City of Glory (57 page)

Aboard Le Carcajou, Noon

Delight told herself it was no different from the first time, behind the necessary out back in Hanover Square when she was ten. Or the second when she was thirteen and a
coureur des bois
who was setting bear traps in the Nova Scotia woods caught her instead, and forced himself on her on a winter day so cold her thirteen-year-old screams seemed to hang visible in the frozen air, then left her to die.

She didn’t die then and she would not die now.

Tintin had not waited until they were aboard his ship, using her in the dinghy while the one who had forced her out of the window at the point of his pistol rowed across the river and—God help her—whistled “Old Zip Coon.”

Her hands were roped tight together, so there was little point in fighting. For now she could do nothing except plan and wait, and watch for an opportunity. She made herself go limp, saying nothing, feeling nothing.

“
Alors, mademoiselle,
is that how you pleasure the men who pay for your cunny?” Angered by her blank expression, and rag doll compliance, he slapped her face over and over, getting, it seemed, more satisfaction from that than from her body.

Do what you want, you cannot touch me.

Except for Joyful, none of them touched her. Whether she pretended passion to entertain them or lay perfectly still, she was not present when they used her. Tintin was the same. They were all the same.

“Here is another one for the caves when we are home,” he said when he dropped her on the deck. “She’ll bring a good price,
non?
Stand up, nigra whore. Let them get a look at you.”

Hindered by her bonds, she didn’t do it fast enough, and he kicked her twice, the expression in his eyes showing how much he enjoyed it. “Welcome aboard
Le Carcajou,
mademoiselle. I am sure you will enjoy our hospitality.” Then, to the others, “It is warm today,
non?
Cannot one of you gallant gentlemen help the lady to be more cool?”

One of the pirates used his cutlass to cut away what was left of her corset and pantaloons. “High yellow all over,” he said after walking right around her, making an exaggeratedly slow tour of inspection. “Captain Tintin is correct, she’ll bring a good price on the block.”

“
Bien sûr,
but for now she belongs to us.” Tintin kicked aside the bits of Delight’s clothing that had dropped to the deck. “Take her below. Enjoy yourselves. There are only two rules. She must remain alive and”—he paused—“more or less intact. And she must come to understand what she is, so she gives us no trouble in front of the magistrates.
Alors mes amis, laissez les bons temps roule, eh?
”

New York City,
the Astor Mansion, 12:30
P.M.

The surveyor had been speaking for ten minutes. The marksman said nothing, just looked grim. Astor had interrupted only once or twice, seeking clarification concerning the American deployment, whether both men had actually seen Madison and his cabinet leave the battlefield unharmed (they had) and whether they knew where he was headed. “I heard talk of Maryland,” the surveyor said, “but I believe the final choice was Virginia.”

“That’s where Mrs. Madison was headed as well.” The marksman’s first words. “The president’s man, the one they call French John, he was to drive her carriage. I heard him say he would head for Alexandria.”

“A good thing. Road’s likely to be clearer that way,” the surveyor said.

“So?” Astor asked. “This you know for certain, Mr. Randal?”

“Not for certain, Mr. Astor. But it’s an informed guess.”

Astor was inclined to credit it. John Randal was the man charged by New York with surveying the entire island, and laying out the numbered streets and avenues of the city to come. In the matter of directions and roads he was unlikely to make a mistake. As for his reliability as a spy, that remained to be proven. “The prize the redcoats are after next is Baltimore,” Randal said.

“Not New York?”

“I don’t suppose so, sir. If New York were seriously on their list, a goodly portion of the fleet wouldn’t have put itself in such danger warping up the Potomac.”

“‘Warping’?” Astor looked puzzled. “I do not know this word.”

“They were in shallow waters, sir.” The marksman took over the explanation. “The only way they could get their gunboats within range of the Federal District was to drag them upriver on ropes. It’s a miserable job, dangerous, and no telling how well the ships will survive it.”

“So, did they shell the District?”

“Not that we saw, sir. It was burning all right, no doubt about that. Set the sky alight. But fairly certain it was the army set the fires.”

It came to the same thing. Everything they had labored so hard to construct on that drained swamp. All gone.
Du lieber Gott
…What could he do? And which was he trying to protect, his money or the nation? In the end, it didn’t matter. He could do little about what was happening miles away in Washington and Baltimore. Here in New York he might have influence.

How would people react? That was the critical question. Mr. Randal looked—resigned.
Ja.
An educated, logical man, one accustomed to making the lines meet and the road run straight. The marksman? Quentin Hale III, younger, more emotional. Family owned a huge estate up near Albany; all the same, less learning from books, more connected to the ordinary people of the city, the mechanics and laborers. The ones Blakeman must have on his side if his scheme was to work.
Security will not be a problem, Mr. Astor. Take my word for that.
So, Mr. Blakeman, we will see.

Astor nodded toward the rolled-up canvas that had been left at the door to the study when Ah Wong showed the two men in. “What is that?”

For answer Hale strode across the room and got the painting and unfurled it. “Mrs. Madison was determined not to leave it for the enemy to deface, sir. There wasn’t time to get the frame off the wall. We had to cut the portrait free.”

“It was her express wish that General Washington’s portrait be brought here to New York for safekeeping, Mr. Astor.” The surveyor’s tone was approving. “I admit I tried to talk her into leaving it behind, in the interest of getting her sooner away, but Mrs. Madison was adamant.”

