He took a seat in the bow of the cutter, heard a few words of warmth from one of the rowers, and watched the shit-colored hulk of the Jersey grow smaller and smaller against the backdrop of Brooklyn’s greening landscape.
And he felt . . . nothing. He had felt nothing for so long that it seemed the only way to feel.
But in the middle of the East River, a breeze skittered over the water. It came out of the southwest and carried the rich smell of turned earth warming in the sun. And it reminded Gil of . . . something. He thought it was hope. He was not sure.
WALKING THROUGH NEW York that day, he tried to remember the city that he had left. He remembered fences along alleys and in front of houses. He remembered trees in yards and along streets. He remembered shutters on windows and paint on clapboards. But most of the fences had been stripped for firewood, most of the trees cut down. The shutters had fallen off, and there was not a house that had been painted in seven years.
As for the streets themselves, there was little garbage because the pigs that ran loose rooted it up before it rotted. And the defenses that the Americans had dug seven years before were now no more than ugly piles of dirt or trenches filled with stagnant water. And the wagons and carts now made deep ruts in streets that had not been rolled or oiled for years.
Military governors in occupied cities cared little for civil works, only civil order. And until the treaty was signed, New York remained an occupied city.
Still, there was familiarity on every corner. So Gil allowed himself to look for familiar faces, but he saw none. Then he looked for happy faces, but he saw few, because the population was mostly loyalist, and most of them were preparing to leave on British transports bound for the Indies, for Nova Scotia, or for England itself.
As he walked west on Wall Street, he could see that Trinity Church still lay in blackened ruins. And the Burnt District beyond was not much more than a field of charcoal. So he turned instead at Broad Street, which would lead him past Haym Salomon’s shop and down to Fraunces’s Tavern.
Men who had come aboard the Jersey a few years earlier had brought news that Salomon had been arrested in 1778. The provost marshal had condemned him to death for helping prisoners to escape, but somehow, perhaps with the help of a Hessian guard, Salomon himself had escaped and fled to Philadelphia. He lived there now with his wife and children and served as broker for the Congressional Office of Finance.
That, at least, was good news.
But there had been none about Loretta.
Twice in the first month, guards had shown Gil the gold guineas that she had paid them, just so that she could gain a glimpse of him.
“And you took the money, even though we never saw each other?” Gil had asked.
“Oh, she saw you. She stood on the Brooklyn side and we pointed you out. Saw no reason to tell you, though. Maybe next time we’ll let you wave to her. Then she’ll pay even more.”
Gil had wondered about this for a few days, unsure if he would be happy to see her or angry that she was paying out their future to redcoat vultures. But thoughts of Loretta had soon faded before the stark reality of the smallpox.
Gil had noticed it first when a prisoner who slept nearby erupted in red sores.
“Best move away from him,” Gil had told the Bookworm.
“No use,” the Bookworm had said. “It’ll go through the whole ship. Any man who hasn’t had it will get it. And I never had it.”
“Me neither,” said Gil.
“Best inoculate ourselves, then.”
“Inoculate?”
“I read about it,” the Bookworm had said.
“You read too much.” Bull Stuckey had left off complaining about the poor condition of the ship and spent most of his time staring one-eyed into space.
So the Bookworm had explained that a third of the men who got the pox would die. Nine of ten who were inoculated would survive.
“I still don’t like the odds,” Stuckey had answered. “You ain’t doin’ it to me.”
But the Bookworm had convinced Gil that it was better than waiting to get sick. Then he had taken out the sewing needle that he kept in his hatband and pulled a string of thread from his shirt. With the pin, he had opened one of the pustules on the sick man’s arm and passed the thread through it to collect some of the “matter.”
Gil had rolled up a sleeve so that the Bookworm could introduce the “matter” into his arm with small pinpricks. Then Gil had done the same for the Bookworm, who had laughed nervously and said, “A hell of a way to get rich.”
Gil had sickened first, shivering through a fever, showing a small rash, but feeling better within a few days.
