City of Dreams (109 page)

“I came here to tell you the truth. Morgan’s alive. But only just. If we don’t get him out of that place, he won’t last the week.”

As instructed they brought the carriage as far as the corner of Warren Street and the Broad Way and waited. The night was black, the streets silent. Twenty minutes ticked by. Half an hour. Squaw’s hands were clenched so tight her nails dug into her palms. Two days it had taken to make the arrangements to free her son, the first few hours spent in deciding how to go about it.

Every instinct drove her to run at once to Sir Henry Clinton and either throw herself on his mercy or threaten to expose his relationships with Amarantha and Gwendolyn. But she was sixty-five years old. She had learned well the lessons Solomon set out to teach her all those years ago. Battles are won by the clever, not merely the powerful.

If Henry Clinton had an ounce of mercy in him there would be no more prisoners on the
Jersey. As
for the threats, no wife of any serving British officer would be shocked to know her husband visited doxies. Mrs. Clinton was probably grateful it was the whores’ backsides he reddened rather than her own. And Henry Clinton was commander in chief of the British forces in America. Anyone with authority over him was in London, not New York. No scandal made by the most notorious whoremistress in New York could touch him.

No, this problem could be solved not with influence but with money. In New York, freedom, like everything else, could be bought. Not from Clinton. He was already too rich. The redcoats guarding the sugarhouse, they were the most likely to sell. But they would be taking a considerable risk. She’d have to make it worth their while.

It was a delicate calculation. She settled on fifty golden guineas, about equal to what her house earned in a week, and a fortune to an ordinary soldier. But not so much as would make him think the prize to be so valuable he’d gain more by reporting the offer than taking it up.

They decided Roisin would make the approach. Easier for her, since her presence at the sugarhouse was expected. Fifty golden guineas for the man lying next to the still on the ground floor. The one with the black hair.

“And why’s he so valuable, then?”

“’Cause I say so, that’s why.”

“Not good enough. Not if I’m gonna be putting me neck in a noose to help.”

“A noose for a half-dead rebel prisoner? Give over! Besides, it’s not me you’re helping. It’s yourself. Fifty guineas. What’ll that buy when you go home?”

Jesus bloody Christ. What wouldn’t it buy? His own forge, for a start, in the Somerset village where he’d grown up. “Where you gonna get fifty golden ladies?”

“That’s not your business, neither. All you has to know is that I got ’em.” Roisin stepped closer. “Put your hand down my bodice,” she whispered. “Pull out what you find.”

They were alone in the clump of trees by the edge of the Common where the guards went to relieve themselves. All the same, the redcoat glanced over both shoulders before accepting her invitation.

Nice pair, even if she weren’t all that young anymore. But tits were easy to come by; money was something else. He felt a leather pouch and yanked it free. “This here ain’t heavy enough to be fifty guineas.”

“’Course it ain’t. What kind of fool do you take me for? That’s a bond, like, they call it. There’s fifteen guineas in that pouch. Bring me the man I want, tomorrow night, you’ll get thirty-five more.”

The redcoat considered for a few seconds. Finally he’d nodded and shoved Squaw DaSilva’s pouch of coins down the front of his trousers and turned and left.

It was at least half an hour past midnight. Dear God, Roisin thought, if she had to fight back her tears, how terrible must it be for Morgan?

She had whispered the plan into his ear earlier that day. “In the middle of the night. A big guard with great broad shoulders and fair hair. He’ll carry you outside. A carriage will be waiting.”

“What about the others?” Morgan was more lucid, as if conspiracy revived him. “Will any raise the alarm?”

“No,” she’d whispered. “There’s plenty as are taken out of here in the middle of the night. I promise you, it will cause no astonishment.”

Holy Virgin, who would believe she’d find a reason to be grateful to that devil incarnate, Provost Marshal Bill Cunningham? Walking about the prisons cracking his whip, known to have men brought to him at any hour a sadistic whim moved him. Said to quietly hang them when he was done.

“Don’t worry about anything.” She’d breathed the words into Morgan’s ear, stroking his forehead. “Rest now. Wait. The guard will come for you.” All day and half the night, believing his ordeal was almost over. How bitter Morgan’s disappointment? Her own, terrible as it was, could be nothing by comparison.

“Look!” For the dozenth time Squaw DaSilva had moved aside the curtain of the coach and peered into the black night. A shape was moving toward them, barely discernible in the darkness.

Roisin pressed her face to the window of the carriage. “It’s him! “

The older woman threw open the carriage door, leaning forward. “Morgan,” she called softly into the night. “Morgan.”

“Ssh!” the guard hissed, and when he was close enough so they could hear his whisper, “Keep yer mouths shut. Cunningham came to call tonight. He’s still in there. That’s why I’m late.”

Squaw barely registered his words. She reached out her arms for her son, but the guard ignored her and without releasing his grip on Morgan shoved his face toward Roisin’s. “Gimme me money.”

“It’s here.” She thrust the pouch at him. Better if it came from her, they’d decided. Best would have been if Squaw DaSilva waited at home, but she could not bring herself to do so. “It’s all there,” Roisin said. “Thirty-five golden guineas. I swear it.”

