City of Dreams (54 page)

The name was quickly rejected. Make people too ready to depend on public charity, the Council felt. ‘“Public Workhouse,’” someone said.

“And ‘House of Correction,’ so they know we mean for ’em to change their ways.”

“Aye. And add ‘of the City of New York.’ So’s the buggers know whose bread they’re eating.”

The proposal carried. It would be the Public Workhouse and House of Correction of the City of New York.

Craddock jumped to his feet. “But I thought we agreed to build a hospital!”

“We did, Dr. Craddock, and we shall. But we are going to treat all the diseases of our clients, not merely the physical. Stiffen their spines, teach ’em to mend their ways. Might as well make that clear in the name. Begin as we mean to go on, as they say. Now, sir, please sit down.”

They appropriated eighty pounds from the general coffers and promised fifty gallons of rum for the builder. And since construction was known to be thirsty work, they agreed to be liable for a reasonable amount more, as well as paying the cost of the beams and the raising of the roof.

The building was ready for occupancy early in the year 1736.

It stood by itself on the far northern edge of the flat, rather desolate piece of land that was east of the Broad Way and north of Nassau Street, at the very corner the post riders turned as they began the final sprint of their grueling journey and galloped toward the house of the postmaster on Dock Street. One hundred and ten years after Peter Minuit had struck his bargain with the Canarsie people for the entire thirteen-mile-long island of Manhattan, the erection of the Public Workhouse and House of Correction marked the extension of the City of New York to a point almost exactly one and one-quarter miles from the southern tip.

The Poorhouse, as everyone would call it, was two stories high, with a usable cellar built half above ground, and a chimney topping the gables on either side. Half the cellar was reserved for those put to hard labor. The building also contained rooms for weaving and carding and spinning, and a storeroom for general provisions. The rest of the space was given over to a cage for any who required restraint. Or needed to be whipped. There was a provision in the law that said residents of the town could send their slaves or servants to the poorhouse for whipping, and whoever did the job was to be paid a shilling and sixpence.

The ground floor held the general dining room and dormitories. Above them were the quarters for the keeper and his family. And, quite apart from the rest of the facility, in a room about twenty-five by twenty-three feet on the side facing the Broad Way, was the six-bed infirmary.

The institution born in New York, on the site that was later to become known as City Hall Park, was the first real hospital in the English colonies.

“Absolutely set aside for the sick,” Craddock assured the young woman who though a few days short of twenty-one had taught him what it meant to be in true, heart-stopping terror that your life was about to be terribly and unalterably changed. “Nothing punitive about it. The keeper of the poorhouse holds no sway once he steps across the hospital threshold. We’ve written that into the bylaws.”

“Who does hold sway in the hospital, Cousin Zachary?”

“You know the answer.”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it once more.”

“Your father. It’s plainly stated in the Council’s pronouncement. Christopher Turner, Surgeon of this City—”

“Respected Surgeon. That’s what you told me it would say.”

“Yes, yes. That’s exactly what it says. Respected Surgeon of this City. In full and complete charge of all and whatever transpires in the manner of medical and surgical treatments. It’s entirely proper.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“And can I now take it, Mistress DaSilva, that you and I have concluded our business?”

“Why yes, of course, Cousin Zachary. We’re quite done. For the moment.”

Later, in Solomon’s arms, when her mind was clear of distractions, she asked, “Solomon, why did you make all this happen?”

“I’ve already told you that. Because you wanted it to happen.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe you.”

He raised himself on his elbow and looked into her lovely face, lit by the candle on her dressing table. “Very well. First, I did it because of the promise I extracted from you in exchange.”

“That I would never again touch a lancet or a scalpel.”

“Exactly. The thought of losing you to some dungeon below the City Hall … I couldn’t bear it, my love. I would die.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Kissing him little soft kisses between each word. “You would scale the walls and rescue me.”

“In a manner of speaking, I probably would. But since wall scaling—or burrowing, as the case may be—is not my strength, such a rescue would be enormously expensive. I chose instead to strike first. The result being that your clients get medical treatment, and I get a wife who does not commit criminal acts.”

“Not unless you count this. Or this.” She was touching him as she spoke, in ways and places that she knew he adored, but she stopped before they could both become too aroused. “Solomon, you said ‘first.’ There’s a second reason. That’s the one I want you to explain.”

He let go of her, lay back on the pillows, and folded his hands behind his head. “Very well, but I don’t think you’ll enjoy the explanation. I am a Jew, Jennet, and history is an excellent teacher. The time may come, at any moment, totally without warning, when if I am to survive I must flee.”

“Why? This is New York, Solomon. It is the most tolerant place in the colonies. Everyone knows as much. Almost no one here gives a fig what church people go to. Oh, Catholics are despised, I’ll grant you that, but mostly it’s money that’s the key to social standing in New York. I’ve heard Papa say so dozens of times.”

“In a manner of speaking he is correct. At least for Quakers and Anabaptists and Sabbatarians and the like. Even the hatred of Catholics has more to do with politics than with religion. It’s the pope they hate, and popery. But Catholics and Protestants are all one or another sort of Christian, Jennet. It’s different for Jews.”

“Why? There are nearly two hundred Hebrews in the city now. I heard Bilah Levy say so in the Broad Street Market just the other day.”

“Indeed.” He chuckled. “Are you now accepted among the Jewish matrons of quality? Taking tea with the Mistresses Levy and Franks and Simpson?”

“Not exactly. I was just standing near her and I heard … I wasn’t eavesdropping, Solomon, you mustn’t think so.”

