City of Dreams (68 page)

“Morgan Turner’s no tar. He’s a privateer.”

“Ain’t no difference. Only that privateers be rich as pirates.”

“Richer,” the first man insisted. “And they ain’t got to worry about hidin’ what they got, since they took it legal like.”

“Ain’t many in this city hides what they got,” the other said bitterly. “They flaunts it so the likes o’ us can see what we be missin’.”

That had been true for much of the seventeen-fifties, but in the thirties and forties times had been hard and Quaker frugality had brought greater rewards than New York daring. Back then, Philadelphia had been the most important city in the colonies. When things changed, the men of Pennsylvania didn’t like losing their place to those of New York. Ben Franklin spoke for all when he wrote that New York City was raking in money faster than even her spendthrift citizens could rid themselves of it.

All because in Europe Britain made war on France and Prussia and rumbled against Spain. In America that meant the colonials were fighting the French and their Indian allies. King William’s War, Queen Anne’s War, King George’s War—mostly they were skirmishes that changed nothing. But the French threat was always present. In 1745, convinced they were about to be invaded from Quebec, New Yorkers had held a lottery to finance a second east-west wall across Manhattan. It went up a mile from the southern tip of the island and marked the boundary of the densely populated city with a stretch of fourteen-foot cedar logs broken only by four gates and six blockhouses. No invasion came.

The inconclusive thrusts and parries continued until in 1754 a young colonel named George Washington and a detachment of Virginia troops were forced into a humiliating surrender near the Pennsylvania frontier. The next year the British sent General Edward Braddock to put an end to the insolent French presence in the Ohio Country. Braddock was slaughtered with most of his officers and troops. Young Washington was among the few who escaped.

England had had enough; her people demanded that Canada be conquered once and for all. The aging George II bowed to public pressure and made the brilliant strategist William Pitt war minister. Pitt mobilized a huge fighting force and sent a staggering twenty-five thousand redcoats to the American colonies. The majority passed through New York. The flood of military in transit to the forts that secured the Lake Champlain corridor—William Henry and eventually Ticonderoga—had to be billeted, fed, clothed, armed, and, of course, supplied with women and drink. It was excellent trade and huge numbers of New Yorkers made a substantial living from it. But for real wealth, nothing could equal privateering.

Most of the ships clogging the city’s harbor were men-o’-war sailing as privateers, seventy-some licensed pirates who scoured the seas in search of enemy shipping. It was the greatest such fleet in the colonies. The privateers brought their investors—the men who paid for the building and outfitting of the vessels and got shares of the spoils in return—nearly two million pounds’ worth of coffee, cotton, sugar, wine, indigo, and every kind of comestible every year, as well as live ware (slaves) and currency—bullion, doubloons,
daalders, louis d’or,
and pieces of eight. Wealth poured from the holds of the licensed pirates into the pockets of New York’s merchant kings.

The investors who backed Morgan Turner were the most daring of all, but their courage was well rewarded. In 1757, as an audacious nineteen-year-old, he raised the money to build a sleek two-masted, narrow-hulled schooner, christened her the
Fanciful Maiden,
and went to sea. The
Maiden
could do eleven knots in a stiff breeze, had a draft of no more than five feet, and carried seventy-five fighting crew as well as eight cannon and four swivel guns. In three years Turner brought home twenty-two prizes worth nearly a hundred thousand pounds. Then, at the end of her twenty-third sortie, the
Fanciful Maiden
limped into port with her hull scarred, her deck stained with blood, and her belly empty.

Six of the seven backers were philosophical. They’d been with Morgan Turner from his first voyage, and their investments had already been returned a hundredfold. The eighth had come late to the party. He lost every penny he’d put into the venture. Which was every penny he had.

Morgan Turner was delighted with that outcome. And on his guard.

He walked off the long wooden pier and turned in to the lower end of Dock Street with his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. Farther along, the customary lanterns on poles hung from the upper windows of every seventh house. This close to the harbor there were no dwellings, only warehouses and empty market stalls, and the street was as black as India ink.

The first man in the doorway saw him coming—you couldn’t mistake that tall swaggering form for anyone else—and nudged the other. The second man already had his pistol in his hand.

Morgan sensed rather than saw a movement up ahead in the darkness. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He eased the cutlass half out of its scabbard and continued walking. For thirty-six months he’d lived by close combat on the pitching decks of the merchant vessels he’d boarded and stripped, and often sent to the bottom of the sea. He wasn’t about to run from the perils of a New York street.

There was the faint click of a hammer cocking in the dark. Morgan fell to his knees. The bullet whistled above his head.

He got to his feet as the attackers pelted toward him. There hadn’t been time for whoever fired the first shot to reload, but he saw the shadowy form of the second killer raise his pistol arm when he was five yards away. Morgan stood his ground, waiting. A pistol was the most unreliable weapon on God’s earth. The second assassin wouldn’t want to repeat the mistake of the first. He’d delay firing until he was almost at point-blank range.

One second. Two. He could hear the man’s labored breath and smell his unwashed stink. Three. Fear knotted Morgan’s gut. The killer was too near to be fooled by a feint, and he could see his target clear enough to take aim.

Morgan raised his cutlass. Whatever happened, he’d take at least one of them with him. Finally he heard the almost inaudible sound of the weapon’s hammer being drawn back. He tightened his grip on the cutlass, waited for a single heartbeat more, then slashed at his attacker with a howl of both rage and triumph.

The assailant’s extended arm was opened wide from elbow to wrist, the shot went wild, and the pistol clattered to the cobbles along with the attacker’s thumb and one of his fingers. The man screamed, and the sickly sweet smell of hot blood mingled with the fetid stench of his loosened bowels.

