ALSO BY EDWARD RUTHERFURD
Sarum
Russka
London
The Forest
Dublin
Ireland Awakening
This book is dedicated, with a lifetime of thanks,
to Eleanor Janet Wintle
Contents
Maps
Preface
New Amsterdam: 1664
New York
The Boston Girl: 1735
The Philadelphia Girl: 1741
Montayne’s Tavern: 1758
London: 1759
Abigail: 1765
The Loyalist: 1770
The Patriot
Vanessa
War: March 1776
Fire: 1776
Love: July 1777
The Capital: 1790
Niagara: 1825
Past Five Points: 1849
Crystal Palace: 1853
Lincoln: 1860
The Draft: 1863
Moonlight Sonata: 1871
Snow: 1888
Old England: 1896
Ellis Island: 1901
Empire State: 1917
Brooklyn: 1953
Verrazano Narrows: 1968
After Dark: 1977
Giving Birth: 1987
Millennium
The Board Game: September 8, 2001
The Towers: September 10, 2001
Epilogue: Summer 2009
Acknowledgments
Maps
Preface
NEW YORK IS, first and foremost, a novel. All the families whose fortunes the story follows are fictional, as are their parts in the historical events described. But in following the stories of these imaginary families down the centuries, I have tried to set them among people and events that either did exist, or might have done.
The names of the principal families in this book have been chosen to represent the traditions from which they come. Van Dyck is a common and easily remembered Dutch name. Master is a fairly common English name, though I confess that while considering the family’s destiny as merchants and Wall Street men, the phrase “Master of the Universe” sprang naturally into my mind. White is another typical English name. Keller is the fiftieth most popular German name, meaning a “Cellar Man.” O’Donnell is a well-known Irish name, Caruso a famous Southern Italian name, and Adler, meaning “Eagle” in German, is found all over Middle Europe. In the case of characters who make brief appearances, the Rivers family are invented; the family of Albion appeared in my book The Forest. My choice of the name Juan Campos was inspired by the famous Puerto Rican composer Juan Morel Campos. The name Humblay does not, so far as I am aware, exist, but is an old spelling of “humbly” to be found in sixteenth-century prayer books. For the origins of the names Vorpal and Bandersnatch, readers are directed to Lewis Carroll’s poem: Jabberwocky.
It has been necessary to invent very little in terms of historical event during the course of this narrative. Here and there, to maintain the narrative flow, there are a few simplifications of complex historical sequence or detail, but none, I believe, that misrepresent the general historical record. A few words, however, are needed as to historical interpretation.
American Indian tribes. While I have made reference to certain local tribes, such as the Tappan and the Hackensack, whose names are still to be found in local topography, the New York region contained such a multiplicity of tribal groups that I have not wished to confuse the reader by using too many. Instead, I have often followed the common practice of referring to these tribes by the name of their shared language group, which was Algonquin. Similarly, the tribes to the north are often called Iroquois—which was their language—although where appropriate, individual tribes like the Mohawks are so named. Readers may be surprised that in the early part of the story I have not used the name of Lenape to denote the native people of the Manhattan region. But in fact, this name was only applied to these groups at a later historical period, and so I have preferred not to make use of it when it would have signified nothing to the people described.
Some recent histories, in particular The Island at the Center of the World, Russell Shorto’s admirable book on New Amsterdam, stress the tradition of personal and civic freedom bequeathed to New York by the Dutch. I have tried to incorporate this work into my story, with the slight proviso that civic independence had a history dating back into the Middle Ages in England and much of Europe, as well.
My view in my original draft, that the English were harsher slaveowners than the Dutch, has been modified in conversations with Professor Graham Hodges, whose book Root & Branch covers this subject thoroughly.
I have chosen to believe that the English governor, Lord Cornbury, was indeed a cross-dresser. Several distinguished historians have been kind enough to agree that this is a good choice.
