City of Promise (38 page)

“It is.” The lawyer took a folded document from his pocket. “I have an order from the judge to do exactly that. Close down the building as well as the foundry.”

“What do you reckon, Mr. Clark?” Clifford asked the question without looking at the attorney, keeping his gaze fixed on Joshua all the while. “Given how backlogged the courts are, how long do you think it’ll be before this case gets heard? Just an estimate, mind you. Based on your long legal experience.”

“Could be months and months, Captain Clifford. Maybe even years.”

Clifford sighed. “I’m genuinely sorry to hear that, sir. This gentleman has leased all but a few of the flats in that building. And being a young and ambitious man of business, he has of course used that money to get started on still another building. Which, incidentally, also uses the illegal steel. So Mr. Bessemer will have a claim on it as well.” Clifford shook his head. “It’s a right mess, Mr. Clark, a possum stew as we might say down home. Mr. Turner here, he’s going to have a hard time untangling himself from all that twisted-up legal business. Not to mention dealing with those rightly indignant folks who rented his flats. A right mess. Wouldn’t you agree, Josh?”

“I might, Captain Clifford.” Josh took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. A few minutes past one. He turned his head and looked at Frankie Miller, who nodded. The police cordon, meanwhile, hadn’t moved, just stood their ground and stared straight ahead. Josh turned
back to Clifford. “I might agree, except that nothing is actually the way you described it.”

“How so?” Clifford gave no hint of being less sure of his ground.

“Well, for one thing, Mr. Clark here isn’t acting for Mr. Bessemer in London. He’s acting for Trenton Clifford, late an officer in the rebel army, now in New York. Isn’t that so, Mr. Clark?”

“A formality,” Clifford said before the lawyer could answer. “I am an associate of Mr. Bessemer’s and I have engaged counsel on his behalf.”

“For another thing—” Josh heard the sound of a horse galloping toward them. Frankie Miller had told him to expect delivery sometime around one. Damned close to spot-on. “For another thing,” Josh began again, “contrary to your assertions, this is a properly licensed facility. I have paid Mr. Bessemer for the right to make steel using what is, I entirely agree, his patented process. Did it before we produced a single ounce of the stuff.”

Clifford tipped his head back and studied Josh’s face. Then he took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “Son of a bitch,” he said very softly. “Son of a high-tailed bitch.”

“Something like that,” Josh said. He turned his head just as Zac reined in beside him. “Excellent time to arrive,” Josh said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Haven’t ridden like that in years. Exhilarating. Up to Sunshine Hill and back in less than two hours. Mind you, the traffic’s impossible south of Forty-Second Street or I could have done it faster. Afternoon, Captain Clifford.” Then, to the lawyer, “I believe this lot of coppers are here at your behest, sir. However, I own this property and I’ll thank you to have them clear off.”

“I have a court order, Mr. Devrey. Signed by a judge—”

“Who’s no doubt in Clifford’s pocket, just as you are. But you’ve all acted on misinformation and wrong assumptions. I have the license from Bessemer right here.” Zac slid from the saddle and took an envelope from his inside pocket and held it out to Clark. “You can see for yourself, sir.”

“Here,” Clifford grabbed for the document. “Let me see that.”

“Happy to oblige,” Zac said. “But take care, please. This is valuable,” jerking his head toward the police cordon, “as is proved by all this carry-on. Mind you,” he added. “We have other copies. In case something should happen to this one.”

“What you’re holding, Clifford,” Josh wasn’t waiting for him to read the document, “is permission to make steel using the Bessemer process. A license granted for three years from August of 1871. My brother was in England when we set up down here. At my request he saw Bessemer in London and arranged the legalities on my behalf.”

As long as there was any chance of a fight, Josh had stayed on his horse. Same as always, he was the equal of any man as long as he had four legs under him. No chance now of a dustup, but he remained in the saddle. It was enormously satisfying to look down at the commandant of the Belle Isle prison camp. “That’s what was behind the ransacking of my office, wasn’t it, Clifford? You were in my house looking for something exactly like this when poor George Higgins somehow got in your way. So you murdered him. And when you found no evidence of a license on Grand Street, you decided to go ahead with your little drama.” Josh jerked his head toward the police cordon. “Ebenezer’s wedding must have seemed a perfect opportunity since the foundry would be empty.”

“I had nothing to do with the murder of the dwarf or the break-in. I was at Kate Meacham’s whorehouse from the start of the storm until the next morning. At least a dozen witnesses will swear to it.” Clifford handed the letter back to Zac and turned and left.

“Bit early for brandy,” Zac said. “Sherry do you?”

“It will not. Brandy. Damn the hour.”

“You’re quite right. I’ll join you.” Zac poured two generous snifters and carried them to where his brother sat. They were in Zac’s office
on Canal Street, finally rid of the police and the oily little lawyer and Frankie Miller and his men. On their own. “Thank you,” Josh said.

“Don’t mention it.” Zac raised his glass in a toast. “Shall we drink to Ebenezer Tickle and his bride.”

“Good idea. Well married by now, no doubt. And the groom no idea how close he came to being both jobless and homeless on his wedding day.”

“Clifford never had a chance of pulling it off,” Zac said. “You headed him off at the pass. Last year when you had me get hold of Bessemer in London.”

