the way to town. It frightened them. But, when far ahead Florence saw the procession of convicts, and two of them, one armed, stepped into the middle of the road to wave her down, she stamped on the accelerator. The car quivered at a speed she never in her life had dared before. At the last second the two men jumped to safety and the others shook their fists, their mouths working but their curses unheard. Florence didn’t slow until she reached Marines Park. She dropped Alice at the library. She parked behind Western Union, which occupied a twenty-foot frontage in a one-story block of stores on Yulee Street. Her fingers were trembling and her legs felt numb. It was several seconds before her heart stopped jumping, and she found sufficient courage to enter her office. Fourteen or fifteen men and women, some of them strangers, swarmed in behind her. “Just a minute! Just a minute!” Florence said, and barricaded herself behind the protection of the counter.
This was the first morning in years that she had been late, and so, on this of all mornings, waiting at the door would be more customers than she might customarily expect in a whole day. In addition, on Saturdays, Gaylord, her Negro messenger boy, was off. His bicycle stood in the back of the office.
“Now you will all have to wait,” she said, “while I open the circuit.”
Fort Repose was one of a dozen small towns on a local circuit originating in Jacksonville and terminating in Tampa. Florence switched on her teleprinter and announced: “THIS IS FR RETURNING TO SERVICE.”
Instantly the machine chattered back at her from JX, which was Jacksonville: “YOU ARE LIMITED TO ACCEPTING AND TRANSMITTING OFFICIAL DEFENSE EMERGENCY MESSAGES ONLY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. NO MESSAGES ACCEPTED FOR POINTS NORTH OF JACKSONVILLE.”
Florence acknowledged and inquired of Jacksonville: “ANY INCOMERS?”
JX said curtly: “NO. FYI TAMPA IS OUT. JX EVACUATION ORDERED BUT WE STICKING UNTIL CIVIL DEFENSE FOLDS UP HERE.”
Florence turned to her customers behind the counter, started to speak, and was battered by demands: “I was expecting a money order from Chattanooga this morning. Where is it? … I want you to get this off for New York right away…. Can I send a cable from here? My husband is in London and thinks I’m in Miami and I’m not in Miami at all. What is the name of this place? … This is a very important message. I tried to phone my broker but all the lines are tied up. It’s a sell order and I want you to get it right out. I’ll make it worth your while…. I can’t even telephone Mount Dora. Can I send a telegram to Mount Dora from here? … If I wire Chicago for money, how soon do you think before I’ll get an answer? …”
Florence raised her hands. “Please be quiet—that’s better. I’m sorry, but I can’t take anything except official defense emergency messages. Anyway, nothing is going through north of Jacksonville.”
She watched the transformation in their faces. They had been grim, determined, irritated. Suddenly, they were only frightened. The woman whose husband was in London murmured, “Nothing north of Jacksonville? Why, that’s awful. Do you think …”
“I’ve just told you all I know,” Florence said. “I’m sorry. I can’t take any messages. And nothing has come in, nothing for anybody.” She pitied them. “Come back in a few hours. Maybe things will be better.”
At a quarter to nine Edgar Quisenberry, the president of the bank, stepped into the Western Union office. His face was pink and shaven, he was dressed in a new blue suit, white handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket, and he wore a correct dark blue tie. His manner was brisk, confident, and businesslike, which was the way a banker should behave in time of crisis. In his hand he carried a telegram, already typed up at the bank. “Good morning, Miss Wechek,” he said, and smiled.
Florence was surprised. The bank was her best customer, and yet she rarely saw Edgar Quisenberry, in person, and she never before had seen him smile. “Good morning, Mr. Quisenberry,” she said.
“Really can’t say there’s anything good about it,” Edgar said. “Reminds me of Pearl Harbor Day. That bunch in Washington have been caught napping again. I’d like you to send this message for me—” he slid it across the counter—“the telephone seems to be out of order, temporarily, or I would have called.”
She picked up the telegram. It was addressed to the Atlanta branch of the Federal Reserve Bank, and it read: “URGENTLY NEED DIRECTIVE ON HOW TO HANDLE CURRENT SITUATION.”.
Florence said, “I’ve just received orders not to accept anything but official defense emergency messages, Mr. Quisenberry.”
Edgar’s smile disappeared. “There isn’t anything more official than the Federal Reserve Bank, Miss Wechek.”
“Well, now I don’t know about that, Mr. Quisenberry.”
“You’d better know, Miss Wechek. Not only is this message official, but in a defense emergency there isn’t anything more important than maintaining the financial integrity of the community. You will get this message off right away, Miss Wechek.” He looked up at the clock. “It is now thirteen to nine. I’m going to ask for a report on exactly how quickly this is delivered.”
