City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “He has never before, sir, been offered letters of marque from a separate American nation.” That was the real issue and the one they were all still tossing back and forth as if it were a potato too hot to touch. Fools, the lot of them. The continent was enormous. Plenty of room for two nations, probably more if it came to that.

  The younger Connecticut man winced. “It may not be necessary to go so far, gentlemen. After all—”

  New Hampshire made his move. “Perhaps we can settle all this at a convention.”

  Blakeman clenched his fists, but not so the others could see. Damn the man to hell. A convention. The blasted things could go on for years.

  “A convention,” New Hampshire repeated. “That’s the proper way to decide these matters. We shouldn’t be traveling all the way to New York in these dangerous times, and meeting in secret. We need to call a convention and openly discuss our ideas for…”

  Blakeman watched him. Go on, say it, you liverless toad. Our ideas for secession. New England and New York to form a separate nation.

  “…our ideas for how to proceed,” New Hampshire finished lamely.

  “I expect we are the logical venue.” One of the Hartford pair, the soft-spoken one this time. “I mean, being in the middle, as it were, Connecticut’s a sensible choice.”

  The others agreed. Even Blakeman nodded. Never mind that he intended it would all be settled well before any convention could be summoned, in Hartford or elsewhere. Once New York had claimed the freedom that was rightly hers, made a swift and separate peace with Britain, and sent her merchant ships back to sea, the New England states would trip over each other in their haste to form a new confederation.

  “So how did it go then?” Carter asked when he closed the door behind the last of the men to slip quietly from the warehouse to the all-but-deserted street.

  “Well enough,” Blakeman said.

  “They’re all with you?”

  “With us, Barnaby. With us.” Blakeman clapped a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “You and the other mechanics, you do know this is how it must be? We cannot allow Madison and his War Hawks to steal our livelihoods, can we?”

  “Course not,” Carter agreed.

  Blakeman left and Barnaby went upstairs, but despite the lusciousness of Lucretia’s chicken dinner, he had little appetite.

  Canvastown, 6 P.M.

  “Cue ball to take the red to pocket three.” Joyful curled the top half of himself across the top end of the eleven-foot billiards table in the rear of McDermott’s Oyster House. “One carom on the way to the pocket,” he added. A carom was a strike and a rebound that hit another ball.

  Barnaby stood to the side, eyes fixed on the table, leaning on his stick. His head was wreathed in the smoke rising from a cigar clamped between his teeth. “Double the bet says you can’t make it a triple.” Given the position of the four balls in play, a triple carom would earn thirteen points, the maximum possible in a single shot.

  Joyful looked up. “Maybe. But not a chance unless you back off a ways. No wonder Lucretia let you out after dinner. Glad to see the back of you and get that noxious smoke out of her house.”

  “A fine Connecticut cigar this is,” Barnaby protested. “Not your cheap pipe tobacco from the South. That’s the stuff makes your eyes water.” Not counting Joyful and himself, every man in the place had a pipe stuck in his mouth. Nonetheless, Barnaby took the cigar from between his teeth and stubbed it dead on the wall behind him. Didn’t want to put Joyful off, not when he’d refused to go near a billiards table for so long. The British were bastards, all right. But did that make Blakeman’s scheme right? He had to talk to Joyful about it.

  “Pocket three,” Joyful repeated, working the stick repeatedly through the inert fingers of the glove.

  Barnaby took a step backwards, so it wouldn’t seem he was staring. “How about that wager?” he asked.

  Joyful put his head down again, concentrating on the shot, deciding whether to take up Barnaby’s challenge. Normally, he’d have said yes instantly. What was holding him back today? As far as he could recall, in every game he’d played with both hands, the only thing his left did was steady the cue stick. So why was it so damnably difficult to do the same with the glove? Because it didn’t feel natural, that’s why. Bloody hell, it probably never would.

