We stood aside to allow a file of soldiers to march down the road to the high wooden gates, which were guarded by two sentries. One leaf of the gates opened at the sentrys double-knock and the file passed through to a yard. We followed them in.
Once inside, the sergeant of the guard told us to wait in the hall. Townley chafed at the delay.
At least it is cool and pleasant in here, I said.
The walls are immensely thick, sir. And there are few windows, as you see. The place was built to store sugar in good condition and safe from thieves. But it keeps people in as well as it keeps people out.
A door at the back of the hall opened and Mr Noak came through.
Townley stared at him. What? You? Here already?
Noak bobbed his head to us, more like a bird pecking at a worm than a mark of respect. Yes, sir. I made myself known to Major Marryot and showed him your letter. If you would care to step this way.
As soon as we left the hall, the atmosphere changed. Sights and smells assaulted the senses. But I was first aware of the noise: a chaotic concerto of voices, groans, cries, and restless movements, all of them bouncing off the high, barrel-vaulted ceiling and setting off rolling echoes.
On the other side of the door to the hall was a table at which three soldiers were playing cards, apparently oblivious of what was going on around them. They glanced up incuriously and nodded us through.
Noak led us down a long, stone-flagged corridor lined with doors on either side. Along the centre of the passage was a drainage gulley apparently used as a sewer. Both Townley and I covered our noses with handkerchiefs.
A barred opening was set high in each door, and each opening framed a mans face; his hands clung to the bars; and behind him was a multitude of other faces, packed together in one heaving, shouting, stinking mass of humanity.
For the love of Christ, your honours, a man called to us, for the love of Christ, I cant stop the bleeding.
We walked faster and faster to a door at the far end. A guard let us into a lobby at the foot of a flight of stairs.
Dear God, I said. Its a perfect Bedlam in there. Worse than Bedlam a foretaste of hell itself.
They have only themselves to thank, sir, Townley said. If they take up arms against their lawful government, they must expect to pay the price. The problem is that we have so many rebels to cope with. We are obliged to pack them in the best we can, wherever we find room.
We mounted the stairs first to an anteroom guarded by a sentry and then to an inner apartment. A narrow window looked out across a neatly tended churchyard at the blackened ruins of Trinity Church.
Marryot was sitting at a long oak table, his lame leg resting on a footstool. He was leafing through a pile of papers. Good morning, sirs, he said, looking up. Pray sit down, now you are come at last. I was about to start without you. He nodded to Noak. Tell the man outside to pass the word for the prisoner.
We took chairs on either side of the Major. When he returned, Noak sat at the end nearer the window, with pen, ink and paper set out before him.
How fortunate that an informer came forward, sir, Townley said.
Fortunate? Marryot sniffed. Fortune has nothing to do with it, sir. The army pays for its information. There are always men in want of gold.
Can you be sure that the information is accurate, sir? I asked.
Little is certain in this world, sir, but the fellow we have in custody is certainly a rogue.
We heard the stamp of marching feet outside. There was a knock on the door. At Marryots word, two soldiers entered with a small negro between them. He was cuffed at the wrists and swaying from side to side. When the soldiers came smartly to attention in front of the table, he collapsed on the floor in a huddle of limbs and filthy clothes.
Pull him up, Marryot ordered.
The soldiers hooked their arms under the prisoners shoulders and lifted him back to his feet.
Master, I didnt do it, I swear on
Hold your tongue, Marryot roared. He turned to Noak. You may write this down under todays date, the fifth of August. And the place and time, of course. That this is the interrogation of a negro slave, a runaway, name of Virgil, property of the heirs of the late George Selden, esquire, of Queens County.
The man whimpered. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore filthy canvas breeches, loose at the knee, and a torn shirt. The feet were bare and the toes widely splayed. I wanted to look away but found I could not.
Townley took a silver toothpick from his waistcoat pocket and began to clean his teeth.
You are a vagabond, are you not? Marryot demanded. Dont speak unless I tell you just nod.
Virgils head drooped.
