City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “Can’t say for sure. Could be the same man who said as how you had to be watched.”

  Joyful managed to conceal his surprise. “Gornt Blakeman. He’s the one who’s raising the regiment, isn’t he? And the one who said I should be watched.”

  “Not him exactly; it were F.X. Gallagher. Comes to the same thing.” Burney turned the small bottle of oil over and over in his fingers. “And he said to keep a lookout for the lady as well.”

  “What lady? Damn it, man, I need to know.”

  “This stuff’s going to help my daughter get well, isn’t it?”

  “It is. What lady?”

  “The goldsmith’s daughter. Mistress Vionne.”

  Anger made the blood at his temples throb. Joyful yanked on Mary Jane’s reins and headed her south. The horse obediently turned onto Broadway, but not before casting a reproachful look over her shoulder. Joyful patted her shoulder. “Sorry, old girl, it’s not your fault.” They were far enough north so he could give the mare her head after that, bend forward and let her run out. In minutes they were in the ever increasing crush of carriages and wagons and pedestrians of the churning city at the tip of the island, and he had to rein her in while his thoughts still raced. The bloody bastard. If he harmed Manon, Joyful would take him apart with the one hand he had left.

  It was getting on to one o’clock, and Hanover Street was thronged with people. Most were crowded round the countinghouse door below the sign that said BLAKEMAN COACHING.

  The fury born in Five Points was a thing of ice now, cold enough to allow for calculation. If Gornt Blakeman was in his countinghouse or in the private rooms above them, Joyful would confront him and have the whole thing out right now. He and Bastard had the majority shares of Devrey scrip and would buy him out or force him out. As soon as he’d done that, he’d talk Delight into letting him raise a mortgage on the Knave. Someone at the Tontine was bound to like that investment. He might even be able to get enough to finance the Lisbetta’s voyage to the Caribbean.

  And what if Blakeman was somewhere else? According to Manon, the Great Mogul had not been left with her father, so either Blakeman kept it on his person, or he’d hidden it here on Hanover Street, probably in his private quarters on the upper floor. What a coup that would be: steal the bloody thing right out from under the poxed bastard’s nose, and use it to fix an alliance with the king of traders himself.

  Joyful pushed his way into the countinghouse and was instantly immersed in the hubbub. One clerk was shoving away a clutch of people who seemed intent on crawling over his tall desk while another was shouting, “Told you already, Mr. Blakeman’s not here and we don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  One question answered, and more of an opportunity than he might have imagined. The countinghouse was chock full of supplicants who knew that, as of yesterday’s sale, Gornt Blakeman had become a man with a great deal of ready coin.

  “It’s my little one as needs…”

  “Worth his while, no doubt about that. Shells peas with one touch. Greatest invention since…”

  “Married to his third cousin, I was. He’ll want to see me right now.”

  The clerk standing at the desk in the back of the room raised his voice above the tumult. “Get out, all of you! He’s not here and we’ve work to do.”

  An old woman with one side of her face eaten away by the pox shoved her shawl clear of her head so her disfigurement was more easily seen. “How would you feel if this was you? Wouldn’t you try and ease your way a bit with a few coppers a rich man wouldn’t miss?” At least a dozen voices shouted agreement.

  “A few coppers. He’ll never know they’re gone.”

  “He’s not here, I tell you. Why won’t you…”

  Joyful sidled along the edge of the room, skirting the chaos. A heavy velvet curtain hung six feet to his right, and logic said the curtain shielded a stairway to the private quarters overhead. If Blakeman had really stashed the diamond on Hanover Street, the stairs would be well guarded.

  He’d taken his medical satchel with him when he tethered Mary Jane on the street; it was his excuse for being here if he was challenged. He’d been summoned to a sickbed. Sorry, he must have mistaken the address.

  At the curtain now, and still no sign of the guard he was sure Blakeman must have posted. Joyful used the stuffed glove to sweep aside the curtain and slipped quickly behind its folds, every sense alert, waiting to be challenged. There was no sound except for the incessant demands of the throng in the countinghouse, somewhat more muted now, thanks to the thick curtain. Dark as night as well. He sensed rather than saw that he was in a narrow passage facing a flight of stairs.

