City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

Hays surveyed the extent of the display of arms. “I heard you was raising a regiment, Mr. Blakeman. But somehow I get the feeling the fellows you was counting on have taken themselves over to the other side o’ this argument.”

  “No man here fights for Gornt Blakeman!” Zachary Fish hung out a window to Hays’s right. “We be the regiment of Mother Zion and Almighty God. Pledged to these United States of America.”

  “Nigras,” a voice from up front near Blakeman shouted. “You folks going to let nigras shoot down a white man and get away with it?”

  “Nigras!”

  The crowd surged forward, the combined weight of their bodies enough to overcome even the power of the horses. A scuffle broke out near the platform where Blakeman had been standing, but he had climbed down from the pile of kegs and the butchers had fallen back to surround him.

  “Nigras!” It had become a chorus. “Nigras gonna kill us all!”

  Joyful looked across the square to the man he’d seen fire the rifle that took down Gallagher—as white as he was, and as redheaded to boot. One of Astor’s marksmen, probably. Would saying so prevent carnage below?

  “Joyful! Take this. It will help, I think.”

  Joyful turned his head, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him every time he moved. “Mr. Astor.”

  “Jacob. Remember, Genossen we are. Allies. Here, take this.” Astor thrust a rolled canvas into Joyful’s good hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Quick, open it. You’ll see.”

  Joyful shook the canvas open, looked down, and laughed out loud. It took another sick-making maneuver for him to twist again and hang the unrolled canvas above the heads of the crowd so it could be seen. “Look up here folks! Look what we’ve got!”

  “Tell them Dolley Madison saved it from the British.” Astor’s said quietly. “Tell them Mrs. Dolley sent it to New York to be safe.”

  “Look up here,” Joyful shouted. “It’s a painting of General Washington. Sent to us by the first lady of the land. She’s safe. So’s President Madison. And we are to keep this picture for when we build a new Federal District and a new Executive Mansion.”

  The roar was one of approval this time. “General Washington!” someone called out. “Hip, hip!”

  The hoorays were deafening. The crowd fell back from the mounted men in the middle of the square. “Go to your homes,” Hays called out. “Long as you’re peaceable there’ll be no trouble and no arrests.” He looked toward the place where the one man he really had wanted to take into custody had been standing. Blakeman was gone; his butchers and their cleavers as well. “Peaceable,” he said. “That’s what we want, a peaceable city o’ New York. Just like always.”

  Finbar watched the crowd disperse. As soon as he was able to move, he stood beside the door of the grocery store where Joyful had been hanging out the upper window. Grand he’d been. Would have made his da proud. Be a good thing to tell Joyful that. And might be he’d mention about what happened this morning at the Knave. Heard a few stories, he had, bout Joyful and Delight Higgins. Even some as said Joyful had a financial interest in the place. Course he’d have to say he’d been there at the Knave when Delight was snatched. Might be it would come out about his being drunk for four days and losing a thousand he didn’t have.

  Holy Mary and all the saints. Must be another way out of this here grocery building, because he’d seen not a lick o’ Joyful Turner coming through the door, but there he was on the other side of Paradise Square, riding up behind High Constable Hays no less. The pair of ’em kicking up a storm o’ dust as they galloped back downtown.

  Maiden Lane, 4 P.M.

  The shops of the goldsmiths and silversmiths were closed and shuttered and most folks busy with their dinners. The near riot up in Five Points, as well as the terrible story of the sack of the Federal District, provided enough table chatter to keep the residents of Maiden Lane away from their windows. A carriage—large, black, thickly curtained, drawn by a matched pair of black geldings—halted outside Maurice Vionne’s house and four men got out.

  “Wait where you are,” Gornt Blakeman told the driver. “I don’t imagine we will be very long.”

  He led the way to Vionne’s front door, raised his fist, and pounded on the wood. The goldsmith came, a napkin still tucked in his shirt front. “I was not expecting you, Mr. Blakeman. This is not a convenient time to—”

  “Convenient enough.” Blakeman pushed his way inside. The three men with him followed; Vinegar Clifford and two leather-apron boys. “I’ve come to speak to your daughter, goldsmith. That’s what you suggested, isn’t it? Here I am.”

