City of Dreams (103 page)

Andrew moved the lace curtain slightly aside and watched Mistress Healsall and her daughter hurry away, looking like a pair of waifs in their soot-stained, scorched clothing—particularly on Ann Street, where it seemed as if nothing whatever had happened. No foolhardy Declaration. No disastrous one-sided battle over on the long island. No bombardment, no occupation, and no fire. Everything on Ann Street looked exactly the way it had been. But everything was changed.

Except him. He wasn’t changed. He was here doing what he’d been doing for the ten years since he returned from Edinburgh. Looking after the sick. And wondering.

Christ, the redhead was beautiful. He’d heard she was. Some said she was Cuf’s woman, some said he was only her slave.

Jesus God Almighty. Andrew had always found Cuf pleasant enough. But a white woman lying with a Negro? That couldn’t be right. On the other hand, it might not be true. They said Mistress Healsall had a daughter by Cuf, but if so, it wasn’t the girl he’d just seen. Those dark blue eyes, those were Turner eyes. Could be she was Morgan’s daughter. God alone knew how many bastards his handsome cousin had scattered about the city. A rebel now, if he was still alive. Given the numbers of dead and wounded in Washington’s army, there was no way to know.

The secret drawer in Andrew’s desk was opened by pressing a lever that could be reached only when the middle drawer was entirely removed. Even then, if you didn’t know the lever was there you wouldn’t see it. The Scots carpenter had been that clever; every desk he made was different, he’d promised. So at least this side of the ocean, Andrew was the only person alive who knew how to find the hiding place in the desk he’d had shipped over along with his Edinburgh bride.

Andrew slipped out the drawer, then reached in and located the lever by feel. The secret compartment swung into view. And the piece of paper he’d found clutched in Caleb Devrey’s dead hand was on top, carefully folded along the original creases.
Seventy-four degrees, thirty minutes west of Greenwich. Just south of twenty-four degrees north. Twice around and thrice back.

There was only one thing it could be: a sailor’s navigation guide. At least the first part was. He was certain beyond any hesitation that Morgan Turner was the sailor in question. And the only reason Morgan or any other sailor would write down something so obscure and terse—twice around and thrice back of what?—was to protect a treasure.

So in Christ’s name, after all these years, why hadn’t he gone after it? Because he wasn’t a sailor. Because he’d have to find someone he could trust to take a ship to wherever it was. And do whatever had to be done to find the treasure. And because the only way he could be sure of getting so much as a smell of the booty—if it was still there—was to go along on the journey. And these last years, with his legless father to look after, and Meg pregnant so much of the time (though only the two boys and their sister had survived infancy)—well, he’d been busy.

He was busy still, with things more important than buried treasure. However much Morgan owed his family for that day outside the almshouse.

Andrew carefully refolded the paper and put it on top of the other things he kept in the secret compartment. Lucas Turner’s journals, tied together with Christopher Turner’s notes on little worms that might carry disease, and on the art and science of blood transfusion.

The day Andrew heard the Declaration he had gone home and taken the journals and the papers from the shelf and hid them in the desk. As if he didn’t want his forebears to watch him do what he knew he must.

Bede Devrey was seventy-four years old and shaking with palsy. He said that was why he hadn’t left the city along with the rest of the men of property who shared his view that independence was bad for business, and treason besides. Bede stayed on Wall Street, though he’d sent his ships to ports in Virginia. He said it was to be sure the rebels couldn’t use them. That had been before the battle of the long island, when a British victory was likely but not entirely assured. And the way things were, well, it was hard to get word to his captains to take their vessels out and privateer in the British cause. There was a war on, hell damn it!

“Hell damn it, Andrew! You’re hurting me! Can’t you find anything better to do for this hell damn it shaking!”

“No, Cousin Bede, I cannot.” The cut he’d made in the vein at the crook of Bede’s right arm was swift and deft; it bled instantly in a steady stream. Meanwhile four large and hairy black leeches were attached to the old man’s left wrist. “Please try and be calm. The leeches drink best and deepest when the patient isn’t agitated.”

“Weak as a kitten I am afterward. No wonder I’m agitated. Hell damn it, boy, it’s a wonder I’ve any blood left.”

“Didn’t Samuel bleed you when he was treating your palsy?”

“’Course he did. That’s all you doctors do, isn’t it? Bleed and cup and purge. S’pose that’s what Sam’s doing now he’s gone off to be a rebel. Making Washington’s soldiers shit out their watery insides.”

“Probably,” Andrew agreed. “Helps sometimes.”

“Doesn’t stop me shaking, though.”

“No. Bleeding’s best for that.”

“But afterwards, I can hardly move.”

Andrew watched the flow from the right arm slowly fill a glass flagon with measurements etched on the side. “I haven’t bled you in over a week, Cousin Bede. We can take two pints today with no undue effect.”

“No hell damn it effect on the bloody palsy, either. And what are you giving me now?” Bede nodded toward the crate of bottles that Andrew had carried in with him. “Another of your filthy drinks? Enough there to see me in my grave from the look of it.”

“Nothing in that box is for you.” The first of the four leeches tumbled to the bedclothes, fat and sated with blood. Andrew scooped it up and returned it to the jar he used to transport the creatures. “The box is for Mistress Healsall.”

“The quack from over the Church Farm way? The one who’s supposed to be the almighty glorious looker ran off with Squaw DaSilva’s slave Cuf?”

“The very same. She came to consult me this morning.”

