City of Dreams (76 page)

A woman who hadn’t yet contributed anything to the conversation edged closer to Roisin, warming her hands over the dying embers of the fire. “I heared once about a whore of the Squaw’s had to suck a donkey’s cock while a dog fucked her in the ass,” the woman whispered, enjoying Roisin’s gasp of shock and the way the others all nodded agreement. “And every man what wanted to watch had to pay two guineas.”

“I’d never do that,” Roisin said. “Never. As God is my judge, I wouldn’t—”

“Then ye’d be sent to the pit like that,” the woman said, snapping her fingers. “Faster ’n that, even. Squaw DaSilva it was who started the whole thing. Used to be only place the whipper worked was the almshouse. But it was the Squaw suggested having public whippings on William Street. Made ’em worse. That way she figured the likes o’ us wouldn’t go interfering with her business. And any whore says no to Squaw DaSilva ’bout anythin’, that’s where she goes. The pit.”

“Aye. And afterward the Squaw’s pirate son, Morgan Turner, he takes the poor creature what’s had the skin flayed off her back and throws her in the hold o’ that pirate ship o’ his, the
Fanciful Maiden
as he calls her, and sails away. And God knows what happens to the whore.”

“Fucked to death,” the women beside Roisin said with authority. “Don’t take God to know that.”

Two nights later Roisin faced her choices and knew what she had to do. She couldn’t expect the women to keep sharing the food they earned at such peril. Not when she did nothing to provide for herself.

She went prowling with two of the others, hoping she’d get a kind one her first time. Not daring to tell anyone she was a virgin. Shivering with fear as well as cold. And being picked up by the constables before any man had come near her.

Even warm and clothed and fed in Squaw DaSilva’s own house as she was now, she trembled every time she thought of it. The crowd screaming, the whipper in his black leather apron, the poor tormented creature sobbing and begging for mercy. It could have been her. If the Holy Virgin had let her be first, the way she’d prayed, it would have been her. So if Morgan Turner wanted to fuck her to death as the street whore had suggested, so be it. But if Squaw DaSilva put her in one of her fancy houses, she’d soon be back in the pit all over again. Because nothing could make her do it with dogs and donkeys—

“What are you doing?” Cuf asked.

Roisin looked up from the small iron pot she held over the coals of the kitchen fire. “Warming this pan.”

“I can see that. Why?”

“Because when it’s hot enough I’m going to put those rose petals in it.” Roisin nodded toward the basket sitting on the hearth.

“I thought it was the hips were brewed to make a tea.”

“It is. But it’s not tea I’m making.”

Cuf crouched beside her. “Then tell me what you are doing.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I care about many things. What’s the point of cooking rose petals?”

“I’m not cooking them. I’m simply going to warm them enough to extract the oil.” She nodded toward the basket again. “That’s
Rosa gallica
, the apothecary’s rose. It’s the one that makes the best scent.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Outback.”

“In Mistress’s garden?”

Roisin nodded. “The bush isn’t doing well. But there were a few blooms.”

“And you helped yourself. You’re a bold one, Roisin Campbell.”

“I do what I have to. As for being bold, you’re more than that yourself, Cuf—Do you have a surname?”

“DaSilva. Like the mistress.”

“Because she owns you.” He didn’t answer, but Roisin went on speaking anyway. “I don’t think it’s right that people should be allowed to own other people. Even if they buy their indentures. Even if they’re black. Though you’re not really black.”

“I’m not going to be a slave forever,” Cuf said, his words edged with urgency. “I’m going to be free soon.”

Roisin raised her head. “Are you, now? And how do you come by that idea?”

Cuf didn’t answer immediately. He turned his head so he was looking at the fire, not at her. “Because the mistress promised,” he said at last.

Roisin realized that the answer had come a heartbeat too late to be the truth.