  The perfect moment when you felt as if the stick were simply an extension of your arm, and when every ball on the table was far too big to miss, wouldn’t come. He straightened and stepped away from the table, walked around a bit, loosening up, using the opportunity to examine the positions of the two red and two white balls from a variety of angles. “You’re on,” he said after a final squint at the lie. “One scratch of the cue ball and a triple carom, two reds and a white.” He chalked the cue for the third time. “Thirteen points against thirty coppers. You’d better have it in ready coin, Barnaby me lad. I’ll not be doing with promises.”

  An oil lamp hung directly overhead, adding its smoke to the general miasma. Joyful blinked to clear his eyes, once more stretched across the upper right corner of the table, and inserted the stick through the immobile fingers of the glove. He slid it back and forth a few times, just to get the feel of things, and took his shot. The cue ball spun across the table, hit first a white and a red, sent them ricocheting into opposite pockets, then shot back to bank left, caromed off one more white, and pocketed the final red.

  Carter hooted with delight. “You did it!”

  Joyful was still bent over the table. He cocked his head and looked up. “You’re sounding awfully happy for a man who just lost thirty coppers.”

  Barnaby’s grin stretched the width of his face. Joyful replied with one of his own.

  McDermott’s Oyster House was more bawdy house than tavern or fishmonger’s, but it lived up to its name in that there were plenty of oysters in evidence, and no officious city inspectors hanging about to say August, a month without an r, was the wrong time of year to be selling them.

  Two young blacks stood at a wooden table by the front door, dancing in place and keeping up a steady stream of talk while they pried apart the nearly smooth shells of the Long Island blue points as fast as the customers could toss them down their throats. “Come along, gents,” the patter went, “shuck ’em, huck ’em, swallow ’em down. A penny for four. Best in town.”

  “Best place to come for oysters this time of year,” Joyful said, choosing a particularly fat and succulent example. He bent his head back and tipped the shivering creature into his mouth. It was grand. Briny and rich and clean-tasting, with no hint of spoil. “Got these today, did you?” he asked the nigra lad nearest to hand.

  “Yes sir. Not more’n two hours past. Shuck ’em, huck ’em, swallow ’em down, gents. You got three more coming, sir.” The boy’s feet shuffled a lively rhythm on the sawdust-covered floor. “Penny for four. Best in town.”

  Joyful put his coin on the table and picked up a second oyster, nodding to Barnaby to claim the other two. They made their way across the room to where a woman tended a row of tapped kegs, dispensing pewter tankards of dark beer with a dense, creamy head. “The beer’s as good as I’ve tasted anywhere, as well,” Barnaby said.

  “Fresh oysters and good beer. Is that why you wanted to come all the way over to Canvastown?”

  “McDermott’s table always gave us a good game.” Barnaby was staring into his beer, not looking at Joyful. “And it’s where we played that last time, before you went off to war.”

  The night he’d met Delight. Barnaby had probably forgotten all about that incident. “So you figured it was the right place to come for the start of a new era?”

  The other man’s head shot up. “What do you mean? What kind of a new era?”

  “My hand, Barnaby. That’s all.” Joyful held up the glove. “What did you think I meant?”

  Carter looked around before he answered. No one was paying them any mind. “Joyful, this place…You think it’s true about your father?”

  “Depends. W
hich particular truth did you have in mind?”

  “That rumor says he set the fire back in ’76. When Washington and his troops had to withdraw and let the redcoats occupy the town.”

  “I’m not sure. He never talked about the Revolution, not the war. But if he did light that blaze, it was on Washington’s orders.”

  “Yes. A true patriot, Morgan Turner.”

  “I think so. Barnaby, what’s this all about? Not billiards and oysters, is it?”

  Carter tipped his head back and downed the last of his beer. “Not here. Come outside.”

  Half an hour later the shay turned onto Greenwich Street, the old horse knowing her way and Carter needing to keep only a loose hold on the reins, though he still had to keep his eye on the road. Joyful was glad of that, glad Barnaby hadn’t watched his reactions to the tale, a confirmation of everything he’d already suspected. “Barnaby, you’re sure they were talking about secession? Planning a conference to ratify it?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I couldn’t hear everything. Joyful, it’s worth my livelihood if Gornt Blakeman finds out I’ve said anything. I can’t exist without his business. You know that.”

