City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  Joyful released his hold on Peggety Jack. “Good evening, Bastard.”

  “I’ve been thinking it was time we spoke again,” Bastard said. “I hear you were magnificent today in Paradise Square. I’m proud to be your partner, Cousin Joyful, and I suggest we—”

  Pond scum. The sight of him made Joyful’s gorge rise. “Later,” he said, his terseness making it apparent he knew exactly the game Bastard had tried to play. “Jesse, shout Will down from that tower.”

  “No need,” Jesse said, pointing to the ladder. “He’s seen us, I reckon. Anyways, he’s on his way down.”

  Andrew drove the trap to the end of Front Street. Jesse got down and trotted along on foot, running into each of the taprooms and taverns. “Check closest to the waterfront first,” Joyful had instructed. “Then start on the inland taverns if you must.”

  No need, as it turned out. Jesse saw the tall, bald man with the full bushy beard in a grog shop up by Bruce’s Wharf. Playing at cards, he was, just like Dr. Turner said was the probable way of it. “Captain O’Toole?”

  “Aye. Who wants ’im?” Continuing to study the cards fanned in his large grip.

  “Dr. Joyful Turner. To take the sloop Lisbetta.”

  “Take her where?”

  “I can’t say more here, Cap’n. But it’s urgent. Dr. Joyful’s cousin, Dr. Andrew, he’s waitin’ outside. With a trap as will bring us up to Parker’s where Lisbetta is moored.”

  The men sitting at the table with O’Toole said something about playing cards and not nattering. He held up a hand to silence them and looked at Jesse. “What’s your name, son? And how did you lose that arm?”

  “Jesse Edwards, Cap’n. Lost me arm on the Lawrence. Battle o’ Lake Eerie.”

  “And I’ll wager a good part o’ what’s here”—O’Toole nodded to the five tall stacks of coins sitting in front of him—“that it’s Joyful Turner what took the arm off, and probably saved your life in the doing of it.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Well, you’re a good and loyal friend to him, that’s obvious. And so am I, lad. Which is why I’m not about to take the Lisbetta on any phantom voyage.”

  “Begging your pardon, Cap’n. Dr. Joyful said I was to tell you he was asking you to come for his pa’s sake. Said to say this was the time, and he was calling for payment o’ the debt.”

  “Bloody poxing hell,” O’Toole muttered. Finally he laid down his cards and began sweeping the piles of money into his hat. Been a lucky leprechaun perched on his shoulder the past four hours. Well, seems like he’d jumped off. “Sorry to quit whilst I’m ahead, boys.” He stood up and cradled the hat in his arms. “But you heard the lad. Must be it’s an emergency.”

  It was nearly 9 P.M., and an evening wind was gathering force from the north. Excellent joss that. Pray God it would last out this adventure. “All sails ho!” O’Toole shouted, the sap rising in him as it always did at such moments. Never mind that for crew he had only three out-of-work tars who shared a shack up by Parker’s yard, one who regularly bunked down behind the yard’s stores, and Danny Parker himself. And a doctor far too old to go to sea, as well as an all but useless one-armed powder monkey, both of whom had refused his suggestion that they drive back to Devrey’s dock and instead insisted on coming aboard.

  O’Toole was himself at the wheel, holding the forty-foot sloop steady into the wind while they made ready to sail. She heeled slightly of her own volition, and strained at the aft anchor as the leeward mainsail bellied and the snap of spreading canvas joined the creaking of the ship’s boards. A song it was, best song in the world, and this Lisbetta was an angel ship, singing her song to welcome him. “Up aft anchor!”

  Danny Parker raced the length of the deck. “Up aft anchor,” he repeated. “Aye aye, sir.” He hauled the heavy anchor line hand over hand, dropping it in a neat coil at his feet. “Aft anchor free, Cap’n.”

  The forward anchor had already been hauled aboard. The sloop moved gently, testing her liberty, but O’Toole wasn’t ready to free her just yet. He scanned the river, checking for shoals—none too close to avoid—and judging the wind. Following, it was, and the tide running with them as well. Joss so good made him nervous. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

  “One barrel o’ grapeshot, half full, sir.” Jesse surfaced from belowdecks. “And another with a few nails. That’s all there be for the cannon, Captain O’Toole, sir. Two mostly empty kegs o’ munitions. And there’s an open crate with three muskets and five musket balls rolling around loose at the bottom. Rest o’ the magazine’s bare as a newborn’s bottom.”

