City of Glory (3 page)

Prologue

New York City
Friday, June 19, 1812, 12:30
A.M.

It was a fine, quiet night, the balmy warmth of early summer a comfort, not the fiery curse it would become in a few weeks. There were no streetlamps in Canvastown—hard by Hudson’s River, the area got its name when it burned down at the start of the Revolution and the locals took to living in tents—but bright stars and a full moon. That plus the pair of coaching lamps swinging either side of the small black shay provided light enough for the single horse, an aging piebald, to make its way.

The two men in the rig had been playing billiards at McDermott’s Oyster House. On their way home now, cue sticks wedged either side of the shay’s single seat, they were reliving the game by talking about it. “Ah, but if that last carom had succeeded, I’d have won again, making it six games to five, so you needn’t—” The speaker, who held the reins, broke off. A knot of men stood some twenty yards ahead, a short distance from the intersection of Greenwich Street and George, where the shay had to make the turn to head back to the better neighborhood downtown.

There were five of them, dressed in the leather breeches and homespun shirts that marked them as laborers, and they were ominously quiet. The men stood in a tight circle, focused on something or someone in their midst.

The shay’s passenger and owner was Barnaby Carter, a coach maker by trade. “Just put on a bit of speed and shoot past them,” he said. “Old Rufus won’t let us down.” The piebald, hearing its name, snorted and tossed its head.

The driver was Joyful Patrick Turner, doctor and ship’s surgeon, due to go back to sea the following day. He heard his friend’s suggestion and later told himself it was exactly what he’d intended to do. Just shoot past the men ahead. Neither he nor Barnaby was spoiling for a fight. As for the woman standing in the men’s midst, whores—called hot-pockets in Canvastown—were one of the area’s prime attractions; this woman, though, held a small valise, the sort people packed for a journey, and a whore was unlikely to troll the streets for custom carrying a change of clothing. All of that aside, Joyful reined in because of what he heard—“All right then, who’s going to be first?” spoken in a tone full of menace.

He stood up, keeping the reins taut in one hand. “Leave her be.”

“Couple o’ gents,” one of the toughs muttered to his companions, looking at their cutaway coats and stovepipe hats. “Your kind comes to Canvastown looking for pleasure,” he said “No harm in us having ours.”

“There’s plenty of hot pockets available. I don’t think this lady chooses to be bothered.”

“Ain’t no lady,” the man closest to the shay offered with a nearly toothless smile. “This here’s a mongrel bitch as you might find in any kennel got broken into when the master wasn’t looking. A runaway most likely. When we’re done, we’ll be takin’ her to a magistrate. See if there’s a reward. So you gents best be minding your own concerns and driving yourselves straight on by.”

“I don’t think we shall do exactly that.” Joyful pitched his voice at the woman, hoping she would take his meaning, prepare herself. She stared straight at him. He returned her gaze for a second, then a movement at the edge of the circle caught his eye.

Barnaby had seen it as well. “One of them’s got a knife,” the coach maker murmured.

“Probably more than one,” Joyful said. “Hang on.” He cracked the reins over the horse’s rump. The piebald plunged forward. For a sickening moment the shay tilted dangerously to one side, then righted itself and surged ahead. The ruffians fell back, intent on avoiding the horse’s hooves; the woman stood her ground. Joyful stretched out his hand, but instead of taking it she remained motionless.

Joyful yanked on the reins, forcing the horse to pull up slightly, then leaned down and swept the woman into the shay, at which point some of the would-be rapists threw themselves at the rig. Joyful planted his boot firmly on the knuckles of one. He was conscious of Barnaby using his cue stick to fend off another. Joyful loosed the reins slightly. The horse sensed he was being given his head and charged straight ahead. Joyful kept his left arm around the woman’s waist. In seconds they had to make the turn onto Greenwich Street or drive straight into a stone fence backed by a thick stand of trees. “Hang on!” he shouted again, tightening his grip on the woman while using his other hand to tug the horse’s head to the right. The animal neighed loudly and half reared, confused and frightened. Joyful pulled harder. The horse gave in to the demands of the bit and changed direction, hauling the shay behind him in a sharp turn. This time the sickening lurch seemed to last forever, until finally the small carriage righted itself and they were hurtling down Greenwich Street, Joyful and Barnaby both laughing aloud in triumph.

