Delight moved toward the door, careful not to brush against him. “I hope your business goes well, Joyful. Now, I must see to mine.”
“Delight…”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
She shrugged. “It has always been a mutually satisfactory arrangement, hasn’t it, Joyful?”
“Indeed. But more than merely satisfactory.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I always try to give full value for money. Now, you must excuse me.”
“I didn’t mean…”
He watched her go, her back rigid, her head high. Guilt was a foul taste in his mouth, and he slammed the office door behind him and strode through the hall looking neither to the right nor to the left. Preservation Shay saw him coming and pulled open the front door. Joyful went through it without a pause or a nod, not even for Bearded Agnes, who was hovering nearby looking as if she wanted to speak with him. The mare Mary Jane was tethered at the foot of the steps. He loosed her, then leapt onto her back and headed south, bent forward, giving the old horse her head and wishing mightily that she were a younger, more powerful animal, one that would give him a ride to cool his fires in a rush of wind.
Papa is determined I must marry, Manon had written. And I expect one suitor is as good as another, as long as he appears in a timely fashion.
Time he talked to the goldsmith. Hell, it was past time.
The New Gaol, 7:30 A.M.
It was not the usual way of things for the high constable himself to pass judgment on those caught in flagrante delicto during the previous night. For one thing, it was the job of a police justice, a new layer of officialdom in the system of controlling crime in the city, while the high constable was meant to sit at the pinnacle of that ever growing organization. For another, despite his reputation as a crime fighter, Jacob Hays disliked rising early. He was there that morning because there was no one else. Fear of a British invasion was intense. The mayor had ordered as many able-bodied men as were on the city’s payroll to fell trees and build barricades in the upper reaches of Manhattan.
Hays sat at the table on the dais behind the wooden bar that divided judge from accused in the room they called the Police Office. He tried not to let his heavy eyes close. The gaoler marched a man forward, the fourth prisoner and the last of the morning. “This here’s Patrick Aloysius Burney, High Constable. Or so he says.”
Irish. Hays wasn’t surprised. Two of the first three miscreants had been as well. Might be the city would be a Garden of Eden where the lamb would lie down with the lion if only the Irish had stayed in their own country. “What’s he done then?”
“Caught loitering near Maiden Lane. Close to midnight, it was.”
“And what’s he say he was doin’ there?”
“Won’t say.” The watchman who had made the arrest the night before jumped up from one of the benches in the rear of the room. Hays thought it odd that the fellow was hanging about the Police Office at this hour. Would have supposed he wanted his bed by now. “Would’t say last night, High Constable,” the man shouted, “and won’t say now.”
“I see. Thank ye for the information.”
“It’s not true.” Burney spoke in his own defense, since there was no one else to do it. “’Twas after taking a walk, I was. And—”
Hays struck the desk with the gavel. “Speak when you’re spoken to. Otherwise, I’ll have no doubt you’re guilty as charged.”
Burney shut his mouth, gritting his teeth to keep it shut. Holy Mother o’ God, wasn’t it just his luck to draw the man was said to be harder on crime than any other in the city. Looked like some sort o’ scrawny little bird sitting up there on his high perch. Hooked beak and all.
Some said Jacob Hays was a Protestant and others that he was a Hebrew, but didn’t matter whether he was a heretic or a Christ killer, he had the power o’ life and death over Patrick Aloysius Burney this day. Never mind that he’d done nothin’ except try to keep an eye on Joyful Turner the way he was paid to. And while it was true enough that New York had given up public whipping a few years before, and that nowadays they mostly only executed you for murder or theft from a church, treason was still a hanging crime. All Five Points was bubbling with talk. Were you with Mr. Madison and the Union or with Gornt Blakeman? Any mention o’ Blakeman might lead to a hangman’s noose, and Brigid Clare would be twice an orphan. Not that a prison sentence was much better. Who would look after his little girl if they sent him up the river to Newgate Prison in the village of Greenwich to do hard labor for a year or maybe two?
