by Paddy Hirsch
FOURTEEN
Seamus Tully placed a mug on the bar. He hefted a large copper kettle with a thin spout, and poured coffee in a long, steaming stream.
Justy sniffed the brew, then sipped. He looked up at Tully. “So. How much for a week?”
“Six bucks.”
Justy grunted. He knew the price was fair. Possibly even cheap. The carriage itself took up a lot of room. And horses ate like, well, horses. And six dollars wouldn’t kill him. He could afford that for a few weeks. He didn’t want to rush the sale, after all.
“She’s a beauty,” Tully remarked. “How’d you come by her?”
“Game of chance.”
“Ah.” Tully wiped an invisible spot of dust from the gleaming varnish on his counter. “Well, I don’t know about the rattler, but I do have the name of a cove who’d have those prancers.”
“I’m sure you do. How much, do you reckon?”
“Seventy-five each, maybe.”
Justy sipped his drink. He knew the horses were worth double that amount, but if he needed to sell them quickly … “I’ll think about it.”
Tully inclined his head. “Ho! An angel among us!”
The jarvie stood at the door, uncertain in his white suit of clothes.
Tully beckoned. “Come on in, big fella. All are welcome at Hughson’s.”
The jarvie approached the bar. He kept his eyes on the ground.
“Thanks for help with the coach.” Justy jerked his head towards the bar. “Can I buy you a glass of ale?”
The man stood mute, twisting his silk hat in his hands.
“Come on, now. One drink for your trouble.”
Justy nodded to Tully, who filled a tall glass and placed it on the bar. The coachman considered it for a moment, glanced first at Justy, then at Tully, and then lifted the glass and drank off half the contents in a single swallow. He put the glass back and exhaled in a long sigh.
Tully chuckled. “You look like a man who hasn’t seen a beer in half a lifetime.”
“Nor have I, sir,” the jarvie said. His voice was deep, with a lilt of the islands about it. He picked up the glass and sniffed it, then took a second, much smaller swallow.
“What’s your name?” Justy asked.
“Hardluck, sir.”
Justy coughed on his coffee. “Hard luck, you say?”
“That’s right, sir. My mother called me that, on account I was born on the ship on the way from Africay.”
“She should have called you Goodluck, then, for it’s a miracle you survived.”
“So everyone says. She figured the slavers might throw me overboard, rather than have another mouth to feed. So she named me Hardluck, hoping they’d think that bad fortune would come to them if they took me. And the name stuck.”
Tully refilled the man’s glass. “That story deserves one on the house.”
The driver looked at Justy. Then he looked at the ground.
“Come on now, Hardluck,” Justy said. “Have a seat. You’ll not dirty your clobber, if that’s what you’re fretting about.”
Hardluck hesitated for a moment, then slipped onto the stool. He sipped the froth off his beer. “I broke down the rig and cleaned the wheels, sir. I stabled the horses, too. Mister Tully keeps a good clean post.” He nodded solemnly to Tully, who raised a glass in acknowledgment.
“Well, I’m most grateful to you,” Justy said.
The jarvie stared at him for a moment, surprise in his face. And then he looked down. “I didn’t feed them, for they had hay first thing this morning.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
They fell silent. Justy looked at the sediment in the bottom of the mug. There were women he had met in Ireland who claimed to be able to read tea leaves left in the bottom of a cup. Could they do the same with coffee? he wondered. And what would they say? What was in his future? Would he find out who killed the girl in the alley? Would he ever find a woman he liked? Would he find someone to give him a half-decent price for the carriage and pair that was currently draining his purse?
He thought about the short trip that he had taken in the cab. The vehicle was so well sprung, it felt as though he was riding a cloud. The leather on the seats was like butter, and the windows and doors so well fashioned that he could hardly hear anything as they drove along.
He glanced at Tully. “It’s a pity to sell it.”
“Aye. She’s a beauty, right enough.” Tully began polishing a pewter mug.
Hardluck swiveled on his seat. His eyes bulged. “Sell it, sir? The carriage?”
“I’m afraid so. I mean, it’s a beauty, and the horses too, and I’d love to keep it, but I’ve no use for a carriage of my own. And then there’s the cost.”
