City of Glory (33 page)

McDermott’s Oyster House was more bawdy house than tavern or fishmonger’s, but it lived up to its name in that there were plenty of oysters in evidence, and no officious city inspectors hanging about to say August, a month without an
r,
was the wrong time of year to be selling them.

Two young blacks stood at a wooden table by the front door, dancing in place and keeping up a steady stream of talk while they pried apart the nearly smooth shells of the Long Island blue points as fast as the customers could toss them down their throats. “Come along, gents,” the patter went, “shuck ’em, huck ’em, swallow ’em down. A penny for four. Best in town.”

“Best place to come for oysters this time of year,” Joyful said, choosing a particularly fat and succulent example. He bent his head back and tipped the shivering creature into his mouth. It was grand. Briny and rich and clean-tasting, with no hint of spoil. “Got these today, did you?” he asked the nigra lad nearest to hand.

“Yes sir. Not more’n two hours past. Shuck ’em, huck ’em, swallow ’em down, gents. You got three more coming, sir.” The boy’s feet shuffled a lively rhythm on the sawdust-covered floor. “Penny for four. Best in town.”

Joyful put his coin on the table and picked up a second oyster, nodding to Barnaby to claim the other two. They made their way across the room to where a woman tended a row of tapped kegs, dispensing pewter tankards of dark beer with a dense, creamy head. “The beer’s as good as I’ve tasted anywhere, as well,” Barnaby said.

“Fresh oysters and good beer. Is that why you wanted to come all the way over to Canvastown?”

“McDermott’s table always gave us a good game.” Barnaby was staring into his beer, not looking at Joyful. “And it’s where we played that last time, before you went off to war.”

The night he’d met Delight. Barnaby had probably forgotten all about that incident. “So you figured it was the right place to come for the start of a new era?”

The other man’s head shot up. “What do you mean? What kind of a new era?”

“My hand, Barnaby. That’s all.” Joyful held up the glove. “What did you think I meant?”

Carter looked around before he answered. No one was paying them any mind. “Joyful, this place…You think it’s true about your father?”

“Depends. Which particular truth did you have in mind?”

“That rumor says he set the fire back in ’76. When Washington and his troops had to withdraw and let the redcoats occupy the town.”

“I’m not sure. He never talked about the Revolution, not the war. But if he did light that blaze, it was on Washington’s orders.”

“Yes. A true patriot, Morgan Turner.”

“I think so. Barnaby, what’s this all about? Not billiards and oysters, is it?”

Carter tipped his head back and downed the last of his beer. “Not here. Come outside.”

Half an hour later the shay turned onto Greenwich Street, the old horse knowing her way and Carter needing to keep only a loose hold on the reins, though he still had to keep his eye on the road. Joyful was glad of that, glad Barnaby hadn’t watched his reactions to the tale, a confirmation of everything he’d already suspected. “Barnaby, you’re sure they were talking about secession? Planning a conference to ratify it?”

“No, I’m not sure. I couldn’t hear everything. Joyful, it’s worth my livelihood if Gornt Blakeman finds out I’ve said anything. I can’t exist without his business. You know that.”

“Of course I do. You know I’ll keep your confidence. But I need to ask two more questions. First, why did you tell me?”

“Everyone’s talking about how you’ve been spending a lot of time at the docks. The fellows say you’re setting yourself up to go into the China trade. Makes sense, seeing as how you were raised there. But if it’s true, after what’s happened this week, it’s Gornt Blakeman will be your main competition. I figured you’d want to know.”

Not just that, Joyful thought. It’s because you’re uncomfortable with the notion of what he’s doing. That’s why you were asking about my father—measuring yourself against Morgan Turner, and measuring me as well, if it comes to that. I’ve no doubt you’re faithfully reporting what’s being said among all the mechanics at Tammany Hall, and that’s what counts. “That brings me to my second question. What about the others, like yourself—craftsmen, small-business owners, the ones you say Blakeman’s enlisted in his scheme? Are they all convinced it’s the right thing to do, get out now and the devil take the union of the states?”

“Hard to say. It’s attractive, of course. This war’s been devilish hard on mechanics; we’re the ones have suffered the most. The rich, men like Jacob Astor, they can wait it out. The poor are poor no matter who—What is it?”

Joyful had grabbed his arm. “Hold up,” he said softly, straining to see into the deceptive shadows of the early evening. “I’ll get out here and…No, better still, drive me right to the door.”

Carter obliged, still not knowing what it was Joyful had seen, or thought he’d seen. They pulled up in front of Ma Allard’s door, and Joyful claimed his cue stick from the corner of the shay and jumped down from the rig. “Goodnight, Barnaby. A fine game,” he said, speaking at the top of his voice and elaborately tipping his hat. “My compliments, sir. You offer more competition when I’ve only one hand. We must do it again soon.”

Carter leaned down, spoke softly. “Joyful, you really mean me to leave?”

“Absolutely old friend,” he said, matching the quiet of the other man’s tone. “And Barnaby, don’t worry. You did the right thing by telling me. And I’ll keep your confidence.”

Carter nodded, clucked to the horse, and the shay moved off. Joyful tucked his stick under his arm and made a great point of fumbling for his key, whistling softly under his breath all the while.

