by Paddy Hirsch
He stepped forward, spinning the blade in his hand, catching it, spinning it again. The grin was plastered to his face. It didn’t make it to his eyes. Justy stepped to the side, away from Kerry, trying to find a line of attack. The odds were long. He was injured; Gorton was not. They were both armed, but he was no swordsman, and Gorton looked strangely comfortable with the wide, brutal blade.
He glanced around, saw nothing but eyes watching him.
“A rum lot, ain’t they?” Gorton said. “They waft about the place like ghosts. Won’t say a word to a white man, or let him see their face. Not that I gave a damn. I’ve spent enough time in coal holes to know dark meat ain’t to my taste.”
He winked at Kerry. “Although I’ll make an exception in your case, girl.”
He spun the blade in his hand, and Justy lunged, a desperate thrust at Gorton’s throat. Gorton rocked back, but recovered fast, his blade swinging up to hit Justy’s cutlass a glancing blow that sent it sliding over his shoulder.
Justy stepped back quickly, then right and right again, keeping an eye on Kerry. And then he attacked, driving off his left foot. The two cutlasses crashed together, and Justy was thrown back, his hand numbed by the violence of Gorton’s strike. His leg crumpled under him, and Gorton came on with a fast backhand. Justy scrambled back further, into the center of the courtyard, avoiding the blow. He jabbed again, but Gorton twisted sideways and hacked upwards. Justy felt the tip of the blade brush his shirt, just under his chin. He flailed with the cutlass, but his arm was weak and there was no force behind the swing. Gorton caught the back of the blade with his left hand, and used his own cutlass to cut the strap around Justy’s wrist. And then he shoved Justy hard, and sent him sprawling.
Gorton’s face was bone white. He had switched his cutlass to his left hand, and was holding the pistol in his right. He jammed the muzzle into Justy’s temple, forcing his head over. “Scum, am I? You madge. Get up.”
Justy got slowly to his feet. Kerry’s face was a mask. The women watched, dark-eyed and soundless.
Gorton picked up Justy’s cutlass. He smiled his half smile. “You’re lucky the chief cock wants the both of you alive.”
He motioned with the pistol towards the door he had come through. “You first, missy,” he said to Kerry. “And don’t try to chouse me, or I’ll blow a hole in his backbone.”
Kerry pulled the door open. She recognized the comfortable chairs and the dining table with the big pewter box and the five-taper candelabra, fitted with fresh candles, their wicks pointing upright, as straight as soldiers. It was the room where Umar had served her the drugged mint tea.
“Nice, innit? This is where he entertains the nobs. Before they entertain their knobs.” Gorton laughed. He dropped the cutlasses by the door. “A nice little side business it could be, if he charged them. Now sit.” He nodded towards a chaise placed against one wall. “Side by side.”
He sat opposite. His pistol looked oiled and cleaned and well cared for. It was fully cocked, and as steady as a rock in his hand. Justy tried not to look at the black hole of the muzzle. “He doesn’t charge them?” he asked.
Gorton shrugged. “Cakey, innit? But I suppose he knows what he’s doing.”
“Making white babies for sale.”
“That’s right. And worth their weight in gold they are, too. What’s a slave cost these days? Four hundred ducats? Umar’s got coves’ll pay ten times that for a pale-skinned kinchin-mort. More if they’re paying in kind.”
“In kind?”
“Aye. Slave captains in Africa will trade twenty grown bucks for one. And we’ve got twenty girls back there, each turning out a little white chit every twelvemonth. Quite a hallow thing.”
Justy thought about the girl he had seen in the cell. The tiny smoke-filled room, her distended belly, the thick sound of her voice.
“How much did it take to buy you?” He let the contempt curdle in his voice.
Gorton smirked. “Well, I didn’t come cheap, matey. I’ve got a neat little share of the business, and a nice fat stipend. Plus use of the facilities when I choose, if you get my meaning.”
“And what does Umar get in return?”
“Information. A man on the inside. Someone to take care of any scrapes that might arise.”