Tully put down the mug. “You could afford it, Justy. If you really wanted. Fence the horses and get yourself a couple of cheaper nags. Maybe even get permission to use the city stables.”
Justy considered the point. “I suppose it’s possible. But even if I did choose to keep it, who’d drive the blinding thing? I can barely handle a cart. I’d throw a wheel or have it turned over in a ditch in half a day.”
Hardluck was suddenly on his feet. “Driving’s my job, sir. Mine!” He looked like a man who had just been robbed.
“I’m sorry, friend.” Justy kept his voice soft. “I can tell you love those beasts, and you’ve put your whole self into looking after that rig. Anyone can see that. But that part of your life’s over now.”
Hardluck stared at him, sweat breaking out in large beads on his face. “Don’t sell me, sir.”
Justy frowned. “Sell you?”
“I’m a good worker, sir. And I can find a way to keep your costs down. I’ll buy feed direct from the farms. And I won’t eat much, I promise.”
“Hardluck, what the devil are you talking about? You are Mister Riker’s man, and much as I hate to say this, you must go back to him.”
The jarvie gripped the counter with one large hand. His entire body was quivering. “No, sir. I am your man now.”
“What?”
“Mister Piers said so. Carriage, horses, and driver. All yours. That’s what he said.”
Justy stared. The tavern seemed to shrink around him. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, sir.” Hardluck fumbled with the buttons of his coat, then pulled a long, cream-colored fold of paper from his inside pocket. “He told me to give you this.”
Justy looked at the paper. The florid script. His pulse thumped in the roof of his mouth.
Tully leaned across the counter. “Read it, then.”
Justy’s mouth was dry. “I, Piers Andrew Riker of the town of Trenton, New Jersey, do give and grant to Justice Flanagan, Mayor’s Marshal of the City of New York, a certain Negro male, named Hardluck, about thirty-three years of age. I now quit my right, title, claim, and interest in said Negro male to said person, and bind myself to warrant and defend against all others et cetera et cetera Piers Andrew Riker.”
“Is that legal?”
“He’s got two witnesses. And his father’s an assistant justice of the peace. I’m quite sure that’ll settle the matter.”
They both turned to look at Hardluck, standing beside the bar in his white suit of clothes, his eyes on the ground. He had twisted his absurd white hat entirely out of shape.
“Tamsin’s not going to like this too much,” Tully muttered.
Justy laughed.
“You think this is funny?”
“You have to admire Riker, Seamus. He is a creative bastard. What better revenge for his humiliation than to humiliate me even more in return? By turning me into a goddamned slaver!”
“So what are you going to do?”
Justy stared at the sheet of vellum, at the names of the two witnesses. The first signature he knew well: Eliza signed her name with a distinctive flourish, and she had printed her name clearly beneath. The second was a mere scrawl, and the writing under it looked like the hand of a palsied man. It was a moment before J
usty was able to decipher Chase Beaulieu’s name.
He thought about the anger in Piers Riker’s face when Beaulieu had told the room about their jaunt to Canvas Town the evening before. About Beaulieu stumbling to the door, whispering that he wanted to meet. The fear in his voice.
He looked up at the jarvie. “Tell me, Hardluck. Do you know a Mister Chase Beaulieu?”
“Of course, sir. He and Mister Piers are quite close.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Why, yes, sir. I drove them both on Saturday afternoon.”
“Whereabouts, exactly?”
Hardluck looked awkward. “To Barclay Street, sir. St. Paul’s.”
“The Holy Ground?”
“Yes, sir. For lunch, Mister Piers said. They came back just after the Trinity bell struck three.”
“And what kind of state were they in?”
“Pretty fair. Although Mister Chase was complaining that Mister Piers had spilled garlic broth over him.”
Which meant they had been in one of the few oyster cellars that served shellfish stewed in the French style, with white wine and garlic. “And then?”
“Then Mister Piers told me to drive up Church Street, sir.”
Justy felt excitement clutch at him. Church Street ran parallel to Chapel Street. “How far?”
“I drew up just past the Quaker house.”
Only a few hundred yards away from where the girl had died.
“Which way did they go?”
The driver hesitated. His fingers twitched, as though he was pulling on the carriage reins.
