City of Dreams (88 page)

“Where are you living?” Luke asked.

“Aboard my ship for the moment.” Morgan tried not to see the double bulge below the blanket that covered his uncle’s lap, but he couldn’t seem to look elsewhere. The rounded stumps were like a pair of dueling pistols. Pointing at him.

“With a full crew?”

Morgan shook his head. “Only a couple of men to look after things. I let the others go.”

“That sounds as if you’re planning to stay awhile.”

“Hard to say. But … I think perhaps I’ve come home permanently, Uncle Luke.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Look, I suppose nothing I can say will make you settle the trouble between yourself and your mother.”

“Forgive me, sir, but no, nothing.”

Six years had added weight to Morgan. Not just physically; the boy was entirely gone and the man had taken his place. Luke studied his nephew, wondering how much to say. Or ask. Morgan spoke before the older man could make up his mind. “Will it offend you if I ask what news there is of Caleb Devrey?”

“No, it won’t offend me. He’s no longer in charge of the hospital. Dirt poor, or so the story goes. But of course, he has both his legs.”

“Sir, I—”

Luke raised his hand. “Be quiet, Morgan. There’s no reason to discuss what can’t be explained. Fate or luck, what you will, it dictates what we do and mostly we have few choices. There’s nothing more to be said about it.”

“I would have pulled you free if I could have, Uncle Luke. Circumstances prevented me. I hope you believe that.”

“I do, lad. Ah, I can’t call you that any longer, can I? Not now you’re twenty-nine.”

“Old enough to take it as a compliment,” Morgan said.

His pirate grin was as winning as ever, Luke thought. However notorious he might be, the women of New York would all go into heat at the sight of him. “Let’s see, what more can I tell you about dear Cousin Caleb? Last I heard he was pickling himself in brandy and living alone in a room at that new tavern’s been opened in what was old Etienne De Lancey’s house. Man named Sam Fraunces is the landlord. Came recently from the Indies. Apparently he was prepared to let to Caleb since he knew nothing about him. Now he can’t get rid of him. Still too much Devrey influence in this town for one of ’em to be tossed into the street. But Caleb’s said to be thin as a scarecrow and possibly ill. That should make you feel better. Are you planning to take up your mother’s old battle, lad?”

“No. I just wondered.”

“My battle, then? Or what you think to be my battle?” Luke gestured to the half of him that was not there.

“Not that either, sir.”

It wasn’t a lie. The battle that concerned him was his own. Six years he’d seethed with the knowledge that it was his fault his uncle was legless. He’d returned to settle the score. He had other business in New York, but he would also take back what he’d had no right to give: Caleb Devrey’s worthless life for Luke Turner’s legs. Devrey’s death wouldn’t make his uncle whole again, but at least Morgan might sleep without nightmares.

Luke chose to take him at his word. “Very well, let’s talk of other things. You’ve picked an exciting time to return. How do you read what’s going on in the city?”

“If you’re referring to this infernal Stamp Act, I think it means trouble. Possibly serious trouble.”

Luke nodded. “Yes, I agree. Compounded by the fact that London’s lately passed a quartering act. We’re now directly responsible for providing shelter and supplies for English troops. Is that what brought you home, Morgan? A liking for trouble?”

“Some would call it that.”

The door to the small front room clattered open and banged shut, bringing in the chill of the outside. They heard Andrew before they saw him. “It’s freezing out there. Starting to snow. Much too early for it, but there you are.” He walked in slapping his gloves against his palm, shaking off a few large flakes. “I couldn’t get— Cousin Morgan. You’re a surprise.” Andrew swung off his cloak, dropped it on a chair, and took a step closer to the fire. He didn’t extend his hand.

“You look well, Andrew. Edinburgh must have agreed with you.” Morgan crossed the room with his hand outstretched.

Andrew looked at him for a long moment. Finally, conscious of his father’s eyes on him, he shook his cousin’s hand. “I’d heard you were back.”

“This always was a town for spreading news quickly. I heard you were back as well. And that you’re to have a Scottish bride.”

“Old family tradition,” Andrew said, glancing at his father. “Meg arrives next month.”

“Glad to hear it. I shall look forward to the wedding.”

Luke knew how much his son wanted to say he’d as soon invite the devil as Morgan Turner. “Pour us all another tot of brandy, Andrew. And tell us how you found things on Bedloe’s Island.”

“Infernal,” Andrew said quickly, grateful for the change of subject.

“How so? The plans were for a modern quarantine hospital. So we’d stop allowing the poxed to die like dogs and pigs in the sewer ditches.”

“Once you weren’t in charge, they did everything in typical Colden fashion, as cheaply as possible and with minimum consideration for the public good. Needless to say, they don’t variolate the prisoners they send to look after the patients.”

“Variolation,” Morgan said. “Is that old war still being fought?”

“Not with quite as much passion,” Andrew told him. “Grandfather had some influence over the years. Even the quacks sometimes variolate, and no one stops them. Of course, being untrained, they get the dose wrong more often than not, so they kill more than they save.”

“The real reason the issue’s gone quiet,” Luke said, “is that we haven’t had a bad siege of smallpox in New York for seven years. Not since they started inspecting ships that come into the harbor. In fact that’s what gave us the idea of building the House of Quarantine in the first place.”

“Well,” Andrew said, “if the infernal pesthouse can keep New York free of smallpox, I’ll drink to it, however hellish it is.”

