The Act Takes Effect

Burton opened his mouth, but in the end, he said nothing more and slowly sat back down in his chair.

The vote began.

This time, it was not as quick as in the House of Representatives.

Some people asked questions, some requested clarification, and some hesitated.

But in the end, the result was the same.

It passed.

6:40 p.m.

The sky had already gone completely dark.

White House, Oval Office.

Roosevelt sat behind the famous Resolute Desk.

The desk had been presented to the President of the United States by Queen Victoria of Britain and was made from the oak of the British royal warship Resolute.

William Woodin and Feilan stood behind him.

As for Ballantine, Hugh Jensen, and the other members of the bill-drafting team, it was not that they did not want to come. They simply could not.

Several days and nights of intense work began taking its toll on everyone once the bill was completed.

After the bill was sent out, Ballantine collapsed directly onto a sofa in the hall and slept like the dead. Treasury Department security had to carry him home.

Hugh Jensen barely managed to make it back to his residence before collapsing face-first onto the bed without even taking off his clothes.

The other dozen or so people had also fallen into deep sleep in their own corners.

This was a bill they had traded their lives for.

But they could not witness the moment it was signed.

Still, Roosevelt would not forget their contributions, and the United States would not forget their contributions.

There was a knock at the door.

Louis Howe pushed the door open and stepped aside.

Behind him came a uniformed messenger.

In his hands, he held a document tied with a red ribbon.

It was the official text of the bill that had just arrived from Congress.

The messenger stepped forward and gently placed the bill on the desk before Roosevelt.

"Mr. President, this is the official text of the Emergency Banking Act passed by both houses of Congress. Please sign it."

Roosevelt nodded.

He picked up the fountain pen he had used for many years and unscrewed its cap.

The moment the nib touched the paper, the room fell so silent that breathing could be heard.

Feilan stood behind him, watching the signature take shape stroke by stroke: Franklin D. Roosevelt.

After signing the final letter, Roosevelt raised his head and handed the bill to William behind him. "William, archive it."

William accepted it with both hands and nodded solemnly.

Feilan's gaze settled on the bill.

He thought of how, several months ago, he had sat in that apartment, hammering out a crisis plan on a typewriter.

He remembered the nervousness he had felt when he handed over that plan at the Hyde Park dinner.

He remembered the scrutinizing gazes of the cabinet members when he first walked into a cabinet meeting.

He remembered confronting Morgan and the others in the Treasury Building...

Now, everything had become this bill, had become law.

Feilan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

An image surfaced in his mind:

A patient lay at death's door, his heart nearly stopped, his breathing so weak it was almost imperceptible.

Doctors surrounded the bed, helpless.

Then someone handed them a dose of medicine.

That medicine could not make the patient recover at once; it could not heal the wounds on his body; it could not restore the blood he had lost, nor could it return his disease-ravaged organs to their original state.

But it could make the patient's heart beat again.

Even if it was only once.

Even if it lasted only a second.

Even if, after that beat, his body was still riddled with wounds, still needed long treatment, and could still relapse...

At least the patient was alive again.

Late on the night of March 9, the air in Washington still retained the lingering heat of the day's legislative urgency.

After the White House signing ceremony ended, Feilan and William had no time to celebrate.

They returned directly to the Treasury Department, where even greater work awaited them.

The first thing William did upon returning to his office was send a telegram to George Harrison, president of the New York Fed.

Before signing the bill, Roosevelt had personally promised that the government would cover loans issued by the Federal Reserve during the emergency. William had to put that promise into black and white.

So he wrote in the telegram:

"The President has asked me to assure you that the federal government bears a clear obligation to compensate for any losses that may arise from loans issued by the twelve regional reserve banks under these emergency powers."

What that meant was: lend without worry. If there were losses, the government would cover them.

Meanwhile, Feilan and the Treasury Department's technical staff began work on something more tedious but just as urgent.

He had to finalize reopening dates for the banks Ballantine had screened.

After working through the night, Feilan finally set the final dates.

March 13: Major banks in the twelve Federal Reserve cities would reopen.

March 14: About 250 city banks with clearinghouses would reopen.

March 15: All other qualifying banks across the country would reopen.

This meant the Treasury Department had less than five days to complete the procedures for every bank.

That same night, at the other end of Washington, the machines at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing began to roar.

Article Four of the Emergency Banking Act stipulated that the Federal Reserve could issue emergency currency backed by any bank assets.

This meant the dollar was no longer bound hand and foot by gold.

The printing bureau's workers labored through the night, transporting tons of banknotes to Federal Reserve banks across the country.

These new notes would be sent into the vaults of banks preparing to reopen, ensuring that they had enough cash on hand to meet any possible withdrawals when their doors opened.

At six in the morning, Washington's sky had just begun to pale with the first light of dawn.

Feilan stood by the window of Ballantine's office, stretched, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Cigarettes in this era had no filters, and their harsh tobacco flavor could wake a person up instantly.

A match scraped alight, and a small flame danced between his fingers.

He lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly exhaled.

"Mr. Feilan."

A gentle female voice came from behind him.

Feilan turned around.

A woman around twenty-six or twenty-seven had already entered, holding a white ceramic coffee cup with steam rising from its rim.

She wore a dark blue professional skirt suit, a common outfit for working women of this era.

Her features were delicate, but not the sort that stunned at first glance. Rather, they were the kind that grew more pleasing the longer one looked.

What drew the eye most was her gaze.

She had light brown eyes, and as she looked at Feilan, there was a gentle respect in them.

She approached and handed him the coffee. "You've worked hard, Mr. Feilan."

Her voice was soft, carrying a slight Southern accent, with the slow, unhurried cadence of Georgia or Carolina.

Feilan looked down at the cup of coffee.

It was not the ordinary stuff poured from a thermos. It had been slowly brewed through filter paper. In this era, that was already quite a thoughtful courtesy.

"Thank you. You are...?"

"Emily Watson."

She gave a slight bow. "An analyst in the Treasury Department's Statistics Division. I've always been responsible for the coffee in Mr. Ballantine's office."