City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  The second man wore buckskins and a broad-brimmed hat, and carried a long rifle with brass fittings and a polished oak stock. He jerked his head to indicate the flotilla of British boats moving slowly up the Patuxent, flanking the army on its right, fully visible from the hill that was their lookout point. “Makes you think the navy’s a better berth, don’t it?” There had been only enough horses left at Benedict to allow the general officers and their staffs to ride. The rest of the redcoats in their heavy woolen uniforms with packs and weapons strapped to their backs were on foot, strung out across the countryside in a long double file, their boots tramping in perfect unison.

  “Navy’s better until you get a taste of the cat,” the first man said. He pulled back from the brow of the hill and consulted his notes. “I reckon we’ve covered some twenty miles. At least we will have by the time they get where they’ll have to stop for the night.”

  “And after that?”

  “Either the Federal District or Baltimore.”

  “You’re still not sure?”

  “Not yet.” The man in city clothes was a professional surveyor, but neither he nor his companion carried any maps. It would finish them to be caught with such evidence. Even the few scrawls the surveyor had made in his notebook as they traveled might have had them hung for spies. “We won’t know for sure until we’re at Upper Marlboro,” he said, consulting the map that existed in his mind. “That’s where the road divides. One direction for Baltimore, one for Washington.”

  “How long till they get there?”

  “A few hours’ march still. They won’t go the distance this night. They’ll have to make camp soon as it gets dark and start again in the morning.”

  “Could be they’ll have something else to contend with before that.” The man in buckskins was a marksman who knew he could pick off any number of redcoats before their inaccurate muskets found the range. He’d start with the officers. Soon as there was any kind of offense by the Americans, he’d join in and…Ah, Christ. He was whistling past the graveyard. They’d seen no evidence of any kind of defense. There were a few American gunboats nearby, but they were hiding. Too outnumbered to be any use. Bloody British navy probably knew where they were, and couldn’t be bothered doing anything about it. They had bigger fish to fry. “Could be we’ll send a welcoming party to greet them,” he insisted. Whistle louder, that’s the best thing.

  “Could be we will,” the first man agreed. “But given the way Madison’s generals have handled everything else so far, it’s not bloody likely.”

  New York City,

  The Dancing Knave, 11:30 P.M.

  There was a smell about the place at this hour. Joyful had noticed it before. It was the smell of money, of course. By now large sums had been won and lost. The losers stank of fear and disappointment, but they were overpowered by the musk of the winners. Like stud bulls they were, snorting, permanently erect, deciding which female they would have first.

  As soon as they’d had enough of the tables, the men drifted to the Ladies’ Parlor to examine their options. Some would sit with two or three of the girls for a time, enjoying their tinkling laughter, playing a game of cards perhaps, letting the girls each win a few pennies, then they’d make a selection and command their choice upstairs with nothing more than a look. Others were more direct, making a quick choice as soon as they entered the parlor, nodding peremptorily in a girl’s direction, knowing that here in this place at this moment, whoever he was, he was a king and his command was law.

  Or so Delight allowed them to believe.

  Joyful stood near the entrance to the Gaming Salon, dressed like a customer in a scarlet waistcoat and a striped cutaway. Delight had seen him come in and knew immediately that this was not a usual visit: the hawk always wore black in his aerie. She had avoided him ever since. Just as well. His business tonight was not with her.

  Gornt Blakeman was playing at cards with a man who had been a regular since the Knave opened. A trader, Geoffrey Colden, was one of the original Buttonwood signers; he also served on the Common Council. Colden sat facing the door to the entry hall, and he nodded when Joyful approached. “Good evening to you, Dr. Turner.”

  “And to you, sir. Mr. Blakeman,” Joyful said, acknowledging the other man.

  “Dr. Turner.” Blakeman kept his back to Joyful and continued to concentrate on his hand. “My trick,” he said, and swept two cards toward him, then laid down the king and queen of clubs, “and a common marriage to declare.” He moved one of the ivory counters used to keep score. “Do you play bezique, Dr. Turner?”—still not turning around.

