by Paddy Hirsch
The big man had to bend low to get through the doorway. The sack curtain fell into place behind him.
“No!” the Englishman’s voice was muffled, and then there was only a series of hard thumps, like a cleaver chopping meat.
The lantern light gleamed on Owens’ skull as he walked towards the crowd. “Anyone got anything to say? No? Be about your business, then.”
He watched as they shuffled away into the darkness. There was a low rumbling sound in the distance. Owens squinted at the dark sky. “We’re in for a right old soak, unless I’m much mistaken. Good thing too. Fill up those rain barrels. Save us dipping into the Collect and risking an early death.”
The two men sent to pull down Tanny’s shack returned. One carried a small sack. Owens looked inside. His lip curled. He pulled out a small wooden doll and waved it in front of Tanny. “What do you think I’ll get for this, Antoinette?”
“Burn it, if you must.” Her face was hard.
Owens laughed. “You’re a stiff one, ain’t you, geneth?” He dropped the doll back into the sack and threw it to her. “Let this be a warning to you. From now you do business up in the fort. See Miss Violet. She’ll give you a room. Fifty percent to me, twenty to her. And no trying to put a hole in the bucket. Fair enough?”
Tanny nodded.
“Here.” Owens flipped the man’s coin in the air. Tanny’s hand was like a snake striking. She grinned a row of surprisingly even teeth, then snatched the sack to her breast and hurried away.
The sky rumbled again, louder this time. Owens held out his hand. A fat drop of rain splashed on his palm.
He laughed. “Perfect weather for peeping.” He turned to Kerry. “Let’s walk.”
TWELVE
Kerry and Owens stood in the darkness, under the awning of a shuttered shop, watching the entrance to Jericho. The rain made a roaring sound, hammering on the wooden awning, churning the fifty yards of open space between them and the opening in Jericho’s walls into a sticky sea of mud. The big, bearded sentry that Kerry had seen earlier was still in his place by the entrance, huddled under a small lean-to, wrapped in a heavy cloak.
Kerry shivered and shifted her feet on a plank that was just wide and thick enough to keep their feet out of the muck. “What are we doing here?”
Owens was wearing a long coat that he had taken from one of his men. It was buttoned to the neck, to cover his white shirt. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and he ignored the rainwater that leaked through the awning and ran in a thin stream off his head. “You said you wanted a look at Jericho. Here we are.”
“I’ve already seen this much.”
“And what did you see?”
Kerry shrugged. “Some cove selling shawls. Another standing guard. A single entrance in a high wall, and no way of seeing inside.”
“So what does that tell you?”
“I don’t know. That your man knows how to build walls? What does it tell you?”
“It tells me old Absalom has something to hide.” He nodded at the sodden sentry on the entryway. “And the fact yon hackum is still sat there in the rain tells me he either pays his crew well, or he’s put the fear of God in ’em.”
The deluge seemed to slacken for a moment, but then the sky made a sound like a heavy cart being dragged along a cobbled street, and the rain redoubled in strength. It pounded the soaked ground, bouncing up and soaking Kerry’s hose to the knee. The sodden wool began to sag down her calves, and she bent to pull them up. “Blast your top lights, Lew. I know there’s a real reason we’ve been standing here for the last hour in this grubshite. Why don’t you spill it?”
Owens grinned. “Aren’t you wondering where I sent the lads?”
“Not really.”
“We’ve been trying to find what other ways he has to get in and out of the place, but no luck. So this weather’s perfect for having a proper snitch about. Hugger-mugger-like. Even if old Absalom’s got men on his ramparts, they won’t be even half as sharp as normal. And they won’t see anything through this bloody rain.”
“Are you sure? I can’t see that new gorilla of yours moving about unnoticed, even if it was pitch black outside.”