When he finally reined in enough to slow them some and allow for getting the woman settled safely between him and Barnaby, the thing Joyful found most remarkable was not her beauty—though she was unquestionably beautiful—but that she was still staring at him. And he had the distinct impression she’d not stopped doing so since the first moment she saw him.

Late the following afternoon word reached the city that in the Federal District of Washington, on Thursday, the eighteenth of June, 1812, Congress had declared war on Great Britain. Dr. Joyful Patrick Turner gave up his berth on a merchant ship, and offered his services as surgeon to the navy of the United States.

September–November 1813

Chapter One

Lake Erie, Nine Miles from Put-in-Bay
Friday, September 10, 1813, 2
P.M.

I
NSTEAD OF INHALING THE DEEP
breath of fresh air Joyful Turner longed for when he came topside, he had to pull his neckerchief over his nose and mouth to keep from choking. The fight had been going on for two hours—six British ships against nine American, but the British far superior in tonnage and arms—and the air was black with the smoke of gunpowder and thick with the stench of death.

“Dr. Turner, over here, sir!”

Joyful made his way toward Commodore Perry’s voice. It was slow going, impossible to see much of anything, the decks of the
Lawrence
slick with blood and the brig listing dangerously to port. He had to hang onto the gunwale to keep his footing. Perry’s flagship was too close to the British lines for the enemy’s superiority in the larger long guns to be useful, but their gunners had found the range with smaller weapons. A shell from a short cannon known as a carronade landed close behind Joyful. A great gust of sparks flared for a moment, then died. The deck shivered beneath his feet and the list to port worsened. The blast had been close enough to make his ears ring. He shook his head to clear it, heard nothing at first, then, as if from a far distance, Perry’s second shout: “Dr. Turner, I want you!”

“I’m here, Commodore.”

“Yes, so you are. Good Christ, man, you look a sight.”

Thirty-two years old, Joyful was tall and lean, with blue eyes and red hair, now flattened with sweat. The long oilskin apron he wore during surgery was spattered with blobs of gore and splinters of bone. Joyful looked down at himself, then squinted up into the rigging. The sails were in tatters, and most of the lines and braces had been shot away. “We’re none of us at our best at the moment, sir.”

Perry managed a wry smile. There was another blast from the British. “The flag, man! Get the flag!”

The man who rushed to follow Perry’s command was an ordinary tar; the commodore was the only officer not flat on his back below decks in Joyful’s crammed hospital quarters. Joyful’s gut tightened as he watched the sailor head for the foremast. “Are we striking our colors, sir?” Surrendering to the British might make sense, but the thought sickened him.

“Indeed we are not, Dr. Turner. It’s my battle flag I want.
Lawrence
has become impossible to control, as you can see. I’m taking over
Niagara.
” Perry nodded toward the row of American ships stretched beside them, half shrouded in the fog of the engagement. “You’re to come with me, Doctor, and bring any crew who are able to come topside. I don’t care if they must crawl.”

“I have sixty-three severely wounded patients below—”

“And twenty-one corpses. I’m aware of the numbers, Doctor.”

Both men knew that fewer than a hundred of the brig’s hundred-thirty-man complement had started the action fit for duty. The single rowboat being lowered over the brig’s side would easily accommodate the survivors of this experiment in close-quarters fighting on which Perry had staked his chance to defeat an enemy that, while a smaller squadron, both outgunned and outmanned him.

The man who had been sent to get the battle flag returned. Perry took the blue banner and quickly folded it. Joyful couldn’t see the words embroidered in large white letters, but he knew what they said.
DON’T GIVE UP THE SHIP
. “Any man who can crawl, Doctor,” Perry repeated. “If he can haul a line, I want him. Even if it’s to be his last move. And yourself.”

