City of Glory (6 page)

“Indulge me, Joyful,” Andrew said softly. “Read it aloud.”

“Seventy-four degrees…thirty minutes west of Greenwich, just south of…twenty-two, no, twenty-
four degrees north. Twice around thrice back.” He stared at the paper a moment or two longer, then looked up. “The first part’s navigation coordinates, but leading to where? As for the last, it’s gibberish.”

“I’ve never been entirely sure where the coordinates lead, except that they’re in the Caribbean. But they’re clear enough for a clever seaman to find his way. As for the rest, if I were a younger man, I’d go after it and assume the words would make sense once I got to wherever it is.”

“After what?”

“The treasure.”

“You’re saying…this note is a sort of treasure map?”

“That’s what I think, yes. I can’t be certain, mind, but I believe your father wrote these directions with the intention of going back and getting what he’d buried, and that he never did.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I said I wasn’t sure. But the
Maiden
was in the Caribbean in ’59, and she never again sailed there. Then there was the Revolution, and Morgan was a British prisoner for almost three years. That’s how he lost an eye.”

“I know.” Also that Morgan Turner had been a fighting man, and that all through the war Andrew allowed everyone to believe him a Tory, while he spied for Washington in the heart of the British stronghold that was New York. “My mother said my father was not the same after his time as a prisoner. He couldn’t concentrate; he forgot things.”

“There was a good deal worth forgetting. You’ve wanted stories since I’ve known you, Joyful. The family history, what we did when we had to choose, your father and me. Most of the tales are too black for telling. It wasn’t pretty getting to independency. You have to have lived through it to understand.”

“I’ve seen battle, Cousin Andrew. I know it’s never pretty.”

Andrew swirled the remaining brandy in his glass, then finished it in a single swallow. “Not pretty isn’t the half of it. In 1759 we were at war with the French up in Canada and their bloodthirsty Indians. The
Maiden
was the most successful privateer afloat, but after that strange voyage she came back with only Morgan, his first mate, and a crew of three. And the hold dead empty. Morgan said they hadn’t taken a single prize. Since the
Maiden
had made most of the men who invested in her a good deal richer than they’d been before, his investors accepted that this time fortune hadn’t smiled. Except for the few who said Morgan lied. There were rumors that because one of the investors in that voyage was Squaw DaSilva’s—” Andrew broke off. “You know about my aunt, your grandmother?”

“Jennet Turner DaSilva. Whoremistress to the city and my father’s mother. I know.”

“Jennet was many things, not all of them what they seemed, but undoubtedly the best hater I’ve ever known. Forgiveness wasn’t in her vocabulary. She detested Caleb Devrey with a rare passion, and he was indeed one of the investors in that voyage. He thought she didn’t know that, but it appears she did. And so did Morgan. It’s not difficult to believe he would rather bury the profits of that cruise than see Cousin Caleb reap any gain from it.”

“My father would have been taking an incredible risk.”

“Indeed. If they could have proved anything, they’d have strung him up from the nearest tree, and cut him down before he was dead so they could hang him a second time. But that wouldn’t have stopped Morgan. Not in those days. Especially not if the thing could cause Cousin Caleb harm.”

“In God’s name,” Joyful whispered, “how could you all have hated each other so much?”

“I didn’t hate Caleb. I’d no reason to. If your father wanted to tell you his reasons, he’d have done so while he was alive. Just accept that they were sworn enemies.” Andrew leaned forward and tapped the note lying on the table. “That’s why I believe this is the answer to the puzzle of the voyage of ’59.”

“Did my father give it to you?”

“He did not. I took it from Caleb Devrey’s—”

“But if Caleb had it, if he knew what had been done and where the profits were, why didn’t he go after them?”

“You didn’t let me finish. I took it from Cousin Caleb’s dead hand. My assumption is that by the time he got this—however he got it—it was too late for him to do anything with it. And if you’re wondering, he died of natural causes. A malign tumor in his belly, I suspect, though he was never my patient.”

