City of Glory (39 page)

There was no way Thumbless Wu could keep up with a man on horseback, but he’d never intended to. There was still light enough for him to follow the prints made in the soft earth by the horse’s hooves. He worried that he’d lose the trail when they got to the paved roads of the city, but at least he knew what the horse of the barbarian with the red hair looked like. He would recognize it if—Ahyee! His joss was marvelous this day. The gods were truly smiling on him. The place the barbarian was going was here at the very edge of the town.

The trail of hoofprints led around to the back of a large and imposing house. Only a mandarin of highest standing would live in such a house. But if the barbarian had business with such a mandarin, he would go in through the gate facing the street. Instead he had tethered his horse in the rear, beside a brick wall that when Wu peeked over it revealed a small garden of luscious fruits—pears trained to climb the walls, and apple trees marching in precise rows up the middle of the square. Even better, there was a young girl working in the garden. And she was not a
gwai nui sing,
a foreign ghost woman like the one called Hah-nah. This was a civilized girl swaying on proper golden lilies.

While he watched, a young man, also a civilized person, but tall the way those from the far northwest of China were, came out. He was carrying a small burlap sack on a shoulder broader than the task required.
Fan.
The thought made Wu’s mouth water. He fingered his knife, but knew that even with it he was no match for the young man tall as a
gau leng
Manchurian, and the even taller
yang gui zhi
barbarian who came out of the house behind him. The girl bowed herself respectfully out of their presence and went back into the house. The two men went to where the barbarian’s horse was tethered and spoke for a while, using proper Mandarin, the Chinese being especially courteous to the man with the red hair, calling him Lord and bowing repeatedly, even though the barbarian kept telling him not to do so. “But I am honored by your presence, Lord. We all are.” Over and over, as if he were the barbarian’s servant.

They spoke about the war, who was winning and who was losing, and how soon the mandarins on both sides would talk their way to peace. Thumbless Wu knew about the war. He knew that to get to America it had been necessary for
Canton Star
to sail past the fighting ships of a mighty navy, and that from the moment he set foot on the
diu ling
boat he was at the mercy of the
diu ling
barbarian captain he thought of as O-too. Never mind. Never mind. He was here. And he had found the apothecary and the red flowers. And now—all gods bear witness to the quantities of incense he would burn in thanksgiving for his marvelous joss this night—he had discovered civilized people. He did not mind when he saw the young one who looked like a Manchurian put the
fan
in the saddlebags of the barbarian with the red hair, and he felt no anxiety when the barbarian mounted his horse and rode away. He was quite sure he was in a place where he could make
guanxi,
and once he did,
fan
would follow.

Wu waited until the tall young one went into the house and the girl tottered back out on her golden lilies. She made his mouth water more than the
fan.
“Psst…” Wu hissed at her.

The girl turned to the sound. When she saw him, her eyes opened to become too big for her face, like a small animal, startled in the night when it was caught in the glow of the lanterns of a junk coming to the shore.

“Psst…” Wu said again, and beckoned her to him.

Hanover Street, 8:30
P.M.

Vinegar Clifford, wearing his working uniform of black singlet and leggings, stood motionless with his arms folded, the bullwhip dangling uncoiled from one huge fist. Gornt Blakeman’s countinghouse was old, the ceiling of the front room low, the exposed beams darkened with the smoke of the many open fires that had burned on the hearth before the Franklin stove was installed. The two tall desks stood waiting for the morning when the clerks would return and conduct Blakeman’s business. For now the whipper was alone, standing guard beside the narrow staircase that led to the private quarters.

The thick door on the landing was firmly closed and no sound escaped from behind it.

The upstairs room with its surplus of heavy furniture was already full of black shadows, the only relief a pool of yellow light cast by a single oil lamp burning on a table. Gornt Blakeman and his guest sat inside the circle of light, and though he knew they were secure and well guarded, Blakeman spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “It is a time for men of vision, Mr. Astor. Men who can see the glory that lies ahead.”

“
Ja,
perhaps. Also a time it may be to hang for treason.”

“I do not believe that, sir. I don’t think you believe it either.”

Jacob Astor shrugged. “I know what I believe, Mr. Blakeman. It is to know what you believe that I am here at your countinghouse.”

“Very well, I will tell you.” Blakeman’s face looked strange and fantastic in the lamplight. As if, like the dragon on his ship’s flag, when he opened his mouth flames would shoot forth. “First, I cannot see that it is treason for a man to consider how best to protect his fortune, indeed his very ability to earn his living, from fools who put it in peril. That such fools have been elected to their office does not seem to me to enter into it.”

“Three responses there are to that. One is that here in New York we made a solemn agreement. Both documents we signed, Mr. Blakeman, the Declaration for Independency and later the Constitution. We joined the United States. By what right do we unjoin?”

“The same right as was declared in that first document you mentioned. Because, ‘in the course of human events,’ as they put it, ‘it becomes necessary.’ And personally, Mr. Astor, I signed nothing. Neither is your name on the document.”

