City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “Prefer it to what?” Vionne asked. “Do I detect a threat in your words?”

  “Why should I threaten you, Mr. Vionne? I wish you to be my father-in-law.” Blakeman stood up.

  So I am dismissed, the goldsmith thought. And he has now papers which say that in his possession is a true diamond that, whatever else it may be, is the largest anyone has ever seen. Dear God, why wasn’t I courageous enough to take Simson’s advice? The lawyer had suggested they raise doubts about the genuineness of the stone, as well as refuse to certify its provenance, but Vionne said that might be too dangerous. You have not looked into his eyes. He is a man who will stop at nothing, gentlemen. Frank had come up with the compromise. One set of papers written for posterity that said what they truly thought: that Maurice Vionne had been privileged to look at the most mysterious diamond in the world, the Great Mogul, and another that said only that it was a very large jewel.

  And what had they accomplished? Nothing from the look of it. After his initial dissatisfaction Blakeman seemed content. He carefully tucked the documents into the inside pocket of his coat, picked up the handbell, and rang it impatiently. “Mr. Clifford will see you out, Mr. Vionne. And I shall call in a day or two to bring that other matter to final agreement.”

  Walking helped Joyful think. Two hours since he left the synagogue, and he’d gone straight up the East River shore, past one dock after another, pacing the spine of New York’s outreach to the world. At least that’s what the riverfront had been when there was no blockade. Not now, and no way to say how much longer the war would go on. So what in Hades did he think he was doing?

  Getting Jacob Astor on his side was not a small thing. Yes, but what about the offer he thought Geoffrey Colden made? Had he done so, or was Joyful imagining it? If there was a place for him in the tontine, could he become one of the money men?

  What an opportunity. Not to be simply a Canton trader, bringing goods to New York and selling them for whatever the market would consent to pay, but to be one of the men who made the market, set the bedrock values of everything that was important to the economy. He remembered the commodities Colden had ticked off: houses, ships, slaves…Being in any way responsible for people being bought and sold like cattle made his gorge rise.

  Still…Jefferson, Franklin, and a few of the others had strong abolitionist leanings when they were involved with writing both the Declaration and the Constitution. But they knew they didn’t have the votes, so they compromised—took three-quarters of the loaf rather than give up the whole thing. He wouldn’t have to go even that far. Ninety percent of what the Tontine did was perfectly fine. Good for the country, in fact, creating economic stability rather than the chaos of the old system.

  Fair enough, but first there had to be a country. His country, the United States, not some amputation such as Gornt Blakeman and his cohorts had in mind. Trouble was, they were picking up converts daily. Astor is with us. It was an idea bound to appeal to butchers. Cut the heart out and think it could survive on its own. He knew better. The whole body had to be intact for it to be healthy.

  But Blakeman was only part of the problem. If this present crisis were averted, and if Colden really had been offering him a place in the upstairs room, he still needed Devrey Shipping out of debt and turning a profit. The company had to be glorious again, queen of the seven seas the way it was when his Devrey ancestor ruled an empire from his Wall Street house. The money men wouldn’t let Joyful Turner into the Tontine because he was clever at bezique. It would cost a king’s ransom to deal himself into their game. Hell, he needed a thriving Devrey Shipping and whatever his father’s treasure might yield. Providing he could find it.

  That’s what had brought him to the slip at the foot of Rutgers Street. The sloop Lisbetta lay at anchor just beyond the dock of Parker’s Shipyard. Parker’s was where Devrey ships usually went for a refit, but Lisbetta was not here because she needed work. Bastard had her sailed upriver and moored where she was as surety against debts for past work. And a fine warrant she was. Even with all sails furled, the sloop was beautiful. Her hull was sleek and black and narrow, extended by a rapierlike bowsprit that nearly doubled her length. That and a tall single mast would allow her to spread a formidable array of canvas. Under sail, with a fair wind, Lisbetta would be as fast as a schooner or a brigantine, and twice as nimble. Little wonder sloops were the preferred craft of pirates.