My view of the changing relations between Englishmen and Americans evolved considerably during the course of this narrative thanks to my conversations with Professor Edwin G. Burrows, the distinguished coauthor of Gotham, whose book on this subject, Forgotten Patriots, came out during the the writing of this novel.
New York is a vast subject, and one of the most complex cities in the world. Any novelist covering its rich history will have to make many choices. I can only hope that the reader may find that this book conveys something, at least, of the history and spirit of what is, for me, a much-loved city.
New Amsterdam
1664
SO THIS WAS freedom.
The canoe went with the river’s tide, water bumping against the bow. Dirk van Dyck looked at the little girl and wondered: Was this journey a terrible mistake?
Big river, calling him to the north. Big sky, calling him to the west. Land of many rivers, land of many mountains, land of many forests. How far did it continue? Nobody knew. Not for certain. High above the eagles, only the sun on its huge journey westward could ever see the whole of it.
Yes, he had found freedom here, and love, in the wilderness. Van Dyck was a large man. He wore Dutch pantaloons, boots with turnover tops, and a leather jerkin over his shirt. Now they were approaching the port, he had put on a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. He gazed at the girl.
His daughter. Child of his sin. His sin for which, religion said, he must be punished.
How old was she? Ten, eleven? She had been so excited when he’d agreed to take her downriver. She had her mother’s eyes. A lovely Indian child. Pale Feather, her people called her. Only her pale skin betrayed the rest of her story.
“Soon we shall be there.” The Dutchman spoke in Algonquin, the language of the local tribes.
New Amsterdam. A trading post. A fort and little town behind a palisade. But it was important, all the same, in the worldwide commercial empire of the Dutch.
Van Dyck was proud to be Dutch. Their country might be small, but the indomitable Netherlanders had stood up to the mighty, occupying Spanish Empire, and won their independence. It was his people who had constructed the great dykes to reclaim huge tracts of fertile land from the rage of the sea. It was the maritime Dutch who had built up a trading empire that was the envy of the nations. Their cities—Amsterdam, Delft, Antwerp—where the rows of tall, gabled houses lined stately canals and waterways, were havens for artists, scholars and freethinkers from all over Europe, in this, the golden age of Rembrandt and Vermeer. Yes, he was proud to be Dutch.
In its lower reaches, the great river was tidal. This morning it was flowing down toward the ocean. During the afternoon, it would reverse itself and flow back toward the north.
The girl was looking forward, downstream. Van Dyck sat facing her, his back resting against a large pile of skins, beaver mostly, that filled the center of the canoe. The canoe was large and broad, its sides made of tree bark, sturdy but light
. Four Indians paddled, two fore, two aft. Just behind them, a second boat, manned by his own men, followed them down the stream. He’d needed to take on this Indian canoe to carry all the cargo he had bought. Upriver, the late-spring sky was thunderous; above them, gray clouds. But ahead, the water was bright.
A sudden shaft of sunlight flashed from behind a cloud. The river made a tapping sound on the side of the boat, like a native drum giving him warning. The breeze on his face tingled, light as sparkling wine. He spoke again. He did not want to hurt her, but it had to be done.
“You must not say I am your father.”
The girl glanced down at the little stone pendant that hung around her neck. A tiny carved face, painted red and black. The face hung upside down, Indian fashion. Logical, in fact: when you lifted the pendant to look at it, the face would be staring at you the right way up. A lucky charm. The Masked One, Lord of the Forest, the keeper of nature’s balance.
Pale Feather did not answer him, but only gazed down at the face of her Indian god. What was she thinking? Did she understand? He could not tell.
From behind the rocky cliffs that stretched up the western bank like high, stone palisades, there now came a distant rumble of thunder. The little girl smiled. His own people, the Dutchman thought, as men of the sea, had no liking for thunder. To them it brought harms and fears. But the Indians were wiser. They knew what it meant when the thunder spoke: the gods who dwelt in the lowest of the twelve heavens were protecting the world from evil.
