New York - The Novel

for him to appear. She could see that the boy’s father was looking out for him too, with a hint of perplexity: and when they sat down to sup, she ventured to ask her host if his son would be joining them.
    “He’ll be along, Miss Kate,” the merchant answered, with a look of slight embarrassment. “I can’t think where the boy’s got to.”
    But the fish was removed, and the meat too, and still he did not come. And perhaps it was the hope of seeing him again, as much as politeness, that made her say to her host, in her father’s hearing, that she hoped he and his family would all come to visit them in Boston before long.
    It was not often that her father lost control of his manners. The look of horror that crossed his face lasted only a second. But it was visible to all. Though he corrected himself quickly, it was not quite in time.
    “Indeed!” he cried warmly. “You must dine with us. Dine with us, when you come to Boston.”
    “How kind,” said his New York cousin, a little drily.
    “We shall await—” Eliot hastened to say. But what he would await was not revealed. For at this moment, the door was thrown open, and young John Master lurched into the room.
    He was not a pretty sight. If his shirt had been as white as his face, it might have been better. But it was filthy. His hair was tousled. His eyes were glazed as he stared round the room, trying to focus. He swayed unsteadily. He looked sodden.
    “By God, sir …” his father broke out.
    “Good evening.” He did not seem to have heard his father. “Am I late?” Even from the doorway, the smell of stale beer on his breath and on his shirt was now filling the room.
    “Out! Leave us, sir,” the merchant shouted. But John remained oblivious.
    “Ah.” His eyes now rested on Kate, who, since he was behind her, had turned around to look at him. “Miss Kate.” He nodded to himself. “My cousin. The lovely, I say the lovely, Miss Kate.”
    “Sir?” she replied, scarcely knowing what it would be best to say. But she needn’t have worried, for her cousin had acquired a momentum of his own. He took a step forward, seemed about to topple, righted himself, and then cannoned into the back of her chair, against which he steadied himself for a moment as he lolled over her shoulder.
    “What a pretty dress, cousin,” he cried. “You are beautiful tonight. You are always beautiful,” he cried out. “My beautiful cousin Kate. I kiss your hand.” And leaning over the back of her chair, he reached his hand down over her shoulder, attempting to take her hand in his. And then threw up.
    He threw up over her hair, over her shoulder, over her arm, and all over her brown-and-white check dress.
    He was still throwing up a moment later, as his enraged father dragged him from the room, leaving behind a scene of some confusion.

    It was a bright, clear August morning, somewhat cooler than the days before, as the small carriage carrying Kate and her father rolled up the Boston road. Behind them the sound of cannon boomed out. The people of New York, whether their governor liked it or not, were giving a formal salute to Andrew Hamilton as he set out, in the other direction, for Philadelphia.
    “Ha,” said her father, with satisfaction. “A salute deserved. It has been a visit worth making, Kate, despite the unfortunate incident last night. I am truly sorry, my child, that you should have suffered such a thing.”
    “I did not mind, Father,” she answered. “I have known my brother and sisters to be sick in the past.”
    “Not like that,” he answered firmly.
    “He is young, Father. I think he is shy.”
    “Pah,” said her father.
    “I did not dislike him,” she said. “In fact—”
    “There is no reason,” said her father decidedly, “for us to encounter those people any more.”
    And since Boston was far away, and her father in control of her fate, she knew that she would never, in all her life, see her cousin John again.

    As the salute of the cannon echoed over New York harbor, and old Andrew Hamilton took his leave, the townspeople could enjoy not only their triumph over a venal governor, but something more profound. Eliot Master’s statement had been correct. The Zenger trial did not change the law of libel, but it told every future governor that the citizens of New York, and every other town in the American colonies, would exercise what, without being philosophers, they believed to be their natural right to say and write what they