Shadowbrook (44 page)

Filthy business this, Hamish thought. Filthy. Maybe when the Patent’s mine I’ll—Na, I will not. Slaves and Shadowbrook They go together. Why else is John Hale standing in the front waiting for something he fancies to go on the block?

One by one they went. The New York City slave market was the largest in the north, supplied by private slavers sailing their own ships through the Middle Passage, and famous throughout the colonies for giving buyers better value than they could get elsewhere.

“Prime, gentlemen, all prime!” The auctioneer danced along the line of shackled bodies, indicating each in turn with a tap of his long stick “Look here, gentlemen! Look ye here! Ashanti! Ibo! Ibo! Fanti! What am I bid?” Back at his podium now, though not done with his huckstering; never mind that he too was owned by the owners of the slave market. “Here on Wall Street you see what you’re buying before you part with your money. All prime, gentlemen! Prime! Come and bid!”

Hamish shivered. God’s truth, and it was a soul-destroying thing to buy and sell human flesh, but the brass it made, that was a mighty thing. Any man could tell as much by the splendor o’ these fine houses and grand ladies and gents o’ New York City.

John Hale bid on an Ibo girl and got her for a hundred guineas. The lass was eight or nine, Hamish guessed. The auctioneer used his stick to push up the linen shift that was supplied by the owners o’ the market for modesty’s sake. Not a hair between her legs; wee breasts though, hard little ebony nuts just starting to form, the nipples not yet mature enough to stiffen with the cold. John nodded with approval, the shift dropped back into place, and she was his. Minutes later he was high bidder for two young lads, God blight his rotten soul, stepping up to make payment of four hundred guineas for his three purchases.

The man whose job it was to take the money, the casher, sat at a plank spread across two trestles at the far end of the auction block Hamish edged a bit doser. Hale handed over a deerskin pouch and the casher took his time about untying it, then poured the contents onto the splintered wood.

There was a set of scales at his elbow, but it would only be used if there was doubt about the value of the odd assemblage of coins that passed for legal tender in these colonies. Money from every realm under heaven was in use since the Sassenach fools wouldna permit the Americans a mint and deliberately stinted the circulation o’ their own guineas and sovereigns. That way anything the Americans wanted to buy had to come from Mother England, not some other country.

The casher separated Hale’s coins with practiced fingers, using both hands, until there were short towers of French ducats and Dutch
daalders
and Portuguese
cruzados,
even a few Spanish pieces of eight. “To the value of four hundred guineas exactly,” he said at last. “Done, Mr. Hale.”

“Done,” John Hale agreed. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a few more shillings. “Keep the three here for me a day or two. I’ll collect them when I’m ready to return to Albany. And whatever’s left over is for yourself and the auctioneer.”

Regular buck o’ the stuffed purse, he was. Ruined? By Christ Jesus, how could Shadowbrook be ruined if the new laird, God curse his blighted soul, could be payin’ out four hundred guineas o’ cash money for black slaves not three months after better than half his wheat crop had gone up in smoke?

John was vaguely aware of Stewart—as chance would have it, he’d seen the Scot earlier that morning, as he was leaving the Wall Street mansion belonging to his Devrey relations—but it was the three merchants standing to the side in the opposite direction that got most of his attention. James Alexander and Oliver De Lancey and the God-rotting Jew Hayman Levy. They had been there since the sale began, but had not placed a single bid this day. They had come to watch.

Power of the purse you may have, you bastards, but don’t forget what you just saw. John Hale, master of the Hale Patent, stepped up to the auction block and paid top price for three new blacks. In cash money, mind. None of your paper rubbish. So don’t be telling me that Shadowbrook isn’t the collateral it once was, and that you won’t be putting up the money as will buy the cane land that will change everything.

