I am certain you have heard of that great criminal partnership, The James-Younger gang, which stole $209,000.00 over the decade between 1866 and 1876- a little over twenty million in 2020 dollars. But they were amatures compared to the Wall Street hustler William Miller. But although he stole far more money, he would have remained another anonymous thief if he had never fallen under the influence of the professional, Robert Ammon.
William F. Miller was living proof of the ancient maxim that upon finding yourself in a hole, you should stop digging. In the late winter of 1898 he was a twenty-six year old, a “small, pale young man” working out of space rented in a grocery on the corner of Marcy and Park Avenues in the then wealthy Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. Every night William took the elevated train north along Marcy Avenue and then walked to his apartment at 144 Floyd Street, a three story tenement house in the Williamsburg working class slums. Around him, wedged between factories and breweries, lived some 200,000 second generation German-Americans, each of them, like William, sharing what Thoreau described as “lives of quiet desperation”.
William attended church regularly. He was the father of two 14 year old boys, John and Louis. He was a dreamer. He was a failure. His wife was ill. And if she had known the truth of William's business acumen, she would have been sicker. William had lost the family nest egg buying and selling stocks in an illegal “bucket” shop, where the profits were made by separating the original “day traders” from their cash. To maintain the image he had of himself, William told his friends that, in fact, he had recently made valuable business connections on Wall Street, and now had the inside “dope”and would soon be rich. The owner of the grocery William rented space from must have felt sorry for the lad, because on Wednesday, 20 April, 1898, he invested $10 in William's dreams. William even wrote him the following receipt; “Received from Mr. Gus. Brandt; the sum of ten dollars ($10.00) for a one share interest in the “Franklin Syndicate”. Principal guarantied against loss, and may be withdrawn at any time. Dividends to be paid weekly in sums of one dollar and upwards per share until principal is withdrawn. Signed, William F. Miller.”
On Friday, Mr. Brandt handed him another “investment” of $10. Brandt must have expected, William invested the money in food and rent for his family. And he might have. But on Monday morning William was careful to pay Mr. Brandt $2, which he called a “dividend”. After this apparent success was made known to his fellow employees, and his neighborhood friends, William found himself suddenly afloat in small “investments”. And each Monday William would personally deliver the “dividends” to his “customers”. By June, even the practical, pragmatic businessman Mr. Brandt was convinced. He invested $100 in William’s “Franklyn Syndicate”. In Brooklyn the boy was earning a reputation as a financial wizard. . He was overheard on the grocery store’s "pay" telephone arguing with J.P. Morgan, and other Wall Street magicians. Of course, these were imaginary conversations, play acting. But they hint that William was desperate to convince his peers of his success. Rather than making money, that seems to have been William's real goal.
With growing confidence, and desperate to bring in enough money to meet his weekly dividend requirements, William began to make the rounds of the brokerage houses on “The Street” trying to sell his new investment plan to the professional thieves. He found no takers until, eventually, his rounds led him to the offices of Robert “Bob” Ammon, a Wall Street lawyer with a reputation as advisor to swindlers and confidence men, of which there were on the Wall Street of 1898, no fewer than there are today. Bob Ammon towered over the shallow youth, physically as well as intellectually. He perceived instantly what William was actually selling. He had sold it himself a number of times. But Williams’s “Franklyn Syndicate” had one distinct advantage over all ones Bob had executed; it had William himself as the front man.
Taking the boy in hand, Bob Ammon agreed to act as the lawyer and agent for his “Franklyn Syndicate”. He began by making up a list of 1,488 of his previous victims, er, customers, and sent each one the following telegram, collect; "To my Depositors: Owing to the enormous success of the Franklin Syndicate, and to the urgent request of a large majority of my depositors, I have decided to incorporate the Franklin Syndicate on December 2nd next, with a capital of $1,000,000….As all depositors are entitled to stock certificates in the corporation, it will be necessary to compare the receipts you now hold with my books, and just as soon as I receive your receipts I will immediately send you your stock certificate to which you are entitled…It is my belief that the Franklin Syndicate shares will be selling at $400 to $500 a share before March 1st next. (But) after December 2nd…I shall open no new accounts for less than $50. All accounts which I now have of less than $50, will have to deposit sufficient to make their account $50…Yours very truly, William F. Miller.
