City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “That’s one way to look at it, Mr. Astor. The other is that I’ll be a formidable ally.”

  Astor smiled and nodded. “Ja, to me also that interpretation occurred. Please to sit down, Dr. Turner. And tell me something, since you know China talk. What is that word they use to mean what we speak about? Common cause, as you say in English.”

  “Guanxi. Common cause is close, but…” The day’s heat was mounting swiftly even as they sat in this shaded spot. Sweat already poured down Joyful’s back. But the heat was not entirely to blame; he had a sense that something momentous was about to happen, some invisible line to be crossed. “There is no exact translation.”

  “Guanxi. Ja.” And when he saw Joyful’s expression: “I bungle the pronunciation, no? It is enough what I do to English. I should not try China talk. But however funny my speech comes out, Dr. Turner, I do not mistake men’s minds.”

  “I’m sure you do not, Mr. Astor.”

  “Ja. So I recognize when even a potential rival is more use to me strong than weak. Some things are more important than profit.”

  “A few,” Joyful admitted. “Though that’s easier to say from your position than mine.”

  Astor chuckled. “I take your meaning, Joyful. I may call you that since we are to be allies?”

  His heart thumped and there was a wild singing in his head. Just like that and Gornt Blakeman was finished, a line on yesterday’s broadside. With Devrey Shipping literally in his pocket (Joyful could think of no safer place for the papers than on his person) and Jacob Astor beside him, he was unstoppable. Except what about F.X.’s message? Astor’s with us. The thought was enough to rein in his elation. “Allies, Mr. Astor. I’m delighted to hear it. And I’d be honored if you called me by my given name.”

  “Good. And I will be Jacob. Now, Joyful, try some of this coffee.” He picked up a silver pot with a long spout and a gracefully turned handle. “It is the finest to be had. Even better, I think, than at the Tontine.”

  Who had told Astor about Joyful’s visit to the coffeehouse? Geoffrey Colden probably, but any one of the traders might be thick with Astor, part of the consortium he’d formed to help finance the war. Jesus, another reason F.X.’s message made no sense. Why then give thousands to Madison? And if Jacob Astor were meeting with Gornt Blakeman to talk treason against the United States, would he leave his distinctive carriage parked in front of Blakeman’s premises?

  Astor poured coffee into a delicate porcelain cup and offered the sugar bowl. Joyful took three lumps, stirred the coffee, then sipped it. “Finest I’ve ever tasted, sir. Without doubt.”

  “So, I am glad, Joyful. But to praise my coffee is not why I asked you to come. That I did so I can tell you to your face. Exactly right you told it. Everything. Two nights ago I met with Gornt Blakeman in his countinghouse.”

  Focus on the carom you’re trying to make, Joyful, and stop worrying about the shot your opponent may contemplate. “That meeting, sir. Might I ask how it came about?”

  “Ja, of course. A note Blakeman sent me. I was to go to Hanover Street on a matter of great importance. Nonetheless, without you had come and told me what you thought would happen, I would not have gone, Joyful. Jacob Astor does not appear because someone says so. But I remembered your story and so I went to Blakeman’s countinghouse.”

  Joyful waited. Astor sat back in his chair, sipped his coffee slowly, and watched the younger man over the rim of the cup. “He is very full of himself, our Mr. Blakeman. He fancies himself a king. To get upstairs to his private quarters I had to walk by a big man with a whip.” Another chuckle. “I think I was meant to feel afraid.”

  “And did you?”

  “Nein, Joyful. I was not afraid. Under my tongue I had a whistle. Look, I will show you.” Astor reached into his pocket and withdrew a round wooden object about an inch across and put it in his mouth. “So, still I can talk if not too many words.” The obstruction caused him only a slight lisp. “Now, listen.”

  Joyful heard a single shrill note. Almost at the same instant a man appeared in the open French window. He had a rifle to his shoulder and he was peering down the sight and aiming straight at Joyful. Astor spit out the whistle and laughed. “Ja, ja.” He waved the man away. “Go back to your post. I was making only a demonstration.” He watched while the man disappeared, then turned back to Joyful. “Outside Blakeman’s countinghouse, three of them. They know how to hide themselves as well as shoot, my marksmen. The best one, he is not here just now, but the three who came with me last night…Good enough they are. The whipper would have been dead before his arm came down.”