“I see. Cousin Andrew, forgive me, but I have to ask. Did my father know you had that paper?”

Andrew didn’t avoid Joyful’s gaze. “No, he never did.”

For a time the two men sat in silence, the enormity of all the old hatreds and betrayals heavy between them. Finally, Joyful said, “This treasure…If it exists, you could have gone after it any number of times over the years. Why didn’t you?”

“I had many excuses. No opportunity, no knowledge of seafaring, no captain I’d trust…The plain truth is, I always knew it wasn’t mine to claim.”

Joyful stood up, the tension making his chest tight and every muscle quiver. “But it is mine. The blood legacy belongs to me.” His heart was pounding and he could feel the sweat running down his back.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Why now? I lived three years under your roof. Until a month past, I’ve been a constant visitor in this house any time I’ve been in the city. In good Christ’s name, Cousin Andrew, why now?”

Andrew took a deep breath. “Because,” he said, “I believe the Union, everything your father and I and so many others fought for, to be in peril.”

It took a few moments for Joyful to take this in. “Are you speaking of the United States?” he asked finally.

Andrew nodded.

“But we’ve bested the British in a number of battles this year, and even if they do invade New York, we—”

“I’m not talking about the redcoats, Joyful. I’m talking about a far worse danger. The kind that comes from within.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You must have heard the talk. New England and New York to secede, become a separate country.”

“Well—yes, I suppose I have. A word here and there. But surely it’s not serious. War has always been a fountain of rumors.”

“Indeed. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s talk and nothing more.”

Joyful started to say something, but Andrew held up his hand. “Let me finish. Those few men promulgating this notion of disunion are the men with the most to gain. Men of business. Traders. Federalists with the most power.”

“I always thought you counted yourself a member of that party.”

“A Federalist, perhaps. When the war ended in ’84, I saw what so-called ordinary folk can do if you give them enough power. Right here in New York the very people we’d struggled and died to make free appointed themselves judge and jury and dispensed what they called justice on the Common in front of screaming crowds, no less. Women hamstrung so they’d never walk again, men tarred and feathered so they skinned themselves alive when they tried to clean up…The rabble disgusted me then and they still do. I believe in a strong central government, Joyful, led by educated and thoughtful men. I do not believe in money being the arbiter of all. Business and profit are fine in their place. They cannot be the ultimate goal of a nation.”

“It’s not my intention to profit at the expense of my country, Cousin Andrew.” The words sounded pretentious enough to make Joyful feel slightly foolish. Nonetheless, they were true.

“I know that, lad. That’s why I have decided to stake your venture into trade. I believe you will be an honest businessman, a leaven among the thieves, if you will. I’m not wealthy, and what I could offer you from my own resources would be hardly enough to make a difference.” He nodded toward the paper that still lay on the table in front of the fire, squinting at the faded words that might or might not lead to treasure. “That’s my contribution. Take it, Joyful, and take them on. Beat the bastards back. Don’t let them destroy what we gave so much blood and innocence to gain.”

Thursday, August 18, 1814

Chapter Three

New York City,
the South Street Docks, 11
A.M.

W
ILL
F
ARRELL
was twelve years old. The last three of those years he’d spent most daylight hours one hundred sixty feet above the earth, atop the Devrey tower overlooking the recently built South Street docks.

Will’s vantage point allowed him to see the activity on the docksides, across the great sweep of masts in the harbor, and past the harbor islands to the Narrows. If he made a half turn to his left, he could see Long Island, the farms and houses of Brooklyn Village at the foot of the Old Ferry Road, and out to the open sea beyond Gravesend. When Bastard Devrey added the South Street docks to the dozen he owned on the East River side of Manhattan and built his tower, he’d reckoned a sharp-eyed lookout with a decent spyglass could see twenty miles. Will had repeatedly proved himself sharp-eyed—and clever with it.