You absconded from your master when he was in Brooklyn the summer before last. And youve been living in Canvas Town with the rest of the rogues and knaves ever since. Marryot glanced down the table. Have you noted that, Mr Noak?
Master, for pitys sake, I never saw
Hold your peace I didnt tell you to speak to me. You will have your chance later. And for Gods sake, stop snivelling or Ill have you whipped.
Noak scribbled.
Strike those last words out, Mr Noak, Marryot snapped. They are not part of the record.
Townley leaned back in his chair. What evidence is against the man?
All in good time, sir. Marryot put his elbows on the table and leaned towards the prisoner. Tell me where you were last Sunday. Tell me what you did, what you saw.
I was in Canvas Town, your honour. And I walked about the city looking for work. And then I went back to Canvas Town and fell asleep with nothing in my belly.
Your belly looks plump enough to me, Townley observed, fanning himself with his handkerchief.
Marryot ignored the interruption. That may be where you were but its not what you did. Youre a thief, a damned pickpocket. There were two empty purses in your bundle. And those shoes you had on your feet well, they tell their own story, dont they?
Eh? Townley said. What shoes? Nobody mentioned any shoes.
Mr Noak, Marryot said. Have the goodness to open the press and bring us what you find on the third shelf down.
The press was a tall cupboard in an alcove by the empty fireplace. Noak took out a pair of black round-toed shoes with plain steel buckles on the flaps. He set them down on the table. The prisoner moaned softly at the sight of them. Marryot stretched out a hand and removed a small leather bag from one of the shoes.
So, he said. When they brought you in last night, these shoes were on your feet.
I picked up one of the shoes. The uppers were scuffed and creased. The sole needed reheeling. But the leather was good.
We had information that these shoes belonged to Mr Pickett, Marryot said. I had them sent over to Beekman Street this morning. The kitchen boy who cleans the shoes is sure that these were Picketts.
Information? I said. From whom, sir?
It dont signify, sir. All that signifies is that the information is good. Youll grant me that, I hope?
Virgil lifted his head and, for the first time, looked directly at me.
You need not enter Mr Savills questions into the record either, Noak, Marryot said.
He untied the drawstring that fastened the bag and upended it. A heavy gold ring dropped on the palm of his hand.
Its a seal ring, he said, holding it up between finger and thumb. It has a stag incised on it. The woman at the house where he lodges, the Widow Muller, swears its Picketts. He wore it on his left hand and she noted it most particularly he was behind with what he owed, and when he said he could not pay directly, she asked him why he did not turn his ring into guineas and be done with it.
I never seen it, master, I swear, sir. Hope to die, Gods my
But the shoes? I interrupted. Youve seen those before?
The prisoner glanced at me again. Yes, sir.
Of course he had, Marryot put in. They were on his damned feet when they arrested him.
And where did you get them, Virgil? I said.
I I found them, your honour.
On Mr Picketts body?
Yes, sir. Poor gentleman was lying there, all dead. I thought he didnt need them, so whats the harm? Look, sir. He pointed down at his feet. I lost a toe to frostbite last winter.
He was dead because youd killed him, Marryot said. Thats how you knew, eh? So you helped yourself to his shoes and took the ring off his finger as well.
No, sir, werent no ring when I found him.
Then why was the ring in your bundle?
Virgil shook his head violently. Didnt put it there, master, swear by
Hold your tongue, damn you. Marryot looked at the soldiers, who were staring blankly at the wall behind the table. Take him away. Keep him in irons.
No one spoke until the guards had led out the prisoner. Marryot stood up and went to the window.
Well, gentlemen, he said, still with his back to the room. This need not detain us much longer, I think? The evidence points to the knaves guilt.
No rational man could entertain a doubt about it, Townley said, yawning. If someone else had killed him, he would not have left the ring on Picketts finger. Shall Noak write you out a fair copy of the proceedings?
Id be obliged.
Mr Noak dipped his head.
When you write it up, you should mention that Mr Savill of the American Department was present as an observer, Marryot went on, turning to face us. But anything he said may be omitted.
Now what? I said.
Why, sir, what do you think? Marryot said. We wait and let the law take its course. Martial law, that is.
