City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  “My ship,” Tintin leaned in close enough so she could smell his foul breath. “As you say. And I remind you no one knows where you are. So for tonight we do what I choose, non? It is better to smile politely and speak softly, garçon. Much better.”

  He turned, and Eugenie, knowing she had no choice, dutifully followed him.

  The deck was a shambles of half-coiled lines, and stacked boxes and chests, and empty bottles that rolled treacherously close to her feet in the clumsy boots. The pirate who had lowered the ladder followed her, and she spotted a few others at various places on the deck. One, sprawled a little distance away, wasn’t dressed like the rest. He wore regular seaman’s clothes, checked shirt and oiled breeches, and in another setting she’d have thought him an ordinary tar.

  The sailor was apparently convinced by her disguise. “Brung another recruit, have ye?” he called out. When no one answered, he began to whistle. Eugenie knew the tune. Timothy had sung it whenever he was in particularly high spirits. Once was a man with a double chin who played with skill on the violin…played in time and played in tune…wouldn’t play nothin’ but “Old Zip Coon.”

  She continued picking her way across the deck. At one point she stumbled and almost fell, and the second pirate grabbed her from behind. He used the opportunity to put both hands on her breasts. Eugenie gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. That she had bound her paps tight to her with a linen bandage somehow made his touch less an affront.

  Tintin descended another ladder, this one of wood. Eugenie summoned her courage and went after him. The second pirate came behind her. Belowdecks the passage was so narrow they had to walk in single file, Eugenie between the two men. Somehow they contrived to repeatedly bump their bodies against hers front and back. Her face burned with rage and shame, but she pretended not to notice and said nothing.

  “My quarters,” Tintin said, throwing open a door. The cabin into which he showed her was small and cramped, and as filthy as everything else she had seen on this wolverine from hell. She’d heard that pirates lived like kings, surrounded with gold and jewels. With this lot at least, it appeared not to be true.

  “Sit down, Madame Eugenie. You may take off that ridiculous hat. Here we are quite safe.”

  “I will keep the hat on, thank you.” She had pulled her dark hair back from her face, forcing every curl into compliance, and pinned the lot into a bun on the top of her head. If she removed the stovepipe, it might all tumble free.

  “Suit yourself. You will drink something? A refreshment is called for after a journey such as brought us here. Sadly, I can offer you only rum. My stores do not run to Madeira or Malmsey.”

  “I wish nothing, thank you. Only my money.”

  “Oui, your money. I almost forgot.”

  “Rest assured, Monsieur Tintin, I did not.” He had wanted her to wait until they had captured all six of the slaves for which they had papers. Perhaps even longer. If she waited until the business was well and truly concluded, he told her, her share of the profit would be greater.

  “You must think me mad or a fool, monsieur,” had been her answer. “This sale you speak of, where is it to take place?”

  “South of here. Where I have many allies and such sales are held frequently. Where it is both protected and profitable.”

  “I believe you speak of Barataria Bay, Monsieur Tintin. It is south of here as you say. Many miles distant, is it not? Near New Orleans?”

  “I do not speak of it, madame. You do. It is unwise to be so forthcoming. On occasion, even the walls have ears.”

  They had been in Eugenie’s boudoir at the time. “I do not fear my walls,” she’d told him. “But I very much fear this distant sale you are suggesting. I will not under any circumstances give you the other papers the magistrate has signed, those for the five additional runaways, unless I am first paid for the one you say you have captured. That was our arrangement, Monsieur Tintin. It is the only one I will honor.”

  Eventually, he agreed, but said she must come to the ship and claim what was hers. “Le Carcajou, madame, that is where the money is to be found.” The disguise had been Tintin’s suggestion when she first objected to the excursion. In the end, Tintin having insisted that the plan was impossibly dangerous without it, Eugenie was forced to get herself up in the ridiculous outfit. Dear God, she would give anything for her own clothes. Somehow nothing of what was happening would feel so terrifying if she were not dressed as she was.