  “Of course I do. You know I’ll keep your confidence. But I need to ask two more questions. First, why did you tell me?”

  “Everyone’s talking about how you’ve been spending a lot of time at the docks. The fellows say you’re setting yourself up to go into the China trade. Makes sense, seeing as how you were raised there. But if it’s true, after what’s happened this week, it’s Gornt Blakeman will be your main competition. I figured you’d want to know.”

  Not just that, Joyful thought. It’s because you’re uncomfortable with the notion of what he’s doing. That’s why you were asking about my father—measuring yourself against Morgan Turner, and measuring me as well, if it comes to that. I’ve no doubt you’re faithfully reporting what’s being said among all the mechanics at Tammany Hall, and that’s what counts. “That brings me to my second question. What about the others, like yourself—craftsmen, small-business owners, the ones you say Blakeman’s enlisted in his scheme? Are they all convinced it’s the right thing to do, get out now and the devil take the union of the states?”

  “Hard to say. It’s attractive, of course. This war’s been devilish hard on mechanics; we’re the ones have suffered the most. The rich, men like Jacob Astor, they can wait it out. The poor are poor no matter who—What is it?”

  Joyful had grabbed his arm. “Hold up,” he said softly, straining to see into the deceptive shadows of the early evening. “I’ll get out here and…No, better still, drive me right to the door.”

  Carter obliged, still not knowing what it was Joyful had seen, or thought he’d seen. They pulled up in front of Ma Allard’s door, and Joyful claimed his cue stick from the corner of the shay and jumped down from the rig. “Goodnight, Barnaby. A fine game,” he said, speaking at the top of his voice and elaborately tipping his hat. “My compliments, sir. You offer more competition when I’ve only one hand. We must do it again soon.”

  Carter leaned down, spoke softly. “Joyful, you really mean me to leave?”

  “Absolutely old friend,” he said, matching the quiet of the other man’s tone. “And Barnaby, don’t worry. You did the right thing by telling me. And I’ll keep your confidence.”

  Carter nodded, clucked to the horse, and the shay moved off. Joyful tucked his stick under his arm and made a great point of fumbling for his key, whistling softly under his breath all the while.

  “Dr. Turner.”

  “Aye. Who wants me?” He didn’t need to turn around. He’d spotted Clifford’s distinctive barrel build from forty feet, despite the fact that the whipper was huddling in a doorway across the road.

  “It’s me.” The whipper came to stand beside him. “Vinegar Clifford,” he said loudly. “Your patient, what’s come to see you on a medical matter.”

  They were, it seemed, both talking for the benefit of whoever might be lurking in the shadows of the summer dusk. Dangerous times. And Gornt Blakeman at the center of them, a spider spinning an even larger web than Joyful had imagined.

  “Come inside then, Vinegar Clifford, and we’ll see if this one-handed surgeon can cut away what ails you.”

  “No cutting. I told you before, I ain’t going to let you take a knife to me private parts.”

  They were in Joyful’s room, he had his bag open and a scalpel in hand. “That’s easy to say, Mr. Clifford. But I gave you a week’s supply of medicine yesterday, and here you are looking for more.” Got a taste for laudanum, Vinegar have you? Why not? The pure thing’s a sight better than anything you can buy in the town. If he’s still following Clare’s old recipe, even Jonathan’s three-penny elixir is only sixty percent laudanum and forty percent water. The stuff in that brown bottle I gave you was one hundred percent pure. “Did you take it all in one dose or two?”

  The whipper shuffled from one foot to the other. “Neither,” then, sheepishly, “Three, I think. It hurts terrible bad. Need to piss again right now, I do, Dr. Turner. Without the brown stuff, I can’t see how I’ll manage.”

  “With considerable pain,” Joyful said. “As you did before. Very well,” he stretched out a foot and hooked a chamber pot from under the bed, nudging it in Vinegar’s direction. “Get your prick out and let’s see if the condition is the same.”

  “Now?” The whipper was still eyeing the scalpel.

  “Of course now. Not ashamed of your equipment, are you, Mr. Clifford? Perhaps your cock’s not as intimidating as your whip.”

