by Paddy Hirsch
“He will not let you pass. Not without my instruction.”
They spun around. Zaeim was striding towards them from one of the buildings. He was no longer dressed in his workman’s clothes, but in a long, white robe. Instead of boots, he had sandals on his feet, and while his beard still looked like a thorn bush, his hair was wet and slicked back neatly from his forehead, and a small, white cap was perched on the top of his head.
Gorton’s hand was a blur. A long, curved blade flashed in the sunlight. He took a half step towards Zaeim. “You’d better get to instructing, then. Lest you want me to fill yon pretty fountain with your claret.”
Zaeim stopped. “Soft, Mister Gorton. I am unarmed.”
Gorton scowled. “How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you, Jeremiah. Where you live, how long you have been here, what you do, and what you have done. Which is why I know that you know what this is.” He held out a white rod, about two feet long, tipped with what looked like horsehair. “And what it means.”
“What is it?” Justy asked.
Gorton kept his eyes on Zaeim. “It’s a sign of office. It means he’s the gaffer here.”
“You are fortunate to have such a sharp and knowledgeable fellow by your side, Marshal.” Zaeim’s teeth gleamed. “I am indeed the gaffer, as he says.”
“So you are Umar Salam?” Justy asked.
Zaeim bowed his head.
“And Zaeim?”
“Zaeim is my people’s word for leader. That is what I am. But Umar is who I am.”
“Why not say so before?”
“Because I do not wish to attract attention, either to myself or to my people. You are a Catholic, Marshal, so you have some sense of what it means to live and worship in a way that people of other religions find objectionable.”
Justy thought about the folder full of anti-Catholic tracts in his desk. “Stow the chive, Jeremiah,” he said.
Gorton hesitated.
“If he wanted us backed, it’d be done by now. Put it away.”
Gorton slipped the blade into the long sheath on his belt.
“Thank you.” Umar spread his arms wide. His teeth gleamed. “Welcome to Mimo.”
“Mimo?”
“It has several meanings. Property. And sanctuary.”
It took only a few minutes for him to show them around the compound, a collection of a dozen dun-colored buildings of various sizes, all surrounded by the high wall that separated the community from Canvas Town and the rest of the city. The place was spotless, and deserted. It was an island of quiet in the middle of the bustling riot of New York. The windows of the buildings were curtained, but he caught a glimpse inside one, and saw a small, neat room, with blankets and several low cots stacked neatly against one wall.
“Where is everyone?” Justy asked.
“Working. We are almost completely self-sufficient here. We fish the sea, we farm the meadow, we make clothes, and sell them in the markets.”
“And who are your people?”
“People of the Faith. Anyone who believes or wishes to learn is welcome, wherever they have come from.”
“I’ve heard you came up from the Carolinas.”
Umar’s beard bristled. “Do you intend to send us back?”
“I’m not a slave catcher.”
Umar had stopped beside a pile of what looked like sections of reed fencing, stacked up against a half-built wall. He used his horsehair switch to point at a large, square hut with a steep roof. “This is our kitchen. We cook communal meals here. The refectory is on the other side.”
A long, low, barrack-like building ran along what Justy reckoned was the north wall of the compound. It had just a single door. A figure in a light blue robe appeared in the doorway, and then was gone.
“What’s in there?”
“That is where we make the garments we sell. The cloth comes from India. We buy it by the bale, and fashion it into clothes and shawls.”
“May I see?”
“Of course.”
Inside was a single room containing several long tables, with benches on either side. Bales of cloth were stacked up against one wall. Light streamed in through long, narrow windows close to the ceiling. A dozen women were sitting around the tables, working on pieces of cloth. They all wore robes of different colors, and when Justy and Umar entered the room, they pulled the edges of the cloth to cover their heads and faces.
“Why do they do that?”
“It is our religion. The Prophet, peace be upon him, said our women must cover themselves in the presence of men who are not of their family.”
