City of Dreams (91 page)

Cuf shrugged. “A few. Not as many as know the reputation of the mighty Captain Morgan Turner.”

“Not so mighty these last few years. There weren’t many prizes to be had off the Guinea coast. Not like the old days in the Indies.”

“Things change,” Cuf said.

Cuf had changed as well. His leather breeches were unpatched and his coat was wool, not flannel. There was something else though, an air of confidence. A half-black man of property. Not a rarity in the province, but still not the ordinary way of things. “Yes, things change. They’re changing here in America, Cuf. If there’s something … If something as yet unthinkable was to happen, would you consider joining rather than opposing it?”

Cuf cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes. “It’s not possible to say yes or no when you don’t know what you’re being asked.”

Morgan glanced over his shoulder. No one seemed to be listening. “These men,” he said softly. “They drink here regularly?”

“Most do.”

“So you pretty much know their sentiments?”

“Pretty much.”

“How do they feel about stamped paper?”

“The way everyone else in the town feels about it. It’s an abomination.” Cuf nodded toward a table where a group of cribbage players were tossing cards and pegging at fantastic speed. A handful of onlookers roared with approval as the lead went first one way then the other. “The most of that lot are cobblers and bootmakers, except for the big fellow at the end. He’s a cooper. Craftsmen who have to pay all the expenses of their trade. Put a tax on every bill they tender, two-thirds won’t be able to afford to come here any longer.”

“And that won’t be good for your business.”

“No, it won’t. I’m no more in favor of stamped paper than anyone else, Morgan. Is that what you came to ask?”

“Not exactly. I’m asking what you’re willing to do about it.”

Cuf leaned back in his seat, lifted his punch glass. “I’ve heard stories, of course. Like everyone else. I can guess what’s on your mind. But I’ve a woman and a child who are dear to me.” He lifted his chin to indicate the room in the rafters above the alehouse. “I’ll not be putting them in danger with any wild schemes.”

“Danger comes whether we want it or not, Cuf. Sometimes we have to decide to meet it rather than wait for it to arrive.”

Cuf didn’t answer. The bowl of punch was making the rounds. Someone from the nearest table brought it over and set it down between them. Morgan ladled another portion into his cup and reached into his pocket for a penny to put on the table. Cuf waved the gesture aside. “Don’t bother. Landlord’s privilege.” He filled his own cup and motioned someone to come and move the bowl on.

“Are you smithing much these days?” Morgan asked.

“Not as much as I’d like. Taking over here, it’s kept me pretty busy.”

Morgan nodded. “I can see as it would. But before you became the landlord here, did you know many in the smithing trade?”

“A few.”

“Any from Massachusetts?”

“Ah,” Cuf said with a sigh of satisfaction. “I expect you’re talking about that firebrand, Revere of Boston.”

Morgan smiled. “So you’ve met him? Do you know where Revere stands?”

“I’ve met him once or twice, yes. His business brings him to New York often. There’s a taproom over by St. Paul’s church, the Silver Hen and Her Chicks. A number of smiths drink there.”

“So I’m told. And also that Revere brings news as well as business on these journeys. I’m told he’s a patriot.”

“A very vocal patriot,” Cuf agreed. “You’re not long home, but you’re well informed, Morgan.”

“I came home to be better informed. Cuf, listen to me. If they try to enforce this stamped-paper curse, or if the quartering becomes too much of a burden, men won’t sit idly by. Some will choose to act. According to Mr. Revere, that’s as true in New England as in New York. How about you, Cuf? How will you choose?”

“Morgan, look at me. What do you see?”

“A man. My oldest friend.”

“A man who is not white. Not exactly a Negro either, but definitely not white.”

“What’s skin got to do with it, Cuf?”

“Everything. I have no choice, Morgan. Not the way you do. My skin chooses for me. I must do everything I can to protect myself and mine. And believe me, I will.”

