“It’s hardly surprising therefore,” Albion wrote, “that the ministry should look to the American colonies, who so far have paid almost nothing, to contribute to the cost of their own defense. The new duty on sugar imposed last year only covers about an eighth of what’s needed.”
Master shook his head. The Sugar Act of the previous year had been a badly drafted mass of irritating regulations. The New Yorkers had been furious. However, it was at least the custom for the government to receive duties on trade, and he reckoned the grumbling would subside.
“So that is why it was proposed,” Albion continued, “that the tax upon stamps, which as you know we all pay here, should be extended to the colonies also.”
But a Stamp Act would not be a duty on trade. It was a tax. The tax itself was simple enough. Every legal document, every commercial contract and all printed matter in England required a payment to the government. The amount was not large. But it was still a tax.
If there was one principle that every good Englishman understood, it was that the king could not tax the people without their consent. And the colonists had not been asked.
“Nor was it very intelligent of the king’s ministers,” John had remarked to his wife, “to choose the one tax best calculated to irritate the merchants, lawyers and printers who run this place.”
When the first rumor of this proposal had reached America, a mass of complaints and petitions had been dispatched to London. In New York, Mayor Cruger had announced that the city council couldn’t afford the usual supplies of firewood for the English troops in the barracks. “We’ll let ’em freeze,” he had gleefully told Master. “That’ll make ’em think.” Moderate colonists like John Master had agreed that money had to be raised. “But let our proper representatives, the assemblies in each colony, work out how to do it,” they suggested. Ben Franklin thought that the colonies should meet together in a congress to devise a common solution. In London, the government then announced that the matter would be reviewed for a year. And there, Master had supposed, the matter rested. Until he read the rest of Albion’s letter.
I am concerned that your last letter speaks of consultation between the colonies and the ministry. For the king has placed the whole matter in the hands of the Prime Minister, Grenville; and though Grenville is honest and thorough, his nature is impatient and somewhat obstinate. I should caution you, therefore, that I have it on the best authority that Grenville has no thought of waiting for the colonies to propose anything. The Stamp Act will be law by Easter.
And that, John Master thought grimly, will put the cat among the pigeons. But having read the letter over again and thought about its implications, he decided that there was nothing more for him to do just then but take his daughter out for her walk, as he had promised her. He could consider the business further as he walked.
Having found her in the kitchen with Hudson, he told her to put on her coat, and when she asked very sweetly if Hudson might come too, he smiled and answered: “By all means, Abby. The exercise will do him good.”
Hudson was glad to be out. The wind was damp, but the sun was bright as they reached Broadway. He’d supposed they’d all go into Bowling Green, where Abigail could play; but today she said she wanted to walk instead. Hudson kept a couple of paces behind them. It gave him pleasure to see the tall, handsome man holding his little girl by the hand and to watch people smile as they greeted them. Abigail was dressed in a little gray cloak, and a pointed hat she’d been given, in the old Dutch style, of which she was very proud. Master was wearing a brown, homespun coat, well cut of course, but plain.
If John Master dressed plainly, nowadays, Hudson knew it was by design. Some months ago, word had arrived of a new group of dandies in London. Macaronis, they called themselves. They had taken to parading round London’s West End and their extravagant plumed hats and jeweled swords had caused quite a scandal. “Since every London fashion comes to New York by the next boat,” John had warned his friends, “we’d better be careful.” Such public extravagance could only be an offense to most people in hard-pressed New York. “Don’t let any of your family dress up like a Macaroni,” he had urged. “It’s not the time.”
John Master had been one of a group who’d taken the lead in promoting local cloth and linen manufacture in the city; and in recent months, instead of the fashionable cloths and bright silk waistcoats he had always favored before, he’d made a point of wearing good American-made homespun whenever he went out.
