City of Dreams (11 page)

“Let’s move,” Big Jake whispered. “We’re stickin’ out here like stiff dicks.”

“If anybody can help us, it’s Fraunces.”

“But the redcoats must know he was one of the Sons of Liberty, too, and he let the rebels hold meetings, and—”

British bayonets poked against their backs. British questions came quickly and less warmly than the bayonets: “Who are you?” “Where do you live?” “What are you doing?”

The answers were in part truth and in part the kind of invention that two smart street men could conjure even when their wits were clotting for lack of sleep. “We work for Sam Fraunces. We live in his attic. And we were bringing wine”—then came the part about palates and pricks and the pleasure of British officers—“and British soldiers, too.”

The redcoats liked that last part. So they took the boys into the tavern, to see Major General Robertson, the new military authority.

At the sight of these two dirty Americans, Robertson pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and held it to his nose. He didn’t look like a fighting man, thought Gil, and his handkerchief smelled of rose water. But he was probably another British career soldier, the kind who could run a city or lead a regiment.

Robertson sent for one of Fraunces’s slaves, to vouch for their story, because Fraunces had fled. But the British weren’t going to hang Fraunces, said Robertson, since he was the best innkeeper in America. They were going to bring him back and put him to work, and his family would be safe, so long as he continued to “serve the gustatory needs of His Majesty’s officers as attentively as he has always served New York’s.”

A slave named Joshua vouched for everything that Gil and Big Jake had said. He told Robertson that they were the trusted musclemen of the tavern, and if the British wanted to keep up good service until they brought Fraunces back, these men should be part of it.

So Gil and Big Jake slept again in those attic beds, and by the next morning, they were hauling ale barrels off British ships, splitting stove wood, slaughtering chickens, and listening to the chatter of His Majesty’s officers, most of whom were amused by the rebels’ amateur leadership and by the redoubts they had raised around the city, piles of dirt that had proven worse than useless for defense. Washington might hold the high ground, they said, but soon enough they would get behind him, and soon after that, they would get him on the gallows.

Gil Walker agreed.

He told Big Jake that they had made the right decision, no matter where Augustus the Bookworm had gone. Now they had to keep their heads down, obey orders, and grab their chance to get the gold.

B
UT TO DO
that they needed Loretta. They needed to know exactly where to look and when. And they needed to act quickly before more British officers returned from Harlem and an old Tory like John Blunt threw open his doors to lodge them.

So Gil waited each morning along the route that Loretta took to the fish market. And finally, on Friday, four days after the British landed, he saw her.

She was walking down Broad Street with a basket under her arm. She wore a loose dress and shawl, and she moved with a kind of bowlegged stiffness, as though she had been kicked, or badly used in another way.

He stepped out of an alley behind her and said her name.

She stopped, turned, held the basket against her chest as if for protection. “Gil? Gil Walker? I thought you was on the line.”

“I’ve come back.”

“You deserted?”

He brought a finger to his lips. “If anyone asks, we been here the whole time, just good loyal lads servin’ in the absence of Master Fraunces.”

She brought a hand to his chest. “I’m glad you’re back.”

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the alley. “I’ve missed you.”

Usually when he said something like that, she laughed in his face. This time, she looked down, as if to hide a tear. “I can’t be offerin’ any free gifts. Fanny give me the mornin’ off. Workin’ double shifts for a week ain’t too good for the”—she glanced at her midsection—“ for the scuttle, if you know what I mean.”

“How would you like to tell Fanny to go diddle herself?”

“Diddle herself? But she bought my indenture from my uncle. Five years.”

“We’ll buy you back. We’ll buy your corset, too, and throw it away.”

“Buy me back? With what?”

“John Blunt’s gold.”

That made her laugh. “We missed our chance. There’s British soldiers all about now, watchin’ over the loyal Tories and watchin’ all the good loyal lads like you, too.”

“Just tell us where the gold is. We’ll watch the Tory’s house tonight, make a plan, and move tomorrow.”

The bits of mascara around her eyes tightened into a suspicious web. “And then?”

“We’ll get out of here. There’s boats slippin’ away every night. We’ll get over to Jersey, buy horses, and be gone.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

He kissed her, but she did not respond. She barely inclined her head.