The taproom had been dark and full of smoke. Coming outside into even the weak sun of the dying winter afternoon made him blink. Morgan passed a hand in front of his eyes, waited until he could focus, then looked around. Not such a bad place, this Church Farm district. Not as fancy as the court part of town, but the men here would be as anxious to preserve their way of life as any in the city proper. They had wives and children, and few would have Cuf’s particular concerns. Hard to fault Cuf for feeling as he did. Being a black man, even a mulatto, meant it wasn’t easy to feel otherwise.

A group of children playing in an open field beside the alehouse caught Morgan’s attention. One little girl stood apart from the others. Clare. Yes, he was sure it was she.

Clare was scratching with a stick on the bare dirt, singing something to herself. Pretty child. Looked a lot like Roisin. He moved closer.

“Poxy-island-over-the-sea, / Dig-a-hole-up-to-your-knee, / Seven-paces-east-and-nine-paces-north. / Poxy-island-over-the-sea, / Dig-a-hole-up-to-your-knee, / Turn-to-the-boulder-and-lie-down.” She was humming the words as if they were a rhyming song, matching her actions to what she said. While Morgan watched she lay down on the ground, banged her heels, then jumped up and began mimicking digging motions.

Holy bloody Savior. It wasn’t possible, but he’d seen and heard it for himself. “You there, little girl.”

The child looked up. “I’m Clare Campbell. Who are you?”

“Morgan Turner. I’m an old friend of your mother’s. And your father’s,” he added.

She stared at him and nodded.

He took a step closer.

The girl pulled back. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I just want to ask you a question.” Jesus God Almighty. There was no end to the questions he wanted to ask her. “How old are you, Clare Campbell?”

“Five.”

“Five,” he repeated. “A big girl. And I’ll bet you’re very smart. That song you were singing, how does the rest of it go?”

“It doesn’t go any special way. It’s just a song. I made it up.”

“Did your father teach you that song, Clare? Did Cuf teach you about the poxy island and seven paces east and nine paces north?”

She shook her head so hard a strand of dark hair escaped from her mobcap. Not coppery red like Roisin’s, or dark and curly like Cuf’s. Black and shiny and straight, like Morgan’s own. “I made it up,” the child said. “It’s just a song.”

“Tell me the rest of it then. After you lie down near the boulder. What comes next?”

She cocked her head and looked at him. Her eyes weren’t green like Roisin’s or brown like Cuf’s. They were dark blue, knowing eyes. “You gonna give me a penny if I tell you?” she asked.

“I might. If you tell me everything your father taught you.”

“The other man gave me a wooden penny. Will you give me a copper?”

Holy bloody Savior! “What other man?”

He grabbed for her, but she was too quick for him. “I don’t like you. I don’t want to tell you anything about my song. Go away.”

She started running toward the alehouse. Morgan ran after her, conscious all the while that if he didn’t get her on her own he’d get little more information from her. “Stop, Clare! I mean you no harm. I’ll give you two copper pennies if you—

She was quicker than he imagined. She ran around the building and up a flight of steps. He pelted after her. “I only want to talk to you, Clare. Three copper pennies.”

Roisin appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs. “Clare, what’s wrong?” She saw Morgan running behind the child. “Get inside. Stay there.” Roisin shoved the little girl through the door and pulled it shut. “What are you doing here? What do you want with my daughter?”

Dear Holy Virgin, make her heart stop beating the way it was, as if it would thump its way out of her chest. Every time she saw him it was the same. All these years she was sure she’d hated him, that she’d done the right thing by choosing Cuf and rejecting Morgan Turner the pirate. But from the first moment he’d returned she’d had to face the truth. And now, the way he was looking at her with so much knowing in his eyes …

“She’s my daughter, isn’t she?” Morgan hadn’t realized how sure he was until he spoke the words.

“She’s Cuf’s child. We’ve been together since the day we walked away from your mother’s house. Clare is Cuf’s daughter.” She had to keep saying that. He had to believe her. Cuf had risked everything for them. Dear Lord Jesus, there were times he’d gone hungry himself to see that there was food in her mouth and in Clare’s. Didn’t that make him the child’s father?