By the time they got to Trinity, he thought they’d turn back, but little Abigail said she wanted to go further. I’ll have to carry her back, Hudson thought with a smile. They were coming into the poorer quarter of the town now, toward the Common. Hudson wondered if it was wise to go up here. He decided to walk beside them. A little way ahead was Montayne’s Tavern.
There was quite a crowd of fellows—mariners, laborers and small craftsmen—drinking in the street by the tavern doors. Seeing this crowd, Abigail glanced up at Hudson uncertainly. He smiled. “They won’t do you no harm,” he told her.
“I used to go into places like that all the time, when I was young,” Master remarked cheerfully. And they had just come level with the door, when he saw a face that made him exclaim: “Why, it’s Charlie White.” And taking Abby by the hand, he told her: “Come, Abby, you shall meet an old friend of mine.” And he strode across and called out: “Charlie!”
Hudson was maybe twenty feet away while he watched what happened next.
Charlie White turned and stared.
“Charlie. You haven’t forgotten me?”
Charlie went on staring.
“Charlie, this is my little girl, Abigail. Say how d’ye do, Abby, to my friend Mr. White.”
Charlie hardly glanced at Abigail. Then, deliberately, he spat on the ground in front of Master. Hudson saw Master going red. Charlie was turning to the men in front of the tavern.
“This here is Mr. Master,” he called out. “Neighbor of the governor’s. Son’s in England. At Oxford University. Whadda ya think of that?”
The men were giving Master ugly looks. Someone made a rude noise. Hudson tensed.
“What’s this about, Charlie?” cried Master. But Charlie White seemed to ignore the question. Then, suddenly, he thrust his face, contorted with hatred, into Master’s.
“I ain’t your friend, you two-faced Englishman. You get outta here.” He glanced down at Abigail in her tall hat. “And take your little witch with you.”
Abigail was looking up at them both, wide-eyed. She began to cry. Hudson started to move forward.
But with a shrug of disgust, Master turned away. Moments later, they were walking rapidly down Broadway. Hudson picked Abby up and let her cling to his neck. Master was stony-faced, and wasn’t speaking.
“Who was that wicked man?” Abby whispered to Hudson.
“Don’ you mind him,” he told her softly. “He’s a little crazy.”
For some days after this humiliation, John Master was in a state of anger. If it hadn’t been for the number of Charlie’s friends, who might have joined in, and the fact that his little daughter was there, he would probably have struck Charlie. As it was, his little girl had been frightened, and his dignity had suffered considerably.
He was also mystified. Why should his old friend hate him so much? What did Charlie’s anger mean? Several times in the next couple of weeks he wondered whether to go round and have it out with Charlie. And had he done so, perhaps he might have discovered the truth. But a lifetime’s experience—that it was better to leave trouble alone—and his own wounded pride prevented him.
One thing was clear, however. The mood in the city was uglier than he’d thought. He’d seen the faces of the men with Charlie at the tavern, and their venomous looks had shaken him. He knew of course that men like Charlie had no love for the rich, Anglican, Trinity crowd, especially when times were hard. He understood if they despised corrupt royal governors. So did he. But when Charlie had called him an Englishman, a
nd used the term with such hatred, he’d been taken aback. After all, the way he saw it, Charlie and he were both English colonists, the same as each other.
He’d always prided himself on his knowledge of men like Charlie. Had he allowed himself, in the years since his return from London, to get out of touch with the city streets? He realized that perhaps he had, and decided he’d better do something about it. In the following weeks, he spent more time talking to the men at the warehouse. He chatted to stallholders in the market, went into the taverns near his house and listened to what people were saying. He soon ascertained that the bad feeling was more widespread than he’d supposed. Everyone seemed discontented. Whatever was wrong with their lives, people were blaming the government. And the government was in London.
So he was greatly concerned, late that spring, when news arrived that the Stamp Act was law.
