City of Dreams (90 page)

“If ye be so sure yer dyin’, why is it you be helping me?”

“It’s not the money I want. It’s too late for that. It’s the pleasure of seeing Morgan Turner in the dock on a piracy charge. And watching his mother the day he swings. You can have my share of the money, Mr. Vrinck. Just prove that the treasure exists and that Morgan Turner cheated the men who’d invested in the last voyage of ’fifty-nine.”

“Have to know what the paper says,” Vrinck muttered, sheathing the cutlass. “Can’t get the God-blasted treasure unless I know what the paper says.”

“So you shall, when you need to know. And you’ll have a ship, and a crew to sail her.”

Vrinck’s original plan was crude, but still the most effective Caleb could think of. Four of the other investors were still alive, and still stinking rich. They would put up the money for the voyage to reclaim the treasure. And their combined power would make it impossible for Petrus Vrinck to simply sail away and forget them once he found what he was after. He’d never be able to sleep in peace if he did that. No, he’d come back to New York and be hailed as a hero. And Morgan Turner would be hanged for the pirate he was.

The horse’s head still lay on the table. Caleb drew it close and covered it with his hand. “I’ll keep this. And the paper. Come back in a week and I’ll have word of the ship.”

“A week be too long. Three days.”

Caleb shrugged. “Very well, three days.” He didn’t get up when Vrinck did.

The seaman started for the door but turned once to look back at Devrey. “Three days.”

“Indeed. Now get out.”

The door closed with a decisive thud. Still Caleb didn’t move. The pain was preparing to attack him again. He’d sit right here and wait for it, endure until it was past. When he felt better he’d go find the men he was about to enrich by considerable thousands of pounds. They’d agree to his plan, and not just for the money. When the other investors learned what Morgan Turner had done, they’d hate the bastard as much as he did.

Caleb took the paper out of his pocket, laid it on the table, smoothed it, and drew the candle close so he could read it. He spoke the words aloud, enjoying the sound of his voice. “Seventy-four degrees thirty minutes west of Greenwich. Just south of twenty-four degrees north.” He squinted hard at the third sentence. “Twice around and thrice back.”

The first part of the message contained the coordinates. Caleb knew little of navigation, but he understood that with those numbers and a sextant, any competent captain could sail to a precise spot on the map. But twice what around? And thrice what back? He had no idea. And no reason to think that an ignoramus like Vrinck would— Ah, sweet Christ.

The pain enveloped him and he gave himself to it: he had no other choice. Sweat poured off him. He moaned softly, gritted his teeth, and waited. Bede’s son, Caleb’s nephew Samuel Devrey, had come back from the medical college in Philadelphia without a single new idea about treatment. The only thing he’d been able to suggest for Caleb’s agony was cupping and bleeding and purging. Useless, all of it. For months now Caleb had been praying to die. No longer. Now, by Christ, he wanted to live.

He would live long enough to be there when they marched Morgan Turner to the gallows. She’d be in the crowd, that was certain.

Oh, Sweet Christ … Oh God. Worse than ever he remembered it. He was trembling like a leaf in a gale. He lifted the decanter to his mouth and managed to swallow a few drops of the brandy, though most of it sloshed over his chin and down the front of his shirt.

A few minutes more and then it was gone. He felt strong, a strength born of something he hadn’t known in years. Hope. Goddamn it! He had to live. Whatever was required, he’d do it. Andrew Turner was also back in New York. An Edinburgh-trained medical man, and said to be a brilliant surgeon as well. According to the talk around the city, Andrew was better with a knife than even his grandfather had been.

The Turner gift. What would it take to get young Andrew Turner to carve open his belly and cut out whatever it was caused the pain?

It was madness. It had never been done.

I can do magic with these hands.
That’s what Jennet said that day a million years ago, when they stood by the stone bridge and watched the sunshine glistening on the harbor….
magic with these hands…

Even if Andrew had enough skill, what about the pain? The knife slicing open his gut. Could he stand it? If it meant he could live to see Morgan Turner swing, he could endure anything.

But why should Andrew Turner help him? For the chance to open a belly and perform a surgery never done before. For a share in the treasure. And Andrew knew. He knew that Morgan could have saved Luke but had chosen Caleb. He did it for her, of course. Because she wanted to keep her enemy alive so she could watch him suffer.

Well, two could play at that game. After he’d made the arrangements for the ship and Vrinck was on his way to get the money, maybe then he’d see if young Andrew had the lust for using the knife that possessed most surgeons. And the lust for riches that possessed most men.

III

Morgan had never been a regular at the Dish of Fry’d Oysters. Still, the tavern was huddled close by the waterfront, and most of the men drinking in the square, low-ceilinged room were tars. They all knew Morgan. Not a few lifted their tankards in his direction as he passed. There were nods and muttered greetings. He acknowledged as few as possible. Tonight it wasn’t drinking companions he was after.

He made his way to the far end of the bar and the man standing beside a keg of ale. “Good evening, landlord. I believe I’m expected.”

“Aye, Cap’n Turner. So ye be. Upstairs.” The man gestured with the wooden mallet he held. “First room on the right.”

Morgan climbed the stairs and paused by the closed door on the right. He pressed his ear to the paneling and listened to the quiet hum of voices until a burst of cheers from belowstairs drowned them out. The landlord must have tapped the new keg. A moment later the tumult stilled and he heard again the talk in the room behind the closed door. Morgan turned the knob.

Three men turned to look at him, their faces lit by the candles on the table, dark shadows hiding their eyes. Alex McDougall and Isaac Sears had captained privateers of their own. They’d made fortunes, though neither had brought home as many prizes as the
Maiden.
Both had left the sea some years before to become West Indies traders. The third member of the group was a different breed. Marinus Willet was a cabinetmaker, about Morgan’s age. They had nothing else in common, except the reason for this meeting.

