City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “I am impressed, sir.”

  Astor smiled. “Ja, a little, so am I. What is your scheme, Dr. Turner? You must have one or you would not be here.”

  Careful now, Joyful reminded himself. It was like playing cards with the midshipmen. You mustn’t show all your cards at once, but you have to make it seem as if that’s exactly what you’re doing. “I believe in simplicity, Mr. Astor, so I will come straight to the point. I am now the majority holder of Devrey Shipping scrip, and thus, de facto, the owner of the company. I wish to make common cause with the most powerful trader in the nation.”

  Astor’s tone was mild. “A sick dog, Devrey Shipping is, full of fleas and disease and a long time taking to die. But it is my competition, so if you speak the truth, you are my enemy.” Joyful started to say something and Astor held up a hand to forestall him. “I think you have come here because you do not want me to think of you or your company as my enemy. And I think perhaps it is true and you are not. But am I sure? No, Dr. Turner, sure I am not. Please, convince me.”

  “Two words should be enough. Gornt Blakeman.” Joyful thought he saw a flash of interest in the other man’s eyes.

  “So. A great victory he has had, a great day. I congratulate him. But fear him I do not, Dr. Turner. My best information says only one merchantman he has, the Canton Star. I have a fleet.”

  “So have I, now.”

  “You, or Devrey’s, I should say, have eight merchantmen. All are rotting in the roads. One East Indiaman too. Apparently, still she is captive in Canton. As for me…I own four ships meant for the China trade. Two are idle. The other two are”—he hesitated—“gainfully they are employed.”

  “As privateers, I warrant.”

  The older man shrugged. “I am a loyal American, and I wish to help my country in her time of need. Attacking the enemy’s shipping is a good way. As good as sailing with the navy”—he nodded again toward Joyful’s missing hand—“and much more profitable. Come,” he stood up. “Let me show you something, Dr. Turner. Please, over here.”

  Astor led his guest to an almost life-size bronze statue of the Greek god Atlas, holding up a globe of the world. The globe was made of ivory-colored parchment stretched over an iron frame, the continents etched in position in dark sepia tones. The globe was discreetly pierced, and lit from within with some kind of lantern. Jacob Astor extended one finger and set the contraption spinning. Joyful could not look away. Shafts of light appeared to fly from the earth’s interior toward the great beasts that populated the study. His host touched the globe a second time and it stopped turning. They were looking at North America. “So, here is our United States,” Astor said. “Much bigger now that President Jefferson bought the French Louisiana, no?”

  “Very much bigger.”

  “And here is what President Jefferson wrote to me about that bigger country.” Astor took a letter from a nearby shelf and handed it to Joyful.

  The letter was dated April 11, 1808. All beyond the Mississippi is ours exclusively, and it will be in our power to give our own traders great advantages over their foreign competitors. Joyful stopped reading and skipped to the signature. Thomas Jefferson, it said, President of the United States.

  “Here I have a trading colony.” Astor tapped the western edge of the North American continent. “Astoria. A year ago I sent men to find a better route between Astoria and here.” His finger rested on St. Louis in the Missouri Territory.

  “And did they find it?”

  “Ja, Dr. Turner. I think they did. A pass through these mountains”—his short, stubby finger had moved to the Rockies—“where wagons can go without so hard a journey. So after this miserable war is over, many can travel from here to here.” The finger traveled from New York through the Oregon Territory to the colony he’d named Astoria. “And Astor’s ships will trade with ease, everywhere.” Once more the globe spun at Jacob Astor’s touch and shafts of dancing light illuminated the surroundings. “Everywhere,” he repeated. “And from Astoria my merchantmen will not have to go around Cape Horn.” Astor’s pointing finger dropped to the southernmost tip of South America. “They can go straight across the Pacific Ocean to China.”

  “And the goods will then travel overland to New York? Using this passage you’ve discovered?”

  The older man snorted with laughter. “No, no! That would be stupid, hein? Better Astoria becomes a big city like New York, so I can trade there directly.”

