New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Do not say such things, Vanessa. Does he know your feelings?”

  “He? The colonial? Know? He knows nothing.”

  James turned silently from the door. He knows now, he thought grimly. Going downstairs, he told the butler that there was no need to mention to his wife that he had been there, because he had just remembered that he had an errand to run. He did not return for over an hour.

  In the year that followed, James went about his business as usual. He watched carefully for signs from his wife—either of the loathing she had concealed, or of any improvement in her feelings toward him. He could detect neither. Knowing her feelings kept him, for the most part, from her bed, and she made no complaint of this. Occasionally she gave indications that she expected his attentions, and as she was an attractive woman, and he a vigorous man, he was able to satisfy her when she wished. For the rest, he patronized a certain discreet establishment in Mayfair where the girls were reputed to be clean. And truth to tell, he sometimes wondered if he would even keep up the miserable pretense of his marriage, if it were not for little Weston.

  As news of one outrage after another came from the American colonies, as the cause of the Patriots rose, and the Congress met in Philadelphia—and as the British government remained obtuse in meeting every challenge—James often thought of his dear family in New York, and his little son in London, and wondered: Did he really want little Weston to be part of his mother’s world, or to live in the cleaner, more simple world in which he had been raised himself?

  How he longed to take Weston over to meet his grandparents. With what agony he answered his father’s letters that begged him to return. When once or twice he had raised the issue with Vanessa, even promising her that their visit would be brief, she had refused to countenance the voyage.

  Strangely, the quarrel that finally brought matters to a head did not begin over his own family, but over Ben Franklin. It took place at the start of December 1774.

  When his well-meaning intervention in the affair of the Hutchinson Letters had so badly backfired, Franklin had not only caused outrage in the colonies. Many in London concluded that he’d stirred up trouble deliberately, and he was roundly cursed. In retaliation, Franklin had written a couple of pieces pointing out some of the errors of the London government in turn. This exacerbated the situation further, and though he still had influential friends in Parliament, Franklin was now unpopular.

  James and Vanessa were returning in their carriage from a dinner, through the frosty night-time streets, when James unwisely remarked that he’d been sorry to hear Franklin so roundly abused at the party.

  “No doubt,” Vanessa murmured.

  “He means well,” James said. And for no particular reason, except no doubt it had been pent up for so long, this triggered Vanessa’s outburst.

  “Franklin is a damned colonial. A dirty little traitor, masquerading as a gentleman.”

  “I think that’s a little unfair.”

  “He came to London. He promised to make himself useful. We treated him like an Englishman. We even sent his bastard son out to govern New Jersey. There’s only one thing for the upstart to do, if he is a gentleman. Keep his mouth shut unless he’s told to open it. As far as I’m concerned, he and all the other colonial traitors should be taken out into a field and shot. That would reduce the colonies to order.”

  “Well, now we know what you think.”

  “I know nobody who thinks otherwise, you accursed colonial,” she cried. “Be grateful that you have a son who is born in a civilized country. I pray to God he may never set foot in your damned colony.”

  James called to the coachman, who must surely have heard most of this, to stop the carriage. He stepped out. Vanessa said not a word.

  As he walked home, James felt neither sorrow, nor even anger, but disgust. When he reached the house, he went quietly to his bureau, and took out the last letter from his father. As he read over its urgent plea that he should come to see his mother, he was overcome with shame. If not with his family, he resolved to take ship as soon as possible. Then he retired to his dressing room, where he slept alone.

  He rose late, and breakfasted by himself. He was about to leave for Albion’s office when the butler gave him a letter. It was written in Vanessa’s bold hand. It announced that she had left, early that morning, that she was going to the Continent, and that she could not say when she would return.

  It was just before Christmas that James went to see Ben Franklin. To his surprise, when he told the old man his decision, Franklin did not try to dissuade him.

  “The fact is,” Franklin confessed, “I have come to the same conclusion. I have been knocking upon every door I know in London. Some still open to me, and those that do, all tell me the same story. The British government will not budge. I always believed that compromise was possible. Now, I no longer believe it.” He smiled. “Your young lawyer friend was right, it seems. I expect to be following you shortly.”

  “I had not realized how much we colonials are despised.”

  “The British are angry. When people are angry, any insult will do; and prejudice is magnified into a cause.”

  “I had not understood British arrogance, either.”

  “All empires become arrogant. It is their nature.”

  James parted from the old man with warm expressions of goodwill. It only remained to prepare for his journey, and, since his mother was gone, to take little Weston with him. This at least was a blessing: Weston would see his grandparents after all.

  As he took the little fellow’s hand to board the ship, he made only one private vow: the little boy must never know that his mother did not love him.

  War

  March 1776

  OUTSIDE, THE SKY was blue. Hudson had already told her that the streets were quiet. Abigail handed the letter back to her father, stepped into the hall where little Weston was waiting, and took the child by the hand.

  “Come, Weston,” she said, “we’ll go for our walk.”

