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, where they 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 many to 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 blistering pain of the hot tar, the suggestion that he were dark-skinned like a native or a slave, and feathered like a chicken, ready for the pot. When they’d done their work, they led the man through the streets, for all the town to mock. Afterward he had to scrape and scrub his blistered skin. Men had been known to die of it.
She ran as fast as she could, looking wildly about her as she went, in the hope that there might be somebody in the street with authority to stop the appalling business. Reaching the gate of the fort, she rushed to the sentry.
“Where is your officer?” she cried. “I need an officer.”
“None here,” he answered.
“My father—they’re going to tar and feather him.”
“Try City Hall, maybe,” he said with a shrug.
“Damn you,” she cried, and turning in desperation, she began to run up Broadway.
She had gone a hundred yards when she saw the cart. It was standing at the side of the street, while the carter chatted to a passer-by. Abigail didn’t hesitate. “Help,” she called out to the carter. And the fellow turned.
“City Hall,” she panted. “Please take me. They’re going to tar and feather my father.”
Thank God the carter didn’t hesitate. A strong arm pulled her up. Glancing at his face, she thought she might have seen him before, but she didn’t know where. Without a word, he whipped up his horse, and the cart moved briskly to the middle of Broadway. But then, instead of going north, it veered round.
“To City Hall,” she cried. “For God’s sake, go to City Hall.”
But the carter took no notice, and then unexpectedly said: “If you want to save him, Miss Abigail, then sit tight.”
Before she could understand what was happening, they were entering Beaver Street. Seeing the crowd, the carter didn’t slow down at all, but drove straight at them, so that they scattered. Her father was still at the top of the steps. The men had already daubed his chest and back, and they were just about to tar his feet. They looked up in surprise at the interruption.
“Stop that!” the carter shouted in a gruff voice. He clearly expected to be obeyed.
The man with the tar brush hesitated, but his companion holding the bucket cursed and protested: “He’s a damn Tory spy.”
The carter’s whip snaked out so fast that Abigail hardly saw it. An instant later, the man with the bucket let out a howl, as the whiplash caught his hand, and he dropped the bucket, spreading tar all over the steps.
“Are you arguing with me?” the carter inquired.
“No, Charlie,” the man with the tar brush replied. “We ain’t arguing.”
“Good,” said Charlie White. “Cos this here’s the house of James Master, the Patriot officer, and it’s under protection. Anyone interfering with the people in this house …” He did not need to finish the sentence.
“All right, Charlie,” said the man with the tar brush, “whatever you say. Come on, boys.” And he led his men out to the street.
Charlie looked round the crowd, and meditatively cracked his whip over their heads. They began to disperse.
“You’d best go tend to your father, Miss Abigail,” Charlie said to her quietly, and gave her a hand down. By the time she reached the top of the steps, the cart was already moving away. He didn’t look back.
They were not troubled after that, though her father was greatly astonished by Charlie White’s protection. Seeing Charlie in the street two days later, Abigail stopped the carter and told him, “My father wants to thank you.” But Charlie shook his head. “It ain’t about him anyhow,” he said gruffly, and turned away.
A month after that, thank God, James came back from Boston, very pleased with himself. General Howe and his redcoats had been obliged to evacuate Boston and leave for Nova Scotia. And Washington had made him a captain. But the memory of her father’s humiliation never left Abigail’s mind, and made her all the more anxious to preserve and defend the family. One day, when James lightheartedly asked her, “Well, Abby, are you a Tory or a Patriot now?” she didn’t answer. “I think Weston is starting a cold,” she said. “He shouldn’t go out today.”
It was hard at times to say exactly who was in charge of New York. The royal governor and the old Assembly were a dead letter. There was usually a Patriot Provincial Congress in existence, run by men like Livingston of the old elite. Still moderate, the New York Congress continued to hope for a settlement. But in the streets of New York, it was the Liberty Boys who decided what should happen.