  “A private militia, Mr. Astor?” His voice sounded cooler than it might, considering that moments before he’d been looking down the barrel of a rifle.

  “Jacob, you must call me. And yes, of course a private militia. It is what I need. But we waste time, Joyful.” Astor leaned forward, fixing the younger man in his gaze and speaking very quietly. “Gornt Blakeman has asked me to write to Vienna, to the Holy Roman emperor, Francis II. I am to say he should recognize New York and Massachusetts and Connecticut and probably Rhode Island as a separate country. They are to leave the United States and become a united something else. The name I do not know. But that Gornt Blakeman wishes to rule this something else, of that I am quite sure.”

  “And in return for the recognition of the Holy Roman emperor?” He had not been sure which royal house would be chosen, only that Blakeman planned to use the stone to secure European recognition for his breakaway country. Not, as Manon feared, to cut the Great Mogul into smaller stones that could be sold in America. “He would present the world’s largest diamond as a token of the new country’s esteem?”

  “Ja. Exactly as you said.” Then, after a pause, “You have seen this diamond, Joyful?”

  “Never, Jacob.”

  “Better not to see it. Blakeman showed me. So I would be impressed.”

  “And were you?

  “Ja. I tell you the truth. Blakeman,” Astor snapped his fingers. “Him I think like nothing. But his diamond…Ja, it impressed me here.” He pointed to his groin. “Like a beautiful woman. One you see and know you must have. Many men would be prepared to do anything for such a jewel. A Lorelei it is. A siren that sings a song no sailor can resist.”

  “Until he is lured onto the rocks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So do you now plan to have the Great Mogul for yourself?”

  “At the expense my country should be broken up into little pieces that are not strong enough to survive? You disappoint me, Joyful.”

  “But you, Jacob, do not disappoint me.”

  Astor smiled. So did Joyful. Then the older man half stood and stretched his hand out to the younger. “Now, in my language, we are Genossen. Allies, I think you say. For the sake of the United States. Later, in business, Teilhaber, partners? We will see. Now we make guanxi.”

  “Allies,” Joyful said, grasping the other man’s hand. Then, knowing if he didn’t ask now he’d never have an opportunity, “Jacob, why would F. X. Gallagher send a message to Gornt Blakeman saying Astor’s with us?”

  Astor’s eyes narrowed. “Of this you are sure, Joyful?”

  “Yes, I believe I can safely say I am.”

  “And you think Mr. Gallagher, he means me?”

  Joyful nodded.

  “F. X. Gallagher is a butcher, oder nicht?”

  “Yes, many things, but a butcher as well…”

  “So. Think, Joyful.”

  It was so obvious it was extraordinary he hadn’t seen it before. “Your brother,” Joyful said. “Henry’s a butcher.”

  “My brother, ja. So, thank you for telling me this, Joyful. I do not like to hear it, but I would rather know than not know. And now I will tell you something that you will not want to hear, but it is better you should know. Your cousin Bastard is deceiving you. In this business of Devrey Shipping he makes the double cross.” Astor sketched a large X-shaped sign in the air.

  “That�
��s not possible. I have the signed papers.”

  “I know. Already you have told me this. You have now forty-nine percent of Devrey Shipping. That is indeed true. Blakeman has only forty percent. And eleven percent remains with Bastard Devrey.” Joyful nodded. “So if Bastard chooses to make guanxi with Gornt Blakeman, they have together fifty-one percent, nicht wahr? Together they outvote you.”

  Jesus. Twice in five minutes he saw himself as a fool. “How do you know this? Are you sure?”

  “Entirely sure. One of the marksmen I left on Hanover Street to watch. Bastard Devrey departed the countinghouse an hour after me. I think all the time he was there while Blakeman and I spoke. I cannot be sure: the room was dark, only one lamp.” Joyful nodded, remembering the clutter and the dimness of Gornt Blakeman’s private quarters. “Easy it would have been for Bastard to hide in the shadows and hear everything we said.”