  He couldn’t make it plainer. Joyful Turner was nothing more than a mosquito perched on the mighty tiger’s luxurious coat, a small annoyance to be flicked off with the swish of a tail. Nonetheless, it was too late to back off now. In fact, it was time to show another card. “Tell me, sir,” Joyful said, “do you consider your Astoria to be part of the United States?”

  “Ja, of course. I am a patriot, Dr. Turner. That is why presidents write to me.”

  “And because you finance them,” Joyful said quietly.

  Astor smiled. “A little money,” he admitted. “For President Jefferson, and now for President Madison. To help with the war effort. I must do this because we have listened to stupid men, and now we have no Bank of the United States to buy bonds and issue credit. So that task falls to Jacob Astor and a few of his friends. I will make a profit, ja, Dr. Turner, but still I am a patriot. Come, we will again sit.” Astor led the way back to the other side of the room and once more seated himself beneath the open-mouthed tiger.

  The wager had been both called and raised; it was time for Joyful to show his hand. “I believe you are a patriot, sir. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Whatever the difficulty, I would have found some way to take my information directly to Mr. Madison.”

  Astor leaned forward, one hand tapping impatiently on his thigh. “You know something. What?”

  Joyful’s mouth was dry and his stomach knotted. Hé could so easily be wrong. Andrew could have been mistaken. Manon could have misunderstood Blakeman’s business with her father. He took a deep breath. “I believe that Gornt Blakeman is soon to offer you an opportunity to do something extraordinary, something that can make you fortunes yet undreamed of, Mr. Astor, but not on behalf of our young nation. Quite the opposite.”

  Astor fixed his visitor with his dark and intent gaze, saying nothing.

  “What if I were to tell you,” Joyful continued, “that Gornt Blakeman has in his possession a rare stone, a diamond worth a king’s ransom. And that I am all but certain he plans to come to you with a scheme to offer this jewel to a foreign court.”

  Astor leaned back. His face was shaded by the overhanging tiger’s head, and Joyful could no longer see his eyes. “If, Dr. Turner, you were to make such a statement, I would ask first how you came by the information.”

  “And I would tell you that I cannot say.”

  “Then why should I believe you?”

  “Because it is a matter of honor, and there is a lady involved. But as to the information, I have no reason to lie about such a thing.”

  Each man took the other’s measure in silence. Suddenly, Astor leaned forward and grasped Joyful’s left wrist. “I warrant this makes you a patriot as well, Dr. Turner.”

  Joyful hated to have his wound touched; he steeled himself not to jerk away. Finally, having inflicted as much discomfort as he chose, Astor released his grip. “A true patriot, Dr. Turner. So I shall tell you more than anyone else knows except, I hope, President Madison. All this hysteria in the streets, the soldiers…New York is not about to be invaded. Our enemy goes somewhere else—but do not think we are safe. Our United States is in more danger than ever before. In fact, I have to the president sent word. He must leave the Executive Mansion.”

  “The British will attack the Federal District?” Joyful could not keep the dismay from his voice. “You’re certain?”

  “No, not certain. Only it is what I think. I have arranged so here in New York I will know first if it happens. Now,” Astor reached over and tugged on a bell rope that had been fashioned to look like a leopar
d’s tail. “Brandy we must have, Dr. Turner. And I will tell you more of my story, and you will tell me what you can of yours. Without, of course, you violate a lady’s honor.”

  Finbar O’Toole pulled evenly on the oars, his rhythm easy and practiced. The Inner Harbor was flat as a lake, a splash of bright moonlight laying a path for the gig to follow. He could see his ship, riding at her mooring in the roads. There must be a current running out there.

