New York - The Novel

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    Britain’s greatest cost was America. Pontiac’s revolt had shown that the colonies still required expensive garrisons to defend them, but who was going to pay?
    “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 justthen 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