To keep the Trust Company of America open, Morgan assembled the presidents of the other trust companies late that night. He held them in his library until midnight, where he forced them to commit $8.25 million in loans to allow the failing institution to stay open the next day.
On Thursday morning, the collective strength of the nation's financial elite was unleashed. Secretary Cortelyou deposited $25 million of government funds into New York banks, and John D. Rockefeller, the wealthiest man in the country, deposited a further $10 million into Stillman's National City Bank. To instill public confidence, Rockefeller publicly pledged half of his immense wealth to maintain U.S. credit.
Despite this infusion of cash, banks remained reluctant to make the short-term loans necessary to facilitate daily stock trades. Prices began to crash, and at 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, October 24th, the president of the New York Stock Exchange rushed to Morgan's office with catastrophic news: he would have to close the exchange early. Morgan was emphatic that closing the exchange would signal total collapse.
Morgan immediately summoned the city's bank presidents. As they arrived at 2 p.m., Morgan informed them that up to 50 stock exchange houses would fail unless $25 million was raised in 10 minutes. The bank presidents, galvanized by Morgan's presence, quickly pledged $23.6 million. The money reached the market at 2:30 p.m., allowing the exchange to finish the day's trading. Disaster was averted by a matter of minutes. That evening, Morgan, who usually shunned the press, made a simple, powerful statement: "If people will keep their money in the banks, everything will be all right."
Over the weekend, confidence was slowly restored through a coordinated effort with the press and the clergy, and the New York Clearing House issued $100 million in loan certificates to be traded between banks, allowing them to retain cash reserves.
Although calm returned to the banks, another crisis loomed: the collapse of the brokerage firm Moore & Schley.
The firm was heavily in debt, using shares of the Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad Company (TC&I) as collateral.
Moore & Schley had borrowed large amounts of money from banks, using their shares of TC&I as collateral. Collateral is a security pledged for a loan; if the borrower cannot repay, the lender has the right to seize and sell the asset.
In a panic, banks were "calling" these loans, demanding immediate repayment. Since Moore & Schley could not repay, the banks would be forced to seize the TC&I collateral and sell the massive block of shares immediately on the open market to recoup their losses. Because TC&I was a "thinly traded" stock (meaning there weren't many regular buyers), this sudden, overwhelming flood of supply with no corresponding demand would instantly crush the stock's price, sending it plummeting. This guaranteed crash would then terrify the already unstable market, creating a new, more lethal wave of panic.
To avert this, Morgan called an emergency conference at his famed library on Saturday morning, November 2nd. Working closely with Morgan were his associate George W. Perkins and industrial leaders like Elbert H. Gary (Chairman of U.S. Steel) and Henry Clay Frick (the famed industrialist who was a director of U.S. Steel). Their goal was for the U.S. Steel Corporation, the massive company Morgan himself had helped create, to acquire TC&I, saving Moore & Schley and the market.
But one obstacle remained: the acquisition required approval from President Theodore Roosevelt, the famed "trust-buster" who had made breaking up monopolies a focus of his presidency. The U.S. Steel purchase of TC&I would vastly increase U.S. Steel's market dominance, a direct violation of the Sherman Antitrust Act.
On Sunday, U.S. Steel executives, including Henry Clay Frick, traveled overnight by train to the White House.
Frick and Gary traveled overnight by train to the White House to implore him to set aside the Act. When they were initially blocked by Roosevelt's secretary, Frick and Gary convinced James Rudolph Garfield, the Secretary of the Interior, to arrange a meeting with the President.
Garfield, knowing the gravity of the situation and the sheer political weight of seeking a presidential waiver for a monopoly, was hesitant. He told the two industrialists, "Gentlemen, the President is extremely skeptical of any deal involving U.S. Steel expansion. He will only meet with you if you bring the architect of this rescue—J.P. Morgan—to the table. "
Frick and Gary exchanged quick, meaningful glances. Morgan, exhausted and furious after 48 hours of crisis management, had sworn he would not leave New York. But the market's collapse hung on their next move. They nodded grimly. "We'll bring him," Frick said.
Less than six hours later, against all expectations, a tired and visibly annoyed J.P. Morgan, having taken the fastest express train from New York, was at the White House in Washington D.C. The men were immediately ushered into the President's room.
There, Theodore Roosevelt stood, ready to receive them. But he was not alone. Flanking him were two other figures: a man in his fifties, whose calm, sharp eyes seemed to take in every detail, and a surprisingly tall, young man, perhaps barely twenty years old.
Morgan, leaning heavily on his walking stick, hauled himself to a rigid stop.
President Roosevelt, relishing the theatrical tension, began with a flourish, "Mr. Morgan, gentlemen. I would like to formally introduce—"
"I know them," Morgan cut in, his voice gruff, the fatigue forgotten for a moment. He turned his attention to the older man. "John Kingston. Surprised to see you here."
John Kingston smiled—a slight, knowing curve of the lips. "Mr. Morgan. When the national roof begins to collapse, even the private foundations must lend their support to the government. We came to offer our assistance."
Morgan's gaze finally settled on the younger man. He was towering—at least six-foot-three or four—and stood with a startling, almost arrogant stillness that defied his youth. The confidence radiating from him wasn't simply wealth; it was an unsettling certainty. But it was his eyes that forced Morgan to lean in: deep, ancient, and bearing the cold knowledge of a man who had survived experiences impossible for his twenty-odd years.
Extending a hand that was thick and powerful, Morgan offered a greeting. "You must be George Kingston's kid, Michael."
Michael took the massive hand, his own grip closing around Morgan's with easy, unforced strength. The handshake was firm, a deep compression of palm and bone. Morgan had shaken hands with every powerful man in American business; he knew the practiced, strong grip meant to convey confidence. The grip was not a practiced flourish of confidence; it was a physical manifestation of the man's internal force. It had the weight of substance, not performance.
"It's an honor, Mr. Morgan," Michael said, his voice level and clear. "Though I must confess, this is my first time conducting business in the White House."
A thought, rare and unsettling, flashed through the mind of the seventy-year-old financial titan: Here is the man who will one day reshape the world.