“Like a girl getting loose from this place.”
Gorton smiled faintly. “Aye. Like that.”
“Did you kill her?”
The smile disappeared. “I don’t kill kinchen.”
“But you’re happy enough to sell them.”
“They do all right. Better than I did when I was a chip.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Stands to reason, don’t it? The ones he trades with the Africans are like trophies. They won’t have to work in the fields or the mines or stand in the ranks with the other cannon fodder. It’ll be the best food and a soft bed for them, for the rest of their lives. The color of their skin will see to that. And the ones he sells here? They’re made.”
Kerry started. “He sells children here? In New York?”
Gorton grinned. “Yes he does, darlin’. Not many, for it’s risky and he doesn’t want to be caught, but you’d be surprised how many fat culls can’t have kinchen of their own. And how much they’re willing to cough up for the privilege.”
Justy could feel Kerry vibrating beside him, like a mill engine building a head of steam. His own anger seemed to have gone. He smelled his own sweat drying, the blood on his sleeve. He felt the rough silk of the chaise upholstery under his hands. He heard footsteps.
The door opened. Umar stepped inside. The scarred man was behind him. Umar picked up the cutlass Justy had used on the guard in the cell. He stared. “You killed Carthy.”
Justy said nothing.
“He was with me from the beginning,” Umar said. “We took the boat into the eye of the storm, the three of us. Me, Carthy, and Jason here. The women holding on to each other in the bows, screaming and praying. The lightning cracking around us. The boat filling with water. We rowed until our hands split and our arms tore, and we thought we were in hell. But we lived. We were brothers. And you killed him.”
“It was my pleasure.” Justy leaned back on the chaise. “Absalom.”
Umar made a growling sound, deep in his throat. His eyes darkened, as though he had pulled a blind behind them, and snuffed out the light.
“Kill him.” He thrust the cutlass at Gorton. “Use this.”
Gorton shoved his pistol into his belt and took the blade. “You want me to cut him up a bit first, then? See if he’s got anything else to tell us?”
“He knows nothing of use. He did not speak to his uncle. Kill him, and burn the body. Make sure there is no trace. We must leave no one any reason to come after us.”
“What about Old Hays? He’ll suspect.”
“But he will not know. You said yourself he is a stickler for correctness. He will do nothing without evidence.”
Gorton glanced at Kerry. “And her?”
“She stays with me.”
Gorton spun the cutlass in his hand. He took a step towards Justy. “You heard the man, Flanagan. Up you get. Time for you to walk the plank.”
* * *
Justy did not get up. He got on his knees, sliding slowly off the chaise onto the rug. It was thick and tufted, a series of geometric shapes woven, over and over, in red and gold on a pale blue background. His eyes darted from the cutlass to Gorton’s face and back again.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t.”
Gorton sneered. “I didn’t think you’d want to go out on your knees like a Smithfield bunter, Marshal, but so be it.”
He raised the cutlass. Justy threw himself flat. “Please, Jeremiah,” he wailed, reaching for Gorton’s boots, scrabbling forward like a man begging for his life.
“Ah, for Christ!” Gorton stepped back sharply. “Be a man.”
“Please!” Justy clawed at his breeches. Gorton struck out with his boot, shoving Justy back aga
inst the table and sending the candelabra and its tapers spilling in all directions.
“Kill him!” Umar roared.
Gorton growled in frustration. He hacked down hard with the cutlass, but the table was in the way now, impeding his swing, and Justy rolled to the side, avoiding the blow.
He rolled into a ball, on his knees, hunched over, head down. He moaned. He begged.
“Please, Jeremiah! Please!”
“Gutless cunt,” Gorton muttered. “You’re a goddamned embarrassment. A white man, groveling so in front of these darkies.” He squared off, one foot either side of Justy’s head. He raised the blade in both hands, poised for the strike that would cleave Justy’s head in two.
Below him, curled up on the ground, Justy was waiting.
But not to die. He had closed his eyes. He was counting. One for Gorton to position himself. Two for him to raise the blade.
