by Paddy Hirsch
A nun stood over him and pointed. “The blade ran over his ribs here, but it slid through here, under his arm.”
“Deep?” the Bull asked.
“Two fingers, at least.”
The Bull grunted. Justy felt the ground soft under his feet. He felt his uncle’s eyes on him. He held up a hand. “I’m fine.”
“He walked away, Nephew.” The Bull’s voice was soft. “That says something.”
“I don’t know. He’s a stubborn bastard. You’d have to chop the legs off him to get him off his feet.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked him.” The Bull’s hand was heavy on Justy’s shoulder. “Men like that are hard to kill.”
Justy nodded. He knew exactly how hard it was to kill Lars Hokkanssen. For six months they had fought together in Ireland’s Rebellion of 1798, hunting English soldiers, fighting them face-to-face, and then, when the Rebellion was crushed, running from them like rats. Lars had been beaten and shot and slashed and blown up and burned, and he had always walked away. Except once, when Justy had carried him through the Kildare marshes with a lead ball deep in his right thigh. Seven long days and nights. Lars said he owed Justy for that one, but Justy knew it was the other way around, that from the first moment they had met, Lars had watched over him and protected him, every step of the way.
“The last time I saw him looking like this, we were up to our bellies in a Kildare swamp. I thought he was done for.”
“He told me once that you carried him out,” the Bull said.
“Did he?” Justy shook his head and looked down at his friend. “I don’t know. The place was crawling with soldiers. I was ready to give up, but he wouldn’t let me. He was the one with the bullet in him, but he never flagged. I’d say he carried me as much as I carried him.”
Lars’ lips twitched and his eyelids fluttered, and Justy felt relief envelop him like a warm blanket. He winked at the Bull. “He was a heavy bastard, mind. It was like carrying a slaughtered pig.”
His uncle smiled. “I’ve always thought of him as a big, strong fellow. But he looks weak, lying here. And a lot smaller than you’d think. Scrawny, almost.”
“A blessing for the sisters, I suppose. Less of him to wash.”
“Aye. A dirty business it is, swabbing down a sailor. Not that they’d have to worry about the old rantallions.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ah, you know what they say about the bloodnuts.” The Bull wiggled his little finger. “The bigger the fire up top, the less that burns below.” He winked at the nun, who looked as though she had sucked a lemon.
“That’s a boggin’ lie!” Lars’ voice was a hoarse scratch, like a rake on a gravel path. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but fell back, groaning.
“Settle down, ye big cods-head.” Justy laughed, blinking back the tears that had suddenly blurred his vision. “What the hell were you thinking, charging into a tilt on your own like that?”
“Someone had to.” Lars’ voice dropped to a whisper. He gave a slight smile. “I didn’t see any coppers about to keep the peace.”
The Bull smirked. “Well said, jack.”
“Is that so? And where were all of your lads, then?” Justy snapped.
Lars chuckled, quietly. “Now, now, gents. No fighting in church.” He closed his eyes and breathed out, a long wheeze.
Justy squatted beside the bed. “Can you move, big fella? We need to get you to a doctor.”
Lars said nothing. His face was as pale as the sheet he lay on. The nun put her fingers to his neck. “His blood is slowing. If you move him now, you could open his wounds, and if you do that, you’ll kill him.”
“Can we bring the doctor here, at least?”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing a doctor can do for him now. He’s been well stitched, and we can keep him as comfortable here as he would be anywhere. You need to let sleep do its work, now. Sleep and prayer.”
Justy closed his eyes and rested his head on the edge of the bed. He heard Lars breathing, hoarse and shallow, and he felt the pressure build inside him, a potent mix of fear and rage, making his heart pound so hard he could feel it in the roof of his mouth.
The Bull’s massive hand was warm on his shoulder. “We’ll get the man that did this, Nephew. Don’t you fear. That black bastard Owens has had it coming for a while now. It’s time to balance the scale.”
Justy rubbed his face. He stood up. “How can you be so sure it was Owens?”