John turned his back on the casher’s table. His hands were sweating—he shoved them into his pockets so no one might see them tremble—and his heart was hammering in his chest. He’d just paid close to every farthing the Patent had earned from what could be salvaged of the summer crop. It was worth it. Cane land was worth whatever gamble it took.
The Merchant’s Coffee House did grand business after the sale ended. The long tables were crowded with bowls and mugs and tankards of drink, and the stools and narrow benches were crowded with the hindquarters of gentleman of every size and description. The smells of tobacco and ale and freshly roasted coffee beans mingled with the musk of traders invigorated by the morning’s buying and selling. There was a steady hum of conversation as the patrons took each other’s measure by the cut of a wig, the swagger of a blue velvet coat, or the sheen of green satin breeches. Finery and the display of it was the order of the day. This was New York City, by God. Not your prissy-mouthed Boston or your righteous, do-good Philadelphia. Since the Dutch founded the place a hundred and thirty years before—and surrendered it to the English forty years after that—this had always been a city with one purpose, the creation of wealth. The aroma that overcame all others in the midday bustle of the Merchant’s Coffee House on Wall Street was the rich and seductive stink of money.

Black men and boys in long leather aprons hurried among the tables, serving pewter bowls of the dark, steaming coffee for which the Merchant’s was famous, and offering other bowls piled high with Caribbean sugar. Each patron used long wooden tongs to take as many of the sticky, golden nuggets as he liked, sweetening the black brew to his taste and to the stretch of his purse. COFFEE THREE PENCE A BOWL, SUGAR TUPPENCE PER MORSEL, a sign on the wall proclaimed. A glass of punch or a tankard of ordinary ale could be had for a penny.

Hamish raised his hand and finally managed to attract the attention of one of the waiters. “Bring me an ale, laddie, and be quick.” The black didn’t seem impressed with the one-eyed stranger in the homespun jerkin. Hamish waited and nursed his thirst, and used his single eye and his two good ears, but not to the advantage he’d have wished.

John Hale was three tables to his left, deep in conversation with his maternal uncle, Bede Devrey. A short, stubby man with a head too big for his body, there was in Bede’s face some of the look of his sister Lorene, but none of her grace. And what did that matter, Hamish thought, when he was the one inherited the fleet o’ Devrey ships, and every one of ’em worth a fortune in the Triangle Trade ’twixt the colonies and Africa and England? Might well be it was Bede Devrey supplied the money his nephew spent this day to buy three slaves. But why? To impress the other merchants as watched every transaction. Make ’em lend more to John Hale, keep him afloat till next harvest. So Bede Devrey’s sister would na finish her days wi’out a pisspot to call her own.

He dared na sit any doser, and it was impossible to hear what the uncle and nephew were saying at this distance. Everything he saw just deepened the mystery. Shadowbrook was not ruined enough. God’s truth that was.

Time to leave this place. But not by blighted hell until he’d quenched his thirst.
Then he’d stay out o’ sight until his night’s business was finished; after that he’d take the first packet to Albany as would give him a bit o’ deck space to stand on. Hamish’s glance restlessly roved the room, his one good eye doing the work of two. The minutes passed and there was still no sign of the nigra meant to be bringing him his ale, while the coffee house grew ever more crowded, a steady stream of customers wedging themselves in where it seemed no more could fit. The babble of conversation was a high-pitched and constant clatter. Mostly bawdy innuendo concerning the town’s infamous whoremistress, a veiled creature they called Squaw DaSilva. The rest was all to do wi’ business.

The Merchant’s was the coffee house favored by those involved wi’ the shipping trade and auctions. It was to the Exchange on Broad Street men went to talk o’ the buying or selling o’ land. More his sort o’ transaction, that. A man could rely on land. It dinna disappear into the depths of the ocean, or reappear in bits and pieces along distant beaches a man never heard o’ before.

The patrons of the Merchant’s Coffee House did not share that sentiment. In the space of a few breaths Hamish heard at least four different men commit themselves to share the risk of a new vessel being built for the Islands trade, and two who were anxious to purchase an interest in the profit of a slave ship called the
Lauralee Haven.
“Leaks like a sieve, the
Lauralee
does,” a third man called out. “You’re fixing to lose your stones, Jack But then, judging from the cut of your breeches, you’ve not very big ones to lose.” And underneath the talk of fucking and finances, another theme, one that interested Hamish Stewart still more.

“The king said nothing when he opened parliament. Not a bloody word.”

“You’re wrong. He as good as made a declaration of war. He’d protect trade, he said, and the source of the nation’s wealth. That’s us, for the love of the Almighty. We’re the source of England’s wealth, and George knows it as well as his father did. He’s sworn to protect us.”

