From the edge of Bowling Green, Master watched them. With torches lighted in the gathering dusk, they yelled abuse at the governor. He saw a party of them run forward and nail a message on the fort’s big wooden door. Then, surging all around the fort, the crowd started throwing sticks, stones, anything they could lay their hands on, at the walls of Fort George, fairly daring the governor to fire upon them.
If the troops fire on them now, thought Master, they’ll burn the whole place down. But the garrison remained silent, behind their stout walls.
The crowd wanted action though, and they meant to have it. With whoops and shouts, a large group began to drag the two effigies of the governor back onto Bowling Green. Another party was bringing bales of straw to the green; moments later, he saw flames starting to rise. They were setting fire to the effigies, burning the float, governor’s carriage and all. Almost forgetting the danger, he found himself watching the bonfires, fascinated like a child. Until he heard a voice hiss by his side.
“Enjoying the bonfire?” It was Charlie. His face, gleaming menacingly in the light of the flames, contorted into a snarl. “After the fort, we’re coming for you.”
Master was so horrified that for a moment he could not speak; and by the time he said, “But Charlie …” it was too late. Charlie had gone.
He was glad to see, when he reached his house, that all the shutters were closed. Once inside, he told Hudson to bolt the doors. Everyone knew what was passing at the fort nearby, and Mercy looked at him anxiously. “I got the guns ready, Boss,” Hudson whispered to him. But he shook his head, and murmured: “There’s too many. Better not provoke ’em. But if they come, you and Solomon take all the women down to the cellar.” The worst moment was when Abigail, her eyes wide and round, asked him: “Is the bad man who hates you coming to kill us?”
“No such thing, child.” He smiled. “We’ll all go into the parlor now, and I’ll read you a story.”
So he and Mercy and Hudson’s wife and the other household servants all went and sat in the parlor. And John read to them from the children’s tales that Abigail liked. But Hudson and young Solomon kept watch on the street from the windows upstairs.
An hour passed, and more. From time to time they heard roars from the direction of the fort, but the crowds did not seem to be coming in their direction. Eventually, Hudson came down, and said: “Sounds like they’re going away. Maybe I’ll take a look.” But Master wasn’t sure whether to let him.
“I don’t want you getting hurt,” he objected.
“It ain’t the black men, Boss, that they’re after tonight,” Hudson answered quietly. A few moments later he slipped out into the street.
An hour passed before he returned. The news he brought was not good. After burning the effigies of the governor, the crowd had swung back up Broadway to the house of Major James, the fort’s English artillery commander. “They took everything out of his house—china, furniture, books. Smashed all they could and burned the rest. You never saw such destruction.”
Things quietened down in the next few days. Old Colden had the stock of stamped paper transferred to the City Hall, where it remained. But before Christmas, a new force arose. Its leaders were a mixed group. Some, Master considered, were just troublemakers like Charlie. One, to his certain knowledge, had originally been a convict. But others were more formidable. Two of them, Sears and McDougall, were fellows who’d worked their way up in the privateering trade from poverty to modest wealth, but were still close enough to their roots to carry the mob with them. They made their headquarters at Montayne’s Tavern. And they had a program. “First we’ll make a union with all the other colonies. Then to hell with London—we’ll repeal the Stamp Act ourselves!” They had a stirring name for their movement, too: the Sons of Liberty.
The Liberty Boys, John Master called them. Sometimes they used reason, sometimes they used force. One night when John and Mercy were at a play, a crowd of Liberty Boys came and broke up the theater, telling the astonished patrons that they shouldn’t be enjoying themselves when the rest of the city was suffering. At other times, they patrolled the docks to make sure that no one was receiving any goods from England.
The Provincial Assembly was horrified by the trouble in the streets, voted generous compensation to Major James for the destruction of his property, and did its best to control the mobs. Though the Assembly was divided into two main factions, the two faction leaders, Livingston and De Lancey, were both rich gentlemen and friendly with John Master. And each told him: “We gentlemen have got to stop these Liberty Boys getting out of hand.” But it wasn’t easy.
