Tintin looked the young man up and down. Muscles, yes. But he did not move as one accustomed to staying out of the range of a blade. Tintin’s knife would make fast work of this Preservation Shay. Oui, but there were the other two. Eh bien, the bitch was right. Tonight it was not to be. Soon though. He was tired of waiting, and now that Eugenie had the documents, he would arrange things so it was no longer necessary. “Good night, Mademoiselle Delight. Sleep well.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Tintin. I’m sure I shall.”
Bloody mulatto bitch, damn her to hell. Normally, Finbar O’Toole wasn’t much bothered by the color of anyone’s skin, man or woman. Wasn’t the outside that mattered, he’d long since discovered. ’Twas the good o’ a woman’s heart, or the courage o’ a man’s. But tonight Delight Higgins was a mulatto bitch and he wished her dead. Or worse. Ah, sweet Mary and all the saints, ’tweren’t the fault o’ Delight Higgins he felt as he did. ’Twas the fact that he’d never before been turned off a ship. Never gave cause before poxed Thumbless Wu forced him to carry a stowaway.
Now, that was a bad thought. A thought as proved the effects o’ all the rum he’d poured down his gullet this day were wearing off. Couldn’t have that. Couldn’t let his anger and his shame have free rein. His soul would sink into a black pit if he did that. His heart would explode in his chest with fury. The remedy was more grog. A great deal more grog.
He looked around and realized he’d walked from the distant reaches of Rivington Street as far south as Bowery Village. Plenty o’ grog shops here where farmers and such like came to sell their goods shy of the market tax they must pay below the Common. The signs of the Duck and Frying Pan, the Pig and Whistle, and the more elaborate placard of the Gotham Inn hung nearby, but the closest was the Bull’s Head Tavern, straight across the street. Apparently, the landlord wasn’t one to worry about his health or that of his customers. Everyone knew disease traveled on the nighttime breezes, but the curtain of the tavern had been pushed aside and a welcoming golden glow spilled into the road.
O’Toole paused long enough to pat the moneybag strapped to his bare chest and hidden by his shirt. Safe it was. And thanks be to Blessed Mary and all the saints, he’d had sense enough to distribute a share o’ coins in his pockets, so no need to go into the stash ’twas best no one knew he had. Six thousand bloody dollars, by the Holy Name o’ Jesus. The most part o’ it anyway. Still his. A miracle, that was. And maybe a good thing the mulatto bitch hadn’t let him into the Dancing Knave this night. He stepped from the shadows into the path of yellow light and followed it inside.
Aye, a good place, and good joss as brought him here. The stink o’ the rum was strong enough to make a man drunk just from breathing. Place was a butchers’ rest, he remembered. Pens out behind for the cattle brought over from the farms of Long Island or West Chester, rooms for the cowmen to sleep after they got here, and the city’s official slaughtering sheds a few steps away. Men steeped in that much blood and beef would accept nothing less than the strongest rum a landlord could provide. “Grog!” he shouted as he took a seat at a table near the door. “Double ration and make it quick.”
Four double rations later he felt no better. Couldn’t do anything right this night. Not even get drunk. “Bloody Blakeman,” he murmured. “All bloody Blakeman’s fault. May he rot in hell.”
“Easy there.” A man slipped into the seat across from his. “Doesn’t do to be talking about your betters like that, Captain Finbar O’Toole. Doesn’t do at all.”
“Who in bloody hell are you? And what do you care who I talk about?”
“Seaman, same as yourself. Least I was. And a man o’ New York who knows there’s some folks you can curse aloud, and others you can’t.” The stranger nodded toward a large rotund man seated at a nearby table. “Heinrich Ashdor he was when he came. Henry Astor now. Owns this place and pretty much everything round about. A very important fellow. Has a brother who’s more important still—Jacob. I warrant you’ve heard about him. But ye might not know the man as is sitting next to old Heinrich—F. X. Gallagher. From Ireland, same as yourself, but much better placed in this city than you are, Captain O’Toole. As for Gornt Blakeman, he’s an important man as well. Tend to stick together, that sort does.”
“Even so. Not your lookout who I curse or where.”
“Aye, but we seamen should look after each other, same like the rich folks. Mercy!” he called out. “Two more double rations o’ grog. My friend here’s still thirsty.”
“What’s mercy to do with it? You pays for your grog, it’s yours. Nothing to do with mercy.”
The other man chuckled. “That’s the barmaid’s name. Sort o’ appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”
“I might. Or I might ask what your name is, since we’re on the subject.”
“Folks call me Peggety Jack.” He stuck out a wooden leg. “No reason you shouldn’t do the same.”
His face was as wrinkled and brown as an apple been in the stores too long, and the one tooth was all he seemed to have, hanging over his lip like a fang.
Mercy arrived with two more glasses of grog. O’Toole raised one in a toast. “Here’s to your health, Peggety Jack.”
“And to yours.” The other man lifted his glass in reply and took a sip. “Tell me, what’s your quarrel wi’ Gornt Blakeman?” he said, keeping his voice low.
“None o’ your bloody business.”
Peggety Jack shrugged. “Don’t matter none. All the same, bring a man’s ship through a godrotting British blockade, and make him richer than he was by the sale o’ more’n two hundred tons o’ China tea and China silk…seems odd you’d be cursing him two days later. Got your fair share, everyone says. Blakeman paid you off soon as the sale was done, while half the town was there to see it.”
“Aye. Never said he didn’t.”
“Then what’s your squawk?”
“I told you, it’s none o’ your business.”
“Maybe it ain’t. Or maybe it is. In a sort o’ way. Friend o’ Joyful Turner, ain’t ye?”
“His da was a friend to me. What’s that to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” Peggety Jack assured him. “Nothing at all. Just repeatin’ the gossip, I am. Tell you what I think. Only a guess, mind. I think you and Blakeman had a falling out and you’re not captain o’Canton Star any longer. Am I right?”
“Know a lot as goes on down by the docks, don’t ye? I mean for someone is up here with the butchers.”
“Sometimes don’t prove nothin’ where a man drinks. You’re up here with the butchers this night as well.”
“Aye, so I am.”
“And not captain o’Canton Star no longer neither.”
O’Toole shrugged.
“So what’ll you be doin’ next then? Not too many berths available these days. Not even for a captain as can outfox the Royal Navy.”
“Ain’t too many I need.” O’Toole raised his hand to signal for more rum. “Only one.”
“True enough. Does that mean you’ve got the one lined up?”
“You might say.”
Mercy brought the grog. Seemed to O’Toole he was drinking three for every one Peggety Jack got through, but somehow all the glasses on the table were emptied soon enough.
“What’s the name o’ the ship then?” Peggety asked. “The one you’re going to be captain of now as you ain’t workin’ for Gornt Blakeman.”
“Never you mind. She’s a fine sloop. That’s all you need to know. As fine a sloop as ever sailed, and we’re going on a treasure hunt.”
“Oh, are you now?”
“Aye. If you weren’t so long in the tooth, Peggety Jack, old as Methuselah I reckon, I’d offer you a berth. All the way to the Caribbean we’re going.”
The old man leaned back in his chair and studied the Irishman. “Tell you what that sounds like to me,” he said softly. “Seein’ as how you’re right and I’m old as any man in this city ain’t already dead. And seein’ as how when you was in the Revolution you se
rved under Morgan Turner. And how it just so happens there’s talk that Morgan Turner buried a treasure some time afore that war, after the last voyage o’ the Fanciful Maiden. Seein’ as all that’s the case, I’d wager a fair sum you’re planning to take your fine sloop, whichever fine sloop it may be, and go after what some calls the thrice-back treasure.”
O’Toole shook his head to try and clear it. Sweet Mary and all the saints, he was too drunk to think straight, and too sober not to know this was a dangerous conversation. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Aye, ye knows. I can see it in your face, Finbar O’Toole.” Peggety leaned forward, both hands clutching a mug of grog, rheumy old eyes fixing the Irishman in an intent stare. “Listen to me, you set out on that voyage, it’s a lee shore you’ll sail by. Waste o’ time and effort and sailors’ lives.”
