New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  He was anxious, therefore, to find the right husband for Kate. A man intelligent, kind and firm. At one time, he had considered his respected neighbor’s son, young Samuel Adams, although the boy was a few years younger than Kate. But he had soon seen that there was a waywardness and lack of application in the boy that ruled him out. As Kate was now eighteen, her father was all the more careful that she should never be taken to any place where she might form an unfortunate attachment.

  Naturally, therefore, he had hesitated to bring her to New York, where the presence of these cousins, about whom he knew little, might add to the risk.

  But she had begged to come. She wanted to attend the trial, and she certainly understood the legal issues far better than the rest of his children. She would be safely with him all the time, and he had to admit he was always glad of her company. So he’d agreed.

  Before him, not fifty yards away, he now saw a tall fair-haired youth, accompanied by three common sailors, coming out of a tavern. He saw one of the sailors laugh, and slap the youth on the back. Far from objecting, the young man, who was wearing a shirt that was none too clean, made some cheerful jibe and laughed in turn. As he did so, he half turned, allowing the lawyer a clear sight of his face. He was handsome. He was more than handsome.

  He looked like a young Greek god.

  “Your daughter must be about the same age,” the merchant said cheerfully. “I expect they’ll get on. We’ll expect you for dinner then, at three.”

  Kate Master looked at herself in the glass. Some of the girls she knew got little dressmaker’s dolls with the latest fashions from Paris and London. Her father would never have allowed such vanities in the house. But if she dressed more simply, she was still pleased with the result. Her figure was good. Her breasts were pretty—not that anyone would see them, because a lace modesty piece covered all but the tops. The material of her bodice and skirt was a russet silk, worn over a creamy chemise, that suited her coloring. Her brown hair was arranged simply and naturally; her shoes had heels, but not too high, and round toes, because her father did not approve of the new pointed shoes that were the latest fashion. Kate had a fresh complexion; and she’d used powder so lightly, she didn’t think her father would notice.

  She wanted to look well for these New York cousins. She wondered if there would be any young men of her age.

  When they arrived at the house in the fashionable South Ward near the old fort, Kate and her father were both impressed. The house was handsome. Above a basement were two floors, five bays across, simple and classical. A gentleman’s house. As they went in, they noticed a big oak cupboard in the hall, obviously Dutch, and two upright chairs from the time of Charles II. In the parlor, there were solemn pictures of Dirk’s parents, some shelves holding a black-and-gold tea set from China, and several elegant walnut chairs with tapestry seats, in the Queen Anne style. It all proclaimed that the New York Masters had had their money a good, long time.

  Dirk greeted them warmly. His wife was a tall, elegant lady, whose soft voice gently let them know that she was confident of her place in society. And then there was their son, John.

  Her father hadn’t told Kate about the boy. Though she tried not to do so, she found herself stealing glances at him. He was wearing a spotless white shirt of the best linen, and a green-and-gold silk vest. He wore no wig—and why would he, with his magnificent mane of wavy golden hair? He was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen in her life. He said a few polite words when they were introduced, though she hardly heard them. But he contented himself with listening to his father speak, so she could only wonder what he was thinking.

  Before dinner, the conversation was confined to family inquiries. She learned that John had two sisters, both away, but no brothers. He was the heir, then.

  The dinner was excellent. The food plentiful, the wine good. Kate was placed on the merchant’s right, between him and John. The conversation was general and cordial, but she could tell that everyone was being cautious, anxious not to offend the other party. Mrs. Master remarked that she knew the lawyer they were staying with. And her husband said that he hoped his cousin would find some good legal minds among the members of the New York Bar.

  “There are fine minds in New York outside the legal profession,” Eliot responded politely. “The fame of Governor Hunter’s circle still resounds in Boston, I assure you.”