  Close to midnight and he still had the whole of his six thousand seven hundred, except for a few coppers gone for drink. He’d not been near the Dancing Knave. Hadn’t even taken a hand of cards when there was a free place at a table of players in one of the numerous taprooms he’d visited during the evening. Not restraint and sure as hell not good sense, spite was more like it. A sickness indeed. He bloody well wasn’t sick. And if he was, how come Joyful Turner was prepared to let him captain a fine sloop like Lisbetta? Presuming Joyful really had any say in the matter. Why would Bastard Devrey give his cousin a ship to go off on the kind of fool’s errand O’Toole suspected this treasure hunt to be? A share in whatever was found, probably. But over half a century had gone by since that suspect voyage of the Fanciful Maiden. Why should whatever Morgan Turner buried still be wherever he’d put it? And what about the small matter o’ the poxing British blockade? Couldn’t last forever, Joyful said. True enough. But Bastard Devrey was hanging on by a thread, and the dogs were snapping at his heels. Odds were, he’d fall and be torn apart well before the Royal Navy sailed off and these waters were safe enough for a voyage to the Caribbean.

  Holy Mother of God, what was going on?

  Canton Star was abeam her portside neighbor, a sloop that had been so long a prisoner in the roads she looked like a ghost ship, all peeling paint and tarnish. The bowsprit of Blakeman’s merchantman was aimed directly at the sloop’s midsection. From this distance it appeared Star had not yet made contact with the other vessel, but it was a close thing.

  The sloop was the property of a small-time coastal trader whose name O’Toole didn’t know, and whoever he was, he’d be no more’n a gnat’s bite to the likes o’ Gornt Blakeman, especially now. But Finbar O’Toole was captain o’ the Star. If she did damage to anything afloat, however worthless, it was his responsibility. “Ahoy, Star o’ bloody Canton!” he hailed. “Ahoy, sailor o’ the watch!” He picked up the stroke, pulling so hard on the oars he soon had no breath left for shouting.

  The forward anchor had gone adrift. No damage done, there was still some distance between the Star and the sloop. It was a simple matter to pole off the other boat and secure the anchor line. O’Toole did the job first, then silently approached the forecastle, where the tar on watch was supposed to be. He was there all right. Tammy Tompkins—flat on his back, slack-jawed, snoring, and dead drunk. He had to be, otherwise he’d not have slept through the trouble or the fixing of it.

  If this were the navy, Tompkins would be summarily hanged and no questions asked. It was not, but O’Toole wanted the man dead.

  He went below and retrieved the red woolen bag that hung in his cabin and was standard fitting on any ship. When he returned topside, the cat-o’-nine-

  tails—a black leather handle and nine short, knotted cords—was in his hand. The first stroke caught Tompkins between his shoulder and the side of his neck. He woke screaming and rolled away quick enough to catch the second stripe on his back. “What are you doing? You daft old bastard! This ain’t the poxing British Navy! You can’t flog me! I’ll kill you first!” Tompkins scrambled for purchase on the deck, rolling below the foremast. “I’ll kill you!”

  “Off my ship!” O’Toole roared. “Get off my ship or you’re a dead man!” He saw the knife that had materialized in Tompkins’s hand, but ignored it, just went on swinging the cat, occasionally landing a blow. Meanwhile, Tompkins thrust and thrust again, trying to dodge the stripes O’Toole was raining down on him but get close enough to slash the Irishman’s flesh. The cat held him away. In moments the tar’s shirt was in shreds, and his chest and one side of his face was slick with blood. “Get off my ship!” O’Toole howled. “Off! Off! Off!”

  Tompkins twisted and turned, half crouching, half rolling. His goal was the bulkhead, and he finally reached it and grasped the gunwale. Pulling himself up exposed his back to two more vicious stripes. He ignored them and clambered over the side of the ship, descending by the futtock shrouds, hurling curses while the cat continued to beleaguer his head and shoulders.

  O’Toole swung the cat until Tompkins was out of reach, then dropped it and stood where he was, chest heaving, until he could breathe without pain and the red haze of fury in front of his eyes had begun to clear. He was aware that the two other crewmen had come up from belowdecks and stood by the forward bulkhead, watching him. He bent down, scooped up the cat, and turned and pointed it at one of them. “You”—he was still gasping for air—“take over the watch.” Both tars were red-eyed. It must have been a three-man raid on the rum, with Tompkins drawing the short straw and having to at least pretend to stand watch. Now his blood was a dark brown stain on the heavily buffed boards. O’Toole pointed the cat at the second sailor. “Swab the deck before you go below.”