Three.
He launched himself upwards, jackknifing off his knees, driving the toes of his shoes into the pile of the rug. Aiming for Gorton’s throat.
From the moment he had stepped into the room, he had been looking for any kind of weapon. The cutlasses were too far away; he had no idea whether there was any cutlery in the pewter box on the table, and the furniture was too sturdy to break apart easily. Which left the candelabra on the table, and, more importantly, the candlesticks themselves. Six-inch cylinders of hardened wax, a half inch wide at the base, tapering to a rounded point. No one’s idea of a weapon. But as Owney Clearey had taught him that last day in his basement gymnasium, anything could be a lethal instrument, properly aimed, properly applied, with maximum force, speed, and aggression.
He had groveled about on the floor, trying to upset the table and grab a taper, and Gorton had helped. The candleholder had toppled and the tapers had spilled onto the floor. Justy had rolled to grab one, then rolled back as Gorton hacked down. Now the taper was cupped in the heel of his right hand and held in place with his left. The moment Gorton struck, Justy was off his knees, thrusting out his arm, making a straight line through his shoulder and his elbow and his wrist to the point of the candle, aimed at the soft hollow at the base of Gorton’s jaw.
One chance. To drive the taper up, through the thin layer of skin and muscle under Gorton’s tongue, through his mouth and his palate, and up into his brain.
One chance.
And he missed.
When Gorton swung the cutlass, the movement tilted him forward, not much, but enough that the point of the candle was intercepted by the hard plateau of his sternum, where his shirt gaped open. A miss. But not a catastrophic one. If it had been a knife in Justy’s hand, that would likely have been the end of it. A knife might have cut the skin, even penetrated a short way into the bone. But then it would have stuck there, or broken or glanced off.
But the unlit candle was rounded at its end, not sharp. Driven by the tremendous force of Justy’s strike, with his full weight behind it, the candle slid smoothly up Gorton’s sternum without breaking. It followed the line of Gorton’s neck, and slipped easily into the jugular notch above his clavicle. Justy felt the resistance on the heel of his hand, a fraction of a second, and then it was gone, and he rammed the candle home into Gorton’s windpipe.
Gorton dropped the cutlass. He swayed backwards, choking, clutching at his throat. A half-inch stub of candle protruded above his collarbone. He clawed at it, his face turning purple.
Justy pulled the pistol out of Gorton’s belt, cocked it, and stepped back.
Umar was backing towards the door, dragging Kerry in front of him, a knife at her throat. The scarred bodyguard pushed past him and bore down on Justy, his cutlass swinging, howling a hoarse, wordless scream. The scars around his mouth were white. His eyes were bloodshot. His mouth was like a monstrous cave, fringed with the ragged stumps of his teeth. There was nothing inside it. His tongue had been cut out.
Justy swung the pistol up and shot the scarred man in the face. The man dropped, his shoulder catching the edge of the table and upending it. There was a great crash as the cutlery box spilled open, and dozens of knives, forks, and spoons went skittering across the floor.
Gorton was on his knees, making a strangled sound. His face was the color of a bruised plum. His fingers were plucking at the stub of candle, his ragged nails too short to dig into the wax. Justy watched him for a moment. He picked up the cutlass and spun it in his hand. He smiled. “I told you biting your nails was a bad habit.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Justy limped into the yard. There was only a trace of light left in the sky. The women had clustered at the far end of the space, like a flock of multicolored birds, staring and squawking. Umar had forced Kerry up a shallow set of steps built into the wall, and was herding her along the wooden parapet. Justy staggered up the steps, his knee shrieking.
Kerry was slowing Umar down. The wall of the cell block was in front of them. It was double the height of the parapet, and for a moment it looked as though there was nowhere for Umar to go, but then Justy saw the gaps on either side of the wall, just wide enough for a person to pass. Umar shoved Kerry through.