Florence was flustered. She knew Edgar Quisenberry could make a great deal of trouble for her.
However, Atlanta was far north of Jacksonville. She said, “We don’t have any communication with any points north of Jacksonville, Mr. Quisenberry.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quisenberry.”
“Very well.” Edgar snatched the telegraph blank from the counter and revised the address. “There. Send it to the Jacksonville sub-branch.”
Hesitating, Florence took the message
and said, “I’ll see if they’ll accept it, Mr. Quisenberry.”
“They’d better. I’ll wait.”
She sat down at the teleprinter called in JX, and typed: “I HAVE MESSAGE FOR JX SUB-BRANCH OF FEDERAL RESERVE. SENDER IS EDGAR QUISENBERRY, PRESIDENT OF FIRST NATIONAL BANK. WILL YOU TAKE IT?”
JX replied: “IS IT AN OFFICIAL DEF …”
Florence blinked. For an instant it seemed that someone had flashed mirrored sunlight into her eyes.
At the same instant, the message from JX stopped. “That’s funny,” she said. “Did you see anything, Mr. Quisenberry?”
“Nothing but a little flash of light. Where did it come from?”
The teleprinter chattered again. “PK TO CIRCUIT. BIG EXPLOSION IN DIRECTION JX. WE CAN SEE MUSHROOM CLOUD.” PK meant Palatka, a small town on the St. Johns south of Jacksonville.
Florence rose and walked to the counter with Edgar’s message. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Quisenberry,” she said, “but I can’t send this. Jacksonville doesn’t seem to be there any more.”
Fort Repose’s financial structure crumbled in a day. During the winter season the First National was open on Saturday mornings from nine until noon, and Edgar saw no reason why a war should interfere with banking hours. Like almost everyone else, he was awakened by the rumble of the first distant explosions, and he felt a thrill of fear when the siren on the firehouse let loose. He urged his wife, Henrietta, to make breakfast at once while he tried to put through a long distance call to Atlanta. When his phone made strange noises, and the operator would not respond, he listened to the scanty, thirty-second local news broadcasts. Hearing nothing that sounded immediately alarming for Fort Repose, he reminded Henrietta that nothing drastic had occurred after Pearl Harbor. On the Monday after Pearl Harbor there had been no runs, and no panic. Nevertheless, he could not force himself to finish his bacon and eggs. He left for the bank fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
But at the bank nothing was right. The phones weren’t working there, either, and at eight-thirty, when his staff should have reported for work, half his, people hadn’t shown up. At about the same time he noticed a line of depositors forming at the front entrance, and it was this that made him decide to send a wire to Federal Reserve. He had never received any instructions on what to do in an emergency of this kind, and, as a matter of fact, had never even considered it.
Western Union’s failure to send his telegram worried Edgar somewhat, but he told himself that it was impossible that the enemy could have bombed all these big cities at once. It was probably some sort of mechanical trouble that would be cleared up before long, just as repairmen would soon have the Fort Repose phone system back in working order.
When the bank’s doors opened at nine the people seemed orderly enough. It was true that everyone was withdrawing cash, and nobody making deposits. Edgar wasn’t overly worried. There was almost a quarter million cash on hand, a far higher ratio of cash than regulations required, but consistent with his conservative principles.
In ten minutes Edgar’s optimism dwindled. Mrs. Estes, his senior teller, turned over her cage to the bookkeeper and entered his office. “Mr. Quisenberry,” she said, “these aren’t ordinary withdrawals. These people are taking out everything—savings accounts and all.”
“No reason for that,” Edgar snapped. “They ought to know the bank is sound.”
“May I suggest that we limit withdrawals? Let them take out enough so that each family can buy what’s necessary in the emergency. In that way we can stay open until noon, and there won’t be any panic. It’ll protect the merchants, too.”
Edgar was incensed by her effrontery, practically amounting to insubordination. “When you are president of this bank,” he said, “then it will be up to you to make such decisions. But let me tell you something, Mrs. Estes. The only way to stop a run on a bank is to shovel out the cash. As soon as you do that, people regain confidence and the run stops.”
“It’s entirely different today, Mr. Quisenberry. Don’t you see that? You have to assume some sort of leadership or there’s going to be a panic.”
“Mrs. Estes, will you please return to your cage. I’ll run the bank.”
This was Edgar’s first, and perhaps his vital error.
Corrigan, the mailman, came in and dropped a packet of letters on the secretarial desk. Edgar was heartened to see Corrigan. The good old U.S. government still functioned. “Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night,” Edgar said, smiling.
“This is my last delivery,” Corrigan said. “Planes and trains aren’t running, and the truck didn’t come in from Orlando this morning. This batch is from last night. We can accept outgoing mail but we don’t guarantee when it will go out, if ever.”