  Tintin drank two shots of straight rum in quick succession. Eugenie, who had declined as well his offer of a chair, stood watching him. When his thirst was satisfied, Tintin leaned back in his chair, reached into the pocket of his green-velvet coat, and withdrew a small moneybag. “Your share, Madame Eugenie. One hundred dollars in good coin. You may count it if you wish, but I assure you it is all there.”

  “Oh!” She hated herself for admitting to her surprise, but she could not suppress the gasp. “You had it on your person all the time.”

  Tintin smiled and shrugged.

  “But why did you make me come here in that case? What earthly reason was there to—It will not be in your best interests,” she whispered as the only reason she could imagine for this trickery became a vivid scene in her mind. “I cannot fight you and win, I know that. But there are five more sets of documents and—”

  “You fancy yourself entirely too much, Eugenie Fischer. You are a desirable woman, oui, but there are many others. Compose yourself, madame, I prefer to use you for things other than fucking.”

  The shock of the casual insult was more profound than the admission that he’d lied about the money. Her heart pounded and her palms were sweaty. “How dare you speak to—”

  “I dare whatever I choose. Because”—he got up while he spoke and went to the door—“you are now as much a part of this scheme as I am. That is why I have brought you here, Madame Eugenie, to show you exactly what that means. When you understand, then I will take you home. And your cunny will be as dry and as empty as it is right now.” He yanked open the door and shouted, “Bring the prisoner,” then he returned to his chair. “It will not take long, but I suggest you will be more comfortable seated then standing.” And when she didn’t answer, but also didn’t move, “Eh bien, suit yourself, madame. Only be aware,” he said chuckling, “that if you decide to faint we may have to undress you to bring you back to yourself.”

  The door opened. The second pirate shoved a naked black man into the cabin ahead of him.

  Eugenie turned her head away. “No,” Tintin said softly. “Take a good look. I must insist.”

  She heard the menace in his tone. I can do this, she reminded herself. I must do this.

  Not a man, a boy, ten or eleven perhaps. His entire body was bruised and welted; some of the cuts were still bleeding—others had started to scab over. One eye was swollen shut, the other open and staring at her. Eugenie pressed the back of her hand to her lips to keep from crying out.

  “So,” Tintin said, turning to the youth, “now, please tell me your name.”

  “Josh—”

  The second pirate held up his hand. Eugenie saw the cat-o’-nine-tails. So did the boy. “Want more, do ye?” the man asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Then tell ’em what your name is. Your real name. It’s not Joshua. That’s a white name. That’s not a runaway slave name. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Pompey,” the boy whispered. “My name be Pompey.”

  “And you runned away from yer lawful owner, didn’t ye? Went into hiding up there in Five Points where we found ye, ain’t that so?”

  The boy who had claimed his name was Joshua until the cat taught him otherwise nodded his head.

  “Not good enough, you little bastard. Speak when yer spoken to!” The cat lashed out viciously and opened yet another wound on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Yes. Yes, I be a runaway slave.”

  Tintin nodded. “Excellent, mon ami. You have done well with him. Now take hi
m away before we too much strain the sensibilities of our guest.”

  The pirate and the prisoner left. Tintin waited. Eugenie said nothing.

  “You understand now?” Tintin asked after a long minute of more silence. “It is important that you understand.”

  Eugenie nodded.

  “Non, ma petite, that is not sufficient. As with our Pompey, I wish to hear you say it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent. You and I, Madame Eugenie, we do not play a game for the fainthearted. I brought you here to demonstrate that. Now, I will take you home.” Tintin stood up. He still had hold of the moneybag. He crossed to where Eugenie stood, and gave it to her. “I suggest you put it down the front of your trowsers, Madame. Then you will have a bulge where it belongs.” His laughter went ahead of her as he led the way to the deck.

  “You cannot leave me here. It is still some distance to my house.”

  Tintin had rowed her across the harbor to Manhattan, to the Old Slip at the southern tip of the city. The moon had set and the blackness was relieved only by splashes of yellow light that came from the waterside bawdy houses and grog shops. It was after two. Respectable taverns had long since shuttered their windows and doors, but down here the watch ignored the regulations concerning closing times. This stretch of the waterfront was a lawless area that belonged to tars and thieves, and the ladies of the night who traveled with them.

