Part 7 (1/2)

She was Mama Jack's one and only child for one thing, her adopted daughter. Mama had taken Maude with her when Mama decided to stop being the fat lady in Barnum's traveling freak show. Once she made up her mind to that hard thing-getting by on her own-taking Maude along wasn't difficult. Mama Jack weighed more than five hundred pounds and Maude, a perfectly proportioned, blue-eyed blonde who stood just two and a half feet tall, would almost fit in her pocket. And Maude could dance like n.o.body's business.

She wore silver slippers with pearl buckles and pieces of iron on the heels and the toes, so every click and clack would be heard when she tapped out the music's rhythms. She now raised her skirts to her knees so everyone could see her gorgeous shoes, but she didn't move.

”Dance!” the a.s.sembly shouted. ”Dance, Maude, dance! Tell her, Mama Jack.”

Tonio flexed his fingers and smacked his lips and raised his trumpet to his mouth, but he didn't blow a note.

Mama Jack sat on a specially reinforced chair on a cast-iron dais raised above the crowd. She lifted her enormous arm, the rolls of flesh hanging from it shaking and jiggling like a jelly mold, and everything went quiet. Then, laughing so her great belly shook, she called out, ”Got to have music before Maude Pattycake can dance. Make us some music, Tonio.”

The eight-foot-tall trumpeter started as he always did, with Maude's very own music, an old Irish ditty called ”Tom Tiddler's Song.” Maude clicked once or twice. Then she clacked a few more steps. And by the time Tonio's trumpet was wailing the second chorus, the tiny dancer was clicking and clacking her way up and down the bar.

Next Tonio went on to the stokers' songs he'd learned back when he shoveled coal into the engines of the trains that ran from Buffalo to New York on Mr. Vanderbilt's New York Central Railroad. The people in Mama Jack's cave knew every note and every word. ”I been workin' on the railroad,” they sang, and banged their tankards in unison while Maude danced. And, ”Dinah won't you blow, Dinah won't you blow, Dinah won't you blow your horn . . .”

This went on until neither the giant Tonio nor the tiny and perfect Maude Pattycake could find any more breath, and the songs and the dancing ended and Maude finished as she'd meant to do right along. She leapt off the bar into Ebenezer Tickle's strong and waiting arms.

”In here.” Josh turned the key in the rusty padlock and ushered Tickle through tall doors into a large brick building behind the oldest of the Devrey docks, themselves an extended strip of waterfront at the place where Wall Street met the East River.

The few windows were narrow and high overhead, and spilled only murky light into what was essentially a shed without interior walls, depending instead on thick brick pillars to hold up a tin roof some twenty feet above their heads. Josh pointed to two stubs of what must have once been ma.s.sive rafters protruding from the wall at their right, the remains of a long-gone second floor. ”Until a century ago this was part of the old slave market. I expect the building was originally two floors.”

”Three, more likely,” Tickle said, craning his neck to survey the evidence of the original construction. ”Cram in more nigras that way. Who owns the place now?”

”The land and the building belong to my family, to Devrey s.h.i.+pping. It was let to Finnegan's Ironworks for a time.”

The dwarf strode off on his short legs, inspecting the hulking metal equipment that loomed in the shadows, touching and tapping and grunting with sounds that conveyed sometimes approval and sometimes the opposite. Knowledgeable sorts of sounds. For his part, Josh could attach only the most general names to what he saw-furnaces and overhead trolleys from which were suspended enormous things that looked to him like huge scoops, everything coated in rust.

Tickle paused beside one of the scooplike things and sc.r.a.ped at the rust with a fingernail. ”How long you say it's been since any of this been used?”

”Three years. My brother took the equipment in payment of back rent when the ironworks failed.”

”Finnegan's,” Tickle said. ”Before my time here in New York. Never heard of 'em.”

”I'm told it was a small operation, though G.o.d knows this place looks vast enough to me.”

”Globe and Morgan,” Tickle said, citing two of the city's largest foundries, ”are at least ten times as big. And Novelty's bigger still.”

Novelty Iron Works, Josh knew, was the city's largest foundry. The plant where Tickle had been a foreman covered over five acres of Manhattan Island. ”I'm told Finnegan's is successful now they're in Brooklyn. According to my brother, Finnegan was happy to leave this stuff behind. Set up with more modern gear in his new place.”

Do what you like with it, Josh. I've never had an offer for any of what that crafty old Irishman left behind. A hurried conversation soon after the wedding ceremony, while Zac was changing out of the morning coat he'd worn as Joshua's best man, and rus.h.i.+ng to take s.h.i.+p for Liverpool. He'd pulled the key to the old ironworks off his ring and handed it over along with the one to his house.

Tickle moved off to inspect the furnaces. Josh wandered deeper into the gloom and came across a large, fenced-off square. Mostly empty, except for a small pile of gray and porous-looking nuggets of coal. He picked one up and walked to where Tickle stood. The dwarf was using a piece of string to measure the opening of a ma.s.sive furnace.

Josh held out the lump of coal. ”Seems Finnegan's was burning c.o.ked coal in those things. I presume we must do the same.” c.o.ked coal burned cleaner and gave more heat, but it cost considerably more than the ordinary untreated sort.

”We must, Mr. Turner. And a deal of it. Only thing burns hotter than a foundry furnace is h.e.l.l. Can't use regular coal. Don't burn bright enough for one thing. And the smoke would drive off Satan himself.”

Josh looked around again, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the ghostlike air of the old ironworks. ”Can this place be salvaged, Mr. Tickle?”

