“In fact, she’s not a Quaker,” he’d told them. He’d supposed she must be, when they first met. After all, her family was recently arrived from Philadelphia, and she addressed people as “thee” and “thou.” But before long, he had learned that though her father had been a Quaker once, he had been read out of the meeting for marrying a member of the Anglican Church. He was a member of no congregation now. But though he let his Anglican wife take their children to that church, he insisted that at home, the family use most of the Quaker customs that he loved.
“Thee is talking to a Quaker in all but name,” Mercy had told John with a smile. “Philadelphia has many mixed families like ours. We never let ideas disturb us too much, down there.”
The first thing John had noticed was that this Quaker girl paid no attention to his looks. Most girls did. Since he had become more successful, his earlier awkwardness with young women of his own class had disappeared. When he entered a room, most female eyes were upon him. Sometimes when young women met him, they blushed. But Mercy Brewster didn’t. She just looked him calmly in the eye and spoke to him naturally.
She seemed to have no particular sense of her own looks, either. She was just an ordinary girl, somewhat short, with curly hair parted in the middle, and brown eyes set wide apart. She was matter-of-fact, at peace with herself. He had never met anyone like this before.
There had been one anxious moment.
“I like to read,” she had said, the first time he had called on her, and his heart sank. It was not any book of philosophy she showed him, however, but the jolly Almanack of Ben Franklin, the Philadelphia printer. Even he could dip into that book of stories and jokes with pleasure.
For months he’d just thought of her as a friend. He’d call at her house, in an easy, familiar manner. If they met at someone else’s house, he’d chat with her, and scarcely realize that he’d spent more time in her company than with anyone else. Their conversations were never romantic. They talked of everyday things, and business matters. Like most Quaker girls she was brought up, in a quiet way, to be the equal of any man; and she certainly had a good head for business. When she asked him about shipping, she showed a quick and intelligent grasp of anything he told her. She did not flirt with him; and he did not flirt with her. She did not challenge him; she seemed content to accept him exactly as he was. He felt easy, and happy in her presence.
Once or twice, he had found himself giving her an affectionate smile, or touching her shoulder lightly, in a way that might have invited a response. But she had always chosen to treat these as signs of friendship, and nothing more. Indeed, he’d even wondered recently if she might deliberately be keeping him at a distance.
It was when they went to the preaching that everything changed.
Many times in Christianity’s history there have been charismatic preachers: men who gather others to them and inspire more, so that a movement begins—each movement, like a river in flood, leaving a rich deposit of fertile soil for future generations.
John Master had heard of the Wesley brothers some years ago. Inspired by an intense faith and a desire to preach, they and some Oxford friends had begun an evangelical movement within the Anglican Church. In 1736, John Wesley had arrived in the American colonies, at Savannah, Georgia, hoping to convert the native American Indians there. And although he’d returned somewhat disappointed after a couple of years, he had immediately been replaced in Georgia by his Oxford friend George Whitefield. Meanwhile, the Wesleys’ evangelical mission in England was quietly growing. Texts of their sermons had crossed the Atlantic to Philadelphia, Boston and New York. Some churchmen thought the movement unseemly, and contemptuously referred to these earnest young men as “Methodists.” But many more were inspired by their fervent preaching.
In the summer of 1739, after a visit to consult with the Wesleys in England, George Whitefield had returned to spread the word more widely in the colonies. His first stop had been in Philadelphia.
“He is quite remarkable, you know,” Mercy told John Master.
“You went to hear him preach?”
“Of course I did. I went with Ben Franklin, who is a friend of his. For you may be sure,” she added with a smile, “that Mr. Franklin does not allow any person of celebrity to remain a day in Philadelphia without his making their acquaintance.”
“He impressed you?”
“Very much. His voice is powerful, and has such clarity of tone that they say he can be heard a mile away—like Our Lord at the Sermon on the Mount, I suppose. And though the words themselves are such as other preachers use, he has a way of describing scenes so that you feel you see them directly before your eyes. It is very affecting. He spoke in the open to a crowd of thousands. Many were quite overcome.”
“Was Mr. Franklin overcome?”
“Before we set off, he said to me: ‘Whitefield is a good fellow, but I shall not allow myself to be led by the nose. So you see, I have taken all the money out of my pocket. Then I cannot be tempted to give him anything until my head is cool.’”
“Franklin gave him nothing, then?”
“Quite the contrary. Mr. Whitefield was collecting for the orphans in Georgia, and by the end of the preaching, Mr. Franklin was so excited he made me lend him money to put in the collection. He paid me back, of course,” she added.
Whitefield had come to New York twice. The Anglicans and the Dutch Reform dominies would not let him speak in their churches. But a Presbyterian minister welcomed him. He also preached out of doors. Not everyone cared for his message. When he spoke of the need to minister to the slaves, some thought he was stirring up trouble. Then, last November, he had come to the city again.
“Won’t you come to hear him?” Mercy asked.
“I don’t think I care to,” John replied.
“I should like to see him preach out of doors again,” she said. “But I can’t go out in that crowd all alone. It would be kind if you would accompany me,” she added, a little reproachfully.
