City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “And this president, he will have this?” Astor nodded toward the diamond still shimmering between them.

  Blakeman shook his head. “A thing like this only causes trouble. Best if we get it out of our new country sooner rather than later, as soon as we make our peace with Great Britain and our ships are allowed to sail unmolested. And might I remind you that within our union we will have twice as many ships as will be left in the remaining United States, even if you include their entire navy.”

  “Ja, that of course is true.” Take New York and most of New England out of the Union and you cut out the country’s mercantile heart, certainly seventy or eighty percent of its seafaring trade. What would be left? A few southern plantations, some riverboat traders, and the rest wilderness. Great some day, ja, but now…Without the Northeast, the United States was a joke. “The jewel, Mr. Blakeman. Still I do not understand.”

  “International acceptance, Mr. Astor. That is the thing our new nation will need, and it’s what the diamond will obtain for us. It’s the answer to your concern, sir, that we will be pariahs, outcasts never to be trusted. You, Mr. Astor, will see that does not happen.”

  “How is that to be, Mr. Blakeman?”

  “You will write to the Holy Roman Emperor, Francis II of…of Hungary, I believe.”

  “Emperor of Austria,” Astor supplied. “And king of Hungary and Bohemia.”

  “That’s the one. Speaks German, they tell me, so you’re the natural one to correspond with him. And because the letter comes from a New Yorker of such splendid prestige and influence as yourself, this emperor, this king of kings, will accept our magnificent—nay, our priceless—gift, and we will be…How shall I put it? We will be anointed. We will be a nation.”

  “Wunderschön,” Astor murmured. “It is a plan of such…such audacity, Mr. Blakeman, that words I cannot find to comment.”

  “Audacity? Yes, I suppose it is. But we can only thrive over here if we understand the Europeans over there. I trust, Mr. Astor, you do not forget that.”

  “I do not, Mr. Blakeman. You may count on the fact that I do not forget most things which are important.”

  “I never meant to imply that you did, sir. My apologies.” Damn! Bend over, Mr. Bloody Astor, and I’ll lick your German-English-American arse for you. Anything to be sure you’re my ally and not my enemy. “Indeed, it is because I know that your reputation is as great abroad as it is here that I am asking you to arrange these matters.”

  Astor didn’t say anything. He leaned forward and stared at the diamond for what seemed a very long time.

  The box had never left Blakeman’s hand, and he was growing weary, but he waited until Astor had pulled back before he snapped the lid shut. “So, Mr. Astor,” he asked softly, “are you with us?”

  “It is not a decision a man makes in a few minutes, Mr. Blakeman.”

  “Perhaps not, but time, sir, is not on our side. The New Englanders are pressing me.”

  Ja, and you want to be able to tell them that you bring to the table the richest man in America, so they will give you more respect and you will be chosen president when the governors make their selection. Das ist doch ganz klar, nicht? Yes, entirely clear. Only exactly how he should reply was not clear. “Say that I write this letter you suggest. And say we find a way to get the letter where it must go, despite the blockade—”

  “I’ve a ship as has run the blockade before.” But not the captain who made it happen. God rot his wretched hide. Still, there are other captains, some bound to be as good as O’Toole.

  “…given the natural way of men’s unbelief, what do you suggest I tell them?”

  “About the diamond?”

  Astor jerked his head in an impatient nod. “Ja, ja. Of course about the diamond.”

  “It’s called the Great Mogul and its story is well known among collectors of the world’s great gems. Fellow called Jean-Baptiste Tavernier saw it in sixteen-something, in India. Next thing we know, it was in Persia.”

  “But it is not in Persia now. How does it happen, Mr. Blakeman, that the Great Mogul is here in New York, with you?”

  “Because, Mr. Astor, by the time I became involved, the Great Mogul was in Canton. Everything finishes up in Canton sooner or later. A man like yourself surely knows that.”

