City of Glory (50 page)

Mordecai Frank spoke for the first time. “One cannot be entirely sure of—”

“I do not care if Vionne seeks your opinion, sir. But if I thought you had authority to countermand his, I’d have gone to you in the first place.”

“No, no, Mr. Blakeman.” Vionne leaned forward, tapping the papers that Blakeman had laid down. “I take full responsibility—”

“Six days ago you showed me the description of the Great Mogul and said the stone in my possession was that diamond. Now you quibble.”

Vionne damned himself as a fool. He should never have given so much away. “No sir, I do not quibble. I merely tell you that based upon a description in a very old book, and one brief opportunity to examine a stone, which I grant you is truly remarkable, I cannot say with certainty that they are the same.”

“You were certain enough before.” Blakeman spoke to Vionne, but he looked at Mordecai Frank. “So, are the Jews better at judging the world’s riches then a Huguenot? More practice perhaps?”

“I do not think it is a matter of religious belief,” Frank said quietly.

“Is it not?” Blakeman stood up. Part of him wanted to march the Jew upstairs and show him the stone. Though he knew that was both unwise and unnecessary. It was Vionne’s word he’d promised Astor. “Well, my religion tells me I’ve spent enough time breathing Hebrew…” He almost said “stink,” but stopped himself. There weren’t that many Jews in the town, but he would rather have those there were on his side than against him. “I have private business to discuss with Vionne, here,” he said instead. “You’ll excuse us, Mr. Frank.”

The smiths exchanged a quick glance. Vionne nodded. Frank stood up and followed Blakeman to the door. “One of our guests is leaving, Mr. Clifford. See him out.”

The flagrant rudeness was as revealing as the brazen character of the meeting. Something had changed since their first encounter. Vionne waited to see what it was.

Blakeman turned back to him. “The matter of your daughter,” he said.

Ah, yes, Manon. Vionne’s expression gave nothing away but he could not prevent the perspiration from beading on his forehead. “It is warm today, as you said.” He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face.

“Your daughter,” Blakeman repeated. “Have you spoken to her?”

“Not yet. I do not think…To be honest with you, sir, I do not believe my daughter will agree.” Vionne tried hard not to look to the closed door, beyond which, he knew, waited the man with the bullwhip.

Blakeman chuckled. “Mr. Clifford unnerves you, does he? Good, that’s what he’s meant to do. Here, have another ale. And stop sweating. I do not mean to have you flogged into compliance. I have asked for your daughter’s hand, sir. I deserve an answer.”

“I told you, Mr. Blakeman, my Manon is very strong-minded, and it was her mother’s dying wish that I not force her into a marriage against her will.” Forgive me, dearest.
Marry her off the minute I’m gone, Maurice, as soon as is decent. She’ll rule you otherwise.
You would not have approved this match either.

“Come, Mr. Vionne. We are men of the world.” The goldsmith’s glass was still full, but Blakeman poured himself more ale. “We know that women, like children, need a firm hand. And all things considered…” He drank, watching Vionne over the rim of the glass, then put it down and wiped his mouth. “All things considered, surely your daughter could do a great deal worse.”

The papers lay on the table between them. Vionne nodded in their direction. “I will try to persuade Manon. Meanwhile, perhaps you would like me to take those back and see if they can be made more satisfactory for your purposes.”

Blakeman’s big hand settled on the documents before Vionne could touch them. “Not required, Mr. Vionne. A diamond the size of half a pigeon’s egg. And…what do you say here…just under 190 carats. Not too many of those knocking about, I expect. What you’ve written will do.”

Vionne was sweating again. He swiped at his face a second time. “I’m delighted to hear it.” He hadn’t really expected to be allowed to stall longer. And what difference could it make when he didn’t know how long was enough?

Blakeman leaned forward. “I’m sure you would prefer to have your daughter the wife of the most powerful man in a new…in New York.” No point in saying too much. The meeting was set for Hartford in October. Far too distant from his point of view, but the others were more cautious. New Hampshire had argued for the delay; time to bring the citizenry along. “I’m sure you would prefer that. And so would your lovely daughter.”