P. S. …it is the intention of the Franklin Syndicate (Incorporated) to continue paying 10% a week.”
Now, none of those receiving this telegram had ever heard of the Franklyn Syndicate, nor of William Miller, before. Most who were suckered into paying for the honor of being offered the scam, either laughed at the impertinence, or cursed their own folly and crumpled the telegram into a ball and threw it away. But several hundred were intrigued enough to wonder who was this man Miller, who claimed to be able to pay 10% interest in a week – 520% interest in a year. Some were so intrigued they immediately sent cash by return post to the offices of the Franklyn Syndicate. A few even felt the need to deliver their money directly to 144 Floyd Street, Brooklyn.
Under Bob Ammon’s guidance, William had taken over the entire third floor of the building , and hired a staff of twenty-two to open the cash bearing envelopes, and greet the mobs of optimistic investors eager to hand over their meager savings. The staff spent their time making bank deposits and writing dividend checks. Mr. Brandt was encouraged to write a letter detailing his previous profits from the Syndicate. Articles, were placed in 700 newspapers nationwide, under the headline, “Wall Street Astonished. Franklin Syndicate a Big Winner.”
In the accompanying article William Miller was referred to as “the Napoleon of Finance”. There was no mention of Bob Ammon anywhere, of course. In a follow up letter to investors, William explained, “"…you know there must be a way where one can double their money in a short time, or else there would be no Jay Gould, Vanderbilt…and other millionaires and syndicates who have made their fortune in Wall street starting with almost nothing….The equilibrata of Wall Street is maintained by the fluctuations between the vast army of losers and the privileged few who win…Our 'inside tips' are from the fountain head of speculative interests, and never fail us. This advantage we not only possess here, but over the Washington wire as well.” Of course William had merely signed the letter. It had been written by Bob Ammon.
By the end of October the Franklyn Syndicate was taking in something between $80,000 and $160,000 (today’s equivalent would be $1.5 million to $3.7 million) per week. But the business practises of the Syndicate were unusual enough that two banks closed their accounts, and most others simply refused to do business with them. The press were beginning to get suspicious, as well, correctly identifying the entire project as a pyramid scheme. Bob Ammon could sense that after a few brief weeks the scam had just about run its course. So one more telegram was issued over William’s name; “We have inside information of a big transaction, to begin Saturday or Monday morning. Big profits. Remit at once so as to receive the profits.” All that week cash poured in to the offices.
The machinations and sudden growth of the syndicate had reduced William to a nervous wreck. Racked by guilt, followed by private detectives (who may have been real or in the employ of the lawyer Ammon), William was ready when, in late November, Bob suggested, “Billy, I think you'll have to make a run for it. The best thing for you is to go to Canada.”
With William’s help, Bob saw that all the funds in the Syndicate’s accounts were now transferred to Bob's private bank account, "to protect them". The total amount was some $250,000 ($25 million today). Then William boarded a train for Canada under an assumed name, and disappeared.
To the investors, and to those outside the scheme, the collapse of the Franklyn Syndicate was sudden and precipitous. It resulted in injury to thousands of lives, Miller’s wife and children being just three more victims. William had left his family protected only by the promised kindness of Bob Ammon. Bob's kindness extended to only $5 a week, and he assured William’s wife that this pittance was all that he could afford.
In fact the syndicate’s funds were safely hidden under Bob’s various nom-de—corporate disguises. And that is the way the story would have ended, except, in December, the Montreal police arrested William F. Miller.
He was placed on trial in the spring, and convicted of grand larceny. And on 30 April, 1900 William was sentenced to ten years in Sing Sing. And still Miller refused to believe that Bob had betrayed him. To maintain the fraud, Ammon had paid for William’s lawyers, had acted as one himself, and during the trial had increased payments to William’s wife to all of $40 a month. Once the trial was complete and William locked behind the granite walls of Sing Sing, the veil began to slip from poor Miller’s eyes; an infection of tuberculosis helped remove that fantasy.
