The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor

       Chapter Twelve

      On the night of Wednesday, I heard the child crying again. In the morning, I mentioned it to Josiah, the older of the two manservants. It must be one of the neighbour’s infants in the slave quarters, he said – he would investigate and have the nuisance abated. I said he should not trouble himself; it did not matter in the least.

      The administration had found me an apartment to use as an office in a house it leased at the eastern end of Broad Street, not far from the City Hall. It was a pokey chamber up two pairs of stairs. My first caller was already waiting for me – a clergyman from Connecticut whom the rebels had turned out of his parsonage and parish. His crime had been to preach a sermon whose text had been Luke Chapter 20, verse 25. ‘And he said unto them, Render therefore unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s, and unto God the things which be God’s.’ Caesar in this case was intended to be taken as George III rather than Congress. The poor man had lost all he owned, including a farm he had inherited from an uncle.

      Shortly before dinnertime, Townley swept into the room. ‘Why, sir,’ he said without any preamble, ‘I have just this moment heard from the Major and I clapped on my hat at once and said to myself I should give myself the pleasure of bringing the news to you directly.’

      I rose to my feet. ‘What news? A battle?’

      ‘Nothing of that nature. It’s the negro – Virgil. He came before the court this morning and they found him guilty of Pickett’s murder. Marryot says the fellow is to hang tomorrow morning. Sir Henry Clinton has confirmed the sentence. They say the Commander-in-Chief wishes to make an example of this man to deter other slaves.’

      ‘Is justice always so swift in New York?’

      Townley shrugged. ‘Military courts have this to be said for them, at least: they do not drag their heels. Besides, at this time especially, when the city is awash with rumours about rebel incendiarists within our lines, it does no harm to show that we have the city firmly in our control. Will you come, sir?’

      ‘What? To the hanging?’

      ‘Of course – I am obliged to attend for the city and I thought it might interest you to accompany me. It’s as well to know how these things are done. Matters have arranged themselves very neatly. It’s at eight o’clock, and they will give us breakfast afterwards. They keep a good table.’ Townley took out his watch. ‘Talking of which, my dear sir, I believe it is time to dine.’

      After dining with Townley, I had walked back towards my office, skirting the fringe of Canvas Town. It was very hot and I did not hurry. I was not yet sure of my way, and by chance I found myself passing Van Cortlandt’s Sugar House.

      I turned into Trinity churchyard. The air seemed a little cooler here. Despite its proximity to the prison, the grassy enclosure was used as a place of resort, and at least a score of people were strolling among the gravestones. Indeed, it was more like a pleasure garden than a churchyard, with a broad, gravelled walk lined with benches, hooks for lanterns on the trees and even a platform for an orchestra amid the ruins. As I came up to the church, a familiar figure ambled round the corner of the tower at the west end.

      ‘Judge!’ I uncovered and bowed. ‘How do you do, sir? It is unconscionably hot, is it not?’

      Wintour blinked up at me. ‘Ah – Mr Savill. Your servant, sir. You took me by surprise.’

      ‘Do you come here to take the air?’

      ‘No. In point of fact, I am looking for my goat.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I do not quite—’

      ‘My milch goat. It is the most charming animal imaginable. Mrs Wintour has a particular taste for its milk. Josiah tethered it here on Monday morning. Just there, sir, attached to those railings you see by the path. He swears he only turned his back for a moment, but in that moment it vanished.’

      ‘I am sorry to hear it, sir.’ I felt a memory shifting like shingle in the depths of my mind.

      ‘It is our own family burying ground, too. Which makes the theft somehow worse, as though the perpetrator had committed a sort of burglary. My poor brother is here, you see, and that is why Josiah brought the goat in the first place.’ Mr Wintour saw the lack of comprehension on my face and smiled at me. ‘I beg your pardon, sir – I have presented you with an unnecessary enigma.’

      ‘Your brother is buried here?’

      ‘Just so. He was as steadfast as any man in his attachment to the Crown.’ The old man’s face crumpled for a moment. ‘Alas, even as a boy, he was impetuous, and liable to speak his mind without counting the likely cost of it. That was his undoing. The rebels killed him, you know, whatever they say.’

      ‘Did he die in the fighting, sir?’ I asked.

      ‘No, sir, he did not.’

      While the Judge was talking, he drifted closer to the railings and stared at the memorials they enclosed. I followed him. One of the inscriptions had been more recently cut than the others:

       Erected in Memory

       of

       Francis de Lancey Wintour, D.D., M.A.

       Fellow of King’s College, New York

       Son of William Wintour, Esqre

       Died 21 June 1776

       Aged 57 years

      ‘When the rebels occupied this city at the start of the war,’ Wintour said, ‘they inflamed the Republican riff-raff and sought out all the prominent Tories they could find. Age and infirmity was no barrier to them. My poor brother Francis spoke his mind to the Whigs, just as he had done before the war. He urged them to lay down their arms and return to their natural allegiance.’ Wintour gripped one of the spikes of the railings and turned aside. ‘And then,’ he continued in a lower voice, ‘the mob came to his house, and broke down the door, and dragged him in his nightshirt into the street. He cried out, “God bless King George.” They placed him on a rail and paraded him through the streets with loud huzzas. Yes, and there were soldiers there too, and city militia men who had dined at my own table, though afterwards they denied it. They were laughing, sir – can you credit it? They were laughing while they persecuted an old, infirm scholar in the name of what they call liberty and the rights of man.’

      I took Mr Wintour’s arm. ‘My dear sir – pray, you must not distress yourself any more. Let us walk home.’

      ‘No.’ He shook off my hand. ‘No, sir – it is better you should know all. They paraded my unhappy brother outside General Washington’s windows, and that gallant officer raised his hat to them and returned their huzzas. They had it in mind to plunge poor Francis in the Fresh Water Pond and then to run him out of the city. But God was merciful to my brother and permitted death to supervene. He suffered a rush of blood to the head and he died instantly of an apoplexy.’