“The prisoner had this on his person as well, High Constable.” The watchman held up a small moneybag marked with a green cross.
“I never did! You’re a lyin’—” The denial burst out of Burney at the same time that there was a disturbance of some sort at the door in the rear of the room. Hays banged the gavel and shouted at the bailiff to maintain order, demanding to know what the trouble was.
“Some fellows want to come in, High Constable. I told ’em we was already in session, but—”
“This is a free country and it’s a public hearing,” Hays said. “Let ’em in.”
The watchman glanced back at the bailiff, then up front to the high constable’s raised perch. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, don’t you want to have done with this prisoner afore you—”
Jacob Hays had been doing police business twenty years. He knew there was no way to keep a force of nearly two hundred men entirely free of one sort of influence or another, but when the conniving was going on right under his nose, bloody cheek that was. Besides, he didn’t like seeing a man as was maybe innocent made the butt o’ the scheming to get a few pennies more than was in a copper’s regular pay packet. Even if the man was Irish. False witness was an offense against the Holy One, blessed be His Name. “Let ’em in,” he repeated.
“But—”
The gavel cracked again and the door was opened.
F. X. Gallagher didn’t make any effort to hide his profession. A vicious-looking cleaver hung from his belt, his trousers and his cutaway were both stained with blood, and the three men with him wore the leather aprons of their trade. But all four respectfully removed their hats and stood quietly in the back of the room.
Hays spent a few moments looking at them, trying to determine the connection between F.X. and Patrick Burney, but none came to mind in regard to this particular incident. The high constable turned his attention back to the prisoner. “As I recall, you was saying that the watchman here had made a mistake. That the moneybag with the green cross wasn’t yours?”
Patrick Burney saw danger in the front and possibly worse danger behind. Jesus Christ as his witness, he wasn’t afraid o’ any man alive, but he had the sense he’d become a cat’s-paw in something he didn’t understand, and that it involved men with a great deal more power than he had. And the real victim was likely to be his little girl, the saints have mercy on her. “I didn’t have that moneybag, Mr. Hays, sir.” His mouth was too dry to let words come easily. “Didn’t have any money at all. And that’s the truth.”
“No, it’s not,” the watchman insisted. “Three coppers I found inside.” He jiggled the bag so the coins clattered. “You can see for yourself, sir.”
“Mr. High Constable,” Gallagher called out, “I have vital information concerning the prisoner. May I speak?”
“Ah, Mr. F. X. Gallagher. I might have known you’d not have disturbed yourself so early in the morning if you didn’t have something to tell us. Speak, sir. We’re paying close attention.”
“The bag belongs to one of my associates, here. In a manner of speaking. He had found it not long before, and knowing that the green cross was sometimes associated with criminal activity, he intended to give it to the first watchman he saw. Then this poor fellow was apprehended and to tell the truth, my associate was frightened—at least four of your bravest and biggest watchmen were involved, Mr. High Constable—so this wretch dropped the bag and ran.” F.X. had his
hand on the shoulder of one of the leather-aprons during this speech, and the man kept nodding his head in agreement with what was said.
“Dropped it, did he, Mr. F. X. Gallagher? With the three coppers still inside?”
The leather-apron nodded again. “Absolutely,” F.X. said. “He’s a churchgoing man. Wouldn’t want no truck with money as might be stained with one sort o’ crime or another.”
Hays was leaning on his elbow and appeared to be trying hard to suppress a repeated series of yawns. “And Mr. Patrick Aloysius Burney, he’s nothing to do with the moneybag or anything else not entirely honest?”
“Nothing at all, Mr. Hays. In fact, if you wish, sir, I’d be pleased to have Mr. Burney bound over to me. I can use more help in my butcher shop, and I’m sure he’d be happy to learn a trade as would let him earn an honest living.”