Chapter Twelve
On the night of Wednesday, I heard the child crying again. In the morning, I mentioned it to Josiah, the older of the two manservants. It must be one of the neighbours infants in the slave quarters, he said he would investigate and have the nuisance abated. I said he should not trouble himself; it did not matter in the least.
The administration had found me an apartment to use as an office in a house it leased at the eastern end of Broad Street, not far from the City Hall. It was a pokey chamber up two pairs of stairs. My first caller was already waiting for me a clergyman from Connecticut whom the rebels had turned out of his parsonage and parish. His crime had been to preach a sermon whose text had been Luke Chapter 20, verse 25. And he said unto them, Render therefore unto Caesar the things which be Caesars, and unto God the things which be Gods. Caesar in this case was intended to be taken as George III rather than Congress. The poor man had lost all he owned, including a farm he had inherited from an uncle.
Shortly before dinnertime, Townley swept into the room. Why, sir, he said without any preamble, I have just this moment heard from the Major and I clapped on my hat at once and said to myself I should give myself the pleasure of bringing the news to you directly.
I rose to my feet. What news? A battle?
Nothing of that nature. Its the negro Virgil. He came before the court this morning and they found him guilty of Picketts murder. Marryot says the fellow is to hang tomorrow morning. Sir Henry Clinton has confirmed the sentence. They say the Commander-in-Chief wishes to make an example of this man to deter other slaves.
Is justice always so swift in New York?
Townley shrugged. Military courts have this to be said for them, at least: they do not drag their heels. Besides, at this time especially, when the city is awash with rumours about rebel incendiarists within our lines, it does no harm to show that we have the city firmly in our control. Will you come, sir?
What? To the hanging?
Of course I am obliged to attend for the city and I thought it might interest you to accompany me. Its as well to know how these things are done. Matters have arranged themselves very neatly. Its at eight oclock, and they will give us breakfast afterwards. They keep a good table. Townley took out his watch. Talking of which, my dear sir, I believe it is time to dine.
After dining with Townley, I had walked back towards my office, skirting the fringe of Canvas Town. It was very hot and I did not hurry. I was not yet sure of my way, and by chance I found myself passing Van Cortlandts Sugar House.
I turned into Trinity churchyard. The air seemed a little cooler here. Despite its proximity to the prison, the grassy enclosure was used as a place of resort, and at least a score of people were strolling among the gravestones. Indeed, it was more like a pleasure garden than a churchyard, with a broad, gravelled walk lined with benches, hooks for lanterns on the trees and even a platform for an orchestra amid the ruins. As I came up to the church, a familiar figure ambled round the corner of the tower at the west end.
Judge! I uncovered and bowed. How do you do, sir? It is unconscionably hot, is it not?
Wintour blinked up at me. Ah Mr Savill. Your servant, sir. You took me by surprise.
Do you come here to take the air?
No. In point of fact, I am looking for my goat.
I beg your pardon, sir. I do not quite
My milch goat. It is the most charming animal imaginable. Mrs Wintour has a particular taste for its milk. Josiah tethered it here on Monday morning. Just there, sir, attached to those railings you see by the path. He swears he only turned his back for a moment, but in that moment it vanished.
I am sorry to hear it, sir. I felt a memory shifting like shingle in the depths of my mind.
It is our own family burying ground, too. Which makes the theft somehow worse, as though the perpetrator had committed a sort of burglary. My poor brother is here, you see, and that is why Josiah brought the goat in the first place. Mr Wintour saw the lack of comprehension on my face and smiled at me. I beg your pardon, sir I have presented you with an unnecessary enigma.
Your brother is buried here?
Just so. He was as steadfast as any man in his attachment to the Crown. The old mans face crumpled for a moment. Alas, even as a boy, he was impetuous, and liable to speak his mind without counting the likely cost of it. That was his undoing. The rebels killed him, you know, whatever they say.
Did he die in the fighting, sir? I asked.
No, sir, he did not.
While the Judge was talking, he drifted closer to the railings and stared at the memorials they enclosed. I followed him. One of the inscriptions had been more recently cut than the others: