by Mat Johnson
The seasoned criminal that he was, Caesar sat in jail with some measure of confidence. They had nothing on him. The boy, Wilson? He was a joke, everyone knew that. Without a confession the authorities could do nothing, and Caesar, in his cell, had no intention of making one available to them. No, they'd need more evidence than the guilty whimpers of some snot-nosed soldier whose own innocence was suspect. The guilty are always calm upon arrest. It's the innocent ones who do the most sweating. In his cell Caesar was just—to use a term his co-ethnicists would come to employ centuries later—chilling.
Rather than wasting their time with a suspect who had no intention of offering further assistance, the constables decided to call in the rest of the players so that the drama could properly unfold. Gather those two other known members of the Geneva Club, Cuffee and Prince, and bring them in. Wrest them from their masters' houses. Even better, let's go back to the source, try our luck on someone with really something to lose.
The following day, John Hughson and his wife, Sarah, were yanked from their home and strong-armed down to the jail. The tavern was searched once more by Mr. Mills, the under-sheriff, and the other constables, just as it had been the day before, as it would be the day after, with identical results. They found nothing.
Surrounded by his accusers, John Hughson feigned more innocence than he was born with.
"No, no, you got the wrong man," he insisted. "There seems to be some sort of mistake here. I am but a simple tavern keeper. A man of limited means and ambitions. How about I offer you gentlemen a round after all this is over, what say you? It is no matter."
Impressively, Hughson was consistent in his denials, no matter how much his interrogators drilled him. No matter how many times they looked at his tongue and knew, by instinct, that those were lies flying off it. Frustrated, thwarted, the constables had no choice but to let John and Sarah Hugh-son free once more, to watch them walk off into the darkness.
Walking home in the cold March night, John Hughson breathed a bit of relief.
"I don't know what you're so bloody happy about," Sarah chided him, humiliated, and still trembling. "We almost lost our heads in there. We're lucky to be free, you daft muggins. This could be the end of it all."
"Oh hush, my love. They got nothing," John insisted. "Nothing," pulling her hand to his. "That was the worst of it, they threw all they could and nothing stuck. Trust me, dear, our troubles are behind us."
It was with growing comfort that John and Sarah returned to their inn that night, closing the door behind them. After a long two days, they were finally home, safe inside. Completely unaware that their impending ruin would come not from outside their household, but from the weakest voice within.
NOT CUTE ENOUGH
To BE POOR IN ENGLAND in the eighteenth century was not simply a shame, it was a crime. English poor laws had been in effect since the fourteenth century, but while far from a new phenomenon, poverty had a special meaning as the empire became global. Before expansion into the new lands, the dirty and impoverished were something that the English elite simply had to endure. No matter how harsh the penalties for poverty and indolence, no matter how many perished from starvation or disease, there were always more to replace the unwashed masses. Now, with the discovered countries, England could unburden itself of its human refuse, recycling its undesirables as fodder for the construction of the empire. In America, in exchange for years of free labor, the cost of relocating the poor, the convicted, the indigent was covered by the landowner who would make use of them. At the end of their service, the indentured servant would at least have the chance to start a new life in the land of opportunity, usually with some sort of severance to usher him or her along. Often indentured servants finished their terms with a trade learned or parcel of land gained, the fruit of their time in captivity.
Unlike in the Chesapeake colonies or those English outposts to the north, the New York colony had few indentured servants, and those they did attract were seldom "transports," or convicts, but "freewillers," free immigrants who chose on their own to enter a period of bond. That there was such a difference in culture between colonies of the same flag can be attributed to the fact that the city of New York, whether under Dutch, English, or later American control, has always been about money, as opposed to religious freedom or creating a Utopia. New York means business, is business. This alone informs every aspect of New York's character, from conception forward.