Hays didn’t move his head, but the watchman and the bailiff were well within his view. Do ’em good to be smacked down a time or two, so’s whatever scheme they were using to earn a bit on the side didn’t get to be more important than the work they were supposed to be doing for Jacob Hays. He banged down the gavel. “Done, Mr. F. X. Gallagher. And you’re commended for being such a high-minded citizen o’ the city.”
“Don’t look so worried, friend Patrick. You weren’t relishing a stretch up the river on Amos Street, were you? The country air in the Village o’ Greenwich agrees with some, they tell me, but I don’t fancy it seems as pure when you’re bustin’ rocks in Newgate yard.”
“Air in Five Points is good enough for me. I have to get home, Mr. Gallagher, sir. Me little girl is—”
“I know, Patrick. Me and the boys here, we know all about your little Brigid Clare. Keep a close eye on her, we do. And far as I’m concerned, you could go back to her this very minute. Except there’s someone as wants to see you first.”
One of the leather-aprons had a tight hold on Burney’s arm and he steered him to the closed carriage parked a short distance away from the gaol’s door. Another opened the carriage door, and the pair of them shoved Burney inside. F. X. Gallagher climbed in behind him.
“Good morning, Mr. Burney.”
“Mr. Blakeman…Good morning to you, sir. I didn’t know you and—” Burney broke off, looking from Gallagher to Blakeman.
“Of course you didn’t know. Knowing is not what you’re about, Mr. Burney. You are about doing as you are told. Watching and reporting what you see back to me. Is that not so?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Blakeman. And sure it’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”
“No, Mr. Burney, not exactly. I, for instance, had to learn from one of the other watchmen about last night’s scuffle in Maiden Lane. Fortunately, he was among those who observed it. Otherwise, I might not have had that information in time to send Mr. Gallagher here to see that you were spared a spell in Newgate, leaving your poor little daughter completely alone. Unlikely she’d have been alive by the time you got out of prison, isn’t it, Mr. Burney? Or if she were, that you’d ever have seen her again.”
“That was me biggest fear, sir. Not for meself, the Blessed Mother bear witness. For me little girl.”
“Indeed. So you’d have been forced to tell them what you knew, wouldn’t you, Mr. Burney. Rather than be sent to prison, I mean.”
“Sure there’s nothing I could tell ’em, sir.”
“You’d have tried though, wouldn’t you, Mr. Burney? I was on Maiden Lane because Mr. Gornt Blakeman sent me there, and that’s what drew your watchman to within spitting distance of the very lady I’m supposed to be helping Mr. Blakeman to protect. Something like that, Mr. Burney? If you thought it might have kept you from spending long months at hard labor in the Village of Greenwich?”
“No, sir, I never—” Burney couldn’t stop himself from starting to shake, and his voice became hoarse with terror. “Mr. Blakeman, I swear it. I never told ’em nothing and I wouldn’t have done. Never! I swear.”
“We’re going to see to it that you remember that vow, Mr. Burney. Nothing too drastic, mind. You’re more use to me with both your arms and legs than you would be without. But you don’t particularly need the little finger of your left hand. Do your job, Mr. Gallagher.”
Gallagher took hold of Burney’s hand, yanked it up, and pressed it to the wooden wall of the carriage. He swung his cleaver before Burney had expelled the breath of his first scream.
The light wasn’t particularly good. Later F.X. told the others that was why he’d taken both the little finger and the one next to it. Turned them out of his pocket and threw them on the table to make the point.
The East River Docks, 10 A.M.
Whatever mischief Bastard and Peggety Jack had got up to yesterday had to be undone. Joyful retraced their route, but in reverse. The last yard they’d visited had been Walton’s just above Peck’s Slip; it was his first call.
Hiram Walton was a small man, long-nosed and narrow-jawed and with a squint in one eye. Looked like a ferret, but most said he was the finest shipwright in New York, though young Danny Parker was coming up close behind. “In the Revolution, weren’t you?” Joyful and Walton stood at the end of Rose’s Wharf, in full view of row upon row of naked masts, thrusting up from the ships the blockade had made prisoners.
