“And you know it isn’t true, don’t you? It’s the same businessmen and bankers that keep the poor from having any opportunity to make a decent life.”
“My dear Manon, I do believe the Catholics have made you a socialist.”
Her burst of laughter sounded just like the old days. “If you only knew, Nicholas, how far that is from the truth. The Holy Father and the bishops are appalled by socialism. No, it’s simply a matter of following Our Lord’s instruction to feed the hungry and clothe the naked.”
“I’m sure Protestants want to do that as well.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I know they do. It’s which poor and which naked, and how to go about it. That’s where the quarrel lies.”
“Manon, why couldn’t your Sisters of Charity establish such a dispensary as you envision? I remember your telling me how wonderful they were during the cholera epidemic back in ’32. It would seem a natural progression.”
She smiled. “Yes, it would. Nothing of the sort is yet planned, Nicholas, but you have discovered my secret. I intend to pray it into being. Now tell me what you do in your practice, since you abstain from painless surgery. Infected fingers and wheezing coughs and swooning ladies and runny-nosed children?”
“All of that.”
“And it’s to your liking?”
Nick looked sheepish. “You know me too well, Cousin—Sister Manon. Ben Klein and I do see such patients. A great many of them, since we must eat and pay our bills. But there is also the laboratory. It is the challenge that keeps our minds active.”
“Indeed. Nicholas, where on earth do you get cadavers on which to experiment?”
She had lost none of her directness, he liked that. He’d never felt it necessary to understand her religious impulse, that was no business of his. But the lively mind and the clear thinking, he’d have hated to see that disciplined out of her. “There’s less need of cadavers for the work we’re doing now,” he said, being as forthright as she had been. “The interior of a body is no longer the mystery it once was. There’s a large amount of literature on the subject these days. As for Ben and I, what we’re studying is diseased tissue, the flesh around a suppurating boil or an inflamed toe. That’s the sort of thing we cut away any number of times in the ordinary way of seeing patients.” He would not tell her of their other source of human tissue: they had a steady supply of the foreskins of infant males since Ben had been inspired to make private arrangements with the mohels, the providers of the Jews’ ritual circumcision. “You know my theory of germs,” he said instead, “and their importance in the spread of disease. I’m learning more about germs every day.”
“And now, with running water just about everywhere in the city, you can truly insist on all the hand washing you recommend.”
“I can. Here too, I hope. You’ve running water now, haven’t you?”
“Spigots in three places in this building and two next door,” Manon said with a touch of wonder. “I caught a glimpse of some of the overhead construction when we arrived. They tell me the aqueduct runs forty miles from the Croton River and finishes at a reservoir in the woods at Eighty-sixth Street.”
“Forty-one miles,” Nick corrected. “And the Eighty-sixth Street reservoir isn’t the end of the chain, it’s only a holding tank. The distribution reservoir’s nearer, though still a fair distance from the city, at Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue. From there Croton water is fed into a series of underground pipes, and—I can see the glaze of boredom in your eyes, dear Manon. Suffice to say the town’s finally got running water. It’s even in parts of the Five Points, you’ll be happy to know.”
“I am.”
“And there’s no more Night Watch, you know. They’ve abolished all the marshals as well.”
Manon raised her eyebrows. “How wonderful that New York has become the Garden of Eden and there is no more crime.”
“More crime than ever,” Nick said cheerfully. “But now we have police, though the law says we’re never to have more than eight hundred of them. Everyone calls them coppers, because of their star-shaped badges. Fancy blue uniforms as well. Makes them look like butlers if you ask me.”
“And do they keep the peace?” Manon asked.
“Well enough, as long as there’s not real trouble. It’s still the militia of the Twenty-seventh they call out to break up the riots.”
“Do you know the French expression Plus ça change?”
“…plus c’est la même chose,” Nick said. “The more things change, the more they’re the same. Yes, exactly.” He paused. “I wasn’t sure I should mention it, but I saw your Miss Bellingham not long ago.”
“Whyever not mention it? Where did you see her?”
