Astor’s face was wreathed in smiles. “Excellent. I approve.”
“And what of you, Hai? You approve as well?”
“Absolutely, Lords.” Hai was breathless with excitement and bowing repeatedly. “Every word I agree. And I will serve you with—”
“Wait,” Joyful said. “There’s one more condition. This afternoon at four o’clock you will meet me at Devrey’s Pharmacy in Hanover Square. And you will bring Thumbless Wu.”
It was a couple of years at least since he’d been to the pharmacy, but as far as Joyful could tell, nothing had changed. In fact, nothing might have changed since Clare and Raif opened it in 1779. Fair chance there had been a goodly number of the brown bottles of Devrey’s Elixir of Well-Being stacked on the counter back then as there were now. “Good afternoon, Jonathan. How are you keeping?”
“Well enough, Joyful. I trust you can say the same.”
They had agreed long since that the honorifics of uncle and nephew, reversed from the usual age order as they were, could be dropped. “Very well, thank you. And business, Jonathan? Business is good?”
“Fair. Good as can be expected given the war.”
Joyful picked up one of the small bottles of Elixir. “Get three coppers apiece for these, don’t you?”
“I do. Of course, if you want—”
“No thanks. I was simply considering how profitable an old family recipe can be. But you’re not the simpler your mother was, are you, Jonathan? Any more than I know all Roisin’s healing secrets. The Women of Connemara pass their knowledge from mother to daughter, never to a son. What Clare knew went to Molly. Isn’t that so?”
Jonathan shrugged. “It was Molly she favored. Always.”
“So with Molly gone…” Joyful returned the brown bottles to their place on the counter and leaned forward. “Seems to me there’s not much you can do for Thumbless Wu, is there? About the white smoke, I mean.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.
“Spare us both, Jonathan. Lying will only make it worse.”
The large street clock in Hanover Square tolled four times. “My dinner hour,” Jonathan said. “So if there’s nothing else…”
“Your dinner will have to wait, Jonathan. We’re to have visitors.”
The pharmacy door opened while Joyful was speaking. There were three as it turned out. Hai and Thumbless Wu, as expected, and Ah Wong as well. The Chinese men all bowed formally. Ah Wong, Joyful noted, did not meet his gaze. Nonetheless, he was the first to speak. “We apologize to the honorable gentlemen for interrupting their day. And since I do not speak well in English, I will speak in my language and my son will translate.” He turned to Joyful. “I wish to explain—”
“I am about to close,” Jonathan interrupted. “I must ask you all to leave.”
“Ta bu hui zuo ren,” Joyful said to Ah Wong, referring to his nephew: He does not know how to be a human being. Then, to Jonathan, “These visitors will leave after we explain to Thumbless Wu here that you have not the least idea how to make the smoking opium he wishes to buy. That you know only how to follow to the letter your mother’s instructions for making the Elixir. And that even if you did know the technique, you’d have not the least idea where to find enough poppies to make the quantities that would be required. It would take a mountain of poppies, Jonathan, and there’s nothing like that anywhere here.”
Hai translated, repeating what Joyful was saying in quick Cantonese, speaking directly into Wu’s ear. “Saan ma. Saan ma. Hung sik fa ma.” A mountain of red flowers. “Bat ni do.” Not here.
Wu stared at Joyful, the malevolence in his gaze knife-sharp. A dagger that could thrust and kill only with good joss, or a scalpel wielded by a hand that knew where to cut? There was no way to know until it came to the test. Then it was up to joss. Joyful turned to him. “Nei ming baak, tset-ha, tset-ha?” Did the limp stalk entirely understand?
“Daan duk, ma,” Wu said. “Jeung loi, ma.” Some day we’ll be alone. “Ji di sin tset-ha tset-ha.” We will see whose stalk is limp.
Joyful felt Ah Wong and Hai looking at him, waiting to see how he handled the threats. He laughed and saw Wu’s face darken. “San nin,” he said. Make it a New Year’s Day. “Ho wan joss, Wu.” So Wu’s joss will be at its best and all the gambling junk Wu clan can see him fail despite that. “Sei. Sei.” Dead. “Bu yam jing. Bu yam jing.” Without his male stalk, limp or otherwise.