  He started to climb, moving slowly, alert for a squeak that would summon the watchdogs Blakeman had set to guarding his huge diamond. Unless, of course, it wasn’t here. On his person then. Or—The creak he’d anticipated came. Sounded to him like all the gunpowder in creation going off at once, though he knew it was only a small noise in the darkness. Joyful froze, waited. Nothing. Could be no one was here because the diamond was hidden somewhere else. Or it was nowhere within thousands of miles. It might well be that Manon had misunderstood, and the fabulous Great Mogul, diamond of the ages, was in the court of some sultan or pasha on the other side of the world.

  Another stair. Christ, how many were there? He stretched the glove straight ahead of him, counting on the extended sense he’d developed these last months. He wasn’t disappointed. He knew that he was one step from the top landing, and that he’d encountered yet another velvet curtain. Joyful took a deep breath, listened carefully, and heard nothing. He pushed the curtain aside. A sliver of light came from below a closed door. He reached for the handle; it turned easily and the door opened without a sound. Holy Jesus Christ, it could not be this easy.

  Joyful peered into a gloomy room. One window faced the street. The other on the opposite wall. Both were heavily draped. He listened to the steady rumble of noise from the countinghouse below—no change of pitch to indicate that anyone had raised an alarm—and something else. He’d wager his soul it was the sound of a stream of piss hitting a china chamber pot, stopping and starting. As if whoever was relieving himself was having difficulty.

  Blakeman’s private quarters were a single room, stretching back into deep shadows. The front end was dominated by a surplus of heavy furniture—chests and tables, and a bed hung with still more velvet. By the bed he saw the man obeying the call of nature: Vinegar Clifford, wearing his working outfit of black singlet and leggings. He was hunched over a delicate-looking chamber pot painted with bright pink roses. It was the first time Joyful had seen the whipper without his weapon at the ready.

  Clifford’s whip lay on a table a few feet distant. Both his hands were hanging on to his cock, and not simply to aim his stream. Seen in profile, the whipper’s face was contorted in pain, and he was groaning softly under his breath. Given the gingerly way Clifford was handling himself, it was in the genitals he felt the attack. Any odds you cared to name said the strained trickle of piss was flecked with blood, and letting it flow meant suffering the tortures of the damned. Getting his own back some might say. Vinegar Clifford, not long since the most feared man in the city’s jails and almshouse, was suffering the terrible burning agony the simple need to urinate caused when you were a victim of the French disease.

  Joyful was as sure of his diagnosis as if he’d examined the patient and heard the list of symptoms. Secondary syphilis, with attendant renal disease. Probably a few months after initial contagion was signified by a painless chancre on the penis that soon disappeared. Nothing painless about this stage of the malady.

  Excellent, suffering was a fine distraction.

  Joyful took a few steps into the room. If he could get to the back of the crowded chamber, he could hide until such time as the whipper went back to his post downstairs guarding the entrance to the upper floor. As soon as he left, Joyful would search for the ebony box. If he didn’t find it, he’d wait for Blakeman to come h
ome.

  Clifford was still intent on his own business. A large chest provided Joyful cover for a few feet, a tall armoire did the job for another few. Then he was in the open again, skirting the table where Clifford had left his whip. The other man’s back was to him, the ropy shoulder muscles twitching in spasms of misery. The groans had become a steady, tearful whimper. Too bad some of the poor sods who’d felt the sting of the lash and the vinegar bath that followed it couldn’t be here to watch.

  Joyful took another step, and something hit him from the rear; he cried out in surprise. Clifford cursed and twisted round, looking for the source of the sound, then doubled over with the pain of the sudden movement. “Who’s there! I’ll flay the hide off—”

  Not a chance. Joyful dropped his satchel and stretched his hand toward the table. As soon as he changed his position, the loose floorboard that had sprung up and hit him clattered back into position. Joyful ignored it, feeling the thrill of triumph when he beat Clifford to the whip by something less than a heartbeat. It uncoiled in his hand, the long lash puddling on the floor at his feet. “Stay where you are, otherwise you’ll have a taste of your own medicine.”

