City of Dreams (108 page)

“If there’s any that could be helped by surgery,” Andrew sometimes offered, “perhaps I can manage to—”

“Ah, wouldn’t that be a waste? You doing something to put yourself in bad with the almighty British. And for what? The condition those men are in, Dr. Turner, they could never survive any surgery. The best you or I can do is let them die in peace. Help them to die in peace if we can.”

Thank God and the Holy Virgin she had a reasonably steady source of laudanum. Clare was making as much as each summer’s harvest of poppies would yield. Dr. Turner had given her the receipt. Found it in the old Pearl Street apothecary, he said, in ‘78 after Dr. Craddock died. Written in the hand of Sally Van der Vries herself, Dr. Turner thought.

Mistress Van der Vries, Red Bess, and Tamsyn and Phoebe after her, they’d all called it Health-Giving Tonic. “Elixir of Well-Being,” Clare labeled the tiny vials she sold for tuppence each in her Hanover Square Pharmacy. Elixir of health-giving nonsense, as far as Roisin was concerned. She’d never seen laudanum cure anything, but it gave the worst off a brief period of ease, so she had no hesitation in using it.

Weak as they were, most of the men knew to open their mouths when she crouched beside them. Her basket was always full of johnnycakes. She stayed up half the night making them. It was Raif got her the Indian meal, God alone knew where. She’d feed each prisoner a bit, watch the man chew and swallow, then, as long as her supply lasted, Roisin dropped a dose of laudanum onto the man’s parched tongue and laid a cool hand against his hot forehead.

“Thanks, Mistress. God bless.”

“And you, soldier. God grant you peace.”

Often they asked about the progress of the war and she would whisper whatever news she had. Always the truth, whether it was pretty or not. It seemed to Roisin to demean their suffering and their courage to tell them lies.
We won at Trenton. Princeton is ours. Brandywine was a disaster for us. The British have Philadelphia. Burgoyne
’
s surrendered at Saratoga, a great victory for us. Ben Franklin’s in Paris and the French are said to be ready to come in on our side now. We lost over a thousand men at Germantown. They say conditions for the Americans are terrible at Valley Forge.
But year after year, no matter how discouraging the news, she ended the same way: “Washington fights on. We shall win, you know. In the end we shall win.” The soldiers always smiled.

“Mistress Healsall, come …”

The hoarse plea came from some ten feet away, from over where the skeleton of the huge old wooden still made the shadows deepest. “I’m coming as fast as I can,” she called out. “If I don’t make it today, I promise I’ll start at your end when I come next.”

“Roisin, please … You must … Please …”

She froze. For long seconds she couldn’t breathe. Finally, steeling herself, she stumbled to her feet.

“I don’t understand. The rules say … It can’t be you, but it is.” Rebel officers were never put in the prisons. They were permitted to rent rooms in the town. All the same, here was Morgan Turner, lying next to the old still, so weak he could barely lift his head.

“Rules … suspended,” he muttered. “No rules for me.”

She crouched beside him. “Ah, dear God, what difference does it make now? Here, I’ve a bit of johnnycake left. Open your mouth.”

His lips were cracked and they bled when he opened them. She dabbed at the wounds with the corner of her sleeve and put a small portion of the biscuit on his tongue. Holy Virgin, please stop my hands trembling so. It was as if the man she’d known had been sliced lengthwise, and this sliver of him tossed onto the sugarhouse floor. Oh God, oh God. She could count every one of his bones.

“Good,” Morgan whispered. “Very good. Best johnnycake I ever tasted.” He struggled with the words, but speaking seemed to increase his strength rather than sap it. She’d seen that happen before. Speaking reminded the prisoners they were men. “More,” he demanded.

“I’ve only a bit left. Here.” She fed him the last few crumbs, blinking furiously to keep back her tears. She had a few remaining drops of laudanum as well.

“Open your mouth once more. I’ve a simple will help.”

“Where’s Cuf?” he whispered hoarsely. “How long do we have?”

Ah dear Holy Virgin. He thought they were trysting. “Ssh. Cuf’s fine. He’s not here. Don’t try and say so much now. We’ll have time for more later.”

She tipped the last of the golden laudanum into her dosing spoon and let him lick it when the syrup was gone. “That will help a little,” she promised, taking his hand. He was burning with fever. She felt for his pulse. Weak and erratic. “Morgan.” She put her face close to his. He had a full beard, filthy, crawling with lice like the rest of him, but still solid black. Many of the men went white after a few months, if they lived. “How long have they had you?”

“I don’t … What day is it?”

“Tuesday.” Holy Virgin, calm the trembling. He mustn’t feel her shaking like this. “It’s Tuesday,” she whispered.

“Friday when they caught me. I think. I’m not …” His words faded and died.

Dear God in heaven. He had not become what he now was in a matter of days. “What month, Morgan? Friday of what month?”

“Foolish Roisin.” A laugh in his voice, as if he were wooing her. “Sweet Roisin. It’s October. And Howe’s come across with his troops, and the ships in the river are blasting away. And they’ve caught poor Nat Hale. …” The words left him and he closed his eyes.

Roisin rocked back on her heels. It couldn’t be true. He was describing events that had happened in ’76. Four years. It wasn’t possible. Her mouth was parched; her tongue felt like emery paper. Still she leaned close and whispered. “Where have they kept you, Morgan? Since they caught you? You weren’t here, or I’d have seen you before now.”

“We’re on the
Jersey,
Roisin,” he muttered. “But be strong. They won’t finish you unless you let them break your spirit. We’re on the
Jersey
… No, can’t be. I’m dreaming. Roisin, where’s Cuf? In the taproom?”