“Dr. Turner.”

“Aye. Who wants me?” He didn’t need to turn around. He’d spotted Clifford’s distinctive barrel build from forty feet, despite the fact that the whipper was huddling in a doorway across the road.

“It’s me.” The whipper came to stand beside him. “Vinegar Clifford,” he said loudly. “Your patient, what’s come to see you on a medical matter.”

They were, it seemed, both talking for the benefit of whoever might be lurking in the shadows of the summer dusk. Dangerous times. And Gornt Blakeman at the center of them, a spider spinning an even larger web than Joyful had imagined.

“Come inside then, Vinegar Clifford, and we’ll see if this one-handed surgeon can cut away what ails you.”

“No cutting. I told you before, I ain’t going to let you take a knife to me private parts.”

They were in Joyful’s room, he had his bag open and a scalpel in hand. “That’s easy to say, Mr. Clifford. But I gave you a week’s supply of medicine yesterday, and here you are looking for more.” Got a taste for laudanum, Vinegar have you? Why not? The pure thing’s a sight better than anything you can buy in the town. If he’s still following Clare’s old recipe, even Jonathan’s three-penny elixir is only sixty percent laudanum and forty percent water. The stuff in that brown bottle I gave you was one hundred percent pure. “Did you take it all in one dose or two?”

The whipper shuffled from one foot to the other. “Neither,” then, sheepishly, “Three, I think. It hurts terrible bad. Need to piss again right now, I do, Dr. Turner. Without the brown stuff, I can’t see how I’ll manage.”

“With considerable pain,” Joyful said. “As you did before. Very well,” he stretched out a foot and hooked a chamber pot from under the bed, nudging it in Vinegar’s direction. “Get your prick out and let’s see if the condition is the same.”

“Now?” The whipper was still eyeing the scalpel.

“Of course now. Not ashamed of your equipment, are you, Mr. Clifford? Perhaps your cock’s not as intimidating as your whip.”

“Course I ain’t shamed. You saw me yesterday, didn’t you? You know I’ve plenty of meat in me britches. Besides, you’re a medical man. Not supposed to make judgments about that sort o’ thing.” He had loosed his buttons while he spoke. Now he gingerly withdrew himself, putting the whip under his arm so he could use both hands.

Joyful pushed the chamber pot closer. “Go on. Have at it, Mr. Clifford. I need to see your stream before I can be sure your condition warrants more treatment.”

Clifford gritted his teeth, hunched over the pot, and produced a small trickle of urine, then groaned and stopped. “Holy Jesus in heaven, I can’t. Not without the medicine. The pain’s something fierce.”

Joyful took a bottle of laudanum from his bag. “This will make it easier, won’t it? You know that for sure now.”

“I do, Doctor Turner. And I’ll not forget your kindness in—”

Clifford reached for the laudanum and Joyful snatched it away. “Not so fast, Mr. Clifford. Payment is required.”

The whipper pulled up straighter, a touch of the old cockiness in his glance, still willing to try and strike a bargain. “What about the yellow powder? The stuff as will stop me cock falling off.”

“Used all of that as well, have you?” Joyful fished in his bag for his last green bottle of tansy powder. Years before, Andrew had discovered a woman up in Yonkers in West Chester whom he swore was the finest simpler in the land. The day Joyful took his medical degree, Andrew had driven the younger man to her farm and introduced them. Like his cousin, Joyful had been getting his medicaments from Yonkers ever since. Half a day’s journey there and back, and God knew how he’d find the time at the moment. Still, it was worth it. The whipper might play the innocent, but he’d not have come here without something to trade. “You’ve been greedy, Mr. Clifford. That’s why you need more medicine so soon.”

“Sooner I can get well the better,” the whipper muttered. “Can’t say different to that, can ye? It’s plain common sense.”

“A sprinkling on your tongue morning and night, the dose I prescribed, will do the job. But you need to take it for more than a single day. A week at least.” Like one of those pleasure garden acts, always give them a reason to come back. “So what have you brought with you to make the purchase?”

Joyful held the two bottles in plain sight. Meanwhile the whipper’s need to answer the call of nature overcame his fear of the pain. He bent forward, and a few more drops of urine dripped into the pot. “Jesus,” he muttered, his face red and scrunched with pain, sweat beading on his forehead. “Blakeman’s been meeting with someone.”

As he suspected. Though it was no more than he’d already had from Barnaby Carter, it was confirmation. “Meeting with whom? When and where?”

“Last night,” Clifford said. “Late it was. And he only took me with him part o’ the way.”

Christ. The meeting Barnaby was reporting on had taken place earlier that day. “Last night? What was Blakeman doing today?”

“Don’t know nothin’ about today. He went out and left me at the countinghouse. Only took me with him yesterday cause by the time he went out it was late and dark. Just part of the way, like I said.”

“Part of the way to where, Mr. Clifford?” Joyful pulled the cork on the bottle of laudanum and poured some of the viscous brown liquid into his dosing spoon.

“Over in Brooklyn Village. We took the ferry, than hiked up the coast a bit. After that he left me to wait in a tavern. Came back near an hour later and we came home.”

“Up the coast exactly where?”