  Tintin had left Eugenie to clamber up on the dock herself, giving him the opportunity to once more put his hands on her backside and push her up from behind. Now he kept the boat into the shore by hanging on to an iron bolt set in the stone wall of the dock. “I regret, madame, I cannot accompany you further. An area such as this…Mon Dieu! How could I leave my little craft unattended in such a dangerous place?”

  “You are a coward as well as a cad, monsieur. Otherwise you would not choose to exercise your power over a mere woman.”

  “And if you were the garçon you are dressed to be, I would cut off your cock and put it in your mouth. But since you have none…Adieu, Madame Eugenie. If you go quickly, I am sure you will arrive home unmolested.” He picked up an oar and seemed ready to leave, but lingered a moment longer. “Ah, yes, I almost forgot…There is a woman in the town. She runs a gambling establishment called the Dancing Knave and goes by the name Delight Higgins. She is always very fashionably dressed. I wish to know the name of her mantua maker. I am sure it is information you can find out for me.”

  “Very well, but please, if you would only accompany me as far as…”

  Tintin pushed off and Eugenie allowed the plea to trail away.

  Dear God! How was she to get home? Chatham Street was at least a mile away, and she had no knowledge of this area of the city. Damn you to hell, Tintin. Damn you to everlasting fire. Oh, why bother? If the preachers were correct, that’s where he was going, and probably herself as well. But she had no time just now to worry about what might await her in the afterlife, and cursing the pirate would not get her away from the waterfront and back to the civilized neighborhoods she knew. Not that they would be entirely safe at this hour. What would a watchman think if he spotted a lad walking the darkened streets of the city alone at this time of night? That he was up to no good, of course. And would her disguise bear a close look? Highly unlikely. And how, if it were discovered, would she explain a moneybag stuffed with coins? Damn you, Tintin! Damn you!

  The shadows were thick at the edge of the quay. It was a place of reasonable safety, but she must cross the road and somehow get by the doors of the string of drinking establishments and head north. Wall Street was in that direction, she was fairly sure. Once she crossed it, she’d know her way.

  The wretched boots were her worst enemy. They slid off her feet with every step and clattered and clicked on the cobbles. Eugenie slipped her feet out of them and out of Timothy’s silken hose as well. For a moment she considered stringing the boots around her neck by the laces as she’d seen boys do in summer. No, that would only be one more burden when she must be as free as possible. She knelt down and allowed the boots and the hose to slide into the river. Then, barefoot and trying to ignore the discomfort of the pebbles and gravel of the road, she moved out of the shadows into the light of the wanton world of the waterfront.

  For a time luck was with her. Eugenie cleared Front Street without attracting any attention. Dock Street next, at least that’s what she thought it was called. Dear heaven, it was speckled with as much light as the area closer to the wharf. The sound of raucous singing and loud laughter rolled toward her. Eugenie paused and looked around. An alley, dark as pitch. She turned into the blackness, stretching one hand to her side to guide her through the narrow passage. If she could just…

  “Hello! What have we here?”

  The door to the grog shop had been closed. She hadn’t known it was there until it opened and the two men came out, allowing light and noise to tumble into the alley.

  “Nice bit o’ young stuff, that’s what we have.”

  “Oh my, yes! Bit of a nob as well. Wager you bend over nicely, dearie boy.” The man who spoke allowed the door to the groggery to close behind him, and they were once more in darkness. “Wager your arse is tight as a bunghole. Two coppers for both of us. What do you say?”

  Eugenie pushed past them, walking as fast as she could.

  “Here, that’s not very friendly. What you want to run away for? Three coppers then. Can’t say we’re not bein’ fair, dearie boy. Could just take what we want, ’stead we’re offerin’ to pay for it.”

  They were keeping pace with her, but the end of the passage was just a few steps away, and the street she could see up ahead appeared to be lit by proper city oil lamps, not the glow of illicit nightlife. She hurried toward it.

  One of the men put out a hand to stop her. Eugenie pulled away and ran. Her hat fell off, and some of her hair came loose. No matter. She must get to the light.

