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Imagine it's December 1816 in the State House in Columbia, South Carolina.

You're sitting at a long table with five other members of the State Trade Committee,

working your way through a stack of papers and permits that have been sent for your review.

You stifle a yawn as you pick up yet another document from the pile.

But just then, an attendant enters the room and informs you that there's a gentleman from New England asking for an audience with the committee.

You nod to the attendant who steps out and returns with a weary-looking man with dark circles under his eyes.

He wipes his nose with a handkerchief as he takes a seat across from you. You reach

across the table and shake his hand. Well, welcome. I was informed that you've only recently

arrived in our fine city. I hope the journey went well. I can't say it did. A week I see from

Boston to Charleston, followed by three miserable days on Rutted Rose to Columbia, and I managed

to catch a terrible cold along the way. You'll have to excuse me. I haven't slept a wink in two nights.

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, but I guess you're here now. What brings you before our committee today?

My name's Frederick Tudor. He pauses, clearly expecting some reaction from you, but you've never heard of him.

After a second, Tudor frowns.

The ice trader, out of Boston?

You look down the table at your colleagues, but there's no hint of recognition from them either.

I'm afraid, sir, we're not familiar.

Well, let me enlighten you then.

...