City of Dreams (89 page)

The child appeared from the shadows where she’d been sleeping on a rug on the floor. Roisin drew her protectively close, one arm around her shoulders. “Morgan, this is Clare, my daughter. Mine and Cuf’s.”

“Why, Cuf?” Morgan asked.

“Why what?”

They were alone in the little room under the rafters. Cuf had told Roisin and the child to go. Cuf giving orders rather than taking them. A lifetime Morgan had thought of the other boy—God help him, the other man—as a slave. Cuf was no more a boy or a slave than he was.

“What are you asking me?” Cuf pressed the question. “What did you come here for?”

“I … There’s something …” Jesus God Almighty. Roisin. With Cuf. And the little girl. Clare. Nothing of the Negro about her, not to judge by the quick look he’d had. Her face had been flushed with sleep below her mobcap, but the glow didn’t hide skin as pale as Roisin’s. Had she red hair as well? The mobcap hid most of it. Jesus God Almighty. “Bedloe’s Island,” he said, struggling to take control of his thoughts. “That’s what I came to talk about.”

Cuf had sent Roisin away before she could pour the ale she’d offered. Now he fetched a pair of tankards. “Here. The way I remember it, you’re always thirsty.”

Morgan took the drink. “Thanks …”

“Bedloe’s Island.”

Morgan nodded.

“If that’s what you want to know about, why come here? I’m told your cousin Andrew has returned from Scotland and that he’s been put in charge of the pesthouse.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” Cuf drank, watching Morgan over the rim of the pewter tankard. “First time,” he said.

“For what?”

“First time you’re drinking my ale.”

“Yes,” Morgan said, starting to realize what a remarkable day this was. “I hadn’t thought of it, but you’re right.”

“We’re both to be thirty on our next birthday. We were suckled by the same wet nurse, grew up in the same house. But this is the first time we’ve sat together and I’m not your slave and you’re not my master. That’s how it is now, Morgan. I’ll never go back to the old way.”

“It was never like that for me, Cuf. I never thought of you like that.”

“Maybe you didn’t. But that’s how it was.”

“Not for me,” Morgan insisted. “I have always thought of you as my friend. Always, Cuf. Until—”

“Until what? I ran away from your mother’s house and stopped being her property?”

“I haven’t seen my mother in six years. She has nothing to do with my being here.”

“So you said. But she’s the one who sent me to Bedloe’s Island, and gave me the gold horse’s head in the box, and had me bury it.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I came. To ask if she’s the one sent you to dig it up.”

He waited, but Cuf said nothing. “Andrew told me yesterday about the holes in the ground near the big boulder. He had no idea what they meant, of course, but I did. I rowed over to Bedloe’s Island last night. The holes were still there. One was in exactly the right position and it was empty. Apart from me, only two people in New York knew where the horse’s head was buried, Cuf. You and my mother.”

“I’ll tell you this only once, Morgan. It’s the truth, but you’ll have to decide for yourself whether to believe it. I haven’t seen your mother since the day I walked out of her house. Six years ago, same as you.”

The years at sea had taught Morgan something of how men acted under stress. There were certain statements that could not be false. This was one of them. “Very well, I believe you.”

“Good. We’ve eliminated one possibility. Another, of course, is that I went to Bedloe’s Island and dug up the box for myself. Tell me something, Morgan, if I were going to steal whatever it is I buried on that cursed island, why would I wait this long to do it?”

“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I came here to find out.”

“Damn it, man! I could have taken it that first night.”

“I know.”

“Morgan, I haven’t any idea what’s in the damned horse’s head. There’s something, I know that—why else close up the bottom with sealing wax? But what? I don’t know. And I don’t give a bat’s fart. Freedom, Morgan. That’s what I care about. For me and Roisin and out daughter.”

Morgan lifted his tankard, took another drink, and set it back on the table. “How did all this come to be?” He waved his hand, indicating the small room and its contents.

“It came to be because we wanted it to,” Cuf said wearily, exhausted by the accusations both spoken and silent. “Me and Roisin, we decided nobody was going to own us.” He watched Morgan, as aware of his reactions to her name as he’d been to the look on Roisin’s face when she caught her first sight of the man who had taken her virginity and never once considered that he might be doing so. She’d told Cuf everything—how she’d come to be on the street and in the pit, and how she’d never been with a man before Morgan Turner claimed her. But it was her secret, her story, and not his to share. “Me and Roisin, we decided we’d had enough of being bought and sold.”

“It was different for her, she was—”

“An indenture,” Cuf said. He couldn’t let Morgan call her a whore. If he did there would be no choice but to fight him, and Morgan could easily kill him. Then who would look after Roisin and Clare? “She had nearly ten years to serve. It was too long, Morgan. Too much hell to live through for the crime of not having enough money to pay your passage to a new life.”

Morgan nodded. “Yes. I know. But how did you come here?”

“Jan Brinker,” Cuf said. “He became rich brewing beer for the redcoats. One day he found me and suggested he’d set me up in trade if I ran away. You know how things were between him and your mother. I think he did it to get back at her.”

“The dwarf!” Morgan was genuinely astonished. “Where is he? How did—”

“He died a few days ago. The French disease killed him. Roisin did all she could, but it wasn’t enough.”

“I’m sorry I missed him.”

“He’d have been sorry as well.”

“Rich, you said.”

“Very rich. He owned this public house, for one thing.”

“Jan Brinker a landlord. Sweet Jesus, who’d have thought it.”

“Here’s something else you’d not have thought.” Cuf lifted his ale. “These tankards, yours and mine: I made them.”

“You! When did you learn to smith?”

“When you first went off to be a pirate.”

“Privateer,” Morgan said, for the first time betraying the edges of a smile.