“Who, Jonty?” Owens tutted. “That’s not very nice of you, Kerry. Jonts is a good lad. He’s had a rough time of it. He was a slave on an apple farm outside of Roxbury, until he got freed a few months back. His owner had a horse that dropped dead of overwork, but rather than buy a new one, the bastard put Jonty in the harness instead. Treated him just like he did the nag. Flogged him. Kept him in a stable. Even put a nosebag on him.”
Kerry imagined Jonty curled up on a pile of muddy straw, shivering in the cold.
“Anyway, you’re right about him being useless for night work,” Owens went on. “He’s got his hands full with young Mister Lispenard, who you met earlier.”
“The gent with the floppy hair? You know him?”
“I wouldn’t say I know him. But I know who he is. We’re standing on his land.”
Kerry blinked. “I thought he was English.”
“Aye, well, he was born here, but he lives in London now.”
“He doesn’t seem too bothered about people squatting on his land.”
Owens chuckled. “Oh, he cares. He’s spent all the inheritance his father left him, and he needs to sell up, if he’s to keep living in style. He wants to give our people the hoof just like all the other landowners.”
“What’s he doing down here, then? Spying?”
“Not at all, geneth. He just likes a bit of dark meat every now and then. Can’t help himself.”
Kerry wriggled her toes in her wet shoes. “How do you know all this?”
“He keeps some rooms down on Liberty Street. Only comes over once a year, but keeps them staffed with a brace of mop squeezers. One of whom does a little work for me on the side.”
“I wondered why you pulled your punch on him earlier.”
Owens’ grin flashed. “I had to put on a bit of a show.”
“Jonty too?”
“He knows how to make some convincing enough sounds, make the crowd think he gave the dirty mutton-monger a pasting. He’ll have had Mister Lispenard back to Liberty Street by now.”
“So much for laying down the law.”
“You don’t kill the goose what lays the golden eggs, geneth.”
There was a tearing sound above them, and water gushed over Owens’ head.
“Dumb glutton!” He stepped sharply to the side, and his heel slipped off the narrow plank. He lost his balance and fell back against the doorway of the shop, soaking his breeches.
Kerry giggled. “So much for hugger-mugger.”
“Your brown arse.” Owens struggled to his feet. A sheepish grin made him look suddenly like the lanky, scrawny teenager that Kerry had played with when she was a child.
“Come on.” She pulled him onto the plank and shuffled sideways so that he could fit under the shelter beside her. She put her arm around his waist and pulled him close. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She smelled the coconut oil that he used as an emollient on his scalp.
They stood for a moment, watching the entrance to Jericho, listening to the rain.
“What’s got you so charged here, geneth?” Owens’ words thrummed against her arm.
Her chest tightened. She saw the girl on her side, the gray ropes of her entrails. “I saw the lass die, Lew.”
“That’s not it. Folk die all the time in this city. Black folk more than most. That’s not enough to get you dressed up in those duds, trigging it from school, and standing about in this weather. You should have been off to your libben and a nice warm fire long ago. So what is it?”
His arm was a warm, heavy blanket on her shoulders, his hand on her upper arm.
“I think she was with child.” Her voice was small against the dull roar of the rain.
“What makes you say so?”
“Just something about the way she held herself.”
“You
think him that killed her knew?”
“I don’t know. Could be. But either way, it was two lives taken that night, not one.”
The rain was a wall of sound around them, hissing on the rooftops and gouging trenches in the muddy street.
“I miss him too.” Owens’ voice was a low rumble.
She had to hold herself, her nose tingling, the breath high in her throat, her body like a string wound tight. She thought about her son, her darling Daniel, his high forehead and his tiny feet, and the smell of him, warm milk and crushed cookies. His skin like silk against her lips.
Owens’ arm tightened, hugging her against him, and she let the tears slide down her face, fat and silent in the dark.
“So what will you do?” Owens asked.
She waited for the cramp in her throat to ease. “I don’t know. What can I do?”
He nodded across the lake of mud at the sentry shivering in the rain. “Like you say, you could get in there. Find out for sure who the girl was, and why she was hushed.”
“How? You’ve said yourself you can’t find a way in.”