“You’re daft. No man alive can say as Finbar O’Toole don’t know better’n to sail by the lee shore.”
“I say it. Because seems like you don’t know the thrice-back treasure was found long since. The Jews got it. Fitting that is. Now drink up and I’ll take you to where you can sleep safe for what’s left o’ the night.”
Maryland,
an Encampment at Upper Marlboro, 11 A.M.
Still no sign of any American defense. The British heard only the sound of exploding powder in the distance. “That will be the gunboats,” the general said. “They’re blowing them up lest we take them.”
The admiral waved a dismissing hand. “Not worth the navy’s time and trouble. Nothing but barges. Look here, this is the way to do it.” He had accompanied the army ashore because he was familiar with the territory. He bent over a map. “We avoid the nearest bridges. They’re sure to be the most heavily defended. But if we go eight miles further up the Eastern Branch of the Potomac, north by northwest”—his finger traced the route as he spoke—“we can come into the Federal District from above. The river’s a good deal more shallow at that point; your troops can ford if they must.”
“That assumes your map as well as your memory is accurate. And that we have decided for Washington rather than Baltimore.”
“I think we must decide so. Washington is the heart of this absurd enterprise.”
“Just what do you believe to be absurd, Admiral? This war?”
“From their side, yes, of course it is. Barges with a few gun emplacements to oppose the Royal Navy. Hubris in the extreme. But I meant this pretentious exercise in sovereignty. Destroy what they call their capital, that’ll give them a more realistic notion of exactly who they are.”
The general sighed. “That’s as may be, sir. But I’m told this Federal District is little more than a few buildings on a drained swamp. I do not choose to spend the lives of my men for such a paltry return. Baltimore is an important city of many thousands, with businesses and a port and—”
“And it will have no particular significance for the Americans living in other cities. Whereas Washington…” The admiral let the words trail away, intent on his own vision of glory.
The general settled himself in one of the leather camp chairs that had been set up in the command tent. It was, he feared, to be a long and hot and difficult argument, but it was not one he was prepared to concede.
New York City, the Fly Market, Noon
“Every last nubbin o’ it,” Holy Hannah said. “Down his gullet.”
Joyful was not of a mind to worry about Thumbless Wu and his supply of rice. He kept craning his neck, looking for Manon. “How’d you know to find me here?”
Hannah shrugged. “Just did, that’s all. You said he’d die without rice. Where am I to get more then, since it’s all gone?”
“I think I’d best see to that. I will, Hannah, soon as I can. If not today, tomorrow.”
“Better be today,” she said. A few women came by, the baskets on their arms full to overflowing with meat and pot herbs and fresh milk and cheese, the products of the lush and verdant countryside which New York could not be deprived of by any British blockade. The women pulled their skirts aside so as to have no contact with Holy Hannah. “Today,” Hannah repeated, ignoring the snubs she was well used to. “Otherwise forget Thumbless, he’ll be Bag o’ Bones again.”
“Not that fast,” Joyful said. There was still no sign of Manon. He wanted to go to Elsie Gruning’s booth and ask for her, but not with Holy Hannah following him about. “Go home, Hannah. I’ll come later today if I can, and certainly by tomorrow.”
“And you’ll bring more o’ that rice?”
“If I can,” he repeated.
“You better had come,” Hannah whispered, stretching upward and pressing her mouth close to Joyful’s ear. “Sooner rather than later, you hear?”
“Hannah, it’s more than Wu you’re worried about.”
She settled back on her heels and shook her head. “Can’t be talking ’bout it here. You come out to Hannah’s. Then we’ll see.”
He started to demand an explanation, but was distracted by the sight of Finbar O’Toole hurrying toward him. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Have to talk to you, lad.”
“Everyone seems to be telling me that today. Hannah here as well.” He turned to look for Holy Hannah, but she wasn’t there. He thought he spotted her disheveled mane bobbing through the market crowd, but the vision was already too distant for him to be sure. “Wait here,” he told the Irishman. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t fail me, lad. Important it is.”
“Yes, I heard you.” Finbar O’Toole’s idea of something important was likely to be more relevant to his concerns of the moment than were Hannah’s. But Manon trumped them both. “Wait here,” he repeated. “I’ll return shortly.”