  “Hold up,” she heard the second man say. “Let him go. No point in chasing him.”

  “Plenty o’ point. I want to roll down those trousers and see if what’s underneath looks as good bare as it does covered.”

  The footsteps behind her speeded up, but the men’s disagreement had given her two or three moments’ advantage. She was in the adjoining road, a short curved street with countinghouses and—Oh! She was on Hanover Street. And the sign illuminated by the nearest lamp said BLAKEMAN COACHING. Eugenie threw herself at the door and banged on it with both fists.

  The door opened instantly. She was looking at the biggest man she’d ever seen, clothed entirely in black and holding a long, uncoiled bullwhip. Nonetheless, Eugenie found him less fearsome than what she’d just escaped. “Mr. Blakeman…” She could hardly speak for gasping. “Please…I must…Mr. Blakeman.”

  The whipper looked not at her but over her shoulder. The pair of creatures who had been coming after the supplicant in the doorway paused, saw what waited for them at the countinghouse, and retreated into the alley.

  “Mr. Blakeman,” Eugenie repeated, her words a little clearer now. “I am a friend of his. Please, you must let me in.”

  “The lady is indeed my friend,” a voice said from the shadows. “You may let her in, Mr. Clifford.”

  “Gornt! I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”

  “I share the sentiment, my dear Eugenie, but…Dear God, let me get a look at you.”

  “I can explain…It’s an extraordinary story, but—”

  “Extraordinary it must surely be. Mr. Clifford, I take it there is no further disturbance outside to concern us?”

  “Not now, Mr. Blakeman. ’Twas a couple o’ troublemakers from Buggers’ Alley as was chasing the boy—chasing your friend. They’re gone.”

  “My friend is a lady in fancy dress, Mr. Clifford. Inadvertently separated from her party. Nothing so extraordinary in that. Come upstairs, my dear. I shall give you a glass of wine before taking you home.”

  “Fancy dress,” Eugenie sai
d when a few sips of Madeira had restored her. “It’s an excellent explanation, Gornt. Will it satisfy you?”

  “Not for one minute, my precious Eugenie. Though I must say, you look as luscious in cutaway and trousers as in any frock I’ve seen you wear. Your late husband’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. And I presume you had tucked your hair under a hat, a proper stovepipe no doubt, and that somehow you lost it when you tried to get away from the buggers.” He reached out and fondled one of the dark curls that now hung loose.

  “Exactly,” Eugenie said.

  “Whatever were you thinking, my dear?” One blunt finger outlined her lips.

  Eugenie flicked her tongue out and licked the exploring fingertip, so quickly Gornt almost wasn’t sure it had happened. “Gornt, you have never really told me your plans…”

  “Surely this night is not about my plans. Where have you been, my Eugenie? Do you, after all, have a taste for the louche and dangerous instead of the high society I’ve always thought you suited for? No, I think not. What then?”

  “If I told you the story involved pirates, would you believe me?”

  He laughed. “You? And pirates? Here? Of course I wouldn’t believe you.” Christ Almighty, some connection between Tintin and Eugenie. Now there was a circumstance that required investigation. Not, however, a task that must be performed tonight. “I think you are fibbing, my beauty, but I admit the idea excites me. As much as any time I’ve spent in your boudoir, trying to control the visions of your bedstead only a few steps away.”

  “Now it is your bedstead, Gornt. And it’s no more than two steps away.” The bed he’d apparently rolled out of when he heard the disturbance below was hung with heavy damask curtains. They had been pulled back because of the night’s warmth, and the rumpled bedclothes were plainly evident in the light of the lamp he’d lit when they came upstairs.

  “Close indeed,” he agreed. “Stand up and take off that cutaway, Eugenie. Let me see how you look in a man’s shirt and stock.” She was sitting in the very chair Jacob Astor had occupied a few hours earlier, and Bastard Devrey had left his rooms not two hours before she appeared. Sweet Christ. What a sauce for the meal he’d eaten earlier that evening. She still hadn’t moved. “Come, dear girl, it’s not much to ask. I’ve saved you from buggery after all.”