New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Why, yes, Boss,” Hudson said, “I reckon it would.”

  Soon afterward, when Solomon sailed away in the handsome ship, the merchant turned to Hudson and remarked with a grin: “I’ve every confidence that he’ll make an excellent New York pirate!”

  In the month of October, John Master received another letter from Vanessa in London. He read it several times to satisfy himself that he had understood what it really meant.

  Whatever her words, Master considered, it was very clear from her actions that James’s wife had little interest in either her husband or her son. To him such a thing might be inexplicable, but the evidence was plain to see. “If Vanessa loved her little boy,” he’d remarked to Abigail, “she’d have turned up here by now.”

  Her latest letter contained the usual pious hopes for little Weston’s welfare, a pained inquiry as to whether her husband had yet had the decency to abandon the rebel cause, and asked him whether he was planning to stay in New York or, as her cousin Captain Rivers had told her he might, depart for civilization with his family and her little son. In short, was little Weston about to return to London? And as he perused her letter, and read between the lines, Master reckoned he saw what was on her mind.

  She needed to know if she would have to look after her little son, or whether she might remain undisturbed. And the most likely reason for her wanting to know, Master surmised, must be that she had taken up with another man. If she has a lover in her house, he thought, the little boy would be a decided inconvenience. Almost as bad as a husband.

  With some care, therefore, he composed a letter back in terms of equal insincerity. He knew, he said, how she must long to see her son, but at present, with Patriot pirates out on the high seas, he felt it was better to keep the boy here in New York.

  He wondered whether to convey the contents of the letter to James, but decided there was no point. He did not even pass on Vanessa’s expressions of affection to little Weston. The boy seldom spoke of his mother now, and perhaps it was better that way.

  For Abigail, the months that followed were quiet enough. She had plenty to do with running the house. She would take charge of Weston when he was not attending school, and every few weeks she would write out a detailed report of Weston’s activities, together with a little family news, and convey it through Susan to James. And though these letters took some time to reach West Point, she knew that he received them gratefully.

  Grey Albion and his fellow officers were back in the house. For a short time, it had seemed that Grey would be sent down to Georgia, but General Clinton had changed his mind and kept him in New York. But he was so busy that she saw less of him now. As winter approached, Clinton had put him in charge of ensuring that all the troops were kept warm. “I’m afraid,” Albion remarked one December day, “that we’re going to have to cut down some fine stands of trees on the estates north of the city. I hate to do it, but there’s no choice.” Often he was away for days. Abigail didn’t take particular notice of his comings and goings, but she had to admit that when he went off in his greatcoat, wearing a fur hat and carrying an axe, he looked quite handsome.

  When he was in the house, he’d play with little Weston just as before, and accompany her on walks with the boy, and make himself agreeable. But she noticed a certain change in his manner. The easy arrogance that had sometimes irritated her before seemed to be muted now. The brief skirmish with the Patriots on the way back from Philadelphia in the spring had given him more respect for them. “They acquit themselves like proper troops now,” he admitted. “We shall get some hard knocks at the next engagement.”

  She noted also that his tone toward herself had changed. If he had treated her as a little sister before, he would talk to her now of more serious things—the progress of the war, the chances for peace, and the future of the colonies. Not only that, he would ask her what she thought, and seemed to give her opinion quite equal weight with his own.

  “I wish I could show you London, Miss Abigail,” he once remarked.

  To make conversation, she asked him what he liked best about London. She knew about the great sights from her father, but he spoke of more intimate things, of handsome old parks by the river, of ancient churches where Crusaders had prayed, or narrow city streets with timbered houses and haunting echoes. And when he did so, his handsome face took on a tender look.

  On another day, he spoke about his family. “You’d like them, Miss Abigail, I think. My father is very courtly. I’m a clumsy fellow compared to him.” And once, he spoke of his old nanny. “She lives in our house still, though she is nearly eighty now. I like to sit with her and keep her company, when I can.” Abigail was glad to think of him showing such solicitude.

  As the spring of 1779 began, encouraging news came from the South. Down in Georgia, Savannah had fallen to the British redcoats, then Augusta. Soon the whole of Georgia was back under British rule. In New York, there was talk of an expedition up the River Hudson. Albion mentioned these plans to her in passing, but her father told her: “He’s pleaded with Clinton to let him go. He wants to see some action.” And some time later he said, “Albion’s got his wish.”

  It was not until the end of May that the little flotilla of boats were ready to set off. Abigail stood with her father on the wharf to watch. The men, in their scarlet tunics and white crossbands, looked very smart. Grey Albion was going briskly about his business, and Abigail realized that she had never seen him like this before—hard, stern-eyed, giving crisp orders to the men. And far too busy, naturally, to take any notice of her.

  As the boats went out into midstream and started up the great river, she turned to her father.

  “James is up there, Papa. What if he and Grey …”

  “I know, Abby,” he answered quietly. “Let’s not think about it.”

  Some time passed before they heard news. The redcoats were doing well; Washington was holding West Point, but they’d taken two of his smaller forts. Word also came that there had been casualties.