  The boy was like her own child now. He was such a dear little fellow. She’d have given her life rather than let any harm come to him.

  A year after James’s return, how the world had changed. For a while, the voices of moderation had still been heard. The Continental Congress had sworn they only wanted justice from Britain. In New York, men like John Jay had managed to restrain the Liberty Boys. But not for long.

  The rebellion had taken on a life of its own. First, after the skirmishes of Lexington and Concord, when General Howe and his redcoats had tried to break out of Boston, the Patriots had inflicted terrible casualties on them at Bunker Hill. Then, up in the northern reaches of the Hudson River, Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys took the redcoats by surprise and seized the little fort of Ticonderoga, with all its heavy cannon. After this, the Congress had been so emboldened that they even tried a sortie into Canada.

  Down in Virginia, the British governor had offered freedom to any slaves who cared to run away to join the British Army—which had made the Southern planters furious. In England, King George had declared the American colonies in a state of rebellion—which by now was the truth—and ordered their ports closed.

  “The king’s declared war on us,” the Liberty Boys announced.

  But the thing that had stirred people most was not a military engagement at all. In January 1776 an anonymous pamphlet had appeared. Soon it became known that the author was an Englishman named Thomas Paine, who’d recently arrived in Philadelphia. The pamphlet was entitled “Common Sense.” “Damned sedition,” John Master had called it, but as a piece of writing it was brilliant.

  For not only did Paine argue for an independent America—God’s country, where fugitive Freedom could find a safe haven from Europe’s ancient evils—but he used phrases that echoed in the mind. King George became “the royal brute of Britain.” Of British rule he remarked: “There is something very absurd in supposing a continent to be governed by an island.” And of independence, simply and m
emorably: “’Tis time to part.” Within weeks “Common Sense” was being read all over the colonies.

  By now it seemed unavoidable: it was war. New York, with its mighty harbor and control of the northern river route to Canada, would be a key point. Washington of Virginia, chosen by the Congress as commander-in-chief, had already inspected the city. Early in 1776, he’d sent Lee, his trusted general, to strengthen it.

  If General Charles Lee had any connection with the notable Lees of Virginia, it must have been distant. For he turned out to be an eccentric Englishman. He’d served in America in the French and Indian War, and taken an Indian wife before returning to fight in Europe. Recently, however, he’d returned to America to settle. Passionate for the colonists’ cause, this hot-tempered military man strode around the city with his pack of dogs, usually followed by a crowd of curious children. He knew his business, though. In a month, he had laid the solid groundwork for the city’s defenses.

  His presence in the city had had one other consequence for the Master family. When James went to offer his services, he had much impressed the peppery general, who had soon sent him up to Boston to join Washington.

  As Abigail walked along Beaver Street, her mind turned to her dear brother, and she wondered how long it would be before she saw him again. She crossed the street to Bowling Green. Little Weston was tugging at her hand. She let him run ahead.

  John Master looked at the letter again. It was not easy to get letters from England at the moment—and as a well-known Tory, he had to be cautious. Many of his Tory friends had left the city during the last months. Tryon, the royal governor, was safely on a ship in the harbor now. For Loyalists who dared to remain, it was wisest not to draw attention to oneself. A man who corresponded with England might be taken for a spy. But Albion had cleverly sent his letter through Boston, and a messenger had handed it to Solomon at the door of the house last night.

  The letter was clear, concise, and not very encouraging.

  A huge army was being gathered. So large, that British redcoats would not be enough. The government was hiring German mercenaries. They had even tried to get troops from Russia, but the Empress Catherine had refused them. There was no drawing back now.

  There had been many in England whose sympathies lay with the rebels, he reminded Master. The Londoners, in particular, were the colonists’ friends. Even Lord North, the prime minister, was minded to be conciliatory, until the fighting started. In the House of Commons, Burke, Charles James Fox and other fine orators were still speaking out for the colonists’ cause. In the Lords, both the great Chatham, who had led England to victory over the French in the last war, and Franklin’s friend Lord Dartmouth were still prepared to urge compromise. A few army officers had even refused to serve against the colonists.

  But once British soldiers were being killed, public sympathy had swung toward the government. It was only to be expected. Above all, King George, with all his honest heart, believed it was his duty not to give way. The majority in Parliament agreed with him. And even if they hadn’t, so many Members of Parliament had public offices which paid fine salaries for no work, or held military commissions where promotion depended on the government, or had friends with government contracts, or could, quite simply, be bribed, that Lord North could be certain of securing a majority.

  Was there still hope? Yes, Albion said, for two reasons. The first was the vast expense of sending armies so far. The second was that France, seeing British power engaged in America, would probably attack other parts of the empire, and try to snatch back what they lost in the last war. Once the Patriots had seen what they were up against, and been thoroughly terrified, perhaps they would temper the more extreme of their demands, and a compromise might be reached.

  He ended his letter on a lighter note.