  Governor Hunter, who had come after the eccentric Lord Cornbury, had gathered a notable circle of friends, mostly Scots like himself, into a sort of intellectual club. Two decades later, this circle was still reverently spoken of by men of culture in other cities. Kate had often heard her father refer to them. She glanced at the boy on her right. He was looking blank. Beyond him, his mother’s stare was vague.

  “Ah, Hunter,” said their host firmly. “I wish we were always so lucky with our governors.”

  Hoping to draw young John into the conversation, Kate remarked to him that she noticed more Negroes in New York than Boston. Yes, he answered quietly, about one in five of the city’s population were slaves.

  “My father does not approve of slavery,” she said brightly, and received a warning look from Eliot. But their host intervened in his easy manner.

  “You may have noticed that the servants in this house are not Negro slaves, Miss Kate, but Irish servants working out their indentures—to pay for their voyage mostly. However, it’s true that I’m in the slave trade. Some of the best Boston families, like the Waldos and Faneuils, are in it too. A Boston merchant I know said his three main lines are Irish butter, Italian wine and slaves.”

  “My daughter meant no discourtesy, cousin,” Eliot said quickly, “and few people in Boston agree with me.” Clearly he was determined that the dinner should pass off easily. “Though I do confess,” he could not help adding, “that as an Englishman, I can’t ignore the fact that a senior British judge has ruled that slavery should not be legal in England.”

  Dirk Master looked at his Boston cousin thoughtfully. He’d been quite curious to meet him. He himself was the only Master in the male line in New York. His van Dyck cousins had been women who’d married and moved out of the city. So he’d few relations to call his own. This Boston lawyer was certainly a very different kind of man, but he didn’t dislike him. That, at least, was a start. His daughter seemed pleasant enough, too. He leaned back in his chair, and considered his words.

  “Forty years ago,” he said, “my Dutch grandfather was a fur trader. The fur trade still continues, but it’s not so important now. My other grandfather, Tom Master, was in the West Indies trade. And that trade has now grown so huge that three-quarters of all the business of this city derives from supplying the sugar plantations. And sugar plantations need slaves.” He paused. “As to the morality of the slave trade, cousin, I respect your opinion. My Dutch grandfather intended to free the only two slaves he had.”

  Eliot bowed his head noncommittally.

  A mischievous twinkle came into the merchant’s eye.

  “But at the same time, cousin,” he continued, “you may acknowledge that we British are also guilty of a mighty hypocrisy in this matter. For we say that slavery is monstrous, yet only if it takes place on the island of Britain. Everywhere else in the British Empire, it’s allowed. The sugar trade, so valuable to England, entirely depends upon slaves; and British vessels carry thousands every year.”

  “It cannot be denied,” Eliot politely acknowledged.

  “Does it concern you, sir,” Kate now ventured, “that New York is so dependent upon a single trade?”

  The merchant’s blue eyes rested upon her, approvingly.

  “Not too much,” he answered. “You’ve heard of the Sugar Interest, I’ve no doubt. The big sugar planters have formed a group to influence the London Parliament. They have huge wealth, so they can do it. They and their friends sit in the legislature; other Members of Parliament are persuaded or paid. The system reaches into the highest quarters. And this lobbying, as we may call it, of Pa
rliament has been entirely successful. During the last few years, while the sugar trade has been down, the British Parliament has passed two measures to protect it. The greatest is the Rum Ration. Every man serving aboard a British Navy vessel is now given half a pint of rum per day. I do not know what this costs the government, but multiplied across the entire navy and through the whole year, it is a truly astounding quantity of rum—and therefore of molasses from the plantations.” He smiled. “And not only is the Rum Ration their salvation, but that salvation is eternal. For once you give a sailor the expectation of rum as his right, he will not be weaned from it. Stop the rum and you’ll start a mutiny. Better still, as the navy grows, so does the rum ration and the fortunes of the sugar planters. So you see, Miss Kate, New York’s sure foundation is actually the English Sugar Interest.”