  He thought for a moment. “Why would Blakeman want Bastard there? What advantage would that give him?”

  “That Bastard knows he has made a right decision. Probably at first he only hinted. Then he sees that Gornt Blakeman can summon Jacob Astor to his countinghouse and show him a wunderschön jewel and get him to do what Blakeman wants him to do. A man like Bastard Devrey, he is prepared to believe such a thing.”

  “It appears that Gornt Blakeman also believes it.”

  “He hopes it,” Astor corrected. “I told him I needed a few days to give him my decision. Time I was negotiating for, Joyful.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To know whether our country—our whole country—can survive,” Astor said frankly. “I expect word shortly.”

  Bladensburg, Maryland, 11:30 A.M.

  It was not so much that the men in command of the American forces did not agree as that they did not confer. The result was the same. The various companies and assorted militia meant to confront the enemy at Bladensburg were spread out in three lines that had no contact with one another. They were deployed across the face of a gentle slope that led directly to Washington along a road locals referred to as the Pike.

  The cannon of the Baltimore artillery, which should have been able to lay down a line of fire from one end of the bridge to the other, were positioned in such fashion they could only shoot across it. By the time that was discovered, the Americans could already hear the tramp of the redcoats’ boots, and the officer in charge decided there was no time to reposition the guns. Five companies of riflemen were stationed to the left of the artillery. They would be the first to face the enemy. The rest of the force was five hundred yards behind, out of sight of what was happening on the riverbank.

  The Annapolis militia that had made such a cock-up of its billet the night before arrived minutes ahead of the enemy, jogging through the lines of the men from Baltimore in something meant to be quick time, but so out of step it looked more like a hen stomp at a barn raising. They took up a position near the top of the hill.

  The British, meanwhile, were an eighth of a mile from the bridge, their internal formation perfect, their boots hitting the beaten-dirt road in a rhythm so precise it created a kind of low-pitched roar. Wave after wave of them arrived, and only one glimmer of hope for the Americans. A distance of about a mile had opened between the brigades.

  The English general called a halt within sight of the bridge. The company sergeant-major trotted to his side, waiting for orders. For once, the admiral offered no opinion. The general considered. His men were exhausted, they could do with a rest while the others caught up. But the prize was close enough so he could almost see it. He lifted his sword arm and pointed straight ahead. “Charge!”

  The first salvo from the Baltimore artillery met the advance. Seconds later the riflemen began firing.

  In moments the redcoats in the van had formed a double red line that returned fire in perfect unison and with no pause. It was a devastating response, and the few Maryland riflemen that survived it fled into the woods.

  Madison and the men with him were approaching Bladensburg from the south, those on horseback galloping full speed up the Pike, the foot soldiers trotting behind them in quick march. The president heard the shots, spurred his horse still faster, and opened up a lead that looked to make him the first of the Washington reinforcements to take the field.

  It was Astor’s marksman who saw what was happening and put his head down and whipped his borrowed horse into a frenzy of speed. “Mr. President! Please, sir…” He drew level with Madison. “Mr. President! You must fall back, sir. You cannot be part of the fight. If you were injured, sir…think of the country.”

  “What?” It was like waking from a dream. Madison and his horse, an old cavalry charger as it happened, the pair of them lusting for the fight. “No…you are quite right. Of course I cannot.” The president reined in, and he and the marksman sidled to the edge of the road. The District militia raced ahead, taking the field alongside the men from Annapolis, while five hundred sailors and marines took up a position across the Pike. Their five big naval guns would be the city’s ultimate defense.

  The surveyor, also on horseback now, had taken up a position at the top of the hill. “Too far apart,” he muttered. “The bloody idiots are too damned far apart.” No one heard him. It was too late to make any difference if they had.

  On the other side of the river the British admiral had also withdrawn to the role of observer. At this point the battle was the army’s affair. He lifted his glass and looked up to the ridge ahead. He had gotten his way. Washington first, then Baltimore. And both probably a lot easier than either he or the general expected. What was it they’d said back in Bermuda? Dolley Madison sets a fine table at the Executive Mansion.