Wu let loose a string of Cantonese curses. Joyful turned away.
“One thing more, Jonathan. The opium trade’s illegal in China, run by murderous gangs. So it’s highly likely that even if you could figure out how to do what Thumbless here wants, and once you had gone to all the trouble and expense of setting up the production, he would be found dead and probably castrated in some Cantonese alley, murdered by the traders he plans to oppose. So this scheme ends right here. Is that entirely clear?”
Jonathan’s demeanor changed. “Of course, I’m quite sure you are right, Joyful. Mr. Wu and I will have to give up our plans, won’t we, Mr. Wu? We’re going to do everything exactly as cousin Joyful says.”
“Pitiful,” Joyful said very quietly. “Jonathan, listen carefully, because I’ve a number of things to tell you and I shall not repeat myself. First, as soon as the war is over, Hai here is going to Canton to be comprador of Devrey’s Shipping. Meaning he will be working for me. If there is even the least hint of opium coming in from America, Hai will know about it and he will tell me. And I will see to it that you will most sincerely regret getting into that trade.”
“What makes you think you can—”
“I know I can, Jonathan, because, among other reasons, Molly is alive and well. He watched the blood drain from Jonathan’s face and saw his white-knuckled grip on the counter. “Your sister is living in Nova Scotia practicing surgery.” He would not explain the rest of the story Delight had told him as they sailed back from Wallabout Bay. The part about Molly assuming her brother’s identity and living all these years as if she were a man. Always seemed to me she was a lot more comfortable being Jonathan than she had ever been as Molly. And since she wanted to be a cutter, like you and Dr. Andrew…Well, a woman can’t be that in Canada any more than she can here.
“No surprise her wanting to be a surgeon, is there, Jonathan? Molly inherited the family skill and the inclination, and ran away to follow her dream. Mind you, after all these years, she might be happy to run back. Have her share of the pharmacy, live here with you…But I don’t imagine that would be entirely to your liking, would it?” He turned to the Chinese. “This is our family history, jia ting lishi. Nothing to do with you. What you must do now is take Thumbless home with you. Mr. Astor has agreed to find work for him until the blockade’s lifted. After that he’ll return to Canton with first son Hai. Ah Wong, ni dong ma?” Do you understand?
“Understand. Understand. And the honorable gentleman should also understand. Ah Wong never meant any disrespect. Only to do what is right for son and family and—”
“Mei guanxi, Ah Wong.” No harm. “And providing Hai lives up to his promise, your son will definitely be an ancestor. Mr. Astor and I agree that it is to be so.” He led the three Chinese to the door as he spoke; as soon as they were on the street, he closed and turned the lock.
Jonathan looked terrified. “I never really considered…You mustn’t think it was in my mind to—”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you considered or what was in your mind, Jonathan. As long as you don’t get into the opium trade with Thumbless Wu, you can do as you like.”
“You’re not going to write to Molly?”
“Absolutely not. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you refuse to grant Laniah manumission.”
“Laniah? What she’s to do with any of this?”
“Everything, Jonathan. Her complete freedom from ever being or having been a runaway slave.”
His nephew apparently didn’t realize his expre
ssion was so revealing. “Of course a runaway slave is just what she is. My mother bought Laniah when she was eight years old, and she escaped three years later.”
“She ran away with Molly, Jonathan. Reclaiming Laniah means Molly would have to be involved. As I said, she might like to come home and rest a bit.”
“Manumission,” Jonathan said, the word coming out rather like a sigh. “Very well.”
Chatham Street, 5 P.M.
Eugenie had little appetite for dinner. She ate a few bites, then pushed her plate away and went to the front room, standing by the window, waiting for Meg to come back. She’d had no word from Gornt since yesterday. Since the riot. Meg had been there, and brought home the story. “Remarkable it was. Never seen the like. Mr. Blakeman rallying the crowd, and that handsome redheaded cutter hanging out a window and shouting about the Constitution. Then along came the High Constable and his men on the biggest horses you’ve ever seen and—”
“What about Tintin?”
“The pirate?”
“Yes, of course the pirate.”