Even then, the protests surprised him. Down in Virginia, a young lawyer named Patrick Henry had set the assembly there ablaze when he called King George a tyrant. A furious councilman Master met in the street told him: “So now we know, John. Those damned fellows in London mean us to be slaves.” And it seemed that the poor folk were just as furious about the measure. It was strange in a way, Master considered. It was true that newspapers and almanacs would be taxed, but he suspected it would be his own class who’d pay most of the stamp duty, rather than fellows like Charlie. But it seemed that the tax was a symbol: an imposition from London, levied without consent; proof positive that the British government thought it could treat the colonies as it liked.
The act was due to go into effect at the start of November. Meanwhile, shipments of officially stamped paper were being sent from England.
If New Yorkers were angry, they certainly weren’t alone. Word came that in Boston a mob had burned the stamp distributor’s house. His counterparts in Rhode Island and Connecticut were threatened. The New York distributor didn’t wait for trouble. He quit.
New York had an acting governor at present. Cadwallader Colden was an old Scottish physician with a farm on Long Island. Years ago, his research into yellow fever had helped produce the first sanitation measures in the city, but that was of no account now. An angry crowd gathered to protest outside his city house. Colden might be seventy-seven, but he was a tough old Scot. He summoned British troops from upriver, and put more guns in Fort George. But that didn’t stop the protests.
One day, Master caught sight of Charlie leading a crowd of angry men by the fort. Remembering Charlie’s angry words, he told Mercy: “Keep Abby indoors. I’m afraid there could be trouble.”
That afternoon, he gathered the household together. Besides Mercy and Abigail, there was Hudson of course, and Ruth. Hudson’s daughter Hannah was a quiet girl who worked in the house with her mother. Young Solomon was quite a different character, a lively youth who liked it when Master hired him out and gave him some of the proceeds. Three other hired servants made up the rest.
Calmly and quietly, Master told them that he wanted everyone to be careful while there was trouble in the streets, and to stay safely in the house during the coming days, and not go out without permission. Only afterward did Hudson come to him and ask if he might go out to see if he could learn a little more. To this he agreed. And when Hudson returned at dusk, the black man warned him: “After dark, Boss, I think we better close the shutters and bolt the doors.”
That evening, down in the cellar, he and Hudson looked over the household’s defenses. Master had two fowling pieces, which fired shot, a flintlock and three pistols. He had dry powder and ammunition. But none of these guns had been used for a long time, and so they spent an hour or more cleaning and oiling them. Master could only hope they would never be needed.
One ray of hope came from New York’s Provincial Assembly. There were still sensible fellows leading the colony, and Master was relieved when one of the Assembly men came to him in late summer and told him: “We’ve agreed that a congress of all the colonies shall meet in New York.”
The congress met in October. Twenty-seven men from nine of the colonies stayed in various lodgings in the town and met together for two weeks. He would see them in the street each day. They all seemed to be sober fellows. When they had completed their work, their conclusion was carefully framed but unequivocal. In petitions to Parliament, and to the king himself, they declared: “The Stamp Act is against the British Constitution.”
If John Master had hoped this would calm the situation, however, he was soon disappointed. Many of the merchants still weren’t satisfied, and Charlie White and his sort were spoiling for trouble. It didn’t help that the very day the congress finished, a ship arrived in the harbor carrying the first two tons of stamped paper to be used under the act. Old Governor Colden wisely smuggled the cargo into the fort under cover of darkness, but that didn’t get rid of the problem. Crowds swirled round the fort, threatening leaflets were printed, people hung flags at half mast all round the town. There was only a week to go before the act came into force and the stamped paper would be used. God knows what would happen then.
At the end of the month, Master attended a meeting of two hundred of the city’s leading merchants. Some, like himself, counseled patience, but the mood of the meeting was clean against them. When he got back he told Mercy: “They’ve decided on a non-importation agreement. We’ll refuse to import any more goods from Britain. That’s clever, of course, because it will hit the London merchants like Albion, and they in turn will put pressure on Parliament. But I wish we hadn’t done it, all the same.”