“Which way, Hardluck?” Justy kept his voice soft.
“Left, sir. Down the hill.”
“Into Canvas Town?”
The driver nodded.
“And what time did they return?”
“Near six, sir.” The driver’s voice was a murmur. He avoided Justy’s eyes.
“Tell me.”
“They were hurrying. Mister Chase was very drunk. He cast up on the sidewalk before he got into the cab. It was dark, but I could see Mister Piers’ coat was wet. I thought perhaps Mister Chase had taken his revenge and spilled drink on him.”
“But?”
“But later, when I was cleaning the carriage, there was blood on the seat.”
“Human blood?”
Hardluck shrugged. “Just blood.”
Justy sat up. His fingers tingled and his head felt light. Piers Riker. Was it possible? He was a notorious rake, and Beaulieu had intimated that he had been spending more time in Canvas Town than usual. Perhaps the girl had been a prostitute after all.
“Tell me, Hardluck. Does Mister Piers like to hunt?”
“Oh yes, sir.” The driver seemed relieved to change the subject. “He is a very good shot.”
“And does he dress his kill himself, in the field?”
“I believe so. Mister Riker’s huntsman has often commented on his skill with a knife.” He caught himself, and frowned.
Justy patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right. Thank you for being candid with me. Now finish up. We have a great deal to do today, and not much time to do it.”
FIFTEEN
Kerry paid a street sweeper a penny to take a note to the African Free School. In the note was a lie. It told John Teasman she was taken ill, and needed a day or two to recover.
It was less than a mile in a straight line from her home to the heart of Canvas Town, but there was no direct route, only a slow zig-zag through the crush of narrow lanes, and it took most of a half hour for Kerry to reach the fort. It was an old watchtower, built by the British after they took New York from the Continental Army in 1776. They had heaped earth on the already high ground a few hundred yards back from the shoreline, then built a palisade, first of wood, and later of quarried stone. Most of the stone was now gone, but the foundations remained, and when Canvas Town moved north and encompassed the old lookout point, an enterprising madam had commandeered the fort, built some rudimentary dwellings inside it, and turned it into a brothel.
There was only one point of entry, from the south, up a shallow earthen ramp that was paved with wooden planks. They squelched under Kerry’s feet as she walked up the slope, her skirts hitched up to keep them from dragging on the damp wood. The ramp was hemmed in by flimsy shacks made of whatever materials their builders had scavenged: worn sailcloth, scorched barrel staves, ripped bedsheets, burned window frames, discarded roof tiles, and waterlogged pallets. Women stood in the makeshift entrances, many with their breasts uncovered. Some were obese, others were emaciated, some were very young, and some looked very old, although Kerry knew they could not be. They all had the feverish look of the poorly nourished, and many bore the scars and pockmarks of disease. Some gave her blank looks as she passed. Others scowled. Either she was a busybody, come to lecture them on the evils of their way of life, or she was competition. Either way, she wasn’t welcome.
She reached the top of the ramp and found her way blocked by a large, pale woman dressed in a sleeveless purple ballgown. The woman had powdered her breasts liberally and forced them into a corset, making them look like two snow-covered drumlins. She had piled her graying hair high on her head in the old style, and she had two large, black beauty spots, one on the right side of her chin, the other under her left eye. Her lips were smeared with red wax; her eyelashes with lamp black, so that they looked like spider’s webs.
The effect was clownish, until Kerry looked into the woman’s eyes. They were iron gray, and as empty as a freshly dug grave.
“You’re Lew’s cousin.” The woman had a strong, Northern English accent.
“And you must be Miss Violet.”
“Aye.” The madam’s gaze was steady and unblinking. “Tanny’s in’t Rose Room. But she’s busy now, so you’ll have to wait.”
“Very well.”
Miss Violet turned on her heel and walked away across a small, roughly circular courtyard that was covered with sand. The space was ringed with a number of small huts. Opposite the entrance to the courtyard was a bigger building, made of brick, with a black door. Miss Violet disappeared through it, leaving Kerry alone.
