Gorton led him through a winding passageway crammed with people. The Sunday market was as busy as any other day. Hawkers shouted out the prices of their wares, and the air was thick with smoke from charcoal braziers and grilling meat. It was midafternoon, and the sun was still high in the sky. The shopkeepers had strung canopies made of sail canvas and colored silk over the passageways, so that the light was filtered into a patchwork of colors, and the market became a labyrinth. Justy’s nostrils twitched at the scent of perfumes and spices; they flared at the sharp stink of new leather. He smelled dried fish, fresh flowers, raw spirit, and wools still damp with dye. His ear caught a half-dozen languages that he knew, and several he had never heard before. He kept his eyes on the back of Gorton’s sunburned neck as the watchman led him through the press of people, wondering how a man so recently arrived in the city knew his way around Canvas Town so well.
Gorton stopped. He shrugged his knapsack off his shoulder. “This is the place.”
The shop was little more than a large cupboard, the doors of which had been flung wide open to display hundreds of pairs of colored leather slippers. They were arranged in rows on the inside of the doors and the cupboard itself, making a kaleidoscope of color twelve feet high and ten feet wide. It was a moment before Justy noticed an old man squatting in the corner of the tiny shop. He wore a grubby white robe and a battered black hat that looked like an upside-down flowerpot perched on the back of his head. A stringy beard curled like a wisp from his chin. His gnarled brown fingers flicked at a string of beads, his watery eyes fixed on Justy’s face.
“His name’s Khaled,” Gorton said. “I asked around earlier, and everyone says he’s the only man in the city makes stamps like these.” He rummaged in the knapsack and handed Justy a pair of small red shoes. They were well used and slightly damp, and the leather was thin on the ball and heel of the soles, but they were of high quality. The uppers were supple and the dye had not run, and the shoes were lined with soft calfskin. Justy pictured the girl’s delicate feet, and her round, manicured toenails. “So you found them in the mud in the alley after all?”
“Got lucky.”
“They seem very clean.”
“Gave ’em a quick bougie. Reckoned Mister Khaled here might not recognize them, else.”
Justy let it go. He knelt and held out the slippers to the old man. “Did you make these?”
The shopkeeper sniffed them, and ran his finger along the inseams of the heel and the sole. He twisted the top of the upper inside out and showed a blue smudge on the leather. Then he did the same with a shoe plucked from the display. It showed a small blue K. He nodded and grinned, stubs of stained teeth like a shipwreck.
Justy showed Gorton. “What do you think? Is it the same mark?”
Gorton peered at the smudge, then looked at the new shoe.
“I wouldn’t stake my cockles on it, but the workmanship’s comparable.”
Justy turned back to the old man. “Who did you make these for?”
The shopkeeper shrugged. He made a wide gesture with his hand.
“Do you understand me?” Justy asked.
The shopkeeper shook his head. Gorton snorted. “He kens well enough, I think.”
“Perhaps. Do you have the sketch with you?”
Gorton dug in his knapsack and took out a leather tube. He tapped out a sheet of vellum from it, unrolled it, and handed it to Justy.
It was no death mask. The artist had worked quickly and taken some license, shading the sketch here and there to give the impression of life and health. The girl’s eyes were closed, but her lashes seemed to quiver on the page. Her cheeks were full, and her lips were slightly parted, as though she was sleeping, and had just taken a breath.
“Do you know her?” Justy showed the shopkeeper the picture. The change in him was slight, but Justy caught the hesitation, the way he shrank into himself, as though Justy had pulled a knife.
“You know who she is, don’t you?” Justy said.
The old man shook his head. He began flicking through the string of beads.
“Stop that,” Gorton barked. “The Marshal asked you a question.”
“That’s all right, Mister Gorton.” Justy squatted. He held the sketch closer. “Can you tell me her name?”
The shopkeeper shook his head for a third time. He opened his mouth, showing them the wreckage of his teeth. It was a moment before Justy realized what the old man was telling him. He could not speak English. He could not speak at all. It had happened some time ago, judging by the appalling scarring, but someone had cut out his tongue.