“Never saw hide nor hair of him. Why should you think he’d be there?”
“They’re connected somehow. I know they are. The time I…When I spent the night at Hanover Street—”
“Let Blakeman between your legs, you mean.” They’d been alone in Eugenie’s bedroom, and Meg was eating a peach so ripe the juice dripped down her chin. “You never told me Tintin was there as well.”
“Of course he wasn’t there. I’m not a whore who goes with two—Wipe your chin, Meg. You’re dripping. It’s disgusting. And it is disrespectful for you to eat in my presence.”
“Gave you suck and changed your shitty nappies,” Meg reminded her. “Don’t talk to me ’bout respect. Have you got yourself into more trouble than you’ve told me about?”
“No,” Eugenie shook her head. “You know everything, Meg. You always do.”
“So with you and the pirate, it’s just about the blackbirding?”
“Yes. But the night I was with Gornt, he said something about pirates, as if he knew…”
Eugenie was nibbling her lower lip. Meg knew that was always a sign of worry. “No way he could know. Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”
“There is,” Eugenie said. “I feel it in my bones. Where’s Gornt now?”
“No idea,” Meg admitted. “One minute he was there, with all the butchers and their cleavers in a ring around him, next minute he was gone.”
And no sign of him all day today. The Evening Post had published an early noon edition with a full description of the riot, including a number of details Meg hadn’t reported, but had nothing to say about where Gornt Blakeman might be. Finally, a little after three, she’d sent Meg into the streets to see if there was news. Over two hours now and…Ah! Thank heaven. There she was, hurrying up the road.
Eugenie ran to the door, throwing it open before Meg had come all the way up the path. “Well? What’s happened? What did you hear?”
“Just a minute. Let me get my shawl off and rest my bones.” They went inside, into the front room, and Meg plopped her bulk into the nearest chair. “Might be you’d like to sit down as well,” she said.
“Bad news,” Eugenie whispered, sitting not because Meg told her to but because her knees felt weak.
“Depends. Gornt Blakeman’s dead.”
It shouldn’t really matter. He was never going to marry her. She’d known as much and made her choices. Still the thought of never seeing him again…“How did it happen, Meg?”
“No idea. Someone said stabbed. Someone else said he was shot. Heard he was drowned as well. Thing is, Jacob Hays and his men brung his body back to the city and he’s dead for sure.”
“Back from where?”
“A pirate ship as was hiding over near Wallabout Bay. I figure it’s the same one you was taken to.”
“Of course it’s the same. There aren’t going to be two of them.” Eugenie sprang up, starting to pace. “I knew it! I told you there was some connection.” Her mind racing, trying to figure out what, if anything, an alliance between Gornt Blakeman and Tintin meant to her. Particularly since Blakeman was dead. “It shouldn’t change anything. Even if he was trying to get Tintin to do business with him—”
“Stop talking and listen. I told you the news was bad. You ain’t heard the worst of it yet.”
Eugenie stopped pacing and put her hands on the back of a chair to support herself. “What?”
“Tintin’s dead as well. Along with all his pirates. And they’re fixing to sink the pirate ship. Talk is, it was the cutter, Joyful Turner, as brought them all down.”
Eugenie stayed where she was, not moving, her eyes closed, her mind racing. It took her a moment to see it all.
“You want me to get you some hot tea?” Meg said gently. “Or maybe fix a bath? I know things look black now, pet, your lovely scheme all gone to naught and no money coming in after all. But you’ll find another man to marry. Ain’t one alive can resist the way you look, and—”
“Where’s the newspaper?” Eugenie said. “The early edition of the Evening Post. Find it.”
“What you want a paper for, when—”
“Find it, Meg. It must have been taken down to the kitchen. Get it. Go! Go!”
She couldn’t stay still now. Her body needed to move, to keep up with her mind. Back and forth, back and forth, across the room, window to door. It would work. There was no reason why it shouldn’t. She’d make it work.
“Here it is.” Meg came back, carrying the paper that had just missed going onto the kitchen fire. “Cook was about to—”
“Give it to me. And you can leave now, Meg. Go fix that bath you promised me.”
