City of Dreams (85 page)

The Path of Flames
J
ULY
1765-D
ECEMBER
1765

Some fires are sacred. Their smoke carries the prayers of men to the Great Spirit. Other fires are evil, set when the bad
manetuac
tempt men to do things that hurt the People. Such fires are made by those who carry vengeful thoughts in their hearts.

The fires of vengeance plant the seeds of hatred.

The sacred fire purifies.

Chapter Eleven

I
T TOOK ALL
Caleb Devrey’s strength to remain upright. The pain sent him out walking night after night, prowling the dark city, avoiding the watchmen and the curfew, though that was little enforced these days.

The thing in his belly was always with him. Sometimes it slept, a snake coiled, waiting to strike. When it did it could double him in two with a savage attack, or, as it did tonight, gnaw away at his intestines in a steady, fiery assault. God-cursed pain, eating him alive. He was always hot on the inside and freezing with cold from the skin out. High summer, the middle of July, and he couldn’t do without his cloak.

“Psst, Dr. Devrey. Over here.”

Caleb stumbled, nearly went into the drainage gutter. “Who’s there? What are you after?”

“Don’t be meaning ye no harm, Doc. Name’s Vrinck.” The man emerged from the shadows, put out a hand to steady Devrey. “Petrus Vrinck I be. Been lookin’ all over for ye.”

A seaman, from the look of him. Devrey drew away from his touch. “What do you want with me? I don’t see patients at this hour.”

“I don’t be sick. Got something to tell ye. There’s a slop shop down the road a bit. We can talk there.”

“It’s not my custom to drink with tars in a slop shop. You can come to my rooms tomorrow if you wish to consult me.”

Vrinck moved closer. He was short and stocky, with massive arms and legs; one eye remained half closed and stared away from the other. He shoved his grizzled face so near to Devrey’s they almost kissed. “Be worth yer time to talk to me,” he whispered. “Swears it on me mother’s grave, I do.”

Most of the man’s teeth had rotted away and his breath stank of putrefaction. Caleb pulled back. “In God’s name, why?”

“’Cause I know things. ’Bout the
Fanciful Maiden”
Vrinck paused. “That be getting yer attention, don’t it, Dr. Devrey?”

“You’re imagining things. I’ve no interest whatever in privateering.”

“That ain’t what it be these days. Scavenging, more like. Gulls on a dungheap the privateers be. Ain’t no prizes worth takin’ anymore. Ain’t been none for nearly six years.”

“That’s as may be. It’s no concern of mine. So if you’ll let me pass—”

“Wait. Ye ain’t heard me out yet. Was on a real privateering run I was. In ’fifty-nine, with Morgan Turner. On the
Fanciful Maiden.
That’s what I want to talk about. Lots o’ things on that voyage weren’t like folks said they were. Not like Turner said they were neither.”

Sweet piss on the grass. He’d never thought to have another bite of that cherry. Not after all this time. Sweet piss on the grass.

Vrinck saw the light of greed in the other man’s eyes and turned, jerking his head toward the far end of the road. “Follow me.”

The room was barely big enough for ten, and there were at least twice that many crammed into it. Devrey drew his cloak tight to him and followed Vrinck, who was elbowing a path through the crowd. Noisy sods. Snatches of their talk were audible as Devrey passed by. Going on about how they’d never use stamped paper or pay taxes levied in London. How all the kings on God’s green earth couldn’t make them do it. The mob had been mouthing the same rubbish for weeks. Treasonous rabble.

The landlord waited at the back of the slop shop, next to a small door set into the rear wall. Vrinck drew even with him and pressed a coin into his hand. The landlord opened the door. Vrinck lowered his head and scurried through. Caleb hesitated a moment. Hell, he’d come this far. And whatever else this might be, it was a distraction from the pain.

He had to crouch to get through the door. Little space to stand upright once he was inside. The ceiling barely cleared what was left of his red hair. “What is this place? Feels like a damned cave.”

Vrinck had moved deeper into the gloom. They were alone in this dank, dark place. Caleb felt a sudden chill of apprehension. “Look here … Vrinck, you said your name was, right?”