  Did James tell you, the rumor has always been that Lord North’s mother cuckolded her husband with the king’s father? And that King George and his prime minister are thus half-brothers? (They look so alike, I’m sure ’tis true.) If the prime minister should ever grow weary of chastising the colonists, therefore, his royal brother, believing God to be on his side, will be sure to make him stick to his purpose.

  Master had watched Abigail carefully as she read the letter. He had been amused at her shock when she came to the passage about the king and his brother.

  “I never imagined, Papa,” she had said, “that Lord North was the king’s bastard brother. Are such things often done in England?”

  “They have been known,” he had answered with a smile, “even in America.”

  But the real point, he thought now, as he read the letter again, the real point was that there was still hope. There would probably have to be fighting, but once the Patriots discovered what they had done—despite Charlie White and the Liberty Boys, despite General Lee and his fortifications, despite the tragic folly of his own son James—a settlement of some kind would be negotiated. There was still hope for himself, and Abigail, and little Weston.

  He sat for some time, contemplating the situation, until he was interrupted by a commotion at the door. In some surprise, he went into the hall, to find Hudson struggling to close the door upon two large men. A moment later, the door burst inward.

  And he stared in horror.

  There were only a few people on Bowling Green, and it was easy to entertain little Weston. James had taught him to throw and catch a ball, and all you had to do was throw the ball to him by the hour.

  “Throw higher,” he would cry, or, “Further away.” He loved to show how he could jump, or dive for a catch. He was remarkable, she thought, for his age. Abigail always worried that he must long for his mother, and hoped she was able to make up for some of that lack. So although she found it quite boring to play catch for hours, that was more than made up for by the joy of seeing the little fellow so happy and proud of himself. She only wished that James were here to see it.

  How excited she’d been when James had first returned. How tall and handsome he was. What joy she had felt to see him sitting at the family table. And what relief. With James there, she’d been sure, things would go better.

  It had been on the third day that he had broken the news. He and his father were closeted together nearly an hour. She’d heard her father’s cry of pain, then raised voices, then a long rumble of conversation before her father had emerged, looking pale and grave.

  “Your brother has decided to support the Patriot cause,” he told her. “I understand his reasons, though I do not agree with them. Now, Abby,” he had continued gently, “we must keep the family together, you and I. Discuss the subject with James as little as possible. On no account argue with him. He is your brother, and you must love and support him. Above all, little Weston must hear no cross word in this house.”

  And that was what they had done. No one entering the house would ever suppose that James and his father were on different sides. The news of the day was discussed calmly. Master might offer an opinion on the competence of Washington, or the incompetence of the troops he was raising. James might shake his head over some unwise or arrogant decision made in London. But their discussions were always polite.

  Not long after his return, they had all gone up into Dutchess County. Abigail had happy memories of visits to her grandfather, old Dirk Master, at his farm when she was a little girl. After he had died, John Master had kept the farmhouse, which they would use from time to time in the summer. The family’s sizable landholding in the county was managed by her sister Susan’s husband, along with his own estate.

  On this occasion, they had stayed with Susan. It had been pleasant enough. Susan was becoming quite matronly now, and though happy to see her family, was more preoccupied with her children and running her farm than with the great affairs of the outside world. Her husband, a brisk, cheerful man, put it bluntly.

  “We aim to stay out of trouble here, if we can.” He and James seemed to get on well enough, but Abigail could tell that, family loyalty aside, they had not much
in common.

  Just before they left, however, Susan did take her brother by the arm in an affectionate manner, and urge him: “Come to see us again, James, and do not wait too long. I am glad, after all these years, to know my brother again.” And James promised that he would.

  As for her own relationship with her brother, Abigail could hardly have asked for anything better. He would often sit with her, tell her about the things he’d seen. Though his appearance was dignified, he could regale her with funny stories about his student days to make her laugh. He soon discovered the things she liked, and even with the port closed to English trade, he’d manage to find her something—some lace or ribbons, a book, or even a little posy of flowers that would please her. As for his son, he was a model father. When she watched him playing with Weston, or teaching him to read, or took the little boy for walks, she felt so proud of James.

  And so, thank God, it was possible for her to love and respect both her father and her brother. She ran the house now, pretty well she thought. Hudson and his wife consulted with her on all day-to-day matters. She did her best to be a comfort to her father, a companion to James and a mother to Weston.

  But why was James alone? Where was his wife? Soon after his arrival, Abigail had tried to ask him, but he had given her a vague answer and gently discouraged her from inquiring again. Her father knew no more than she did. Three weeks had passed before James could bring himself to tell them that he and Vanessa had had a serious falling-out.

  “I still hope for a reconciliation,” he said, “but I cannot count upon it.” In the meantime, it was agreed that there was no need to say anything to little Weston. He was told that his mother would be coming to join them when she could, and though he clearly missed her, he seemed to accept her absence as some unexplained necessity of the adult world.

  After several months, a letter came from Vanessa. It was written on thick paper, in a bold, firm hand. With messages of love for little Weston, she spoke of her concern about the rebellion, and asked when James meant to return, clearly giving no indication that she meant to join him.