City of Dreams (58 page)

The feud did not fade away; it became a touchstone for wider differences. Eventually the whole town took up sides. Cosby had died a few months before. George Clark, one of the richest men in the city, was the present acting governor. But the political rift exposed by William Cosby’s avarice continued to shape the political attitudes of New York.

De Lancey’s party was the voice of the establishment, of the all-powerful merchants. They spoke for taxing land, not imports and exports. In New York, owning land usually meant being a small, independent farmer. The farmers and laborers and artisans found a voice in Morris, who argued that it was absurd for such people to bear the tax burden.

The way Caleb saw it, everything the Morrisites stood for contradicted Cadwallader Colden’s natural instincts, but the God-cursed fool had joined them anyway because James De Lancey had to be defanged if Colden’s political future was to prosper. “Tell me, Dr. Colden, if De Lancey’s candidate is held to be the winner even after the challenge, will it be the end of your Morrisites?”

“It will not. This is a battle, lad. It is not the war.”

“That’s not what my father says. He insists Morris wants to turn the world on its head, that he doesn’t understand an Englishman’s the same whether he lives in London or here in America.”

Colden winced. “Indeed. I grant your father that. But none should think we Morrisites are any less His Majesty’s loyal subjects on account of our difference of opinion on this matter. As I said, Dr. Devrey, this isn’t about philosophy, much less loyalty. It’s about one man’s refusal to be fair.”

My enemy’s enemy is my friend. Damn the bastard. So why wasn’t what was fair for Rip Van Dam also fair for Caleb Devrey? How come it was acceptable for him to do all the work for half the profit?

It was impossible to speak such thoughts. He couldn’t afford to oppose his father; there were chits bearing his name in every tavern and coffeehouse in the city. But he never would dig himself out of the hole as long as he was only getting half the earnings of his labor. Will Devrey, meanwhile, ignored the political differences between himself and Cadwallader Colden, and did very well out of his son’s association with the surveyor general of the province. His father and Colden, both riding on his back. The thought choked him, particularly as he had no choice but to swallow it.

Caleb stepped to the window so Colden wouldn’t see the black look on his face. A group of men on horseback carrying silk banners stamped with the likeness of De Lancey’s candidate were attempting to force their way through the Wall Street crowd. A gaggle of musicians, trumpeters, and violinists marched ahead of them. The procession was trying to get to City Hall to celebrate their victory, but the angry crowd of Morrisites wouldn’t fall back and let them pass. Caleb opened the casement. The din was deafening.

“For God’s sake, lad! Shut that damned window. We’ll go deaf.”

“That’s your lot making all the racket,” Caleb shouted over the noise.

“Shut the infernal window. I don’t care whose lot it is.”

No, of course not. Cadwallader Colden didn’t give a whore’s frozen tit for Morris and his party. Only for his own advancement. Caleb drew the casement closed.

“That’s better. Now, Dr. Devrey, it’s my turn to ask a question. Do you have no interest in the outcome of this fight? No—how shall I put it?—ill feeling about Cosby’s actions?”

Bastard. Colden knew bloody well that Caleb fervently hoped William Cosby was burning in hell. Before he died the governor had signed the bill that gave Christopher Turner a lifetime post as chief surgeon of the almshouse hospital. The bile rose in Caleb’s throat every time he thought of it. This time there was no way he could keep the hatred from showing on his face.

“Have no fear, Dr. Devrey.” Colden sounded cheerful now that he’d scored. “Whatever happens, if there is any justice under heaven, in the end the Morrisites will prevail.”

“So that’s what they’re shouting for,” Caleb said softly, “justice under heaven.”

“Men must act if they wish to control their destiny, Dr. Devrey. Not simply wait on divine pleasure.”

“I take your point, sir.” Caleb reached for his tricorn. “I shall therefore go out and add my voice to the clamor.”

Colden turned back to his papers. “On behalf of the Morrisites, I presume.”

“Truth to tell, I have some sympathy in that direction.” For once he couldn’t stifle his thoughts. “Doesn’t seem right for a man to claim half another’s earnings, does it?”

