City of Dreams (67 page)

“That’s not your business. Not as long as you get your money.”

“You keep a respectful tongue in yer head, boy. Anyways, long as yer back when ye says ye’ll be back, I don’t much care what in God’s name ye be doin’ while yer gone.”

You’ve nothing to be afraid of from the place, Cuf. You know you won’t get the pox.

The rough scar on his thigh had been there as long as Cuf could remember, and it was almost that long since he’d known that if everyone had the scar there would be no need for boats to tie up at Bedloe’s Island and be inspected for smallpox before they could come into New York harbor. Mistress’s brother, Dr. Luke, he’d explained it all. He also said sometimes ignorance ruled and there was nothing to be done about it. “How much longer?” Cuf asked. “Are we getting near those pilings?”

“Minute or two, no more. Not blind, are ye? Pilin’s be easy to see from here. On yer feet, boy. Ye be needed to drop a line round one of ’em if I’m not to make us a heap o’ splinters.”

Cuf had to let go of the box to take the line. Fortunately he was able to set it on the deck in such a fashion that his body was between it and the old man.

“Right. Here we be. Drop the line over that pilin’ to larboard. Come on, boy, look sharp! It ain’t much of a task for a strong young— Christ! Ye blitherin’ fool, ye almost missed it!”

Almost. He hadn’t been able to see the pitch-blackened tree trunk standing in the choppy water until they were nearly past it. He’d had to lean over the side and toss the line rather than place it. Nothing but luck and his long arms made the maneuver succeed.

“Pull on the bloody line, boy! Tighten her down.” The old man drew the tiller hard toward him, nosing the little boat farther into the wind. A wave lifted her bow high, then rolled below her and slapped her back to the surface of the water.

The box skittered between Cuf’s legs along the sea-slicked deck. He reached out one arm to recapture it, but couldn’t quite make it without letting go of the line. The boat was turning and tossing like a mad thing now, rising and falling on the waves. Cuf felt the icy salt spray wash over his face, almost blinding him. He still had one hand on the line, the other outstretched in a desperate gesture to get the box back.

The seaman stopped the box’s precipitous slide with his knee and pinned it between his legs. “Hang on to that God-cursed line till I gets it cleated down! Bloody useless you nigras are. Keep yer dick in yer breeches. I’ve got yer God-cursed box.” The old man let go of the tiller and the rigging lines and lunged for the prow. The sail flapped madly above their heads, and the tiller swung back and forth in a drunken dance. The old man yanked the mooring line out of Cuf’s hand. “Here, gimme that!” A few swift figure-eight turns and he’d made it fast to an iron cleat fixed to the gunwale. “There we be. Safe and secure, no thanks to ye.”

The boat was still pitching madly, and when Cuf peered over the side the water looked black, and cold, and very deep. “Give me my box.”

“Not so fast.” The tar had put the box behind him. In the dark relieved only by a few of the brightest stars, Cuf thought he saw something glinting in the man’s hand. A knife? “Ye be gettin’ yer box when I gets me money. Two shillings. Like we said.”

Cuf reached into his pocket and brought out one of the iron coins. “Half now. Half when we’re back in port.”

“No chance. What’s to make ye pay once yer done with needin’ me services?”

“What’s to make you wait for me to come back once you have your money?”

The two took each other’s measure in the night. The thing in the old man’s hand caught a stray shaft of starlight and glittered. Definitely a knife. “A shilling now,” Cuf said, his voice steady. “The other one when I’m finished my business and I’m back aboard.”

The tar thought for a moment. “Done,” he said. “Gimme my money.”

“I will. When you give me my box.”

They made the exchange simultaneously.

The sailor kept the rough coin clutched in his hand while Cuf went over the side into the water—it barely reached his waist—and battled through the choppy surf to the shore.

The old man watched until the young one disappeared into the darkness. Light, that box had been. Too light to be money, like he first thought. Anything to do with Squaw DaSilva, figured to be something doing with money. Richest woman in New York, she was. But even mostly useless paper money weighed more than whatever was in that box. A jewel, maybe. One big diamond.

Leastwise the box was somethin’ to think about, sitting here moored in the black and silent night. The sail hanging limp because the wind had dropped. Poxed Bedloe’s poxed island had swallowed the wind. Cold as a witch’s tit, it was, and gettin’ colder. His heavy breeches, thickly coated with tar to keep out the wet, and the double layer of wool provided by his seaman’s checked shirt and short jacket weren’t enough to keep him warm. Too frigging cold for September. Not natural. No way he wanted to row the
Margery Dee
all the way back against the current on a night like this when God knows what was abroad. If the nigra wasn’t back turn o’ the tide, he’d leave alone. Take his single shilling and be glad and gone.

Up the beach, Cuf, and head to your right. After you’ve cleared the shingle and you’re on solid land you’ll see a pine tree bent like a pin by the wind.

Cuf hated every step he took. His flannel jacket and breeches were sopping and icy cold, stiffening with salt as they dried. His thighs made a scraping sound when he walked. That and the crunch of his boots on the flinted rocks were the only noises. No one lived on Bedloe’s Island.

After a few moments he saw the tree, exactly where she’d said it would be and looking as she said it would look. Not likely Squaw DaSilva had ever visited Bedloe’s Island. Dr. Luke must have told her about the stony beach and the tree; he was part of the committee in charge of building a pesthouse on the island. Dr. Luke called it an infirmary for those with contagions, but everyone knew it would be a place where they’d send you to die. Like the almshouse hospital. Only worse.

