have liked nothing better than to have been rid of him earlier when they were moored at the dock, but there were too many people around to chance it then. This was the best way. He helped Wu get a leg over the taffrail and begin his descent. Thumbless Wu—he used to run the wealthiest and most luxurious gambling house in Canton, but O’Toole had never known him by any other name—used his first two fingers to grip the lines of the rope ladder. He’d always thought the bastard was amazing, even when he owed him most and hated him most. Wu used his forefingers as if they were the thumbs it was said he’d lost at the age of eight, as a result of a gambling debt with a Hakka pirate.
The Irishman turned and saw no one but the man on watch. “Ahoy, Tompkins!” he hailed. “I’m going ashore.”
Tompkins turned and started for him. “Give you a hand, Captain?”
“Don’t need it. Get back to your post.”
This wasn’t the navy and O’Toole had never enforced military rules, though he knew Tammy Tompkins had been a navy man before he fetched up in Canton. An insolent bastard nonetheless. He’d pushed too far a time or two and O’Toole had to give him extra watches, even dock his pay on occasion. Probably shouldn’t have picked Tompkins as one of his remaining crew, but when it came to handling the lines, the man was as skilled as any tar aboard. When you were going to tend a ship this size with a crew of three, they had to be the best available. Besides, he liked the tar’s whistling.
Tompkins raised a hand in compliance, turned around, and went back to his place in the bow, whistling “Old Zip Coon.”
O’Toole climbed down to the gig. Thumbless Wu was already huddled in the stern, looking, if it were possible, still more miserable. “Do us a favor,” O’Toole said as he picked up the oars. “If you’re going to puke, do it over the side.”
Chapter Six
New York City,
Wall Street, 7 P.M.
T HE PINEAPPLE FINIALS had been set atop posts either side of the gate in front of Bastard Devrey’s residence in 1706 when it was built. The cobbled path that led to the graceful three-story red-brick house dated from the same period. Very little around the house was the same.
Will Devrey, Bastard’s great-grandfather and the founder of Devrey Shipping, was a man of his time. He’d built his house a few steps from the East River docks and the Wall Street slave market that were the foundation of his fortune, installed his wife and children on the upper two floors, and conducted business at ground level. In those days the building across the road was the City Hall, later to be the seat of the American government and the place where George Washington was inaugurated the nation’s first president. That venerable edifice had gone to ruin when Congress decamped first for Philadelphia, then for its present home on the drained swamp they called the Federal District. The city tore down the old Federal Building two years past, and the lot housed two brand-new countinghouses now. New Yorkers were short on sentiment when it came to property.
The old Court District for instance, on lower Broadway near Bowling Green. Once it had been the most fashionable part of the city. It was still a charming place to live, but it was surrounded by the clogged lanes and snaking streets of the narrow southern tip of the island. These days the great merchant princes had built themselves palaces in the far north of the town. Jacob Astor’s mansion set the standard. It stood in rural splendor on Broadway between Barclay and Vesey streets, and his gardens backed up on Hudson’s River. His countinghouse on Little Dock Street, on the other hand, was in the thick of the downtown pandemonium.
New Yorkers with a claim to elegance and social standing no longer lived on Wall Street. And these days only mechanics—craftsmen and shopkeepers and the like—lived above their businesses. Bastard no longer had his countinghouse on the ground floor,
The Irishman turned and saw no one but the man on watch. “Ahoy, Tompkins!” he hailed. “I’m going ashore.”
Tompkins turned and started for him. “Give you a hand, Captain?”
“Don’t need it. Get back to your post.”
This wasn’t the navy and O’Toole had never enforced military rules, though he knew Tammy Tompkins had been a navy man before he fetched up in Canton. An insolent bastard nonetheless. He’d pushed too far a time or two and O’Toole had to give him extra watches, even dock his pay on occasion. Probably shouldn’t have picked Tompkins as one of his remaining crew, but when it came to handling the lines, the man was as skilled as any tar aboard. When you were going to tend a ship this size with a crew of three, they had to be the best available. Besides, he liked the tar’s whistling.
Tompkins raised a hand in compliance, turned around, and went back to his place in the bow, whistling “Old Zip Coon.”
O’Toole climbed down to the gig. Thumbless Wu was already huddled in the stern, looking, if it were possible, still more miserable. “Do us a favor,” O’Toole said as he picked up the oars. “If you’re going to puke, do it over the side.”
Chapter Six
New York City,
Wall Street, 7 P.M.
T HE PINEAPPLE FINIALS had been set atop posts either side of the gate in front of Bastard Devrey’s residence in 1706 when it was built. The cobbled path that led to the graceful three-story red-brick house dated from the same period. Very little around the house was the same.
Will Devrey, Bastard’s great-grandfather and the founder of Devrey Shipping, was a man of his time. He’d built his house a few steps from the East River docks and the Wall Street slave market that were the foundation of his fortune, installed his wife and children on the upper two floors, and conducted business at ground level. In those days the building across the road was the City Hall, later to be the seat of the American government and the place where George Washington was inaugurated the nation’s first president. That venerable edifice had gone to ruin when Congress decamped first for Philadelphia, then for its present home on the drained swamp they called the Federal District. The city tore down the old Federal Building two years past, and the lot housed two brand-new countinghouses now. New Yorkers were short on sentiment when it came to property.
The old Court District for instance, on lower Broadway near Bowling Green. Once it had been the most fashionable part of the city. It was still a charming place to live, but it was surrounded by the clogged lanes and snaking streets of the narrow southern tip of the island. These days the great merchant princes had built themselves palaces in the far north of the town. Jacob Astor’s mansion set the standard. It stood in rural splendor on Broadway between Barclay and Vesey streets, and his gardens backed up on Hudson’s River. His countinghouse on Little Dock Street, on the other hand, was in the thick of the downtown pandemonium.
New Yorkers with a claim to elegance and social standing no longer lived on Wall Street. And these days only mechanics—craftsmen and shopkeepers and the like—lived above their businesses. Bastard no longer had his countinghouse on the ground floor,
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