Soon Bull Stuckey had begun vomiting, then shivering, and he had admitted that he should have listened to the one who read the books.
But a day later, the Bookworm himself had exploded with all the symptoms, including the hideous pox. For him, inoculation did not work.
Gil had stayed at his side, as the Bookworm had stayed with Gil in Fort Washington. And Gil had done what he could to see that the Bookworm had water, though the water on the Jersey was something no free man would drink; that he kept his place in the eight-man mess, though the Bookworm had no appetite and the food was unfit for a rat; that there would be cool rags to bathe the agonizing pustules soon covering the Bookworm’s body; that there would be someone to mourn when Gil awoke and realized that he was staring into the open mouth and dead eyes of his friend.
Bull Stuckey had died an hour later, so he and the man he had derided as pukin’ Mary rode the dead-boat together.
Gil had envied them.
And every day, the guards had reminded Gil that his girl had not come back to the tavern where she first bargained with them.
“Guess we got all she had, or maybe she spent the rest on somethin’ good.”
Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn’t.
But Gil meant to find out. If anything had kept him alive, it was finding out.
He stopped for a moment in front of Salomon’s old storefront. An unfamiliar merchant was bent over a ledger in the office where Gil had learned so much. Now Gil could barely remember the features of Salomon’s face, let alone his tutorials on bills of exchange, debt, and credit. Times changed, people changed, but business went on.
And one place where business never ceased was the Queen’s Head, Sam Fraunces’s tavern.
Gil stopped out front for a few moments and watched in the warm April sunshine as men wobbled out with bellies full of more food than a Jersey mess crew would have seen in a week. He considered going around to the back. But the cooks might think he was a beggar, with his rags and eye patch and scrofulous beard. Besides, he had earned the right to go in by the front.
As the tavern door closed behind him, the bright sunlight faded to darkness. It relaxed him, because darkness had been his only comfort in the tweendecks. Then he felt the eyes turn toward him, from the dining room and the taproom. And he heard people sniffing, as if someone had dragged something foul into the room. And he realized that what they smelled was himself.
A British officer at the bar put down his brandy and said, “They may have forced us to accept a Cessation of Arms, but they can’t force us to accept the stink of rebels in the Queen’s Head. Remove that thing at once or I shall be forced to bloody my sword.”
A black servant hurried up to Gil. “You better get out, mister. That feller ain’t in a mood for”—the servant stepped back as though he had seen a ghost—“ain’t you one of them Waterfront Boys?”
“The only one. Where’s Black Sam?”
THAT AFTERNOON, GIL Walker experienced pleasure such as he had not expected again until the rapture: a bowl of beef stew.
And then he slipped into a tub of hot water behind the tavern. He had boils and lice and the itch called impetigo, so the water stung as it struck, but it soothed him soon. Then it turned gray, then black, and then bugs floated to the surface and began swimming for their lives. The sight of them made Gil laugh, and he
realized that he had grown so used to pain that he had forgotten what its absence felt like.
Sam Fraunces, who had been captured by the British and brought back to run the tavern, put a pile of clothes next to the tub, then he pulled up a stool. “Sittin’ so long in warm water ain’t natural, but you have to get all that dirt off you . . . and all that death.”
Gil looked into the face of his old friend.
They called him Black Sam because his complexion was swarthy and the hair beneath his white wig had a tight curl. Some said that he was a mulatto, or perhaps an octoroon. He had been born in the West Indies, so no one in New York knew his parents or grandparents, so one of them might easily have been carrying black blood.
But Fraunces himself kept slaves, and he was a Freemason and a pew-holder at Trinity, so Gil was not sure about Sam’s blackness. And he was not sure he cared, either.
“The dirt’s goin’,” he said. “The death may take a while.”
“You can have your old job back, once you’re strong enough,” said Fraunces. “And you can get strong sleepin’ in your old attic room.”