  It was because of a chance meeting with Danny Parker a few weeks before that Joyful had known to ask Bastard Devrey for the Lisbetta. Danny had inherited the shipyard from his father two years earlier, but shortly before Joyful first went to sea, he had been well served by Joyful’s skills. A carbuncle on his left foot was giving him no end of gyp, nearly crippling him, before Joyful sawed it off. Not many had the stomach to endure the lengthy agony of having a carbuncle removed, and fewer survived without the wound festering, causing the whole foot and eventually the entire leg to turn black. Most suffered only to be killed by the cure, but not Danny Parker, because he was as tough as any man alive and because Joyful was the town’s most skilled surgeon. Always, of course, after Andrew.

  Danny was in the small shed that served as his countinghouse, standing at a tall desk, bent over his ledgers. “Not much comfort to be had from the accounts these days,” Joyful said. “Leastwise, I don’t imagine so, given what the war is doing to business.”

  “True enough.” Parker neither lifted his head nor turned around. “But I’m not prepared to give up on the country yet, and I wouldn’t have expected you to be, Dr. Turner, seeing as how you fought with Commodore Perry.”

  “Who said anything about giving up on the country?”

  Parker turned and faced his visitor. “Isn’t that what you’re here about? They tell me you’re taking your leisure at the Tontine these days. There’s even a rumor going round that you’ve made peace with your cousin, that you and Bastard are to be partners, so…You take my meaning.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t take it.” Joyful held up his stuffed glove. “I gave the British my left hand, Danny. I do not intend to give them my country as well. Who told you I did?”

  Parker shrugged. “Can’t say anyone told me. Not exactly. I just assumed that to be the case.”

  “Listen, you’re walking around on your two good feet thanks to me. I think you owe me an explanation before accusing me of treachery, if not treason.”

  The shipwright turned and looked out the window. As near as Joyful could see, they were entirely alone, but Parker spoke in a whisper. “There’s talk of a showdown to come, an army being formed to take the town, and sooner rather than later. Most of us mechanics have been approached to throw our lot in with them as well. Leastwise that’s the word in Tammany and in the taverns. We’re either with Mr. Madison and his pointless war as is taking the food out of our mouths, they say, or we’re with them.”

  “Have they convinced you, Danny? Are you for breaking up the Union?”

  “I never claimed to be clever about anything except seafaring and ships”—Parker nodded toward his ledgers—“but some as ask can’t easily be refused.”

  “A good many things aren’t easy. Doesn’t mean they’re not worth doing. You said you’d been approached. By whom, and—”

  Parker was looking over Joyful’s shoulder to the path beyond the shed. “Turn around and you can ask ’em yourself.”

  Joyful swung around to face the door. Bastard was heading toward them, along with an old tar limping along on a wooden leg. Joyful lusted to confront his cousin, but there was a quiet voice telling him now was not the time. “It’s not a conversation I choose to have at the moment, Danny. Might there be somewhere…”

  Parker hesitated, looking hard at the man he’d once trusted with his life. Finally, he nodded toward a long and narrow cupboard door. “There’s mostly brooms and the like. You can wedge yourself alongside. I’ll head ’em over to another part of the yard.”

  Joyful hid himself. He heard Danny leave, then waited a while. F
inally he crept out of the cupboard and peered cautiously out the window. The shipwright stood with Bastard and his underling across the yard. They were too far away for Joyful to hear what they were saying, but it occurred to him that, given the wooden leg of the man with Bastard, he might be Finbar’s Peggety Jack, the man he met up at Henry Astor’s Bull’s Head Tavern.

  He waited until the men were looking at something Danny was pointing out on a half-finished keel that looked as if it hadn’t been worked on in months, then slipped outside and took up a well hidden position near the gate. From there it would be a simple matter to follow Bastard and the tar when they left.

  The Federal District, 3:30 P.M.

