My dear sir, he said, when I brought the news that my mission in New York had been extended, how very agreeable for us, at least. And for you too, I hope. Now pray sit down. Another five or six months, eh? Nothing could be better.
We were in his private room, a back parlour. There was an autumnal chill in the air, and a fire burned brightly in the grate.
Will you look for an establishment of your own now? Townley asked, leaning forward in his chair. You would be so much more comfortable. I believe I could find you most respectable lodgings in Queen Street if you liked: three chambers, a spacious parlour, a kitchen and wine cellar there. With use of the hall, of course, and the coachhouse and the stables. The widow who owns the house a most delightful lady is a friend of my wifes. Im sure I could obtain a six-month lease for let me see forty-five guineas. He raised a long, languid hand as if I had objected. The American Department has a position in the world, after all. Mr Rampton would wish you to live in a style that befits it.
I shall remain at Judge Wintours, sir, for the time being at any rate. It is very convenient in all respects.
Ah. He looked up. Well, no doubt Mrs Arabella is an excellent housekeeper. It is in fact her house, you know it was her fathers residence in the city though she has lent it to her parents-in-law for the duration of the war. But in any case, I am sure the family is happy to have you there.
Neither of us mentioned money, but I knew my two guineas a week must be a welcome addition to the Wintours income. The Judge needed ready money. Everywhere in the house were signs of past affluence and present shortages, from Josiahs livery with its frayed cuffs and stained armpits, to the carefully rationed tea leaves which were re-used at least once above stairs and probably two or three times more in the kitchen and the slave quarters.
Still, Townley continued, after a pause, I wonder how you will find Warren Street when Captain Wintour returns.
Equally convenient, I hope.
That remains to be seen. Captain Wintour is not the easiest of men. Of course he has reason enough for that.
Because of Saratoga?
Yes, indeed. Townley glanced at me, his face bland but oddly attentive. But there are other reasons, too. He had great expectations from his father-in-law, Mr Froude, but this war has put paid to those, at least until we have peace again. He paused. When does he come home?
In a few weeks. He is well enough to travel now, I apprehend, and is in Quebec. His father has sent money for his passage home.
There was a tap on the door, and Mr Noak brought in a letter for Townley to sign.
Ah the incomparable Noak, Townley said with a smile. I cannot imagine how I managed without you.
Mr Noak bowed but did not return the smile. He was now permanently employed by Mr Townley, who entrusted him with the management of more and more business. His unobtrusive efficiency was matched by his kindness of heart, as I had learned from his care of me at sea. So I was not altogether surprised when, one Sunday afternoon in September, I had found him in the drawing room at Warren Street reading the Bible to old Mrs Wintour, whose eyes were failing. These Sunday visits had settled into what was almost a routine; Mrs Wintour became quite agitated if Mr Noak happened not to be at leisure.
There was one other matter, sir, Noak said as he took back the letter from Townley. He hesitated, waving the letter to and fro to dry the ink.
You may speak, man we need have no secrets from Mr Savill.
Yes, sir. It is only the docket for Major Marryot.
What of it?
The list includes the boy found drowned by the Paulus Hook ferry. I believe he may be the Government informer who goes by the name of Benjamin Taggart.
Townley straightened his long spine. Oh yes well, was he murdered?
I cannot say for certain, sir, either way he drowned, that is all; I saw no sign of violence on his body. They are keeping it at Kings Wharf for the time being. But what shall I say your recommendation is?
To let sleeping dogs die. Or, rather, drowned dogs in this case. He chuckled in appreciation of his own wit. Unless there are reasons why Major Marryot should enquire further into it?
Not that I am aware of, sir. And, even if there were, the boys body can tell him nothing more than it already has.
Well, then. I think we need waste no further time on a slaves by-blow, do you? And Im sure Major Marryot will agree.
Noak bowed.
Mind you, Townley said, Taggart did us one good service, did he not? He turned to me. It was he who tipped us the wink about poor Picketts murderer. You remember? The runaway, Virgil. Wed not have been able to hang the rogue without Taggart.
Chapter Seventeen
There could be no harm in it, surely?
