New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  They all sat down together, Albion and his friends, the Hudsons and two other black couples they had encountered. The conversation was very merry. She complimented Hudson on his dancing, for which he gravely thanked her.

  “And how do I dance, Mrs. Hudson?” Albion cheerfully inquired. She paused, only for a moment.

  “Why, mighty fine … for a man with only one good leg!”

  This was greeted with roars of approval, and laughter.

  “His leg’s good enough to go into action soon,” one of his fellow officers remarked.

  “True,” Albion said with a smile.

  “Oh?” Abigail said. “You are leaving?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I only received the news today, but General Clinton is going to join the forces down in the South, and he is taking me with him. So I may see some action again.”

  “When do you leave?” she asked.

  “At the end of the month, I think.”

  “Come,” cried one of the others. “It’s time to dance again.”

  They all walked back together afterward. It was past midnight. Though the city was under a military curfew—which, for some reason, General Clinton insisted upon—this was relaxed for certain social events. Here and there, street lamps gave them enough light to make their way along. The two Hudsons walked together, she and Albion a little way behind. He had given her his arm.

  “You must try not to get shot again, in the South,” she said. “I cannot undertake to nurse you twice.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he answered. “It’ll probably be very dull. No fighting at all.”

  “Then you’ll have to chase those beautiful Southern girls, instead,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps.” He was silent for a moment. “But where would I ever find another such as you?” he said quietly.

  Her heart missed a beat. The exact words. It had not been a dream, then, after all.

  She wanted to make some easy reply. None came. They continued to walk.

  When they reached the house, Hudson opened the front door and ushered them into the parlor. It was quiet. Obviously, the rest of the household had gone to sleep.

  “I expec’ the gentleman would like a glass of brandy before retirin’,” Hudson said softly. “If you jus’ give me a minute or two.”

  The room was warm. There was still the remains of a fire glowing in the grate. Albion stirred it for a moment. She took off her cloak. He turned.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” she said.

  “I have no wish to do so.” He was gazing at her with an affection that could not be mistaken.

  She looked up at him, her lips parting, as he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

  As the minutes passed, there was no sign of Hudson. She heard only the faint crackle of the fire in the grate as they kissed and, pressing more passionately against each other, kissed again until she would, she knew, have given herself to him there and then, had not the door opened and her father’s voice, coming from the hallway, caused them to spring apart.

  “Ah,” her father said easily as, taking his time, he entered the room, “you’re back. Splendid. I hope the party was a success.”

  “Yes, sir, I think it was,” said Albion.

  And after a few polite exchanges, he went off to his bed.

  In the remaining time before his departure, he was kept very busy. General Clinton was planning to sail down the coast to Georgia with eight thousand troops. As well as being occupied around the port, Albion was often away, spending days on Long Island and the various outposts around the city.

  All too soon, the day of departure was upon them. He was to bid farewell to the family at the house, before going out to march to the ships with his men. But before doing so, he drew her into the parlor with him alone. And there he took her hand and looked into her eyes with great sincerity and affection.

  “Dear Abigail. How can I ever thank you enough for all that you have done for me? Or for the happiness of being in your company?” He paused a moment. “I hope so much that we shall meet again. But war is uncertain. So if, perchance, we should not, I must tell you that I shall carry the memory of our time together as the best and the brightest days of my life.”

  Then he kissed her gently upon the cheek.

  It was said with much warmth, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment of the great compliment he was paying her.

  But she had hoped for something—she was not sure what—something more.

  Later, she and her father took Weston down to the waterfront to watch the ships sail out of the harbor.

  The Christmas season came and went. They heard from Susan that James had moved with Washington to winter camp. The weather by now had turned bitterly cold. Snowstorms came, again and again, burying the streets. Not only the Hudson River, but even the harbor froze. No one could remember anything like it, and Abigail wondered with some anxiety how her brother was faring. Down the coast there were big storms. No word came of Clinton and his fleet. “Remember, they have to pass New Jersey, Virginia and both the Carolinas,” her father reminded her, soothingly. “It’s eight hundred miles even as the crow flies.”

  At last news came that the ships, after suffering badly, had finally arrived at the mouth of the Savannah River. She waited for a letter from Albion. Not until late February did it appear. It was addressed to her father, and announced that he was safe and that the army, under Clinton and Cornwallis, was preparing to move up the coast into the Patriot country of South Carolina. “Our object, without a doubt, will be the city of Charleston.” He sent his greetings to the family, with a lighthearted message to Weston, telling him to start preparing for the cricket season, as soon as the weather allowed. To Abigail, he sent his warmest remembrances.

  “I shall reply, of course,” her father said, and wrote the next day, to which she added a letter of her own.

  Abigail did not find it easy to write her letter. She kept it short, gave Albion some report of life in the city, and her walks with Weston. But how should she finish? Did she dare commit her affections to paper? How would that expose her? And how might they be received? Or should she instead write something lighthearted, letting him guess the tenderness that lay beneath? She couldn’t decide.