Master received some small hope from Albion. In London, the English merchant told him, the obstinate Grenville had been replaced by a new prime minister, Lord Rockingham, who was sympathetic to the colonies and wanted to get rid of the Stamp Act. Others felt the same. “But they are so troubled by the radicals and our own London mob at present, that they fear to make concessions which might look like weakness. Be patient therefore.”
Try telling that, John thought, to the Liberty Boys.
He had to endure another six weeks before a ship finally arrived with the news: Parliament had repealed the act.
The city was jubilant. The Sons of Liberty called it a triumph. The Assembly voted that a new and splendid statue of King George should be erected on Bowling Green. The merchants rejoiced that trade could resume once more. Master was astonished at how suddenly the mood of the population could swing.
But though he was glad of this news, John Master could not rejoice with a full heart. For the same ship had brought another letter. It was from James.
My dear Father,
As I shall shortly complete my studies at Oxford, the question arises as to what I should do. Mr. Albion has suggested that, if I wish, and if you are agreeable, I might learn something of our business by working for him for a while. As you know, he has extensive trade not only with the American colonies, but with India too, and most parts of the empire. Though I long to return to the bosom of my family and be with you all again, I cannot help reflect that it would be greatly to our advantage if I were to remain here for a while. I could lodge, for the time being, with Mr. Albion. But of course, I shall in all things be guided by your wishes.
Your obedient son,
James
Having read the letter to himself, alone in his office, Master kept it with him for several days before sharing its contents with his wife. He wanted to think about it first.
It was one evening almost a week later that he came into the parlor where his dear Mercy and little Abigail were sitting. He had just been perusing the letter again, and now he gazed at them thoughtfully. It would be hard, he considered, for any man to love his wife and daughter more than he did. Yet only now did he realize how greatly he had been looking forward to the return of his son.
It hadn’t occurred to him that James wouldn’t want to come home. You couldn’t blame the boy, of course. He obviously loved London. And even with the Stamp Act repealed, it remained to be seen how matters would shape themselves in New York. James might be better off in London.
So what should he do? Should he consult Mercy? What if she demanded James come home, when the boy so obviously didn’t want to? No, that would do no good. James might return unwillingly, and then be resentful of his mother. Better, it seemed to John Master, to take the decision himself. If Mercy blamed him, well, so be it.
But he could not help wondering, as he looked sadly at his wife and daughter: Would he ever see his son again?
The Loyalist
1770
YOUNG GREY ALBION stood at the door of the room. James Master smiled at him. Besides the fact that Grey was like a younger brother, it always amused him that young Albion’s hair was always a mess.
“You aren’t coming out, James?”
“I must write a letter.”
As Grey departed, James sighed. The letter wasn’t going to be easy. Though he always added a brief note to the reg
ular reports Albion sent his father, he realized with shame that he hadn’t written a proper letter to his parents in over a year. The letter he must now compose had better be long, and he hoped it would give them pleasure. The real reason for writing, however, he would save until the end.
He wasn’t sure they were going to like it.
“My dear parents,” he wrote, then paused. How should he begin?
John Master had never had a quarrel with his wife. Yet on this bright spring day, he was very close to it. How could she think of such a thing? His look signaled reproach, but in fact he was furious.
“I beg you not to go!” he protested.
“Thee cannot mean such a thing, John,” she answered.
“Can’t you see it makes me look a damn fool?”
How could she not understand? Last year, when they’d invited him to be a vestryman at Trinity, he’d been flattered. The appointment carried prestige, but also obligations—one of which, quite certainly, was not to have your wife openly attending a meeting with a mob of Dissenters. Five years ago, it mightn’t have been so bad, but times had changed. Dissenters were trouble.
“Please do not blaspheme, John.”