  Kate glanced at her father. She knew this cynical use of religious words could not be pleasing to him, though she secretly rather enjoyed the tough frankness of the merchant’s mind.

  “You said there was a second measure, sir,” she said.

  “Yes. The Molasses Act. It says we may only buy molasses from English traders and English ships. That keeps the price of molasses high and protects the English planters. I do not like it so well, because I also manufacture rum here in New York. I could buy my molasses far cheaper from the French traders, if it were allowed.” He shrugged.

  It was now that young John Master chose to speak.

  “Except that we do.” He turned to Kate and grinned. “We get molasses from the Frenchies outside the port and smuggle ’em in. ’Tain’t legal, of course, but it’s what Pa does. I go out on those runs,” he assured her, with some pride.

  The merchant looked at his son with exasperation.

  “That’s enough, John,” he said loudly. “Now what we should all like to hear,” he bowed toward Eliot, “is my cousin’s opinion of tomorrow’s trial.”

  Eliot Master looked down at the table. The truth was, he felt a sense of relief. If, before arriving at the house, his secret terror had been that his daughter might take a liking to her handsome cousin, upon entering the house, seeing the young man cleaned up, and realizing that he must be heir to a fortune far larger than his own in Boston, he had been faced with an uncomfortable proposition: whatever his feelings about these New Yorkers and their business, would he really have the right to deny her, if Kate should wish to marry such a rich kinsman? So far, he had been struggling. But now, by his foolish intervention, this boy had just exposed himself and his family for what they were. Not only slavers, but smugglers as well. Their fortune, so much greater than his own, was explained. He would be polite to them, naturally. But as far as Eliot Master was concerned, they were no better than criminals. His duty as a father, therefore, required him only to ensure that his daughter saw this young scoundrel for what he was.

  Thus satisfied, he turned his mind to the trial of John Peter Zenger.

  If tomorrow’s trial was of great consequence for the American colonies, its origins lay in England. Political events in London never took long to affect Boston and New York. As Dirk Master liked to say: “London gives us laws, wars and whores.” By “whores,” however, he meant the royal governors.

  Though there were honorable exceptions, like Governor Hunter, most of these men came to America only to line their pockets, and the colonist knew it. And the present governor was among the worst. Governor Cosby was venal. In no time he had made illegal grabs for money, rigged courts and elections, and thrown out judges who did not give him what he wanted. The only newspaper in the city being under the governor’s control, some of the merchants had started another of their own, to attack Cosby and expose his abuses. They’d hired a printer named John Peter Zenger to produce it. The governor was determined to close it down. And to this end, last year, he had thrown Zenger in jail, and was now about to try him for seditious libel.

  Eliot Master placed his fingers together. As a lawyer, he saw several issues. “My first comment,” he began, “refers to the manner of Zenger’s arrest. I understand that he is not a rich man.”

  “He’s a poor immigrant from Palatine Germany,” said the merchant. “Trained here as a printer. Though he’s turned out to have quite a talent for writing.”

  “And having arrested him, the governor arranged for his bail to be set at an outrageous sum, which Zenger could in no way afford? And as a result, he has languished in jail for eight months?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then there is a point of principle here,” the Boston lawyer said, “concerning excessive bail. It should not be allowed. But the main issue,” he continued, “is that the royal governor has been offended.”

  “We’re all ready to offend this royal governor,” his host remarked, “but because poor Zenger printed the paper, he’s being used as the scapegoat. Our people are determined to provide him with a good defense. And the new jury are quite decent fellows. I believe seven of them are even Dutch, so no friends of the governor’s. Has the fellow a chance?”

  “I think not,” answered Eliot. “If it can be shown that Zenger did in fact print the offending articles, the law says that the jury must find him guilty.”

  “There’s not much doubt that he printed the piece,” said the merchant. “And he’s continued to put out new issues of his journal by passing fresh articles to his wife under the door of his cell. But what about the fact that every word he printed about Governor Cosby is true? Shouldn’t that count for something?”