“Who else? That crew last night was a bunch of blackfellas, wasn’t it? Owens’ lads, for sure. The madge has been chipping away at my holdings for years. Cloying my best doxies and sending his lads to tilt outside my boozing kens. And now this? He’s asking for a scrap.”
“And you’d be happy to give it to him, I suppose.”
“If that’s what’s needed.” The Bull’s eyes were hard.
Justy looked down at his friend. His red hair. His paper-white skin. He felt drained. “Can you not settle this some other way? Why not meet the man and talk?”
“Talk?” The Bull laughed. “Why don’t I take a bow and sell tickets for a voyage up my windward passage while I’m at it? The time for talk is over, boy. Now it’s time for us to fight.”
“Your fight, not mine.” Justy’s voice sounded hollow in his own ears.
“Is that so? With your friend lying there with a gash like the East River in his guts?”
“I won’t help you set the city alight just because a friend got hurt.”
The Bull’s lip curled. “Well, that’s your business. But don’t expect me to take this lightly. I’ve been too soft for too long on your account. Times gone, I would have burned Owens out the moment he made his first move, then drowned every one of his rats in the Collect. But you asked me to hold back. And so I have. But no more. The madge wouldn’t have tried something this bold unless he thought I was weak. So I have to show him he’s mistaken.”
SEVENTEEN
Once again, Gorton led him through the crush of Canvas Town, to a rough clearing, where a small crowd had gathered. Men and women, of every shade of black, white, and brown, stood under the awnings of the buildings and in the mouths of the alleys, or sat on cloaks and makeshift cushions. They all had the washed-out look of the poor. There were lanterns strung along the sides of the square. As Justy watched the people settle, he heard a church bell on the faint northerly breeze.
A man appeared, dressed in a baggy shirt and loose trousers. He carried a large wicker tray, heaped with chonkeys. He weaved through the crowd, allowing each person to take a pastry from the pile. Umar was already there, standing on a low platform, watching his man work. He wore his long, white-sleeved robe and his small white cap. His black beard looked enormous against the white tunic, and his dark skin gleamed like oiled teakwood. His men stood behind him in the shadows, scarred faces and gleaming eyes.
“Listen to the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him,” Umar began. “The Devil has given up trying to lead you astray in big things, so beware of following him in small things. Life and property are sacred. If anyone has lent you something, return it to him. Hurt no one, lest they hurt you in return. Lend money if you wish, but God forbids the charging of interest. Your capital is yours to keep. That is the word of God.”
It was a good opener. There was a low buzz of chatter. A man sitting on the ground in front of Justy snorted. “No interest? Keep all your money? No taxes? Some chance. The bloody church’d go broke and fall to pieces.”
There was a ripple of laughter, and then the crowd fell silent as Umar began to speak again, taking pauses between each sentence, so that his speech acquired a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence. “No white man has superiority over a black man. Just as no black man has superiority over a white, except by piety and good action. We are all brothers and sisters, and nothing we own is ours, unless it was given freely and willingly.” Umar’s delivery was smooth, and even. His voice was deep and resounding, and it carried right across the silent plaza
. The effect was lulling, and Justy leaned against the wall of the building beside him and let the voice wash over him.
The shack was made of pieces of driftwood, parts of a ship or its cargo that had washed up on the river shores. The builder had not used new nails, but had hammered bits of scrap iron into the wood, or reused the rusted nails that were there before. Many of these had not gone deep into the wood and bent or sheared off, and as Justy leaned on the wall, the ball of his shoulder rolled onto one of these shards of metal.
He stood straight, rubbing his arm. He felt as though he had just woken up. Umar was still speaking, his voice low and deep. The crowd was bewitched. They watched him, slack-faced and glassy-eyed. Even Gorton was staring, following every word, nodding slightly as Umar’s words swirled around them, like fragrant smoke. “Those who are merciful will be shown mercy by the merciful. Be merciful to those on the earth, and the One above in the heavens will have mercy upon you. God does not look at your appearance or your possessions; but he looks at your heart and your deeds. It does not matter what you are, who you are, or what you have done to survive. You might walk the streets and sell yourself, you might commit the most depraved acts, in order to live. God sees all that we do, but he is merciful. He forgives. Those who repent, believe, and do good deeds: God will change the evil deeds of such people into good ones. This goes for all, brother and sister, no matter what deeds they have done in the past, or been forced to do.”