“You are my wife,” he burst out. “I demand that you obey me.”
She paused, looking down, weighing her words carefully.
“I am sorry, John,” she said quietly, “but there is a higher authority than thee. Do not forbid me to hear the word of God.”
“And you want to take Abigail?”
“I do.”
He shook his head. He knew better than to argue with his wife’s conscience. He had enough on his mind without dealing with that.
“Go then,” he cried in exasperation. “But not with my blessing.” Or my thanks, he added under his breath. And he turned his back on her until she left.
As John Master surveyed his world in the spring of 1770, he was sure of one thing. There had never been a time when the colony had greater need of good men, with good will, and cool heads. Five years ago, when Livingston and De Lancey from the Assembly had spoken of the need for the gentlemen to control the Liberty Boys, they’d been right. But they hadn’t managed to do it.
The main factions in the Provincial Assembly had divided on more or less English political lines for a long time now. De Lancey and his rich Anglican crowd were generally called Tories, and they reckoned that Master, as a vestryman of Trinity with a son at Oxford, was one of them. The Whigs, led by Livingston and a group of Presbyterian lawyers, might stand up for the common man and oppose anything they considered an abuse of royal authority, but they were still level-headed gentlemen. As a moderate, non-partisan fellow, John Master had plenty of friends among them too.
So surely, he’d felt, if decent men like himself used common sense, the affairs of the colonies could be set in good order. But it hadn’t happened. The last five years had been a disaster.
For a short time, when the Stamp Act had been repealed, he had hoped that good sense might prevail. He’d been one of those who’d urged the Assembly to supply provisions to the British troops again.
“God knows,” he’d pointed out to one of the Assembly Whigs, “we need the troops, and they have to be fed and paid.”
“Can’t do it, John,” was the reply. “Point of principle. It’s a tax we haven’t agreed to.”
“So why don’t we just agree to it?” he’d asked.
But if he could see why the ministers in London felt the colonies were being obstructive, why did the London men, in turn, have to be so arrogant?
For their next move had been an insult. It had come from a new minister, named Townshend: a series of duties, slapped on a whole range of items including paper, glass and tea. “New minister, new tax,” Master sighed. “Can’t they play any other tune?” But the sting was in the tail. The money raised wasn’t only to pay for the troops. It would be used to pay the salaries of the provincial governors and their officials too.
And, of course, the New York Whigs were furious.
“The governors have always been paid by our elected Assembly,” they protested. “It’s the one thing that gives us some control over them. If the governors are all paid from London, they can ignore us entirely.”
“It’s obvious, John,” a fellow merchant told him. “London wants to destroy us.” And then he had added: “So to hell with them.”
In no time, the merchants were refusing to trade with London again. The Assembly, it seemed to Master, was losing its way. But worst of all had been the damned Sons of Liberty. Charlie White and his friends. They’d practically taken over the streets.
They’d erected a huge Liberty Pole, tall as a ship’s mast, on the Bowling Green, right in front of the fort. They were always having fights with the redcoats there. If the soldiers took the pole down, the Liberty Boys would raise another one, even bigger, a totem of triumph and defiance. And the Assembly men were now so frightened that they pandered to them. Some of the Liberty boys were even standing for election themselves. “If we’re not careful,” Master warned, “this city will be governed by the mob.”
On top of all this had come the trouble with the Dissenters.
Master didn’t mind Dissenters. There had always been plenty in New York: respectable Presbyterians, the Huguenot congregation of the French church, and the Dutch of course. Then there were Lutherans and Moravians, Methodists and Quakers. A fellow called Dodge had started a group of Baptists. Beyond even the Dissenters, for that matter, there had always been a community of New York Jews.