  “Ja. But I too have business in Canton, and it never—”

  “Aye, so you have. But this time my joss was better than yours. I knew somebody as knew somebody, as knew somebody else. And word came to me that the first somebody was in need of a great deal of money, and desperate enough to offer a treasure at a tenth its value. I’m sure, sir, you know that last year I sold scrip in my coaching business.”

  Astor nodded.

  “Supposedly, I needed cash to buy more rolling stock, since I’d just been given the exclusive right to the route between New York and Philadelphia. Truth is, I got the coaches on a promise, and used the money to arrange for the purchase of the stone, and to finish outfitting the fastest merchantman afloat and lading her with the kinds of goods as set the city agog just three days past. So now, Mr. Astor, you know the whole story. How much longer do you think you’ll need to decide if you’re with us?”

  “Not very much time, Mr. Blakeman. A day or two, perhaps three.” Once he knew whether Madison was safe, what the British army was planning—news that might be on the way to him even now—it would be easier to deal with Gornt Blakeman. “First, one other thing occurs to me. You have told me the story of the Great Mogul is well known. But why should the emperor believe this diamond to indeed be the Great Mogul?”

  “For one thing, sir, as you have seen, the stone is its own best argument. It is magnificent, is it not?”

  “That we have established. Truly magnificent it is.”

  “Very well. In addition, I have taken steps to document its pedigree. There will be a certificate of authenticity written by the city’s finest jeweler. He will swear that this stone is genuine, and that it matches exactly the description in the book by the great Tavernier. I expect to have the certificate tomorrow. Then we will have a copy made and send it with your letter.”

  Astor stood up. “So, Mr. Blakeman, a man of foresight you have shown yourself to be. One who thinks of everything. I have no doubt it can be profitable to do business with such a man.”

  “Is that a commitment, sir?”

  Astor smiled for the first time since coming upstairs to Blakeman’s private quarters. “Not yet, sir. A few days, as I said. I will send you word and we will meet again. Now…” He gestured toward the door to the stairs. “You can please insure that I am permitted to leave without tasting the whipper’s kiss.”

  Blakeman accompanied him to the door, opened it and called softly down the stairs. “My guest is leaving, Mr. Clifford. Show him out.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Blakeman.”

  He waited until he heard the front door close behind Astor, then Blakeman again shut the door that led to his attic. He wanted to shout out loud with triumph, but he only raised his voice slightly and pitched it to the dark far corner of the room. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got him.” Bastard Devrey came out of the shadows into the lamplight. “I think you baited the hook and threw the line and reeled him in.”

  “He’ll join us? You genuinely believe so?” He didn’t really need Bastard’s affirmation, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it.

  “I absolutely believe it. He knows this war is squeezing the life out of every man of property in the nation. Why in God’s holy hell would he not join us? He’s a business man, same as you and me.”

  “Not exactly the same as you,” Blakeman said.

  “Don’t ride me, man. Don’t make me sorry for the bargain I’ve made.”

  “Now why should you be sorry for that, Bastard Devrey? You had to choose between Gornt Blakeman and your upstart young cousin with only one hand and not many more coins. You chose me, just to prove your brain wasn’t entirely addled by your run of bad luck. Why in h
ell’s name should you be sorry for that?”

  Rivington Street, Near Midnight

  Sweet Mary and all the saints, according to Joyful he’d smelled like a spilled keg o’ rum hours before, and though he’d had a fair amount since, Finbar O’Toole was still mostly sober. God help his sorry soul. O’Toole blessed himself with the sign of the cross and muttered a pious incantation, then put his hand in his pocket to be sure the coin was still there. A single golden lady, last bit o’ money he had. Spent everything else that godrotting Peggety Jack, may his soul be damned to everlasting fire, had left him on rum mostly, and a few hands o’ cards. In the normal way o’ things a guinea was silver, and worth twenty-one shillings, some two and a half dollars American. But a golden lady, that was twenty dollars probably, though there were some as would give more. All there was between Finbar O’Toole and a pauper’s grave. Didn’t make much difference when he couldn’t manage to get drunk whatever he spent.