He stopped. The crowd seemed to lean forward. He stretched out his hands, and for a moment, he looked like a man feeding lumps of sugar to a herd of ragged horses. “These are the words of the Prophet. The world’s comforts are not for me, he said. I am like a traveler, who takes his rest under a tree in the shade, and then goes on his way. Allah be praised.”
He stepped back off the platform, and the crowd sighed.
“Quite a speech,” Justy said.
Gorton looked startled, as though he had been caught at something. There were two spots of color, high on his pale cheeks.
“Everything all right, Jeremiah?”
Gorton blinked. His eyes cleared. “Aye, Chief. Quite a speech, as you say.”
A small crowd had gathered around the dais, mostly women, most of whom had the worn, gaudy look of street prostitutes. One of them looked a grade more exclusive, a tall, lithe woman in a pale blue dress and brown linen shawl. She looked like she might be Spanish or Greek, with olive skin and long, dark hair that she had piled up on her head so that its tresses fell and framed her face. Her cheeks were rouged, her eyes heavy with dark makeup, and her lips were a deep, liquid red. Umar was listening to her, his head cocked slightly on one side, a slight smile on his lips. Then he laughed, and she laughed, too, swaying back and twirling a lock of her hair, and Justy realized to his horror that he knew that gesture, and that the woman was not some street bunter.
It was Kerry O’Toole.
EIGHTEEN
Kerry had spent the afternoon with Tanny in the cast-off stalls on Greenwich Street. There was a line of them, heaped with gowns, petticoats, and corsets, all salvaged from the grand houses around Cherry Street, William Street, and Wall Street. Most of the clothes came from housemaids, who either stole them or received them as gifts from their mistresses, and most were long out of style. Ladies these days dressed in the European fashion, in loose, gauzy slips that showed off the figure and often revealed almost as much of the wearer as they covered. These modish gowns occasionally found their way to Greenwich Street, but they rarely spent long on the stalls. If they weren’t reserved for special clients, they sold quickly, and for a far heftier price tag than a Canvas Town working girl could afford.
The result was that most of the area’s prostitutes dressed in the older styles, so they looked more like their clients’ mothers and grandmothers than their wives or paramours. Which, Tanny pointed out to Kerry, often worked in the working girls’ favor. “You’d never twig by looking at ’em how many of these coves just want a cuddle from their mammies. Oh, they do want to tumble, in the end. But most of ’em want to be babbied a bit first.” Tanny shook out a heavily embroidered petticoat, held it up against Kerry, and then tossed it back on the pile. She raised an eyebrow. “Some of ’em even like a bit of a spanking.”
Kerry snorted. “I think you’re having a laugh at me.”
“I am not, girl. I put ’em over my knee, pull down their britches, and wallop ’em, just like they’re little boys.” She slapped her palm down on the pile of clothes, sending up a cloud of dust. Her eyes twinkled. “I can see you thinking what your man might say if you did similar.”
“I haven’t got a man, Tanny.”
“Aye, but you know some, don’t you?” She smiled. “Well, don’t try it, anyway. It’s not the kind of thing most men like their sweethearts doing. It’s their little secret, ken?”
“I can see why it might be.”
* * *
Tanny had found the blue dress at the bottom of a huge pile of dowdy frocks that reeked of stale sweat. It was a long-sleeved formal gown, with a high, stiff bodice and an extravagant train. She had torn off the arms below the shoulder, then deconstructed the bodice, so that it wrapped snugly around Kerry’s chest. “We’ll wedge something under there to push your heavers up a bit,” she said.
While Kerry had cut off the train of the dress and hemmed it, Tanny had worked on a petticoat, removing most of the lace at the front, and adding some at the back. “To make it look like you’ve crackers worth talking about.”