  “Jesus poxing hell. It’s Joyful Turner, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same. Aren’t you supposed to be at the Dancing Knave about now? Miss Higgins won’t be pleased to know you’re looking after Gornt Blakeman’s business instead of hers.”

  “Don’t matter none to me what that nigra—what Delight Higgins thinks. Work for Mr. Blakeman now. And he didn’t say nothing about you coming here.”

  “Fair enough. But does Blakeman know you’re so racked with pain every time you piss that anyone can gain access to his private quarters?”

  “That ain’t none of your business. No skin off your nose neither.”

  “Maybe not. But how much more of that agony can you take?” Joyful nodded toward the chamber pot. “A man has to piss sometimes, Vinegar. Even you.”

  “That ain’t none o’ your business neither.”

  “Illness is my business. Your waterworks are damaged. I can fix them.” He tucked the whip under his left arm and reached for his medical bag with his right.

  The whipper eyed him with something close to terror. “I ain’t letting you take a knife to my privates!”

  “I never said anything about cutting. I’m a doctor as well as a surgeon.” Joyful swung the bag toward him, undoing the buckle. He needed his gloved stump to hold the bag open while he rummaged for what he wanted. The whip dropped to the floor. Clifford ignored it; there was no question what mattered most if it came to a choice between a man’s cock and his whip.

  “Here’s what you need.” Joyful extracted a brown glass bottle, tightly corked, and put it on the table. “This will help with the pain when you piss. Take a swallow when you first feel the need to go, and try to wait a few minutes. The pain won’t disappear, but it will be considerably less.”

  “Truth?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  Clifford reached for the bottle. Joyful snatched it away. “Nothing’s free in this world, Vinegar. Not even medicine.”

  “How much?”

  “In coin? Nothing. It’s information I’m after.”

  The whipper’s glance darted to the whip lying on the floor between them. “What kind o’ information?”

  “The box you collected from Captain O’Toole. Where is it?”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about any bloody box.”

  Joyful moved to return the bottle to his bag. “Lies are a waste of time, Vinegar. I was there. I saw you take the box.”

  Clifford made a small move toward the whip. Joyful stepped on it. “Of course; a man in your condition wants more than relief from pain. You want the illness to be cured before your cock shrivels up and falls off.”

  “Falls off! Jesus, I never heared—”

  “There’s plenty you never heard. Not your line of country, is it? It’s mine, though. That’s why I can say for certain that this”—Joyful extracted a small green-glass vial from his bag—“this will cure you. This yellow powder may taste like cat vomit, but sprinkle a bit on your tongue morning and night for a time, and not only will your cock stay attached to the rest of you, peeing will no longer be painful and there’ll be no blood. I guarantee it.”

  Clifford stared at both bottles with open longing. Forty dollars a month was useless if his cock fell off and left him no kind of man at all. “I got the box on the dock, just like you say, and brought it straight to Mr. Blakeman. He paid me five dollars, but as to what was in the box…” The whipper shook his head. “Ain’t got no bloody idea. And that’s the truth.”

  “Why send you? Blakeman could have simply collected the thing and be done with it.”

  “No sir. He couldn’t do that. You know about medicine, Dr. Turner. But I know about men of standing. Been doing their dirty work for years. Men of Mr. Blakeman’s sort have to keep their hands clean. You going to give me that stuff or ain’t ye?”

  “In a minute. I’ve one more question. Where’s the box now?”

  Clifford shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Don’t want to know neither. Blakeman’s paying me twice what I earned working at the Dancing Knave. Long as I can piss without going through hellfire, I’m content. Now, do I get the stuff or don’t—”

  “Get out, all of you!” The bellow from below stairs penetrated two thick curtains and one door. “I’ll have the law on the lot of you otherwise. Mr. Clifford! Get down here! Bring your whip!”