Josh shrugged. “A man would be daft to risk an entire enterprise in order to save a few thousand for a license. The thing I still don’t understand—” The chiming of the Carolina clock cut off his words. Two o’clock. He should be getting home to Mollie. She must be beside herself with curiosity about the whole remarkable incident. But there were parts of it he found every bit as mysterious as she probably did. “Thing I don’t know,” he repeated when the echo of the clock faded, “is what Clifford stood to get out of it all. He ruins me, fair enough. But from his point of view, to what end?”

“You’re still sure you did nothing to earn his enmity? Back in that rebel hellhole prison camp?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Has to be me then,” Zac said.

“You? What’s Clifford to do with you?”

“His underground trains.” Zac swallowed the last of his brandy and headed back for a refill. “I haven’t given him an answer yet. I assume he’s looking for a way to force my hand.”

“Given him . . . Jesus God Almighty, Zac, are you actually considering doing business with Trenton Clifford?”

Zac returned carrying the decanter. “Top up?”

Josh held out his glass, saying nothing, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s a possible way out,” Zac said.

“Of what?”

“Financial ruin.”

“Surely things are not that bad. I know Devrey Shipping’s been on its heels for a while, but you’re still in control of a huge amount of quite remarkable assets. The property here in the city is worth a fortune, not to mention the fleet and all the goodwill you’ve—Zac, you haven’t hocked it all in some way, have you? Mortgaged everything to the Wall Street money men or something of the sort?”

Zac shook his head. “Not yet. That’s precisely what I’m trying to avoid. But there’s no future in shipping, little brother. Not American shipping at any rate. The New York docks are being ‘organized,’ or so they call it. Labor unions are taking over. We’re going to have to pay more to employ our stevedores and land-based personnel than any European nation. Next it’ll be the crews. And I can’t say they don’t have a case as far as their treatment is concerned. Mind you, it doesn’t matter a great deal. The war pretty much finished American merchant shipping. The unions are administering what might be called the
coup de grace.”

“But Clifford’s—”

Zac held up his hand. “He’s got essentially what I think to be an excellent idea. An underground steam railroad. It’s the perfect answer to our intractable traffic, though I can’t say I like his manner of doing business. However, whether I throw in my lot with him or do something else, I need to transform Devrey Shipping into a different endeavor. I’ve considered passengers rather than freight, luxury steamships carrying people across the ocean, but Sam Cunard and Bill Inman pretty much have that tied up. I’d be late to the party, and it’d take years to recoup the cost of refitting the fleet. Alternative is, sell it all. Both Cunard and Inman would bid for our New York docks, that’s for sure. I’d squeeze a fair sum out of their rivalry. Then I could sail the fleet across to Asia and sell it piecemeal to a cartload of thieves and pirates in countries you’ve never heard of. Put the capital into rolling stock, underground trains. It just might be a solution.”

Josh couldn’t get his mind around the notion of Devrey Shipping
simply disappearing, whether or not Zac called it a transformation. “Tammany’s opposed to an underground railway. Tweed and the others are backing the elevated. Besting them’s not easy.”

“I know. And you’re entirely correct about Clifford. I know that as well and I’m looking for alternatives. I just wanted to see if—”

There was an urgent knock on the door. Zac looked up, but it opened before he could ask who it was.

“Mr. Turner. Thank God. They told me I’d find you here. Been looking everywhere.”

A clerk loomed behind Tess, half hidden by her bulk and her roses, speaking over her shoulder. “I tried to stop her, Mr. Devrey. Said I’d announce her and see if—”

Tess shook off the man’s restraining arm. “You’ve got to come home, Mr. Turner. Right away. It’s Mol—Mrs. Turner. She’s right poorly. Doctor Thomas is with her now, but frankly it’s—” Tess’s voice choked with sobs. “Blood everywhere, Mr. Turner. She’s hanging on by a thread.”

It had been a week, and Mollie was not after all going to die, though it had been a close-run thing. She would not, however, see him or speak to him. “You can of course insist,” Eileen Brannigan said, “but frankly, I don’t think it would be wise. She is . . . I believe the best word is fragile, Josh. And still quite ill.”

He did not fancy himself the sort of man who would push his way into his wife’s sickroom. He did, however, seek medical explanations from Simon.

“The straight of it,” Simon said, “is she went into premature labor. It seems to have been brought on by something that happened. I take it you’ve no idea what?”

Josh shook his head. “None. I wasn’t with her. The business at the foundry, with the Bessemer patent—”

“Yes, of course. Zac told me. You had your hands full. I understand.
Look, she’s going to get well, Josh. We can be fairly certain of that now. But—” Simon broke off and looked away.

“What?” Josh demanded. “Come on, flat out.”

“The labor went on for so many hours and she was losing so much blood . . . Thomas had to withdraw the infant with forceps to put an end to it. No choice unless she was going to be allowed to die. It was a boy, but far too premature to survive.” He did not mention the crushed head, though Thomas had been quite graphic. “Thing is, Mollie’s uterus was damaged. There will be no other children, Josh. I’m sorry. Truly.”

“Thomas went through a lot of rigamarole I knew was meant to tell me something. I understood about six months being too soon and no chance the baby could live. But, Mollie . . . Frankly, I couldn’t fathom all his polite roundabout. I needed it spelled out. That’s why I asked you to involve yourself. Thank you, by the way. I’m grateful.”

“Not at all. Sorry I couldn’t bring better news.”

A tragedy caused by something that had happened, which ruined the chance of Mollie giving him a son now or in the future. The “something” was, however, an event about which he knew nothing at all. Not good enough.