Astor took a few steps closer to the unrolled painting. “Ja,” he said after a time. “A good idea, Mrs. Dolley. A very good idea.” He walked to the bellpull and tugged on it. “Into the streets you will go, gentlemen, to tell the city what has happened. Tell them everything you saw. Be sure to tell the newspapers as well. In fact, go first to them. Ah Wong,” jerking his head toward the servant who had hurried into the room, “will show you out.”

The marksman started to reroll the painting. “That,” Astor said, “you will leave with me. For safekeeping, like Mrs. Dolley said. Ah Wong, come back to me as soon as our callers have left.”

By one o’clock the broadsides were up all over the city. Redcoats burn Federal District! Executive Mansion destroyed! By half after, at least one newspaper had managed to get an extra edition on the streets: “Your Capital is taken! In six days the same enemy may be at the Hook!”

Joyful was headed for Hanover Square to see Jonathan, who was just the sort of greedy dimwit who might think going into the opium business with Thumbless Wu was possible, but the crowds gathering everywhere forced him back. He elbowed his way into a knot of people on Beaver Street, read the notice tacked to a large oak tree, and immediately started back to Ma Allard’s. In New York, always a town that lived much of its life on the streets, fear and anger were easily spread from mouth to mouth like a contagion.

Greenwich Street was a bit quieter, with only a few folks gathered on the corners and in doorways, talking in hushed whispers. Doubtless they’d be noisier before long. His landlady appeared as soon as his key turned in the lock, twisting her apron in one hand and dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes with the other. “Is it true then, Dr. Turner? They say the redcoats is already in the harbor and will have us back as a colony this very night. Is it true?”

“No, Mrs. Allard. In fact, the word is they’re not coming here at all. Baltimore is their next target.”

“But they’ve burned Washington and—”

“And the president and the first lady are safe. It’s only the British rattling their sabers, Mrs. Allard. We don’t need the Federal District to survive.”

Joyful hurried up the stairs to his room. The landlady followed. “They say the city’s a powder keg, Dr. Turner. Going to blow apart and take us all to kingdom come.”

“Maybe, madam. If so, I wish you a good journey. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He tried to shut the door with her on the other side, but she was too quick for him, inside the room as fast as he was. Joyful turned his back on her and grabbed his medical bag. In the normal way of things he’d just take it and be gone, but what was going on now was not the normal way of things. He opened the bag and began distributing the contents about his person.

“If it’s true, Dr. Turner…I know you said it’s not, but if it is…”

“If what’s true, madam?”

“If the redcoats come. I mean if they do…”

“Yes, Mrs. Allard?”

“Well, sir, you being a doctor and a famous hero and all, might be they’ll arrest you, or impress you into their navy, or Lord knows what else. So I was wondering if…Glory be, what are you planning to do with all them vicious-looking things you’re after putting in your pockets?”

“Doctoring, Mrs. Allard. Some surgery if it’s required. The city, as you put it, is a powder keg, feeding on rumors such as the notion that the British are in the harbor. Started, I’m sure, by well-meaning persons such as yourself. I am at somewhat of a disadvantage, as you might have noticed. I can be more effective if my one hand isn’t lumbered with a bag.” He shoved a wad of catgut ligatures into his left trouser pocket, the only one not already full of knives, probes, even the smallest of his saws. “That’s as much as I can carry.” He looked ruefully at the larger saws, decided it wasn’t possible to take them, snapped the nearly empty bag shut, threw it in a corner, and headed for the stairs.

Ma Allard followed, all but shrieking his name. “Dr. Turner, please, sir.”

“Please what? Out with it, madam, what do you want?”

“My rent, sir. In case the redcoats make off with you. I know it’s not due till the end of the week, but I’m a poor widow has to make her way in this world…”

Joyful found one of the gold reichsthalers in the watch pocket of his waistcoat—the only pocket too small for any medical supplies—and flipped it at her. “Prepare yourself, madam. I’d make up any extra beds you might have immediately. No doubt at least two British admirals and a general will be looking for accommodation before nightfall.”

Chapter Twenty-three

New York City in Ferment,
close to 2
P.M.

T
HE CROWD WAS
a tidal wave, a current that flowed up the island gathering numbers, purpose, and direction as it went.

The phalanx that came from the west met the throng from the east on Broadway, and together they turned north toward the Common. Joyful was swept along by a press of bodies so powerful he had no choice but to keep moving. A man to his left spoke almost directly in his ear. “Dr. Turner, ain’t ye? As was with Commodore Perry.” The man shouted at the top of his lungs, “Got us a hero here as beat the British bastards once before!”

Joyful cringed, but the man’s voice was swallowed up in the noise of the tramping feet and the cacophony of competing claims and rumors.

“Two British men-o’-war there be in the harbor. Shelling the city.”

“Open your ears, man! Ain’t no sound o’ shells. It’s the poxed redcoats. Burned the Federal District and think to burn us down next.”

“It’s the redcoats and the navy,” a third voice added. “The fleet’s put in up at Kips Bay, same as at the start o’ the Revolution. Got another think comin’ if they’re planning to occupy New York a second time.”

“There are no British troops in the city!” Joyful shouted. Stupid to think you could talk sense to this throng, but he had to try. “There are no redcoats in New York. You’re all—”