Shadowbrook (45 page)

God’s truth, and that was John Hale’s voice. Blighted sodding hell and this was a bad day’s work. A pox on this place. May Almighty God rain lizards and frogs down on New York City.

“What did he want?”

Hamish stretched his legs toward the few coals smoldering in the battered grate of the slop shop fire. The tavern was little more than a shack, but it was on Mott Street at the northernmost edge of the populated part of the city, beyond the wooden palisade the New Yorkers had erected in ’45, at the start o’ what they called the war o’ the first King George. It was na a pleasant journey for all it wasn’t far. The wind was howling a near gale. In here by this miserable wee fire it sounded as if it might rip out the tar paper windows and lift the thatched roof. “ ’Tis a poor excuse for heat the landlord’s given us for a
dreich
night like this one. Could you na ha’ found a place wi’ a bit more cheer?”

“Without doubt. Somewhere near the governor’s mansion, in the court part of the town. Where Bede Devrey and John Hale are as like to see us as to piss. Don’t make yourself sound a fool, man. I am never comfortable doing business with fools,” John Lydius said.

God’s truth, neither was Hamish Stewart It was just the whole poxed day that had put him out of sorts and made him likely to complain about anything, whatever the excuse. Hamish twisted on the upturned crate that served as his seat. The proprietor stood a little distance away, busying himself with drawing an ale for a bald-headed dwarf who waited near the door, huddled in a threadbare cloak,
stamping his feet and blowing on his hands for a bit o’ warmth. The poor misshapen sod’s chin barely reached the level o’ the bar, and his bandy legs looked as if they might be going to break if the stomping dinna stop. “Landlord, if you’d bring a few more coals for this fire, your guests would na all be perishing wi’ cold. Give this fine establishment a bad name, frozen corpses will.”

The man finished filling the tankard and pushed it down the bar toward the dwarf, then disappeared out the back and returned cradling two large logs in his arms. It unnerved him that a pair of one-eyed strangers had shown up at the same moment on a night not fit for man or beast. Bound to be the devil’s doing, that was. He had all he could do not to throw the wood on the fire and run for the woods. But a man had to take his opportunities where he found them. “I’ll put one of these on the fire, if ye likes. Take yer pick. Cost yez a penny extra.”

John Lydius reached into his pocket and came out with a couple of wooden coins. “Here’s tuppence. Put ’em both on.”

The logs were moldy with damp and seamed with pitch. They just smoldered and sparked, but the sight of them on the grate made it feel warmer. “Why did Hale chase you?” Lydius asked.

“Said he wanted to be sure I dinna need anything, seeing as how I was an Albany neighbor.”

“And you believed him?”

“Of course I dinna believe him. What do you take me for?”

Lydius leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. He studied the Scot with the eye not covered by the black patch. Stewart’s missing eye was a rough ugly scar on one side of his face and he made no attempt to hide it. Lydius calculated the chances of Hamish Stewart getting Shadowbrook to be forty out of a hundred. Not the best odds, but not the worst either. And now that Ephraim was dead and that horse’s arse John Hale was master of the Patent, it might be the odds had improved. “That leaves me with the same question I asked originally. What do you think Hale wanted?”

Hamish had been asking himself that for most of the day. “God’s truth. I do na know. Only to get a better look at me, I think. Take my measure. Because seeing me down here in this poxed city struck him as na the ordinary way o’ things.”

Lydius nodded. “Whereas in Albany he pays you no mind. You’re the Scot who rents the room above the gristmill from the Widow Krieger. Nothing worthy of note.”

“Aye, that’s the way it seems to me.”

“Then tell me, in God’s name, why you had to come down here?” Lydius slammed his empty mug on the rickety table between them. “Why expose—”

“Hold you tongue if you want to keep the use o’ it.” Hamish had not moved, but the menace in his voice was unmistakable.

Lydius sighed. Too late now to moan about this ill-advised visit And John Hale, who up to now had shown not the slightest interest in Hamish Stewart, was alerted to the fact that the Highlander was skulking about on the periphery of his affairs. But was the Scot aware that John Hale was attempting to mortgage the Patent to buy cane land in the Islands, in that hellhole St. Kitts, God help them all.

And if you don’t know Hale’s plans, how do I use whatever advantage it might give me? How do I play you and John Hale off one against the other and come out owning the Patent myself?

Sweet Christ, it’s a wild idea. Makes me feel I’ve drunk three bottles of sack The same singing in my head and roaring in my belly. Genevieve would say,
Your reach exceeds your grasp, John Lydius, and that will be the ruin of you.
But the Hale Patent … sweet Christ Almighty. Ah, perhaps it’s too much to hope for. Even with Quentin out of the picture. Didn’t even come to the Frolic Ground to drink his father’s health after the funeral.

Might be this was the time to bow out of the business, say a pox on both your houses and leave Hamish Stewart and John Hale to their fate. Could be the odds had shifted more in John’s favor. But to own the Hale Patent … Do you hear the way my heart thumps at the thought, you Jacobite idol worshiper? No, not likely. You’re too blinded by your own land lust to have a clue about mine. But if I make you an enemy … What forces do you command, you papist whoreson? Very well, say Genevieve has the right of it this time and I’m in waters too deep for swimming, say it’s not possible to get the land, what about continuing to have you as an ally and business partner? At the very least it means a safe and steady way to ship guns to New France. Albany to Québec hidden in shipments of grain, and from there to the Ottawa and Mascoutin and Ojibwe and Potawatomi of the
pays en haut.
Christ Jesus, even a minor victory in this business, a small win, provides the opportunity of a lifetime.