“Prefer it to what?” Vionne asked. “Do I detect a threat in your words?”

“Why should I threaten you, Mr. Vionne? I wish you to be my father-in-law.” Blakeman stood up.

So I am dismissed, the goldsmith thought. And he has now papers which say that in his possession is a true diamond that, whatever else it may be, is the largest anyone has ever seen. Dear God, why wasn’t I courageous enough to take Simson’s advice? The lawyer had suggested they raise doubts about the genuineness of the stone, as well as refuse to certify its provenance, but Vionne said that might be too dangerous.
You have not looked into his eyes. He is a man who will stop at nothing, gentlemen.
Frank had come up with the compromise. One set of papers written for posterity that said what they truly thought: that Maurice Vionne had been privileged to look at the most mysterious diamond in the world, the Great Mogul, and another that said only that it was a very large jewel.

And what had they accomplished? Nothing from the look of it. After his initial dissatisfaction Blakeman seemed content. He carefully tucked the documents into the inside pocket of his coat, picked up the handbell, and rang it impatiently. “Mr. Clifford will see you out, Mr. Vionne. And I shall call in a day or two to bring that other matter to final agreement.”

Walking helped Joyful think. Two hours since he left the synagogue, and he’d gone straight up the East River shore, past one dock after another, pacing the spine of New York’s outreach to the world. At least that’s what the riverfront had been when there was no blockade. Not now, and no way to say how much longer the war would go on. So what in Hades did he think he was doing?

Getting Jacob Astor on his side was not a small thing. Yes, but what about the offer he thought Geoffrey Colden made? Had he done so, or was Joyful imagining it? If there was a place for him in the tontine, could he become one of the money men?

What an opportunity. Not to be simply a Canton trader, bringing goods to New York and selling them for whatever the market would consent to pay, but to be one of the men who made the market, set the bedrock values of everything that was important to the economy. He remembered the commodities Colden had ticked off: houses, ships, slaves…Being in any way responsible for people being bought and sold like cattle made his gorge rise.

Still…Jefferson, Franklin, and a few of the others had strong abolitionist leanings when they were involved with writing both the Declaration and the Constitution. But they knew they didn’t have the votes, so they compromised—took three-quarters of the loaf rather than give up the whole thing. He wouldn’t have to go even that far. Ninety percent of what the Tontine did was perfectly fine. Good for the country, in fact, creating economic stability rather than the chaos of the old system.

Fair enough, but first there had to be a country. His country, the United States, not some amputation such as Gornt Blakeman and his cohorts had in mind. Trouble was, they were picking up converts daily.
Astor is with us.
It was an idea bound to appeal to butchers. Cut the heart out and think it could survive on its own. He knew better. The whole body had to be intact for it to be healthy.

But Blakeman was only part of the problem. If this present crisis were averted, and if Colden really had been offering him a place in the upstairs room, he still needed Devrey Shipping out of debt and turning a profit. The company had to be glorious again, queen of the seven seas the way it was when his Devrey ancestor ruled an empire from his Wall Street house. The money men wouldn’t let Joyful Turner into the Tontine because he was clever at bezique. It would cost a king’s ransom to deal himself into their game. Hell, he needed a thriving Devrey Shipping and whatever his father’s treasure might yield. Providing he could find it.

That’s what had brought him to the slip at the foot of Rutgers Street. The sloop
Lisbetta
lay at anchor just beyond the dock of Parker’s Shipyard. Parker’s was where Devrey ships usually went for a refit, but
Lisbetta
was not here because she needed work. Bastard had her sailed upriver and moored where she was as surety against debts for past work. And a fine warrant she was. Even with all sails furled, the sloop was beautiful. Her hull was sleek and black and narrow, extended by a rapierlike bowsprit that nearly doubled her length. That and a tall single mast would allow her to spread a formidable array of canvas. Under sail, with a fair wind,
Lisbetta
would be as fast as a schooner or a brigantine, and twice as nimble. Little wonder sloops were the preferred craft of pirates.