  In the end she wrote only that both she and Weston hoped he would be returned to them safely, “so that you and he may play cricket, and we, perhaps, may dance.” It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

  The spring passed quietly. She occupied herself with Weston and wrote her usual accounts to James. News arrived from the South from time to time. A vigorous young cavalry commander named Tarleton was making a name for himself chasing down Patriots. Then in May came a hasty dispatch: Charleston had fallen.

  New York erupted with joy. There were parades, banquets and, soon, a letter from Grey Albion.

  “This quite changes the position,” her father remarked. “If we smash the south, and then turn all our forces on Washington, even with his better-trained men, he may find it hard to survive.” Her father gave her a summary of Albion’s letter. “It seems young Tarleton cut Charleston off completely from the north. His methods are brutal but effective, according to Albion. A huge surrender, he says. The whole of South Carolina will soon be in British hands again. The Patriot troops in North Carolina are in poor shape too. Perhaps our friend Rivers gave up too early.” She hadn’t seen her father look this pleased in months. “General Clinton is so satisfied that he plans to return to New York and leave Cornwallis in charge down there,” he concluded.

  “Is Albion returning also then?” she asked.

  “Not yet. He wants to stay with Cornwallis. Hoping to make a name for himself, I expect.”

  “I see. Does he enclose any letter for me?”

  “No. But he thanks you for yours, and sends you his warmest good wishes.” Her father smiled. “I’ll give you the letter. You can read it for yourself.”

  “I’ll read it later, Papa,” she said, and left the room.
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  For the next few days, New York continued to celebrate. But Abigail did not. In truth, she hardly knew what to feel. She told herself that she was being foolish. A young man going to war had kissed her. He must have kissed a score of girls before. He said he had tender feelings for her. Perhaps he had. But that, she supposed, might pass. And what did she feel for him? She scarcely knew.

  Her world seemed bathed in a sunless light that left the landscape uncertain.

  She felt sure that Albion had acquitted himself with distinction, so why had he declined to return with General Clinton? And mightn’t he at least have replied to her letter in person? Surely he’d have done so, if he cared for her? Two more days of this silent moping followed, until her father, who could bear it no longer, took her aside and asked her frankly: “My child, have I done something to cause you unhappiness?”

  “Nothing, Papa, I promise you.”

  He paused, as if considering something. “Might this have any connection with Grey Albion?”

  “No, Papa. None at all.”

  “I think, Abby, that it has.” He sighed. “I wish your mother were still alive. It must be hard for you talk to your father about such a matter.”

  She gave in. “I thought at least he’d write to me.” She shrugged. “If he cared.”

  Her father nodded, seemed to reach a decision of some kind, and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Well then, I’ll tell you, Abby. Do you remember the day that Susan came and I sent goods to the Patriots? Albion came to me that evening. He spoke of you … in the most tender terms.”

  “He did?”

  “He expressed his feelings plainly. Indeed, nobly.” Her father nodded at the recollection. “But you are still young, Abby, and with this war continuing … and so much uncertainty … He and I decided it was best to wait. Wait until the war is over. Who knows how matters may stand then? In the meantime, for his sake as well as your own, you should think of him as a friend. A dear friend.”

  Abigail stared at her father. “Did he ask for my hand in marriage?”

  Her father hesitated. “He may have mentioned the possibility.”

  “Oh, Papa,” she said, reproachfully.

  “You care for him, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Well, I like him too,” he now declared.

  “He would want to take me to England, I suppose?”

  “I’m sure of it. I’d miss you, Abby. Should you wish to go?”

  “Would you go also?”

  “I might have to, Abby, if the Patriots recoup and win.”

  “Then, Papa,” she smiled, “I’d tell him, ‘I’ll go if my papa comes too.’”

  Solomon was happy. It was a beautiful June day and the sea was sparkling. They were off the coast of Virginia and running north toward New York, under the bright blue sky and a breeze coming from the south-east.

  The vessel was French. They’d taken her off the coast of Martinique, with a fine cargo of French silks, wine and brandy, and even a small chest of gold. The captain had split the crew, sending the mate to take the prize to New York with a dozen of their own crew, including four slaves, and six of the captured Frenchmen.

  Though he was still waiting for his freedom, Solomon enjoyed being at sea. Life aboard a privateer, especially one owned by Master, wasn’t so bad. And since he was the merchant’s personal property, neither the captain nor the mate were going to give him any trouble, as long as he performed his duties well. In any case, he’d long since become a valued member of the crew. The last time they’d hit bad weather, and the mate had needed assistance, he’d called out: “Take the wheel, Solomon,” and afterward told him: “I knew you’d keep her steady.”

  But he was looking forward to seeing his father and mother again, back in New York. And with such a rich prize, he could be quite certain that Master would put down some money to his account.

  When they saw the other vessel, it was coming from the mouth of the Chesapeake, and it was gaining on them fast. The mate put a spyglass to his eye and cursed. “Pirates,” he said. “They’re flying the Stars and Stripes.”

  Solomon reckoned afterward that the mate probably saved his life that day. Thrusting a pistol into his hand he told him: “Take the damn Frenchies below. We can’t trust ’em on deck. Shoot any one of ’em that tries to move.”

