City of Dreams (20 page)

Sam Fraunces, who had been captured by the British and brought back to run the tavern, put a pile of clothes next to the tub, then he pulled up a stool. “Sittin’ so long in warm water ain’t natural, but you have to get all that dirt off you . . . and all that death.”

Gil looked into the face of his old friend.

They called him Black Sam because his complexion was swarthy and the hair beneath his white wig had a tight curl. Some said that he was a mulatto, or perhaps an octoroon. He had been born in the West Indies, so no one in New York knew his parents or grandparents, so one of them might easily have been carrying black blood.

But Fraunces himself kept slaves, and he was a Freemason and a pew-holder at Trinity, so Gil was not sure about Sam’s blackness. And he was not sure he cared, either.

“The dirt’s goin’,” he said. “The death may take a while.”

“You can have your old job back, once you’re strong enough,” said Fraunces. “And you can get strong sleepin’ in your old attic room.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Gil worked the soap into a lather and rubbed his neck. “Do you remember a girl, used to work for Fanny Doolin, by the name of Loretta Rogers?”

“Now, Gilbert, I’m a family man. The frequentin’ of brothels—”

“I was in love with her,” said Gil.

“The girl? Or Fanny?”

“The girl.”

“That’s good, because Fanny’s dead. Leaner McTeague strangled her over money, then he went to strangle the old slave. The slave couldn’t see but he kept a knife in his boot, and he knew right where to put it.”

“And the slave?” Gil hoped that at least Ezekiel might be alive to tell about Loretta.

“They hanged him. Damn shame. He sure could play the flute.”

Gil took a pair of shears, grabbed a handful of wet beard and cut into it. “I don’t know why I lived when so many died. But thinkin’ of that girl kept me goin’.”

“Did she ever work elsewhere?”

Gil made a few more cuts and dropped the hair on the ground next to the tub. “After the fire, she went to work for John Woodward.”

“Woodward? Of Woodward Manor? If you want answers from any who live there, best hurry.”

“Why?”

“When ’twas plain the war was over and the rebels had won, the old squire went out to the barn and hanged himself. Not the only one to do it, but . . . but they’re auctioning everything and sailing for Nova Scotia.”

ii.

The next day, Gil Walker headed north on Sam Fraunces’s horse.

He wore his best coat and breeches, which had been sitting in a trunk since ’76. Aboard the
Jersey
, he had grown dextrous with needle and thread and worn-out rags, and his skills now gave a bit of shape to the garments that hung on his broomstick frame.

The orchards were budding, and the fields north of the city were greening. But where Gil had expected to see woodlots and forest patches fringed with new growth, stumps dotted the landscape. Seven winters had passed since he went to the prison ships, and every one had left Manhattan with fewer trees the following spring.

As Woodward Manor came into view, Gil pulled up on the reins and dismounted. He had not been afraid for a long time. But he stood there, unable to move, because the memories rushed back, memories of moments that unfolded within sight of that house.

The wounded Rooster falling to his knees. . . . Nancy Hooley rising naked from the river. . . . Loretta loving him on a blanket and afterward, telling him that he should complete his mission because they were doing good work and their gold would never tarnish. . . . Loretta and Nancy urging him and the Bookworm not to despair on their march to the prison ships
. . . .

Then he heard someone clopping up behind him.

“You here for the auction?”

Gil turned to a skinny fellow driving a cart. “Auction? Today?”

“Auction tomorrow. Walk-through today. We kept our head down long enough. Now it’s the Tory’s turn. Say, what happened to your eye?”

“I didn’t keep my head down.”

The man leaned closer to him. “Well, you’d best keep it down when the auction comes, because I mean to buy this property, lock, stock, and barrel. I’ve saved every sovereign and guinea and copper I could for this whole war. Hard money. And nothin’s so good these days as hard money.”

“I got no interest in buyin’ a house,” said Gil.

“In that case”—the man offered his hand—“the name’s Daggett. Erastus Daggett. Enjoy your tour.” Then he snapped the reins and his cart went clopping ahead.

Gil sucked up his courage and walked on.

The house was still shaded by the great oak that had survived the British ax. Two soldiers stood at the gate. Black crepe hung around the door, proclaiming a house in mourning. Even if the squire had not hanged himself, it would be a house in mourning, as all Tory houses were.