John could hardly refuse after that.
It was a chilly autumn day as they walked up Broadway. They passed Trinity Church and the Presbyterian Meeting House. A few streets more, and they went by the Quakers’ Meeting House. Some way further, where the old Indian road forked away to the right, the big, triangular space of the Common began. And it was out onto the Common, despite the cold, that streams of people were flowing. By the time John and Mercy arrived, they found a huge crowd already assembled.
A high wooden platform had been set up in the middle of the Common. There were all kinds of folk there: respectable merchants and their families, craftsmen, apprentices, sailors, laborers, slaves. Looking about, John reckoned over five thousand had already gathered, with more arriving all the time.
Though they waited more than half an hour, the crowd was well behaved and remarkably quiet. The sense of anticipation was keen. Then at last, a group of half a dozen men was seen walking toward the platform; and when they reached it, one of them mounted the steps and faced the crowd. John had expected some sort of introduction, but there was nothing. No hymns, no prayers. In a loud voice, proclaiming a passage from the scripture, the preacher went straight to his work.
George Whitefield was dressed in a simple black robe with white clerical tabs. He wore a long wig. Yet even from where they stood, John could see that the preacher was still in his twenties.
But with what confidence he preached the word. He told them of the story of Lazarus, who was raised from the dead. He cited the scripture and other authorities at some length, but in a manner that was easy to follow. The crowd listened intently, respectful of his learning. Then he painted the scene, graphically. He did not hold back. Imagine the body, he told them, not only dead in the tomb, but stinking. Imagine that they were there. Again, he went over the scene, so vividly that it seemed to John Master that he, too, could smell that rotting body.
Yet consider the spiritual message of the episode, Whitefield urged them—not only that a miracle was wrough
t. For was not Lazarus like every one of them? Stinking in sin, and dead to God, unless they let Christ raise them up again. And John, despite himself, could not help thinking of his own, dissolute past, and sensing the deep emotional truth in what the preacher said.
Next, Whitefield chided them—for their sin, and for their sloth, in failing to turn from evil. He raised every objection that could be thought of, as to why a man might not come to God, and answered them, every one. And then, having left his audience moved, shamed and with nowhere to hide, he began his exhortation.
“Come,” his voice started to rise, “haste ye away and walk with God. Stop,” he boomed in a mighty voice, full of emotion, “stop, oh sinner. Turn ye, turn ye, oh ye unconverted man. Make no longer tarrying, I say, step not one step further in your present walk.” The crowd was with him now. He had them in his hand. “Farewell, lust of the flesh,” he cried, “I will no more walk with thee. Farewell, pride of life. Oh, that there may be in you such a mind! God will set His mighty hand to it. Yes He will.” And now his voice was rising into an ecstasy, and all around the crowd, faces were looking up, some shining, some with tears in their eyes. “The judge is before the door. He that cometh will come and will not tarry.” Now he called to them, now was the time, now the very hour that should lead to their salvation. “And we shall all shine as stars in the firmament in the kingdom of Our heavenly Father, forever and ever …”
Had he summoned them to come forward to him at that moment, had he told them to fall to their knees, most of them would have done it.
And against his will John Master, too, had tears in his eyes; and a great, warm tide of emotion swept through him. And he glanced down at Mercy beside him, and saw in her face such a radiant goodness, such a calm certainty, that it seemed to him that if he could only be with her all his life, he should know a love, and happiness, and peace that he had never known before.
That was when he had decided to marry her.
His parents had begged him to wait before declaring his love. Come to know her better, and be certain, they counseled. They had some idea that the emotions stirred by Whitefield’s preaching had had a part in this, were glad when the evangelist left the city soon afterward, and gladder still, this spring, that he had not returned.
Meanwhile, John had continued to see Mercy as usual.
But even if he had been careful not to declare himself, she couldn’t have failed to be aware, by the spring, that the growing affection on his side might lead to more than friendship. For him, this cautious courtship was a new experience. His affairs with women had so far tended to be straightforward, and to resolve themselves speedily, one way or the other. But this gradual evolution, during which he studied her, and came to appreciate her qualities more each day, led him into a realm where he had not been before. By Easter, he was deeply in love, and she must know it. Only the general turbulence in the city had delayed him from declaring his love already. That, and one other thing.
He was not sure his affection was returned.
There was nothing coy about Mercy Brewster; and she knew her own mind. Yet he did not know how she felt about him. She had given him no sign. All he could tell was that she loved him as a friend, and that there was something, whatever it might be, that made her hesitant about encouraging him further. Recently, he had made his intentions very clear. He had given her signs of affection, let his arm slip around her waist, given her chaste kisses, and nearly more than that. But, though not entirely discouraging these advances, there had been a subtle reluctance, a quiet distancing of herself, that was more than merely Quaker propriety.
Well, it was time to bring matters to a head. He had let her know that he meant to call that evening, and that he desired a private interview with her, so she knew what must be coming. But he wasn’t sure what her answer was going to be.
No wonder then if, under his silk waistcoat, he put on the wampum belt, to bring him luck.
Mercy Brewster waited. She was neatly dressed and she looked well enough. And that, she had decided, would have to do.
