New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  It was entirely clear, he thought, that this boy, however good-looking, was of slight intelligence. Good enough for the company of rough sailors and smugglers, but otherwise a lout. There was no possibility, he felt sure, that his Kate, who had acquitted herself so well in the conversation, could have any interest in such a fellow. His mind at rest, he took a second slice of apple pie.

  So he was even more gratified by the brief exchange that ended the dinner.

  It was nearly time to leave. Kate had done her best to entertain her cousin John. She’d asked him about how he passed his time, and discovered that he liked best to be down at the waterside, or better yet on a ship. By gentle probing, she had learned something more of his family’s business. Like other merchants of their kind, the New York Masters engaged in a wide range of activities. Besides owning several vessels, they had a thriving store, they made rum, albeit with illegal molasses, and even undertook to insure other merchant ships. He did not use many words, and spoke quietly, but once or twice he looked at her directly, and it was all she could do not to blush as she gazed into his eyes, which were as blue as the sky. Whether he liked her, however, she had no idea.

  Before they rose from the table, Dirk Master made her father promise that he would come to visit them again while in New York, and she was glad that her father politely said that he would.

  “You’ll be at the court for the whole trial?” the merchant asked.

  “From the beginning to the end.”

  “And Miss Kate?” their host inquired.

  “Oh, indeed,” she said enthusiastically. “My father is concerned with royal tyranny, but I have come to support the freedom of the press.” Her father smiled.

  “My daughter is of the same opinion as the poet: ‘As good almost kill a man as kill a good book.’”

  It was the sort of quotation that, in their Boston household, might be heard on any day of the week.

  “‘He who destroys a good book, kills reason itself,’” Kate immediately chimed in.

  Their host looked at them both, and shook his head.

  “It sounds familiar, but what are you quoting?” he asked genially.

  Kate was surprised he would need reminding. The words came from John Milton, author of Paradise Lost. Not from a poem, but a pamphlet, the greatest defense of Free Speech and the freedom of the press that was ever penned.

  “It’s from Milton’s Areopagitica,” she said.

  “Ah, Milton,” said her host.

  But young John’s face contracted into a frown.

  “Harry who?” he asked.

  It came unbidden. She did not even have time to think. She burst out laughing.

  And young John Master blushed, and looked ashamed.

  “Well,” said her father cheerfully, as they walked back to their lodgings, “the dinner could have been worse. Though I’m sorry your New York kinsmen turn out to be smugglers.”

  “Mr. Master seems well informed,” she suggested.

  “Hmm. In his way, I dare say. The boy, I’m afraid,” he added confidently, “is beyond redemption.”

  “Perhaps,” she ventured, “you are too harsh.”

  “I think not.”

  “I liked him, Father,” she said, “very much.”

  The court was on the main floor of the City Hall on Wall Street. The courtroom was a light-filled, lofty space. The two judges, Philipse and Delancey, wigged and robed in scarlet, sat enthroned upon a dais. The jury sat together on two benches to their left. The crowd of people, of all sorts, were seated around the sides, and on the floor of the hall. It might have been a Protestant congregation about to hear a preacher. In the center, before the judges, was the dock, like a box pew, for the accused. He had not far to come, for the cells were in the basement of the building.

  Kate and her father had secured good seats in the front row. She looked around the hall eagerly, taking in the scene. But most interesting of all to her was to witness the change in her father. To the outside observer, he looked the quiet, careful lawyer that he was; but to Kate, his unwonted paleness, the alertness in his eye, and the taut nervousness of his face told a different story. She’d never seen her father so eager in her life.

  Bradley, the Attorney General, in wig and long black gown, plump and confident, was nodding briskly to people here and there. The court had appointed a lawyer named Chambers, competent enough, to defend the printer. The Attorney General nodded to Chambers, too, as though to say: “It is not your fault, sir, that you are about to be crushed.”

  And now there was a stir. Through a small door at the back of the court, two officers like huge, black bumblebees were bringing Zenger in. How small he seemed between them, a neat little fellow in a blue coat, who nonetheless kept his head up bravely as they led him to his box, and shut him in.

  The charge was read. The Attorney General rose.

  Kate had been to trials before. She knew what to expect. It did not take the lawyer long to say that Zenger was a “seditious person” guilty of libels designed to scandalise and vilify the good Governor Cosby. The jury listened. She could not tell what they thought.

  Then Chambers rose and said a few lackluster words in the printer’s defense. She saw her father frown. “You’d have thought,” he whispered in her ear, “that Zenger’s backers would have given him better help than this.”

  But just then, something strange occurred. An old gentleman, who had been sitting quietly near the back, suddenly stood up and made his way stiffly forward.

  “If it please Your Honors, I am retained to represent the accused.”

  “And who are you?” one of the judges asked irritably.

  “The name’s Hamilton, Your Honor. Andrew Hamilton. Of Philadelphia.”

  And now Kate saw her father start, and lean forward excitedly.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “The finest trial lawyer in America,” he answered in a low voice, while the whole court buzzed.