  “Tompkins can’t swim,” the first tar muttered.

  The Irishman had already started for the ladderway that led to his cabin. He stopped, turned slowly around, and looked at the man who had spoken.

  “Then he’ll drown,” O’Toole said. “He was drunk on watch. He deserves no better.”

  “Don’t matter none.” The second tar was leaning over the side. “He’s taken your gig, Cap’n.”

  By then all three had heard the splash of the oars as Tammy Tompkins made for shore.

  Saturday, August 20, 1814

  Chapter Eleven

  New York City,

  Hanover Street, 2 A.M.

  GORNT BLAKEMAN had been planning to find somewhere better to live than the private rooms above his countinghouse for over a year, even if it was only a temporary stop between present arrangements and those that would be suitable for the future he planned.

  Months he’d spent putting the pieces of the puzzle in place: enlarging his coaching business, maneuvering to get a big enough share of Devrey Shipping so he could negotiate on a more equal footing with the Boston shipowners whose alliance was crucial to his plans, waiting for Canton Star, praying that Finbar O’Toole was really the man to bring her safely through the British blockade, and when indeed his ship arrived in triumph, holding his breath to see if she had brought him the one thing he truly wanted, the treasure that would make his dreams a reality. All that had taken priority over domestic arrangements.

  As for tonight, he could have returned to Delight Higgins’s bed. It was a good deal more luxurious than his own, and God’s truth, she knew enough ways to pleasure a man to ward off boredom. Nonetheless, he’d had enough of her. There was something unyielding in the she-witch, something that made him feel she was the aggressor even as she lay beneath him. Christ, how did women like that keep from constantly being with child? They must have ways. She must have them. Else those slim hips and that taut belly would long since have become permanently misshapen and spread.

  Eugenie would not have stopped a child from coming, even if she knew how. Why should she? She’d been a respectable married woman. Despite that, in four years she’d given Timothy Fischer no heir. She must be barren. A pity, all things considered. As for the rest…Would it be the same with her as with Delight Higgins? When he finally had Eugenie—and he would have her—would he discover the same flinty core? Hard to say. And the yellow-haired beauty the mulatto had served up sauced with so much venom, Manon Vionne, the goldsmith’s daughter? A virgin. He was sure of it. Spirited, judging from her father’s reaction to the proposal, but never mind, he’d mold her to his liking. Build them a proper house as well, up near Astor’s. Or maybe make the City Hall into a palace. Eugenie would be close enough so he could have her as well as a wife. Something to please him whil
e Manon was bearing his sons.

  The door of the taproom next to the countinghouse swung open, and a body was hurled into the street. “No drink without coin, you miserable bastard. You can die of thirst for all I care.”

  The ejected man slid on his rump just short of Blakeman’s boots. Blakeman extended a leg to kick the drunk out of his path, then stopped.

  “Got to find Gornt Blakeman,” the seaman muttered. “Lives around here. They told me…” He stopped speaking long enough to vomit into the gutter, then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ll find Blakeman on Hanover Street, they said.”

  “Mr. Blakeman to you. What do you want with him? What’s your name?”

  “Tammy Tompkins, that’s me. Genuine war hero. Sailed with Admiral Perry, I did. Did my share. More’n my share. Had enough o’ guns and blood and sawing lads in half while they was still alive.”

  “Yes, well it appears you’ve had enough of something.” The man was filthy, badly cut up, and his checked shirt was in tatters. Blakeman had seen such wounds before. “You’ve had a taste of the cat, probably well deserved, but what’s that to do with Mr. Blakeman?”

  “Sailed all the way from Canton on his ship, I did. And stayed aboard on his personal request. Now I got to find him.”

  Blakeman leaned down, ignoring the sour stench of vomit and sweat. It had been Captain O’Toole’s job to select the three tars he wanted to keep aboard. Looked as if he’d made at least one bad choice. “What’s your business with Mr. Blakeman?”