On the last night of October, he stood by the water’s edge under the stars. At the tip of Manhattan, the squat, black mass of Fort George, now armed with ninety cannon, silently guarded the stamped papers from England. Tomorrow those papers were due to be distributed. In five days’ time, it would be the Fifth of November—Pope’s Day, with its usual bonfires, no doubt. But what larger conflagration, he wondered, might be about to engulf the city before then?
The day began. The sky was clear. A faint, cold breeze crossed the harbor. He walked over to Bowling Green. All was quiet. He returned to the house, had breakfast with Mercy and Abigail, then attended to business for some hours.
At noon, he went out again. There were people about, but no sign of trouble. He went to the fort. There was no word that old Governor Colden was attempting to distribute any of the stamped papers. Thank God for that at least. He went back to his house, and settled down to work again.
There was much to do. The non-importation agreement would hit his business with London, of course. But it also opened up opportunities. Like any sensible businessman, Master had been listing the goods that would no longer be obtainable in New York. Which of these could be manufactured locally? What were the likely substitutes? What should he do, meanwhile, with the balance of credit held for him by Albion in London? These were interesting questions. In the middle of the afternoon, Hudson came in to inquire if he wanted anything. Master asked for tea, and told Hudson to send the boy out, to see if anything was happening in the town. Then he went back to work. He did not know how long he had been working when Hudson entered the room again.
“Solomon’s back, Boss. He says something’s happening up on the Common.”
Master strode swiftly up Broadway. The November afternoon was already turning into dusk. In his right hand, he held his silver-topped walking stick. He strode past Trinity Church. He could see Montayne’s Tavern ahead, and the Common beyond. But he got no farther.
The crowd that was streaming toward him must have numbered a couple of thousand people. By the look of it, they were mostly the poorer sort—small craftsmen, sailors, freed slaves and laborers. In the middle of this procession, he saw a large cart like a carnival float. He drew to one side, to let them pass.
It was hard to gauge their mood. They looked truculent, rather than angry, he thought. Many were laughing and joking. As for the carnival float, in its way it was a work of art.
For anticipating Pope
’s Day, they had constructed a splendid mock gallows. Except that, instead of the Pope, they had made a large, and really very lifelike, dummy of Governor Colden, with another dummy of the devil sitting beside him. The governor held a huge sheaf of stamped papers in his hand, and he also carried a drum. Despite himself, John acknowledged the grim humor of the thing. Obviously they intended to burn the governor instead of the Pope this year. The question was, what else did they mean to do? Joining the throng of spectators who were moving along beside the procession, he kept pace with the float as it went down Broadway.
He had gone about a quarter-mile when he heard the roars. They were coming from a side street, and they were rapidly getting louder. Something was approaching, but he couldn’t see what.
The hideous crowd that suddenly debouched into Broadway from the west side must have been several hundred strong. They, too, had an effigy, but of a different kind. Lurching wildly about on a pile of wood was a huge and obscene-looking dummy of the governor, looking more like a pirate than a pope. With Indian whoops and cries, this second procession, like a stream in spate meeting a river, crashed into the main body, causing a massive eddy. The first float rolled like a vessel that has been struck amidships, though it righted itself.
Many of the new crowd were carrying lanterns and torches. Some had clubs. Whatever they were going to do, they clearly meant business. And now, with the pressure of this new addition, the tide of the procession picked up speed so that John Master, even with his long legs, had to stride as fast as he could to keep up.
As the two effigies of the old governor passed Trinity almost side by side, he was able to get a good look at the second cart—and realized to his horror that it was not an ordinary cart at all. The wood on which the dummy sat had been piled up in no less a vehicle than the governor’s carriage. God knows how the mob had managed to steal it. He saw a figure clamber up into the carriage. The figure was waving a cocked hat and shouting wildly to the crowd. It was Charlie White. And there was no doubt where they were headed. Reaching the southern end of Broadway, they made straight for the fort.
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