  It was clear that the judges and the Attorney General had been completely taken by surprise, but there was nothing they could do about it. They were still more astonished when the Philadelphia lawyer calmly told them: “My client does not deny that he published the offending articles.” The Attorney, therefore, had no need to call any witnesses. This was followed by a long silence, until, looking rather puzzled now, Attorney Bradley stood to declare that if indeed the accused did not deny publishing the libels, then the jury must find him guilty. Glancing a little nervously at Hamilton, he also reminded the jury that it didn’t matter whether the newspaper articles were true or false. It was libel anyway. Then, for a considerable time, citing law, custom and the Bible, the Attorney explained to the jury why libel was so serious a crime, and why, under law, they had no choice but to pronounce Zenger guilty. Finally, he sat down.

  “Hamilton’s lost it already,” Kate whispered to her father, but he only answered, “Wait.”

  The old man from Philadelphia seemed to be in no hurry.

  He waited while Chambers said a few words for the defense, then, having shuffled his papers, he slowly rose. Though he addressed the court politely, the look on his face seemed to suggest that he was slightly puzzled by the whole proceedings.

  For it was hard for him, he told them, to see why they were all here. If a reasonable complaint about a bad administration was a libel, it was news to him. Indeed—he gave the jury a wry, sideways glance—he wouldn’t even have realized that the articles in Zenger’s paper referred to the governor personally, if the prosecutor hadn’t assured the court that they did. At this, several of the jurymen grinned.

  Moreover, he pointed out, the legal authority for the prosecutor’s idea of libel came from the tyrannical Star Chamber court of fifteenth-century England. Hardly encouraging. And besides, wasn’t it possible that a law made in England, centuries ago, might have become inappropriate for the American colonies today?

  It seemed to Kate that this sounded disloyal to England, and she glanced at her father; but
he leaned across and whispered: “Seven of the jurors have Dutch names.”

  Yet for some reason, the old man suddenly seemed to wander. It was just like the case of American farmers, being subject to English laws that were designed for a different kind of landholding system, he declared. He seemed to have a particular interest in farming. He talked of horses and cattle, and was just warming to the subject of fencing livestock, when the prosecutor rose to point out that all this had nothing to do with the case. And Kate might have concluded that the old man from Philadelphia had indeed lost the thread of his argument, if she had not noticed that three of the jurors, who looked like farmers, gave the prosecutor a black look.

  The prosecutor would not be denied, however. The charge was libel, he reminded them, and the defense had already admitted it. But now old Andrew Hamilton was shaking his head.

  “We are charged with printing and publishing ‘a certain false, malicious, seditious and scandalous libel,’” he pointed out. It was up to the Attorney now to prove that Zenger’s complaints about the evil governor were false. For in fact, he offered, he’d be happy to prove that every word was true.

  The faces of the jurors lit up. They were looking forward to this. But Kate saw her father shake his head.

  “It won’t wash,” he muttered. And sure enough, for several minutes, though the old lawyer struggled with might and main, the Attorney and the judge interrupted him again and again to deny him his point. The law was the law. Truth made no difference. He had no defense. The prosecutor looked satisfied; the jury did not. Old Andrew Hamilton stood by his chair. His face was strained. He seemed to be in pain, and about to sit down.

  It was over, then. By a monstrous law, poor Zenger was to be doomed. Kate looked at the printer, who was still very pale and upright in his box, and felt not only sympathy for him, but shame at the system that was about to condemn him. She was most surprised, therefore, to see her father suddenly gaze at old Hamilton with admiration.

  “By God,” he murmured to himself. “The cunning old fox.” And before he could explain it to her, they saw the Philadelphia lawyer turn.

  The change was remarkable. His face had cleared. He stood tall. It was as if, like a magician, he had suddenly transformed himself. There was a new light of fire in his eyes. As he started to speak, his voice rang out with a new authority. And this time, no one dared interrupt him.

  For his summing-up was as masterful as it was simple. The jury, he reminded them, was the arbiter in this court. Lawyers could argue, the judge could direct them how to find; but they had the power to choose. And the duty. This wretched law of libel was as uncertain as it was bad. Almost anything you said could be twisted and turned into libel. Even a complaint against abuse, which was every man’s natural right.

  By this means, a governor who did not wish to be criticized could use the law as a weapon, and place himself above the law. It was a legally sanctioned abuse of power. And what stood between this tyranny and the liberties of a free people? They, the jury. Nothing else.

  “The loss of liberty, to a generous mind, is worse than death,” he proclaimed. The case was not about a printer in New York, it was about their right, and their duty, to protect free men against arbitrary power, as many other brave men had done before them.

  Now, he told the jury, it was up to them. The choice was in their hands. And with that, he sat down.

  The judge was not pleased. He told the jury that despite anything the Philadelphia lawyer said, they should find the printer guilty. The jury retired.

  As the court broke out into a hum of conversation, and Zenger continued to sit upright in his box, Kate’s father explained to her.

