New York - The Novel

owners—families like Livingston, Bayard, van Cortlandt, De Lancey, Morris—whether the city was going through boom or bust. They were impregnable, in their inherited security. Charlie turned east, into Beaver Street. At the end of it, he came to some railings, and a pair of handsome iron gates, surmounted by lamps. These protected a wide cobbled path and steps leading up to a large classical house. The shutters had not been closed; the warm light from the tall windows streamed out into the yard.
    John Master’s house. He’d built it soon after his return from London.
    Charlie continued across the southern end of Manhattan until he came to the East River. The long waterfront of docks and warehouses was quiet now, the ships so many shadows in the water. He walked along the wharfs a little way, then turned up Queen Street. There were lighted windows here, taverns still open.
    He’d gone fifty yards when he came upon the shape on the ground. It was a black man, huddled in a blanket, against a warehouse wall. He glanced up at Charlie and, without much hope, held out his hand.
    “Boss?”
    Charlie looked down at him. Another sign of the times. All over the city, the smaller masters, short of cash, had been freeing their household slaves. It was cheaper than feeding them. They were everywhere: free blacks, with nothing to do but beg. Or starve. Charlie gave him a penny. Just after Schemmerhorn’s Wharf, he came to a large tavern, and went in.
    There was quite a crowd in there, mariners mostly. Over at a table, he caught sight of a carter he knew. Big fellow, red hair. Never liked him much. If he could remember his name, he supposed he might speak to him, though he didn’t really want to. But the carter had got up and was coming toward him. Well, no need to be rude. Charlie gave him a nod.
    But the next thing he knew, the fellow was taking his arm. Bill. That was his name.
    “I’m sorry about your boy, Charlie,” he said.
    “My boy? You mean Sam?” Charlie felt himself going pale. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “You don’t know?” Bill looked concerned. “He ain’t dead, Charlie,” he explained hurriedly. “Nothing like that. But the press gang took him and a dozen others late this afternoon.”
    “Press gang?”
    “They were here and gone so quick you wouldn’t believe it. The ship’s already sailed. Your Sam’s in the Royal Navy now, serving His Majesty.”
    Charlie felt a strong arm round him before he even realized he was falling. “Sit down here, Charlie. Give him rum!” He felt the rough hot liquid searing his throat and warming his stomach. He sat helplessly, while the big red-headed fellow sat beside him.
    And then Charlie White cursed. He cursed the British Navy which had stolen his son, the British government which had ruined his city; he cursed the governor, and the congregation of Trinity, and John Master and his big house, and his son at Oxford. He cursed them all to hell.

    It was some weeks later, on a damp spring day, that Hudson looked in upon his employer in the small library of his house, and found John Master trying to finish some paperwork, but somewhat hampered by the five-year-old girl who was sitting on his knee. His wife was out.
    “Can we go now, Papa?” the little girl asked.
    “Soon, Abby,” answered Master.
    So Hudson stepped forward and quietly took the child from her father’s knee.
    “I’ll mind her until you’re ready,” he said softly, and Master smiled at him gratefully. With the child clinging to his neck, Hudson retreated toward the kitchen. “We’ll find you a cookie, Miss Abby,” he promised.
    Abigail didn’t object. She and Hudson had been friends since her birth. In fact, he’d almost had to deliver her.
    In the quarter-century since John Master had rescued him, Hudson had always worked for the Master family. He had done so of his own free will. After that first evening, Master had never questioned Hudson’s claim that he was not a slave. He’d employed him at a reasonable wage, and Hudson had always been free to go. Five times, when the urge had come upon him, Hudson had gone to sea in one of the Masters’ ships; but withthe passing of the years, his desire for roaming had grown less. In the house, John had employed him first as a handyman, then in other capacities. Nowadays, he ran the entire household. When the family had gone to London, Master had not hesitated to leave the place in his care.
    Fifteen years ago, he had married. His