Sears and McDougall stood to greet Morgan. Willet stayed in his chair. Morgan ignored the slight, strode into the room, swung a chair around, and straddled it. “A good evening to you, gentlemen. Are we all here?”

“All as’ll be here this night,” McDougall said. “Though there’s plenty of others be with us in spirit.”

Holy Savior. McDougall wore a yellow cutaway coat trimmed with yards of gold braid and very large gold buttons. His undercoat was cream-colored satin. The lace ruffles on his shirt were threaded with yet more gold. His curly wig must have cost more than most men spent to feed their families in a year.

What justification could he claim for spending time with this popinjay while someone had the directions he’d hidden in the horse’s head? In God’s name, what was he doing here when so many other things remained to be done?

Marinus Willet seemed to pluck the question out of his mind. “Let’s get to the heart of it. What are you doing here, Turner?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

“No, you might not. There’s nothing surprising about my standing against thieves and idol worshipers.”

“Idol worshipers,” Morgan said softly. “An interesting charge. Put it this way, Mr. Willet; if you’ve come to complain about anyone’s religion, you’re right: I have no place here. I don’t care who worships what or in what manner. My understanding is that we’re here to talk about the laws of these colonies.”

Willet made no attempt to conceal his contempt. “Spoken like a Jew.”

McDougall and Sears gasped and drew back slightly, leaving Morgan in a circle of light with his challenger. Willet wore homespun and carried no weapon. Morgan’s cutlass was in place, and he had a pistol tucked in his waistband. He needed neither.

Morgan turned his back on the cabinetmaker and reached for a shiny apple from a basket on the windowsill. “You do me too much honor, sir. As I expect you know, I can claim only half a blood link to that ancient, honorable, and wise people.”

“Honorable? The Jews murdered our Lord and Savior!”

“Enough!” Sears jumped to his feet and pounded his fist on the table. “It’s Pope Day tomorrow and ye’ll have yer chance to burn the Catholic whore of Satan, Marinus Willet. Just like ye does every November. And after we be settling this business, maybe we can find a day each year when ye can get the poison out o’ yer system as regards the Hebrews and any others don’t worship same as yerself. Right now, do ye wish to do something about this stamped-paper abomination, or do ye not?”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m asking why he’s here.” A bony finger pointed at Morgan.

“Christ Almighty save us,” Sears whispered. “He’s here because me and McDougall asked him to be. Same as yerself.”

Morgan took another bite of the apple and chewed thoughtfully. “Let me put it still more plainly, Isaac, so Mr. Willet is left in no doubt. I’m here because I oppose the notion of quartering, and of stamped paper, or any other direct tax on colonists by men who don’t live among us and whom we have no say in choosing.” He leaned forward and very deliberately dropped the apple core in the tankard in front of Marinus Willet. “One thing more, sir. I was invited because I have money to contribute to the inevitable expenses of any society we create. Substantial sums, Mr. Willet. Can you match me? Guinea for guinea?”

“You know I can’t. I’ve not had a mother who—”

Morgan grabbed the front of Willet’s homespun shirt and bunched it so close to the other man’s throat his voice was choked off. “No more, sir,” he said softly. “Not another word. I have no particular wish to cut out your tongue and bung it in your asshole, but give me an excuse and I’ll do it.” The men stared into each other’s eyes, then Morgan released him. “Now, gentlemen, shall we get on with our business?”

An hour later and the state of the problem had been clarified. The Stamp Act had become effective on the first day of November, but the stamped paper had still not been distributed. Colden was yet living on the Royal Navy’s warship
Coventry,
in fear for his life. It was rumored that a royal governor was about to arrive in the city and take over the rule of the province. Meanwhile two hundred of the city’s most important men of business had signed a nonimportation agreement, swearing they’d buy nothing from the mother country until this matter was settled.

“Och, ’twas a bonny thing the laddies did. Bonny and brave besides.” McDougall had come to the colonies from Scotland as a young boy. His burr got stronger the more ale he drank. “Och aye, bonny and brave. But it won’t be enough to put the English devils off their high horses. Nothin’ puts Sassenachs off once they got folks under their thumb.” The Scot ground his own large thumb into the table to make his point.

Sears had been born and raised in Connecticut and still spoke with the flat Yankee twang, though he’d lived in New York for many years. “There’s truth in that. But are we all prepared to follow where such thinking leads?”

Alex McDougall jumped to his feet and leaned forward, pounding his fist on the table this time. “Och aye, laddies! Och aye!”

Marinus Willet nodded and muttered something about God’s providence.

Morgan said nothing. Upward of twenty thousand pounds in
daalders
and
louis d’or
and guilders and guineas, a king’s ransom. And quite possibly someone else was on the way to get his treasure before he could sail south and move it. Holy bloody Savior.

The others were staring at him. “Captain Turner,” Sears said softly.

Morgan hesitated a moment more. Then he stood up and reached for the pitcher of ale in the middle of the table and filled all their glasses. “Gentlemen, please be upstanding. I propose a toast.” The three men rose, though Willet refused to look at Morgan. “To us,” Morgan said. “And to those who will join us. To patriotism, gentlemen. To the sons of liberty.”

“I want to talk to you, Cuf.” Morgan moved closer, lowered his voice. It was just after the three o’clock dinner hour. The taproom was full of local men playing at cards and dice, drinking, laughing, talking. Mostly white faces, but a few that were black. No one paid any mind to Cuf or Morgan.

“We said everything we had to say two weeks past.”

“I don’t think so.”

Cuf raised his cup of punch and took a sip. “Very well, talk.”

Morgan glanced cautiously around. Crowded though the room was, there was a bit of space in their immediate vicinity. “How many of them know you own this place now?”