She had oohed and aahed over Kerry’s long, dark hair as she brushed it straight, oiled it into tresses, and piled it up untidily in the fashion. “Make it look like you just got out of bed after a tumble. Even if no lass ever looked like that after a half hour on her back.”
Lastly, she had painted Kerry’s face with rouge and lipstick, the tip of her tongue showing, pink as a rose, between her teeth. Kerry found herself thinking about Justy. Would he run away to a bawdy house once a week for a spanking? He hadn’t known his mother much longer than she had known her own, and her mother had died giving birth. No, Justy would not like a spanking, she decided.
Tanny chuckled. “Something’s put color in your cheeks, girl, and it ain’t this powder. Who is he, then?”
“Just someone I know.”
“Interested, is he?”
“No.”
“Well, he must be made of stone, because you’re a dimber lass. A bit lacking in curves, maybe, but your hair’s so fine, and your skin’s like silk. You’ve got a smile like sunshine, too. When you let it show, that is.”
Her fingers were soft on Kerry’s cheek. “And why don’t you ever smile, girl?”
The question took Kerry by surprise, and it had surged inside her, the darkness and the pain, like something alive, trying to scrabble its way out of her. Her throat tightened, and her skin bumped. There was a sudden wetness in her eyes, but Tanny had not pulled away. Instead she had kissed Kerry lightly on the forehead, and whispered to her, “Don’t cry now, girl. Don’t ever cry. Don’t ever let them see what they do.”
* * *
Tanny had worked a miracle. “We’ll call you Rosa.” Daughter of a Spanish sailor. Shipwreck turned streetwalker. Dark eyes, red lips. Two pads of linen hidden in the bodice of her dress thrust her breasts upwards, and the extra material in the back folds of her petticoat pushed up the back of the gown, making it uncomfortably tight.
Tanny had patted her belly. “You’ve got to suffer for beauty, girl.”
The blue dress bought her a different kind of freedom. On the way to see Tanny, she had attracted all kinds of looks: curious glances from some men, suspicious stares from others. Some women had looked angry, or resentful; others had shouted abuse at her, or asked for help. She was an outsider. Now, strutting beside Tanny, hips swinging, she was part of the landscape. Few people gave her a second glance, and those that did so, did so differently. One man whistled at her, another leered, and a third followed behind her for a few paces, whispe
ring propositions, asking how much for this or that, until Tanny spun around, lifted her skirts and kicked at him. The women ignored her, except for a trio who leaned out of a window and spat in unison into the street. They were thin, sallow-skinned, and black-haired, dressed in colorful silks. Tanny spat back and cursed them. “Don’t mind them. Bloody ladyboys. Jealous ’cause they’ve even fewer curves than you.”
As they walked, Kerry asked what Tanny had heard about Umar. She was aware he existed, and had heard about his gatherings, but said she knew nothing about him poaching white girls from brothels owned by Owens and the Bull. There were plenty of all-white houses in the city, but none in or around Canvas Town, or not that Tanny had heard about. And, she insisted, she would know.
They arrived at the gathering. There was a small crowd sitting in the small open space, munching on their free pastries. Kerry had stood at the side as Umar spoke, amazed at the way he was able to control the crowd with his voice. He was better than any priest that she had ever heard, not that she went to church.
And suddenly, the address was over. The space was filled with a low chatter, as people discussed what Umar had said. Kerry watched the faces, some still slack and bewitched, others twisted in skepticism and scorn. And a few were wide and open, radiant and transported.
Tanny grabbed her arm. “Did you hear him?”
“I did.”
“That part about God not looking at appearances. About him not minding if you sell yourself. Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know. They say Jesus let Mary Magdalene wash his feet, and she was a curtezan.”
“She was. And she was blessed.” A deep voice, behind her. Kerry spun around, and found herself face-to-face with Umar. His robe was made of a rough linen, but it was as white as sea spray. She could smell the cedar oil in his hair and beard.