New York - The Novel

Latin tags, how did they see themselves, if not as the honest, sturdy heirs of ancient Rome? To be an English gentleman, in an age when Britain’s empire was expanding, was afine thing indeed; and young men in such a position might be forgiven for feeling a sense of superiority.
    It was natural, too, when Englishmen considered how to manage their widespread territories, that they should look to the Roman Empire for a model. And how was the mighty Roman Empire governed? Why, it was ruled from Rome, of course. Provinces were conquered, Roman peace established and governors sent out to rule them. The barbarians were given the benefits of civilization, and they were grateful for them. What more could they want? As for laws and taxes, they were decided by the emperor, the senate and people of Rome.
    It was a splendid thing for young James Master to join such an elite.
    True, now and then, he was reminded that his status was in question. A lighthearted remark from some fellow Oxford undergraduate: “Come on, Master, you damned provincial.” Or an expression of friendship: “Don’t mind that James is a colonist—we count him as one of us.” Words spoken in jest, and not intended seriously—yet proving all the same that, in their hearts, young British gentlemen did not consider an American their equal. James took such occasional teasing in good part. If anything, it made him all the more determined to join the exclusive British club.
    Back in London after university, James had been happy. The Albions had long been his second family. He and Grey had been together at Oxford for a year, and it had been pleasant for him to act as mentor to the younger fellow. In London, too, he led the way. Especially when it came to women.
    James was very attractive to the gentler sex. With his tall good looks, his undoubted fortune, and pleasant, easy manners, he was much in favor with young ladies looking for a husband, and with older women looking for something less permanent. True, the younger ladies might acknowledge, it was a pity his fortune was in the colonies. But perhaps he would stay in London, or at least do as a number of other rich New York merchants did, and maintain a house in both cities. Besides his Oxford education, his views on life seemed to be sound. He loved London, was strong for the empire, and when it came to the radical mobs that troubled both London and New York, he was quite decided. “They must be dealt with firmly,” he would say. “They are a threat to good order.”
    Unsurprisingly, in these circumstances, James Master had a very agreeable time.
    It was one day in summer when Grey Albion suggested that James join him and his friend Hughes for dinner. James met them at a tavern off the Strand. The two friends made an interesting pair: Albion, the privileged young man with his untidy hair, and laughing blue eyes; Hughes, the son of a humble candle-maker, working his way up in a law office, always neatly dressed. But behind his quiet and respectable manner, Grey told James, lay a mind that was surprisingly bold and daring.
    During the meal, the young men enjoyed a general chat. They had ordered roast beef, and the innkeeper had brought them his best red wine. They all drank freely, though James noticed that the young law clerk only drank one glass to his two. He learned that Hughes had no hand in politics, but that his father was a radical. Hughes, for his part, asked James questions about his family and childhood in New York, and professed the hope that he might go there one day.
    “And do you intend to return to America yourself?” he asked.
    “Yes. In due course,” James answered.
    “May I ask what side will you take in the present dispute when you do?”
    “My family is loyal,” James said.
    “Very loyal,” Grey Albion added with a grin.
    Hughes nodded thoughtfully. His narrow face, with its thin, hooked nose and bead-like eyes, reminded James of a small bird.
    “My family would certainly be on the other side,” he remarked. “As you know, many of London’s artisans and radicals think that the colonists’ complaints are just. And it isn’t just humble folk like my family. Some of the great Whigs, even solid country gentlemen, say that the colonists are only demanding the same thing that their own ancestors did before they cut off King Charles’s head. No tax without representation. It’s the birthright of every Englishman.”
    “No cause to rebel, though,” said Grey Albion.
    “We