“I will inform the men of your orders, Commodore. But few of the wounded will be able to comply, however much they want to.” God alone knew how many legs he’d amputated in the last couple of hours. Joyful had stopped counting when the number went above two dozen. “As for me, I can’t leave my patients.”

As ship’s surgeon, he was in the employ of the navy, not a member of its armed forces; Perry could not command him. “As you wish, Dr. Turner. I pray you Godspeed for the rest of the engagement and beyond.”

“And I you, Commodore.”

“Do not fear for me or our country this day, Doctor. We shall prevail, I promise you.” Perry swung one leg over the side, then paused and reached for his pocket watch. “I shall wait five minutes for any of the wounded as are able to join us, then we’re away.”

“May I ask for ten minutes, sir? Even the sick or wounded who can come topside won’t be able to move quickly.”

“Ten minutes then,” Perry agreed.

The two-masted brigantine
Niagara
had been moving to the head of the line while they spoke, all the while keeping the American ships between herself and the enemy. Now she was athwart
Lawrence.
Perry and three sailors began clambering down to the waiting rowboat. Joyful turned and headed back to the hold. The list of the vessel was definitely worse, and the smoke thicker. One of the British ships—the
Queen Charlotte,
Joyful thought—was still firing.
Lawrence
had eighteen carronades to
Charlotte
’s two, but no one to man them. And for the last half hour there had been no powder monkeys to bring them shot.

Joyful found the hatch by feel and instinct. He was about to start down the ladderway when Jesse Edwards’s small blond head poked above it. “What’s happening, Dr. Turner, sir?”

Wonderful! There had been three powder monkeys when the action began. All boys under twelve, they did what was arguably the most dangerous job in any battle—running the ammunition to the guns—and two were in the pile of corpses below. He’d figured the third to be lying dead somewhere else. “There you are, Jesse. I was just wondering about you.”

The lad didn’t meet his gaze, speaking instead to some point over Joyful’s shoulder. “I was down in the powder magazine, sir. Getting the charges the way I’m s’posed to, and—”

Cowering in the stores most likely, God help him. “It’s all right, lad. No need to worry about that now. The Commodore and what’s left of the crew are about to row over to
Niagara.
They’re waiting for any others as are able to join them. Get on with you. Over there on the port side. Hurry.”

The boy started to go, then turned back. “What about you, Dr. Turner?”

“Nothing about me. Go on, Jesse. Look lively. That’s a good—” The blast landed between them, knocking Joyful back against the bulkhead. At first he felt nothing, only smelled burned flesh, but he knew this time it was his own. He waited, half expecting to collapse, sensing his legs. No, they were fine. But there was pain now, and dizziness. Christ Jesus, don’t faint, you stupid bastard. You’re a dead man if you do. His heart thumped violently in his chest. “Jesse! Where are you?”

He tried to take a step forward and staggered. “Jesse!” Still nothing. Can’t hang about here. Have to tell the men below they can…The weakness almost overwhelmed him, but Joyful fought it off. Something not right about his left arm. He reached across his body: The upper arm was whole. So was the elbow and the forearm. No broken bones, so…Oh, Christ Jesus. He had no hand.

The wound was pouring blood. Joyful, trembling, felt his gorge rise. Shock. Ignore it. Must stop the hemorrhage. Finished otherwise. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he managed to untie his neckerchief.

Behind him the guns were still booming, but
Lawrence,
listing, and with no firepower, was no longer the target. He managed to get the neckerchief tied around his shattered wrist, but it had to be tighter if it was going to keep him from bleeding to death. He kept short wooden dowels in the pocket of his apron so his patients could bite something other than their own tongues when he cut. Damn! The fingers of his right hand were slippery with blood. He finally got a grip on one dowel, forced it into the knot of the makeshift bandage, and began to twist. Not the best tourniquet he’d ever fastened, but it would do the job. “Jesse! Are you there, lad?”