  “What is that, John?”

  “That be gunfire, Mrs. Madison.”

  “Yes, I supposed it is.” Dolley ran to the north parapet, leaning as far forward as she dared, pressing the glass to her eye. “I can see some flashes, John, by the eastern branch of the river. In the direction of Bladensburg, I think. The enemy appears to be north of us.” She turned to French John, her chest heaving, dabbing her face with a handkerchief already soaked with perspiration. “Perhaps they are passing us by. The redcoats may be headed for Baltimore, or even New York.”

  “Could be, madam. But—” A sound from below stopped his speech. John bent over the edge of the roof. “Two wagons, Mrs. Madison. The boys be finding two wagons!”

  “Yes, I see they have.” Dear God. Forty-six years old and already once a widow, wasn’t that to be enough? Why did James not this very minute come riding toward her, take her to safety. He was the president of the United States and she was his wife. Why wasn’t he here? She snapped the glass shut. “Come, John. We must go downstairs and see how much of the house’s furnishings we can pack on that blessed pair of wagons.”

  New York City, Maiden Lane, Noon

  Adele Tremont was a long, thin reed of a woman, fine for displaying the latest fashions, Manon had always thought. Advertising her trade as it were. But Manon could never see her in Mama’s place, and Papa had given no indication he wanted her there. He had carefully avoided the Widow Tremont ever since Mama died. Now, because of Manon, the viper had been invited into the nest.

  “I can peel those potatoes for you, if you like,” Manon said.

  “Thank you, I can manage.”

  “Yes, I know you can.” She made a great effort to keep the exasperation from her voice. “But there’s no need. You must allow me to help.”

  “Monsieur Vionne has asked me to take over all the cooking for the household. All the marketing as well,” she added.

  “I know, but I am only too happy to take on some of those chores.” Papa had left a few minutes before, and said he would probably not return until the dinner hour. She would not have a better opportunity. “If I were to go to the market for you, for instance, you could take the time to make your treacle tart. Papa loves your treacle tart, Madame Tremont. He told me so after the Independence Day church supper.”

/>   “You are kind to mention it, mademoiselle. But I do not think Monsieur Vionne would approve my letting you go to the market in my stead. He feels you have been seen too much about the town of late. And now that the nephew of Monsieur DeFane is coming—”

  “A visit that may not occur for some time, given that the redcoats are all over our roads. Here, do let me at least scrape the carrots.”

  “There are not quite enough, I fear. I hope Elsie Gruning has more for us today.”

  The Widow Tremont bent her long body over the soup simmering in a heavy pot hanging over the kitchen fire. Her nose was long as well, and needle-thin. Mama had been all roundness and softness. Not so good for wearing la dernière mode, perhaps, but surely Papa was more interested in hugging a pillow than a stick. “Not so much salt,” Manon said as the Widow Tremont added three large pinches to the pot. “Papa does not like his soup so liberally seasoned.”

  “My petite marmite has never been criticized, mademoiselle. The late Monsieur Tremont was very fond of it.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “I am sure Monsieur Vionne will find it equally satisfactory. Now I will go and see about those carrots. I can trust you not to allow the fire to go out, mademoiselle?”

  “I shall do my best. But Madame Tremont, only you know exactly how much heat you wish the marmite to have, when is the right time to stir up the coals and when to damp them down. And think what a nice surprise your treacle tart would be. If you—”

  “I have already made the treacle tart, mademoiselle. It is even now cooling in the pantry.” Madame Tremont tied a straw gypsy bonnet in place as she spoke. A tight tie, Manon saw, meant to stay exactly where she put it. And of course, a perfect bow. “I shall be gone no more than thirty minutes. And when I return, mademoiselle, perhaps you would like me to measure you for a new frock. For when the nephew of Monsieur DeFane arrives. I got a lovely piece of green silk at Monsieur Blakeman’s sale the other day. I am to make a new gown of it for Eugenie Fischer, and she is a lady of great style. But you are both slender. There is enough for two.”