Astor sat in a large, velvet-covered chair with a gilt frame, primly upright so his feet could touch the floor. The chair was not only uncomfortable, it was rather more grand than this crowded room under the eaves deserved.
Ja,
but Blakeman’s chair was grander still. A throne.
So, der Kerl wollte König sein.
The man would be a king. How long had he nursed this dream? “The people of New York, Mr. Blakeman, the mechanics and the ordinary workers you must have for your scheme to succeed, they are all republicans these days, against the British and for the French. They support President Madison and his war. Your man downstairs, big he is, terrifying even. But all the city he cannot keep in line with his whip.”

“True, Mr. Astor.” Blakeman’s voice was if anything even softer. “But Vinegar Clifford and his whip are not the only means of enforcing order. I can call on others if necessary.”

“The militia is here to defend the city against the British. When you say ‘March!’ you think they will put one foot in front of the other?”

Blakeman waved a dismissive hand. “Not every man of New York is a member of the militia. Security will not be a problem. Take my word for that.”

“
Ja,
perhaps. But how can even this great city stand alone among the nations of the world? It is a fantasy, Mr. Blakeman. Almost I might say a delusion.”

“No, Mr. Astor. It is not. You forget, perhaps, that before there were these so called United States, there were Athens and Sparta, and later Florence and Venice…the great city-states of history.”

“
Ja,
history. Ancient history. Now, in modern times, it is—”

“In modern times things are different, I agree. I never said only New York, Mr. Astor.”

“So? Who else? Men from Massachusetts?”

“Some,” Blakeman admitted. “Still more from Connecticut. And perhaps Rhode Island.”

“New England hotheads.”

“That’s what the British called them thirty-five years ago when they met in Pennsylvania to talk rebellion. Look where that led.”

“To where we are,” Astor admitted. “To the Union now you tell me we must leave.”

“So that we can survive, sir. So fools cannot lead us by the nose to our inevitable defeat and impoverishment.”

“And the rest of the world? How, please, will they not see this as an act of supreme disloyalty? Why should they again trust to keep their word those who would do such a thing?”

“Indeed, Mr. Astor, that is where you come in.”

This time Astor said nothing. Blakeman knew the moment had come. He rose and for a moment disappeared into the shadows at the far end of the room. When he returned, he carried a leather box about as big as a man’s fist. “Prepare yourself, Mr. Astor. I am about to show you one of the wonders of the world.”

Astor had to struggle to maintain the placid expression that had served his business interests so well for so many years. Not because of what he was about to see. He was sure he knew what the box contained, and he had no particular interest in precious gems. His heart was pounding because it appeared that everything young Turner had told him was true. Which meant the risks were enormous. The syndicate he’d formed to support the war effort had purchased millions of dollars’ worth of government bonds. If there were to be, to all intents and purposes, no United States government to redeem them…
eine Katastrophe.

The box opened with a snapping sound. “One of the wonders of the world,” Blakeman repeated, whispering this time. “Here, have a look.”

Astor leaned forward. The diamond lay on a black-velvet cushion, and immediately it seemed to gather to itself all the light in the room. All of it was drawn to the heart of the rose-cut stone, each of the diamond’s facets splitting the rays and throwing them back like so many bolts of silent but splendid thunder.
“Du lieber Gott,”
Astor murmured. “A diamond as big as a large walnut. Never have I even heard of such a thing.”

“A royal diamond,” Blakeman said quietly. “A diamond that belongs in the crown jewels of a great ruler.”

“So in this new country of yours, you will be a king? An emperor perhaps?”

“Not a bit of it. I’m not that much of a fool, Mr. Astor. You yourself pointed out how republican are the sentiments of the ordinary folk of the city. At first I may need to, let’s say, vigorously convince them to go along with how things are to be—and be assured I’m prepared to do it—but business thrives on peace, not unrest. No, we will offer the people of New York a society where every man is the equal of every other, where those who work will never starve, and those who do not can go to their grave the paupers they deserve to be. I will be no king, Mr. Astor, and certainly not an emperor. I shall be the governor of this province. Each of the others, Rhode Island and Connecticut and Massachusetts, they will have governors as well. And from among them we will choose a president.”

“And this president, he will have this?” Astor nodded toward the diamond still shimmering between them.

Blakeman shook his head. “A thing like this only causes trouble. Best if we get it out of our new country sooner rather than later, as soon as we make our peace with Great Britain and our ships are allowed to sail unmolested. And might I remind you that within our union we will have twice as many ships as will be left in the remaining United States, even if you include their entire navy.”

“
Ja,
that of course is true.” Take New York and most of New England out of the Union and you cut out the country’s mercantile heart, certainly seventy or eighty percent of its seafaring trade. What would be left? A few southern plantations, some riverboat traders, and the rest wilderness. Great some day,
ja,
but now…Without the Northeast, the United States was a joke. “The jewel, Mr. Blakeman. Still I do not understand.”

“International acceptance, Mr. Astor. That is the thing our new nation will need, and it’s what the diamond will obtain for us. It’s the answer to your concern, sir, that we will be pariahs, outcasts never to be trusted. You, Mr. Astor, will see that does not happen.”

“How is that to be, Mr. Blakeman?”

“You will write to the Holy Roman Emperor, Francis II of…of Hungary, I believe.”