  “Course I ain’t shamed. You saw me yesterday, didn’t you? You know I’ve plenty of meat in me britches. Besides, you’re a medical man. Not supposed to make judgments about that sort o’ thing.” He had loosed his buttons while he spoke. Now he gingerly withdrew himself, putting the whip under his arm so he could use both hands.

  Joyful pushed the chamber pot closer. “Go on. Have at it, Mr. Clifford. I need to see your stream before I can be sure your condition warrants more treatment.”

  Clifford gritted his teeth, hunched over the pot, and produced a small trickle of urine, then groaned and stopped. “Holy Jesus in heaven, I can’t. Not without the medicine. The pain’s something fierce.”

  Joyful took a bottle of laudanum from his bag. “This will make it easier, won’t it? You know that for sure now.”

  “I do, Doctor Turner. And I’ll not forget your kindness in—”

  Clifford reached for the laudanum and Joyful snatched it away. “Not so fast, Mr. Clifford. Payment is required.”

  The whipper pulled up straighter, a touch of the old cockiness in his glance, still willing to try and strike a bargain. “What about the yellow powder? The stuff as will stop me cock falling off.”

  “Used all of that as well, have you?” Joyful fished in his bag for his last green bottle of tansy powder. Years before, Andrew had discovered a woman up in Yonkers in West Chester whom he swore was the finest simpler in the land. The day Joyful took his medical degree, Andrew had driven the younger man to her farm and introduced them. Like his cousin, Joyful had been getting his medicaments from Yonkers ever since. Half a day’s journey there and back, and God knew how he’d find the time at the moment. Still, it was worth it. The whipper might play the innocent, but he’d not have come here without something to trade. “You’ve been greedy, Mr. Clifford. That’s why you need more medicine so soon.”

  “Sooner I can get well the better,” the whipper muttered. “Can’t say different to that, can ye? It’s plain common sense.”

  “A sprinkling on your tongue morning and night, the dose I prescribed, will do the job. But you need to take it for more than a single day. A week at least.” Like one of those pleasure garden acts, always give them a reason to come back. “So what have you brought with you to make the purchase?”

  Joyful held the two bottles in plain sight. Meanwhile the whipper’s need to answer the call of nature overcame his fear of the pain. He bent forward,
and a few more drops of urine dripped into the pot. “Jesus,” he muttered, his face red and scrunched with pain, sweat beading on his forehead. “Blakeman’s been meeting with someone.”

  As he suspected. Though it was no more than he’d already had from Barnaby Carter, it was confirmation. “Meeting with whom? When and where?”

  “Last night,” Clifford said. “Late it was. And he only took me with him part o’ the way.”

  Christ. The meeting Barnaby was reporting on had taken place earlier that day. “Last night? What was Blakeman doing today?”

  “Don’t know nothin’ about today. He went out and left me at the countinghouse. Only took me with him yesterday cause by the time he went out it was late and dark. Just part of the way, like I said.”

  “Part of the way to where, Mr. Clifford?” Joyful pulled the cork on the bottle of laudanum and poured some of the viscous brown liquid into his dosing spoon.

  “Over in Brooklyn Village. We took the ferry, than hiked up the coast a bit. After that he left me to wait in a tavern. Came back near an hour later and we came home.”

  “Up the coast exactly where?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “What was the name of the tavern?”

  “The Buxom Wench,” Clifford said. “Please…I can’t hold back much longer.”

  Joyful’s oath demanded that he do no harm, and those were real tears streaming down the whipper’s cheeks. But how many of his victims had wept and shrieked with pain when Clifford added a splash of vinegar to the misery of flogging? Joyful felt no pang of conscience about the delay when he leaned forward and tipped the dose of laudanum into his patient’s open mouth.

  Lower Marlboro, Maryland, 8 P.M.

  It was still stinking hot. Even now when the sun was almost below the horizon, the pair of them were itching and sweating.

  Astor’s agent wore a townsman’s woolen cutaway and trousers. “Heat’s damnable,” he said, jerking his head toward the column of redcoats they were tracking, “but worse for the likes of them.”