The second man lunged with a short sword. Morgan swung to meet him and thrust the cutlass straight to the heart. The assassin went down with a dull thud.

Morgan just had time to yank the cutlass from the dead man’s chest before the wounded man came at him again. The cutlass sliced upward so fast it hissed. Morgan meant to open the killer’s throat and finish him, but their differing heights played him false. The deadly blade sideswiped the man’s head. His ear fell to the ground. The man yowled his rage and pain, and gripping a knife in his good fist, he flung himself at Morgan in a final, suicidal bid for vengeance.

His blade nicked Morgan’s shoulder, but the cutlass ripped open the attacker’s belly and he staggered backward a few steps before, whimpering and weeping, he fell in a slithering mess of his own entrails, excrement, and blood.

Morgan’s chest burned with the effort to draw breath. He felt the sweat pouring down his back, turning to ice in the cold night. He fought off the urge to relax. Not yet. Not until he was sure no one else would come against him. He waited and heard nothing. A few more seconds went by. A wave of triumphant elation began at his toes and traveled to the top of his skull. Two barely competent ruffians-for-hire were all the stupid bastard could afford.

Holy bloody savior! Despite the cold and fatigue and the burning pain in his wounded shoulder, the thought warmed him better than the best rum. He laughed aloud. You’re a pauper now, Caleb Devrey. Or near enough as makes no difference. And since you invested in a proxy’s name, you’ve no idea that I know. Which is exactly how it was intended to be. For a start.

The floor was covered in sawdust and the air thick with the smell of sweaty flesh, and humming with excitement. Men stood ten deep in a circle around the central pit, ladies as well. That wasn’t usual. At a bearbaiting or a cockfight or a contest between a dog and a couple of dozen rats—the usual entertainments held in this venue on William Street—there might be a few sailor’s doxies, but certainly no ladies. On this occasion, however, they were permitted, even invited.

“For the sake of maintaining good order and giving salutary witness to the right and wholesome conduct expected of females in this city, all are bidden to watch the just punishment meted out to women of ill repute by the authority of His Most Gracious Majesty, George II.” The man in the center of the pit droned on for a few more seconds, then rolled up the scroll he’d been reading and stepped aside to make room for the public whipper.

The job was in the gift of the council. Since the usual fee was a shilling and sixpence per whipping and whippings were frequent, there were always plenty of applicants. This man had held the post for three years and seemed set to go another three. He was a big fellow, dark and burly, with arms as thick around as the legs of a small bull. He wore black leggings and was naked from the waist up, except for a long leather apron to protect his bare chest against splattered blood.

Standing to one side were the three women whose punishment for whoring in the New York streets was the event the crowd had come to witness. They were shackled together with iron chains, and each had her wrists bound in front of her with a tough leather thong.

The woman in the middle was named Roisin Campbell, and at the sight of the whipper in his black leather apron she felt her insides start to melt. She tightened her buttocks against the terror, and swallowed the bitter bile of her fear. I won’t let them see me shamed. I won’t. Blessed Virgin, help me.

The magistrate in charge of the proceedings wore a crimson gown, a flowing white wig, and a gold chain with a heavy medallion of office. “By the grace of Almighty God and the glory of His Most Gracious Majesty, George II, bring the first prisoner,” he intoned. A pair of redcoats turned smartly and trotted in lockstep toward the three women.

They covered the distance in a few seconds, but it seemed to Roisin to take them long minutes to approach. She could see each step they took as if their pace were slow and measured. They’d almost reached her now. Dear Lord Jesus, give me courage. Holy Mother of God, strengthen me. I know I have to go through this, but don’t let me shame myself or your One True Church. “Or the Women of Connemara,” she added, whispering the final words aloud because they were so powerful.

The redcoats passed the woman on her right. Roisin felt a terrifying mix of dread and gratitude. She’d prayed all day to be first. She knew she could be braver if she didn’t know what to expect. It wasn’t to be. The redcoats passed her by and stopped beside the woman to her left.

Roisin had to bite her lip to keep from screaming aloud. Holy Virgin, all day, locked in that filthy dungeon beneath their cursed City Hall, all I asked. Only let me be first. So I don’t have to watch and know what’s coming. For the sake of the Women of Connemara.

The redcoats had finished unshackling the woman they’d chosen and started to lead her away. “Courage,” Roisin whispered. The poor creature didn’t look around.

The prisoner was brought to the center of the pit. The crowd whistled and catcalled and stamped their feet. The taller of the pair of soldiers yanked the woman’s tightly bound hands upward and hung them over one of a series of iron hooks on the whipping post.

The magistrate stepped forward and lifted the woman’s filthy homespun skirt and shabby petticoats so he could be sure her feet were touching the ground. That was a strict regulation in the matter of the flogging of whores: they were to be whipped standing, not suspended. British justice, the judges said, was as cruel as it needed to be, no more. The magistrate satisfied himself that the prisoner’s position was correct and nodded. “You may proceed.”

The redcoat took a short sword from its scabbard and with the sharpened tip nicked an inch of the back of the woman’s dress. Then he sheathed his blade and used his hands to rip the bodice as far as the waist. The crowd whistled and stomped some more, and with a quick grin the soldier pushed the torn fabric far enough apart to reveal the side swell of the woman’s breasts as well as her back.

Sometimes when things got this far the magistrate would nod a second time, looking as prim as he had throughout the proceedings, and the redcoat would yank the bodice all the way off so the woman would be naked from the waist up. But mostly they did that with blacks. This whore was white. And besides, there were ladies in the crowd. The magistrate shook his head and the redcoat left the dress the way it was and stepped away.