“Ssh. Don’t try and talk more now.” She put a gentle hand over his eyes so he wouldn’t see her tears. “Rest. Only a little time more, then I’ll be back.”

Roisin knew where she was going the moment she walked out the door of the sugarhouse. Making herself look calm, giving the guards no hint that anything was wrong. Even though her heart was pounding, and blood was ringing in her ears, and she felt as if at any moment her legs must give out.

She kept up her slow, measured stroll as long as the guards could see her. Then, when she turned onto the Broad Way, Roisin picked up her pace until she was almost running.

Duane Street was at the very edge of the city, farther north even than the Common. The only other building this far out of town was the supposed-to-be New York Hospital some of the town’s doctors had been building before the war. A barracks for the Hessian troops it was now. Roisin slowed when she passed it, feeling the eyes of the sentries boring into her back.

A few minutes more and she drew level with the almshouse. Sometimes British troops were put in the almshouse hospital; Dr. Turner might be there. She glanced up at the sun still barely clearing the treetops. No, it was too early. Anyway, she couldn’t be sure about Andrew Turner. Not absolutely sure.

The farther south she went, the more people were about. Blacks mostly. Crowds of them there were in New York these days, thousands, folks said. Some were runaway slaves, some slaves turned loose by their masters when there was no more money to feed them. All come to Tory New York, where, unlike in places held by the rebels, Negroes were permitted to have a trade.

Dear God, was it any wonder they sided with the British? Those black brigades—the Pioneers and the Guides and the Royal African—that spent all their time terrorizing the patriot farms up in West Chester, or in New Jersey, or over on the long island, could you blame them? Getting their own back, they were. Only Cuf, it seemed, was prepared to die for the rebel cause. Six months since she’d seen him.

At last, the court part of town. Roisin made herself slow to a sedate walk. A few minutes more would make no difference. Holy Virgin, don’t let him die. Not now. Not after four years. He’s survived so long, don’t let him die now.

She was within sight of the Bowling Green. In a few hours, fashionable ladies would be sitting on the benches taking the sun. Tory bitches, every one. This part of town stank of Tory. Whores, the lot of them, whether or not they were paid for their favors. Not a few of the women from these fine mansions had come to her and spread their legs and begged her to rid them of an English bastard. She always shoved the pessary in hard as she could, and next day when she scraped them, she made no effort to be gentle.

Squaw DaSilva’s house looked just as it had the first time she saw it, when she drove up with Morgan and his mother and had no idea who they were, only that they’d saved her from the whipper and the pit. She hadn’t seen the place since the day she and Cuf ran away, but it looked exactly the same, the yellow brick facade and the double doors just as grand and imposing.

She half expected Mistress O’Toole or Tilda to come to the door. Instead it was opened by a woman with a hideous harelip. Her mother always said a babe was born so because the devil and an angel fought over it, pulled it in two directions. That’s why there was no cure.
If heaven and hell couldn’t settle the matter, there’s nothing to be done.

“I want to see Squaw DaSilva.”

The woman grunted something and shook her head. She tried to shut the door, but Roisin put all her weight against it. “Don’t you dare turn me out! Get your mistress. Tell her Roisin Campbell has news of her son.”

“It’s all right, Bridget. Let her come in.” The voice came from the top of the stairs.

Bridget stopped struggling with the door. Roisin nearly lost her footing and stumbled into the hall.

Squaw DaSilva hurried down the stairs, emerging from the shadows into the greenish light that came from the two long stained-glass windows either side of the entrance. “What do you want here? Do you know something about Morgan?”

It wasn’t yet nine in the morning, in a house that did not go to bed until dawn. Squaw DaSilva had thrown a silk wrapper over her nightdress when she heard the commotion at the door. It was the first time Roisin had ever seen her without the veil and the black dress. Holy Virgin, the Squaw’s eyes were exactly like Clare’s. No wonder Morgan had guessed as soon as he saw the girl.

Roisin’s heart was pounding as if it must come out of her chest, and she was shaking so she couldn’t hold her basket. She let it fall and pressed her hands to her breast. She was sure she was going to faint.

Squaw DaSilva put an arm around her shoulders. “Here. Come inside and sit down. Bridget, bring sack.” She wanted to shake Roisin, but there would be no information until the wench had regained her wits.

The long room was only half cleaned. Bridget’s brooms and mops were standing beside an open window and the smell of last night’s Tokay and tobacco lingered. Squaw sniffed. Her visitor was no more pleasant. The few weeks she’d lived in this house Roisin had been fastidious. Today she smelled as if she’d waded in a sewer.

Bridget brought the wine. Squaw took the glass and held it herself to the other woman’s lips. “Here, drink some of this. It will help you regain your senses.” Roisin took a few sips. Some of the color returned to her cheeks. “Now tell me about Morgan. For the love of God, you’ve a child of your own. Have a mother’s pity. Tell me.”

“He’s in Rhinelander’s sugarhouse up on Duane Street.”

“He’s alive! My son is alive!”

“Yes, but—”

“Tell me!”

“Morgan says … He’s addle-minded, not all his wits are in place. He says …”

“What? For God’s sake, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“He says”—she couldn’t get her voice to rise above a whisper—“Morgan says he’s been a prisoner on the
Jersey
these past four years.”

Squaw couldn’t repress a groan. “Four years. It’s not possible. No one could live four years—” But dear God, hadn’t she known all along? When she stood on her roof and stared at the devil ships, hadn’t she known? “How is he?” She was screaming now, digging her fingers into Roisin’s shoulders. “Tell me the truth! How is my son? What have they done to him?”