”Some of it. Enough to suit your purpose. Big job, though. Take a lot of doing.”

”How long before it's ready to go?”

Tickle hesitated. ”Tell me again how much steel you need,” he said finally.

Joshua had brought the blueprints with him. He moved to a spot under one of the high, slitted windows and unfurled the drawings over the top of an up-ended barrel. ”Here's what I'm going to build, Mr. Tickle. And according to Mr. McKim, this is what I need to build it using steel rafters.” Josh slipped a second, smaller sheet out from under the first and handed it to the dwarf.

”I take it this Mr. McKim is your architect?”

”That's right. At least in as far as I have one. We're not attempting anything fancy, as you can see.”

McKim was a fellow his own age, met through a chance encounter riding in Central Park; a thing possible because Josh had a saddle fitted with a special stirrup, one with a hole that accommodated the peg. He wouldn't call Charles McKim a close friend, but they got on well enough, and the other man was happy to earn a modest fee moonlighting, as they called it these days. McKim had quickly produced the blueprints for the rather simple structure Josh described.

”No doubt about it,” he'd said. ”You could achieve what you're after if you framed each of eight stories entirely with steel. Though I'm hard put to know who'd want to live there, Josh. Not considering the rent you'd have to charge if you put your building up anywhere a gentleman might be willing to call home. And not considering that you're proposing he live under the same roof with three dozen others.”

Tickle seemed as doubtful as McKim had been. He didn't look at the second sheet, the one that listed the steel required for the job. Instead he spent many minutes studying the drawings, tracing out the lines with a hovering finger. Finally, ”These here ain't big enough units to be like them French flats over on Eighteenth Street. Not enough rooms. You're building one of them there rookeries, ain't you? One of them places as they cram the immigrants into. Just taller 'n' most.”

”Nothing of the sort,” Josh said. ”It is like the French flats, only a little less grand.”

”A rookery,” Tickle repeated stubbornly. ”For foreign birds. All of 'em chirping different languages and stinking of whatever strange food they been eating wherever they comes from. Be the ruin of the country, all these immigrants will.”

Josh leaned against another of the barrels, securing his balance with his elbows, taking the weight off his good leg. ”I would think, Mr. Tickle, that you'd know a bit about being the object of derision simply because you're different from the folks around you.”

”Here now, ain't no cause to think that. I'm a dwarf, but I'm an American, same as you. My great-granddaddy fought in the Revolution.”

In the land of the blind, Josh thought, the one-eyed man is king. No point in trying to change Tickle's politics. They weren't based on reason. ”Look,” he said, ”a rookery of the sort they've got down in Five Points or way uptown is a virtual barracks. Huge sheds, nothing more. The tenements are only a bit better, solid brick rectangles built to cover every inch of ground the landlord owns. Windows front and back, and the only other ventilation a foot-square air shaft up the middle. And, as you say, in both cases people jumbled together like rats in a nest.” He pointed to his blueprints. ”This is nothing like either of those. These are separate units, each meant for a single family, and each with proper ventilation so there's sunlight and air. And while we'll build on three lots, we can get four flats across the frontage because of your steel beams and girders. It's what we talked about that first day. If I use steel, I don't need to build the bearing walls from brick. That's what you said, Mr. Tickle, and Mr. McKim agrees.” The inventory of construction materials he'd handed Tickle remained in the dwarf's hand, the edges curled over his fist. Tickle still made no attempt to unroll and examine it, just kept looking at the blueprints. ”I suppose,” he muttered after a time.

”Have a look at the list, Mr. Tickle. It will bear me out.”

Tickle still didn't examine the paper. After a few moments Josh recognized the problem. The other man couldn't read. ”Here,” he said quickly, flipping over one of the drawings and taking a pencil from his coat pocket. ”It's easier to understand if we do it this way.” He began creating a graphic of what was required, indicating beams of different lengths with simple lines, and showing the numbers of each by a system of cross-hatching in groups of five. It took some doing, and once or twice he had to take out his pocket knife and renew the point of the soft lead.

Tickle stood quietly beside him all the while; watching, nodding occasionally as the scope of the project took shape. ”Don't need all what's here to make as much steel as you're wanting,” he said at last. ”We'd only have to restore a few of the ladles,” nodding toward what Josh had thought of as giant scoops, ”and maybe only two of the furnaces.”

”What about the pig iron?” Josh asked.

”We won't try and make that here. Don't make sense when we can buy it.”

”Cost?” Josh inquired, this time poising his pencil over a piece of paper meant for his own notes.

”I'll get you the pig iron at a good price right enough. Say half of what it costs regular.”

Some sort of private arrangement, Josh realized. Arrived at through Tickle's foundry connections. Everyone but the foundry owners a bit richer than they were before, and so little going out the door each time it wouldn't be missed. ”It has to be the best,” he said. ”I know nothing about making steel, Mr. Tickle, or pig iron for that matter. But I know you can't make first-quality products with inferior raw materials. I don't intend this to be the last building I put up. It has to be safe and st.u.r.dy.”

”No cause to worry,” Tickle said. ”Same pig iron as Globe or Novelty uses to make their cast iron.”

”Very well. What about the workers? How many and where will you get them?”

”Seven,” Tickle said, ”including me. Each of the others known to me personally. Experienced. Trustworthy as well.”

Josh was prepared to accept this. Being a foreman at Novelty meant knowing what sort of men he needed and where to find them. ”And,” pencil poised, ”I shall pay these seven foundry men how much per hour?”

”Fifty cents.”