So he pulled back and said, “Because what you once told me is true.”

“What was that?”

“You and me are different. We were born low, but we have dreams. We’re two peas in a pod.” He kissed her again and this time, she opened her mouth against his and leaned into him, as if to tell him that he had said the right thing.

Then she slipped her arm into his and said, “Walk with me.” And as the sun rose, she told him everything she knew about John Blunt’s house and his gold.

ii.

By nightfall, the wind was rising out of the southeast.

It was a warm wind riding the edge of some distant autumn storm, and it sent ragged clouds running like spirits across the New York sky. A younger Gil Walker would have wandered away from the waterfront and gone beyond the town to some slope like Bayard’s Hill, all the better to feel the wind booming over the harbor and thundering up the Hudson and losing itself somewhere beyond the Jersey highlands. His mind would empty, and he would feel the force of nature, the breath of God himself, reminding him that he was part of something bigger.

But not tonight.

“Tonight,” Gil told Big Jake, “this wind will mask the sounds.”

“Sounds? What sounds? I thought we was just watchin’ tonight.”

Gil reached into his pocket and pulled out an iron cat’s paw and a hammer. “We
do
it tonight. Less chance for Loretta to act nervous in front of old Fanny Doolin.”

“Good.” Big Jake took a bottle of rum out of his pocket and swigged. “Just as easy to cut her out as cut her in.”

Gil stopped beneath a street lamp. The wind made the flame in the lamp flicker and almost blew Gil’s hat from his head. “I didn’t say nothin’ about cuttin’ her out.”

“You ain’t thinkin’ about cuttin’
me
out, are you?” asked Big Jake. “You and her, runnin’ a cathouse in Jersey . . . there’s a pretty picture.”

“You’re my oldest friend and you say somethin’ like that?”

“You wouldn’t tell us about the gold when there was four of us. Now we’re just two, thanks to Loretta and her cunt friends lurin’ us into the militia. And I’m gettin’ my share. If the Bookworm lives, he gets his share, too.”

“You been sippin’ too much rum,” said Gil.

Big Jake brought the rum bottle to his lips and took another long drink. Then he said, “Let’s get the gold. We’ll worry about the rest later.”

And they hurried through the deserted streets, Broad Street to Beaver to New, which connected Beaver Street to Wall. The street lamps cast high flickering shadows. The Presbyterian Church stared down from Wall Street. And there, at the intersection of New Street and Fluten Barrack, was the house of John Blunt.

And
there
was John Blunt, a bloated old man in white stockings and disheveled wig, lurching down the street behind two big Airedales. The dogs were running about, stopping, snuffling, lifting their legs. And Blunt was singing between swallows from a silver flask. It sounded like “God Save the King.”

Another Tory, thought Gil, whose world had been righted.

One of the dogs made a few circles around a spot in the street and squatted.

John Blunt said to the other one, “What about you, Prince? Have a dump for your old master. Don’t want you whimperin’ to go out in the middle of the night or shittin’ on the rugs, now, do we?”

But Prince was ignoring Blunt. He was looking toward two shadows in a doorway.

“What do you see, boy?” Blunt peered in the same direction.

Gil grabbed Big Jake and pulled him back out of the light.

The dog glanced back at his master but held his ground.

Gil wrapped his hand around the cat’s paw and waited.

But dogs were distractable creatures, especially good ratters when they saw rats, and as the other dog finished his business, he must have seen one, because he jumped up, kicked his legs at his leavings, and went racing back up the street.

Blunt called to Prince, “Come on, boy! Your brother just found quarry.”

Prince looked again toward the shadows, then he turned and followed his master.

Gil waited a few moments, until he heard John Blunt cry, “A nest of ’em! Go get ’em, boys! A dirty nest of rebel rats!”

Above the wind came the sound of hunting dogs flushing prey. Somewhere in the next block a window opened, a man shouted, “Quiet out there!” Then the contents of a chamber pot splashed into the street.

Gil whispered to Big Jake. “Let’s go.”

“But the wife?”

“Her light’s just gone out.” Gil pointed up at the second story. “Likely she’s took to bed with a hair across her arse at a drinkin’ husband who loves his dogs more than he loves her. Come on.”

