New York - The Novel

had tried to ask him, but he had given her a vague answer and gently discouraged her from inquiring again. Her father knew no more than she did. Three weeks had passed before James could bring himself to tell them that he and Vanessa had had a serious falling-out.
    “I still hope for a reconciliation,” he said, “but I cannot count upon it.” In the meantime, it was agreed that there was no need to say anything to little Weston. He was told that his mother would be coming to join them when she could, and though he clearly missed her, he seemed to accept her absence as some unexplained necessity of the adult world.
    After several months, a letter came from Vanessa. It was written on thick paper, in a bold, firm hand. With messages of love for little Weston, she spoke of her concern about the rebellion, and asked when James meant to return, clearly giving no indication that she meant to join him.
    Meanwhile, as the rebellion grew, James’s presence in the house seemed to afford them a measure of protection. Many of the Tory Loyalists were leaving, some sailing to England, others retiring to their farms, wherethey hoped they would not be troubled. Some went to Loyalist Kings or Queens counties on Long Island, though the Patriots would make occasional sweeps to harass them. As long as James was in the city, though, the Master house was considered a Patriot place.
    Abigail had been playing with Weston for a little while when she carelessly threw the ball a bit too wide. Diving to one side, the boy hit his knee against a small rock, grazing it. She ran to him as he got up, his small face puckering. Apart from the trickle of blood, she could see that he’d soon have quite a bruise. She was expecting him to cry. “Shall we go home now?” she asked, as she started to wrap her handkerchief around the bloody knee. But he shook his head. And understanding that boys don’t cry, she went back to her former place, and threw him an easy catch, feeling sorry for him and proud of him at the same time.
    They’d continued in this way for a minute or two more when she heard shouting coming from the street behind her. She paused to listen, but after a moment it seemed to die down. The ball passed back and forth a few more times when she became aware that people at the end of the green were starting to hurry in the direction the noise had come from, as though drawn to a spectacle of some kind. She hesitated, wondering what to do. “Throw, Abby,” called Weston as he tossed the ball to her.
    Pretending to miss her catch, and turning to retrieve the ball, she went back a little way, trying to see what was happening—only to catch sight of Solomon, running toward her.
    “You gotta stay here, Miss Abigail,” he told her breathlessly, as soon as he reached her.
    “What is it?”
    “The Boss,” he whispered to her, so that Weston should not hear. “They come for him. They sayin’ he’s a spy, on account of his gettin’ letters from England. Don’ you go back there,” he added urgently. But she wasn’t listening.
    “Stay with Weston,” she commanded. She thrust the ball into his hand. “Keep him here.” And she began to run.
    There was quite a crowd in front of the house. They were waiting expectantly. She tried to push through them, but before she could get to the gate, the front door of the house opened and the crowd let out a roar.
    They had stripped her father to the waist, and his feet were bare. He was still a large and powerful man who could have put up a fight, but at least a dozen men were coming through the doorway with him, too manyto resist. He was trying to maintain his dignity, yet his face was ashen. She had never seen her father at a disadvantage before. The men were jostling him.
    The shouts from the crowd rose. By the sound of it, they wanted entertainment as much as revenge. On the steps in front of the door, her father was made to stop. One of the men was carrying a bucket of tar.
    And now Abigail understood. It was no use trying to intervene; she knew she could do nothing. She had to think quickly. She turned, and started to run. Where should she go? Up to Wall Street? The City Hall was there, and people with authority. But the fort was closer. There was so little time. How long did it take, to tar and feather a man?
    It was a cruel custom. A ritual humiliation. Strip a man, paint him with tar, then throw feathers all over him, which would stick to the tar. There was the shame of nakedness, the