Kerry counted eight individual huts. They looked old and weathered, but they were sturdily built, with proper roofs and doorways, each of which was painted a different color. The paint looked fresh, and expensive. Beside each of the huts there was a low bench and a covered wooden pail. Kerry went to the bench beside the pink door and sat down.
In the lanes and alleys around the fort, business in Canvas Town was in full swing. The cries of food sellers and stall holders mingled with the hum and buzz of people hurrying back and forth, buying and selling and passing the time of day. And business within the fort was in full swing, too, despite the early hour. It sounded as though every one of the huts was occupied, and the courtyard was full of the barely muffled sound of grunts and sighs and giggles and squeals.
A shuffling sound came from behind the pink door, then a click, and it swung open. A man strode into the courtyard, moving quickly, his shoes scuffing in the sand, his head down.
Tanny leaned in the doorway. She looked older in the daylight, her white dress a little grayer, her skin showing the faint marks of childhood smallpox. She gave Kerry a sour look. “You’re Lew’s cousin, then, are you? Come to learn the trade?”
“Something like that.”
Tanny folded her arms. “Lew said you’d pay me for the time.”
“Did he? And how much would that be?”
“Five bob.”
“Not bad for a day’s work.” Most working men made between six and fifteen dollars a week. Kerry made four.
Tanny snorted. “A day? That’s five for the hour.”
Kerry laughed. “This ain’t Cherry Street, hen, and just because I’m togged in buntings and a snicket don’t mean you can treat me like some judy hick.” She stood up to leave.
“Talk flash, then, do you?” Tanny’s grin made her look ten years younger.
“Have done since I was a titter. Which is how I know you’re looking to kimbaw me.”
Tanny shrugged. “I’m just trying to make a rag. If I spend the day nattering with you, I’ll have no chink to show for it, and Miss Violet’ll make me wear the bands.”
Kerry smiled. “Nice try, Antoinette. Lew told me he’s already agreed to pay you and Miss Violet, so you won’t have to worry about not getting your rations. In fact, do me right and I’ll take you to luncheon, too.”
A door banged open across the courtyard, and a man half-fell out of the sky-blue hut, clutching his breeches closed with one hand. With the other, he blew an extravagant kiss. And then he stopped dead in the center of the space. He looked around, as though he was lost, and then bent double and vomited into the sand.
Tanny watched, dead-eyed, as the man limped away. “Aye, well,” she said. “I could use a little time off anyway.”
* * *
She led the way to a small coffee house, ordered eggs and a soft loaf, and gave Kerry a refresher on the hierarchy of the New York demimonde. There were a handful of prostitutes in New York who could charge five dollars for an hour of their time. But none were dark-skinned, and none did business in Canvas Town. There was a strict hierarchy, and everyone in it knew their place. At the bottom of the heap were the bunters, desperate women who lived in the alleyways and middens of the growing city, begging or prostituting themselves and spending most or all of the proceeds on drink. Next came the buricks, also called cracks or drabs. These made enough to afford to put a roof over their heads, but were either too old or tired or diseased to do much more than subsist otherwise. They plied their trade where they could afford their lodgings: in the fetid, poorly constructed sinkholes of New George and Charlotte Streets, along Laycock Lane, just east of the Common, or in Canvas Town, like the women Kerry had encountered on her way into the fort.
Tanny was a member of the next, broadest band of prostitute, called a curtezan. These were women and men in their prime, and depending on their looks or skills or business savvy, either did business as an independent operator, or as a case-vrow, attached to a particular brothel or bawdy house. There were benefits to both arrangements, but downsides, too. Tanny told Kerry she had started as a case-vrow in the fort, and enjoyed protection, room, and board. But she was young and pretty and in demand, and she soon came to resent surrendering most of what she made to the house. She had left the fort the previous year and set up as a squirrel, as New Yorkers put it, in her own nest. She had to pay some money to one of Lew Owens’ pimps and maintain her own premises, which could be expensive. But she kept everything else that she made, and she kept her own hours. She was able to operate where she pleased, in her own place, or in certain taverns, or with the John Street vestals, women who did most of their business in the theater district. She was disappointed that Owens had ordered her back to the fort, but she accepted that her world was governed by rules, and that she had been caught breaking them. She was confident that within a year or so, she would be able to go back to operating independently.