On the other hand, a prudent man knew when to leave well alone. Especially a man with his way to make in the world.
As the day went on, I found myself thinking more and more about the Pickett affair. I could not avoid the fact that I felt not only curious about his murder but also in some strange way responsible for the runaway slave they had hanged for it.
It was as if I had failed him.
But was not the man a convicted murderer? Who was I to set my judgement against that of the officers who had made up the court martial? They were vastly experienced; they had been cognizant of all the facts whereas I was but newly arrived in this city and a positive babe in arms in such matters. Most important of all, my duty was merely to observe the administration of justice: apart from that, I had no legal standing in the affair; nor was I under any moral obligation to go beyond the terms of my commission.
And yet these were a civil servants arguments, perfectly adequate for a departmental inquiry or Mr Rampton or even a court of law. But they did not quite convince me as a man. Now Taggart, the informer, was dead too.
The decision hung in the balance for the rest of the morning, and later at the coffee house where I dined alone and frugally on an elderly mutton chop and a pint of sherry. At the end of the meal, I decided to let chance take a hand in the matter. I felt in my waistcoat pocket for the ivory die I had found under Picketts body. I pushed aside the plate and brushed the crumbs away with the napkin.
If it came up with an odd number, I should go back to the office and forget all about the drowned informer, the hanged slave and Picketts murder. If the number were even, I should refresh myself with a stroll to the river in the mild afternoon sunshine.
I rolled the die. It danced across the stained linen cloth, ricocheted off the base of the wine glass and came to rest beside the fork. It was a four.
There could be no harm in it, I repeated to myself again and again like a Papist with his rosary, as if repetition could somehow make it true. There could be no harm in it, none in the world.
The Paulus Hook ferry was at the north-west end of Cortland Street, by Kings Wharf. My choice of route proved to be a mistake, for Cortland Street took me through the desolate heart of Canvas Town, not far from the cellar where they had found the body of Roger Pickett.
The roadway itself was an illicit market place. As I passed along it, three whores solicited me, a negro offered me a Pembroke table with three legs and two unmatched chairs, a one-armed soldier tried to sell me a pair of boots, a variety of entertainers sought to distract me, and beggars haunted my every step. A woman showed me the baby at her breast. For the love of God, she said, for the love of God.
The roadway itself was an illicit market place. As I passed along it, three whores solicited me, a negro offered me a Pembroke table with three legs and two unmatched chairs, a one-armed soldier tried to sell me a pair of boots, a variety of entertainers sought to distract me, and beggars haunted my every step. A woman showed me the baby at her breast. For the love of God, she said, for the love of God.
This was the other New York, the shadow town, the dark simulacrum of the prosperous shops and stalls that lined Broadway.
At the end of the street, a breeze was coming off the water. Near the shore the river was dense with small craft bobbing on the swell. Further out lay a scattering of merchant ships with a line of men-of-war beyond them. The sea shifted and glittered in the sunshine. A mile or so away was the Jersey coast.
To the south, towards Fort George at the tip of the island, a party of prisoners of war were working with picks and shovels, strengthening the embankment along the shore. A small detachment of Hessians watched over them, though without much interest. There was nowhere for the prisoners to run to and, besides, most of them were in no condition to run anywhere.
At the wharf were more guards, part-time Provincials drunk with their petty authority. I showed the sergeant in charge my passes, one from Headquarters, the other from Townley, and his arrogance modulated swiftly to something approaching servility.
Where do you keep the bodies you take from the water? I asked. I want to see one of them.
He laughed. A body, sir? We can show you a fair few of those. We keep them for a day or two, and if no one claims them they go with the others.
What others?
The sergeant pointed his staff at the prisoners at work on the embankment. They pack the rebel dead into the foundations. Saves all of us a deal of work.
You mean they put dead prisoners there? Under the new embankment?
Yes, sir and the ones from the water, like I said, assuming theyre not claimed. Might as well do something useful with them, eh?
I wish to inspect the body of a boy, I said. His names Taggart. Mr Townleys man has already looked at him.
Ah, yes that little negro. Over here, sir. He led the way towards a warehouse built into the gently sloping ground away from the water. We keep them down the end, he said over his shoulder. Its cooler.