Morgan sipped his brandy, his glance darting from his cousin to his uncle. Hard to miss the fondness between them, or the general peacefulness of the scene. The opportunity was as good as he was likely to get. And it was, after all, Andrew who had brought up the subject of the pesthouse. “All the changes in your plans, Uncle Luke … I hope they at least put this quarantine hospital where you decided it was to be.”

“I heard they did,” Luke said, looking to his son for confirmation.

“Yes, it appears so. At least, according to the plans you showed me. Then again, they pretty much had to, or move it to another section of the island altogether. There’s a boulder right beside the building. Biggest stone you ever saw. They’d have to dig to China to get the thing out of the way.”

Morgan’s stomach began to unknot. “That’s good then, Uncle Luke.”

“About that rock,” Andrew put in. “Here’s a puzzle for you. The new crop of attendants arrived an hour before I did. There are only three patients in the pesthouse just now, all at death’s door. And God knows, no one goes to that poxed island if they can stay away. Nonetheless, someone has been digging holes around the boulder. I counted a dozen, freshly dug. What do you make of that?”

“You there.” Morgan stepped up to an old man selling roasted chestnuts. “I’m looking for a Negro named Cuf. Ever heard of him?”

“Don’t pay mind to no one’s business but me own, sir.” The man squatted and poked at the embers of the small fire he’d built on the hard-packed dirt of the road. “Care for some chestnuts, sir? A penny for ten. Best and biggest in the city, sir.”

The delicious smell of the roasting nuts was making his mouth water. “Yes, indeed I would.” Morgan fished a penny from his pocket and untied his neckerchief. He gave the old man the coin and held out the cloth to receive the nuts. “I don’t mean this Cuf any harm. I just want to speak to him. I’m told he’s often in this neighborhood.”

The chestnut seller hacked and spit into the dirt. Weren’t many in New York wouldn’t recognize Morgan Turner, but hard to think of any as would welcome a few words with him. Least of all a runaway slave. ’Course, he didn’t know the runaway part for certain. Some said Cuf was the slave of the woman called herself Mistress Healsall. All the same … The man hacked and spat again. “Over there,” he said finally, “at the sign o’ the Fiddle and Clogs. Them folks be the ones ye should ask.”

It was midafternoon. The taproom was quiet, and fairly dark because no candles had yet been lit. He could just make out a large sign over the bar that offered boiled squirrel for threepence and another that said oysters were twelve for a wooden penny, fourteen for a copper. Things couldn’t be as bad as he’d heard if the common laborers of the old Church Farm could still afford boiled squirrel for their dinner, or pay a penny for oysters harvested by others when they could row into the harbor and harvest their own for free.

“Afternoon, sir. What be yer pleasure?”

“Information.” Morgan took a seat on the nearest bench. “And a mug of your best ale to go with these nuts.”

“The ale’s the easy part, sir.” The barkeep went to the long, narrow counter that held the kegs and drew a tankard of frothing brew, and carried it back and put it on the table in front of Morgan. “Don’t know ’bout the information, Captain Turner.”

He could never make up his mind if it was a benefit being recognized wherever he went. “I think you may be able to help me. At least, that’s what I’m told. I’m looking for a Negro named Cuf.”

The man turned away, using a dirty rag to polish the same bit of rough wooden table over and over again. “There’s plenty of Negroes about in the city, ain’t there?”

“Hello, Morgan.”

Morgan turned. “Hello, Cuf.”

“I heard you were back. What brings you here?”

“You do, Cuf.” Disappointment dropped like a cold stone in his belly. Cuf’s eyes were wary. For the first time.

“Well, it appears you’ve found me. But I’m not going back, Morgan. Not even if you kill me.” Cuf nodded at the cutlass.

“I have no interest in taking you back. Though I wonder why you couldn’t wait a few years to—” Morgan stopped speaking and glanced toward the barkeep. The man had withdrawn as far as the narrow room allowed, but he couldn’t hide his keen glance. “Not here,” Morgan said. “Where shall we go?”

Cuf considered his two choices. He could draw Morgan away from the Fiddle and Clogs and put off the moment when Roisin saw him, or he could seize the chance to be there when the meeting occurred. “Come upstairs,” he said after a moment. “We can talk private there.”

The same gossipmongers who told Morgan he’d find Cuf out at the old Church Farm had said he was living with a white woman. “Story is he’s her slave. A quack she be. A good one. Calls herself Mistress Healsall and cures most anything. But there’s some as say she lays with that light-colored nigra. Even that she had a little girl with him.”

So much talk had prepared Morgan for pretty much anything. Except Roisin.

“Hello, Morgan.” She took no more than three seconds to regain her breath. He stared at her, speechless. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you some ale. Or would you rather tea?”

His heart was pounding. He needed rum or brandy; not likely he’d get it here. The room was tiny, tucked up under the rafters in the tavern’s attic. Very clean and neat, but certainly not luxurious. One corner was filled with what looked like the trappings of an apothecary. “You’re the healer,” he said, hating it that his voice was so hoarse. “You’re Mistress Healsall.”

“Yes, I am. Tea or ale?”

“I should have guessed. The first night, you told me you were a healer.”

The blood rose in her cheeks and she blushed almost as red as her hair. It was the mention of their first night, he realized with a surge of satisfaction. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her, but now that he had he was glad of it. She must remember everything, just as he did. God knew he’d replayed the scene often enough these past six years. Roisin on his lap, entirely naked, utterly beautiful, and him deep inside her, his hands circling her narrow waist.

“Mama, I’m thirsty. Can I have something to drink?”