  Clifford hesitated, looking toward the stairs and the summons from Gornt Blakeman, and at the brown bottle and the green sitting on the table. Joyful made up his mind. “Here,” he said, pushing the medicines forward. “Just remember that when you need more you’re to come to me.” He’d specified small doses, but he’d stake his soul Clifford would believe the more he took the faster he’d get well. “Meanwhile, keep your eyes and ears open so you’ve something to report in payment.”

  “That window over there,” the whipper said, jerking his head toward the rear wall. “It overlooks a private yard. And there’s a tree with a branch you can probably reach if you lean out far enough.” He crouched down to reclaim his whip. Joyful kicked it in his direction. Clifford grabbed it and stood up, at the same time whisking the two glass bottles into a drawer on his side of the table. “Hurry. I’ll give you as long as I can, but Blakeman’s sure to come up here sooner rather than lat—”

  Another booming yell from below. “Mr. Clifford!”

  The whipper ran for the door.

  Joyful hesitated. There were shouts from below, and sounds of scuffling feet. Clifford laying about someone with the whip, no doubt. Joyful headed for the rear window, threw his bag out first, then climbed into the tree. He hated heights. It used to make him dizzy just watching the seamen maneuver high above his head in the rigging, but the tree was close enough to the building so he wasn’t conscious of the drop. Climbing down with only one hand was twenty times more difficult than he expected, but he got to the ground with only a slight scrape to his cheek and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Two o’clock. Probably too late to find Manon at the Fly Market. And though he now had urgent business with Delight—if Clifford had bedded any of the women at the house when he was contagious, they would have to leave—he couldn’t face the thought of that just now. These days every encounter with Delight was a reproach to his conscience. Moments later he was astride his mare and headed toward Greenwich Street.

  The bottle of laudanum was a loss, but fortunately he had two spare back in his room at Ma Allard’s. There was only one more of the small bottles of tansy powder, but not much to be bothered about there. Tansy was useful for cleansing wounds, but God knows, no cure for the French disease. Physicians and quacks alike had been trying to find one for centuries with no success. But the stage of the malady currently afflicting Vinegar Clifford, ex–official whipper of New York City, would end of its own accord in a matter of da
ys or possibly weeks. Both Joyful’s experience and the medical literature said so.

  Syphilis began with visible sores, at which time it was most easily spread. Next it passed into an acute stage involving agonizing pain, then after a short time retreated for months or maybe years, coming back to kill the victim usually well before his appointed span. Meanwhile, the tansy powder would do Clifford no harm, and the laudanum was a proper treatment for this acute period. As for giving the whipper false hope, Joyful felt no guilt about it. His oath of medicine did not require him to tell a man his death was going to be sooner rather than later and ugly when it happened. As for what he’d gained and what use Clifford might be to him in the future, he’d have to wait and see. It would all depend on his joss.

  Chapter Twelve

  New York City,

  the Foot of Maiden Lane, the Fly Market, 2 P.M.

  CUSTOMARILY, Joyful met her here between noon and one. Manon had arrived at the market a little before twelve on this Saturday and waited nearly two hours, but he never appeared. She dared not stay too long; Papa had been watching her all morning, asking repeatedly when she planned to leave and when she would be back. “You need not fuss yourself about such things,” she’d told him. “I will look after the household arrangements, Papa. Just as I always have.”

  Vionne had mumbled something about unmarried ladies needing to take special care of their reputations, then gone off to his shop, but he’d come back into the house three times to see what she was doing and inquire about the marketing. He acted as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t make up his mind to do so. Wanted to pass on the proposal of marriage from that odious Gornt Blakeman, no doubt. As if she would ever consider such a thing.

  In her heart Manon truly believed her father wouldn’t force her to marry Mr. Blakeman, despite the financial advantages of such a union. But right now, she was quite sure, he was waiting anxiously for her return and telling himself he would know no peace until she was someone’s wife and no longer his sole charge. Dear heaven, he might even take it on himself to come looking for her, and her basket still held only a single turnip and a few greens for salading. Small comfort such a dinner would provide.