There was a small cart loaded with neat stacks of shawls beside the door. Justy smoothed his hand over the cloth. “The girl in the picture I showed you was wearing a robe like this.”
Umar shrugged. “We sell a great many of such things.”
“She had drawings on her hands. Tattoos.”
“Like the ones on Mister Gorton’s arms and chest?”
Gorton smirked.
“How do you know so much?” Justy demanded.
Umar flicked at a fly. “You have your spies around the city, Marshal. I have mine.”
“To what end?”
Umar sighed. “Do I really need to explain this to you, an Irishman, whose people are fenced into the sinkholes of New York, to drown and freeze and sweat to death with yellow fever? Like you, we worship God in a way that these people believe is unnatural. They call you Catholics devil-worshipers, but they tolerate your presence because you are white. Imagine what they would think of us, Negroes who follow the Qu’ran, eat only with our left hands, and cover our women. They would think us Satan incarnate. And they would treat us accordingly.”
“Not all the leaders of the city think that way. There are many who believe in the principles that this country was founded on. They will defend your right to worship as you please.”
“Will they?” Umar leaned on the doorframe. “They may believe we have those rights, despite the color of our skin, but will they fight for us? I doubt it. So I have to protect my people in a different way. I send my people into the city, to learn things about those who would threaten us, and I use that information when I need to.”
“There are that many of you?”
“We are not so many. But we have been here a long time now, living in the shadows. And our number is growing. Our dark skins allow us to move about the city unseen, to mix with the servants and slaves who make this city work, and who know everything that goes on. No one notices another Negro, so long as he stays in his place. And everyone talks. We simply listen.”
The women had stopped working and were watching them, twelve pairs of eyes, swathed in colored wool.
“Why did you even let us in here?” Justy asked.
“Because I have heard about you, Marshal. You are a tenacious man. When I heard you had shown an interest in our community, I knew you would not stop until you had gained entry to this place. As you said yourself, better that you come invited than in the van of a mob.”
“And so you can show me what you want me to see.”
“I have nothing to hide, I assure you.”
“So what’s in there?” Justy pointed to a door on the other side of the room.
“Just storage.” Umar pulled the door open. There was a tiny room, piled high with bales of cloth. A cloying smell of incense was in the air. “We received a shipment, two days ago.” He closed the door. “Is there anything else I can show you?”
* * *
The man with the muzzle scars led them back through the market to a small clearing flanked by a number of tiny stalls selling food and drink. And then he disappeared into the crowd.
Gorton held up two fingers to the owner of a coffee stall and sat down, chewing a nail.
“So, what did you make of that?” Justy asked.
“Big place.”
“Right enough. You could fit a hundred folk in there. I’d like to know how the hell he managed to
build it without anyone knowing.”
“He’s probably been at it for years, slow and sure.”
“Aye, but a place that size? How do you keep something like that quiet?”
Gorton shrugged. “Like he said. No one pays much heed to what goes on in Canvas Town. Least of all to a bunch of blacks.”
The shopkeeper arrived with the coffee. He poured it into tiny cups from a long-spouted pot, and placed a plate of sweetmeats dusted with powdered sugar on the table. The coffee smelled strong, and was musty with dark spice. It was surprisingly sweet.
Gorton smiled at the expression on Justy’s face. “It’s Arabic. They like it so your teeth ache.”
“Your file said you spent some time in North Africa.”
“I saw plenty like your man Umar there. Petty chiefs of small tribes. Two camels and a dozen followers, most of ’em.”
“This one seems a little more than that.”
Gorton nodded, thoughtfully. “He do, don’t he?” He bit into one of the pastries.
“You were in Gibraltar, too, I saw. What was it like there?”
Gorton grinned. “It was rum. Good food. Good weather. Good people, too. You get all sorts in Gib. Gyppos, Frogs, Spaniards, darkies, the lot. I liked it.”