“I didn’t want to upset you. She was in a tavern.”
“A tavern! Addie Bellingham? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. The Crowing Cock on Broome Street. It’s not far from the office and I go there for a bit of supper sometimes.”
“Nicholas, for a woman to go to a tavern. She’s not…I mean, Addie wouldn’t have fallen to the point of…”
He chuckled. “I’m teasing you, dear Manon, which is very bad of me, especially now you’re a nun. She was indeed in the Crowing Cock, but her purpose was entirely moral. Apparently Miss Bellingham is now an active member of the American Tract Society.”
“The people who go about distributing pamphlets with excerpts from the Bible?”
“Exactly. Miss Bellingham and another woman came in and gave everyone a tract, then wished us the blessing of God and left.”
“Do you think she recognized you?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t let on if she did. In any event, I refrained from asking her about a missing diamond. Though the thought crossed my mind.”
Manon glanced at the clock on the wall. Only five minutes of the half-hour visit left. She had been a Sister of Charity for four years—they’d made her wait a year after she became a Catholic before she could officially enter the congregation—and she no longer chafed under such restrictions. “We’ve only a little time left, Nicholas. Tell me about Carolina. You do still see her occasionally?”
He flushed, looked away, then looked straight at her. And knew from her expression, however fleeting, that she had seen his reaction and knew a great deal, probably everything, without his having said a word. “I do. Occasionally. Carolina is as lovely and as charming as ever. But she has much to bear.”
“Samuel.”
“Yes. He is no husband to her and no father to her children.”
She had thought to ask him if there was any woman in his life, any chance he might marry, as she’d been urging him to do for years. Now she did not waste her breath. “She is nonetheless his wife,” she said.
“I know, but—”
Somewhere a bell rang. Manon—Sister Marie Manon, as she truly was now—instantly rose to her feet. “It is time for prayers. I must go. Thank you for coming, dear Cousin Nicholas. I look forward to another visit whenever you are able.” But first she would ask permission to write to her cousin Carolina Devrey and tell her that the woman now known as Sister Marie Manon was once again in New York and Sisters of Charity were entitled to a monthly visit from any member of the family.
January of 1843. As bitter as hard winter could be, Sam Devrey thought, and not just because of the cold. It was looking to be the winter that strangled his dreams.
Years before he’d gone to Maryland to see the Ann McKim in her home port—that was the week when Mei-hua and Ah Chee had bound Mei Lin’s feet—and convinced himself that beautiful as she was and fast as she was, the Ann McKim was not the answer to steam he’d thought she might be. She simply could not lade enough to be more than a rich man’s toy, and there was no way, given the specifics of her design, that Sam could see her adapted to carry more. He’d advised Astor against bidding on her when she went on the block after McKim’s death, and it had never worried him that Devrey competitors William Howland and William Aspinwall bought he
r and brought her to New York. The Ann McKim frequently was the first ship back in port with the spring harvest of China tea, but she couldn’t carry enough of it to satisfy the market. Plenty of profit left for the merchant ships that came after her, so no grief there.
Now, however, Howland & Aspinwall had commissioned a new ship to be built at one of the town’s busiest yards. No chance of keeping anything secret in such a place; her keel was stretched out for all to see. A ship as huge as anything crossing the Atlantic, with a sharply pointed bow and a narrow beam, while aft she was as rounded as an apple. Jacob Astor was among those who went to see the incredible vessel his competitors looked close to launching.
So, Samuel, you think maybe we should commission Mr. Parker to make for us also such a ship? My son thinks we should in shipping not now invest more. I am not so sure. What do you think? William Backhouse Astor, the old man’s second son but his true heir, was busy expanding their real estate empire; the shipping business was an afterthought as far as the younger Astor was concerned. Shipping remains as profitable as ever, Mr. Astor. You’ve seen our accounts and you know that. But this new ship, the Rainbow, is to have masts as tall as a three-story house. She’ll founder in the first decent swell. Head straight for the bottom with all who sail on her. He should, Sam thought, offer himself to P. T. Barnum as an actor, perform at Barnum’s American Museum. He sounded, even to his own ears, as if he actually believed what he was saying.