  “I do, Mr. Blakeman. At sea there are long periods of nothing whatever to do. Every game gets a try.”

  “Perhaps you’ll play in my place then, Dr. Turner?” Colden laid down his hand. “I see the young woman I’ve been waiting for.”

  A buxom dark-haired girl had descended the stairs from the bedroom floor and gone into the Ladies’ Parlor, signifying she was again available. Her name was Rosa Maria, and Delight had told Joyful in detail of her special skills—a Portuguese, incredibly strong, squeezes the life out of them—and how many of the men would have no one else.

  The trader got up and hurried away. Joyful went round and took his seat. “With your permission, Mr. Blakeman.”

  “Delighted, Dr. Turner.” Then, smiling now that they were facing each other: “Delight, that’s the most important word hereabouts, isn’t it?”

  “Wise men all recognize it as such.”

  It was Joyful’s turn to deal. He could see Blakeman watching him, wondering how he was going to manage with one hand, not doing anything that might make the task easier. “Adaptive creatures, humans,” Joyful said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that as well.”

  “Not being a man of science like yourself, I might have missed some of the manifestations, Dr. Turner.”

  “Joyful, please. Gentlemen should be on friendly terms when they wager.”

  Blakeman leaned back, tilting his chair so it was supported only on the two rear legs. “Frankly, I prefer to gamble when the odds are high enough to tempt me.”

  Joyful didn’t answer, only gathered the cards in front of him: a double piquet deck, sixty-four cards, the usual four suits, but with everything from two to six removed. He used the glove as a stop, building the stack of cards against it, then cut the deck and deftly shuffled the second half into the first, then did it again. And a third time. Then he pushed the cards toward Blakeman to be cut yet again.

  “Cleverly done,” Blakeman said. “Apparently, surgery is excellent training in dexterity.”

  “In many things. About those odds…Will you agree to a dollar a point, Gornt?” He’d not been invited to use Blakeman’s Christian name. Pushing the proprieties, but not too far, because he had first offered the familiarity with regard to himself.

  “A rich wager—Joyful.” There was only a slight hesitation before Blakeman used his name. “I accept. In fact, let’s make it two dollars a point.” Blakeman took a stack of guineas from his pocket and laid them on the table. The coins were silver, winking softly in the subdued light of the salon. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Joyful placed his own stake on the table. His coins were reichsthalers, gold ducats, the currency of the Holy Roman Empire. Much rarer than British guineas and considerably more valuable. There was no change in Blakeman’s expression, but a certain hardness came into his eyes.

  Joyful dealt three cards to his opponent and the same to himself, then two each, then three again—eight cards per hand. He turned over the seventeenth card, the one that determined which suit would be trump. It was the ace of diamonds. He set it beside the remainder of the deck, the stock, never taking his eyes from Blakeman, but seeing no reaction. If diamonds being the trump suit meant anything, the other man hid it well. They picked up their hands, Joyful fanning his awkwardly, almost dropping them. Blakeman smirked, but recovered quickly and made his face impassive. He played the first card. “Knave of hearts,” he sai
d softly. “The dancing knave.”

  “In that case the trick belongs to me.” Joyful let a glimmer of a smile show. He had to lay his hand facedown on the table to select the card he wanted, the one that would claim the trick. In bezique there was no requirement to follow suit in this early part of the game; face value was all that mattered. He played the king of spades and used the glove to nudge the pair of cards to his side of the table. “I declare as well a common marriage.” Joyful selected two more of the cards from his hand, a king and queen of clubs, laid them down, and took three from the stock. He’d drawn two more queens and a ten. Every one a diamond. He now held five trump cards. He looked up, his face showing nothing. “Your play, Gornt.”

  Blakeman took his stock card. Joyful watched him as if he were seeing him from somewhere far distant and at the same time very close, as if he were operating and all the intricacies of the surgery, every step he must take and each thing he must accomplish, was writ large before his eyes. The game, the night, whatever he wanted, it was all his. Tonight it was his joss to win. He knew it deep in his gut, but knew too this was a battle only, not the war.