Slavery was about business. As far as economic value to the employer, slavery just couldn't be beat. It was a steal—literally. For the slaveholders, it was impossible to get a better deal than the one-time payment slavery demanded. For the immigrating European working class, slavery was impossible to compete against. Unlike in the other regions where slaves were largely utilized for unskilled, manual labor, the slaves of Manhattan Island were often skilled artisans, trained in the crafts and trades of their masters, or retained specifically for their skill to serve as craftsmen for households. By training slaves for such specified labor, slaveholders could also hire out their captives for additional profits when demand arose—something particularly convenient in what was largely a port town, with ships arriving regularly in need of various forms of labor. Slavery also (and this was no small thing) alleviated the constant risk of having former apprentices leave to branch out on their own, going from an artisan's much needed assistant to his much unwanted competitor. Because of this, tensions between poor workers struggling to make a living and wageless slaves would begin early in New York, and find several eruption points along the line long before the hideous Draft Riots of the Civil War would spark one of the city's greatest atrocities.
In New York, apprenticeship among whites was a willfully neglected practice. In 1737, lieutenant governor George Clarke warned that "the artificers complain and with too much reason of the pernicious custom of breeding slaves to trades whereby the honest and industrious tradesmen are reduced to poverty for want of employ, and many of them forced to leave us to seek their living in other countries." White flight, the old-fashioned way. In an attempt to make indentured servitude more attractive to employers, in 1711 the term of indentured service was lengthened from four to eleven years. This helped a bit, but with only 203 apprentices indentured in the colony between 1718 and 1727, it in no way took care of the massive demand of an expanding city. In 1734, colonial governor William Cosby echoed the fears of white Manhattan when he said, "I see with concern that whilst the neighboring Provinces are filled with honest, useful and labourious [sic] white people, the truest riches and surest strength of country, this Province seems regardless of . . . the disadvantages that attend the too great importation of negroes and convicts."
Without enough white workers to go around, New York became a city that was carried by black, skilled hands. Still, there were some advantages for adventurous Brits to become indentured servants here. As one of the few and prized, for instance, you were likely to encounter better treatment and status than in colonies overrun with the indentured. And of course, damn near anything was an improvement over the chances for the lower class in overcrowded, class-obsessed England.
Perhaps this is what motivated young Mary Burton to choose to lease herself to John Hughson as a house servant, as opposed to any of the other options available to her. Perhaps, as it was later insinuated (by a less than objective party), it was that Mary had arrived at the Hughsons' as damaged goods after she'd left the house of her last employ pregnant with the master's child. Inflammatory, certainly speculative accusations—Mary Burton was only sixteen years old. Still, how else would a young girl end up in servitude to such a disreputable house such as the Hughsons', unless it was that she had nowhere else to go? Much was said of Mary Burton. Most deserved. Very little complimentary.
Who would think that such a humble girl could do so much damage, could, in just a few months, cause the deaths of scores and the terror of thousands? The following day after the under-sheriff, Mills, and his constables had searched Hughs
on's home a final time, Mary Burton entered the house of a neighbor, James Kannady, one of the constables whom Mary had just witnessed doing the searching. Mary came under the guise of borrowing a pound of candles, but it was just an excuse to get in the door and hear the latest gossip on the Hogg bur glary. If Sarah Hughson had known her little disobedient, loose-lipped servant girl had snuck off to Kannady's she would have surely taken the switch to her, but it was worth it.
Mary didn't even have to broach the subject; Mrs. Kannady seized the opportunity.
"Listen, girl," Mrs. Kannady prodded her young neighbor. "If you know anything, you'd do best to discover it now, lest you yourself should be brought into trouble."
"Madam, I . . . I can't," Mary dodged coyly. "Begging your pardon, it's not my place to say."
"Love, you're forced to work in that house of sin but no one begrudges you for it. You're young, you don't want to spoil your life over that lot. If you know anything, you tell me, and my husband will see to it that you're freed from your master."
Mary Burton pulled away from Mrs. Kannady, candles in hand. The thoughts of freedom were intoxicating, the temptation overwhelming. The only problem: She actually had no information to offer.