“Thank you, Sam.” Gil worked the soap into a lather and rubbed his neck. “Do you remember a girl, used to work for Fanny Doolin, by the name of Loretta Rogers?”
“Now, Gilbert, I’m a family man. The frequentin’ of brothels—”
“I was in love with her,” said Gil.
“The girl? Or Fanny?”
“The girl.”
“That’s good, because Fanny’s dead. Leaner McTeague strangled her over money, then he went to strangle the old slave. The slave couldn’t see but he kept a knife in his boot, and he knew right where to put it.”
“And the slave?” Gil hoped that at least Ezekiel might be alive to tell about Loretta.
“They hanged him. Damn shame. He sure could play the flute.”
Gil took a pair of shears, grabbed a handful of wet beard and cut into it. “I don’t know why I lived when so many died. But thinkin’ of that girl kept me goin’.”
“Did she ever work elsewhere?”
Gil made a few more cuts and dropped the hair on the ground next to the tub. “After the fire, she went to work for John Woodward.”
“Woodward? Of Woodward Manor? If you want answers from any who live there, best hurry.”
“Why?”
“When ’twas plain the war was over and the rebels had won, the old squire went out to the barn and hanged himself. Not the only one to do it, but . . . but they’re auctioning everything and sailing for Nova Scotia.”
ii.
The next day, Gil Walker headed north on Sam Fraunces’s horse.
He wore his best coat and breeches, which had been sitting in a trunk since ’76. Aboard the Jersey, he had grown dextrous with needle and thread and worn-out rags, and his skills now gave a bit of shape to the garments that hung on his broomstick frame.
The orchards were budding, and the fields north of the city were greening. But where Gil had expected to see woodlots and forest patches fringed with new growth, stumps dotted the landscape. Seven winters had passed since he went to the prison ships, and every one had left Manhattan with fewer trees the following spring.
As Woodward Manor came into view, Gil pulled up on the reins and dismounted. He had not been afraid for a long time. But he stood there, unable to move, because the memories rushed back, memories of moments that unfolded within sight of that house.
The wounded Rooster falling to his knees. . . . Nancy Hooley rising naked from the river. . . . Loretta loving him on a blanket and afterward, telling him that he should complete his mission because they were doing good work and their gold would never tarnish. . . . Loretta and Nancy urging him and the Bookworm not to despair on their march to the prison ships. . . .
Then he heard someone clopping up behind him.
“You here for the auction?”
Gil turned to a skinny fellow driving a cart. “Auction? Today?”
“Auction tomorrow. Walk-through today. We kept our head down long enough. Now it’s the Tory’s turn. Say, what happened to your eye?”
“I didn’t keep my head down.”
The man leaned closer to him. “Well, you’d best keep it down when the auction comes, because I mean to buy this property, lock, stock, and barrel. I’ve saved every sovereign and guinea and copper I could for this whole war. Hard money. And nothin’s so good these days as hard money.”
“I got no interest in buyin’ a house,” said Gil.
“In that case”—the man offered his hand—“the name’s Daggett. Erastus Daggett. Enjoy your tour.” Then he snapped the reins and his cart went clopping ahead.
Gil sucked up his courage and walked on.
The house was still shaded by the great oak that had survived the British ax. Two soldiers stood at the gate. Black crepe hung around the door, proclaiming a house in mourning. Even if the squire had not hanged himself, it would be a house in mourning, as all Tory houses were.
Still, it was a fine house. A center hallway led to French doors that overlooked the back acreage, the servant’s quarters, and the distant river. Off the hallway were parlor, library, dining room, receiving room. And people were moving about, examining furniture, paintings, carpets, all as if they were back at the Fly Market.
The chief auctioneer stood in the foyer and peered over his glasses at Gil, “You may examine the materials today, but to participate in the auction tomorrow, you will need to demonstrate an ability to pay.”
“Don’t worry,” said Erastus Daggett, who was inspecting a mahogany-framed mirror in the hallway, “he said he won’t be biddin’.”