The sound echoed down the river, and dissolved in space. Pale Feather let the pendant fall, a tiny gesture full of grace. Then she looked up.
“Shall I meet your wife?”
Dirk van Dyck gave a little intake of breath. His wife Margaretha had no idea he was so near. He’d sent no word ahead of his return. But could he really hope to bring the girl ashore and conceal her from his wife? He must have been mad. He twisted round, awkwardly, and stared down the river. They had already reached the northern end of the narrow territory called Manhattan, and they were running with the tide. It was too late to turn back now.
Margaretha de Groot took a slow draw on the clay pipe in her sensual mouth, looked at the man with the wooden leg in a considering kind of way, and wondered what it would be like to sleep with him.
Tall, upright, determined, with piercing eyes, he might be gray, and well into middle age now, but he was still indomitable. As for the peg leg, it was a badge of honor, a reminder of his battles. That wound might have killed some men, but not Peter Stuyvesant. He was walking down the street with surprising speed. As she gazed at the hard, polished wood, she felt herself give a tiny shudder, though he did not see it.
What did he think of her? He liked her, she was sure of that. And why shouldn’t he? She was a fine, full-bosomed woman in her thirties with a broad face and long blonde hair. But she hadn’t run to fat, like many Dutchwomen. She was still in good trim, and there was something quite voluptuous about her. As for her liking for a pipe, most of the Dutch smoked pipes, men and women alike.
He saw her, stopped, and smiled.
“Good morning, Greet.” Greet. A familiar form of address. Like most Dutchwomen, Margaretha van Dyck was normally known by her maiden name, Margaretha de Groot; and that is how she had expected him to address her. Of course, he’d known her since she was a girl. But even so … He was normally such a formal man. She almost blushed. “You are still alone?”
She was standing in front of her house. It was a typical Dutch town house, a simple, rectangular dwelling, two stories high, with wooden sides and its narrow, gabled end turned to the street. This end displayed a handsome pattern of black and yellow brick. A short stairway led up to the street door, which was large and protected by a porch. This was the Dutch “stoop.” The windows were not large, but the ensemble was made impressive by the high, stepped gable that the Dutch favored, and the roof ridge was crowned with a weathervane.
“Your husband is still upriver?” Stuyvesant repeated. She nodded. “When will he return?”
“Who knows?” She shrugged. She could hardly complain that her husband’s business took him north. The trade in furs, especially the all-important beaver pelts, had been so great that the local Indians had hunted their animals almost to extinction. Van Dyck often had to go far north into the hinterland to get his supplies from the Iroquois. And he was remarkably successful.
But did he have to stay away so long? In the early days of their marriage, his journeys had only taken a couple of weeks. But gradually his absences had extended. He was a good husband when he was at home, attentive to her and loving to his children. Yet she couldn’t help feeling neglected. Only that morning her little daughter had asked her when her father would be home. “As soon as he can,” she had answered with a smile. “You may be sure of that.” But was he avoiding her? Were there other women in his life?
Loyalty was important to Margaretha de Groot. So it was not surprising if, fearing her husband might be unfaithful, she told herself that he was morally weak and, dreaming of solace in more righteous arms, allowed a voice within her to whisper: “If only he were a man like Governor Stuyvesant.”
“These are difficult times, Greet.” Stuyvesant’s face did not show it, but she could hear the sadness in his voice. “You know I have enemies.”
He was confiding in her. She felt a little rush of emotion. She wanted to put her hand on his arm, but didn’t dare.
“Those cursed English.”
She nodded.
If the trading empire of the Dutch extended from the Orient to the Americas, the English merchants were not far behind. Sometimes the two Protestant nations acted together against their common enemies, the Catholic empires of Spain and Portugal; but most of the time they were rivals. Fifteen years ago, when Oliver Cromwell and his godly army took away King Charles of England’s crown—and his head—the rivalry had intensified. The Dutch had a lucrative slave trade between Africa and the Caribbean. Cromwell’s mission was clear.