“He is a Sufi. A mystic.”
The man’s voice had the bass rumble of a distant landslide. He was a black wedge in the slot of blue sky between the awnings. Justy squinted and saw a dark-skinned, dark-eyed man in homespun, mud-colored breeches and a cheap linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal a scrawl of runic tattoos. His face was covered in a wild thicket of hair. Two other men stood behind him, tall, loose-limbed, and scrawny, with the still patience and blank eyes of former slaves. One’s face was scarred with tribal tattoos. The other looked as though someone had torn at his mouth and his forehead with a fork. Their shirts were smeared with blood.
Justy stood up. “I thought mystics were supposed to dwell in caves and live on charity.”
A wall of strong, white teeth appeared in the tangle of the man’s beard. “Charity? In this town?” He laughed. His men stared.
The shopkeeper sat cross-legged on the floor of his tiny shop, wedged into the corner, his blank, rheumy eyes watching and not watching at the same time.
“How did he lose his tongue?” Justy asked.
“Who knows? Perhaps he cut it out himself.” The man took a step forward. Justy forced himself to stay still.
“What do you want here, Marshal Flanagan?”
Justy felt as though he had been slapped. “You’ll step back now, cully, if you don’t want me to burn that goddamned muzzle of yours to the roots.”
Silence. The street around them had emptied. There was only the big, bearded man and his sidekicks, and the old shopkeeper with his empty eyes.
The big man stepped back. He held his hands in the air. “Allah would not be pleased if I allowed my beard to be trimmed, whether by a knife or by fire.”
Justy felt his stomach unwind. “And the Mayor would not be pleased if I started a blaze in the middle of Canvas Town.”
“The Mayor?” The man snorted. “I think he’d be pleased to come up here and fire Canvas Town himself. I think he’d like to burn every free Negro in the city off the island of Manhattan.”
Justy had to stop himself from nodding. Edward Livingstone was a strong supporter of immigration, but only on the condition that the immigrants were white. And Protestant.
“What’s your name?” Justy asked.
“I am called Zaeim.”
“You’re a fishmonger?”
“I am.”
“And how long have you been in New York?”
The man shrugged. “Years now. I have lost count.”
Justy showed him the sketch. “Do you know her?”
The man cocked his head on one side. “Is she dead?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Her eyes are closed.”
“Perhaps she’s asleep.”
The man’s eyes flicked up. There was a flash of anger, and then they flattened again. “A lawman does not inquire about a sleeping girl.”
“I’ll ask you again. Do you know her?”
The man shook his head. “I do not.”
Justy handed the sketch to Gorton. “Zaeim. That’s an unusual name. Is it Moorish?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“The girl may have been Moorish. I want to speak to people in that community.”
“Why?”
“That’s my business. New York’s business.”
The man laughed. “New York’s business. That’s good, Irishman. Very well. I am Moorish, but this girl is not one of us. Now you can go back to your white hall and make your report.”
It was Justy’s turn to step forward. “Your people have lived here quietly for more than ten years, Mister Zaeim, but if I return to Federal Hall with nothing to say, that will end. Word will get out, as it always does, and the next time you come face-to-face with an Irishman, he will be at the head of a mob, howling for your blood and intent on burning your miserable tents to the ground. Now take me to someone who speaks for your people. Preferably someone who doesn’t smell quite so strongly of fish.”
The beard bristled, and the line of even, white teeth appeared again.
“Very well,” the man said. “Follow me.”
Justy prided himself on his sense of direction. As he had followed Gorton through the market, he had the general sense that he was heading slightly downhill, towards the Hudson River. But now, with Zaeim leading the way, he became almost instantly lost. The big, bearded man moved fast through the crowd, turning left and right until their way was barred by a row of canvas-draped shacks. They were unusually high, almost double the height of the other dwellings, but before Justy could look at them closely, Zaeim pushed through a doorway that was little more than a crude tear in a sheet of worn sailcloth.