  “But now is not—”

  Blakeman pushed past him and headed for the door to the private part of the house. Vionne tried to block his path, but he was half the other man’s size. Blakeman shoved him out of the way and motioned his companions to follow.

  The savory smell of hot food drew them at once to the dining room. Manon Vionne sat at one side of the table, an older woman across from her. Both stared in startled consternation at the new arrivals.

  Vionne had rushed in behind his uninvited guests. Now he tried desperately to dispel the sense of menace with normalcy. “May I present Mr. Gornt Blakeman, ladies. He wishes—”

  “I’ve asked for your hand, Miss Manon. Your father agreed.”

  “Never!” Manon and her father spoke in unison. Vionne continued, “I never agreed, Mr. Blakeman. You cannot say—”

  “At the moment, Mr. Vionne, I can do and say as I wish.” Not for much longer, if Jacob Hays took Joyful Turner’s side of things. “I am claiming your hand, Miss Manon. You have need of a husband. Well, you have finally snared one.”

  She stood up, a pink flush rising from the scooped neckline of her frock to suffuse first the pale skin above her breasts, then her face. “I have no need of you, Mr. Gornt Blakeman.” She took a step away from the table. “Papa, I beg leave to go to my—”

  “Take her outside, Mr. Clifford.”

  Vionne flung himself in front of his daughter. The whip cracked once and coiled itself around his arm. His shriek of pain came from deep in his belly, and unbidden tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Papa! What are you doing, you animal!” Manon threw herself at the whipper. The nearest of the two butchers caught her with one arm. He held a raised cleaver in the other. Vionne shouted his daughter’s name, but his voice was drowned out by Adele Tremont’s scream.

  “Quiet!” Blakeman roared. “I asked for your daughter like a gentleman, goldsmith. Had you treated my request with the respect it deserved, this wouldn’t be necessary. As it has turned out…” He shrugged and turned away, heading back to the front door. “Bring her,” he called to the butcher who still held Manon captive. “And make sure she doesn’t cry out. Mr. Clifford, I trust your whip to keep these two in check until we’re in the carriage, then you may join us.”

  All the while the men were inside, Jesse Edwards kept hoping for a chance to spook the horses. If he could get close enough without being seen, he could get them to take off and pull the carriage along with ’em. He wasn’t sure exactly what that might achieve, but at least he’d be doing something. Not just hiding here in the doorway like he used to hide in the stores when he was meant to be running powder to the guns. He didn’t want to be scaredy-cat Jesse anymore.

  But as it was, didn’t matter whether he was scared or he wasn’t. Fellow sitting up there in the driver’s seat didn’t move even once, and he never relaxed his hold on the reins. And before Jesse could think of anything he might do instead, the men who’d gone into Miss Manon’s house came out again. And, Holy God Almighty, they had Miss Manon with ’em.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Aboard Le Carcajou, 5 P.M.

  UNTIE HER,” Blakeman said. The whipper released the tie that had secured Manon’s hands behind her back and freed the gag.

  Blakeman stood and watched, as did five or six sailors. Not ordinary sailors, she was quite sure. And this was not a
n ordinary ship. “Pirates,” she said.

  Blakeman chuckled. “Your first word spoken as my fiancée, my dear. A mark of your powers of observation, perhaps, but hardly a sweet sound of love.”

  “You’ll get none such from me, Gornt Blakeman. But I don’t imagine you truly expect any different.”

  He took a step forward and grabbed hold of her hair, forcing her head back so she was looking up into his face. “I’ll get exactly what I want from you, Manon Vionne. Never doubt that. The freedom of your body and sons from your belly.” Blakeman grabbed her hand and held it to his crotch. “That’s what’s waiting for you, my girl. Count yourself lucky.”

  He let her go, so abruptly her head snapped forward, and laughed again. “Never mind,” Blakeman said. “I quite like your spirit. What do you think, Tintin? A worthy bride? You’re a sea captain of a sort, will you marry us once we’re underway?”

  “In the pirate code there is a price for such a service, mon ami. I get to bed her first.”

  “Over my dead body, pirate! This one is mine and mine alone.”