“Not me. But I reckon you could walk right through that gate, if you had the right story. If you happened by one of Absalom’s sermons and pretended you’re a curtezan looking to escape your splitter, he’d welcome you, like as not.”
“You said he only wanted white girls.”
“You could say you’re Spanish, or Italian. That’s white enough, wouldn’t you say? I could get you set up. You already talk flash, and you’ve plenty of experience putting yourself out of twig. Shouldn’t take much for you to learn how to act the mab.”
She twisted out of his embrace and stared at him.
He shrugged. “Just a thought.”
THIRTEEN
Monday
The weather had cleared in the night and a stiff onshore breeze drove the woodsmoke that belched from the city’s chimneys up Manhattan Island, revealing a flawless cobalt sky. The rain had scrubbed the cobbles of the streets in the night, pushing heaps of mud and straw and ordure to the curbs, where it stood, steaming in the morning sun. Down in the estuary, the tide was turning, and the air was full of the roar of water as the Hudson and East Rivers churned.
Justy was grateful for the cool air. He had slept badly, something dark tormenting him in the night. He could not remember the dream, but the feeling of unease stayed with him, like mist covering the ground on a winter morning.
He walked down the Broad Way, stepping into the street here and there to avoid the men employed by householders to sweep up the muck in front of their residences. Some of the men were servants or slaves, dressed in smart livery. Others were freelance street sweepers, young, ragged boys who hooted and called to each other as they swung their shovels.
It was still too early for the wealthier of New York’s denizens to be about, and there were few carriages on the Broad Way, but the wind carried a hum of noise up the streets from the East River waterfront. The markets on Catherine Street and Maiden Lane opened before dawn, and Justy could hear the stall holders calling out, and the carts rumbling on the cobbles of the Bowery, bringing meat and produce from the farms north of the city.
He recognized the tall, lean figure of Gorton approaching him from a hundred yards away. The watchman’s eyes were pink and bloodshot, and garnished with two dark half circles. He was munching on a chonkey, and as he got closer, he wrapped the uneaten half of the pastry in a handkerchief and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Good morning, Marshal. I thought I might catch you coming this way.”
Justy stopped. “Good morning, Jeremiah. A fine day. Although you look as though you’re ready for your bed.”
“I am that. It feels like days since I last saw the straw. But I wanted to catch you before I got my head down. I’ll walk with you and peach you the whole scrap.”
“Go on then.” They began walking.
“When you went to speak to Sister Claire, I went back to my libben to couch a hogshead. But before I got my head down, I asked the mollisher what rents me my room about our Mister Umar. Turns out he’s a bit of a cushion thumper.”
“Is that so? Where does he preach?”
“Up by the creek. Most evenings, she thinks. Not that she’s been to one herself.”
“Perhaps we should go tonight, then.”
They had arrived at Federal Hall. Two carriages had pulled up at the bottom of the steps. The first was familiar, a red-painted covered cabriolet, pulled by a white mare. Behind it was a dark blue four-seater, drawn by two chestnut horses.
Justy stopped. “Thank you, Jeremiah. You should get some rest. What time do these assemblies take place?”
“Six of an evening. Just after it gets dark.”
“Be back here at three, then. We’ll have a bite and then go and hark at this fellow’s patter.”
He watched Gorton’s rangy frame lope back up the hill to the Broad Way. Then he turned and knocked on the door of the little red carriage. “Eliza?”
“Don’t come in.” Eliza’s voice was only slightly muffled by the canvas cover.
“Why? What is it? And what are you doing here at this hour?”
He glanced up at the rear of the cab, where the driver sat. The man looked away quickly, but not until Justy had caught the faint smile on his face.
“I have been up all night, composing a letter.” Eliza’s voice was softer now, and Justy had to press his ear against the canvas to hear. “In the end, however, I have not been able to convey my feelings adequately on paper. Father will be quite distressed when he sees how much of his vellum I have expended in the effort.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Eliza, I—”
“Please do not speak, Justice. It is hard enough for me to say what I have to say, without hearing your voice.” There was a long pause. “I have come to tell you that I do not wish you to call upon me any longer.”