The trouble had started with a simple, legal issue. Trinity Church was a corporation. Corporate status brought legal and financial benefits. So then the Presbyterian churches had decided that they ought to be corporations too. The issue, however, was delicate. The king’s coronation oath, and much historic legislation, obliged the government to uphold the Church of England. To incorporate a Dissenting Church might be a legal and certainly a political problem. As soon as the Presbyterians raised the issue, however, all the other churches wanted to incorporate too. The government had not agreed. The Dissenters were disappointed.
But alas, he had to admit, it was his own Church which had thrown fuel onto the fire when a truculent Anglican bishop had publicly announced: “The American colonists are infidels and barbarians.”
After that, what could you expect? The outraged Dissenters were at daggers drawn with the whole British establishment. Respectable Presbyterian Assembly men found themselves in the same camp as Liberty Boys. Just when cool heads were needed, some of the best men in the city were making common cause with some of the worst.
As for today’s preaching, Master could understand why Mercy wanted to go. The great Whitefield himself had returned to the city. The word was that the preacher was unwell, but a huge crowd was gathering to hear him. It wasn’t that John objected to Whitefield himself, or his message. No doubt there’d be some members of the Anglican congregation in the crowd. People who, as Mercy would say, were coming to the light.
But it was still a mistake. These meetings only excited the passions. Good God, he thought, next we’ll have Charlie White burning down my house and saying he’s doing the work of the Lord.
These were the melancholy thoughts that occupied him after Mercy and Abigail had gone. He felt depressed, and lonely.
The preacher’s face was broad, and when he looked upward at the sky, the sun seemed to bless him with a special radiance. As he was helped up to the platform he had looked unwell; yet once his melodious voice rang out over the crowd on the Common, he seemed to draw new life from the inspiration of the day. The crowd was enraptured.
But Mercy could not concentrate.
Abigail was by her side. At ten years old, she was old enough to understand. At the moment, she was dutifully staring at the preacher, but Mercy suspected that Abby was not listening either. Several times already, she had seen her daughter glance around.
She had lied to the child when she told her that her father could not
come, and she could see that she had been disappointed. She suspected that Abby had heard them arguing. What was the child secretly thinking? Mercy almost wished she hadn’t come. But it was too late to do anything about that now. Though they were at the fringe of the crowd, she couldn’t very well walk away from the preaching. How would that look? Besides, she had her pride.
Minutes passed. Then, suddenly, Abby was tugging at her arm.
“Look. Papa’s coming.”
He was striding toward them. Dear God, had he ever looked more splendid and more handsome? And he was smiling. She could scarcely believe it. He reached her, and took her hand.
“We went together to a preaching once,” he said softly. “So I thought we’d go again.”
She did not reply. She squeezed his hand. She knew what this had cost him. But after a minute or two she whispered: “Let’s go home, John.”
As they walked back arm in arm, little Abby was skipping ahead, joyful to see her parents united again.
“I have a confession, John,” said Mercy, after a while.
“What is that?” he asked affectionately.
“I think I went to the preaching because I have been angry with you, for many years.”
“Why?”
“Because I blamed you for letting James remain in London. It is five years now since I have seen my only son. I wish he were here.”
John nodded. Then kissed her hand.
“I shall write to him today, and tell him he is to return at once.”
The letter from James, together with one from Albion, was brought to the house early that evening. Hudson took them to Master in his library. Mercy and Abigail were reading in the parlor. He read them alone.
If the disorders in the colonies have been bad, you would scarcely believe what we have witnessed here in London. You may recall the fellow Wilkes, whose libel of the government and subsequent trial were somewhat like our famous Zenger affair in New York. Since then Wilkes, while in jail, had himself elected to Parliament. When this was disallowed, the radicals of London whipped up the mob, and they have almost taken over control of the streets of London. They cry “Wilkes and Liberty” just like your Liberty Boys of New York. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the business, it’s a shameful thing to see the mob so passionate and out of control, and the government is not inclined to give in to these disorders, here or in the colonies—nor would the gentlemen of Parliament stand for it if they did. Good sense and order must prevail.
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