One moment Justy was walking through a dark, narrow tunnel, with his head bent and the musty smell of damp burlap in his nose. The next he was blinking in the sunlight. The chaos of Canvas Town was gone. In its place was a quiet, open courtyard, bordered by low, smooth-walled buildings with tiled roofs, as sturdy and well built as anything in the First Ward.
Zaeim had disappeared. His men had not followed them. Justy and Gorton were alone.
There was an impression of space and light. Water tinkled and gurgled in a fountain in the center of the courtyard, which was shaded by the shivering, silvery leaves of a buttonwood tree.
For a moment, Justy relaxed. And then he saw Gorton looking up at the rooftops.
“We’re like fish in a fucking barrel in here,” he muttered, turning in a tight circle.
Something plucked at Justy’s insides, and he started towards the entrance they had come through. The rough hessian curtain screening the doorway was twitched aside, and one of Zaeim’s men appeared, a club in his hand. The sunlight glistened on the sweat that beaded on the ridges of the scars that ringed his mouth and made a rough curve across his forehead. Justy tried to think what might have caused that kind of scarring, and when the man scratched at his ragged beard, he remembered an illustrated pamphlet on agricultural labor that he had read in a coffee house. It had included a drawing of slaves working in a strawberry patch. To stop the slaves running away, they were chained. And to stop them eating the fruit, they were muzzled.
Justy was suddenly very aware of the folding knife that he kept tucked in the top of his right boot. He eased himself slowly back towards Gorton until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. The man in the doorway stood still, watching them.
“He will not let you pass. Not without my instruction.”
They spun around. Zaeim was striding towards them from one of the buildings. He was no longer dressed in his workman’s clothes, but in a long, white robe. Instead of boots, he had sandals on his feet, and while his beard still looked like a thorn bush, his hair was wet and slicked back neatly from his forehead, and a small, white cap was perched on the top of his head.
Gorton’s hand was a blur. A long, curved blade flashed in the sunlight. He took a half step towards Zaeim. “You’d better get to instructing, then. Lest you want me to fill yon pretty fountain with your claret.”
Zaeim stopped. “Soft, Mister Gorton. I am unarmed.”
Gorton scowled. “How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you, Jeremiah. Where you live, how long you have been here, what you do, and what you have done. Which is why I know that you know what this is.” He held out a white rod, about two feet long, tipped with what looked like horsehair. “And what it means.”
“What is it?” Justy asked.
Gorton kept his eyes on Zaeim. “It’s a sign of office. It means he’s the gaffer here.”
“You are fortunate to have such a sharp and knowledgeable fellow by your side, Marshal.” Zaeim’s teeth gleamed. “I am indeed the gaffer, as he says.”
“So you are Umar Salam?” Justy asked.
Zaeim bowed his head.
“And Zaeim?”
“Zaeim is my people’s word for leader. That is what I am. But Umar is who I am.”
“Why not say so before?”
“Because I do not wish to attract attention, either to myself or to my people. You are a Catholic, Marshal, so you have some sense of what it means to live and worship in a way that people of other religions find objectionable.”
Justy thought about the folder full of anti-Catholic tracts in his desk. “Stow the chive, Jeremiah,” he said.
Gorton hesitated.
“If he wanted us backed, it’d be done by now. Put it away.”
Gorton slipped the blade into the long sheath on his belt.
“Thank you.” Umar spread his arms wide. His teeth gleamed. “Welcome to Mimo.”
“Mimo?”
“It has several meanings. Property. And sanctuary.”
It took only a few minutes for him to show them around the compound, a collection of a dozen dun-colored buildings of various sizes, all surrounded by the high wall that separated the community from Canvas Town and the rest of the city. The place was spotless, and deserted. It was an island of quiet in the middle of the bustling riot of New York. The windows of the buildings were curtained, but he caught a glimpse inside one, and saw a small, neat room, with blankets and several low cots stacked neatly against one wall.