The door was no problem. As with almost every front door in New York, the rebels had stripped it of brass fixtures—knockers, handles, knobs—so the key assembly would not work. A bolt or chain would be the way to lock it.

So Gil used a Tory’s wealth against him. Only the rich could afford sidelights—little panes of glass on either side of the front door—that allowed a person to look out and the sunlight to flood in. With the end of the cat’s paw fitted neatly and a few gentle taps of the hammer, Gil broke away the glazing, lifted out the thick pane, reached inside, and threw the bolt.

As soon as he did, the wind caught the door and blew it out of his hand. He leapt to grab it before it banged against the stopper and woke the wife.

Then he and Big Jake stepped into the foyer. Gil closed the door and raised his hand—wait, listen. Nothing except the distant barking of the Airedales. Gil slid the bolt back into place. “Blunt and his dogs must come in by the back,” he whispered.

An oil lamp flickered on a side table. Gil took it and led the way.

The dining room was to the left. The polished top of a mahogany table reflected the light of a street lamp. On either side of the fireplace were raised pine panels. Loretta had said that the gold was behind one of the panels on the left of the fireplace in the dining room.

Gil handed the lantern to Big Jake, then he tapped on each panel, but they all sounded hollow. He ran his fingers along the ridges, but he could feel no hinges or metal edges, nothing to indicate a compartment behind. He tried it all again with no more luck. Then he stepped back and looked at his friend.

“That trollop better not be lyin’ to us,” whispered Big Jake.

A powerful gust of wind caused one of the shutters to rattle. Gil and Big Jake both looked toward the window. They waited and watched, and Gil mentioned that everything seemed a little brighter for some reason, maybe a little redder.

“Just your eyes playin’ tricks around this lamp,” said Big Jake.

Gil turned back to the wall. A thick molding ran along the top, where the paneling reached the ceiling. Gil told Jake to hold the lamp higher. And there it was . . . a small lever hidden in the layered molding. Gil reached up and pulled and, miraculously, one of the lower panels swung open.

“Aha.” Big Jake lowered the lamp and peered in and said, “Shit.”

“What?”

“A strongbox, with a lock, mortared into the brick.”

Gil took out a key ring containing awls of different sizes, perfect for lockpicking. He slid one into the lock on the strongbox . . .

And they heard someone running up the street, then a cry of “Fire! Fire!”

“Fire?” Big Jake’s eyes widened.

“That’s why the light looked different.” Gil kept his eyes on the strong-box.

There was barking in the street now.

“Shit,” said Big Jake again. “Blunt and his dogs.”

And while Gil probed the lock, this came from the street:

“Fire? Where?” “Call off your dogs.” “Baron! Prince! Come!” “It started in Fightin’ Cocks.” “But that’s down on the waterfront.” “Look in the sky, mister. Firebrands blowin’ everywhere. And the rebels took all the church bells so there’s no way to sound the alarm. Buildin’s catchin’ fire all over!” “My God! Samantha! Samantha! Fire! Fire!”

The dining-room ceiling thudded as feet hit the floor in the room above.

“Shit!” said Big Jake.

“Stop shittin’ and hold the lamp.” Gil slid a second probe into the lock.

Big Jake brought the lamp over Gil’s shoulder. “Hurry up.”

There were footfalls on the staircase now.

And Blunt was pounding on the door and shouting for his wife.

And his dogs were barking.

And someone else in the street was screaming, “Fire!”

And the lock popped.

The strongbox held two trays, each containing a hundred gold guineas, beautiful glittering coins stamped with the chinless profile of the king himself.

Gil pulled two canvas bags from his pockets, grabbed a tray, and dumped it into a bag.

“Hurry up,” said Big Jake.

“We’ll get out the back,” said Gil. “But let’s get what we come for.”

In the hallway, Mrs. Blunt was screaming as she pulled back the bolt, “John! There’s men in the house.”

“Shit.” Big Jake turned toward the foyer.

The door swung open and the dogs burst in.

Big Jake dropped the lamp, grabbed a mahogany dining chair, and slammed it down on a dog. At the same moment, the lamp was shattering, and the whale oil was rolling toward the long drapes gathered on the floor, and the flame in the lamp was following the oil . . .