“She’s my daughter,” Morgan repeated. “Her hair and her eyes, she’s Turner stock, there’s no doubt. But I don’t understand why you never went to my mother. You must have known she’d pay well to see her granddaughter properly cared for.”

“How dare you! My daughter is properly cared for.”

“I didn’t mean that.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Roisin. I mean you no harm, nor the child. Why should I?”

“She’s Cuf’s child.”

Something about that stubborn insistence moved him more deeply than anything else. Though everything about Roisin Campbell still moved him. God, she was beautiful. More lovely than ever, now that she was a woman rather than a girl. “I have to speak with her.”

“You have no claim on either of us, Morgan Turner. None.” Holy Virgin, how her heart was pounding. He must hear it. “After six years—”

He shook his head. Fighting with her was the last thing he wanted to do. “Let me come inside, Roisin. I swear to you, I won’t hurt you or the child. But I must speak with her. It’s important. Besides, we’ll attract attention standing out here. Cuf’s in the taproom at the moment. He won’t trouble us unless we draw notice to ourselves.”

She hesitated a moment more, then opened the door and stepped away from it.

Morgan brushed past her. He made himself ignore the warmth rising from her flesh, the way she was only inches from him. Right now only one thing mattered.

Clare was sitting beside the hearth. She’d wrapped a shawl around her small shoulders, though it wasn’t cold in the small room. In fact, it was extremely pleasant. There was the faint scent of roses and medicaments, and a lingering echo of whatever good stew they’d had for their dinner. A black cast-iron kettle hissing steam hung over the fire.

Roisin closed the door and came into the room behind him. She went immediately to the fireplace. “I was making a tisane.” She moved the spit arm and swung the kettle away from the heat. “Put your cap back on, Clare. We have a guest. It’s not fitting.”

The child had pulled off her mobcap. She held it in her hand and her hair hung down to her shoulders. Lustrous, dark, silky smooth. Turner hair. There could be no doubt. Morgan squatted beside her. “Three copper pennies, Clare. I promised and I’ll keep my word. Just tell me who was the other man who paid to know the rest of your song.”

Roisin put her hand over her mouth to keep back a gasp of surprise. Holy Virgin, what was Morgan talking about? What had he come here to do to their lives, the peace she’d purchased against all the odds? Whatever it was, Clare held the key. Roisin put herself between the child and Morgan, staring into Clare’s blue eyes. “What song, darling? What man? Tell Mama, Clare.”

“I made it up.” The child was looking over her shoulder at Morgan. Roisin felt his eyes staring at both of them. “I did, Mama. I made up the song.”

“Very well.” Morgan moved so he could see the child more clearly. “If you say so, Clare, I believe you,” he said. “Only tell me who asked you about it?”

Roisin put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Wait. Don’t answer him, Clare. Answer me. What song?”

“‘Poxy-island-over-the-sea, / Dig-a-hole-up-to-your-knee, / Seven-paces-east-and-nine-paces-north. / Then-turn-to-the-boulder-and-lie-down, / Dig-a-hole-up-to-your-knee.’ I made it up, Mama. I did.”

Roisin hung her head for a moment, then drew the child close, wrapping her in her arms. “Cuf talks in his sleep,” she whispered. “He has ever since I lay with … Since I’ve known him. That’s where she learned those words. I’ve no idea what they’re about. But he says them all the time.”

“I know what they’re about,” Morgan said softly. “What I need to know is who she told them to.”

Roisin pushed the little girl far enough away so she could look into her eyes. “Tell Mama, Clare. You must. Who was it wanted to know about that song? Besides Captain Turner here.”

“The bad smelly man with the funny eyes.”

Morgan couldn’t suppress an impatient sigh. Half the men in New York smelled bad. And what did funny eyes mean? “Did he tell you his name, Clare? When he gave you the wooden penny, did the man tell you his name?”

The child shook her head.

“Where did you see him, Clare?” Roisin smoothed the hair back from her daughter’s forehead. “Was he downstairs in the taproom?”

“No. He came up here first. Then I saw him in the field.”