The preparations for war continued. The British might be up in Nova Scotia, but everyone knew they’d be back. P
atriot troops were pouring in, and the Liberty Boys took a gleeful pleasure in finding the houses of departed Loyalists in which to quarter them. The Tory stronghold of King’s College was practically turned into a barracks. On the common above Charlie White’s home, a field of tents appeared. When Charlie White and his men insisted that every spare man be sent to help build the new ramparts along the river, even John Master, after some protest, agreed to send Solomon.
“If it makes you feel any better,” James told him, “General Lee doesn’t believe we can hold the city. The British ships can enter the harbor and blow us to bits if they choose. But he thinks we should put up a damn good fight first.”
“And Washington?” his father asked.
“His instructions are to hold out.”
“The word is,” John told Abigail with some amusement, “that the Provincial Congress is planning to leave the city as soon as the British appear.”
“Where will they go?”
“White Plains, probably. That’s twenty-five miles north.” He grinned. “From there, I should think, they could safely jump either way.”
In mid-June another letter arrived from Albion, this time carried on a merchantman from the West Indies. He gave details of the huge force now approaching, and some brief words on the British commanders: General Howe in command, with his brother, Admiral Howe, in charge of the navy; General Clinton, raised in New York as a boy, an able commander; Cornwallis, also able, though hot-headed. He also gave Master an interesting piece of information. The Howe brothers would in addition be paid a huge stipend to negotiate a satisfactory peace. “So they are to pursue both war and peace at the same time.”
Did I ever mention another curious circumstance, that the Howe brothers are also cousins to the king? This comes about because the king’s great-grandfather had a bastard half-sister—to whom he was so close that many said she was his mistress too. However that may be, this lady married and her daughter, having become Lady Howe, gave birth to our general and admiral. The king likes them and calls them cousins. So you may say that this American expedition is quite a family business.
His letter assured Master that the force would be so overwhelming that victory would be speedy, and that, for whatever reason, it was generally assumed in England that the American colonists would be too soft to fight. His letter ended with a surprising piece of news.
I must also tell you that my son Grey accompanies the forces coming to America. Somewhat against my better judgment, he has prevailed upon me to buy him a commission in the army. I pray he will come through safely, and hope that he may have the opportunity of calling upon you. Who knows, perhaps he and James may even serve together, side by side.
When her father showed her the letter, Abigail read it with some astonishment.
“It seems, Papa,” she remarked, “that Mr. Albion does not know that James has become a Patriot. Yet you have written to him several times since that occurred. Did you not tell him?”
“I must have forgot.” He smiled at her a little ruefully. “I was hoping that James might change his mind.”
“Oh Papa,” she said, and kissed him.
It was in the last week of June that she witnessed a conversation between her father and her brother that made her feel proud of both of them.
Since May, the Continental Congress in Philadelphia had been meeting to discuss a general declaration of the reasons for their actions, and their future intentions. When all Thirteen Colonies had been asked to send delegates, the moderates of the New York Congress had done so, without great enthusiasm. Yet in the event, the men who gathered to consider the question were no wild radicals, but a sober group of merchants, farmers and lawyers, often with personal ties to Britain. Many were graduates of America’s finest universities—Harvard, William and Mary, Yale and the College of New Jersey at Princeton. One southern gentleman had been educated by the Jesuits in France. But three delegates had been at the Scottish universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrews; two more were graduates of Cambridge, one of Oxford; and six others had either been to school, or studied in England. Added to these was Ben Franklin, the former imperialist, who had been living in England for almost the whole of the last twenty years.
True, their leading lights were now committed to independence. John Hancock, the richest man in Boston, had long ago fallen out with the British government, though more on account of his stupendous smuggling activities than any profound point of principle. Jefferson, that glorious inheritor of the European enlightenment, and John Adams, the scholar lawyer, had both concluded that independence was necessary—though only after long periods of soul-searching. But many of the other delegates remained uncertain, and the word from Philadelphia late in June was that the colonies had still not reached agreement.
The conversation took place after dinner.
