“Not true, Mary,” he said in a soothing way, pulling her close. “Not true.”
Her arms dropped, and he could feel her soften. She pressed her hard breasts against his chest. He wanted to take her down to the river edge. And then he heard a voice. The door cracking open. Sarah.
“Mary? Are you out there, Mary? Come in at once, the tables are filthy with plates!”
Mary kissed him and touched him and then hurried back into Hughson’s, where Africa drummed steadily on gourds and tabletops.
The weather turned. He saw his first October in New York: the harbor sparkling, the air crisp and bright. He met Mary Burton one Monday evening and they made love on the slopes above the Collect. That night he told her his true name. She was not surprised. Early one Sunday morning two weeks later, when the sky was just brightening in Brooklyn, they met at the Battery and held hands while seated on a large stone and she talked about how she’d like to go to a right school and learn to read, even if it meant putting up with the preachers at Trinity.
“Tell me I can do it,” she said, as the breeze shook leaves from the trees above them and a four-masted ship turned in the harbor, bound for the East River quays.
“Of course you can do it, Mary,” he said. “I’ll loan you a book for starting. Just march into Trinity and say, ‘I want to read this book.’ Just don’t say ‘feck’ when you ask.”
“Feck off,” she said, then turned her head and laughed at herself.
Cormac was working with Mr. Partridge one Saturday noon on fifty large copies of legal advisories when he glanced out the windows. Mary Burton was standing in a doorway, staring into the shop. The light was so hard and bright (Cormac thought) that she must have been unable to see through the glass. She waited, as people teemed around her. Then a horse-drawn wagon came by, loaded with crates of dry goods, and when it passed, she was gone. She was trying to send him a message. He was sure of that. But she could not write a simple note. That night, he went back to Hughson’s on Stone Street.
The bar was packed, every table filled, and Mary Burton was moving around in the blue tobacco fog, taking orders, grim. She didn’t see him come in. The fiddler was fatter and playing more joyfully. Sarah came to Cormac.
“Are you here with the ten shillin’s?” she said.
“I can leave now if you like, Mrs. Hughson.”
“No, we’ll take your money one way or another.”
He eased past her, trying to move among three large Africans who were joking at the bar. The sound of singing and clomping feet grew louder. Suddenly Mary Burton grabbed his hand.
“I must talk wit’ you,” she said. “Tuesday night, on the north end of the Common.”
She turned away, gathering empty glasses, forcing passage to the bar. John Hughson started filling the glasses. He didn’t notice Cormac. Against the far wall, British soldiers were on their feet, arms on shoulders, loudly singing a marching song, as if challenging the Irish to fight. Mary threw them an ugly look, then grabbed a half-dozen full glasses and whirled back into the stomping crowd. John Hughson saw Cormac now. His face was different, more furrowed with care and seriousness.
“You’re back,” he said.
“Aye—in want of a glass of porter.”
“But it’s not the porter, is it? It’s not the porter that’s pulled you back at all.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He leaned forward.
“It’s a priest you’re after, isn’t it, lad?”
Cormac laughed.
“A priest?”
“An R.C.,” he said.
“You mean a Catholic priest?”
“Aye.”
He was so serious that Cormac didn’t want to disappoint him. He shrugged. Although he was curious about the presence of a secret Catholic priest. After all, if such a person did exist, and the British found him, he’d be hanged.
“No, I’m not looking for a priest, Mister Hughson. I’m not really what people would call a religious man.”
Hughson looked unconvinced.
“It’s all right to tell me, lad. If I’ve guessed correctly.”
“You’ve guessed wrong, Mister Hughson. With all due respect, sir. All I want is a glass of porter.”
Hughson filled a fresh glass and placed it before him. Cormac laid a piece of eight on the bar.
“Well,” Hughson said, smiling, “if you do remember what you came for, let me know.”
Cormac gave Hughson his back, sipping his porter while watching the hollering and dancing, the drunken British soldiers, the Africans pouring sweat and shouting secret words in their own languages, while Mary Burton moved among them all. Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed. Her hips seemed to churn beneath her muslin skirt. Her eyes flirted. She has something to tell me, he thought; when will she tell?
Then he heard the back door open and turned to see the new arrivals.
There stood Kongo.
51.
Behind him were two other Africans, both larger than Kongo, but it was clear that he was in charge. He was wearing a high-collared blue jacket, a coarse pale-blue workshirt, clean baggy trousers, and scuffed boots. It was the first time Cormac had seen him without manacles. Without being obvious, his eyes took in the entire room, the black faces and white, the fiddler, the smoke and food, Hughson and Sarah and Mary Burton. And, of course, Cormac O’Connor.
In his glance he told Cormac that he knew him, all right, but he didn’t know whether Cormac wanted that known. His nod was almost imperceptible. There was a still, frozen moment, everyone in the room sensing the possibility of danger. The Africans froze. The soldiers froze. The music paused and the only sound was an icy breathing. It was as if they expected constables or redcoats to barge in behind Kongo and his men. Then Kongo stepped forward, the sense of danger eased, and he moved to the bar, next to where Cormac was sipping his porter. The music resumed with a relieved burst, along with the stomping of the dancers.
“Cor-mac,” he whispered.
“Kon-go.”
He tapped a balled fist to his heart and then to Cormac’s chest. His friends nodded. Other blacks watched. The whites tried to look casual. Cormac laid some pieces of eight on the bar.
“No,” Kongo said, his voice insistent. “No.”
He pointed subtly at an African seated against the wall. Quaco. He came over. They talked softly, heads against ears. Quaco then spoke to Cormac in English, his voice very low.
“Kongo says you gave him drink when he thirsted,” Quaco said. “Now he must give you water in return.”
“All right.”
Hughson looked annoyed because Kongo asked for water.
“How can I get rich if he drinks water—and you join him?”
“He’ll probably pay you for it.”
“Aye, and then tell all these other buggers what a cheap bastard I am.”
He drew three porters and filled two glasses from a water jug. Kongo took one glass, Cormac the other. The African lifted his glass as if in a toast, then drained it. Cormac did the same. Kongo said a word. Cormac repeated it, without knowing its meaning. He could feel Hughson watching them, and others too. Kongo handed mugs of porter to Quaco and his men, one of whom now seemed familiar to Cormac from the dark hold of the ship. They sipped. Kongo gazed around the room again.
“Where do you know him from?” Hughson said. “You serve in Parliament together?”
“No,” Cormac said. “We shipped together.”
Then another black man came over and bowed his head to Kongo, who squeezed his hand. Then another, and still one more. They all said words that Kongo accepted as if they were gifts. Quaco saw Cormac watching.
“They know he has come for them,” he said. “They have wait a long time.”
“They waited for him? How could they know he was on the Fury?”
“They just know he is to come. It is foretold.”
“Who is he?”
Quaco sipped his porter.
“Babalawo.”
A word Cormac didn’t know. An African word.
Babalawo.