  So he was below deck a while later when he heard the rattle of musket fire followed by the roar of cannon sweeping the deck with grapeshot. After this, there was a series of bumps, followed by a loud knocking on the hatch and a rough voice telling him to open up. Reluctantly he did so, and clambered on deck.

  The scene before him was grim. Most of the New York crew were dead, or close to it. The mate had blood all over one leg, but was alive. A dozen Patriots had boarded the ship, including a thickset, red-haired man who carried a bullwhip and had two pistols stuffed into his belt. Solomon assumed he was their captain. As the Frenchmen emerged, and saw the Patriots, they broke out into a voluble welcome in their native tongue. The red-haired captain quickly moved them to one side of the deck and sent two fellows to search below. Two of the blacks were lying dead already, but the other slave was the cook, and they soon found him and brought him up. “That’s all, Cap’n,” they reported.

  The captain turned to the wounded mate. “So this is a French prize you took?” The mate nodded. “You outta New York?” The mate nodded again. “So these”—he indicated the Frenchmen—“are the French crew?”

  “Right,” said the mate.

  “Hmm. These Frenchies are our friends, boys,” he called to his men. “Treat ’em nice.” He turned his attention to the cook. “He a slave?” At the mate’s nod, “Galley?”

  “Cooks good.”

  “I can use him. And this one?” He turned to Solomon.

  “Crew. Good hand,” said the mate, “very.”

  The red-haired captain fixed Solomon with a pair of fierce blue eyes.

  “What’re you, boy?” he demanded. “Slave or free?”

  And now Solomon had to think fast.

  “I’s a slave, Boss,” he said eagerly. “I belongs to the Patriot Captain James Master, sir, that is serving with General Washington.”

  “How so?”

  “I was forced upon this vessel to prevent me joinin’ Captain Master, sir. An’ if you make inquiries of him, he will answer for me.”

  It was a good try, and the pirate considered it, but not for long.

  “Captain James Master. Don’t know the name. But it don’t signify, anyhow. If you’re his slave, then you must’ve run away to the damn British to get your freedom. Which makes you the enemy, far as I’m concerned. An’ you sure as hell are a slave again now, boy. An’ you’re a lyin’, thievin’ treacherous slave too, that needs a whippin’.” But before dealing with Solomon further, he turned to glance around the deck and, indicating the bodies that were lying there, he called to his men. “Over the side with all these.” Then he went across to the mate. “You don’t look good, my friend,” he remarked.

  “I’ll live,” said the mate.

  “I don’t think so,” said the captain. And pulling out one of his pistols, he shot the mate in the head. “Throw him over too,” he ordered.

  Having completed this business, he came back to Solomon again and, standing with his legs wide apart, eyed him, fingering the bullwhip thoughtfully as he did so.

  “Like I said, you need a whippin’.” He paused, considering, then nodded to himself. “But though I should, I reckon I ain’t goin’ to whip you. No, I believe I’m goin’ to lie instead. I’m goin’ to say that you never been whipped because you are the most humble, obedient, hard-workin’, God-fearin’ nigger that ever walked the face of the earth. That’s what I’m goin’ to say.” He nodded. “An’ you know why?”

  “No, Boss.”

  “Because, you lyin’ Loyalist, son-of-a-bitch runaway, I’m goin’ to sell you.”

  It was only when her father’s captain returned, exp
ecting to find the French vessel already in New York, that Master realized that he had lost his prize, and had to tell Hudson that his son was missing. “I don’t think our French ship sank,” her father told them all. “More likely it was taken. Solomon may still be out there somewhere, and we shouldn’t give up hope.” If the ship was still afloat, news of it would come across the high seas, sooner or later.

  Meanwhile, word was coming from the South of continuing British successes. Patriot heroes like Rutledge, Pickens and Marion “the Swamp” Fox were still doing their best to harass the redcoats and their supporters; but the southern Patriot army was not in good shape. Congress sent General Gates down into South Carolina, but Cornwallis soon smashed him at Camden.

  Perhaps to distract their thoughts from their private worries, Master kept his household busy. General Clinton, back in New York, dined several times at the house, and Abigail and Ruth made sure that these dinners were excellent. From the general, and his officers, Abigail received the impression that they now considered the war might be won. Her father thought so too.

  “I’m damn sure Clinton’s hatching a new plan of some kind,” he told her. “But whatever it is, he’s keeping it under his hat.”

  Of particular pleasure to Abigail was a dinner to which General Clinton brought two extra guests. One was Governor William Franklin, whom the Patriots had kicked out of New Jersey and who was living in the city now.

  It was interesting to observe Ben Franklin’s son at close quarters. You could see that he had many of the lineaments of his father’s face. But where the father cultivated features that were round and merry, the son’s were thinner, more patrician, and somewhat sour. As for his views on the Patriots, he explained them to her precisely.

  “I can say so in this house, Miss Abigail, because, as well as your brother, my own father is a Patriot. But while there are of course men of principle on the Patriot side, I consider most of them to be rebels and bandits. I still have a band of good men hunting Patriots down in New Jersey. And I personally should be well content to hang any we can catch.”