III

Morgan turned the black stallion in to Ann Street and pulled up at the last of the row of small but elegant brick houses. He slid out of the saddle, dropped the reins over the hitching post, strode to the front door, and repeatedly banged the brass knocker. “Uncle Luke! It’s me. Cousin Andrew! Cousin Jane! Is anyone there? For the love of heaven, someone let me in!”

“Mr. Morgan, they don’t be here, sir.” The black woman who opened the door was called Sarah. She had been Uncle Luke’s house slave as long as Morgan could remember. She was wiping her hands on her apron as she spoke, and there was a smudge of flour on her cheek. “Dr. Luke, he be going to the poorhouse hospital. Took Mr. Andrew with him. Mistress Jane, she be—”

“Never mind about Jane. How long since my uncle and Andrew left?”

Sarah puzzled over that for a moment or two. “Seems like it had to be an hour ago, Mr. Morgan. I was just getting the johnnycakes ready for the skillet and I made thirty of ’em and each one takes—”

Morgan didn’t wait to hear how long it took to make a johnnycake. He turned and strode back to the hitching post. He was mounted and heading north before Sarah had closed the door.

“Luke always goes to the hospital on Wednesday afternoons,” his mother had said. “You must stop him from going today.” She’d been more agitated than he ever recalled seeing her, wrapping her arms around her torso the way she did when she was particularly upset. “You have to tell Luke what’s happened before he goes to the hospital and finds Caleb there.”

“I’ll go, of course, but how can you be sure Devrey’s been appointed to the post?”

“Don’t be a fool, Morgan. Why else do I pay spies?”

“But if this was a private arrangement between Devrey and His Miserable Excellency …” He pulled on his boots while he spoke, and grabbed his cutlass not because he expected trouble, only because he felt naked without it. “Are you saying you have informants in the governor’s mansion?”

“Of course. And Bouwery Lane as well.” James De Lancey had bought Philip Thomas’s indenture when the boy was ten. Soon after Philip had been the first recruit to her irregular army. Twopence a week if he’d keep her informed of what De Lancey was up to. She’d raised the boy’s pay every year since then. A man in his early thirties now, Philip was on two shillings a month. It was money well spent. “Hurry, Morgan.”

“Are you quite sure De Lancey’s made Caleb Devrey the physician in charge at the poorhouse hospital?”

“I’m positive. I was told about the plan some days ago. But I only just heard that the appointment’s been made official.”

They hurried down the stairs, his mother in the lead and Morgan right behind her. “But if you knew some days ago, why didn’t you warn—”

“I’ve already told you. I didn’t think things would come to the boil so quickly. And I needed time to figure out how to use the information. I thought … Oh, never mind what I thought. Just head Luke off before he and Caleb meet. God knows how that might turn out.”

Galloping north in pursuit of his uncle and his cousin, it occurred to Morgan that what really worried her was the notion that Luke might have a duel to the death with Caleb Devrey. And win. God forbid Devrey should die before Squaw DaSilva had exacted the last of her revenge.

He was instantly ashamed of his disloyalty. Why couldn’t it simply be that his mother loved her only surviving brother and wanted to protect him from humiliation? He knew the answer: because she wasn’t like every other female, driven by tender thoughts and family feelings. No one knew better than her son how far she’d go to get her way.

Hell, he admired her for it. Always had. And it was thanks to her that right now he had the world at his feet, not to mention the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen in his bed. No wonder he was spending so many of his waking moments figuring out new ways to fuck her. But there were more immediate tasks at hand. Preventing his uncle and his cousin from having their dignity disturbed by Caleb Devrey, for one. For another, he had to decide what to do about Tobias and the rest.

He’d been looking for over a week for the five men who’d sailed the
Maiden
home on her last voyage. In and out of every taproom, alehouse, and slop shop in New York. No one had seen the men who accompanied him back from the islands. Not since the evening before his grandfather was buried. Meaning since the first evening they arrived in port.