  “Our British law of libel says that’s no defense,” the lawyer answered. “And if the words insult the king’s representative, they are seditious libel. True or false, it makes no difference.”

  “That is monstrous,” said the merchant.

  “Perhaps.” Eliot nodded. “My present concern is that the law is being misused. And that is why I am so anxious to see this trial.”

  “You must be,” his cousin remarked, “to come all the way from Boston to see it.”

  “I will tell you plainly,” Eliot Master continued, “I think this no small matter. The Zenger trial, in my opinion, goes to the very root of our English liberties.” He paused a moment. “A century ago, our ancestors left England because King Charles I was setting up a tyranny. When Members of Parliament challenged his right, he tried to arrest them; when honest Puritans printed complaints of his sins, he cut off their ears, branded them and threw them in prison—using this very same charge, we should note, of seditious libel. Eighty-five years ago the tyranny of King Charles was ended when Parliament cut off his head. But that did not end all future abuses. And now, in the little tyranny of this governor, we see the same process at work. This trial is sent to us, I believe, as a test of how we value liberty.” During this speech, he had raised his voice considerably.

  “Well, cousin,” said the merchant with a new respect, “I see you are quite an orator.”

  It was not often that Kate heard her cautious father speak with such passion. It made her feel proud of him. Hoping he would approve, she joined the conversation now.

  “So when Locke speaks of natural law, and the natural right to life and liberty, would that not include the liberty to speak one’s mind?” she asked.

  “I think so,” said her father.

  “Locke?” queried Mrs. Master, looking bemused.

  “Ah, Locke,” said their host. “Philosopher,” he said to his wife, as he tried to remember something about the thinker whose doctrines, he knew, were inspiring freedom-loving men on both sides of the Atlantic.

  “You read philosophy?” Mrs. Master asked Kate, in some perplexity.

  “Just the famous bits,” said Kate cheerfully, with a smile toward the boy who, she supposed, had done the same. But young John Master only gazed at the table and shook his head.

  It was now that Kate decided that the Greek god by her side might be shy. It rather increased her interest. She wondered what she could say to encourage him. But raised in the literary Boston household of her father,
she still had not quite comprehended that she was in alien territory.

  “Last summer,” she remarked to him, “we saw some of the Harvard men perform an act of Addison’s Cato. I have heard that the whole play is to be given later this year in our American colonies. Do you know if it’s coming to New York?” The question was pertinent to the Zenger trial. For Addison, founder of England’s Spectator magazine, and model for every civilized English gentleman, had scored a huge success with his account of how a noble Roman republican had opposed the tyranny of Caesar. The play’s reputation had long since crossed the Atlantic, and she felt sure her companion would have read of it in the newspapers. But all she got was a “Don’t know.”

  “You must forgive us, Miss Kate, if we concern ourselves more with trade than literature in this house,” the merchant remarked; though he felt bound to add, with a hint of reproach: “I believe, John, you’ve heard of Addison’s Cato.”

  “Trade holds the key to liberty,” the Boston lawyer added firmly, coming to their aid. “Trade spreads wealth, and in so doing, it promotes freedom and equality. That’s what Daniel Defoe says.”

  At last young John looked up with a ray of hope.

  “The man that wrote Robinson Crusoe?”

  “The very same.”

  “I read that.”

  “Well then,” said the lawyer, “that is something.”

  They made no further attempts at literary conversation, but for a time devoted their attention to the three handsome fruit pies that had just been brought in. Yet as he glanced round the table, Eliot Master was not unhappy. He had been quite pleased with his own little oration, and he meant every word of it. His cousin had been quite right that he would not have come here, all the way from Boston, if he was not passionate about the matter. As for his cousin Dirk’s character, he might be a rogue, but he evidently wasn’t a fool. That at least was something. The merchant’s wife, he privately discounted. That left the boy.