“Eliza, if this is about Riker, I apologize. I allowed myself to be drawn out.”
“Please, Justice. Piers is a cad. Everyone knows it. But I expected more from you.”
“I’m sorry, Eliza.”
There was another long pause. “I am sorry, too. This is the last time we shall see each other. I have brought your … winnings with me.”
Justy glanced behind him at the blue carriage. A jarvie was perched on the high driver’s seat. He was dressed entirely in white: breeches, hose, waistcoat, jacket, shirt, and necktie, in stark contrast with his dark skin. His hair was shaved tight around the back and sides of his head, which was crowned with a high hat made of white silk.
“I am leaving for Greenwich this morning.” Eliza’s faint voice recaptured his attention. “I shall be away for quite some time. I don’t know how long.” She took a breath. “Please spare us both, Mister Flanagan, by not calling upon me again.”
She knocked twice on the roof of the carriage. Justy had to jump back onto the sidewalk to avoid his feet being crushed by the wheels of the cab as it rolled away. He could feel the eyes of a handful of onlookers, early birds who had stopped to watch the show. His face burned.
He watched the little red carriage plunge down the hill towards Water Street. And as the heat of his embarrassment faded from his face, he felt something else. A sneaking sense of relief.
He turned to look at his prize. It was a kind of phaeton carriage, a four-seater sprung drag of an unusual design. Most drags were open to the elements, but this one had a low-slung cab painted a glossy midnight blue. Its door handles, railings, wheel hubs, and coach lights were all made of brass, polished to a high shine. The two chestnut horses, a gelding and a mare, stood quietly in the braces between the shafts, their coats as glossy and groomed as the carriage itself.
The white-uniformed driver straightened up on his seat. “Mister Marshal Flanagan?”
“Yes.”
“Your carriage, sir. With Mister Riker’s compliments.”
The rig rocked and creaked as the jarvie descended from his perch. He went to the horses an
d began talking softly to them, stroking their noses and feeding them something that he took from the pocket of his white coat. They nuzzled him, fat tongues licking his face.
Justy walked slowly along the sidewalk, unable to take his eyes off the vehicle. The paintwork was so thick and smooth that it looked like lacquer. Two red pennants stirred in the breeze from a pair of six-foot whips angled from the back of the cab. The jarvie gave the horses one last pet, then hurried to open the nearside door.
It was hot inside the cab, but there was none of the customary stink of mold or damp, just the rich scent of warm leather and wood polish. Justy sat on the upholstered bench and ran his hands over the furnishings. The seats were stuffed thick with horsehair, and upholstered in leather. The floor was covered by a scarlet rug. The walls of the cab were padded in royal blue silk. The windows were curtained by lengths of sumptuous blue velvet. It was so quiet in the cab, he could hear his heart beating.
“Is everything all right, sir?” The coachman had put his hat on. His white clothing reflected the sunlight. The effect was blinding.
“Yes. Quite all right. Thank you.”
“Where to, sir?”
Of course. He couldn’t leave the damned thing here outside the hall. He ran his hands over the soft, tufted leather of the seat beside him. By God, it was a beautiful vehicle. And it was his! He leaned back in the seat and chuckled to himself.
The coachman stood patiently, waiting, his eyes on the ground. Watching him and not watching him, at the same time.
Justy gathered his thoughts. Where to? A good question. Where did one keep a carriage and two horses? Was there a stable near his lodging? He had a vague memory of one somewhere on Church Street. But how much would it cost? And what about a driver? It looked as though the white-clad jarvie was willing to help him get the rig to a stable, but what then?
He felt his mood sour. There was no way he could keep the damn thing. It was too expensive, and he didn’t need a carriage, anyway. He would have to sell it.
Damn it.
He sighed. “Do you know Hughson’s Tavern?”