Corrigan left and wedged himself into a queue before one of the teller windows.
Paralysis of the United States mail was more of a shock to Edgar Quisenberry than anything that had occurred thus far. At last, he confessed to himself the impossible reality of the day. Realization did not come all at once. It could not, for his mind refused to assimilate it. He attempted to accept the probability that the Treasury in Washington, Wall Street, and Federal Reserve banks everywhere, all were now radioactive ash. No longer any clearinghouses or correspondent banks. He was sickened by the realization that a great part of his own assets—that is, the assets of his bank—were no longer assets at all.
Of what use were Treasury bonds and notes when there was no Treasury? What good were the municipal bonds of Tampa, Jacksonville, and Miami when there were no municipalities? Who would straighten all this out, and how, and when? Who would tell him? Who would know? With all communications out, he could not even confer with fellow bankers in San Marco. He began to sweat. He took out his fountain pen and began jotting down figures on a scratch pad. If he could just get everything down in figures, they ought to balance. They always had.
Edgar’s cashier came into the office and said, “We’re not cashing any out-of-town checks, are we, Mr. Quisenberry?”
“Certainly not! How can we cash out-of-town checks when we don’t know whether a town’s still there?” Edgar flinched, remembering that only yesterday he had cashed a big check for Randolph Bragg on an Omaha bank. Certainly Omaha, right in the center of the country, ought to be safe. Edgar had never given much thought to all the talk about rockets and missiles and such. He always prided himself on keeping his feet firmly on the ground, and examining the facts in a hardheaded, practical manner. And the facts, as he had publicly stated, were that Russia intended to defeat the United States by scaring us into an inflationary, socialistic depression, and not by tossing missiles at us. The country was basically sound and the Russians would never attack a basically sound country. And yet they had attacked, and if they could hit Florida they could hit Omaha—or anywhere.
His cashier, Mr. Pennyngton, a thin man with a veined nose and nervous stomach, a man given to fretting over detail, clasped his hands tightly together as if to prevent his fingers from flying off into space.
He asked another question, haltingly: “Mr. Quisenberry, what about travelers checks? Do we cash those?”
“No sir! Travelers checks are usually redeemed in New York, and between me and you, I don’t think there’ll be much left of New York.”
“And what about government savings bonds, sir? There are some people in line who want to cash in their bonds.”
Edgar hesitated. To refuse to cash government savings bonds was fiduciary sacrilege so awful that the possibility never before had entered his head. Yet here he was, faced with it. “No,” he decided, “we don’t cash any bonds. Tell those individuals that we won’t cash any bonds until we find out where the government stands, or if.”
The news that First National was refusing to honor travelers checks and government bonds spread through Fort Repose’s tiny business section in a few minutes. The merchants, grocers, druggists, the proprietors of specialty shops and filling stations, deduced that if travelers checks and government bonds
were worthless, then all checks would soon be worthless. Since opening their doors that morning, all sales records had been smashed. Everybody was buying everything, which to the shopkeepers was exhilarating as well as frightening. Most of them, from the first, had been cautious, refusing to accept out-of-town checks, except, of course, payroll and annuity and government pension checks, which everyone assumed were always as good as cash. When the bank acted, their first reaction was to regard all paper except currency as probably worthless.
Their next reaction was to race to the bank and attempt to convert their suddenly suspect paper assets into currency.
Looking out through the office door, Edgar watched the queues in the lobby, hoping they would shorten. Instead, they lengthened. He called Mr. Pennyngton and together they checked the cash position. Incredibly, in a single hour it had been reduced to $145,000. If continued at this rate, the bank would be stripped of currency by eleven-thirty, and Edgar guessed that the rate of withdrawals would only increase.
Edgar Quisenberry made his decision. He went into the four tellers’ cages and, one by one, removed the cash drawers and carried them into the vault. He then closed and locked the vault. He walked back to the lobby, stepped up on a chair, and raised his hands. “Quiet please,” he said.
At that moment, there were perhaps sixty people in the queues. They had been murmuring. They were silent.
“For the benefit of all depositors, I have been forced to order that the bank be temporarily closed,” Edgar said.
They were all looking up at him. He was relieved to see Cappy Foracre, the Chief of Police, and another officer, turning people away from the door. Apparently, they had sensed there might be trouble.
Yet Edgar saw no menace in the faces below. They looked confused and uncomprehending, dumb and ineffectual as cattle barred from the barn at nightfall. He said, “This temporary closing has been ordered by the government as an emergency measure.” It was only a white lie. He was quite sure that had he been able to get in touch with Federal Reserve, this is the course that would have been advised.