“Why shouldn’t you listen to their chatter if it interests you? Besides, they’re all Tudescos. Their people came from countries where they speak German. You, my dear, are married to me. That gives you greater standing in their absurd pecking order.” He shifted his position, drawing her closer. “Whoremaster I may be, but I belong to the more refined segment of Jewish society, my love. I speak, God help us, Portuguese!” He shouted the last word with a hoot of triumph.

“Whatever has that to do with anything?” Jennet pounded her small fists on his bare chest. “You’re making fun of me, Solomon. You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m laughing, but not at you. This battle between the Portuguese-speaking Jews—the Sephardim—who were here first, and the Tudesco Ashkenazim—who are despised because they speak German—astonishes me. I’d weep if I didn’t laugh. They go to war among themselves. As if Jews didn’t have enough enemies.”

“But that’s the part I don’t understand, Solomon. You have your synagogue on Mill Street. Why should you feel yourself so threatened?”

It was as if the window had been opened and a cold wind had blown into the room. Jennet felt the chill. Solomon wasn’t grinning any longer. He got up and walked to the fireplace, and poked savagely at the coals a few times, then went to the small table in the corner and poured a tot of Madeira from the silver decanter that was always kept full of the nutty-brown wine he especially enjoyed.

“Solomon,” she asked, softly, “have I said something to offend you?”

“I’m offended, but it’s because I must explain—” He broke off, downed the wine in one swallow, then went back to the bed, sat beside her, and took her hand. “Jennet, listen to me. Jews are different because we are accused of having committed the worst crime imaginable. According to our enemies, we killed God. That’s not something likely to be forgotten.”

The words made her flesh go cold, and a terrible prickle of foreboding began at the back of her neck. “Solomon …”

“Hush, my love. If I have to flee—and you must accept my judgment that it’s entirely possible—the vultures will immediately make an attempt to swoop down and carry off everything I own. If that happens, only you will be able to protect what is ours. This business with Craddock and your father and the almshouse hospital … I have just given you the first lesson in how it is done.”

Book Four

The Shivering Cliffs Path
A
UGUST
1737-N
OVEMBER
1737

The part of Manhattan that faced the Sun-Going River was cold and the wind always blew. The Canarsie people who spent the warm months on the High Hills Island trading their exquisitely carved wampum with the other woodland peoples did not make their villages on the Sun-Going side. But at times they visited those high cliffs, where you could look across the broad water to the land of the mountains.

The fish from the Sun-Going River were large and sweet, and in some moons the great silver-skinned beasts with the pink flesh might be caught by skillful braves who took a canoe into the swift and icy waters.
Also,
the medicine women’s red stones came from a hidden place among the sun going hills.

The medicine women had a secret way to get to the place of the red stones. They called the way they traveled the Shivering Cliffs Path, and while they walked they sang a sad song meant to remind the gods of all they had taken from the Canarsie, of the young braves killed in war and the young women who died bearing children. That way the gods would not forget the Canarsie. They would allow the medicine women to find what they required to keep the People strong and free.

Chapter Eight

T
HE SIX BEDS
of the almshouse hospital were filled. They had to put an extra cot in the near corner of the room to accommodate the newest patient, a nine-year-old girl. It made the ward’s narrow aisle almost impassible, but the girl wasn’t likely to be there long.

The child had stopped her openmouthed, noisy gasping. Her struggle to breathe was quieter now, a continuous wheezing rasp. Her skin, no longer bright red with fever, had a faint blue cast, particularly around the mouth. She was fully conscious. The dark eyes she fixed on the young doctor were filled with terror. She was slowly and painfully choking to death as less and less air got through her closing windpipe.

Luke Turner was as tall as his father; he had to fold himself almost double to get close to the girl. His hand hovered above her neck. The razor edge of the scalpel glittered in the morning sunlight coming through the twelve-paned window. Still he hesitated. He’d never done this before, but there would never be a better chance.

Pure luck that the girl had been brought in on his watch, the one morning a week he took over in the hospital so Christopher could stay home and write his notes. A marvelous opportunity. The only problem was the toothless drunk the warden had sent to assist him. The grizzled old fool wasn’t putting his back into it. The girl was writhing and twisting, constantly throwing off the man’s feeble grip. “I told you to hold her still, damn it! I can’t do a thing if you don’t stop her jerking around like that.”

“I’m tryin’, sir. Told you I couldn’t do much with them as was doin’ the death dance. Not enough strength left.” That’s how he’d wound up in the poxed poorhouse. Not strong enough to run from the watchmen, pox their wretched souls. Came sniffing around every corner of the town these days. Turfed folks out of whatever bit of protection the bridges and doorways offered.

“Listen, old man, it’s a trip downstairs to the whipping cage if you don’t do as I say. Now put some muscle into it.”

Luke’s scalpel hovered a hairsbreadth above the child’s neck. She was bluer than she had been, fighting harder for every shallow breath, and not moving so much now. Her eyes begged for help. He put the tip of the scalpel against her thin skin.

There was a gasp from the woman who stood in the doorway. She had a large hump on her back and was bent to one side. She moaned a few times, then shuffled forward to see better. Luke didn’t turn around. “I told you not to come in here.”

“I won’t, sir, I swears it. Only please, sir, don’t cut my Tillie’s throat. She ain’t to blame for that loiterin’. It was me who couldn’t—”

Luke turned his head long enough to bellow, “I’m trying to help her, damn it! But if you don’t—” He broke off. The girl’s tortured contortions were suddenly more intense. She was thrashing about, beating her clenched fists on the bedclothes. It was now or never. “Hold her still,” he told the old man. “I swear you’ll get twenty lashes if she moves.”