“The slave trade must belong to England.”
Many honest Dutchmen wondered if this brutal trafficking in humans was moral; the good Puritans of England had no such doubts. And soon Cromwell had taken Jamaica from the Spanish, to use as a slaving base. When Cromwell had died four years ago, and a second King Charles had been restored to the English throne, the same policy had continued. Word had already reached New Amsterdam that the English had attacked the Dutch slaving ports on the Guinea coast of Africa. And the rumor across the ocean was that they wanted not only the Dutchman’s slave trade, but his port of New Amsterdam as well.
New Amsterdam might not be large: a fort, a couple of windmills, a church with a pointed spire; there was one small attempt at a canal, more like a large ditch really, and some streets of step-gabled houses which, together with some modest orchards and allotments, were enclosed within a wall that ran from west to east across Manhattan’s southern tip. Yet it had a history. Ten years before even the Mayflower sailed, the Dutch West India Company, seeing the value of the vast natural harbor, had set up a trading post there. And now, after half a century of fits and starts, it had developed into a busy port with outlying settlements scattered for dozens of miles around—a territory which the Dutch called the New Netherland.
It already had character. For two generations the Dutch and their neighbors, the Protestant, French-speaking Walloons, had been fighting for independence from their master, Catholic Spain. And they had won. Dutch and Walloons together had settled in New Amsterdam. It was a Walloon, Pierre Minuit—a name that was still pronounced in French, “Minwee”—who had bargained with the native Indians, four decades ago, to purchase the right to settle on Manhattan. From its birth, the tough, independent spirit of these mixed Protestant merchants had infused the place.
But above all, it had position. The fort, to a soldier’s eye, might not be impressive, but it dominated the southern tip of Manhattan Island where it jutted out into the wide waters of a magnificent, sheltered h
arbor. It guarded the entrance to the big North River.
And Peter Stuyvesant was its ruler.
The English enemy was already close. The New England men of Massachusetts, and especially of Connecticut with their devious governor, Winthrop, were always trying to poach territory from the outlying Dutch settlements. When Stuyvesant built up the stout wall and palisade across the northern side of the town, the New Englanders were politely told: “The wall is to keep the Indians out.” But nobody was fooled. The wall was to keep out the English.
The governor was still gazing at her.
“I wish that the English were my only enemy.”
Ah, the poor man. He was far too good for them, the worthless people of New Amsterdam.
The town contained some fifteen hundred people. About six hundred Dutch and Walloons, three hundred Germans and almost as many English who’d chosen to live under Dutch rule. The rest came from all parts of the world. There were even some Jews. And among them all, how many upright, righteous men? Not many, in her opinion.
Margaretha was not a religious woman. The Dutch Reform Church was stern and Calvinistic; she didn’t always abide by its rules. But she admired the few strong men who did—men like Bogard, the old dominie preacher, and Stuyvesant. At least they stood for order.
When Stuyvesant clamped down on the excessive drinking in the town, or forbade some of the more obviously pagan folk festivals, or tried to keep the town free of the foolish Quakers or wretched Anabaptists, did any of the merchants support him? Hardly any. Not even the Dutch West India Company, whose servant he was, could be relied upon. When a parcel of Sephardic Jews arrived from Brazil, and Stuyvesant told them to go elsewhere, the company ordered him: “Let them in. They’re good for business.”
No one could deny that he’d been a fine governor. The men who came before him had mostly been corrupt buffoons. One idiot had even started an unnecessary war with the Indians that had nearly destroyed the colony. But Stuyvesant had learned to rule wisely. To the north, he kept the English at bay. To the south, he had made short work of an upstart Swedish colony on the Schuylkill River when it had become an irritation. He’d encouraged the sugar trade, and started to bring in more slaves. Every ship from Holland brought, as ballast, the best Dutch bricks to build the city’s houses. The streets were clean, there was a little hospital now, and the school had a Latin master.