She’d talked to her parents about John Master long ago. After all, her father would have to give his permission. Mr. Brewster was uncertain about the young man’s morals, but not too much against him. Her mother knew John’s parents and, besides their wealth, of which no one could be unaware, considered them respectable.
If John Master felt easy in the company of Mercy Brewster, it was not so surprising. She’d been raised in a city of comfortable charm. Though only founded late in the seventeenth century, Philadelphia was so well placed to serve the markets of the south, and so ready to welcome newcomers of different creeds and nations, that it had already surpassed both Boston and New York in size. And perhaps because, unlike the poor, rock-strewn land of Massachusetts, Philadelphia lay in some of the richest pasture in America, it was an easy-going place. Religion had also played a part. The Quakers who were so prominent in the city were by avocation gentle, private folk—quite unlike the harsh Puritans who had founded Boston, and who had always considered it their calling to judge and order the lives of others.
If a man in Philadelphia cared to read, well enough, so long as he didn’t seek to impose his books on you. Too much learning, too much attainment, too much success, too much of anything that might disturb the leafy quiet and genteel comfort of its deep pastures and broad valleys was, from its beginnings, anathema to happy Philadelphia. If John Master knew his business, and came from a good family, and was a friendly sort of fellow, then that was all a nice Philadelphia girl required.
John Master was wrong about one thing, though. He thought Mercy hadn’t noticed that he looked like a Greek god. Of course she had! The very first time he spoke to her, it had taken all Mercy’s sound Quaker upbringing to keep a calm countenance. I must see the inner man, not the outer show, she had reminded herself, again and again. Yet how was it possible, she wondered, that this divine-looking being wants to spend time with a plain little person like me? For a long time, she had assumed that he saw her as a harmless friend. No one could suppose there was more to it than that. When, once or twice, he had given hints of something further, she had wondered whether he might be trifling with her. But even when it seemed his feelings might be stronger, there was still one thing that worried Mercy Brewster.
She was not sure that he was kind. Oh, he was kind enough in a general, everyday sort of way. He loved his parents. He seemed to have some honest friends. But in this regard, the Quaker girl was more demanding than John knew. Had he shown, she asked herself, true thought for others, anywhere in his life? He was young, of course, and the young are selfish; but on this point she must be satisfied.
This doubt was not something she could let him know. If he suspected her concern, it would have been too easy for him to contrive some gesture that would satisfy her. All she could do was to watch, and wait, and hope. For without this reassurance, she could not love him.
He never guessed it, but the preaching they had attended on the Common had been a test. If he’d refused to go, she would have quietly withdrawn herself, secretly closed an inner door, remained a friend, but nothing more. During Whitefield’s sermon, though John had not noticed, she had been watching him. She had seen how he was moved, seen the tears in his eyes, and been pleased. He is good, she had told herself. His heart is warm. But was this only when he was moved by Whitefield’s preaching, or was it something more serious and solid? She continued to observe him. Even after it became plain that he was ready to confess his love for her, she would not allow herself to be moved from this point, and she continued to be uncertain, and to maintain her distance from him.
And this was not easy for her since, for some months now, she had been completely, and agonizingly, in love.
This evening he was coming. She knew what he was going to say. But she still was not sure what she was going to answer.
Young Hudson hadn’t been having any luck. He’d tried a few inns, but been told there was no room. There were some disre
putable places where he knew he could stay, but he’d avoided those so far. He’d gone to the house of a tailor he knew, hoping to get a berth there, but the man had left the city because times were bad. Another friend, a free black man like himself, had been thrown in jail. He’d been on his way to a ropemaker he knew when, passing by Vesey Street, he’d made a terrible mistake.
He’d noticed the smoking chimney at once. It belonged to a house a few doors down the street. Even in the gathering darkness, he could see the thick black smoke coming out of it, although he saw no sign of any flames. Somebody had better take a look at that, he’d thought, but not wanting to get involved, he’d been going on his way when the two watchmen came round the corner.
They saw the smoke too. And they saw a black man. And they stared at him. They were staring at him hard.
And then he’d panicked.
He knew what they were thinking. Was he a black man starting a fire? He could stay where he was, of course, and protest he was innocent. But would they believe him? In any case, with the ship’s captain looking for him, he hardly wanted to be questioned by the authorities. There was only one thing to do. He took to his heels and ran. The watchmen shouted and came after him, but he was faster than they were. A quick turn down an alley, over a wall, down another alleyway, and he’d lost them.
He was halfway along Ferry Street now, hoping he was safe, when he heard the footsteps hurrying behind him, and turned to see the two watchmen.
For a moment, he wondered what to do. Should he run? He might get away, but if he didn’t, then running would confirm his guilt. Could they even be sure, in the darkness, that he was the black man they’d seen in the other street? Probably not. But they mightn’t care about that. He hesitated, and was on the point of fleeing again, when he saw that another man was now coming toward him, from the other end of the street. Quite a big, fit-looking man, carrying a silver-topped stick. If he fled, and the watchmen gave chase, the man with the stick would probably catch him. There was nothing to do but stand his ground, with what dignity he could.
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