Justy lurched after them, and found himself in a wide, open space, the roof of the cell block. It was thirty feet wide, and perhaps a hundred feet long. The walls that bordered it were four feet high, level with the parapet, except for the high back wall that he had passed through. There were fifty or sixty men in the space, hurrying to positions on the parapet. Some wore robes like Umar, others were dressed like field workers, others looked like merchants. Some were white and some were black. Some were bearded and some were clean-shaven. All were armed with Brown Bess muskets, which they propped against the wall, ready to deploy. They knelt down beside them, peering over the wall that flanked the inner courtyard of the compound on two sides. They had oversight of the kitchen area, the side of the living quarters, and the entrance to the storeroom. But the parapet hid them from view by anyone in the courtyard below.
Four men blocked Justy’s way. They all carried cutlasses, and all had the same strange tattoos on their faces as the man Justy had killed in the cells below them. Umar stood behind them, holding Kerry by the arm. “Your friends have set a fire at the gate,” he said.
There was a glow in the darkness behind the far wall, then a fountain of sparks and a column of smoke.
“Your carriage?” Umar asked.
Justy nodded. The plan had been to somehow find Kerry and bring her out and stop Owens and the Bull from assaulting the compound. The backup was for Lars and Hardluck to block the entrance to Jericho with the carriage, to rip the stuffing out of its seats and set fire to it.
“You think this will stop anything?” Umar asked. He seemed genuinely curious.
“I think half the citizens of New York are converging on this place right now. And that will scupper whatever it is you had planned.”
Umar laughed. Kerry took the opportunity to try to twist away, but Umar held her tight. She grimaced as he squeezed her arm.
“You are slippery,” Umar said. “Like your cousin. A small fire will not stop him. And that will not stop me.”
“From doing what?” Justy asked.
“From creating a paradise for my people.”
“And how does this help you do that? No matter how many men you kill today, you won’t be left in peace. The natives who run this city hate anyone who’s not white and Protestant, so you can bet there’ll be a pack of them up here before long, and these wall of yours won’t hold them.”
“I am not a fool, Marshal,” Umar said. “I have no intention of staying behind these walls.”
It came to Justy slowly, like smoke filtering under a door. He saw the map in Shard’s office, the red hatches around the land prospects: the Collect Pond; the island by the Helgate. He heard the fat farmer’s voice, “The schwarzes can have it.”
“The island. That’s the deal. You give Riker the meadows: he gives you his island.”
“Very good, Marshal. I shall build w
alls ten feet high around it, and my people will live in peace. The natives will be content to have us off their island and on our own.”
“The gangs will come after you.”
“The gangs will die tonight.” Umar pointed into the compound. “Down there.”
“You can’t hope to do that with just fifty muskets, even if they do fall into your trap. There are hundreds of them.”
“Indeed there are. But my men are just the powder in the touchhole. The real explosion will follow. As you are about to see.”
A roaring noise came from below them, what sounded like a hundred men cheering a winning horse. The wall on the far side of the courtyard seemed to bulge outward. And then it disappeared completely, in a cloud of dust. Owens’ people had been taking the wall apart from the outside, under cover of the shanties. They had scraped away the exterior stucco, and removed the wall, brick by brick, until there was nothing left but a thin skin of brick and mud, that a man need only lean on to knock over.
“Ready!” Umar roared, and every second man poked his musket over the parapet. They were perfectly arranged, lined up along the tops of the walls opposite, aiming directly at the gaping tear in the wall. Umar smirked at Justy. “I told you I had eyes all over this city.”
Justy held his breath. He could feel the tension coming off the men on the parapet. He knew what they were feeling, the tightness in their necks and chests as they strained to see through the darkness and the dust. The cramp in their fingers as they took up the pressure on the triggers of their muskets. The loose feeling in their guts at the prospect of combat. He had felt all these things himself, many times.
Everyone was staring, even Kerry and Umar. They waited, bracing for the charge, for the sight of dozens of men forcing themselves through the gap, screaming as they ran into the killing ground.
But no one came. There was just the dust and the darkness.
And then something moved.
There was a ripple along the ranks of men, as they braced their weapons again. Held their breath. Fingered their triggers.