  Thirty minutes later there were three times as many ivory counters on Joyful’s side of the table as on Blakeman’s. A crowd had gathered round them, the players in the gaming salon knowing both men at least by sight, knowing the talk of the past few days, sensing that more than cards was being played, and considerably more was at stake than money. One of the Knave’s new chuckers-out, Preservation Shay, was nearby, keeping watch in case a tense game led to trouble. Being from Five Points, Preservation Shay would have imbibed the ability to sniff out a potential fight with his mother’s milk.

  Blakeman took his third trick of the hand in play and claimed the right to make a declaration. “Double common marriage for twenty points,” he said, laying down the two kings and the two queens of clubs. He took the appropriate counters. “Shall we double the wager?”

  Out of the corner of his eye Joyful picked up another onlooker, come from the far side of the room to stand behind Blakeman: Vinegar Clifford, carrying his whip and in working dress. He hated him, Joyful knew, precisely because he needed him. Because if there was trouble, Clifford would be required to act for his employer, and against his desperate self-interest. Not to worry, whipper. There’s to be no trouble. Not tonight. This is only first blood, neither of us wanting to show too much or cut too deep.

  Blakeman was still waiting for Joyful’s reply to the suggestion of higher odds, both of them knowing the money meant nothing. “Agreed,” Joyful said.

  Delight had joined the crowd around the table, standing exactly midway between the two men. Blakeman took the next two tricks. Then Joyful trumped the king of spades with the seven of diamonds and said quietly, “I declare a double bezique.” His cards were spread facedown in front of him, and without looking he selected four and turned them over. Two queens of spades and two knaves of diamonds. Five hundred points. The highest possible single score.

  Blakeman pushed his remaining coins to Joyful’s side of the table, then drew a handful more from his pocket and flipped them onto the pile in front of his opponent. The coins in front of Joyful would support a laborer’s family for five years and it was, both men knew, only the tiniest part of what was at stake. Blakeman stood up. “Congratulations, sir, you play better with one hand than most men do with two.”

  “In Canton they’d say it was my joss to win tonight. That the cards fell for me and skill had nothing to do with it.”

  “Would they? I’ll take your word for it, since I’ve never needed to go there in order to profit from the place. Goodnight to you, Joyful.”

  “And to you, Gornt.”

  Blakeman walked up the stairs toward the bedrooms, though he had not stopped by the Ladies’ Parlor to select a companion. Clifford followed his employer out of the Gaming Salon and took up a position at the foot of the stairs, clutching his whip and staring straight ahead.

  A couple of the other players indicated a willingness to take Blakeman’s place at the bezique table, but Joyful gathered his winnings and stood up. “Another evening, perhaps, gentlemen. Thank you.” He headed for the front door. Delight appeared at his elbow, smiling, and offered him an oversized goblet, the bottom filled with brandy, the dark brown-gold color attesting to age and quality. “The house offers its congratulations and claims its portion, Dr. Turner.”

  God, but she was magnificent. She wore a purple gown, caught with a pink satin ribbon below her incredible breasts, the dress made of cloth so fine her honey-colored skin showed beneath it, and cut in the latest fashion so it skimmed her body and emphasized every lush curve. Joyful felt the sap rise in him; the smell of her and the smell of money and success blending into a heady perfume that was almost overwhelming. He took the brandy and tossed it back in one large swallow, welcoming the fire that chased from his throat to his belly, feeling every part of him aflame, and knowing that it would take nothing more than a nod of his head, for her to take his arm and accompany him up the stairs with everyone watching. The one woman in the place who was not for sale.

  He would have gone with one of the whores without a second thought, happy to be able to satisfy the natural hunger the evening had raised in him. Because it was Delight, because of everything that had gone before, he knew that if he did it would be a betrayal of Manon that would haunt him forever.