  “Doesn’t matter, lad. It’s not guns as will decide this.” Lisbetta had never been a fighting ship. She was pierced for three cannon each side, an ordinary precaution of high-seas trade, but that was no use to him this night. He had one badly maimed powder monkey and no gun crews. The pirate ship—if they found her—would probably be better armed, but Tintin was likely to be as shy of crew as he was. He’d said as much to Dr. Andrew Turner on the drive up to Parker’s, after he heard the purpose o’ the voyage, and why Joyful had been so almighty determined that Finbar O’Toole bring Lisbetta downriver. On the prowl for prizes, a pirate ship might have a crew of fifty, sixty, even seventy blackguards. Sneaking into the waters surrounding New York and planning to sneak back out again, she’d be manned by six or seven, the bare minimum needed to run her. It was seamanship that would determine the outcome of this encounter. Aye, and hand-to-hand fighting, if it came to that. And a good measure of sheer poxing luck. “Bring the muskets up on deck,” he told Jesse. “And as many musket balls as you can find. And pray God your friend has spotted the pirates.” Or maybe pray he has not.

  O’Toole let the sloop take the wind and her freedom. She picked up speed as the tars hoisted the foresail into position on the bowsprit, and she caught still more of the wind. “Hoist the jib!” he called, full of joy at feeling a moving ship beneath his feet once again. “South by southeast. Full speed ahead.”

  It was dark by the time Lisbetta rounded the bottom edge of Manhattan Island, but Joyful had set a pair of lanterns on the wharf in front of Devrey’s dock so O’Toole could easily spot it. He brought the sloop in close and his makeshift crew quickly made her fast. “Handles as comely as she looks,” he called down to Joyful and the boy standing beside him. “Any sign o’ her?”

  One of the tars threw a rope ladder over the side; Joyful leaned forward and caught it with his right hand, then pulled himself onto the first rung and began to climb, using his left elbow to serve as his second hand. He climbed the last few rungs and swung himself onto the deck. “Wallabout Bay. An inlet on the Bushwick side.” he said. “A two-masted schooner.” He spoke softly, conscious how far voices traveled on the water. “Here.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “The lad sketched a chart.”

  O’Toole studied the drawing, leaning into the glow of the single lantern he’d allowed on the swift and silent passage downriver. “Holy Mary and all the saints,” he muttered.

  “You know the place?”

  “Aye. I do. We passed it on the way down. There’s many a soldier’s ghost as haunts Wallabout Bay.”

  “You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you, Finbar?”

  “No, but I’d rather have known where I was goin’ before I passed it by. I don’t fancy having to come about and retrace my course against the wind.”

  “Nothing for it,” Joyful said. I can’t say as how—” He spotted his cousin up by the forecastle. “Andrew, you’re a surprise.”

  “Didn’t think I’d just trot on home after all this excitement, did you? Not a chance, Joyful.”

  “This isn’t a pleasure cruise, Cousin Andrew. If Will’s right and the pirate ship is nearby, we’ll have to—”

  “Fight them,” Andrew finished for him. “Exactly why I’m coming with you. Even a pair of hands as old as mine may be useful for something in the circumstances. Besides, I helped deliver this United S
tates into the world. I don’t plan to let Gornt Blakeman murder her while I stand by and do nothing.”

  Joyful shook his head. “This isn’t about the Union. Jacob Hays has pulled Blakeman’s teeth on that matter.”

  “You’re positive the wretch’s got nothing else up his sleeve?”

  “No, but—”

  “Captain O’Toole and I have been discussing the matter,” Andrew interrupted. “We’re agreed Blakeman has to be stopped now. So this is more than a rescue mission and I am coming with you. Those two, on the other hand…” Andrew inclined his head. Joyful spun around to see what he was indicating.

  Will Farrell had apparently come aboard while he and Andrew were arguing. He was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Jesse, the intention of both of them entirely obvious. “Absolutely not,” Joyful said. “Neither of you. That’s final.” Baratarian pirates were not likely to ask quarter or offer it.