The tree bends to the west, Cuf. Take thirty-three full strides in that direction. No more and no less.

Cuf held the box tight under his arm and began pacing off the distance, counting aloud to be sure he got it right. “One, two, three, four …” When he got to thirty-three he was so far from the pine he could barely make out the bent-pin shape in the dark.

When you’ve gone the thirty-three full paces turn so you’re facing north, back toward the city. Then take seven paces and turn east and take nine paces more.

He did everything exactly as she’d told him, making sure he took each step at the full stretch so the measurements would be the same. That had to be important. Whoever worked out the instructions meant to be able to find his way to wherever Cuf was going by doing the same things in the same way. Cuf grinned, pleased with himself because he’d figured it out. That wasn’t Squaw DaSilva’s kind of thinking, it was Morgan’s.

Ever since they were little, when they played together as brothers ignoring who was the slave and who the son and heir, Morgan had been fascinated with the tools of navigation.

“
See this, Cuf?” Morgan asked, holding out the fancy new book he’d just brought back from the bookseller in Hanover Square. “It’s a drawing of a thing that lets you go to sea and sail as far as you like in any direction, and always know where you are and how to find your way back. It’s called a sextant. We have to learn to use this, Cuf.”

“Not me, Morgan. I’m not sailing anywhere. I hate the sea.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I do. Anyways, I have to stay here so I can get the promise.”

“Being free, you mean.”

“Yes. Your mama promised. When I’m twenty-five. I’ll be free.”

“Then you will be, Cuf. Mama always keeps her word. But before that, you and me, we can run away to sea. Only first we have to get the hang of this sextant thing.”

Cuf took the last of the nine paces east. The tree was entirely out of sight now. Squaw DaSilva’s instructions were as clear in his mind as if she were walking beside him.

There will be a large stone, Cuf, a boulder that will reach almost to your shoulder, and a shovel hidden beneath a pile of dead branches to its left. Get the shovel, and lie down with your head touching the middle of the boulder’s north face and scuff a mark in the earth with your boots. Then get up and find that mark and dig a hole, as deep as from your heel to your knee.

The boulder and the shovel were exactly where she’d said they would be, and the earth soft with all the rain they’d had, so when he’d worked out the place where he was meant to dig he was able to do so without difficulty. After a couple of minutes Cuf put his left leg in the hole. It measured exactly what she’d told him it should measure. Then he did the thing Squaw DaSilva hadn’t told him to do, though she must have assumed he would. Cuf opened the box.

Something gleamed in the starlight. He picked it up. A gold horse’s head, with two red stones for eyes. Rubies. Cuf turned the thing over and over in his hand, held it up so he could examine it more closely. Beautiful workmanship. Each strand of the horse’s mane was distinct, the features of the animal’s face fully realized. Smithing gold was the most difficult part of the craft, Cuf knew. Silver required skill, as did pewter, but with something as precious as gold your hand shook holding the stylus, whoever you were. All that was part of a store of secret knowledge he was setting by against the day he got the promise.

Three years more to wait. Meanwhile there was the business at hand, here on Bedloe’s Island. He took one more long look at the horse’s head. It was hollow, and a coating of red sealing wax had been dripped over the opening at the base of the neck. Cuf held it to his ear and shook it. Not a sound. For a few seconds he held the golden treasure in his hand and considered.
Be wise, Cuf.

She knew him too well. That was why she hadn’t locked the box or told him not to open it. She knew he’d look inside, to satisfy his curiosity; then he’d do what she asked. Because soon she would keep the promise, and that was a lot surer than running off with a gold horse’s head, however wonderfully it was made and whatever was inside.

Cuf put the gold head back into the box and put the box in the hole. He shoveled the dirt back over it and stomped it down and dragged the dead branches over to cover the area of activity. Then, shivering with cold and carrying the shovel, he made his way back to the beach.

He was glad to see that the old man and his miserable
Margery Dee
were still there. If he wasn’t back by morning, Squaw DaSilva would certainly send someone to fetch him, but he’d have to spend a whole freezing night on poxed Bedloe’s poxed island.

The sailor saw him coming, stood up, and began unfurling the sail. Cuf waited until the tar’s back was to the shore to fling the shovel into the sea. Then, gritting his teeth against the cold, he began wading toward the boat.

His uncle Luke always said he didn’t look anything like his father. “You’re all Turner, Morgan.”

Fair enough. Since he’d never once set eyes on the man his mother said had fathered him, the son chose not to use the father’s name. Morgan Turner he was to everyone who knew him, including those who hated his guts.

The two men sheltering in the shallow doorway on Dock Street did not hate Morgan Turner. They were hired hands with no passion for the job, only for the pay it would bring. The patience required by the long wait in the cold and moonless night came hard.

“You sure he’ll be comin’ this way?” The taller of the two men stamped his feet to keep them from freezing.

“Sure as I need to be. They all come this way, don’t they? Quickest route from the harbor to a sailor’s slop shop. Soon as a tar’s on land, that’s what he wants, mug o’ grog.”

Grog. The term had come into use nearly two decades past, in 1740 when the rum ration was made law in the British navy. Cut it with water, said Admiral Edward Vernon. He always wore a coat made of the heavy silk known as grogram, so rum cut with water became grog. It was life’s blood to an ordinary seaman; maybe not quite so important to the likes of the man the pair in the Dock Street doorway were waiting for.