  Delight took the empty goblet from his hand. Joyful produced a handful of the golden reichsthalers. “The house share,” he said, seeing the question in her eyes, wanting to be kind, knowing there was no way she wouldn’t take his rejection as a public insult, but incapable of doing anything else. “It’s late and I’m tired,” he said softly. “Good night.”

  Delight turned and headed for the stairs, following where Gornt Blakeman had led.

  Monday, August 22, 1814

  Chapter Fourteen

  New York City,

  The Dancing Knave, Soon After Midnight

  DELIGHT’S WHOLE BODY ached. Blakeman had used her hard, but she’d want it no other way. Tenderness was no part of what she felt for Gornt Blakeman, or any man, come to that. Not now, and not ever again.

  She went downstairs, thinking since it was already Monday morning the crowd might have thinned, but the doors to most of the second-floor bedrooms were shut when she passed (indicating they were in use). There were as well still a goodly number of players in the Gaming Salon, and more coming from the look of it. Preservation Shay was in some kind of altercation at the front door.

  Delight started for him, saw who it was who wanted entry, and paused by the Ladies’ Parlor. The two other chuckers-out were both there, amusing themselves playing games with the ladies. She summoned them to her. “Stay here where you can see me. Come if I call you.” Then she went to the door.

  “It’s all right, Preservation. I will deal with this.” She turned to the man who was insisting on being admitted: “You are not yourself, Captain O’Toole. Come in if you like, but perhaps it’s better if you rest upstairs for a time. I’m sure I can find a lady to keep you company until you feel better. Which do you prefer, yellow curls or brown?”

  “Neither.” O’Toole pushed past her, heading for the Gaming Salon. The two lads responded to Delight’s gesture and stepped into his path. “Got plenty o’ coin,” O’Toole said. “More’n enough.” His words were slurred and his gait unsteady, but his grip on the moneybag he was waving under their noses was firm enough.

  “I’m sure you do,” Delight said. “But here at the Dancing Knave gentlemen who are feeling the effects of their tipple are asked to wait until they come to themselves before they chance their luck.” Drunks caused nothing but grief at the gaming tables, and Irish drunks were the worst of all. “Where do you choose to wait, Captain O’Toole? Upstairs in one of our comfortable rooms? Or somewhere off the premises?”

  Preservation Shay took a step closer. She made a small motion that held him off for the moment, and waited for an answer from the Ir
ishman. O’Toole said nothing, just turned and stumbled toward the front door. Very well, she’d given him a choice and he’d made it. Just as well, perhaps. “Please come back and see us soon, Captain. When you are more yourself.”

  She watched O’Toole stagger into the street, then shut the door. There was a chuckle behind her; Delight turned and saw the pirate Tintin standing at the foot of the stairs, laughing. “Too drunk to know what he’s missing,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the upstairs rooms. “Two of your ladies are available for the price of one this evening, or so the bearded hag told me. I chose a red hair and a yellow. It was fine sport, though I admit”—his glance raked her from head to toe—“I have a taste for the dark meat of the bird.”

  “I’m glad we were able to please you, Monsieur Tintin.” Anything as long as it kept him away from her. The last two times Tintin was at the club he had shadowed her every move, always looking at her in that same insolent way. It didn’t matter, Delight reminded herself; customers always thought she was simply a more expensive version of one of her ladies. She didn’t care what they thought, as long as they left their money behind. And she had Slyly Silas’s papers now, the next best thing to actually being listed on the roster of free blacks. “If you will excuse me. I am a bit unwell this evening. The gaming tables are still busy. I’m sure they will amuse you almost as much as the two ladies did.”

  Tintin stood between Delight and the stairs. He did not move aside. “Shall I tell you what would really amuse me?”

  His eyes told her what he had in mind. Delight forced herself not to let her rage or her disgust show. “I can guess, monsieur,” she said quietly. “But tonight it is not to be.” She nodded toward the chucker-out, still shadowing her every move. “This is Preservation Shay. I keep him always at my side. A wise precaution, don’t you think?”