  “I did not realize myself what he was up to. He made the jury furious that the common-sense defense of Zenger—that the poor devil did no more than say the truth—was to be disallowed. And then he played the card he had intended to play all along. It’s called Jury Nullification. A jury has the right to decide a case, notwithstanding anything they have heard regarding a defendant’s guilt, or the state of the law. It is the last and only defense against bad laws. After a jury has refused to convict, the law does not change, but few prosecutors want to bring a similar action, for fear that future juries will do the same thing. That is the tactic old Hamilton has just deployed. And brilliantly.”

  “Will it work?”

  “We’re about to find out, I think.”

  For the jury was already returning. They filed into place. The judge asked if they had a verdict. The foreman said that they had. He was told to give it.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said firmly.

  The judge cast his eyes to heaven. And the people in the courtroom erupted with glee.

  Eliot Master looked so happy as they left the court that Kate put her arm through his—a familiarity she would not have attempted normally, but one which was accepted.

  “This has been an important day in our history,” her father remarked. “I am glad, Kate, that you were here to see it. I think that tomorrow, we may safely depart for Boston. Indeed,” he continued, with a wry smile, “I have only one regret.”

  “What is it, Father?”

  “That tonight, we must sup with our cousins.”

  Young John Master turned into Broadway. He passed several people he knew, but gave them the briefest nod he could and kept his head down. As he passed Trinity Church, he glanced up. Its handsome Anglican tower seemed to look down on him with contempt. He wished he’d come up some other street.

  He didn’t need reminding he was worthless.

  The buttoned-up man from Boston had made that pretty clear yesterday. Politely, of course. But when the lawyer had learned that he’d read Robinson Crusoe, his patronizing “Well then, that is something” had said it all. The Boston man thought he was an idiot. John was used to it. The vicar at their church, the principal of his school, they were all the same.

  His father had always let him work in the business and enjoy the company of the mariners with whom he was comfortable. But only because he was kind, and accepted him as he was.

  His father and his teachers would have been surprised to know that, secretly, John had sometimes tried to study. If he could acquire some knowledge, he’d thought, one day he’d surprise them all. But it was no good. He would stare at the book, but the words would arise from the page in a meaningless blur; he would fidget, glance out of the window, look at the page again; try as he might, nothing ever seemed to make sense. Even when he did read a few pages, he’d find that soon afterward, he could remember nothing of what he’d read.

  God knows his father was no scholar either. John had watched him bluffing the Boston lawyer and his daughter as they talked about philosophers and the like. But at least his father knew enough to bluff. And even his father had been embarrassed when he hadn’t heard of Addison’s Cato. The note of reproach in his father’s voice had made him so ashamed.

  It wasn’t as if these people from Boston were from another world. He couldn’t just say: “These are lawyers, men of the cloth, nothing to do with a family like ours.” They were his own kith and kin. Close cousins. Kate was a girl of his own age. What must they think of their relations in New York?

  Not only that they were stupid and uneducated, but that they were common smugglers. Yes, he’d gone and blurted that out too, in his stupidity, to embarrass his father even more.

  But the worst moment, the memory that made him cringe, had been with the girl.

  The truth was that although he was pretty familiar with the girls he met with the sailors around the town, he’d always been rather shy with the girls from families like his own. They all knew that at school he’d been a fool. His manners were unpolished. Even with his fortune, he wasn’t considered much of a catch; and the knowledge that this was the case made him avoid the fashionable girls even more.

  But this girl from Boston was different. He’d seen that at once. She was nice-looking, but she was unaffected, and simple. And kind. He’d watched her ef
forts to draw him out of his shyness, and been grateful. Even if he hadn’t read the books she had, the way she spoke with her father, and her affection toward the lawyer, impressed him. She was everything, he supposed, that one day he’d like in a wife. While they talked, he’d even found himself thinking, was it possible that he could hope to marry someone like this? She was his second cousin. There was that between them. The thought of it was strangely exciting. Could it be that, despite his roughness, she might like him? Though Kate did not realize it, he was observing her closely. Each time the conversation exposed his ignorance, he told himself he was a fool even to think of her. Each time she was kind to him, he felt a new hope rising.

  Until she had laughed at him. He knew she hadn’t meant to—which made it even worse. “Harry who?” he’d asked, and despite herself, she had burst out laughing. He couldn’t blame her. He had made an utter fool of himself. In her eyes, he could never be anything but an oaf. And she was right. That’s all he was. It was useless.

  Now she and her father were coming to the house to sup with them again, and his father had told him not to be late.

  At the corner of the street ahead, there was a tavern. He went in.

  The mood at supper was festive. The whole city was rejoicing. Zenger the printer was free. Hamilton was the toast of the town. That very evening began the saying that would be repeated for generations to come: “If you’re in a tight spot, get a Philadelphia lawyer.”

  Dirk Master had produced his best wine; and Eliot, in a mellow mood, was glad to drink it. Though the evening supper was normally a much lighter meal than the formal afternoon dinner, the sideboard and table were soon piled with oysters, baked clams, cooked hams, cold cuts, sweetmeats, and more besides. Mrs. Master seemed less reserved than before. Though hardly a lover of literature, she discovered that Kate, like her, was an avid reader of popular women’s novellas, so they found plenty to talk about.

  There was only one puzzle. Where was young John Master?