City of Glory (44 page)

It had been two days since he’d given Mulligan a shilling and said it was an advance on six coppers a day. Time for another infusion. “Well done, Mully.” He took another coin from his pocket. “Have you a note to give Mr. Blakeman?”

“No sir, a message. But…”

The Irishman was staring at the coin, doubtless contrasting it with visions of the butchers and their cleavers. “The sooner you’re back at your post, Mully, the less likely anyone will know you left it. What’s the message?”

“I’m to tell Mr. Blakeman as F.X. says, ‘Astor’s with us.’”

Jesus God Almighty. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Joyful handed over the shilling. “Another two days in advance, Mully. You’ve done well. Keep your eyes open, as I said, and—” He broke off, seeing something in the Irishman’s expression. “You’re sure there’s nothing else?”

“Not from F.X., Dr. Turner.”

A small cheer went up not far away. Both men heard it. “They’ve got those beer kegs back in place, Mully. Things will be a bit quieter outside the Tontine. Easier to spot who comes and goes. If you’ve something else to tell me, better do it quickly.”

“Three wee ones I’ve got at home, Dr. Turner. And what with this war and all…”

Joyful put his hand in his pocket and came up with two coppers. “What else? Quickly, and it better be useful, or I’ll shop you to the leather-aprons myself.”

“Last night, sir, ’bout eight it was. I was in Hanover Square ’cause the missus sent me to Devrey’s Pharmacy for some o’ that Elixir of Well-Being. Does her a power o’ good, it does, and now that we’re in a little better way, well—”

“Yes, I understand. And what did you see in Hanover Square?”

“Not there exactly, sir. I went home by way o’ Hanover Street. By Mr. Blakeman’s countinghouse. I was interested like—I mean seeing as how you said I should be keeping my eyes open.”

Joyful waited, knowing he had to let the man tell it his own way.

“Mr. Astor’s carriage, sir. It’s the grandest in the city and ain’t none who doesn’t recognize it, right?” Waiting for Joyful’s nod of agreement. “Can’t be another like it, can there?”

“Not likely.”

“Well, that carriage, Dr. Turner. It was waiting right outside Mr. Blakeman’s countinghouse.”

Hanover Square, 10
A.M.

Jonathan Devrey blinked a few times, then opened his eyes as wide as nature allowed. The vision had not changed. He was confronted by two men, both dressed in knee-length cotton gowns with loose trousers below, one all in gray, the other in blue. They were energetically gesturing and nodding their heads as they spoke. Their foreheads were shaved, and each man had a long braid down the back. They were jabbering to each other in some tongue he could not fathom. Eventually, one turned to him and jabbered some more. It was some time before Jonathan realized that the man addressing him was speaking English. Of a sort.

“Good plan. Good plan,” Ah Wong said. “Rich man. Ancestor.”

Thumbless Wu saw the blank look on the apothecary’s face. Ahyee! The barbarian was not allowing himself to listen well enough to hear. It was possible that he had found the one man in New York who was too stupid to profit by wonderful joss. Nonetheless, it was the man the gods had put in his path. The man who knew where the red flowers grew, who walked among them with knowledge in his eyes. And the man who concocted these little vials of brown liquid Thumbless had seen the townspeople stream into the shop to buy. Another form of white smoke. He was quite certain of it.

Ah Wong was still speaking his struggling foreign devil speech, still trying to make the
yang gui zhi
understand that they had a business proposition to offer.

There was a display of the little brown bottles on the counter between them. Thumbless Wu reached out and grabbed three in each hand, using his fingers like pincers, then bringing his hands together in rapid clapping gestures and clicking the bottles under the nose of the barbarian. He tipped his head back and mimed drinking the contents of the bottles, then began to twist and turn, lifting his feet high in a kind of manic jig. Finally, he fell on the floor and closed his eyes and opened his mouth and emulated loud, contented snores.

Jesse Edwards was standing by the front door, leaning on his broom, watching everything. He took a fit of laughing and could not stop.

Jonathan continued to stare in wide-eyed disbelief.

Ah Wong nodded his head in vigorous approval. “Good plan. Good plan.” He repeated.

Wu stopped his loud snoring and jumped up. He went to the counter, put down the bottles of Devrey’s Elixir of Well-Being, and made gestures that indicated emptying his pockets of money and pouring it over the apothecary. “Bizness. Bizness,” he shouted. “Much money. Much money. Many taels of silver, heh?”

It was Ah Wong’s turn to be surprised. This Wu Without Thumbs had not said he spoke any English. On the contrary, he had insisted that Ah Wong must come with him to be his interpreter. He said that eventually, when the white smoke business was thriving, Ah Wong would be well paid for doing what Wu Without Thumbs could not do for himself. Ahyee! Very odd. Very odd.

Thumbless Wu was aware that he had lost the advantage of letting no one know that he spoke a bit of English and understood much of it. Too bad. Too bad. Sometimes one good must be given up to gain a greater good. Making this apothecary fool understand was the most important thing of all. Without that, his plan was useless.

Jonathan leaned both elbows on the counter and stretched forward so he could see directly into the eyes of Thumbless Wu. “Business, eh? Profitable business? Concerning my Elixir?”

“Much money. Much money,” Thumbless Wu said.

Jonathan nodded. “Very well. We’ll go upstairs and discuss it. Jesse, stop your giggling and come over here behind the counter. You’ll look after the shop while I talk a bit more with these gentlemen.”

The Fly Market, Noon

Astor’s with us. Jacob Astor had thrown in his lot with Gornt Blakeman. What else could it mean? Confirmed by the presence of his carriage outside Blakeman Coaching. But why? Astor’s trading post Astoria, the trail through Oregon, what good would any of that be if there was a breakaway nation? A woman jostled Joyful’s arm with her basket and hurried past him. Joyful thought it was Manon and hurried after her. She appeared to be heading toward Elsie Gruning’s table but stopped at another produce seller’s stall, and when he saw her in profile, he realized it wasn’t Manon at all.

Joyful moved on to where Elsie was sitting. There were four women at her table, none of them Manon. He wanted to ask if Elsie had seen her, but a steady string of customers kept him from the opportunity. By one-thirty, convinced she wasn’t coming, he left.

Maryland, the British Encampment
at Upper Marlboro, 4
P.M.

The general was exhausted and the battle had not yet been fought. No, that wasn’t exactly correct. One engagement had taken place and he had lost: they would attack Washington first. He accepted a leg up from his batman, a lad of twelve, and swung himself into the saddle of one of the horses they’d taken at Benedict. The admiral was already mounted. He moved his horse into place beside the general. “No last-minute arguments are necessary, sir,” the general said wearily. “We shall do it as you think best.”

“Glad you see the wisdom of the plan, General.. Twenty-four hours is quite long enough to discuss the matter.”

The general grimaced. “Quite long enough.”

The admiral realized it was best to say no more. He glanced back at the marines being left behind to hold the camp as a fallback position. That had been his idea as well. Prudent, though the possibility they’d need to retreat seemed unlikely. So far they had marched nearly forty miles and met not one American, hostile or otherwise.

The general shifted in the saddle. Everything now depended on him; having gotten his way, the admiral was once more an observer. “Company sergeant-major!”

A man trotted up beside him and snapped a salute. “Here, sir.”

“Prepare to move.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant-major swung his horse around. “Column formation!” he bellowed at the long line of redcoats—all on foot—behind the mounted officers, “Prepare to advance!” He pointed to the northward road. “Forward!”

The order was picked up and passed down the line. The officers spurred their horses into the lead. “Washington,” the army said.

“Washington,” the navy agreed with satisfaction.

The surveyor held the spyglass to his eye and watched the column move out. “The northwest road,” he muttered, relieved that his educated guess had been confirmed. “No doubt now.” The marksman had scrambled back to his side only moments before, after an absence of several hours. The surveyor passed him the glass.

The marksman looked, then handed it back. “Sure is a hell of a lot of ’em. You’re still certain it’s to be Washington? I talked to a general says Baltimore’s far more—”

“The general’s a horse’s ass.”

“How can you know that? I didn’t say which general.”

“They’re all horse’s asses. Look down there. If it was Baltimore, they’d be going east. It’s to be the Federal District, exactly as I said. You see any sign folks there were making themselves ready?”

“I spread the word far as I was able. Those I warned will tell others. Anyways, they’d already sent to Pennsylvania for a regiment, and there’s talk Baltimore will be sending their entire militia. Citizens too. Everyone’s coming to the District’s defense.” Then, seeing the other man’s expression: “They will do. You’ll see.”

“Any sign that they’ve felled trees? Blocked the road? Are they throwing up earthworks around the capital? Any indication they’re planning to harass the redcoats as they pass?”

“None of those things,” the marksman admitted. “Not yet. I did mention it to a few of the officers. About the earthworks and such like.”

“And you were told what?”

“That I wasn’t to worry. That their bravery would win the day. Oh, and that they’d be glad to have any more such intelligence as we’re able to provide.”

The surveyor cursed softly as he collapsed his glass and put his notes in his knapsack. “Let’s go. And as for intelligence, that seems to be in short supply.”