“Like he’s been protecting us all along,” a third man joined in. “Doesn’t amount to a fart in the wind. Nothing’s ever settled. Far as I can tell, the bloody French are true to their devious papist ways and get away with it. Keep taking a little more and a little more, and sometimes being made to give a small piece of it back, but at the end of the day they’ve got their hooks farther into us than they were before. Where’s the protection in that?”

Hamish’s ale arrived. He flipped a wooden penny at the young black who brought it, and drank half the mug in a single draught. “Another, laddie!” he shouted at the boy’s departing back “And best I’d na be in my grave a wee time afore it gets here.”

“… two regiments of five hundred each,” a man was saying, his voice low and urgent, “under the command of the best possible man for the job, Major General Edward Braddock. They leave from Cork in a few weeks, and once they arrive
each regiment is—” He broke off when the Scot called out his order, turning to face the stranger.

Hamish recognized the scrutiny and raised his half-empty mug. “Your health, sir.”

“And yours.” The other man was drinking coffee and he made a polite motion with the bowl. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

“Aye, that’s the truth. I’ve na been here before.”

“And what brings you here now?”

Hamish swung his left leg over the bench on which he was sitting so he was in a better position to move quickly if he had to. “I do na mean to offend, you understand, but why would that be any concern o’ yours?”

“We colonials are always interested in visitors from the mother country.”

“Aye? Well, that’s a fine sentiment, I’m sure. But if by mother country yer speaking of England, you mistake me.”

“I didn’t mean to say I thought you were English.”

“Ach, I’m glad o’ that. Since God’s truth, I’m not.”

“You’re a Scot, of course. A Highlander, I’ll warrant.”

“A man o’ discernment, sir. A Stewart o’ Appin, to be exact.” Hamish stood up and extended his hand. “Hamish Stewart’s my name.”

The man who’d been talking about troop movements stood as well, but he ignored the proffered hand. He was a head shorter than Hamish, and probably two stone lighter, but he was the younger. If it came to a fight, speed and stamina would be on his side. Hamish felt a great weariness rising inside him. He dinna want to fight. He wanted a peaceful life as laird o’ the only place on earth he’d ever coveted.

John Hale appeared. “Here, what’s happening? I know this man.” Hale’s black jacket and breeches—Albany style even if he hadn’t been in mourning—were a startling contrast to the bright-colored plumage of the New York City popinjays.

“He was eavesdropping on a private conversation. And I believe he’s a Jacobite.”

Bede Devrey had followed his nephew. Apparently he knew the man who’d been speaking of London’s plans. “For God’s sake, Peter, it’s nearly ten years since the rebellion. No one cares about Jacobites any longer.”

The Merchant’s had gone quiet, every eye watching the two men who seemed prepared to entertain them with a brawl. “Take it outside,” someone called out. “No point in making trouble in here.”

“No point in making any trouble at all,” Bede insisted. “My nephew here is John Hale of the Hale Patent up Albany way. If he vouches for this stranger, that should be good enough for all of us. Even you, Peter.”

“He’s a Jacobite,” the man called Peter repeated. “He said so himself. A Stewart of Appin. They fought against the king at Culloden.”

“And were well and truly beaten,” John said. “What’s the point of—”

“Enough, by God!” Hamish’s bowels were churning. The thought that any man, much less a creature like John Hale, should think Hamish Stewart needed defending was too much of an insult to be borne. He forced himself to speak in a normal tone of voice. “I thank ye for your good efforts, John Hale. But if this fellow,” Hamish jerked his head in the direction of the one called Peter, “wants a fight, then he shall have one, wherever and whenever he chooses. As for me, I only came in to quench my thirst. And I’ve done that, so if it’s to no one’s disinclination, I’ll be leaving.”

He had to go. He could na pummel this Peter into butcher’s meat, nor aim a kick or two at John Hale’s blighted balls, much as he’d like the pleasure.

Peter stood between Hamish and the door. For a moment it wasn’t clear he would give way and let the Scot leave, then he took a step back and cleared the path. It took all Hamish’s self-discipline to walk past the other man. He felt the eyes of every man present watching him retreat.

Outside, Wall Street was all but deserted, and the cold air calmed him some.

“Stewart! Wait a moment!”