It was because of a chance meeting with Danny Parker a few weeks before that Joyful had known to ask Bastard Devrey for the
Lisbetta.
Danny had inherited the shipyard from his father two years earlier, but shortly before Joyful first went to sea, he had been well served by Joyful’s skills. A carbuncle on his left foot was giving him no end of gyp, nearly crippling him, before Joyful sawed it off. Not many had the stomach to endure the lengthy agony of having a carbuncle removed, and fewer survived without the wound festering, causing the whole foot and eventually the entire leg to turn black. Most suffered only to be killed by the cure, but not Danny Parker, because he was as tough as any man alive and because Joyful was the town’s most skilled surgeon. Always, of course, after Andrew.

Danny was in the small shed that served as his countinghouse, standing at a tall desk, bent over his ledgers. “Not much comfort to be had from the accounts these days,” Joyful said. “Leastwise, I don’t imagine so, given what the war is doing to business.”

“True enough.” Parker neither lifted his head nor turned around. “But I’m not prepared to give up on the country yet, and I wouldn’t have expected you to be, Dr. Turner, seeing as how you fought with Commodore Perry.”

“Who said anything about giving up on the country?”

Parker turned and faced his visitor. “Isn’t that what you’re here about? They tell me you’re taking your leisure at the Tontine these days. There’s even a rumor going round that you’ve made peace with your cousin, that you and Bastard are to be partners, so…You take my meaning.”

“Sorry, but I don’t take it.” Joyful held up his stuffed glove. “I gave the British my left hand, Danny. I do not intend to give them my country as well. Who told you I did?”

Parker shrugged. “Can’t say anyone told me. Not exactly. I just assumed that to be the case.”

“Listen, you’re walking around on your two good feet thanks to me. I think you owe me an explanation before accusing me of treachery, if not treason.”

The shipwright turned and looked out the window. As near as Joyful could see, they were entirely alone, but Parker spoke in a whisper. “There’s talk of a showdown to come, an army being formed to take the town, and sooner rather than later. Most of us mechanics have been approached to throw our lot in with them as well. Leastwise that’s the word in Tammany and in the taverns. We’re either with Mr. Madison and his pointless war as is taking the food out of our mouths, they say, or we’re with them.”

“Have they convinced you, Danny? Are you for breaking up the Union?”

“I never claimed to be clever about anything except seafaring and ships”—Parker nodded toward his ledgers—“but some as ask can’t easily be refused.”

“A good many things aren’t easy. Doesn’t mean they’re not worth doing. You said you’d been approached. By whom, and—”

Parker was looking over Joyful’s shoulder to the path beyond the shed. “Turn around and you can ask ’em yourself.”

Joyful swung around to face the door. Bastard was heading toward them, along with an old tar limping along on a wooden leg. Joyful lusted to confront his cousin, but there was a quiet voice telling him now was not the time. “It’s not a conversation I choose to have at the moment, Danny. Might there be somewhere…”

Parker hesitated, looking hard at the man he’d once trusted with his life. Finally, he nodded toward a long and narrow cupboard door. “There’s mostly brooms and the like. You can wedge yourself alongside. I’ll head ’em over to another part of the yard.”

Joyful hid himself. He heard Danny leave, then waited a while. Finally he crept out of the cupboard and peered cautiously out the window. The shipwright stood with Bastard and his underling across the yard. They were too far away for Joyful to hear what they were saying, but it occurred to him that, given the wooden leg of the man with Bastard, he might be Finbar’s Peggety Jack, the man he met up at Henry Astor’s Bull’s Head Tavern.

He waited until the men were looking at something Danny was pointing out on a half-finished keel that looked as if it hadn’t been worked on in months, then slipped outside and took up a well hidden position near the gate. From there it would be a simple matter to follow Bastard and the tar when they left.