She waited until she was alone to read the story a second time. It had run over to the second page, two columns above the usual advertisements about runaway slaves and another reminding the public that Devrey’s Pharmacy now offered delivery of their superior goods. “F. X. Gallagher,” Eugenie read the words aloud in a soft whisper. “A butcher by trade, but also believed to have numerous dealings with the Irish blackbirding gangs of Five Points.”
Gornt dead. Tintin dead. F. X. Gallagher dead. A great hole left in the ordering of the lrish blackbirding gangs. How could they function without someone to organize their activities, speak to the magistrates, obtain the proper papers…Her heart was thudding the same way it did when she had her legs wrapped around a man’s hips and he was…Forget all that. Forever if need be. Forget Meg’s notion that she return to the endless scheming to attract a rich husband. Another road was open. She would take it.
The Synagogue on Mill Street, 9 P.M.
The Jewish Sabbath was over, but the sanctuary was as beautiful by candlelight as it had been when the sunlight poured through the golden-colored glass of the windows. “The urns, Dr. Turner,” Samson Simson said. “You may remember I went to great trouble to call your attention to them when we met here before.”
The pair of urns were set high above the two doors to what Joyful remembered was called the hehal, the Ark of the Covenant. “Engraved with almond branches, I do remember, Mr. Simson.”
“Excellent. Because you’re considerably taller than I am, sir, that was why. I could see nothing amiss, but I had to be sure that for a man of greater stature, someone such as yourself, that would also be the case.”
“Because you hid the real authentification in one of the urns.”
“The one on the left, yes. Some might see that as sacrilege, Dr. Turner. I do not believe it to be so. I saw it as a way to protect this country, and therefore the future of my people. And that, sir, is why we meet here, not in my law office, or in a private home.”
Joyful waited, knowing there was more to come.
“I told you before, Dr. Turner, I consider these United States not just my country as it is any citizen’s. To me this land is a place of sanctuary for my people, a nation where we may live in peace.” Then, in an abrupt change of subject, he said, “A jewel s
uch as the Great Mogul, it is one of the world’s great rarities, an extraordinary treasure. I’m sure you agree.”
Joyful had been thinking almost continuously about the stone since he gave it to Manon. It had, for example, struck him as strange that Astor hadn’t asked him about it when they spoke that morning, or that Vionne had said nothing about the diamond when Joyful dined with him and Manon earlier. “One of the most extraordinary treasures,” he agreed. “I have considered what may be best to do with it, and I must admit, I am unsure.”
“We,” Simpson said, “Jacob Astor and Mordecai Frank and Maurice Vionne and myself, we are no longer unsure. We have conferred and decided to form ourselves into a society to be known as the Club of New York. We will not advertise our existence or seek any political office, but if it becomes necessary, we will attempt to be a modifying influence should the nation stray from the ideals of the Constitution.”
“I see.”
“No, I think you do not just yet. This republic, Dr. Turner, it is more fragile than we care to admit. These last days have proved that. The possession of something as unique as the Great Mogul could prove decisive in such circumstances. It can be a factor of great influence.”
“That is exactly how Gornt Blakeman tried to use it.”
“Precisely my point, Dr. Turner.”
“Let us be quite clear, sir. Are you asking me to join this Club of New York?”
“I am. On behalf of the others.”
“I’m honored, and I accept.”
“Forgive me, Dr. Turner, but I do not think you should do so quite so quickly. Quite frankly, we are asking more of you than of ourselves. It is our collective judgment that you, sir, should be the guardian of the Great Mogul. And since it has fallen that you have the stone in your possession—”
“No, I do not. I gave it to Mademoiselle Vionne. I assumed that by now she had given it to her father and—”
Simson smiled. “Your fiancée is apparently wiser than most young women. She told her father the jewel had been recovered, but did not say that she had it rather than you. I choose to think that bodes well for the future, Dr. Turner. I am asking you, here in this holy place, to swear before the Ark of the Covenant—and I remind you that in this very place you named yourself a Jew, though our law does not recognize you as such—that you will guard the diamond with your life, and that you will never consider it a personal possession but something you hold in trust for the Club of New York.”
City of Glory Page 46