But convinced as he was that these new ships were the future, Sam believed something to be not quite right about Howland & Aspinwall’s Rainbow. The critics of her design were mostly old-timers who couldn’t see a thing of genius as it materialized under their noses. Still, as the weeks passed and Sam watched her ribs rise and her hull take shape, he knew in his bones that some part of the puzzle was yet missing. The Rainbow was nearly perfect, nearly the ship of his dreaming, but not quite.
As for the two Bills, as Messrs. William Howland and William Aspinwall were known, they backed down in the face of persistent criticism. Ain’t no ship with a pointed nose and a fat ass going to get anywhere on the China run. The Bills heard the remark once too often, and in that February of 1843 called a temporary halt to the building of the Rainbow while they sent to England for the opinion of yet another set of marine architects.
The delay turned out to be little comfort for Sam Devrey. In March A. A. Low & Brothers laid another keel at another yard. Just as long, just as narrow, just as sharp at the bow and broad at the beam, but without the sloping V-shape keel of Rainbow and nearly everything else afloat, certainly everything else considered seaworthy for a long and testing ocean journey. The ship of the brothers Low had a flat bottom, and the men who commissioned her had stronger stomachs than Bill Howland and Bill Aspinwall. Hang the criticism, the Lows said, keep building.
“It’s the flat bottom, Danny,” Sam said. “That’s the thing that will make it work.” They met in the all but deserted Thirty-fourth Street yard for a Sunday afternoon consultation, the latest in a long series of such meetings. Danny Parker sat calmly smoking his pipe, while Sam Devrey was as agitated as ever the shipwright had seen him. “She’s to be called the Houqua, named for a Canton merchant who has vowed to fill her stem to stern with the first crop of tea that comes down from the hills of Lumking and Mowfoong. Bring it all home while it’s still pristine-fresh and sweet as the day it was picked, before it’s had any chance to mold. What do you imagine that will bring at the Exchange?”
“A fair bit, Mr. Devrey. Quite a fair bit.”
“A hundred thousand, Danny. Good God, it could be a hundred and fifty. What if I were to offer you a twenty percent interest in the first three cargoes my new ship brought home? Might that influence how much you had to have in ready cash before you started to build?” If he was right, and if Danny took him up on the offer, it meant he’d see no profit for two years, maybe three. But without a new ship, wholly owned by Sam Devrey, the dream was finished. Whatever their owners might think, there was no doubt whatever in Sam’s mind that the Houqua, probably even the Rainbow, would turn the shipping business on its ear. And while Sam might hold him off now, as soon as the results were in, Astor would make his move. He’d have more money to finance the venture than Low or Howland or Aspinwall. Devrey Shipping would triumph, but it would be forever beyond the grasp of the man who bore the Devrey name.
“How long is she to be?” Parker asked.
“The Houqua?”
“No, the ship you want me to build for you.”
“My calculations say the optimum length would be one hundred and seventy feet stem to stern, and thirty-three across.”
The ratio, five times as long as she would be wide, was highly unusual; four to one was the norm. But all Danny said was, “And she’s to have one of these flat bottoms?”
“Yes. Concave sides that widen out as they rise above the water line, and below it a bottom as narrow as any keel, but flat, not V-shaped. I promise you, she’ll sail closer to the wind than any ship ever built and do it faster and carrying more cargo than either Rainbow or Houqua, if either of them is ever actually finished and launched.”
“And your ship will take more with her to the bottom if she founders.”
“True,” Sam said. “But if she does not founder she will be the finest thing ever seen afloat, Danny, and there won’t be a shipwright in the country who can touch you. You can have two more yards, three more if you want. String them right round the island of Manhattan.”
“Aye, maybe. Or I can lose everything.”
“I’m not denying it. That’s the thing about a dream. You win everything or lose the same amount. What do you say?”
“Pipe dreams,” Danny said softly, tamping his pipe, “like clouds, aren’t to be relied on. They blow away in a stiff breeze.”