Elsie Gruning was at her usual place. “Too wet it’s been for the onions,” Joyful heard her say. “But this kale be full of goodness, mevrouw. See how dark it is. Ja, three pounds at least you need.”
He waited while she stuffed great wads of thick and crinkled dark green leaves into the customer’s burlap bag and took the coins due her. Then, after the woman had taken her kale and left, he spoke. “Good afternoon, Mistress Elsie.”
“Good afternoon, mijnheer.” Elsie lowered her voice. “The juffrouw, she be with you?”
“Not today, Elsie. That’s what I came to ask you about. Have you seen her?”
“Not since Friday last, mijnheer. Today the Widow Tremont came. Made sure I should know she was buying for the household of Mijnheer Vionne and they always got the best.”
“But Mistress Manon always—”
“Ja, I know. But today it was the Widow Tremont. I thought perhaps you and the juffrouw had—” She broke off. “I do not mean to give offense, mijnheer.”
“None taken, Elsie. Listen, if you see her, will you give her a message for me?”
“Ja, sure, mijnheer.”
“Tell her I’ll keep trying. Say I’ll come to the market this week as many days as I can.”
“I will tell her, mijnheer.”
“And say that if we keep missing each other, she should try the dovecote and—” Joyful broke off. Finbar had tired of waiting and was coming toward him. “I must go, Elsie. Thank you.”
Nowhere in public, Finbar insisted; there wasn’t a taproom or a grog shop that he considered safe enough for what he had to say. They went instead to Joyful’s Greenwich Street room. The Irishman refused the single chair and sprawled on the bed, supporting his bald head on the brass headboard, keeping only his muddy boots on the floor, and pressing his fists to his temples and moaning every time he moved.
“Sweet Christ, Finbar. I can get drunk just breathing the fumes you exude.” Joyful threw open a window. “Has to be a goodly amount of rum still sloshing around in your belly for it to make such a stink.”
“A goodly amount,” O’Toole said grimly. “That’s fair enough. ’Bout the only thing as is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Re
ason I got blind drunk, poxed Gornt Blakeman threw me off his ship.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Gave a tar a touch o’ the cat.”
“Did you now? Well, that’s your right, at any rate.” Joyful had seen men flogged to the death. A much less frequent occurrence in the American navy than in the British, but the law of the sea remained in force whatever colors a ship flew. “Why should Blakeman want to be shut of you for that? Who was it?”
“Just a tar. Nimble-footed as a monkey in the rigging, and whistles better’n most men fiddle, but he—”
“Name’s not Tammy Tompkins, is it?”
“How’d you know that?”
“A lucky guess. He was aboard Lawrence with me. Whistling was his long suit. Bit of a shirker sometimes, but he could reef sail faster and tighter than any man aboard. Tammy Tompkins. I’ll be buggered. Seems as if all that crew as are still alive are showing up in New York.”
“Seamen circle from one port to another like water spinning down a bunghole,” O’Toole said morosely. “No surprise in that.”
“Probably not. But why should Gornt Blakeman give a hoot in hell about you taking the cat to Tammy Tompkins? Good God…You didn’t kill him, did you, Finbar?”
“Course I didn’t kill him. Not even close. Wanted to, I admit. He was drunk on watch and fell asleep. But he was well able to steal my gig and row himself to shore when I was done with him.” Finbar snorted in disgust, then grabbed his head. “Holy Mother o’ God, paying for my sins, I am,” he muttered. “Forget Tompkins. Got something important to tell you ’fore I croak.”
“You won’t croak, Finbar. That’s an informed medical opinion.” Joyful drew the chair closer to the bed and sat down. “Let me make it a bit easier, since you’re a man in distress. I expect the person we should be talking about is a Cantonese rogue called Thumbless Wu.”
O’Toole sat up a bit straighter, wincing at the intensity of the pain the movement caused. “Met him, have you? Can’t say as I’m surprised.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t likely to be another man in this city as speaks the language of that blighted tset-ha tset-ha. Not much cause to wonder if he found you. Or you found him.”
City of Glory Page 25