The auctioneer glowered at Gil. “So what are you here for?”
Gil simply looked the auctioneer up and down. His glare—even with one eye—was still good enough to speak without words: I have endured things that ordinary men could only imagine. Best not to push me.
The auctioneer gave a jerk of the head, as if to say, all right, then, have a look.
Gil glanced into the dining room: a long cherry table, heavy ball-and-claw chairs, sideboard, silver, fireplace, a painting of the Hudson hanging above the mantel.
Then he glanced into the library, where several men were pawing the leather-bound books. And through a window, he saw her.
She was out by one of the sheds. A pile of clean laundry lay in a basket on one side of her. A pile of dirty laundry lay on the other. And she was scrubbing a sheet against a washboard in a tub.
He went down the hallway, through the French doors, and out into the sunlight.
She glanced up and blew a strand of hair from her forehead. “There’s nothin’ for sale out here, mister. It’s all in the house.” And all the while, she kept washing . . . until he said her name. “Nancy.”
The water splattered over the top of the washtub. The arms stopped moving. She looked up again. “Gil? Gil Walker?”
He came closer. “In the flesh.”
She looked over his shoulder, as if searching for another face. “Augustus?”
He shook his head. “Loretta?”
“Gone now . . . three years.”
Gil looked out toward the river and tried to call forth the numbness that had protected him from so much over so many years. It came, if a bit more slowly than usual.
And Nancy began again to scrub, and once her hands were moving in rhythm, she asked, “What killed the Bookworm?”
“Smallpox. . . . Loretta?”
She dried her hands and told Gil to follow her.
She led him down to the long wharf that planked across the mudflats and ended at the river. A rowboat and a cutter bobbed on the current. The breeze was gentle and warm from the west. They sat on a bench and looked out at New Jersey.
“Won’t you be missed from your chores?” he asked her.
“Chores don’t matter anymore.” Nancy said that the squire’s wife no longer cared about the household. The squire was dead. Her goods were bound for the auction block or the hol
d of a ship. Those servants who were not leaving with her would be out of work soon enough.
“Loretta tried to find you,” said Nancy. “She came up with two gold guineas—she never told me where—and she visited every tavern till she found the one where the prison ship guards did their drinkin’. She paid so that we could see you and the Bookworm. But she figured out soon enough that we was bein’ cheated.”
Gil did not say so, but he was glad that Loretta had not wasted more gold.
“We tried other things. When we heard that Washington was sendin’ a man to New York to see about the treatment of the prisoners, we tried to see him. But . . . we was just housemaids, workin’ for a Tory. . . .”
A breeze puffed across the water.
Gil said, “It wouldn’t have mattered. The pox took the Bookworm in six weeks.”
After a moment, she wiped a tear from her eye and continued: “Bein’ that we needed a roof over our heads, we stayed here and worked. And every week, Loretta snuck down to the city to tell what we heard when British officers talked at the table.”
“Did she ever say who she told?”
“Sam Fraunces collected information and passed it on. And there was a Jew named Salomon. She begged him to help get you out. He said he’d do what he could but . . . he had problems of his own.”
“What happened to Loretta?”
“The squire found out. We always thought one of the other house girls told him what she was doin’ . . . and what she used to do at the Shiny Black Cat. So the squire told Loretta he would not turn her in, so long as she brought the Shiny Black Cat to him.”
“You mean . . . she started givin’ him favors?”
Nancy Hooley nodded. “It was that or a visit to the provost marshall.”
“Why didn’t she run?” asked Gil.
Nancy stared across the river for a time. Then she said, “The squire was good to us, especially after Loretta started . . . favorin’ him. He even took us into the house to live in the attic.” Nancy looked at Gil, as if to see if her story was angering him, but Gil was simply staring at the river, so she went on. “At night, the squire would visit Loretta. And so long as she give him what he wanted, he never asked what she did when she went sneakin’ into the city . . . or up to Poughkeepsie.”
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