“Where is everyone?” Justy asked.
“Working. We are almost completely self-sufficient here. We fish the sea, we farm the meadow, we make clothes, and sell them in the markets.”
“And who are your people?”
“People of the Faith. Anyone who believes or wishes to learn is welcome, wherever they have come from.”
“I’ve heard you came up from the Carolinas.”
Umar’s beard bristled. “Do you intend to send us back?”
“I’m not a slave catcher.”
Umar had stopped beside a pile of what looked like sections of reed fencing, stacked up against a half-built wall. He used his horsehair switch to point at a large, square hut with a steep roof. “This is our kitchen. We cook communal meals here. The refectory is on the other side.”
A long, low, barrack-like building ran along what Justy reckoned was the north wall of the compound. It had just a single door. A figure in a light blue robe appeared in the doorway, and then was gone.
“What’s in there?”
“That is where we make the garments we sell. The cloth comes from India. We buy it by the bale, and fashion it into clothes and shawls.”
“May I see?”
“Of course.”
Inside was a single room containing several long tables, with benches on either side. Bales of cloth were stacked up against one wall. Light streamed in through long, narrow windows close to the ceiling. A dozen women were sitting around the tables, working on pieces of cloth. They all wore robes of different colors, and when Justy and Umar entered the room, they pulled the edges of the cloth to cover their heads and faces.
“Why do they do that?”
“It is our religion. The Prophet, peace be upon him, said our women must cover themselves in the presence of men who are not of their family.”
There was a small cart loaded with neat stacks of shawls beside the door. Justy smoothed his hand over the cloth. “The girl in the picture I showed you was wearing a robe like this.”
Umar shrugged. “We sell a great many of such things.”
“She had drawings on her hands. Tattoos.”
“Like the ones on Mister Gorton’s arms and chest?”
Gorton smirked.
“How do you know so much?” Justy demanded.
Umar flicked at a fly. “You have your spies around the city, Marshal. I have mine.”
“To what end?”
Umar sighed. “Do I really need to explain this to you, an Irishman, whose people are fenced into the sinkholes of New York, to drown and freeze and sweat to death with yellow fever? Like you, we worship God in a way that these people believe is unnatural. They call you Catholics devil-worshipers, but they tolerate your presence because you are white. Imagine what they would think of us, Negroes who follow the Qu’ran, eat only with our left hands, and cover our women. They would think us Satan incarnate. And they would treat us accordingly.”
“Not all the leaders of the city think that way. There are many who believe in the principles that this country was founded on. They will defend your right to worship as you please.”
“Will they?” Umar leaned on the doorframe. “They may believe we have those rights, despite the color of our skin, but will they fight for us? I doubt it. So I have to protect my people in a different way. I send my people into the city, to learn things about those who would threaten us, and I use that information when I need to.”
“There are that many of you?”
“We are not so many. But we have been here a long time now, living in the shadows. And our number is growing. Our dark skins allow us to move about the city unseen, to mix with the servants and slaves who make this city work, and who know everything that goes on. No one notices another Negro, so long as he stays in his place. And everyone talks. We simply listen.”
The women had stopped working and were watching them, twelve pairs of eyes, swathed in colored wool.
“Why did you even let us in here?” Justy asked.
“Because I have heard about you, Marshal. You are a tenacious man. When I heard you had shown an interest in our community, I knew you would not stop until you had gained entry to this place. As you said yourself, better that you come invited than in the van of a mob.”
“And so you can show me what you want me to see.”
“I have nothing to hide, I assure you.”
“So what’s in there?” Justy pointed to a door on the other side of the room.
“Just storage.” Umar pulled the door open. There was a tiny room, piled high with bales of cloth. A cloying smell of incense was in the air. “We received a shipment, two days ago.” He closed the door. “Is there anything else I can show you?”
The man with the muzzle scars led them back through the market to a small clearing flanked by a number of tiny stalls selling food and drink. And then he disappeared into the crowd.