  Grey Albion was brought back a day later. Abigail was told to take Weston to a friend’s house while the surgeon performed his work.

  “Nothing to worry about,” her father said firmly. “A musket ball in the leg. The surgeon’ll have it out in no time.” But when they returned later that day, John was looking solemn. “All’s well. He’s sleeping,” he told Weston. But to Abigail he confessed, “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  When she saw him in the morning, his eyes were half closed, but he recognized her, and smiled weakly. The next day she went in to him several times. In the evening, she noticed that he was shivering. By late that night, he was running a high fever.

  The wound was infected. The doctor, who knew them well, was brisk. “I suggest you nurse him, Miss Abigail,” he told her after he had cleaned the wound. “You’ll do quite as well as any nurse I can provide. Let’s pray the infection doesn’t spread,” he added, “and I don’t have to take his leg. You must do the best you can to cool the fever. That’s the greatest enemy.”

  In the days that followed, Albion’s condition varied. Sometimes he was feverish and delirious, and she could only do her best to cool his brow and his body with damp towels. At other times he was lucid, but he worried.

  “Will they take my leg off?” he’d ask.

  “No,” she lied to him, “there’s no fear of that.”

  And thank God, the infection did not spread—though ten days passed before he began to mend, and more than a month until he began to hobble about on a crutch, and look like himself again.

  It was the day before he first began to walk that a tiny incident occurred. If, that is, it occurred at all. She had been sitting in a wing chair in his room while he slept. The afternoon sun was coming in pleasantly through the open window. The room was quiet. And she must have fallen asleep herself. For in her sleep, she dreamed that they were walking together down by the waterside, when suddenly he had turned to her, and remarked in a soft voice, but with great feeling: “You
are still so young. Yet where would I ever find another, such as you?”

  Then she had awoken, to find him awake and gazing at her thoughtfully. And she had wondered whether he might actually have spoken the words, or whether she had only imagined them in her sleep.

  A curious feature of Master’s business at this period concerned the visits of Susan from Dutchess County. Every so often she would appear with two or three carts of produce. Master would arrange for their sale, and the British were only too delighted to buy whatever she had to offer. This business had become even more profitable than usual in recent months, for until then, the Iroquois in the North had been shipping boatloads of corn downriver to the city. But now the Patriots had intercepted this traffic. The last time Susan had brought down two wagonloads of corn, Master had been able to sell it for five times the price he’d have gotten before the war.

  As far as the ethics of these transactions, when Abigail had once asked her sister which side she was on, Susan’s reply had been simple.

  “The same side as my neighbors, Abby,” she’d said. “And plenty of others. The Patriots control Dutchess County, so I’m a Patriot. But if the British will buy my corn, for good money, I’ll sure as hell sell it to them. As for the silks, and the tea and the wine I’ll be taking back from New York, there’s plenty of Patriots where I live that’ll be glad to buy them, and they won’t be asking where they came from.”

  “How would Washington feel about your selling us corn?” Abigail asked.

  “He’d be mad as hell. But he won’t know.”

  “And James?”

  “The same, I guess, but he won’t know either.”

  As far as the British authorities were concerned, the return traffic was illegal. Loyalist merchants in New York were not supposed to supply the rebels with anything, but nobody took much notice. British merchants were cheerfully supplying the upstate Patriots with any luxuries they could pay for. It was illegal if one were caught, so few people were. Susan simply paid the guards at the checkpoint when she left the city.

  But here Master had shown his own old-fashioned sense of loyalty. For although he knew perfectly well what Susan was doing, he had always refused to take part in supplying the Patriots himself. So Abigail was greatly surprised by a conversation that took place in her father’s library one day in September.

  Grey Albion was out. The day before, as thanks for all that she had done in nursing him, he had given Abigail two beautiful presents. One was a silk shawl, carefully chosen to go with one of her favorite dresses; the other a handsomely bound edition of Gulliver’s Travels, which she had once told him she enjoyed. And she had been pleased and touched by the evident trouble to which he’d gone. That morning he had left the house to see General Clinton at the fort, and was not expected back until later. Weston was at school, so Abigail and her father had been alone when Susan arrived at the house.

  She had come into the town with three carts that day. Her father agreed to come with her at once to arrange the sale of the goods. But then, to Abigail’s amazement, he remarked: “I’ve a quantity of silk, and some excellent wines and brandy in the warehouse. Do you think you could dispose of them for me on your return?”

  “Of course,” Susan laughed. But Abigail was shocked.

  “Father! You’re surely not going to supply the Patriots?”

  Her father shrugged. “No point in leaving goods in the warehouse.”

  “But what if General Clinton found out?”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t.” And something in Master’s tone of voice told her that, for whatever reason, some change must have taken place in her father’s soul.

  She had just left her father and Susan in the library and stepped into the hall, when she saw Grey Albion. She had not heard him return. He was standing still, looking thoughtful. Afraid he could have heard what had just been said, she blushed, then, murmuring some excuse, went back into the library to warn her father that he was there. When she came into the hall again, Albion was gone.