  “You must leave now, Mrs. Madison. The president requests it.”

  “You’ve seen my husband? Where is he?”

  The marksman’s buckskins were covered in dust, and the hat he held under his arm had two bullet holes through the crown. “We saw him not more’n a quarter hour past, ma’am.” He jerked his head in the direction of the surveyor, who stood off to the side, saying nothing. The marksman knew why; the gall of it was a bitterness on both their tongues. The first two lines of the American defense had collapsed in minutes and having no instructions as to where to re-form, they scattered into the woods. Only the third line was holding. They could still hear the boom of the big guns the American sailors had dragged into position across the approach road to the District. “He’s with our forces, ma’am. Gives ’em a good deal of courage seeing the president there.” But not enough to stop them from cutting and running in the face of that relentless red tide.

  “He is well?”

  “Well and unhurt, Mrs. Madison. But very worried for you. That’s why he sent us, to say you must leave at once.”

  “Thank you both for coming. I shall do so as soon as I—Oh, John, is it done?”

  “It all be done, madame. The drawing room curtains be packed and on the last wagon. What with the silver and the dishes and such, that be all what can fit. I sent them on their way. Everybody else be gone too. Just you and me be left. I got the little trap all hitched up and waiting.”

  “Excellent. These gentleman have come to say that Mr. Madison is also well, praise the Lord, and that he bids us leave. Which of course we must do as soon as—”

  “Mrs. Madison”—John looked straight at her, ignoring the two strangers—“s’cuse me, but…You be quite sure? There’s still time to—”

  “Quite sure. We will speak no more of it.” French John wanted to lay a concealed train of powder to the front door, and rig a trap devised to blow up the British as soon as they tried to enter the house. “It is out of the question. Even in war, there are things civilized people do not do.” She recognized his disappointment, but there was no time to deal with it. Dolley turned to face the two callers. “There is one more thing before we can go, gentlemen. We must take President Washington’s portrait from the wall.”

  The surveyor took a step forward and put his hand on the frame. “It’s screwed in place, madam. I’m afraid there isn’t enough time to—”

  “I refuse to leave General Washington here to be abused by the enemy. The painting is by Mr. Gilbert Stuart. It is my husband’s favorite, though he says that in life the president was considerably taller, and I believe I remember him so as well. John, go and find a tool to loose the screws.”

  The surveyor glanced at the picture—Washington in black-velvet coat and breeches, standing beside a table laden with books meant to be the Declaration and the Constitution—then strode to the front door and threw it open. “I respectfully bid you to listen, madam.”

  They all listened. The navy’s guns had gone quiet.

  “Silence, madam. The battle has ended.”

  “Perhaps our troops have—”

  “As God is my witness, madam. There is no such likelihood.”

  The marksman looked at the cannon down by the gate. “Those guns, ma’am. Might be a good idea to—”

  “I be spiking those guns half an hour past,” John said. “Soon as them guards meant to shoot ’em left.”

  “Well done. Now, ma’am, you have no choice but to leave at once. I’m sure if Mr. Madison were here, he’d insist.”

  “In one moment, sir. I promise. John, please break the frame and remove President Washington’s portrait. Perhaps you two gentleman can help with that.”

  French John swung the hammer. The marksman cut the canvas free and rolled it tight. He offered it to the president’s wife, but she shook her head. “You gentleman said you are from New York?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And are you returning there?”

  “We are, ma’am. Just as soon as we see you and your man here on your way.”

  “Then I bid you take it with you for safekeeping. I have always heard that New Yorkers were among the bravest and most loyal of our citizens.”

  Bladensburg, Maryland, 4 P.M.

  The first two lines of defense had been short work for the redcoats. Without proper training or skilled officers, the troops—mostly civilian militia—scattered and ran before the advance. The third was different. The naval guns tore up the British lines while the D.C. militia poured in effective fire. Then, for some unfathomable reason, an American officer gave the order to retire. The troops weren’t well enough drilled to do it properly, and the retreat turned into a rout. There was cavalry in reserve, but not experienced enough to gallop headlong into enemy fire.