  Tintin laughed. “Tant pis, my friend. One woman is much like another, non?” He turned his back on them and walked to the side, peering down into the water. The cove was superbly well hidden, but the shape of the shore made for a treacherous mooring. Twice each day he watched anxiously while the schooner, forced to sit on the mud when the tide was dead low, floated as the waters rose. There was an incoming drift now. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, then he’d breathe easier. “If you mean to claim your treasure, mon ami, you must be quick about it. The tide comes our way. Soon we will be able to leave.”

  Belowdecks was mostly a narrow, open space with hammocks, a number apparently occupied though Blakeman paid them little attention, and filth from one end to the other. What passed for the captain’s cabin was, if anything, worse. Too bad, but nothing to be done about it. Blakeman shoved Manon inside, kicking the door shut behind them. He felt for a lock or a bolt of some sort, but there was none. Never mind. Where could she go? He had been holding both her hands behind her back; now he freed them. “Not exactly what I’d expected to provide for your wedding night, my dear. But it will have to do.”

  It was a waste of time to trade barbs with him. Manon let her glance travel the small and fetid cabin, looking for something she could use as a weapon, some means of escape. Blakeman read her thoughts and chuckled. “We are on a ship, my dear. A pirate ship no less. There are many men, many cutlasses, many guns, and ashore—presuming by some miracle you got there—a deserted cove, steep cliffs, and beyond them deep woods. Now tell me, what makes more sense, a foolish, fruitless struggle that will exhaust you, though I admit it might excite me, or sweet maidenly yielding to your husband?” She said nothing. “Come, it is a reasonable question, Manon. It deserves an answer.”

  “You are not my husband.”

  Blakeman shrugged. “I will be. As soon as it can be arranged. I have no desire to leave you ravished and unmarried, my dear. It is in my best interests to have you my legal wife, and so you shall be. God, look at you…” He took a step closer. Manon backed away, but the cabin was only a few feet wide. She ended with the backs of her calves pressing up against the wooden frame of the bunk. Her hair had long since come loose; Blakeman curled one hand in it. “I’d have had you if you looked like the arse end of a horse, my Manon, because you suit my purposes. But I admit, I’m delighted you’re a beauty. What sons we shall have, eh?” His free arm circled her waist. “Now kiss me.”

  She watched his face come close and stood very still, kept her mouth tight shut. She could not get away, but he would know she did not yield.

  The kiss, if such it could be called, lasted only a few seconds. Blakeman lifted his head and his expression and voice were cold. “Fine, if you prefer rape, you shall have it, my dear. It makes little difference to me.”

  He let her go long enough to get both hands on the front of her gown. Manon panicked and pulled away, hearing the cloth rip as she did so. Apart from the bunk the only furniture in the room was a table and a couple of stools. She tripped over one of them, lost her balance and fell. Blakeman howled with laughter. Manon saw him looming above her, one hand fumbling with the front of his breeches. She screamed.

  Outside there was the noise of many feet tramping through the passageway and shouts, mostly in French, but the accent strange to her and the words muffled. Rescue! It must be. Blakeman apparently had the same idea. He stopped what he was doing and listened, then he smiled. The rush was to the deck above. No one was coming to disturb them.

  He lunged for her. Manon screamed.

  The door to the cabin was pushed open. “Go ahead, Gornt. Prove that you are stronger than a slip of a girl. History will tell tales of your prowess.”

  He turned his head. “Christ Almighty! What are you doing here?”

  Delight Higgins was naked. Some of her cuts and bruises were starting to scab; others yet oozed blood. “I might have guessed you’d show up. I should have figured it out before. You’re the one who sent for the pirates, aren’t you?” And before he could answer: “Perhaps you didn’t know they do an active trade in blackbirding.”

  “This is no affair of yours. Get out.”

  “Why? What difference if I watch? I can’t stop you.”

  There were more shouts from above, in English this time. “Blakeman! Get up here.” Tintin’s voice. “We’re aground. We need every hand on the lines to pull free. Come, mon ami.”

  Blakeman looked from one woman to the other. Neither of them spoke. He pulled away from Manon and ran to the cabin door. “Send someone down to help me secure these two she-cats, then I’ll come.”