  “It’s our country too, Dr. Joyful.” Will was holding his two-foot-long brass spyglass under his arm. “Besides, got a head for heights, I have.” He nodded toward the rigging. “And I know what I’m looking at.”

  “Anyways,” Jesse said, looking not at Joyful but at Finbar O’Toole, “It’s the captain who says yea or nay aboard ship.”

  “The boy’s right,” O’Toole said.

  “All the same, it’s my responsibility, Finbar. They’re children and—”

  O’Toole turned to the youngsters. “How old are the pair of you then?”

  “I’m twelve,” Will said. “Least that’s what Holy Hannah says.”

  “I’ll be twelve my next birthday.” Jesse stretched to his full height.

  “And when’s that birthday to be?”

  “Christmas day. ’Fore she died, my ma told me I was born same day as the Baby Jesus.”

  “Twelve and eleven then,” O’Toole said. “Young American men. The powder monkey and the lookout can come. It’s the right thing.”

  An Inlet off Wallabout Bay, 9:30 P.M.

  It was finally dark, with a fair wind, and Le Carcajou at last hauled off the sands of the cove and floating free. It had been a struggle, and all of them were exhausted, even Blakeman. Tintin thought it almost worth the trouble just to see him nursing palms blistered from hauling on the lines. “Real work, eh, mon ami? Not the sort of rubbish that passes for it in a countinghouse.”

  “Stop talking and get us out of here.” Blakeman spat on his left palm, rubbing the moisture in with his thumb. “That’s your job. Do it.”

  Tintin turned away. There was a glowing half moon and a sky alight with stars. Eh bien, the light would help them get safely out of the tight inlets with their shoals and sandbanks and into the bay. Might be some clouds by the time they were in the river. If not, they’d count on a swift run to get them safely through the Narrows and into the harbor. Speed and the ability to strike terror in the hearts of the enemy, a pirate’s best friends. “Alors! Whistler!”

  Tammy Tompkins looked up from the bit of scrimshaw he was working on. “Aye?”

  “Get the flag,” Tintin said.

  “The Jolly Roger?”

  “Bien sûr, unless you’ve another tucked away somewhere.”

  “I ain’t seen it nowheres. Where’s it kept?”

  Tintin nodded toward a locker beside the mainmast. “Make it ready, but until I say, you do not run it up.”

  Aboard Lisbetta, 10 P.M.

  The tide had turned at the precise moment O’Toole needed it to do so. Mother o’ God but the joss o’ this night was bloody perfect…. now and at the hour of our death…“Prepare to come about!” Counting every body aboard, his makeshift crew had expanded to eight. “All hands at the sheets. Come about!” O’Toole spun the wheel. The tars manning the foresail and jib let them swing to center. They luffed for a few seconds, then the wind obligingly shifted to the south and caught them and they bellied taut, and the sloop headed back the way she’d come. Unnatural it was…. and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…

  Will Farrell had climbed high up the mast, steadying himself at the top with the grip of his knees so he could keep both hands on the fully extended spyglass. He’d never tried to see long distances by night; even with the moonlight it was harder than he expected. Shapes changed and distances seemed both shorter and further away. It took him a time to locate the cove where he’d seen the dark shadow he was sure was a ship in hiding. It’s a splotch o’ dark what moves up and down and side to side, Dr. Turner. Only thing that moves so is a ship. Can’t be sure, but I think she’s a two-masted schooner. He’d worked out the landmarks that would help him spot the cove a second time, but no matter how carefully he followed the shoreline into the inlet with the double bend, he could not pick out the same dark smudge with its two thrusting fingers pointing at the sky.

  What would the others say if he’d brought them here on a fool’s errand, if there wasn’t any pirate ship. and no—Good God Almighty! There she was, under sail and heading down the inlet to the bay and the river beyond. He started to call out, then thought better of it and scurried down the mast. “Dr. Turner! Cap’n!” He whispered the words he wanted to shout. “Ship ahoy! The pirate ship’s left her mooring and she’s heading for the bay.”

  “Straight toward us,” Joyful said.