Still that did not stop her. "I've things to say, madam," Mary told her, "but my mistress will be waiting. Tomorrow, though, I will come with news for you."
"By the morrow my husband will have already found the stolen goods by himself," Mrs. Kannady pushed. "Now is your chance, girl," she persisted, sensing that Mary Burton was ever eager to say more.
However, Mary just shrugged and giggled her response back at her. "He's not cute enough," she said in a near whisper, "for he has already trod upon them."
Not cute enough? Not sufficiently shrewd? The words haunted Mrs. Kannady long after Mary Burton had left her door. That night, when her husband came home from work, Mrs. Kannady retold her story with passion and insistence, inspiring the off-duty officer to tackle the issue at hand that very evening. Gathering together in a small posse consisting of the Kannadys, Under-Sheriff Mills and his wife, the victimized shop owners Mr. and Mrs. Hogg, as well as several more constables, they stormed the Hughsons' tavern in search of answers.
This search was an act of dedication, not simply an act of service. Both sheriffs and constables worked in their roles only part-time. They were less keepers of the peace than citizen officers of the court. Colonial New York's sheriff functioned primarily as a representative of the judicial system, relegated to retrieving the accused in order to be brought before the bar. The constables were appointed by the court on a yearly basis, again, worked only part-time, and were paid per assignment. While it might be thought that the Kannadys were ever eager because of the commission they would receive, the salary was paltry, little more than a token. Few constables stayed on after their year's appointment. The job paid next to nothing, and, invariably, put them at odds with their neighbors.
These were jobs done strictly out of civic duty.
At the tavern front, it was Mrs. Mills's wish that she and her husband go in first and retrieve young Mary Burton from this den of iniquity. Once out on the road, Mrs. Kannady could then continue interrogation of the girl.
So the Mills went in with that simple plan. The door closed behind them, and then . . . nothing. The others waited behind them, staring at the door, their apprehension peaking as the moments ticked. "Any minute now" never came, and, patience and decorum abandoning her, Mrs. Kannady gave up, and stormed the tavern. As the door swung open, to her surprise she saw Mr. and Mrs. Mills were just sitting there in the parlor as Mary Burton, standing in front of them, offered up her complete innocence.
"I don't know what she's talking about. I never said no such thing," Mary was protesting. "The Hughsons are decent people, wrongly persecuted. They had nothing to do with—"
"Stop the lies!" Mrs. Kannady interrupted, walking straight up to the girl and grabbing her by the wrists.
For a few moments, in the face of confusion, Mary Burton considered she might slough off her earlier indiscretion as nothing more than a misunderstanding, delusion, even a lie. With Mrs. Kannady before her, however, whatever illusion Mary held that this older woman would simply let the issue go was abandoned. Hushed, nervous, anxious, the servant girl changed her tactic altogether.
Leaning forward, her eyes full of true fear, Mary whispered, "It was them, not me. The black scoundrels in this wretched place will surely kill me. Have mercy."
Together, the Kannadys and Mills yanked Mary Burton out of the tavern, onto the street, and into the Manhattan evening. Hughson's drinking establishment was situated along the island's southwestern edge, near where the World Trade Center would briefly sit centuries later. With the village transitioning into farmland not far beyond, the pub was close to the edge of town, but it was still a well-populated area with citizens strolling around the streets. Workers, free and enslaved, traveled to and from the neighboring piers where ships were serviced before they sailed up the Hudson or out into the Atlantic bound for distant ports and faraway continents. Once she felt herself securely out of range from any prying eyes that might be watching her from the tavern, with a little prodding, Mary Burton loosened again.
"Now speak, girl," Mrs. Kannady pushed her. "Tell us all that you know and you will still be spared. Is Hughson involved in Hogg's theft?"
Mary didn't respond with words at first. Reaching a hand into her pocket, she pulled out one Spanish silver coin. Cold hard evidence, undeniable.
