turning nasty. Matthew heard 'grave-digger's crow', 'black beast', and worse, coupled with 'murder' and 'tar- and-feather'.
'It's 'gainst the law!' Nack had suddenly remembered his station. 'Sir! It's 'gainst the law for a slave to be in a public tavern!'
'Put him in the gaol!' the lady hollered between drinks. 'Hell, put 'em all
'The gaol?' Greathouse's brows lifted. 'Oh, Gardner! Do you think that's really such a good idea? I mean three or four days in there-even
'I think it ought to be the pillory, sir! For all of 'em!' Nack's evil little eyes gleamed. He pressed the tip of his billyclub against Matthew's chest. 'Or the brandin' iron!'
Lillehorne said nothing for a moment. The shouts outside were becoming uglier still. He cocked his head, looking up first at Greathouse, then at Zed and back again. The high constable was a small-boned and slender man, standing several inches shorter than Matthew, and thus was dwarfed by the larger men. Even so, his ambition in the town of New York was the size of Goliath. To be mayor, nay, even the colony's governor someday was the bellow that fanned his flames. 'Which will it be, sir?' Nack urged. 'Pillory or iron?'
'The pillory may well be in use,' Lillehorne replied without looking at Nack, 'by a spineless constable who has gotten himself stinking drunk while on duty and allowed this infraction of the law on his watch. And mind you cease talking about irons before you find one branding your buttocks.'
'But sir I mean ' Nack sputtered, his face flaming red.
'Silence.' Lillehorne waved him aside with the lion's-head. Then he stepped toward Greathouse and almost peered up the man's nostrils. 'You hear me, sir. I'm not to be
'Absolutely,' said Greathouse without hesitation.
'I demand satisfaction!' shouted the fallen swordsman, who was sitting up with a huge lump and blue bruise on his forehead.
'I'm satisfied that you're a fool, Mr. Giddins.' Lillehorne's voice was calm and clear and utterly frigid. 'There's a penalty of ten lashes for drawing a sword in a public place with intent to do bodily harm. Do you wish to proceed?'
Giddins said nothing, but reached out and retrieved his weapon.
The shouting in the street, which was drawing more men-certainly more drunkards and ruffians-from the other taverns, was increasing in volume and desire for justice in the form of violence. Zed kept his head down, and sweat was gathering on the back of Matthew's neck. Even Greathouse began to glance a little uneasily at the only way out.
'What I must do galls me sometimes,' Lillehorne said. Then he looked into Matthew's face and sneered, 'Aren't you tired of playing the young hero yet?' Without waiting for a reply, he said, 'Come on, then. I'll walk you out of here. Nack, you'll stand guard 'til I send someone better.' He started for the door, his cane up against his shoulder.
Greathouse got his cap and cloak and followed, then behind came Zed and Matthew. At their backs spewed dirty curses from the patrons who could still speak, and Nack's gaze shot daggers at the younger associate of the Herrald Agency.
Outside, the crowd of thirty or more men and a half-dozen drink-dazed women surged forward. 'Get back! Everyone get back!' Lillehorne commanded, but even the voice of a high constable was not enough to douse the fires of this growing conflagration. Matthew knew full well that there were three things sure to draw a crowd in New York, day or night: a street hawker, a speechmaker, and the promise of a rowdy knockabout.
He saw through the crowd that Bonehead had survived his journey with but a gash on his brow and some blood trickling down his face, but he was still obviously less than fighting fit for he was careening around like a top, both fists swinging at the air. Somebody grabbed his arms to pin them, somebody else caught him around the waist, and then with a roar five other men leapt in and there was a free-for-all right there with Bonehead getting bashed and not even able to punch. A skinny old beggar held up a tambourine and began to rattle it around as he pranced back and forth, but someone with musical taste knocked it from his hand and then he began fighting and cursing like a wildman.
Still the citizens pressed in around their true quarry, which was Zed. They plucked at him and danced away. Someone came in to pull at his torn suitcoat, but Zed kept his head lowered and paid no mind. Ugly laughter-the laughter of brutes and cowards-whirled up. As he followed the slow and dangerous procession along Wall Street, Matthew suddenly noted that the wind had ceased blowing. The air was absolutely still, and smelled of the sea.
'Listen.' Greathouse had drifted back to walk alongside Matthew. His voice was tight, a rare occurrence. 'In the morning. Seven-thirty at Sally Almond's. I'll explain everything.' He paused as he heard a bottle shatter against a wall. 'If we get out of this,' he added.
'Back! All of you!' Lillehorne was shouting. 'I mean it, Spraggs! Let us pass, or I swear I'll brain you!' He lifted his cane, more for effect than anything else. The crowd was thickening, and now hands were balling into fists. 'Nelson Routledge! Don't you have anything better to do than-'
He didn't finish what he was saying, for in the next instant no words were needed.
Zed lifted his head toward the ebony sky, and he made a noise from deep in his throat that began as the roar of a wounded bull and rose up and up, up to fearsome heights above the rooftops and chimneys, the docks and barns, the pens and stockyards and slaughterhouses. It began as the roar of a wounded bull, yes, but somewhere on its ascent it changed into the cry of a single child, alone and terrified in the dark.
The sound silenced all other noise. Afterwards, the cry could be heard rolling off across the town in one direction, across the water in the other.
All hands stilled. All fists came open, and all faces, even smirking, drink-swollen and mean-eyed, took on the tightness of shame about the mouth, for everyone in this throng knew a name for misery but had never heard it spoken with such horrible eloquence.
Zed once more lowered his head. Matthew stared at the ground. It was time for everyone to go home, to wives, husbands, lovers and children. To their own beds. Home, where they belonged.
The lightning flashed, the thunder spoke, and before the crowd began to move apart the rain fell upon them with ferocious force, as if the world had tilted on its axis and the cold sea was flooding down upon the land. Some ran for cover, others trudged slowly away with hunched shoulders and grim faces, and in a few minutes Wall Street lay empty in the deluge.
Three
'Very well, then.' Matthew folded his hands before him on the table. He'd just hung his tricorn on a hook and sat down a moment before, but Greathouse was too taken with consuming his breakfast of eight eggs, four oily and glistening sausages, and six corncakes on a huge dark red platter to have paid him much attention. 'What's the story?'
Greathouse paused in his feasting to sip from his cup of tea, which was as hot and as black as could be coaxed from the kitchen of Sally Almond's tavern on Nassau Street.
There could be no starker contrast between this esteemed establishment and the vile hole they'd visited last night. Whereas City Hall used to be the center of town, one might say that Sally's place-a tidy white stone building with a gray slate roof overhung by a huge oak tree-now claimed that position, as the streets and dwellings continued to grow northward. The tavern was warm and friendly and always smelled of mulling spices, smoked meats and freshly-baked pies. The floorboards were kept meticulously swept, vases of fresh flowers stood about, and the large fieldstone fireplace was put to good use at the first autumn chill. For breakfast, the midday meal and supper, Sally Almond's tavern did a brisk business among locals and travelers alike, in so much that Madam Almond