“Aye. One o’ the few as is still alive and in one piece.”
“You were young when you served.”
“Turned ten the day after I marched off. A fifer, I was, with the General himself.”
“Washington believed in the Union,” Joyful said. “I’ve no doubt about that, have you?”
The shipwright turned wary. “The Union as it was when he was alive, aye.”
“Are you a married man, Mr. Walton?”
“I was. A widower these past thirteen years.”
“But while your wife was alive, was it always a peaceful union? One in which you both agreed on everything?”
“Mrs. Walton did as she was told. Not like the young women nowadays.”
The wrong tack apparently. “But do you not think—”
“Course, Mrs. Walton spoke her mind sometimes. Wouldn’t be natural otherwise. And we had a palaver or two in our years. I’ll tell you something.” The little man leaned in close and grinned, showing three teeth stained bright yellow from constantly sucking on a pipe, and stabbed at Joyful’s chest with a dirty finger. “Just between us men-folk, as it were. A woman who won’t tell you what she thinks ain’t worth havin’. Besides, ain’t never a time when bed’s better’n after a quarrel.” Walton stepped back, cocked his head, and fixed his caller with his one good eye. “And none o’ that’s what you came here to talk about, Joyful Turner. It’s Bastard Devrey’s on your mind.”
“In part,” Joyful admitted. “I’m not denying, I’ve a personal stake in all this.”
“Way I heard it, you’re going about saying you’re the owner o’ Devrey’s now.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But not Bastard’s manner o’ speaking. He says him and Gornt Blakeman together got scrip enough to squeeze you out.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, you’re honest. I’ll say that for you.”
“And if I prevail, Mr. Walton, what do you reckon I’ll have won?”
The ferret turned and spat on the bleached boards of the wharf. “Have yourself a parcel o’ debts. Till the British blockade’s lifted and China Princess gets here from Canton, and them ships out there is all under sail”—he nodded toward the roads—“Devrey’s ain’t worth spit.”
“I mean to have Devrey Shipping all the same,” Joyful said. “And I’ll wait out this war until we have an honorable peace, and everything you and the General and all the others fought for is safe. That’s not what Gornt Blakeman intends. I expect you’ve heard that as well.”
“A separate country,” Walton said quietly. “Us and the New Englanders. Good for business that would be. Pull down the Stars ‘n’ Stripes, run a different flag up those masts and you can sail where you like.”
He looked at his yard. Only one half-built hull in the ways and one carpenter working on her. “Make a damn sight’s difference to me, that would.”
“To all of us,” Joyful admitted.
Walton swung round and tipped back his head so he could meet Joyful’s gaze straight on, despite the difference in their heights. “Truth is, I been thinking all night on what Bastard and Peggety Jack said when they came round here yesterday. Made up me mind ’fore you got here.”
“To what, Mr. Walton?”
“’Tain’t worth it. Not after all the blood as has been spilled. I’m with Mr. Madison and the Union. And I suppose, Joyful Turner, that means I’m with you.”
It was a little after 1 P.M. when Joyful left Walton’s, and nearly 4 when he returned to Danny Parker’s yard up north by Rutgers Slip. “Been making the rounds, I hear,” Danny said.
“How in the name of Hades can you know that?”
The other man laughed. “News follows the tide”—he nodded toward the river—“and she’s running this way at the moment.”
“And which way are you running, Danny Parker?”
“Same way I was yesterday. I’d have told you then if you’d asked me straight out. I don’t hold with cut and run and every man for himself. Say we form this new country. What’s going to happen if we fall out with Connecticut, or maybe Massachusetts? We going to splinter a second time and a third? I say argue out our differences and stay together. It’s the only way.”
“We hang together or we hang separately,” Joyful said. “That’s what Franklin said in ’76.”
“I expect he also said something about not blubbering every thought in your head soon as it arrived there.”
City of Glory Page 37