“She never. Pair of tits could launch a ship, I hear.”

“She has. And she did. Come to see me, I mean. Brought her daughter to consult me, to be entirely accurate.” The second leech had sucked its fill and let go. Andrew recaptured it. He could easily have effected the entire treatment by cutting, but one of his professors in Edinburgh had speculated that some exchange between the leeches and the patient had a salutary effect in certain instances. Andrew hoped that might be the case with Bede’s palsy, though as yet there was no evidence of it.

“What’s wrong with her daughter?”

“Mistress Healsall’s daughter?”

“Of course, bloody damn it! That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There, that’s the last of them.” Andrew scooped up the third and fourth leeches. “I think she was raped. Night of the fire. Left her in a terrible state of shock. One of her nipples was bit nearly clean through.”

“Sweet Christ. Makes me sick to think of the number of British bastards there’ll be in this town in nine months. I hear Squaw’s got another brothel ready for the sailors. None too soon. Useful in many ways.”

Andrew looked up. Their eyes met for a moment. “Sure to be useful,” Andrew said.

“You can count on it. I’m told that little blond Amarantha lives at Squaw’s place is Howe’s favorite. Clever lass, Amarantha. Good head on her. Though that’s not what interests Howe. Enough said, lad. Now tell me what all that clabber is for, if I’m not to drink it or bathe in it or put it on my bread.”

“It’s simples, from Craddock’s house.”

Bede snorted. “How is he, the old bastard? Didn’t get burned out, did he?”

“No, Pearl Street was spared. Craddock’s the same as always. Doddering about the house talking to himself and drooling.”

“But he let you take those stuffs, did he?”

“I didn’t ask. Just gave him a sleeping draught and helped myself. He’s no use of them now that Phoebe’s gone and the apothecary shop is closed.”

“It’s all closed, in a manner of speaking,” Bede said softly. “Nothing will be the same after this war.”

The old man’s eyes were full of tears. Andrew felt like crying as well. “My grandfather’s old house burned to the ground,” he said softly. “There’s nothing left of it. All Hall Place has pretty much disappeared.”

“Shame that is. I always admired Christopher,” Bede said. “We were never friends, couldn’t be, the way things were with my feckless brother. But I know you were fond of him.”

“Very. I spent many happy hours in that house, and he taught me more about medicine than I ever learned anywhere else.”

“When to stop as well, I hope. That’s bloody enough, Andrew. I feel quite lightheaded.”

The blood was edging up to the flagon’s pint and a half measure, and the leeches must have taken almost a pint more. “Yes, plenty. I agree.” Andrew whipped a leather tie around Bede’s right arm just above the elbow and tightened it. Almost instantly the flow of blood stopped. “I’ll take a stitch to close the wound. And I’ll remove the cups soon as I’m done.”

He’d cupped Bede’s legs while the bloodletting was going on. The blisters proved to be quite satisfactory, covering both shins from the knee to the ankle. Andrew finished treating his patient and began packing his instruments into his black satchel. “I’ll tell the servants to bring you some tea on my way out.”

“Tell Nancy to come herself.” After forty years Bede was still devoted to his wife. “Tell her I want to see her.”

“Very well, I will.” Andrew snapped his bag shut. “Cousin Bede, there’s one other thing. I daren’t show my face around the Church Farm. Can you get someone to bring this box to Mistress Healsall in what’s left of the Fiddle and Clogs?”

“Of course. I’ll send Raif. No one’s likely to blame him for anything. Good or ill.”

Raif Devrey, Sam’s twin, looked nothing like his brother. Raif stood a bit over five feet, he was fat, and his vision was so poor he had to squint to see anything more than ten inches away. Sam had always refused to marry, but years ago Bede had managed to find a bride for Raif. She died birthing his first child. The babe, a boy, died a few hours later and was buried in his mother’s coffin. At thirty-six, Raif had been a widower for twelve years. Also unlike his brother, Raif had no interest in politics. Tory or rebel, it was all the same to him. Raif still lived under Bede’s roof and ran any errands his father set him.

“I take it you’re Mistress Healsall?”

“No, of course I’m not. I’m her daughter, Clare.”

“Oh, I see.” The exertion of clambering over the charred remains of the Fiddle and Clogs made Raif’s breath come in noisy gasps. “Mistress Healsall,” he wheezed, “where is she then?” All the while squinting mightily and staring at Clare.

“Seeing a patient. What do you have there?”

“Simples and such. My father sent them.” The darkest blue eyes he’d ever seen. A few strands of hair black as ink peeked out of her mobcap.

“Very well. You can leave them with me.”

“I can carry them inside, if you like.” He looked around, squinting into the middle distance to see where a door might be.

“I’d like it quite well. But there is no inside. This is where we’re living now.” Clare indicated the two blankets that hung from the blackened stumps of a pair of beams that once supported the roof of the taproom.

Raif tipped back his head. “The blankets are only horsehair. They won’t help much if it rains.”

“No, I expect they won’t. You can put the crate down over there.” Clare pointed at a large flat rock that had once been part of the taproom’s foundations.

Raif did as he was told, then looked up, squinting more fiercely then ever so he could take the measure of the expanse between the burned-out roof beams. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said after a few moments. “With enough canvas to make this space waterproof.”

“Canvas is hard to come by. General Washington’s soldiers emptied all the stores.”

“Yes, I know. But I’ll get some.”

Clare nodded. “Fine. If you can, that would be very nice.”