  One of the pirates brought line and helped tie up both women. Blakeman insisted on gagging them as well. The other man started to leave. “Where are you going?” Blakeman demanded.

  “Above.”

  “We can’t leave them here. There’s no lock on the door.”

  “But they’re both trussed like barnyard fowls. Ain’t no way—”

  “Not here.” No point in explaining how resourceful Delight Higgins was likely to be, or how much spirit the other one had. “Somewhere more secure.”

  “There’s a store up ahead below the afterdeck. The door will take a padlock—one prisoner in there already.”

  “Excellent,” Blakeman said. He hefted Manon. “Bring the other one.”

  New York City,

  Ann Street, 5:30 P.M.

  “I’m coming! No need to rip the knocker off the door.” Bridey was accustomed to the sick arriving at Dr. Turner’s front door demanding instant attention, but she never stopped complaining about it. “Well, what’s wrong with you then? Need the other arm off as well?”

  Jesse shoved his remaining hand in his pocket lest the woman grab him and start sawing. “No, ma’am. It’s Dr. Joyful Turner I’m looking for.”

  “Well, this here’s the house o’ his cousin, Dr. Andrew Turner.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know. I been looking everywhere and not finding Dr. Joyful Turner, so I thought he might have come—”

  “Aye, well he didn’t, but I suppose he might have. Come in. You look a sight, you do.” The boy’s face was streaked with sweat and dirt. If he’d had a hat, he’d lost it, and the brown cutaway as was anyways too big for him was ripped in a number of places. “Been in that riot up in Five Points, I reckon.”

  “Not really in it. I was some ways away. Got pushed about nonetheless.”

  “Same as all o’ us.” Bridey had herself gotten a good distance up Anthony Street. Near enough so she’d heard Dr. Joyful shouting out all them fine words o’ the Constitution. Nearly burst with pride she had. Never mind that her best apron was torn off her and lost in the crush. “I expect you could use something to eat ’fore you go on about whatever your business might be.”

  “Thank ye, ma’am. But I’ve no time right now. Please, I have to find Dr. Turner. It’s as important as—”

  “As what, young man?” Andr
ew appeared in the open door of his study.

  “I thought you was taking a nap,” Bridey scolded. “You know you’re supposed to take a nap every day after dinner.”

  “No man could sleep with you nattering away in front of his door. What’s the difficulty, young man?”

  “I have to find Dr. Joyful Turner, sir. It’s about M…”

  “About what? Come, I’m his cousin. You may tell me.”

  “It’s a secret, sir. I mean I think it is. Dr. Turner’s never said, but he and Miss—” Jesse broke off.

  “Miss Manon Vionne,” Andrew said, ignoring Bridey’s look of astonishment. “That’s who you’re talking about, is it not?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “So has Miss Manon sent you? What is it she’s asked you to say?” Andrew remembered Joyful’s concern, that the girl’s father might turn her into the street, that she’d need a place to stay. “Out with it, boy. You have my word, you betray no confidence.”

  “She didn’t tell me nothing, sir. It’s what I saw as Dr. Turner has to know about. Miss Manon…Four men took her away from her house in a big black carriage. I could see plain as anything she didn’t want to go.”

  “Good God. I take it you were there?”

  “Cross the street, sir. In a doorway. I been carrying notes back and forth for ’em. Dr. Turner and Miss Manon. He told me I should…I can’t explain everything now, sir. But I have to find Dr. Turner. The man as took Miss Manon, it was Gornt Blakeman.”

  Hays’s private apartments in the New Gaol were comfortable rather than luxurious. The green-leather chairs were well worn, the seats deeply impressed by countless posteriors of various sizes, the damask at the windows faded from the sunshine of many summers.

  “A good thing ye did today, Dr. Turner,” Hays said. “A mighty good thing.”

  He had made the same statement at least half a dozen times in the nearly three hours he’d kept Joyful talking, making him repeat every detail of what he knew of Blakeman’s activities, occasionally dropping a remark of his own that let the younger man know that Jacob Hays was privy to most of what went on in his city. Not everything, however. Hays appeared not to know about the Great Mogul, and Joyful did not enlighten him.