  “Near enough as makes no difference,” O’Toole agreed. Could be their joss had at last changed. No way he would chance taking Lisbetta up the inlet. Danny Parker said the sloop drew eight feet o’ water; if the lookout was correct and the pirates had a schooner, they probably had a draft o’ five. And fast as he reckoned this angel ship could go, the pirates could likely outrun her on the open sea. He had to get to the bay before the schooner did and block her exit from the inlet. It was their only chance.

  Joyful knew the Irishman’s plan. “Can you get there in time?”

  “Don’t know. And say I do, you any notion o’ what you’ll do once we have ’em trapped?” O’Toole nodded toward the deck and the open crate with the lonely three muskets and the five musket balls between them.

  Joyful clutched his longest scalpel. There were two more in his pocket. “Cut out Gornt Blakeman’s heart, he said.”

  The wide curve of Wallabout Bay came into sight a ways ahead to starboard. No sign of the schooner yet, but they still had a fair distance to go, and no end of trouble possible on the way. O’Toole tacked slightly to larboard to avoid the shallows, then beat upriver as near to shore as he dared. He was close-hauled now, taking full advantage of the wind, and the men pulled the sheets as taut as their strength would allow, then tauter still. O’Toole felt every muscle afire as he leaned into the wheel, willing the ship to move faster. She raced up the reach. Nearly there. He let her fall off the wind a bit so she slowed some. Not much, but enough. “North by northeast, three degrees,” O’Toole murmured. Lisbetta slipped into the bay.

  “Un moment, whistler,” Tintin called softly. They were nearing the end of the inlet; Wallabout Bay was dead ahead, then it was only a short run to the Inner Harbor and beyond to the open sea. They would go someplace to regroup, Blakeman said. Hartford, or perhaps Providence. But they must get out of the harbor first. Then nothing to worry about but the small annoyance of the patrols of the diabolique British navy. “Soon now, whistler. Make ready to hoist the flag.”

  Tompkins took hold of the line that would send the black flag to the top of the mast, and felt a cold hand in the pit o’ his stomach. Twenty years being feared to death o’ the sight o’ the Jolly Roger, it was hard to imagine he was sailing under the skull and crossbones now. He looked toward the mouth of the inlet. Jesus God Almighty! There was a ship blocking the way to the bay, come like a spirit out o’ the night. He pursed his lips to whistle the danger away, but his mouth was so dry it wasn’t possible.

  At the wheel Tintin saw the sloop racing to block his exit from the inlet. He held his course, trying to force her to change tack. She didn’t waiver, just kept coming.

  Blakeman, spyglass in hand, had been on deck since the
y left the cove. He’d thought to go below as soon as they cleared the inlet. Get the girl. Have her so she’d know there was no way—Christ! “It’s Finbar O’Toole,” he shouted at Tintin. “And Joyful Turner. We’re twice their size. Take ’em on!”

  Tintin had spread only about half his available sail, waiting to hoist his jib and his top gallants until he reached the open sea. The schooner was more maneuverable this way, but considerably slower. For the moment the sloop had greater speed, and it looked as if she were prepared to enter the inlet and ram Le Carcajou with her extended bowsprit. The schooner, however, had to have a shallower draft, and she certainly outweighed Lisbetta by at least fifty tons. “Come ahead, Irlandais!” he shouted. “We will swallow you and shit you out our arse.”

  For a time it seemed that was exactly what Lisbetta would do. Then, at the last possible second, O’Toole swung the wheel so he was scudding for the bay’s far shore.

  “What’s he doing?” Blakeman shouted.

  “He makes ready to swing back and cover the inlet’s mouth and take all our wind. He is not a fool, this Irlandais. He does not wish to take up such a position with his nose pointed at the lee shore.”

  “Can you outrace him?”

  “Regretfully, mon ami, non. The wind has shifted again. It favors him, not us.”

  “Then what are you going to—”

  Tintin ignored him, shouting instead to his crew. “Préparez-vous monter à bord! Prepare to board!”

  Two crewman rushed a wooden catwalk into position between the bowsprit and the forecastle. Five others armed their pistols.

  The wind was still from the south, but stiffer now, heralding a summer squall. “Come about!” O’Toole shouted, no longer afraid to be heard. He swung the wheel so hard to larboard the friction tore a strip of skin from his palms. Lisbetta responded by catching the wind and heeling hard over. Andrew and Will Farrell, who had never been aboard a ship, both lost their footing.