It was the first Sam knew of any talk of opium beyond Cherry Street. “This is no pipe dream, Danny. We’re talking tea and silks, not opium.” Sam gestured at his sketches. “We’ll build her right here at the Thirty-fourth Street yard. Keep her under wraps at least until we raise the masts.” Impossible after that, but by then it wouldn’t matter.
“What about the men? They’re bound to talk.”
“Some will, but we’ll offer a bonus for work that’s not just flawless but speedy as well.”
The pair of them had been hunched over the drawings for nearly an hour. Sam stood up. His head almost touched the ceiling rafters of the mean little room. The coal stove was losing the battle against the late October winds coming through the chinks in the rough walls. “Tell you what, we’ll avoid union help. Only hire the born agains, the ones flocking to these revival meetings all over the town. Get them to swear secrecy on a Bible. What do you say, Danny?” he asked again. “In or out?”
A few seconds went by. “In,” Danny Parker said finally. “For thirty percent of the first three cargos. And sixty thousand in cash money before we lay the keel. Thirty-four thousand deferred payment until the sale of the first cargo.”
Ninety-four thousand dollars to build one ship. Madness. Except that Sam Devrey knew it was no such thing. “Twenty-five percent of the first three cargos,” Sam said. “And two deferred payments, not one. Seventeen thousand each after her first and second voyages.”
Danny closed his eyes for a moment, calculating. “Aye,” he said when he opened them. “My hand on it, Mr. Devrey.”
“And mine, Danny.”
“The sixty thousand,” Danny said after they shook, “how soon can you get it?”
Work on the Rainbow might be stalled until that second opinion came from London, but the Houqua was proceeding rapidly. Sam’s ship had to sail soon after she did and race her to Canton and back, otherwise it would be many months before there would be a fresh tea crop to bring back and make their fortune. By then he’d be bankrupt.
“Start finding the lumber,” Sam said. “You’ll have your money in seven days.”
God help him, he had to make it be true.
Chapter Twenty-five
THERE WAS ABOUT a teaspoon of the brown powder in a twist of ordinary paper lying on the table in Jenny Worthington’s kitchen. And no one in the house except her and Sam Devrey, who had come in through the back door well after dark.
“You’re sure he won’t taste it?” Jenny asked.
“I’m told he will not. If he does, you simply toss everything out and say the tea must have molded and you’re sorry. He will suspect nothing.”
Sam had not himself gotten the poison from Taste Bad. He’d left that to Big Belly, after letting the man know that if he intended to continue encouraging white men to participate in the pleasures of smoking opium, he needed to make common cause with a white man who not only spoke proper English but had access to the sort of clientele who could afford the indulgence. Nineteen percent of the weekly earnings to come to the Lord Samuel. And to show good will, a business the lord wanted arranged with Hor Taste Bad. And if you betray me now or at any time in the future, I’ll cut open that fat belly and strangle you with your own guts.
“When will Randolf be here next?” Sam asked.
“The day after tomorrow.” Jenny’s voice betrayed nothing of what she was feeling. After all these years…Still, a mere five thousand, and that dependent on some insurance company making good on a most peculiar policy. “How do I know you will keep your word? About paying me, I mean.”
“You do not,” Sam admitted, “and I’m not about to put it in writing. But here’s a start.” He pushed a wad of bills across the table. “Four thousand now, eight thousand when it’s done.” That committed the last penny of ready cash he could raise, with nothing on hand to meet Danny Parker’s sixty thousand requirement.
His only other resource was the collection of jade. He’d taken them to the best of the numerous auction houses on Pearl Street, telling himself that building his ship was the only thing that mattered. Hell, after he’d gotten back his birthright he’d return to China, take Mei-hua and Mei Lin. It would be a fabulous journey. He’d buy all the jade he could stuff into a valise and bring it back. Build a new house someday, with a special room just to exhibit his collection of Oriental art. Make everything else worthwhile. Once he built a ship that would cross the seas as if she flew with the clouds everything would be wonderful.
City of God Page 34