“Aye, Petrus Vrinck.”

“I’ve no money on me, so you won’t—”

The sailor laughed. “Don’t be stupid. Didn’t bring ye here to rob ye. Why would I do that when I could o’ taken anything ye might have out on the road where none had yet seen us together?” He patted the hilt of his cutlass. “Easy that would o’ been. Lot easier than this. Sit ye down, Dr. Devrey. Landlord’s left us a jug o’ grog.”

A tin pitcher and two tin mugs stood on the battered wooden table. There were two short stools as well, and a small grate, but no fire this July night. Caleb hesitated, then squatted on one of the stools and poured himself a drink. Even cut with hot water, the rough rum burned his throat going down. Gut-rotting stuff, not imported from the islands but made in one of the local sugarhouses. His belly objected with a long, twisting jab; then the rum won. The snake went back to sleep. “Very well, Vrinck. Tell me what we’re doing here.”

“I already did. The
Fanciful Maiden.
She be what we’re doin’ here.”

“As I said, why should a privateer mean anything to me?”

“’Cause ye was robbed o’ what was comin’ to ye. In ’fifty-nine, like I said.”

Sweet Christ, did the whole world know he’d bought shares in that God-cursed voyage? Despite the proxy? And if everyone else knew, how was it that Morgan Turner and his bitch mother didn’t? They couldn’t have, or they’d never have allowed him to invest. “Nothing to me, as I said. But go on. I’m listening.”

“That story they be tellin’ back then, end o’ that poxed voyage,” Vrinck said softly, “’bout how the
Maiden
didn’t take no prizes and came home empty? It be a lie.”

Caleb shook his head. “I saw her when she came into port. The whole town did. The
Fanciful Maiden
was in disgraceful condition. There was no cargo. Every one of the investors went aboard and checked the hold, and came out saying—”

“Oh, the part ’bout her comin’ home with her belly empty, that was true enough.” Vrinck tossed back a long swallow of grog and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling meanwhile at the black-clad wraith across from him. Pissing himself with curiosity the frigging gentleman was. Hangin’ on every word. “Afore she got here? Well, that last voyage in ’fifty-nine, richest the
Maiden
ever made, it be. I be aboard and I know. We took three prizes. Spanish ships. Stuffed to the gunnels with slaves, indigo, sugar … And a king’s ransom in gold besides.”

“So what happened to the cargo? And the money?”

“I’m tryin’ to tell ye. Morgan Turner sold his cargo on Bahama Island and paid off the whole crew. Seventy-five fighting men we was, ’n we got four hundred pounds each. In bullion, if ye don’t mind.” Vrinck folded his arms and enjoyed the look on the other man’s face.

“Four hundred to each member of the crew. Sweet piss on the grass, man, that means the total prize was … fifty thousand pounds. The dung-eating son of a bitch! Morgan will hang for this. It’s a gallows offense!”

“Yeh, they tells me it be that.” Vrinck took another swig of the grog. “But I’ll wager any sum you care to name Turner’ll swing to hell and back and never tell where the treasure be.”

Reality damped Caleb’s initial astonishment. He shrugged. “Six years have passed. If he ever did hide a treasure, he’s long since claimed it. And there’s no proof of what you say. None.”

Vrinck shook his head, fixed Devrey with the one eye he could focus. “Forget about provin’ nothin’. Ye wants Turner dead, ye has to do it for yerself. Can’t depend on no magistrates and courts to do it for ye. Not here in New York. Me, far as I’m concerned Turner can die in his bed with his boots polished for the mornin’. It be the treasure what matters.”

“It must be gone,” Devrey insisted. “Long since. The bastard will have claimed it by now.”

“No, he ain’t done that. Too soon it be. Too many folks what would remember what happened in ’fifty-nine. ’Sides, I knows a tar as has sailed with the
Maiden
these past five years. She ain’t never been near the Caribbean. Morgan Turner don’t need any readies, does he?” Vrinck leaned forward, turning his head so he could fix Devrey with at least one eye. “Morgan Turner can put a treasure o’ thousands wherever he thinks it be safe, and bide as long as he needs afore he goes and gets it.”