“Very well, a privateer.”

“I always wanted you to come with me, Cuf. You know that.”

“Yes, I know. But I hate the sea. Which is one more reason I didn’t go rowing back to that poxed island after all these years to dig up your damned horse’s head.”

Morgan leaned back in the chair and narrowed his eyes, waiting. “There’s something else. Say it.”

“The Fiddle and Clogs is mine now. Jan Brinker left it to me.”

“Sweet piss on the grass.” Caleb stared at the thing in Petrus Vrinck’s hand. “Where did this come from?”

“Ain’t no reason ye has to know that. I said I’d get it, and I did.”

Vrinck was holding a gold horse’s head. Caleb had seldom seen anything so exquisitely made. “The eyes,” he said softly, “they’re rubies.”

“Aye, that be what I thought. Rubies.” The jewels winked in the firelight.

“Give it to me.” Caleb snatched at the bauble. Vrinck let it go without a struggle.

Incredible. Caleb turned it over a few times, examining the remarkably lifelike face of the animal. “There’s sealing wax around the neck.”

“Aye. Horse’s neck be sealed when I found it.”

Caleb put his finger in the hollow interior. “To protect whatever was inside,” he said softly. “Which isn’t there now.” He raised his head and looked steadily at the other man.

They were in Caleb’s room on the third floor of Fraunces Tavern. A fire burned in the grate, and a candle was on the table between them. The double glow made even Vrinck’s sallow skin look ruddy. He was grinning, his head slightly turned so he could fix his good eye on the other man. “I got it,” he said. “What was inside that there horse’s head, I got it. Never no fear ’bout that.”

“And the way you’re smiling, whatever it is, it’s what you were looking for.”

“Aye. It be exactly what I was looking for.”

“Very well, tell me.”

Vrinck chuckled softly. “What be the matter with ye, Dr. Devrey? Don’t be a gentleman’s way to act so impatient, do it?”

“Three months it’s taken you, Mr. Vrinck, and five pounds of my money.”

“Yer brother’s money.”

Caleb shrugged. “That’s not your affair. What matters is that it took a lot longer than you estimated.”

“Been sick,” Vrinck muttered. “Couldn’t help that anymore ’n you could.”

“No, none of us can. But you won’t get any better, Vrinck.
Mal aria,
isn’t it? The shaking sickness. I recognize the signs.”

“Shake sometimes,” Vrinck admitted. “Ain’t like you.”

“That’s true enough. You’re not at all like me. But as you pointed out at our first meeting, if you’re to get this treasure”—Caleb raised the horse’s head on one long finger, wagging it in the air in front of Vrinck—“If you’re to find what Morgan Turner hid, find it in time for you to get any pleasure out of it, you require more of my aid. To get a ship and a crew. That’s what you said, Mr. Vrinck. Is it not still the case?”

Vrinck waited a few moments, enjoying the last seconds of being the only one who knew. Besides that God-cursed bastard, Morgan Turner. Then he reached into the pocket of his short jacket and brought out the slip of paper and laid it on the table. “Here it be.”

Caleb glanced down. The piece of paper was approximately six inches long and two inches wide, heavily creased. “Ah, yes,” he said softly. “As you say, Mr. Vrinck. Here it is.”

He laid the horse’s head on the table beside the strip of paper, then got up and went to the chest in the corner. He came back with a silver-topped carafe and two glass snifters. “Brandy, Mr. Vrinck. Sipped from a goblet. A gentleman’s tipple.” Caleb poured while he spoke. “Is that what you aspire to be, once you’re rich? A gentleman?”

Vrinck grabbed the glass and drank the brandy in a single gulp. “Ain’t no business of yours what I be doing with me share o’ the treasure. Fought for it, I did. Killed for it.”

“That’s not exactly accurate, Petrus Vrinck. As I recall, you got the share you fought and killed for. Four hundred pounds in bullion might have kept some men going for a dozen years, even a lifetime. But then …” Caleb shrugged and let the words trail away. “To business, Mr. Vrinck. What does that paper tell you? Where’s the treasure?”

“Seventy-four-thirty.” Vrinck spat out the words. “Twenty-four.”

“That’s gibberish, you God-cursed fool. What does it mean?”

“Means what I said.” Neither eye was looking at him now. “Seventy-four-thirty and twenty-four.”

Caleb snatched the paper. Vrinck didn’t try to stop him, just poured himself a second brandy and waited.

Caleb’s sight was poor these days. He had to lean so far toward the candle it almost singed his hair. His hands were trembling. He squinted at the writing. Clear enough. Formed with a quill in a steady hand, and the black India ink hadn’t faded. Still the numbers jumped out at him first. They’d been impressed with more firmness than the rest. “Seventy-four degrees thirty minutes west of Greenwich,” he read under his breath. “And …”

“And what? What be the rest of it? There’s more. What’s it say?”

Caleb looked up. Vrinck was leaning toward him, the half-closed left eye peering at him from under the drooping lid. “What’s it frigging say? If ye tries to cheat me, ye God-cursed blighter, I be—”

“Sweet piss,” Caleb said, unable to keep back a smile. “You can’t read. That’s what’s kept you honest—you can’t read.”

“Numbers,” Vrinck admitted. “I can read numbers. But I can’t read words.”

Caleb folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his black undercoat.

Vrinck had drawn the cutlass from his waist. He leaned forward across the table. The tip of the weapon was inches from Caleb’s throat. “Ye be cheating me ’n yer life not be worth a wooden penny, ye God-cursed—”

“God-cursed blighter. So you said. I have no reason to cheat you, Mr. Vrinck; nor much reason to fear your slitting my throat. I’m dying, you ignorant fool.”