Still, it was a fine house. A center hallway led to French doors that overlooked the back acreage, the servant’s quarters, and the distant river. Off the hallway were parlor, library, dining room, receiving room. And people were moving about, examining furniture, paintings, carpets, all as if they were back at the Fly Market.

The chief auctioneer stood in the foyer and peered over his glasses at Gil, “You may examine the materials today, but to participate in the auction tomorrow, you will need to demonstrate an ability to pay.”

“Don’t worry,” said Erastus Daggett, who was inspecting a mahogany-framed mirror in the hallway, “he said he won’t be biddin’.”

The auctioneer glowered at Gil. “So what are you here for?”

Gil simply looked the auctioneer up and down. His glare—even with one eye—was still good enough to speak without words: I have endured things that ordinary men could only imagine. Best not to push me.

The auctioneer gave a jerk of the head, as if to say, all right, then, have a look.

Gil glanced into the dining room: a long cherry table, heavy ball-and-claw chairs, sideboard, silver, fireplace, a painting of the Hudson hanging above the mantel.

Then he glanced into the library, where several men were pawing the leather-bound books. And through a window, he saw her.

She was out by one of the sheds. A pile of clean laundry lay in a basket on one side of her. A pile of dirty laundry lay on the other. And she was scrubbing a sheet against a washboard in a tub.

He went down the hallway, through the French doors, and out into the sunlight.

She glanced up and blew a strand of hair from her forehead. “There’s nothin’ for sale out here, mister. It’s all in the house.” And all the while, she kept washing . . . until he said her name. “Nancy.”

The water splattered over the top of the washtub. The arms stopped moving. She looked up again. “Gil? Gil Walker?”

He came closer. “In the flesh.”

She looked over his shoulder, as if searching for another face. “Augustus?”

He shook his head. “Loretta?”

“Gone now . . . three years.”

Gil looked out toward the river and tried to call forth the numbness that had protected him from so much over so many years. It came, if a bit more slowly than usual.

And Nancy began again to scrub, and once her hands were moving in rhythm, she asked, “What killed the Bookworm?”

“Smallpox. . . . Loretta?”

She dried her hands and told Gil to follow her.

She led him down to the long wharf that planked across the mudflats and ended at the river. A rowboat and a cutter bobbed on the current. The breeze was gentle and warm from the west. They sat on a bench and looked out at New Jersey.

“Won’t you be missed from your chores?” he asked her.

“Chores don’t matter anymore.” Nancy said that the squire’s wife no longer cared about the household. The squire was dead. Her goods were bound for the auction block or the hold of a ship. Those servants who were not leaving with her would be out of work soon enough.

“Loretta tried to find you,” said Nancy. “She came up with two gold guineas—she never told me where—and she visited every tavern till she found the one where the prison ship guards did their drinkin’. She paid so that we could see you and the Bookworm. But she figured out soon enough that we was bein’ cheated.”

Gil did not say so, but he was glad that Loretta had not wasted more gold.

“We tried other things. When we heard that Washington was sendin’ a man to New York to see about the treatment of the prisoners, we tried to see him. But . . . we was just housemaids, workin’ for a Tory. . . .”

A breeze puffed across the water.

Gil said, “It wouldn’t have mattered. The pox took the Bookworm in six weeks.”

After a moment, she wiped a tear from her eye and continued: “Bein’ that we needed a roof over our heads, we stayed here and worked. And every week, Loretta snuck down to the city to tell what we heard when British officers talked at the table.”

“Did she ever say who she told?”

“Sam Fraunces collected information and passed it on. And there was a Jew named Salomon. She begged him to help get you out. He said he’d do what he could but . . . he had problems of his own.”

“What happened to Loretta?”

“The squire found out. We always thought one of the other house girls told him what she was doin’ . . . and what she used to do at the Shiny Black Cat. So the squire told Loretta he would not turn her in, so long as she brought the Shiny Black Cat to him.”

“You mean . . . she started givin’ him favors?”

Nancy Hooley nodded. “It was that or a visit to the provost marshall.”

“Why didn’t she run?” asked Gil.