“Forgive me, my dear son,” Master began gently, “but as the British Army is soon expected, I must ask you this. If they come in huge force and defeat Washington utterly, will that not be the end of the whole matter? Aren’t you staking a great deal upon a most dangerous chance?”
“No, Father,” James answered. “We may lose the battle, but even British generals have warned the government that no army can hold down forever a people that wants to be free.”
“A quarter of the population is probably still Loyalist, and many others will go with the prevailing wind. The Howe brothers may also be able to offer a compromise that will satisfy most of the Patriots.”
“It’s possible. But there is every indication that Britain will never give us the real independence we seek.”
“What is it you want to create? A republic?”
“Yes. A free republic.”
“Be careful what you wish for, James. You have been to Oxford and know more history than I. Didn’t the stern Roman Republic fall into decadence? And in England, after they cut off King Charles’s head, Cromwell’s rule turned into such a dictatorship that the English brought back the monarchy again.”
“We shall have to do better.”
“A fine claim, my boy, but no country of any size has ever managed it.”
“Have faith, Father.”
“I haven’t, but never mind. Another question. The purpose of the present meeting in Philadelphia is to produce a document declaring the colonies’ intention to be independent, is it not?”
“Certainly.”
“Why is it so important?”
“Do you want my honest answer?”
“Of course.”
“Because, if we don’t, the French won’t take us seriously.”
“The French? This is for the French?”
“No. For ourselves as well. But for the French, it’s essential. Consider, the British have a navy which controls the seas. We colonists have only privateers. Against the Royal Navy, we haven’t a chance. But the French maintain a powerful navy, and they are a huge supplier of arms—down in the South, they are already supplying the Patriots, though in secret. But we cannot prevail over Britain, unless we have the French and their fleet. And much as they’d like to strike a blow against Britain, it will be expensive for them, and they won’t risk much unless they know that we truly mean business. That’s why we need a declaration. To show the French that we’re serious.”
“Then you are truly the enemies of Britain,” his father sighed, “to entangle yourselves with her greatest enemy.” John Master shook his head. “Not only that, James. The kingdom of France is a papist tyranny. It represents everything you say you’re against.”
“Necessity, Father.”
“Well, I’m not sure it will work. I don’t believe the colonies will hold together. The differences, especially between North and South, are too great. They haven’t managed to agree in Philadelphia yet. Georgia didn’t even send proper delegates.”
“You may be right. I can’t deny it.”
His father nodded sadly, then poured more wine into James’s glass. And for some time longer, the two men discussed these
desperate issues, without a cross word passing between them. And knowing how much pain her father must be suffering, Abigail could only admire his restraint.
Yet James too, she thought, must have made a sacrifice. For he could surely have remained in England and argued the colonists’ cause, without any risk to himself.
On the twenty-ninth day of June, the British fleet began to arrive. Abigail and her father watched from the fort. A hundred ships, carrying nine thousand redcoats, sailed up through the Narrows and anchored off Staten Island. It was an impressive sight. The British disembarked, but took no immediate action. Evidently they were waiting for more reinforcements. The city trembled. Two days later, James grimly confessed: “The Staten Island militia has gone over to the British. There are boatloads of Loyalists crossing from Long Island too.”
His father said nothing. But that evening, when they thought she had retired to her room, she heard her father quietly say: “It’s not too late for you to go to Staten Island too, James. I’d come to vouch for you.”
“I can’t, Father,” James replied.
On the eighth of July, James came in looking excited.
“The Philadelphia Congress has agreed to a Declaration of Independence.”
“All the colonies agreed?” his father asked.
“Almost all, though only at the last minute. New York abstained, but they’ll ratify.”
The next day, to her father’s disgust, a large number then swept down Broadway to Bowling Green, knocked down the bronze statue of King George, tore off his head, and carted the torso away. “We’ll melt it for bullets to shoot at the redcoats,” they declared. That evening, James brought a printed copy of the Declaration to show his father.
“Jefferson of Virginia wrote most of it, though Ben Franklin made corrections. You must confess, it’s rather fine.”