Will spotted the arriving vessel when she was only a speck of white on the horizon, but he didn’t immediately descend from the tower to raise the alarm. The day he started the job, old Peggety Jack, who ran the porters and suchlike on the Devrey docks, told him what was expected. “Don’t matter so much knowin’ first, boy. It’s knowin’ more what puts brass in Devrey pockets. And your own, come to that.” Peggety had only one tooth, which hung over his lip like a fang. Folks said he was maybe the oldest man in all New York, but anyone who worked for Devrey’s and wanted to get ahead could do a lot worse than listen to Peggety Jack. “Don’t go off half-cocked, boy. Keep your powder dry till you’re sure.”

The ship was different from anything Will had seen since he’d been doin’ the job, but that didn’t mean it was the Devrey East Indiaman,
China Princess,
trapped in Canton near on to three years since the start o’ the war. A few months back there was talk of how she’d decided to make a run for home. Bastard said if she had, and if she managed to slip past the British warships and the French privateers, it’d be the greatest thing as ever happened in this city. Didn’t say it to Will Farrell, of course. The likes o’ Bastard Devrey didn’t talk to lookout boys. But Bastard sometimes appeared at his South Street warehouse soon after dawn, when Will was drinking a last cup of ale and hot milk before climbing up to his post. And Will’s ears were as sharp as his eyes, for all that wasn’t why Bastard paid him twenty coppers a week.

Holy Lord Almighty, he’d never seen a ship come that fast. One by one her sails rose above the horizon. The royals appeared first, then the topgallants, and beneath them, taut and bellied with wind, the topsails and mainsails of her three masts. Will lowered the spyglass, blinked rapidly to clear his vision, then raised the glass again. If it was
China Princess
she would—No, it couldn’t be. This ship didn’t move like an East Indiaman. Her bow didn’t lift and plunge with the ocean swells. Instead her sleek black hull seemed to glide on top of the water. A merchantman, but for speed and grace such a one as he’d never seen. “Ship ahoy!” he screamed. “Ship ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!” Stupid to yell now when no one could hear him except the clouds, but he did it anyway, dancing up and down and shouting until he was hoarse. “Ship ahoy!” Soon he could see tiny men clambering up into the rigging, beginning to reef sail as the ship made for the harbor.

For a moment or two he was distracted by a pilot sloop setting out from the Narrows to guide the newcomer to a mooring. By the time he again directed the glass to the approaching merchantman, she had raised her house flag. Red, and decorated with some sort o’ beast breathin’ flames. For sure and certain not the gold lion and crossed swords on a green field that would mark the arriving vessel a Devrey ship.

The morning was hot and getting hotter. He’d removed his jacket and his hat, but Peggety Jack’s orders were that he always had to be in proper Devrey livery when he was on the ground. Will jammed his black stovepipe on his head and struggled into his green-velvet cutaway as he climbed down from the tower, all the while shouting “Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!” at the top of his voice.

The men doing business at New York’s taverns and coffeehouses and crowding the city’s narrow, twisting streets knew there was a ship coming before Will Farrell did. Jacob Astor maintained a lookout eight miles away, in New Jersey atop the Navesink Highlands, and he had as well a series of semaphore stations between there and his countinghouse on Little Dock Street. The cry of “Ship ahoy!” had been raised ten minutes past. But it was Astor’s way to let as little as possible be known by any of his rivals. Only Will Farrell brought news of what sort of ship she was, and the markings on her flag.

He ran the whole way between South Street and Wall Street. The town, always bustling with ordinary New Yorkers, was these days heaving with militia come from miles around to defend her in case the British attacked. Rumors that such an attack was imminent were born, killed, and resurrected at least three times every day. To get to the Tontine Coffee House, where Bastard Devrey was most likely to be found, Will had to elbow his way through the throng. When he pushed open the heavy oak door, he was breathing hard and pouring sweat.