A few seconds of silence passed. Devrey poured himself a second mug of the fiery grog, sipping it slowly this time. “What about you? How come you waited so long to do whatever it is you plan to do?”

Vrinck shrugged. “Didn’t suit me to do nothin’ sooner. Been in the islands. Enjoyin’ meself. Didn’t suit me to come north and shrivel me balls in one o’ the freezin’ winters ye be having up here.”

“It’s not winter now,” Devrey said softly.

“No, it don’t be. And I plans to get what I came for and go afore it do.”

Returning now was an impulse, most likely. Essentially what he’d expect of this sort of creature. Half animal, like most of his class, incapable of forethought or planning. But Morgan Turner was something very different. If that bastard had laid himself open to a charge of common piracy—and lying about a prize was exactly that—it had to be part of a well-thought-out scheme. Not necessarily his scheme, but Squaw DaSilva’s. The bitch whore. Anything you cared to wager said her plan was aimed directly at Caleb Devrey. Somehow she’d known about the proxy.

A stab of pain to the gut took his breath. Caleb nearly tumbled into the black pit that loomed before him each time the snake struck and the agony became too much to bear. Death was at the bottom of that hole. He saw it plainly, smiling up at him, inviting him to let go and plunge.

Slowly, Caleb fought his way back, chest grinding and bowels on fire. Better now. He could breathe. “Say you’re right.” His voice was hoarse with exhaustion and effort, and his face dripped sweat. “Say it’s true. If Turner hid such a treasure, where is it?”

“If I knowed that, would I be sitting here?”

Fair enough, but the treasure’s whereabouts was not the only question. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“’Cause yer a gentlemen, ain’t ye? Someone as can get money when ye needs it.”

Caleb leaned backward until his head touched the damp stone wall of the small room. For the moment he was weak from the struggle, but free of the pain. At sweet times like that, nothing else seemed important. He chuckled softly. “I’m a gentleman, perhaps, but I’m not the one who ever saw four hundred pounds in bullion. Sweet piss, Vrinck, you know every other cursed thing, you must know I haven’t got two coppers to rub together.”

“Yer a gentleman,” Vrinck insisted. “Someone as can get money when he be needing it.”

“A common misconception among the laboring classes. It’s not true.”

“Yer brother Bede, he be rich as can be.”

And fed up to the teeth with paying my debts. But that’s none of your bloody business. “What happened to your portion of the
Maiden’s
wealth? And the prizes you probably shared in before that. Drank it all, did you? Gambled and whored it away?”

Vrinck turned around and spat into the fire.

“Yes, I figured as much.” Caleb put down his mug and started to rise. “Not my place to lecture you. Done my share of the same, as you probably know.”

Vrinck jumped up, placing himself between the door and Devrey. “What kind o’ man ye be? Got piss for blood that ye’d let that whore’s son take what’s comin’ to ye?”

Indeed. That whore’s son. That whore. The part-savage bitch who married a Jew and turned herself into the richest woman in New York while he struggled to survive. Caleb settled himself on the stool a second time and peered at Petrus Vrinck. A low creature, but he might be useful. “Say I could get some money. Not a lot, mind you, but some. How would that help?”

Vrinck returned to the table, took his seat and leaned forward, clasping his mug of grog with both beefy hands. “Back in ’fifty-nine, when he dumped the most of us in the islands, Turner couldn’t bring his ship back alone. Five men sailed home with him. None of ’em was seen after the first night they made port, but I’d wager my soul they was in a dozen taverns ’n’ grog shops afore they disappeared. Talked to plenty o’ tars they must have. That be what sailors do. I need to send the punch bowl around in as many taverns and slop shops as tars be known to do their drinkin’. Sooner or later I be finding someone as knows somethin’ ’bout where the treasure be hid.”

“And if you did find such a person? It’s six years ago, man. Morgan Turner’s been sailing for most of it. I still say, whatever he hid in ’fifty-nine—if he hid it—it’s long gone.”