  It was over. The Pike was open and Washington was a handful of miles away.

  The general gave his men two hours’ rest, then he and the admiral led the third brigade forward in the evening dusk. That brigade had reached the battlefield too late to fire a shot; they smelled blood and craved a fight. For a time it appeared they might get one.

  Three hundred patriots had gathered at the house belonging to the secretary of the treasury. They fired as soon as they saw the braid and plumes of the officers’ hats. The admiral’s horse was shot out from under him, but he was unhurt and another mount was soon made available. The redcoats formed up and returned fire. Within minutes the Americans scattered. The general gave the order to put the house to the torch. “And when you’re done here, burn all the public buildings.”

  “The mansion as well, sir?” There was enough light left to see the white house sitting proudly on a slight rise, the heart of the carefully laid-out town.

  “No, not the mansion. I shall deal with it personally.” Then, to the admiral, “Shall we go, sir?”

  “Lead the way, General.”

  Those residents of the town who had not fled, mostly servants and laborers, stood on the streets watching the progress of the conquerors. They were not molested, but the admiral made a point of inquiring as to where he might find the president of this little country. “Might he be at home, up there in that house on the hill? We wish to present our compliments.”

  Meanwhile a series of loud explosions announced that the retreating Americans had blown something up lest it fall into enemy hands. “I believe there’s a navy yard a few miles up the east branch of the river. With two ships under construction.” the general said. “That’ll be it.”

  The burning Navy Yard and the burning city formed a point-counterpoint of flames shooting into the sky, holding off the encroaching dark. “Better than a fireworks display,” the admiral chortled. Then, to the silent onlookers: “Rather like a party, isn’t it? Perhaps we may have a ball a bit later on.”

  The door to the Executive Mansion was unlocked. The soldiers entered with fixed bayonets, in case some defenders remained behind for the purpose of engaging them in hand-to-hand combat. The place was empty. Someone commented that it was a bit of a mess. “No reflection on Mrs. Madison’s housekeeping,” the general said. “She had to leave in rather a hurry.”

  “Took a few things with her.” The admiral had made a quick inspection of the ground floor. “The plate all seems to be gone, and there are no curtains in the drawing room. But there’s a c
old supper laid in the dining room, General. Fancy something to eat?”

  French John had continued to lay the table every mealtime. There was a dish of ham and another of chicken, and a third with a mix of niblets of corn and shelled broad beans, both fresh from the garden behind the house. “Not bad,” the admiral said, sniffing the contents of a decanter of wine. “A toast, General. I give you success.”

  They drank and ate, not from hunger but for the principle of the thing. When they rose, the admiral tipped over the table and all its contents and summoned a young soldier to set the first of many fires within the house.

  The Federal District burned with such ferocity that the surveyor and the marksman could see the glow in the night sky, though by then they were many miles north, riding hard, on their way to report to Mr. Astor.

  Chapter Twenty

  New York City,

  Holy Hannah’s Shack in the Woods, 9 P.M.

  “HE SAID THAT THE Jews had a treasure belonging to his father,” Samson Simson whispered. “Where would he get such an idea, if not from you?”

  “Don’t hardly know him,” Hannah said. “Likes o’ him don’t discuss his private business with the likes o’ me.”

  The likes of what she’d become at any rate, Simson thought, though she’d once claimed a social station as high or higher than that of Joyful Turner.

  No candle burned inside the shack, much less an oil lamp, but what remained of the evening light came in through the chinks in the walls. It was enough for him to see the utter poverty of the hovel. “Holy heaven, how can you live like…” He glanced over to where a boy lay on a pile of rags, propped up on his elbow, listening to every word. “Come outside,” he told her. “Now.”

  Hannah got to her feet, conscious that Will was watching her. “Not to worry,” she told him. “This gentleman’s kin.”