"Mrs. Hogg," she said, offering up the coin, "I think this belongs to you."
Mrs. Hogg jumped forward, snatching the silver out of the girl's hand. "Where did you get this?" she demanded.
"The Negroes," was Mary's solemn reply.
The group was excited, satisfied—finally, evidence of what they all knew must be true. So aroused were they by this substantiation of their hard felt suspicions, that no one bothered to question why Mary might have been given the coin in the first place. They were too busy celebrating their assurance that justice was served to question the motives or reliability of their new witness.
To resolve the situation, Mary Burton was taken to Alder man Bancker, governor of the district, with Mrs. Kannady further declaring in front of the official her promise that the indentured servant, Burton, would be freed from her master in payment for testifying.
"They will murder me," Mary beseeched them. "The Hughsons or the Negroes will surely poison me if I'm discovered," she insisted.
"Nonsense, dear," comforted the alderman. "You will go into Mr. Mills's custody; he shall protect you. As for Hugh-son, I will have him standing before me within the hour."
For his part, John Hughson had known it was trouble as soon as Mary Burton had been dragged out from his place. "That nasty little wench," he thought to himself as the constables arrived for him. He'd known it was trouble as soon as she was dragged out of the the tavern, no matter how much he had bribed her. Surely it was she, Mary Burton, the little girl with the big mouth, and now he was in bigger trouble.
Unforeseen and to his credit, Alderman Bancker did not presume Hughson's guilt in the matter at all. Bancker studied the tavern owner as he made his protestations of innocence, coming to the conclusion, despite the man's obvious nervousness, that Hughson's denials were truthful in nature.
Still it was surely evident Hughson's tavern was clearly of the lowest, nuisance sort. Rowdy, to say the least. And given this, the alderman said to him, "In light of this evidence, Mr. Hughson, you must assist the constables in their efforts at last and help reveal the stolen goods and those guilty of acquiring them."
"Certainly, sir." Hughson smiled, showing his rough teeth back at the alderman. "Why, they have but to ask and I shall be there, assisting and such. I shall give it my full attention, and prove to you, sir, my innocence in the matter."
See, things weren't so bad, Hughson judged. Just got to give a little. Just got to get to the bottom of this theft (of which he continued to
contend he knew nothing) and, by so cooperating, clear his name. A good plan, considering the circumstances, and if played intelligently it could be to his advantage and see him to the end of this fiasco.
Unfortunately, while John Hughson could fairly be called many things, none of them would be "intelligent." Instead of reappearing with some incidental trace evidence that might lead the authorities away from his own culpability, the taverner took it one step further and returned instead with all the stolen goods in question, silver coins, speckled linen, everything. The constables looked at the loot in disbelief, then peered back at the beaming Hughson. There he stood, so happy and relieved to have the whole thing up and done with. Completely unconscious of the fact that he'd just given proof that he was in direct possession of the stash the whole time, substantiating definitively his own utter guilt in the matter.
Ah, the genius of John Hughson!
" MARY BURTON, OF THE CITY OF NEW-YORK, SPINSTER"
THERE MAY HAVE BEEN WORSE COLONIES THAN New York in which to find yourself standing accused before the court in the eighteenth century, other places where mere accusation alone seemed to be counted as evidence of wrongdoing. In nearby New Haven, for instance, 90 percent of defendants brought to trial were found guilty. In New York, at least, nearly half of the accused on trial were given the chance to prove their innocence (or feign it). And considering that the Hogg crime involved theft of personal property that amounted to a small fortune, it was somewhat to John Hughson's advantage that the trial was being held on the American continent altogether, for this was a time of even harsher punishment for thievery back in fair England, where intolerance for such sins had resulted in frequent capital sentences. While the hangman's noose was offered for the crime of thievery in the new land as well, that option was rarely selected. Even if convicted, with any luck, Hughson might be sentenced to a good flogging, or at worst a pillorying, both of which it was, theoretically, possible to live through.