you?” asked Big Jake. “You and her, runnin’ a cathouse in Jersey . . . there’s a pretty picture.”
“You’re my oldest friend and you say somethin’ like that?”
“You wouldn’t tell us about the gold when there was four of us. Now we’re just two, thanks to Loretta and her cunt friends lurin’ us into the militia. And I’m gettin’ my share. If the Bookworm lives, he gets his share, too.”
“You been sippin’ too much rum,” said Gil.
Big Jake brought the rum bottle to his lips and took another long drink. Then he said, “Let’s get the gold. We’ll worry about the rest later.”
And they hurried through the deserted streets, Broad Street to Beaver to New, which connected Beaver Street to Wall. The street lamps cast high flickering shadows. The Presbyterian Church stared down from Wall Street. And there, at the intersection of New Street and Fluten Barrack, was the house of John Blunt.
And there was John Blunt, a bloated old man in white stockings and disheveled wig, lurching down the street behind two big Airedales. The dogs were running about, stopping, snuffling, lifting their legs. And Blunt was singing between swallows from a silver flask. It sounded like “God Save the King.”
Another Tory, thought Gil, whose world had been righted.
One of the dogs made a few circles around a spot in the street and squatted.
John Blunt said to the other one, “What about you, Prince? Have a dump for your old master. Don’t want you whimperin’ to go out in the middle of the night or shittin’ on the rugs, now, do we?”
But Prince was ignoring Blunt. He was looking toward two shadows in a doorway.
“What do you see, boy?” Blunt peered in the same direction.
Gil grabbed Big Jake and pulled him back out of the light.
The dog glanced back at his master but held his ground.
Gil wrapped his hand around the cat’s paw and waited.
But dogs were distractable creatures, especially good ratters when they saw rats, and as the other dog finished his business, he must have seen one, because he jumped up, kicked his legs at his leavings, and went racing back up the street.
Blunt called to Prince, “Come on, boy! Your brother just found quarry.”
Prince looked again toward the shadows, then he turned and followed his master.
Gil waited a few moments, until he heard John Blunt cry, “A nest of ’em! Go get ’em, boys! A dirty nest of rebel rats!”
Above the wind came the sound of hunting dogs flushing prey. Somewhere in the next block a window opened, a man shouted, “Quiet out there!” Then the contents of a chamber pot splashed into the street.
Gil whispered to Big Jake. “Let’s go.”
“But the wife?”
“Her light’s just gone out.” Gil pointed up at the second story. “Likely she’s took to bed with a hair across her arse at a drinkin’ husband who loves his dogs more than he loves her. Come on.”
The door was no problem. As with almost every front door in New York, the rebels had stripped it of brass fixtures—knockers, handles, knobs—so the key assembly would not work. A bolt or chain would be the way to lock it.
So Gil used a Tory’s wealth against him. Only the rich could afford sidelights—little panes of glass on either side of the front door—that allowed a person to look out and the sunlight to flood in. With the end of the cat’s paw fitted neatly and a few gentle taps of the hammer, Gil broke away the glazing, lifted out the thick pane, reached inside, and threw the bolt.
As soon as he did, the wind caught the door and blew it out of his hand. He leapt to grab it before it banged against the stopper and woke the wife.
Then he and Big Jake stepped into the foyer. Gil closed the door and raised his hand—wait, listen. Nothing except the distant barking of the Airedales. Gil slid the bolt back into place. “Blunt and his dogs must come in by the back,” he whispered.
An oil lamp flickered on a side table. Gil took it and led the way.
The dining
“You’re my oldest friend and you say somethin’ like that?”
“You wouldn’t tell us about the gold when there was four of us. Now we’re just two, thanks to Loretta and her cunt friends lurin’ us into the militia. And I’m gettin’ my share. If the Bookworm lives, he gets his share, too.”
“You been sippin’ too much rum,” said Gil.
Big Jake brought the rum bottle to his lips and took another long drink. Then he said, “Let’s get the gold. We’ll worry about the rest later.”
And they hurried through the deserted streets, Broad Street to Beaver to New, which connected Beaver Street to Wall. The street lamps cast high flickering shadows. The Presbyterian Church stared down from Wall Street. And there, at the intersection of New Street and Fluten Barrack, was the house of John Blunt.
And there was John Blunt, a bloated old man in white stockings and disheveled wig, lurching down the street behind two big Airedales. The dogs were running about, stopping, snuffling, lifting their legs. And Blunt was singing between swallows from a silver flask. It sounded like “God Save the King.”
Another Tory, thought Gil, whose world had been righted.
One of the dogs made a few circles around a spot in the street and squatted.
John Blunt said to the other one, “What about you, Prince? Have a dump for your old master. Don’t want you whimperin’ to go out in the middle of the night or shittin’ on the rugs, now, do we?”
But Prince was ignoring Blunt. He was looking toward two shadows in a doorway.
“What do you see, boy?” Blunt peered in the same direction.
Gil grabbed Big Jake and pulled him back out of the light.
The dog glanced back at his master but held his ground.
Gil wrapped his hand around the cat’s paw and waited.
But dogs were distractable creatures, especially good ratters when they saw rats, and as the other dog finished his business, he must have seen one, because he jumped up, kicked his legs at his leavings, and went racing back up the street.
Blunt called to Prince, “Come on, boy! Your brother just found quarry.”
Prince looked again toward the shadows, then he turned and followed his master.
Gil waited a few moments, until he heard John Blunt cry, “A nest of ’em! Go get ’em, boys! A dirty nest of rebel rats!”
Above the wind came the sound of hunting dogs flushing prey. Somewhere in the next block a window opened, a man shouted, “Quiet out there!” Then the contents of a chamber pot splashed into the street.
Gil whispered to Big Jake. “Let’s go.”
“But the wife?”
“Her light’s just gone out.” Gil pointed up at the second story. “Likely she’s took to bed with a hair across her arse at a drinkin’ husband who loves his dogs more than he loves her. Come on.”
The door was no problem. As with almost every front door in New York, the rebels had stripped it of brass fixtures—knockers, handles, knobs—so the key assembly would not work. A bolt or chain would be the way to lock it.
So Gil used a Tory’s wealth against him. Only the rich could afford sidelights—little panes of glass on either side of the front door—that allowed a person to look out and the sunlight to flood in. With the end of the cat’s paw fitted neatly and a few gentle taps of the hammer, Gil broke away the glazing, lifted out the thick pane, reached inside, and threw the bolt.
As soon as he did, the wind caught the door and blew it out of his hand. He leapt to grab it before it banged against the stopper and woke the wife.
Then he and Big Jake stepped into the foyer. Gil closed the door and raised his hand—wait, listen. Nothing except the distant barking of the Airedales. Gil slid the bolt back into place. “Blunt and his dogs must come in by the back,” he whispered.
An oil lamp flickered on a side table. Gil took it and led the way.
The dining
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