“I absolutely agree.” Colden looked as if he had no idea of the meaning behind the words. He closed his dispatch box and began brushing flecks of powder from his shoulders. “I admire your fair-mindedness, Dr. Devrey. Personally, I’ve never believed a man’s drinking companions should influence his politics.”

The statement took Caleb’s breath away, but he recovered quickly. “If you’re referring to my friendship with Oliver De Lancey, I assure you he has no interest in these matters. Oliver and his brother James seldom meet.”

The older man raised a placating hand. “No offense, lad. As I said, drinking’s one thing. Politics are another.”

“Oliver’s my age, five years younger than James. And I repeat, he has no interest in politics.”

Colden gave Caleb the full benefit of his thin-lipped smile. “Of course. I know that. Besides, I trust you absolutely, Dr. Devrey. We’re partners, after all.”

Outside the doctors’ office Wall Street was in an uproar. The narrow road was nearly impassable, a frightening mêlée of horses and humans. There were wagons and barrows, even some carriages. Once the count in the Freshwater Meadow proved inconclusive, both parties commanded all the rolling stock they could find to bring in men from as far away as the village of Yonkers, up in West Chester, and Harlem, at the far northern end of Manhattan. Many were too ill or too ancient to walk or sit a horse. Still, as long as they were on the register and could be gotten to City Hall to sign their names, they counted.

In that frenzy of flesh and wheels and hooves, being three feet tall was an advantage. Jan Brinker darted between the legs of people and animals. Three or four times he got closer to his destination by ducking under a horse’s belly. Finally he reached the Devrey mansion.

Brinker couldn’t really see the imposing brick house. He knew where he was when a momentary break in the solid wall of humanity allowed him to spot the carved pineapples that topped the fence posts. He’d seen them many times in the last few weeks doing the job Solomon DaSilva had given him.
Watch Caleb Devrey. Let me know where he goes and whom he meets and what he does. Even what he talks about.
So far it hadn’t been a difficult assignment. Today it was almost impossible.

The bodies were pressing closer, hemming Brinker in. He couldn’t breathe. He’d already lost his hat. Now, simply by surging back and forth, the mob threatened to tear away his clothes. Brinker couldn’t go up or sideways, so he went down. He got on his knees and began crawling through the spaces between men’s legs. He was able to move again, but he had almost no air and what there was stank.

Choking and gasping, unable to avoid the ubiquitous steaming piles of manure, Brinker inched forward. His chest felt as if a great weight was squeezing it closer to his spine. He stopped crawling and tried to stand. Not a chance. The press of people was closing in. If he didn’t get clear he’d be trampled. He was living his worst nightmare: all the big people were going to squash him like a bug.

Brinker’s goal was the black iron fence that fronted the Devrey house. One thing kept him struggling forward: the pain in his hand. Three weeks now. The burn was almost entirely healed, but the memory still seared. Goddamn bastard. Goddamn
Jesu
Cristo-killing Jew bastard. Never going to forget what—

“Christ-killers!” the crowd shouted. “Murderers!”

Brinker stopped crawling. A terrible trembling began in his legs and moved to the top of his big head. How was it possible that the crowd had read his mind?

“The Jews killed Our Lord Jesus Christ! Hanging’s too good for ’em!”

The little man started to sob. He was going mad. If anyone found out they’d lock him away in a cage somewhere and feed him bread and water. And it was all Solomon DaSilva’s fault. Every fornicating terrible thing that had happened to him in the past few weeks was the fault of—

“Wait!” a man shouted. “Hear me out. I’ve more to say.”

The crowd hushed, and—miraculously—stopped moving.

Inch by painful inch Brinker dragged himself through the filth that covered the cobbles. At last he spied a portion of the fence and reached out, stretching forward as far as he could. Bloody bastard.
Cristo-killing
Jew bastard. If he was crushed it would be— There! Got it.