It was almighty strange, but nothing to do with his mother. Stupid to think so. Why would she—

Because she trusted no one. And because Tobias Carter and the others knew that, contrary to published reports, the
Maiden
had taken plenty of plunder on her last voyage. But by God, he’d told her the men he brought back with him could be relied on. He gave her his word on it. Surely she’d have consulted him if …

When did she ever consult anyone?

He’d confront her with his suspicions. That very evening. Now he would put the matter aside and concentrate on overtaking Luke and Andrew.

The black stallion pounded up the King’s High Road to Boston toward the outlying Common and the almshouse, overjoyed at being able to gallop flat out rather than be held to a slow canter through the city’s crowded streets. Morgan flattened himself over the horse’s mane and gave the gorgeous beast his head.

Holy Savior Almighty. It was like beating to windward with every inch of canvas spread and stiffened in the breeze, topsails hard-bellied, and the rigging singing.

The thrill of the wild, unfettered ride made his pulse race and his blood pound. But even as he gloried in the exhilaration, part of Morgan’s mind registered that a ride like this was possible only because there were no vehicles or pedestrians ahead of him on the wide, cobbled road. And no one on horseback. No sign of his uncle or his cousin.

If Sarah had been accurate and they had an hour’s head start, they were already at the poorhouse hospital. And whatever his mother hoped to accomplish by heading them off, it was long since a lost cause.

“I don’t want you doing anything drastic before consulting me, Andrew. You must give me your word that you won’t.”

“I have given you my word, Father. Repeatedly.”

“Yes, I know. Sorry. It’s only that I’m not entirely comfortable letting you make the rounds of the ward in my place before my appointment’s been made official. That’s why I’ll go with you these first few times. Simply a precaution, lad.”

The almshouse and its hospital had been enlarged several times in recent years. However profitable, war also made widows and orphans who were unable to support themselves after the man of the family took a French bullet or an Indian arrow for the sake of the King. Likewise, many men wounded in battle could afterward neither fight nor work. The poorhouse on the Common was the destination of all of them, and two new wings and a new entryway had been added to accommodate the influx.

Luke took off his cloak and hung it on the peg beside the front door. Another cloak was already there; not one he recognized. Had to be a visitor. He looked around for the warden or one of the trusties who guarded the inmates, but saw no one he could ask about the caller. Not important. Keeping the lad from cutting off every finger with a splinter or toe with an ingrown nail, that’s what was important.

“Very well, Andrew, let’s go upstairs. Remember, don’t hesitate to put any questions about the condition of the patients. And try to consider their entire well-being, not simply those bits you may be able to attack with a knife.”

“A scalpel,” the boy corrected, under his breath, softly enough so his father couldn’t hear. Please God, let him not lose this opportunity. Having the ward of a dozen or more patients to himself one day a week, deciding what was wrong and what could be done to put it right. God Almighty, that was heady stuff.

Luke led the way to the door of the hospital, his son on his heels. Suddenly the older man stopped short. Andrew plowed into his back. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t—”

Luke ignored him, concentrating on the tall, gaunt figure standing in the middle of the ward. Clad entirely in dusty black. Looking like death come to visit. “What in hell are you doing here?”

Caleb Devrey turned to face him, making no attempt to hide the glow of his pleasure. He hadn’t counted on the joy of actually seeing Luke Turner get the news of how things had fallen, but he’d certainly hoped for it. “I’m earning the two hundred a year the city pays me now that I’ve been appointed physician in charge of the poorhouse hospital, Dr. Turner. What’s your excuse for being present?”

“Your appointment? I don’t believe you.”

“Then allow me to convince you.” Devrey reached into the pocket of his cutaway and withdrew a piece of paper. “Here’s my letter of confirmation to the post, signed by His Excellency James De Lancey. Would you care to examine it?”

Luke snatched the paper from Caleb’s hand, scanned it quickly, then let it drop to the floor. “This is nonsense. You are not competent to hold this position.” Each word was edged with the depth of his contempt. “I shall raise the matter with the Common Council.”