Gorton held up two fingers to the owner of a coffee stall and sat down, chewing a nail.
“So, what did you make of that?” Justy asked.
“Big place.”
“Right enough. You could fit a hundred folk in there. I’d like to know how the hell he managed to build it without anyone knowing.”
“He’s probably been at it for years, slow and sure.”
“Aye, but a place that size? How do you keep something like that quiet?”
Gorton shrugged. “Like he said. No one pays much heed to what goes on in Canvas Town. Least of all to a bunch of blacks.”
The shopkeeper arrived with the coffee. He poured it into tiny cups from a long-spouted pot, and placed a plate of sweetmeats dusted with powdered sugar on the table. The coffee smelled strong, and was musty with dark spice. It was surprisingly sweet.
Gorton smiled at the expression on Justy’s face. “It’s Arabic. They like it so your teeth ache.”
“Your file said you spent some time in North Africa.”
“I saw plenty like your man Umar there. Petty chiefs of small tribes. Two camels and a dozen followers, most of ’em.”
“This one seems a little more than that.”
Gorton nodded, thoughtfully. “He do, don’t he?” He bit into one of the pastries.
“You were in Gibraltar, too, I saw. What was it like there?”
Gorton grinned. “It was rum. Good food. Good weather. Good people, too. You get all sorts in Gib. Gyppos, Frogs, Spaniards, darkies, the lot. I liked it.”
“So why did you leave?”
The watchman considered Justy for a moment before answering. “I was drummed out.”
“Your file says you have an honorable discharge.”
“I do, on paper. But I was drummed out, just the same.”
“You’ll have to explain.”
Gorton popped another sweetmeat into his mouth and chewed, his sharp chin moving in a small, tight circle. “I had a fight with my sergeant major in Gib. Battered him with a pick helve after I caught him flogging rifles to a gyppo trader. My lieutenant took my part in the inquiry, but I found out later that the captain was in on the scheme. The lieutenant got a promotion, a commission on a ship of the line. I got the shaft. The captain gave me a choice: transport back to Blighty for a five-year stretch in Pompey nick for assault, or a clean ticket out of the Corps. I didn’t reckon I’d even make it back to the barracks, knowing what I did about what they were up to, so I took the discharge and marched straight down to the port. Took a billet on the first ship out. Happens it was sailing to Savannah and then up to here.”
He sipped his coffee.
“Why are you telling me this?” Justy asked.
“You asked.” He shrugged. “Truth is, I mean to make a place for myself here, and like that cove Umar says, you’re not the type of man leaves stones unturned. I reckon if you checked on me proper, you’d find out eventually. Maybe not the whole story, but enough to know something was off. I’d prefer you got the whole bever from me.”
His eyes were steady. Justy felt suddenly uneasy. He drained his cup. “How is it you know Canvas Town so well?”
Gorton nibbled at the edge of another sweetmeat. “I like it. Reminds me of Gib. Besides, every city I’ve been to there’s a quarter like this. The food’s always good and cheap, and it’s the best place to go to understand the way a place is headed.”
It was late in the afternoon, but the square was still full of people jostling, squabbling, and bargaining. The sun strobed through the awnings in shards of light, picking out pieces of the crowd: a blue tunic, a silver brooch, a plum-colored shawl, an emerald-green hat.
Justy sat up.
Gorton caught the movement and snapped forward. “Ware hawk?” His sharp face made him look like a hunting dog sniffing its quarry.
“No. It’s nothing.” Justy stared into the crowd. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“A young fellow? Tall and spooney, with a green hat?”
“You’ve a good eye.”
The watchman pushed a hank of gray hair back from his pale eyes. “I told you I was a marksman in the Corps. They used to put me in the rigging, with orders to aim at the officers.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side.”
Gorton grinned. “So who was that in the hat? Want me to go after him?”
“No. I’m not even sure it was who I thought it was.” Justy drained his coffee, and dug in his pocket for a coin. “We should go. We’ve a great deal more to do, and not much time to do it.”