Lydius watched Hamish swig the last of the rum and waited to speak until the Scot put down the mug. “You say Hale bought three slaves?”

“Aye, an Ibo lass canna be more than nine, with a hairless cunt and breasts like little black walnuts—”

“Not difficult to figure what he wants her for.”

“—and two seasoned Ashanti lads. Paid four hundred guineas for the lot. In coins, mind.” Hamish leaned over and spat into the fire. “Fit to vomit, it made me.

“Yes, seeing as he’d been all but burned out before this year’s harvest. Odd, don’t you think, that he could pay so much. Considering.”

Aye, God’s truth, it’s odd. And would you na like to know if I had any knowledge o’ that, any share in the bringing o’ those Indians all Albany now knows were Huron from Québec. But you’ll rot in hell before I’d trust you that far, John
Lydius. You’re no better than the womb that bore you, a heretic bound for hellfire, but God’s truth, you’re useful just now. “The rain saved them the worst o’ the blaze. And who’s to say what Hale had put by from better times?”

“Who indeed?”

Wall Street was deserted at this hour of the night John Hale stood a few strides from the front door of the fine house that belonged to his uncle Bede, just beyond the broad iron gates with the pineapple finials, unable to make up his mind. One of the servants had doubtless been instructed to wait up for him. He could ask for a glass of hot punch, or some rum with honey. Might be that would calm the churning of his belly and the thumping of his heart. Or if he chose he could find a tavern or an inn where the fires were not yet banked, the candles burned bright, and men passed the punch bowl and sang. He’d not yet heard the watchman calling the hour; it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, for the love of Christ. No need to declare the night done unless he wanted to. Deciding what he wanted, that was the difficult thing.

No, by Christ, it wasn’t. He wanted to kill James Alexander and Oliver De Lancey. And the Jew, of course. Sweet God in heaven, nothing would make him feel better than ripping Hayman Levy’s guts out with his bare hands. Though the meeting not long ended had taken place in Alexander’s office, on the ground floor of his elegant house in Hanover Square, it was Levy who’d done most of the talking. “Times have changed, John. Your father is gone, and those savages … We must be cautious, you understand.”

He did indeed understand. And so did they. It was all nonsense, a stall. If his father were not gone John wouldn’t have been in a position to offer the Patent as collateral and secure the loan. That’s what all four of them had been waiting for these past two years, since he’d first come to them with the scheme. “Nothing is different than it was,” he’d told them, his throat dry with insisting, sickened by the whine he could hear in his own voice. “The St. Kitts land is still available, and with it I can make us all rich beyond dreams.”

“Of course, John. Of course. But we’re men of business.” Levy indicated by a nod of his head that he was speaking for all of them, while the others wagged their greasy chins in agreement. “Men of business, but honorable. We made you a promise and we’ll keep it. As long as you see our need for something a bit more substantial.”

As if the Hale Patent were not the most substantial thing on this earth. It was worth ten times the five thousand guineas he needed to secure his claim in the Islands, his share of the cane. Probably more. “Bright Fish Water was part of the original grant. It was given to my grandfather by Queen Anne. It has always belonged to the Patent.”

“A good thing, too. How else could you make it over?”

Sweet Christ, the way Levy smirked when he said that. It had taken all John’s control not to smash the little weasel’s face. But it was Oliver De Lancey who put the matter beyond discussion. “My brother tells me there is much interest in the buying and selling of land in St. Kitts these days. I don’t think you’ve much time to sit here and argue terms with us, Mr. Hale.”

Sodding Oliver De Lancey’s sodding brother was James De Lancey, Governor of the Province of New York So what Oliver was saying was that if John Hale didn’t choose to take the terms being offered by himself and Alexander and Levy, Hale’s scheme was finished; not another merchant in New York City would dare to finance his plans. So he’d gritted his teeth and signed their God-rotting agreement, made over the top tenth of the Patent outright. Bright Fish Water and everything above the northern edge of Do Good were no longer part of Shadowbrook The rest, every scrap of Hale land and Hale holdings, was pledged as collateral against the five thousand guineas needed to secure the plantation in St. Kitts. “Done, gentlemen.” He’d managed not to let his hand tremble when he signed his name. And he’d waited for the cash.

God help him, it did not materialize in hard coin as he expected. “Excellent,” Levy had said. “We will open the negotiation in the Islands, Mr. Hale. When everything is in place we will inform you.” And he’d handed over a piece of paper, a copy of the note all four had signed, spelling out the terms of their arrangement.

God rot his perfidious soul. It had been all John could do to keep from snatching back the papers and ripping them to shreds. There had been a time, moments only, a few heartbeats, when that might have been possible. Then James Alexander, who was a lawyer as well as a man of business, had whisked them away. God curse all lawyers, particularly the canny Scots.
Never do business with a Scot,
his father had told him.
Get the better of you every time.

And what about this other Scot, then? This Jacobite idol worshiper? Why did John have the feeling that Hamish Stewart had far more interest in the affairs of the Hale Patent than he should have. How long now since Stewart had shown up in Albany? A year or so. It was twenty-five years, since he had come to the Patent seeking to buy land and bring over a parcel of his Scottish Highland clansmen to settle on it. Ephraim had enjoyed playing with the notion, but in the end he refused to sell even a single blade of grass for the price the Scot could pay. Was his father spinning round in his grave now? Did he know John had just made over Bright Fish Water, and the Great Carrying Place, and the birch woods where the fattest pheasant were always to be found in the autumn, and the northernmost hills where the last of the fiddleheads and sparrowgrass appeared in the spring?