“So why did you leave?”
The watchman considered Justy for a moment before answering. “I was drummed out.”
“Your file says you have an honorable discharge.”
“I do, on paper. But I was drummed out, just the same.”
“You’ll have to explain.”
Gorton popped another sweetmeat into his mouth and chewed, his sharp chin moving in a small, tight circle. “I had a fight with my sergeant major in Gib. Battered him with a pick helve after I caught him flogging rifles to a gyppo trader. My lieutenant took my part in the inquiry, but I found out later that the captain was in on the scheme. The lieutenant got a promotion, a commission on a ship of the line. I got the shaft. The captain gave me a choice: transport back to Blighty for a five-year stretch in Pompey nick for assault, or a clean ticket out of the Corps. I didn’t reckon I’d even make it back to the barracks, knowing what I did about what they were up to, so I took the discharge and marched straight down to the port. Took a billet on the first ship out. Happens it was sailing to Savannah and then up to here.”
He sipped his coffee.
“Why are you telling me this?” Justy asked.
“You asked.” He shrugged. “Truth is, I mean to make a place for myself here, and like that cove Umar says, you’re not the type of man leaves stones unturned. I reckon if you checked on me proper, you’d find out eventually. Maybe not the whole story, but enough to know something was off. I’d prefer you got the whole bever from me.”
His eyes were steady. Justy felt suddenly uneasy. He drained his cup. “How is it you know Canvas Town so well?”
Gorton nibbled at the edge of another sweetmeat. “I like it. Reminds me of Gib. Besides, every city I’ve been to there’s a quarter like this. The food’s always good and cheap, and it’s the best place to go to understand the way a place is headed.”
It was late in the afternoon, but the square was still full of people jostling, squabbling, and bargaining. The sun strobed through the awnings in shards of light, picking out pieces of the crowd: a blue tunic, a silver brooch, a plum-colored shawl, an emerald-green hat.
Justy sat up.
Gorton caught the movement and snapped forward. “Ware hawk?” His sharp face made him look like a hunting dog sniffing its quarry.
“No. It’s nothing.” Justy stared into the crowd. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“A young fellow? Tall and spooney, with a green hat?”
“You’ve a good eye.”
The watchman pushed a hank of gray hair back from his pale eyes. “I told you I was a marksman in the Corps. They used to put me in the rigging, with orders to aim at the officers.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side.”
Gorton grinned. “So who was that in the hat? Want me to go after him?”
“No. I’m not even sure it was who I thought it was.” Justy drained his coffee, and dug in his pocket for a coin. “We should go. We’ve a great deal more to do, and not much time to do it.”
TEN
Kerry saw Justy too late. She knew instantly that he had caught a glimpse of the big green caubeen that topped her disguise. She backed quickly into the shadows of a spice stall and looked across the square. Justy was scanning the crowd. She smiled. His right boot had a hole in the sole. And his coat looked loose. He needed someone to look after him. She scowled at the thought of Eliza Cruikshank. The tossy-locked florence.
She felt someone’s eyes on her. She recognized the watchman from the night before. His long, narrow face. And his sharp eyes. He was staring right at her, but it was impossible for him to see her, she was sure. She eased herself back further into the darkness, but the man didn’t look away. She held her breath.
Justy said something, and he and the watchman stood up and walked into the crowd. Kerry exhaled slowly. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her after all. The woman minding the stall was looking at her, eyes like two pips in an old brown apple. Kerry blew her a kiss and she chuckled.
Kerry was dressed as an apprentice boy, in black coat and breeches, brown woolen hose, and cheap black clogs. Her long, dark hair was curled tight and pinned under the big green hat. It was a good disguise, one she had worn almost every day when she was a teenager, when she had trawled the Broad Way and the markets, cutting open men’s pockets with a quick, thin blade, and walking away with their wallets. She had been an excellent tooler, quick and careful, and not too greedy, until a pistol ball in her shoulder had made the point that if she continued with a life of crime, it was liable to be a short one.