He unbolted a heavy door and stood aside to allow me to enter first. I found myself in a narrow chamber with a vaulted ceiling stretching across the width of the building. The room was lit by two arched openings, barred but unglazed, placed high in the walls. Below them was a bank of broad, slatted shelves.
The first thing I noticed was the smell an unlovely compound of salt water, seaweed and decaying flesh. My gorge rose. I covered my mouth and nose with a handkerchief.
A man grows used to the stink, the sergeant said. I hardly notice it now.
I glanced about me at the shapes stacked on the shelves. The bodies had been hunched together to save space. Some were naked; others wore a ragged shirt or breeches. I knew that anything worth taking would have been plundered before they were brought here.
Its that one. The sergeant poked a mottled arm with his staff. Came in the day before yesterday.
The small body lay on its side with its back to us.
I want to see the face, I said.
The sergeant seized the upper arm by the wrist. He tugged it. The body did not move. He grinned at me, spat on his hands and braced his leg against the brick support of the shelves.
Hes being a little contrary, sir. But not for long.
He took the corpses arm with both hands and wrenched it violently towards him. There was a sucking, squelching sound. The upper part of the body twisted. The corpse was now on its back, though its legs were still angled away from us. The smell worsened.
The head faced upwards. The sergeant took hold of it by the nearer ear and pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf.
That suffice, sir? I can stretch him out if you want.
No need, thank you. I forced myself to look at the face. The eyes had gone. I swallowed hard.
The one youre looking for? the sergeant asked.
Yes.
There was no doubt about it. It was the mulatto boy I had encountered twice before. He was smaller than I remembered, and perhaps younger no more than nine or ten. He was very thin, the ribs as clearly defined as the ridges on a fluted column; and there were faded weals on his side where he had been beaten, probably with a ropes end, but not recently.
How long had he been in the water?
A day or two, sir, maybe less. Dont take long for the fish to get the eyes. Minutes, sometimes.
Here was the informer who, according to Noak, had brought about Virgils death on the gallows. I had seen him twice before, though I had not known his name. On the first occasion, the day of my arrival, the boy had been leading a goat close to the spot where they had found Picketts body. The second time, he had been selling goat meat outside the barracks on the morning when they hanged a man for Picketts murder.
I straightened up. Have you had any other bodies lately?
A rebel prisoner on Sunday. Hed been in the water for a week or two.
What about a big negro with a long scar on either side of his nose?
No one like that, sir, not to my recollection. The sergeant gestured at the boy on the shelf. Seen enough?
Yes. Im obliged to you.
Do you want me to hold him here for Major Marryot to see?
I shook my head. What was the point, after all? Marryot would laugh at me.
The sergeant pushed the body back on to its side and rubbed his hands on his coat. Runaway, was he?
I dont know, I said. Perhaps he was running from something.
And then it caught up with him, the sergeant said.
Chapter Eighteen
Early in November, I saw the little girl for the first and last time.
I had just dined with the Commandant and a considerable company of gentlemen, most of them in uniform. There had been much food and many toasts. I was a little drunk, and therefore disposed to be emotional.
As I strolled along, Lizzie was in my mind, which was perhaps why I noticed the child in the first place. The thought of my daughter aroused a host of feelings in me love, of course, and a sort of hunger for her company, and also anxiety: suppose she fell ill? Suppose her mother or her aunt treated her cruelly? Suppose I were to die, leaving her penniless and unprotected in this harsh and unforgiving world? Suppose the unthinkable, that Lizzie herself should die?
It was still early in the evening and Broadway was crowded. It was dark. There were a few streetlights, and the lighted windows and shop doorways. But these emphasized the gloom rather than dispelled it. That was when I saw the child.
The girl was younger than Lizzie and was in leading strings. She was with a woman. The two of them had emerged from a haberdashers shop about twenty or thirty yards in front of me. Both were muffled against the weather in long cloaks with hoods over their heads. The woman tugged the girl along, almost pulling her off her feet. The child had not yet learned how to walk quickly without falling over. She strained against the harness that held her as if bursting to escape.