  During the rest of that day, she wondered what Albion would do if he had heard them. Would he feel obliged to inform General Clinton? Would he pretend he knew nothing? There was nothing she could do but wait and see.

  So she was quite nervous in the evening when she heard him ask her father for a private audience alone. The two men went into the library, closed the door and remained there, speaking in low voices, for some time. When Albion came out, he looked serious, but said nothing. When she asked her father if Grey had raised the matter of the illegal shipments he only replied: “Don’t ask.”

  And as no complaints seemed to be raised against her father in the days that followed, she assumed that the issue had been resolved.

  Soon afterward, Albion resumed his duties. General Clinton used him on his staff now, and he was busier than ever. Perhaps it was just that he was preoccupied, but it seemed to Abigail that Albion, having thanked her for her care so gracefully, was putting a tiny distance between them now. And although she knew it was unfair, she could not help a feeling of irritation.

  The mood in the house was somewhat somber too. News came that the Patriot governor had taken away Master’s farms. Anticipated though this was, it was a blow to them all.

  The news from across the ocean was worse.

  “It seems,” Albion told them, “that all Europe is taking the chance to strike at Britain’s empire now. France has persuaded Spain to join them. The French and Spanish fleets are in the English Channel, and it’s fully expected they’ll attack Gibraltar. The Spanish will surely move against us in Florida. The Dutch are against us, too, and as for the Germans and Russians, they’re standing by, happy to watch us lose.” To add insult to injury, the American privateer, John Paul Jones, using ships supplied by France, had the cheek to raid the coasts of Britain herself.

  A new contingent of British troops arrived. “But half of them are diseased,” Albion reported. “Now we have to keep them from infecting the others.” Abigail hardly saw him in the two weeks after that.

  It was early in October when, finding her in the parlor one evening, Grey Albion modestly announced: “Some of the other officers and I are going to a ball, Miss Abigail. I wondered whether we might have the honor of your company in our party.” The Garrison Assemblies, as they were known, usually took place twice a month in the big assembly room at the City Tavern on Broadway, and her father had taken her to some of these. The invitation coming directly from him, though, she was taken by surprise, and hesitated. “I should perhaps warn you,” he added quickly, “that this ball might not be to your taste.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “It is what they call an Ethiopian Ball.” And Abigail stared at him in surprise.

  The last six months had seen one other development in New York. It had begun when General Clinton, looking for ways to undermine the Patriots, had proclaimed that any Negroes serving with the Patriot forces, if they deserted to New York City, might live there as free men and follow any trade or occupation that they chose. The response had been greater than he had expected—so great that he’d confessed to Master, “We may have to limit the tide.”

  It had certainly enraged the Patriots. Long Island Patriots had already suffered when runaway slaves had told British raiding parties where to find their hidden valuables. Just across from Staten Island, in Monmouth County, a brigade under the daring black officer, Colonel Tye, had been terrorizing the Patriot forces. “These cursed British are stirring up slave revolts yet again,” they protested. In the city, however, the results had been interesting. “I’ve found a carpenter and a warehouseman I needed,” Master had announced with satisfaction. “And we got some welcome new troops,” Albion had reported. An extra barracks had been set up for them on Broadway.

  But perhaps the most unusual development had been in the city’s social life. For it remained a curious feature of the empire that while Britain led the world in trading slaves, and used huge numbers on the sugar plantations, slaves were now hard
ly known in Britain itself. To Albion and other young bloods like him, the free blacks of New York seemed a delightful curiosity. So they set up dances, with black bands playing the fiddle and the banjo. And to make it more intriguing, they opened these dances to the black people too. It was all great fun, they thought, and rather exotic.

  “I am not sure your father would approve.”

  It was true that some Tory Loyalists had expressed great displeasure at the influx of free blacks into their city. But Master was a vestryman of Trinity, and the Trinity vestry had stuck with their former tradition in providing schooling for the black community.

  “I shall be glad to join your party,” Abigail said, with just a hint of reproof.

  It was her father who suggested that Hudson and his wife should accompany the young people. The gathering was only a short distance away, so they all decided to walk there together.

  There was a large crowd. About half of them were black, a sprinkling were civilians from the city, the rest were British officers and their guests. A thousand candles lit the room brightly. Notwithstanding the difficulties of getting food, splendid refreshments had been provided. The band was excellent, and the dancing was conducted in the usual manner, except that the formal opening minuet was dispensed with, nor was anyone in the mood to attempt a French cotillion. Instead the company got straight down to jigs, reels, square and country dances. The tunes were popular and lively: “Sweet Richard,” “Fisher’s Hornpipe,” “Derry Down.” And Abigail was pleased to observe that, lively though the occasion certainly was, everything was done with a charming decorum.

  Hudson was in his element. She realized that, in all her life, she had never seen him perform in such a setting. Several times, she found herself paired with him for a moment or two, as, with a kindly smile, he whirled her round. She caught sight of Albion doing the same with Hudson’s wife. And she of course was often on his arm.