So she had given up life on the cross. But she had kept up her skills, by practicing here and there. And she had held on to the disguise.
She had gone from Hughson’s Tavern to her home, to dress in the clothes and the shoes and the old green country hat that she kept locked away in a small chest on top of her closet. It had been nearly a year since she had last put on the disguise, but she remembered all of it: how to stand like a man, and how to walk like one, uncaring, with a slight slouch, her hands in her pockets, and her head forward. And, best of all, how to slip into character, how to adopt the attitude of ownership and privilege that came with being male.
She had walked down into Canvas Town, thrilling with the feeling of sudden freedom. No one condescended to her; no one fell silent when they registered her presence; no one eyed her in the way so many men felt free to eye a woman, regardless of her class. She had become just another apprentice, invisible, and able to go, almost unchallenged, wherever she wanted.
She had known Canvas Town well when she was younger. It was her cousin Lew’s home ground, and most of the city’s black population had spent at least some time in its encampments. But it had changed as the men who owned the land had begun building on its southern and eastern bounds, hemming the shanties into an increasingly narrow strip of land along the shore of the Hudson River and forcing them upland, across the steep ground of the old forts on the Star and Foundry Redoubts, and down to the edge of the marshland around Hudson’s Kill.
Kerry had never been this far north before. The squatters had stripped the old forts bare, and used the wood from their palisades to make walls and pathways between the shacks. There was a low hum of sound and the smell of sewage and cooking food, and when she glanced through the open doors of the shanties and tents, she saw people of all colors huddled around low tables, eating and talking.
She kept moving, threading her way through the crowd, along a narrow lane that dropped steeply out of the old Star Redoubt and seemed to lead roughly north.
The wall surprised her.
It was about eight feet high, covered in a rough stucco of mud and straw. The shacks and lean-tos were built right against it, so it was impossible
to follow it around. She backtracked and came up another lane, and then another, each time meeting the same rough, windowless wall.
It was nearly an hour before she found the entrance. There was a clearing at the end of an alleyway, an open space around a gap in the buildings that was just wide enough to allow a carriage. A big, sunburned man with a black wedge of a beard leaned carelessly on the wall, taking bites from a strip of dried fish. He kept his eyes on Kerry as she approached.
She rolled her shoulders. “How dost do, my buff?”
The man’s eyes were dark and bloodshot, like squashed flies on a handkerchief. He tore another piece of fish off with his teeth, leaving a thread of saliva on his beard.
Kerry ignored the worm in her guts and tried again. “I’m told as how you can buy good cloth hereabouts. Like silk, they say.”
“Who’s they?” The man’s voice was rough.
“People about the place. A friend of mine bought a shawl for his blowen a year or so back. I thought I’d see about doing the same.”
The man sniffed, hawked, spat. He half-turned to look into the entrance.
“Faisal,” he called. “Customer.”
A small round man in a long brown tunic and baggy white trousers appeared. His beard was cropped close to his dark skin, and his head was shaved. His nose was small and hooked, like an owl’s beak. “Yes?”
Kerry dug her hands in her pockets. “I came about buying a shawl. For my tib. It’s her birthday next week.”
“Who told you to come here?”
“A friend of mine. He did for his wife last year and she was right pleased.”
“I’m sure she was. Our cloth is of excellent quality.” His small, dark eyes skipped up and down. “But expensive.”
There was a handful of coins in Kerry’s pocket. She jiggled them in her hand. “I ain’t as well breeched as some, it’s true. But I’m warm enough.”
The man looked thoughtful. “We close at dusk. But I can make an exception, I suppose. Wait here.”
He disappeared through the entrance, turning sharply left to avoid a blank wall that prevented Kerry from seeing inside. A moment later, there was a squeaking sound, and the man reappeared, pushing a handcart laden with bolts of colored cloth.