Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

“And I’m sure it was,” Marc replied. Butprotection from what? Was it merely the heinous nature of Dick’s“transgression” that might compromise his wards and their future,or was it the possibility that any attempt on his part to defendhis reputation might prompt Tammany Hall to put their very lives injeopardy?

“But I do need to know what he did,” Brodiesaid, looking directly at Marc. “Whatever it turns out to be.”

It was the next day, when they were back onthe canal proper, that Marc said to Brodie, “You are aware, aren’tyou, of the nature of the charges levelled against your uncle bythe rumour-mongers and bigots of Toronto?”

Brodie nodded, but said nothing.

“Is it conceivable that the fact that yourfather and uncle lived so closely together in that house for somany years, and accompanied you and Celia on outings and holidays -could that behaviour have given rise to rumours and falseaccusations, which your uncle’s enemies were able to exploit tobring him down?”

At first Brodie did not answer. Finally hesaid, “All I know for sure is that Celia and I had two fathers.Both of them adored us. In all the years I lived with them, I neversaw anything I shouldn’t have.” Then he added, “Love can’t becounted a sin, can it?”

“If it is,” Marc said, “we’re all lost.”

“Now that I’ve told you my life story,” Brodiesaid once they were safely aboard the Constitution atAlbany, “it’s time for a little reciprocity.”

So Marc told him a few details of his ownunusual upbringing on Jabez Edwards’ estate in Kent, his abortivefling with the law at the Inns of Court in London, his subsequentstint at the Royal Military School in Sandhurst, and some of hisexploits since his arrival in Toronto in May of 1835. Brodienaturally seized upon Marc’s involvement in putting down therebellion in Quebec, though the strange account of how Marcaccidentally found his real mother in Toronto was equallycompelling.

“She now lives in New York,” Marc said. “I’mhoping we’ll have time to pay her a visit.”

“So you do have a contact in the city?”

“More than one,” Marc smiled. “A young womanwhose hand I once thought to ask in marriage is also there: ElizaDewart-Smythe.”

“Ah, I see. And will I get to meet her,too?”

“Not likely. She and her uncle operate awine-importing business. Eliza and Uncle Sebastian moved to NewYork two years ago to set up an American branch of the familyenterprise. I haven’t heard from her since.”

“So what is the plan, Marc? Do we seek outsome of the families I know of through my days at prep school, ordo we go directly for the jugular?”

“First thing tomorrow morning, we show up onthe doorstep of Brenner and Tallman.”

“I suspect they’ll be in for quite asurprise.”

“That’s my hope,” Marc smiled.

***

There was still a quarter-hour of sunlight left whenMarc and Brodie found themselves in a taxicab rumbling up CatherineStreet from the wharf where the Constitution had docked.Brodie had given the driver, a surly fellow with a strange accent,explicit instructions regarding their route. When Catherine Streetended at the Bowery, they wheeled east onto Chatham and then ParkRow, which took them past the magnificent City Hall and itsspacious grounds. Reaching Broadway, they swung north, passed CityHall again, and then trotted down what had to be one of the greatthoroughfares in the world. Churches with soaring steeples andGothic pretensions, four-storied public buildings, colonnaded andbalconied hotels, majestic theatres, and innumerable shops withglass windows thick with the baubles and bric-à-brac prized by theprosperous. They crossed another broad avenue, Canal Street, andtwo blocks later turned east again.

“That’s where we used to live,” Brodie cried.“That gabled place – on the corner of Broome and Mercer.”

Marc sat back and let Brodie have the nextfew minutes to himself. He realized what kind of mixed andconflictive feelings that this intelligent young man must beexperiencing at his return to the place that would always – to somedegree – be home. He sincerely hoped that whatever indiscretionDick had been guilty of, it was one that Brodie could bear to face.At the same time, Marc was pretty sure that it was connected toDick’s death. Unmasking those who had used Reuben Epp as their pawnwas certain to expose an aspect of Dougherty that no-one whoadmired him was eager to see.

The carriage continued on down Broome Streetto Hudson Street, where they took several more abrupt turns.

“This is the Greenwich area,” Brodiesaid.

What they saw on either side of them was madeeven more disturbing by the ghostly, gray haze of the dying day.Here before them, in the charred remains of tenements and workers’homes, were the visible effects of the “great fire.” On a Sundayevening, with church bells tolling in the air all around them,these streets seemed to be possessed by the wandering and the lost.Men and women draped in rags drifted along the broken walkways,while others poked at nearby mounds of rubble for anything theycould sell or pawn. Filthy children, bone-thin and hobbled byrickets, romped about them with the random glee of childreneverywhere – oblivious for a few fleeting moments of their hungeror those horrors that might lie ahead. A block farther up, thetenements unscarred by fire looked as forlorn and uninhabitable asthey did in central London.

“Has it always been like this?” Marcsaid.

“Not really. This was a boomtown once.Workers flocked here to help build ships or man the factories orconstruct the houses required to meet the needs of three hundredthousand people.”

“So the bank panic and the subsequent firehave done this?”

“Yes. But the Council did their share aswell. They had refused to build a safe water supply or keep thestreets properly paved, and the fire brigades they enlisted werebusy undercutting their rivals. So, when the fire struck, theinferno it unleashed had to be fought with buckets.”

“But the wealth that must have been generated- ”

“Siphoned off by Tammany, and when they gotkicked out, by the Whigs.”

“Will the city be revived?”

Brodie smiled. “Oh, yes. America is an ideathat cannot be stopped – by others or by its own folly.”

The cab pulled up in front of a small,discreet hotel, The Houston.

“We’re here,” Brodie said.

***

Brenner and Tallman, Attorneys-at-Law , waslocated on Mulberry Street, not far from the infamous Five Pointsdistrict. Here the three-storey brick edifices of Broadway and itscross-streets gave way to single-storey frame-and-brick buildingsset haphazardly along the poorly-paved and narrow street. Most wereshops and businesses – not all of them of a legitimate or savourycharacter. Saloons, liquor outlets, and pawnbrokers were wedged inamongst greengrocers, dubious eateries, and ramshackle cottageswhere gaudily draped “ladies” rocked listlessly after a busynight’s trade. At Cross Street, Marc was nearly bowled over by anabsconding pig and the urchins pursuing it. The roadway andboardwalks were teeming with ordinary, bustling, hustling NewYorkers. Hawkers, barrow-men, carters, early-morning shoppers,liberated children, spooked horses, loose chickens – the din oftheir cries shook the foul, urban air and proclaimed to anydoubting stranger: we are here and here we are!

“This is an odd place to hang out a lawyer’sshingle,” Marc said as they stepped onto the wooden stoop beforeBrenner and Tallman.

“Close to your clientele,” Brodie said,tugging the bell-pull.

They were immediately shown into the innerchamber by a stout secretary with an eye for a paying customer.Both lawyers, sharing a single office with twin desks facing eachother, rose as one to greet them. They were smiling.