Nancy stared across the river for a time. Then she said, “The squire was good to us, especially after Loretta started . . .
favorin
’ him. He even took us into the house to live in the attic.” Nancy looked at Gil, as if to see if her story was angering him, but Gil was simply staring at the river, so she went on. “At night, the squire would visit Loretta. And so long as she give him what he wanted, he never asked what she did when she went sneakin’ into the city . . . or up to Poughkeepsie.”

“Poughkeepsie?”

“The Provincial Capital. She went up there about three years ago this time. Left at night on a rowboat. Took a heavy bag. I asked her what was in it, but she wouldn’t tell. I asked her what she was doin’ and she said, ‘Somethin’ good for the country, like Gil and the Bookworm would’ve wanted.’”

And Gil knew what was in the bag.

“She come back a few days later, without the bag. Just said she done somethin’ to help the American cause.”

“Then?”

“About two weeks later, she was servin’ at table. The missus and the squire was eatin’ alone. Otherwise I don’t think that the missus would’ve said nothin’, but she looked up and as sweet as you please, she said, ‘Why, Loretta, what are those sores around your nose? I do hope it’s not catchy.’

“Loretta brung a hand to her face, and the squire looked up like a man whose wife just caught him with his finger in . . . well, I won’t say where his wife was thinkin’ he’d had his finger. Bye and bye, Loretta told me that in two years of workin’ for Fanny Doolin, she’d never once been sick, never once had the itch, but those sores looked mighty damn suspicious.”

“Did she die from the syphilis?” said Gil with sudden impatience. “Yes or no?”

Nancy took a deep breath then stood and walked to the edge of the dock. “’Tis a beautiful day, Gil Walker. Can you smell the springtime blowin’ in?”

Gil stood. “Just say what happened to her, Nancy.”

“A few mornin’s later, I found her floatin’ right here.” Nancy looked at the water.

“Did the squire kill her?”

“It was an accident . . . or so said a British officer who come round investigatin’. But I always figured the squire done her in. Maybe she give him a dose and . . .”

And they were silent for a time. And then Gil turned toward the house.

There was more to tell of the war on Manhattan Island, but for Gil, the story was finished. All that remained was for Nancy to fetch a package from her room. It was wrapped in brown paper and Gil’s name was written in the upper right corner.

“I don’t think she ever lost faith that you was alive,” said Nancy as they stood under the big oak in front of the house. “That’s the true reason she stayed. She said she wanted to be here the day you come ridin’ up.”

Gil took the package, held it, ran his hand over the paper and string, as if by feeling something that Loretta had felt, he could feel her. Then his fingers fumbled with the string and he felt Nancy’s hand on his.

She said, “Don’t open it now. Wait till you’re alone, then come back and tell me what was in it.”

“Thank you. You . . . you have a good heart, Nancy Hooley.”

“So did Loretta.”

T
HAT NIGHT,
G
IL
Walker sat on his bed under the eaves of Sam Fraunces’s tavern and unwrapped one of the mahogany boxes. Inside was the crown finial and an envelope addressed: Gil Walker, Prison Ship Jersey, Brooklyn, New York. And written below it, in parenthesis and pencil, the words “not sent—too dangerous.”

He opened the envelope and read the note:

Woodward Manor, March 25, 1780

Dear Gil, The Lord still seeth all and loveth all. I have waited four years to do what we talked of. And now ’tis done . . . because men like Mr. Salomon have spoke of the country’s need. Our good deeds will come back to us many times over in the blessings of freedom, stored safe and sound in a mahogany box. I await your return to show you our investment in the future
.

Love, L. R
.

And inside the envelope was a page torn from Rivington’s
Royal Gazette
, dated March 1, 1780. It was entitled,
HOPELESS ATTEMPTS TO FINANCE REBELLION
. And when he was done reading, Gil knew two things. The attempt had not been hopeless, because the Americans had won. And Loretta had used their gold to help. And that made him proud.

He imagined her slipping down to the landing and taking a rowboat north. It would have been the safest way to get past the British guards at Kingsbridge. She would have stayed close to the shore, moved at night, muffled the oars . . . all things that he had described to her about Farmer Dibble’s night trips in ’76. She may even have carried a pistol for protection.