New York - The Novel

an offense to most people in hard-pressed New York. “Don’t let any of your family dress up like a Macaroni,” he had urged. “It’s not the time.”
    John Master had been one of a group who’d taken the lead in promoting local cloth and linen manufacture in the city; and in recent months, instead of the fashionable cloths and bright silk waistcoats he had always favored before, he’d made a point of wearing good American-made homespun whenever he went out.
    By the time they got to Trinity, he thought they’d turn back, but little Abigail said she wanted to go further. I’ll have to carry her back, Hudson thought with a smile. They were coming into the poorer quarter of the town now, toward the Common. Hudson wondered if it was wise to go up here. He decided to walk beside them. A little way ahead was Montayne’s Tavern.
    There was quite a crowd of fellows—mariners, laborers and small craftsmen—drinking in the street by the tavern doors. Seeing this crowd, Abigail glanced up at Hudson uncertainly. He smiled. “They won’t do you no harm,” he told her.
    “I used to go into places like that all the time, when I was young,” Master remarked cheerfully. And they had just come level with the door, when he saw a face that made him exclaim: “Why, it’s Charlie White.” And taking Abby by the hand, he told her: “Come, Abby, you shall meet an old friend of mine.” And he strode across and called out: “Charlie!”
    Hudson was maybe twenty feet away while he watched what happened next.
    Charlie White turned and stared.
    “Charlie. You haven’t forgotten me?”
    Charlie went on staring.
    “Charlie, this is my little girl, Abigail. Say how d’ye do, Abby, to my friend Mr. White.”
    Charlie hardly glanced at Abigail. Then, deliberately, he spat on the ground in front of Master. Hudson saw Master going red. Charlie was turning to the men in front of the tavern.
    “This here is Mr. Master,” he called out. “Neighbor of the governor’s. Son’s in England. At Oxford University. Whadda ya think of that?”
    The men were giving Master ugly looks. Someone made a rude noise. Hudson tensed.
    “What’s this about, Charlie?” cried Master. But Charlie White seemed to ignore the question. Then, suddenly, he thrust his face, contorted with hatred, into Master’s.
    “I ain’t your friend, you two-faced Englishman. You get outta here.” He glanced down at Abigail in her tall hat. “And take your little witch with you.”
    Abigail was looking up at them both, wide-eyed. She began to cry. Hudson started to move forward.
    But with a shrug of disgust, Master turned away. Moments later, they were walking rapidly down Broadway. Hudson picked Abby up and let her cling to his neck. Master was stony-faced, and wasn’t speaking.
    “Who was that wicked man?” Abby whispered to Hudson.
    “Don’ you mind him,” he told her softly. “He’s a little crazy.”

    For some days after this humiliation, John Master was in a state of anger. If it hadn’t been for the number of Charlie’s friends, who might have joined in, and the fact that his little daughter was there, he would probably have struck Charlie. As it was, his little girl had been frightened, and his dignity had suffered considerably.
    He was also mystified. Why should his old friend hate him so much? What did Charlie’s anger mean? Several times in the next couple of weeks he wondered whether to go round and have it out with Charlie. And had he done so, perhaps he might have discovered the truth. But a lifetime’s experience—that it was better to leave trouble alone—and his own wounded pride prevented him.
    One thing was clear, however. The mood in the city was uglier than he’d thought. He’d seen the faces of the men with Charlie at the tavern, and their venomous looks had shaken him. He knew of course that men like Charlie had no love for the rich, Anglican, Trinity crowd, especially when times were hard. He understood if they despised corrupt royal governors. So did he. But when Charlie had called him an Englishman, and used the term with such hatred, he’d been taken aback. After all, the way he saw it, Charlie and he were both English colonists, the same as each other.
    He’d always prided himself on his knowledge of men like Charlie. Had he allowed himself, in the years since his return from London, to get out of touch with the city streets? He realized that perhaps he had, and decided he’d better do something about it. In