Brinker hauled himself forward, head-butting his way through the crowd. Intent on the man speaking across the way, they didn’t seem to notice. Brinker heard the voice but paid no attention to the words. His only concern was to keep hold of the fence. Finally he was able to use both his arms and legs to shinny up the sturdy corner post toward the blessedly fresh air. His head was level with the pineapple-shaped finial.
Jesu Cristo!
He could breathe. He could look above the crowd and see as well as hear the man standing in front of City Hall.

“I tell you, De Lancey’s people are lying! They’re inside insisting their man was elected by fourteen votes. That’s a lie! Who elected him? Jews, by God, and that’s not legal! If the God-cursed Hebrews can’t vote for Parliament in England, why should they be allowed to vote for the Assembly here in New York? What will we have next? Women voters? The Jews elected De Lancey’s man. That’s not right or proper, and in any decent society it shouldn’t be legal!”

A rumble of approval came from the men in the street. Fear and hatred of Jews was something they’d taken in with mothers’ milk; it was reinforced by sermons preached from every Christian pulpit. The rumble grew into a mighty roar. “No Jew electors! Never! Not in New York!”

“What’s the matter with all of you?” one of the few De Lancey supporters in the throng shouted. “Are you daft? Hebrews have been voting in New York for years! What’s different now?”

The man in front of the City Hall didn’t wait for the crowd to answer. “Reason, man! Can any decent Christian allow a close election like this be settled by Christ-killers? Can’t you imagine yourself there in Jerusalem on that terrible day? Can’t you see the brow of your Lord and Savior bleeding with the thorns the Jews braided and put on his head, the marks of the whips that tore his flesh and—”

“Was the Roman soldiers done that. Have you no Bible? Or can you not read?”

“Aye, ’twas the soldiers,” another voice added. “And that bugger Pilate. They’re the ones to blame.”

Almost as one the Morrisites shouted down the few willing to defend the Hebrews. The mob may have been divided by their politics. They were united in their hatred of Jews.

Caleb Devrey was at the fringe of the crowd, his back to his father’s front door. But he was close enough to feel what was happening. He sensed the rage starting to build, the blood hunger to rise … Christ! It was as if you could touch the hatred. Hundreds of people feeling what he’d felt for five years, asking themselves the question he’d asked a hundred times.

What right did an ugly old Jew like Solomon DaSilva have to a girl like Jennet? Everyone knew the Hebrews twisted and schemed and plotted to make things bad for Christians. DaSilva had used Jews’ magic to align the stars and thwart an upright Christian gentleman. At last everyone in New York knew about it. At last DaSilva would pay.

“It’s the Jews!” a man a few yards away from Caleb was shouting. The man was on the other side of the elaborate Devrey fence. “That’s what’s wrong with this city. It’s why we’ve been getting poorer and poorer these last years. We’ve too much of the Jews!”

“Hang on!” another shouted. “Use your brains, all of you. It’s not the Jews’ fault cheap flour gets milled in Philadelphia.”

The crowd didn’t want to listen. “It’s the Jews done it! Get rid of the Jews and we’ll all be rich again!”

“It’s the Jews!” Caleb didn’t know he was going to join the shouting until the words were out of his mouth. He strode forward, across the strip of social distinction that made him who he was, toward the fence that separated him from the common folk. “It’s the Jews that cause all our problems!”

Caleb swung open the gate and elbowed his way into the midst of the heaving throng, still shouting at the top of his voice. “We’ve got to rid ourselves of the Christ-killing Jews!”

Brinker was intensely conscious of the last rays of the late afternoon sun shining on his bald head. He tried to make himself unnoticeable. Devrey might have spotted him at other times in these past few weeks. Maybe seeing him here today be the final straw. Could be the Devrey influence be turning Jan Brinker over to the authorities, put him in the stocks again.

Caleb didn’t so much as glance in the dwarf’s direction. The crowd was looking for something or someone to tear apart, and Caleb Devrey knew who it must be. “It’s the Jews!” he shouted. “Men like Solomon DaSilva, they’re the ones to blame for all our ills.”