  One lucky roll o’ the dice, that’s all it would take. Holy Savior, hadn’t he seen it happen times enough? Even to himself on occasion. One lucky roll o’ the dice or turn o’ a mahjong tile and there you were, a rich man again.

  The Dancing Knave shimmered in the starlit dark of semideserted Rivington Street. Candles in every window and no curtains to hide their glow. A beacon it was, and from the look o’ things plenty had homed in. There were carriages parked up and down the street, and at least half a dozen horses tethered to nearby hitching posts. O’Toole mounted the steps that led to the front door and lifted the brass knocker.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “The same to yourself.” O’Toole squinted into the brightness of the vestibule. New lad this, brawny enough but young and without that air of menace as hung about the chucker-out as used to be here. “Where’s Vinegar Clifford got himself to?”

  “He’s no longer in Miss Higgins’s employ. I take it you wish to join us, sir?”

  The sounds of the tables, the clatter of dice and the ruffle of cards, reached him from the Gaming Salon only a few feet away. O’Toole’s palms began to itch. “Aye. That’s my—”

  “Just a moment, Preservation. The gentleman is an old friend as you recall.” Delight came to the door and spent a few seconds regarding her latest caller. “You seem in better form than you were last evening, Captain O’Toole. I’m glad you decided to return. Step aside, Preservation. Let the captain come in.”

  O’Toole was extra conscious of his movements. Very straight. Very steady. One foot after t’other. No point in letting her change her mind and decide he was drunk after all. Didn’t want to get chucked out now he’d come this far. He fished the golden lady out of his pocket. “One roll o’ the dice, Miss Delight. One lucky roll, that’s all ’twill take.”

  “Happiness,” Delight said softly, “is always one roll of the dice away. Isn’t that your experience, Captain O’Toole?”

  “You might say, Miss Higgins. You might…” The word suddenly evaded him. He had to think on it for a few seconds. “You might shay,” he mouthed at last. “Yesh ma’am, you might shay.”

  Damn the man! He was as drunk as he’d been the evening before, only this time he’d fooled her long enough to get in. Delight looked to her chucker-out, then paused. Each and every gaming table in the salon was surrounded by a clutch of players. The Ladies’ Parlor was empty, while every one of the little rooms on the second floor was occupied. A night of rare profit, and one thing sure—Finbar O’Toole would not go quietly a second time, not now he’d actually gotten in. It would take all three of the Irish lads probably. They’d get the job done, but not until they’d made a ruckus that would draw the attention of every man in the place. Expensive pleasures, Delight had long since learned, were best enjoyed without time taken to consider their cost. “I wonder if you might not like to rest a bit before you visit the gaming tables, Captain O’Toole. I have exactly the right lady in mind to keep you company. She’s an infallible lucky charm. Any number of gentlemen have told me so. Preservation, go and find Cecily and bring her here at once.”

  “I think she’s busy up—”

  “Here. At once.” Delight moved closer to O’Toole and put her arm through his. “You will adore Cecily, Captain O’Toole. I guarantee it. Beauty and luck besides. What more can a man ask?”

  Ah, hell. Why not? He was more tired than he’d realized. And there was nothing to rob him of, so he could let the lass pleasure him, and sleep for a bit, and worry about naught. When he woke up, the tables would still be there. And as long as he still had his golden lady…“Tell you what, Mish…Miss Higgins,” he held out the coin. “You keep this for me. So’s I can roll the dice whenever this young lady and I are…When I’m enough rested.”

  Delight took the coin. Preservation appeared with a yellow-haired girl who was still adjusting the ribbons of the dressing gown she’d wrapped around her plump nakedness. “Here she is, Miss Higgins.”

  “I was with a gent as always leaves me a bit extra,” the girl sputtered. “How come I—”

  “Because I said so. And because I trust you to handle those as need a bit of coaxing.” Handle, Delight thought, was indeed the word. “You’ll thank me, Cecily,” she murmured as she gave O’Toole a gentle shove in the girl’s direction. “You’ll be at least fifty coppers richer, I’ll see to that, and I’ve no doubt it will be over before you can blink. Take him up to the third floor, the little bedroom beside my private parlor.” She didn’t usually allow her business activities to spill into her personal quarters, but just now that was the only bed other than her own that was empty.

