New York - The Novel

have this belt,” his father had often told him. “He set great store by it.” So when his father had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday, and said, “May it bring you good fortune,” John had been touched, and kept it safely in his big oak press ever since. Sometimes he would take it out and look at the pleasing pattern of the wampum shells, but he hardly ever put it on. This evening was a special occasion, though. And he hoped it might bring him luck.
    Tonight he was going to ask Mercy Brewster to be his wife.
    The last five years had seen a remarkable change in young John Master. Though he’d kept his good looks, he’d filled out into a large and sturdy figure. He no longer thought that he was worthless. The visit of his Boston cousins had proved to be a turning point. The morning after thehumiliating incident with Kate had been the only time he’d ever seen his father truly angry, and it had done him good. He’d been so shaken that he’d tried to pull himself together. With a new determination, he had applied himself to the one thing he seemed to have a talent for, and he’d worked hard, as never before, at the family’s business.
    His father Dirk had been astounded, but delighted. The gift of the wampum belt had been his signal to his son that he had faith in him. John had kept on his path and gone from strength to strength, and by now he was generally regarded as an accomplished merchant. But he knew his own weaknesses. He knew that his mind was inclined to be lazy; and he had to take care how much he drank. Having no illusions about his own shortcomings, however, he could accept those of others with good grace. As he approached his mid-twenties, John Master had a view of human nature that was broad and balanced.
    There had even been talk of him running for political office. But he wasn’t keen to do it. For the last few years of the city’s life had also taught him much.
    After the Zenger trial, the venal Governor Cosby had died, and there had been a move for reform in New York. New men had come into the city government—lesser merchants, craftsmen, men of the people. One might have thought the corrupt regime of the past had been replaced. But not a bit of it. In no time at all, most of the new people had been corrupted themselves, with high offices, high salaries and the chance of riches. In New York, as in London, it seemed the dictum of the old British prime minister held good: “Every man has his price.”
    “I’ll stick to making money like an honest rogue,” John told his father, genially.
    As he strode along that evening, with a silver-topped walking stick in one hand, he looked every inch the respectable citizen. The streets after dark could be dangerous, but he wasn’t concerned. Not many footpads would care to take him on.
    As for this Negro conspiracy, he didn’t believe a word of it. He knew every tavern keeper in the city, and the fellow accused was the biggest villain of them all. It was entirely possible that he’d started some fires, and he might have got a gang of discontented slaves and others working for him. But beyond that, John Master believed nothing. The prostitute would say anything if you paid her. As for the slaves who’d started naming people when the fire was put to their feet, their testimony was worthless. Peoplewould say anything under torture. He’d seen the city recorder eagerly taking down the names they screamed out, and felt only disgust. Everyone knew about the Salem Witch Trials up in Massachusetts, the previous century. In his opinion, that was where this sort of thing led—to endless accusations, executions and tragic absurdity. He just hoped it would be over soon.
    Thank God that tonight he had happier things he could think about.

    When he’d first told his father he wanted to marry Mercy Brewster, Dirk Master had been astonished.
    “The Quaker girl? Are you sure? In heaven’s name, why?”
    As for his mother, she had looked very doubtful.
    “I don’t think, Johnny, you will make each other happy.”
    But John Master knew his own mind, and his parents were wrong. Entirely wrong.
    “In fact, she’s not a Quaker,” he’d told them. He’d supposed she must be, when they first met. After all, her family was recently arrived from Philadelphia, and she addressed people as “thee” and “thou.” But before long, he had learned that though her father had been a Quaker once, he had been read out of the meeting for marrying a