He hesitated. Roisin knew he wanted to go off and count the coins before giving Morgan up, but he couldn’t risk being gone a second longer than necessary. “Here. Take him. Good riddance.”

The guard slung his burden onto the seat next to Roisin. Morgan’s eyes were closed. He didn’t move. They were too late. They’d claimed a corpse.

“Morgan.” His mother spoke her son’s name aloud. She slipped to her knees between the seats of the carriage and pressed her ear to his heart. “He’s alive,” she whispered. “We can—”

“Hush!” Roisin whispered urgently. “Listen!” Hoofbeats. Coming toward them.

“Get out!” Squaw flung open the carriage door. “Climb up with the driver.”

Roisin understood at once. No way on God’s earth the carriage could outrun a rider on horseback. She jumped to the ground, hoisted her skirts, and used the spokes of the tall front wheel to clamber up to the driver’s perch. “Quick! Put your arms around me. Someone’s coming. We must look like trysting lovers.”

She tossed her red hair into disarray and tore at the laces of her bodice as she leaned toward him. “For the love of God, man, what are you waiting for? Put your arms around me!”

She’d only had an instant’s glimpse of the coachman when the journey began. He was clad in black breeches and a black jerkin and his face was shadowed with a broad-brimmed black hat. He kept the hat on when he turned toward her and put stiff arms either side of her waist. “Heaven help us,” Roisin said. “You must be the most awkward lover ever— Dear God.”

She was staring into the face of Squaw DaSilva’s maid. Bridget.

The sound of the horse’s hooves grew louder. Roisin closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around the other woman’s neck and pressed her mouth against Bridget’s deformity.

The hoofbeats were a drumbeat of terror. Only a few seconds more; then he’d have passed them by. But the sound of the horse’s hooves didn’t fade away as she expected it to; they stopped abruptly. There was silence, then: “Well, well. What have we here?”

She knew the voice. All New York knew the voice. And the crack of the whip.

Roisin didn’t let go her grip on Bridget. She put her face over the other woman’s shoulder. Bill Cunningham’s pockmarked face was barely visible in the faint starlight. “How about it, gov?” she called gaily. “Care to be next? Won’t be a long wait. This one’s almost done. Sixpence for a fine-looking gent like you. A bargain.”

Cunningham didn’t answer. Just sat on his horse and studied them. The woman, the coachman, the impressive black carriage. “Well,” he said. “Well.”

Roisin took some comfort in the fact that he didn’t get off his horse. Gossip said it wasn’t women gave Bill Cunningham a hard dick. Maybe it was true. If it were not, and if she had to, she’d lie with him. “How about it, gov?” she asked again.

“Fine carriage,” Cunningham said. “Remarkable. Count the folks in New York City has a carriage like this on the fingers of one hand.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say or do. Her arms were still around Bridget and she could feel the other woman trembling. Maybe she should get down and let Cunningham get a good look at her.

Suddenly, without another word, the provost marshal dug his spurs into his mount’s sides and snapped the reins. The horse reared, then wheeled around and galloped into the night.

Inside the carriage Squaw held her breath until the sound of hooves had entirely died away. Then she put down the pistol she’d taken from the folds of her bustle.

She’d been pointing it at Morgan’s heart.

He had regained consciousness and was watching her.

These past two days she’d tormented herself thinking that four years on the
Jersey
must have made him mad. They had not. They’d confused him, perhaps, but the look of loathing in his eyes told her he was basically sane. “I’d have shot you myself,” she whispered. “In an instant. Anything rather than let them take you back into that torment.”

“Canvas Town, most folks call it.” Roisin kept talking while she tried to make him comfortable. The escape had left him weaker than he’d been before, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. His breathing was shallow, and when he exhaled she heard a terrifying rattle in his chest.

“We’re better off than many. We’ve plenty of sailcloth. Enough for both roof and walls. ’Course it’s not so grand as your mother’s house, but we couldn’t take you there. Not after Bill Cunningham saw her carriage.”

“Where’s Cuf?” He was straining to sit up.

“Not here, Morgan. Cuf’s not here. You remember, he’s with General Washington’s army. I haven’t seen him in three months, not since we won at King’s Mountain down in Carolina. Cuf sneaked home for a few days after that. He said the French were the reason we’ve— Ah, God, you don’t know about Lafayette and the French, do you? I’ll tell you the whole story. But not now. After we get you well.”

She was brewing a tea of willow bark while she spoke, heating the kettle over the makeshift fireplace of stones and rubble. Twice the normal strength she made it, because sure God, he had to be free of the pain if he was to make any progress healing. And how much pain must he have? She had examined him all over when she laid him on the blankets in the corner, felt the remnants of at least a dozen old fractures. “No end to the beatings,” the prisoners sometimes whispered, staring into her eyes when she fed them, grabbing her arm in their urgency to communicate. “Over and over again they beats ye. Till ye can’t do nothin’ but pray to die.” At even her lightest touch Morgan winced.