In 1903 William Miller shuffled his way to the witness stand one more time. He was skeletal. He suffered from a hacking cough. He seemed to be dying. And when he pointed his finger at Bob, the jury believed him. It helped that William willingly confessed his own crimes, and had helped prosecutors locate $60,000 of the stolen cash that had somehow had slipped through Bob's hands. And it helped that Bob was only charged with receiving $35,000, which was all that could be conclusively proven. Convicted, Bob Ammon got five years in Sing Sing. In exchange for his testimony, William Miller had his sentence commuted to time served.
William Miller did not die of tuberculosis, not right away, anyway. . He never got rich, but he stopped trying to. He got a regular job, as a store clerk. And he dropped out of history. The Miller's became just another average American family, struggling to survive in a world that makes heroes of the wealthy few, who are more than often, the biggest liars and cheaters in America.
Bob Ammon served his time in Sing Sing, and then he too dropped out of history. He became just another average millionaire, living in nation that considers it impolite to inquire how its citizens attained their wealth, but are endlessly curious as to just how much they have.
- 30 -
The humans arrived en mass, like an attack column swarming a defensive position. The Emperor went nowhere alone anymore. A regiment of cavalry stood guard. Messengers arrived and were dispatched forth all day long - for an Empire run by one man cannot survive long without assurance that the master is always watching, and always watching everything.
There were ambassadors and royalty and a dozen Marshals covered in glittering gold braid. There were Generals to carry the Marshals' eyeglasses and purses and fans. There were servants to serve the lunch and keep the Champagne glasses bubbling over. There were chiefs to cook the lamb and fish and chicken Marengo. There were dozens of carriages and wagons to carry them all from their palaces and mansions and back home again. And there were 3,000 caged rabbits hidden in the high grass, wondering when lunch was going to be served.
So the ever resourceful Berthier (That's him in an 'official' painting above, with the reality edited out of him), had ordered every domesticated rabbit in the Paris market bought and transported to be slaughtered. The fuzzy furry harmless beasts had been fattened in pens and cages all their lives. They were released the afternoon before the hunt, in the chosen field. And there they waited. There were beaters, to drive the bunnies to the guns, for an Emperor does not have all day to spend stalking his prey. So as the Emperor Napoleon advanced into the field with his musket held at the ready, Berthier gave the signal, and the beaters advanced. 
And such was the sight then seen, the likes of which had never been seen before in all of history. And never would be seen again, either.
Three thousand Leporidae Oryctolagus cuniculus (European bunny rabbits) charged desperately toward the first human they had seen in 24 hours - humans being the source of all food and warmth in their entire sheltered lives. The man in the cocked hat must have seemed the answer to a domesticated rabbit’s hopes and prayers after a cold night in the strange, forbidding emptiness of a field. And the mother figure out front was the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
It was a harebrained stampede! If they could have spoken they would have cried out in unison in their little bunny voices, “Take me home, take me home, get me out of here!” But they could not cry out. They could not speak. Bunnies don't talk.
The servants thrashed at the rabbits with whips. The ambassadors and royalty snickered behind their lace cuffs. And the loyal Generals and Marshals of France threw their gold braid between the homesick bunnies and their Emperor. All sacrifice was futile. For the first time in his life (but not the last) the Emperor of Europe, Napoleon I, was forced to retreat to his royal coach, and then to withdraw back within the walls of his palace, tossing stray bunnies out the windows of his carriage as he escaped, his afternoon sport spoiled.
It was prescience of the the snowy road home from Moscow, of the night after Waterloo, of the voyage to exile on Elba and then St. Helena. At a time when no human force could stand up to the 'Beast of Europe', Napoleon Bonaparte had been defeated by an army of bunny rabbits. Vive la Peter Cottontail! Or so goes the legend.