  Tuesday, August 23, 1814

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brooklyn, the Inner Harbor, 1 A.M.

  IT WAS WELL KNOWN that there were ghosts aplenty in the shallows of Wallabout Bay off the Brooklyn coast. During the Revolution, the notorious British prison ships had been anchored here—hundreds of men packed together in reeking holds, starved, regularly beaten, afflicted with cholera and dysentery, and since only two at a time were allowed on deck to relieve themselves, forced to lie day and night in their own filth and that of their neighbors. The rotting wooden hulks of some of the ships yet remained. Sailors swore that some nights, out on the water, you could hear the cry that greeted every dawn in those fearsome years, Prisoners, turn out your dead!

  Tintin’s oars slipped rhythmically in and out of the water, and he did not turn his head as he rowed past the skeletons of those vessels of horror. Eugenie did not look either. She sat in the small boat’s bow, facing the pirate. Feeling herself all but naked.

  “So,” Tintin asked, “qu’est-ce que vous pensez, Madame Eugenie? The clothes are more comfortable, or less?”

  “Infinitely less comfortable, Monsieur Tintin. I would not like to be a man all the time.”

  “Ah, but no one would take you for a man, madame. That is a deception we could not sustain. A lad. Un garçon. At the very start of his manhood.”

  “It comes to the same thing,” Eugenie murmured. The shirt with its ruffled stock and the cutaway coat were not so bad, but she could not force herself to look down at the tight trousers. Her maid had hastily stitched her into them, drawing the fabric skintight in the back where the seam would be covered by the coat. The result was to make a clear outline of her hips and her legs. It was as if she wore nothing at all. Meanwhile she must keep her head entirely upright or the stovepipe hat would probably fall off.

  “We are almost there, madame. Now, please, be entirely silent.”

  Tintin turned the rowboat into the mouth of a long and narrow cove. Halfway up its length there was another inlet, and another off that. She soon had no idea where they were, and when the narrow hull of the two-masted schooner appeared, it seemed to Eugenie to have materialized from nowhere. She tipped her head back to read the name painted with many flourishes along the side. Le Carcajou. The Wolverine.

  Tintin made the rowboat fast to the pirate ship. A man appeared above their heads and dropped a rope ladder. “You go first, mada
me,” Tintin said. “I can best assist you that way.”

  He extended his hand and smiled, yellowed teeth gleaming in the light of the sliver of new moon. Eugenie shuddered, but not so that it showed. A lesson she had learned from her husband—never show weakness. She took Tintin’s hand and allowed him to help her find her footing on the lowest rung of the ladder.

  “Now,” he said softly, “imagine what it would be like to try and do this with your skirts and petticoats flapping around your ankles.”

  Eugenie could not answer; her jaw was clenched too tightly. I can do this, she told herself over and over. I can do this. One rung and then the next. Each time conscious of how slippery were the leather soles of the boots which, like everything else she wore, had belonged to Timothy. There had been no way to alter the size of the boots; she’d had to stuff the toes with crumpled sheets of newsprint and be satisfied. I can do this. I will not scream because Tintin has his hands on my backside. Supposedly to assist me up this wretched ladder. One more rung. I can do this. I must do this.

  The grinning face of the man who had dropped the ladder and watched her entire painful ascent was finally level with hers. “Welcome aboard, laddie. It’s not every night we—Whoa, what have we here? Not exactly what it looks like, eh?”

  He had pulled her onto the deck by then, and Tintin had come aboard just behind her. “You may look, mon ami,” he said, “but you may not touch. We have business with the la——, with the boy. Very private business.”

  The second pirate laughed softly. “Too bad. I could fancy some pleasant company. All what you brung us so far ain’t too happy to be here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Below.”

  Tintin considered, then made up his mind. “We too shall go below. Come, mon petit garçon, I have something to show you.”

  “You said I would get my money as soon as we came aboard your ship. I do not choose—”