The Boston Girl

1735

THE TRIAL WOULD begin tomorrow. The jury had been rigged by the governor. Handpicked stooges of his own. Conviction guaranteed. The first jury, that is.

For when the two judges saw it—though they were friends of Governor Cosby themselves—they threw the stooges out and started again. The new jury was not rigged. The trial would be honest. British fair play. New York might be a long way from London, but it was English, after all.

The whole colony was waiting with baited breath.

Not that it mattered. The defendant hadn’t a hope.

The third day of August, the year of Our Lord 1735. The British Empire was enjoying the Georgian age. For after Queen Anne, her equally Protestant kinsman, George of Hanover, had been asked to take the throne; and soon been followed by his son, a second George, who was ruler of the empire now. It was an age of confidence, and elegance, and reason.

The third day of August 1735: New York, on a hot and humid afternoon.

Seen from across the East River, it might have been a landscape by Vermeer. The long, low line of the distant wharfs, which still bore names like Beekman and Ten Eyck—the step-gabled rooftops, squat storehouses and sailing ships at anchor—made a peaceful picture in the watery silence. In the panorama’s center, Trinity Church’s graceful little steeple seemed to offer a pinprick to the sky.

In the streets, however, the scene was far from peaceful. Ten thousand people lived in New York now, and the place was growing bigger every year. Wall Street, on the line of the former ramparts, was only halfway up the waterfront. West of Broadway, orchards and neat Dutch gardens remained, but on the eastern side, the brick and wooden houses were tightly crammed together. Pedestrians had to thread between stoops and stalls, water barrels and swinging shutters, and dodge the wheels of the carts churning their way over the dirt or cobbled roadway to the noisy market.

But above all, for anyone in the streets, the wretchedness came from the fetid air. Horse droppings, cowpats, slops from the houses, and garbage and grime, dead cats and birds, excrement of every kind, lay strewn on the ground, waiting for the rain to wash it all away, or the sun to bake it to powder. And on a hot and steamy day, from this putrid mess, a soupy stench arose, fermented by the sun, creeping up wooden walls and fences, impregnating brick and mortar, choking every ventricle, stinging the eyes, rising to the roof gables.

This was the smell of summer in New York.

But by God it was British. A man gazing at it across the East River might be near the village of Brooklyn where Dutch was still spoken, but he was situated in Kings County nonetheless, and the next county upriver was Queens. Behind Manhattan island, he would see the mainland across the Hudson River. And for that territory, Charles II of England himself had chosen the name New Jersey.

Within the city, the Dutch, step-gabled houses of New Amsterdam were still charmingly to be seen, especially below Wall Street; but the newer houses were in the simple, English Georgian style. The old Dutch City Hall had also been succeeded by a classical building that sat on Wall and gazed complacently down Broad Street. One might hear Dutch spoken by the market stalls, but not in the merchants’ houses.

With English language went English liberties. The city had a royal charter, with the king’s own seal on it. True, a former governor had demanded a bribe to procure this royal recognition, but you expected that sort of thing. And once such a charter was granted and sealed, the free men of the city could point to it for the rest of time. They elected their city councillors; they were free-born Englishmen.

Some people in New York might have said that this English freedom was less than perfect. The ever-growing number of slaves sold in the market at the foot of Wall Street might have said so; but they were Negroes who, New Yorkers were now generally agreed, were an inferior people. The women of New York—those who still remembered the old Dutch laws which made them equal to their menfolk—may also have regretted their inferior status under British law. But honest Englishmen were well assured that such complaints from the weaker sex were unseemly.

No: what mattered was escaping the tyranny of kings. Puritans and Huguenots were equally agreed. No Louis, King of France; no Catholic James. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 had established that the Protestant British Parliament would oversee the king. As for English common law, the right to trial by jury, and to assemblies that could refuse oppressive taxes, why some of those ancient rights went back five hundred years, to Magna Carta or before. In short, the men of New York were just as free as the good fellows back in England who had cut their king’s head off, not a century ago, when he tried to be a tyrant.

That was why the trial, taking place tomorrow, was so important.

The two men walked along the road together. The man in the tightly buttoned brown coat seemed uncomfortable. Perhaps it was just the heat. Or perhaps something else was worrying him.

Mr. Eliot Master of Boston was a good man, who cared about his children. He was also a cautious lawyer. He would smile, certainly, when it was appropriate; and laugh when it was called for, though not too loud and not too long. So it was unusual for him to worry that he might have made a terrible mistake.

He had only just met his New York cousin for the first time, but already he had reservations about Dirk Master. He’d always known that their grandfathers, his namesake Eliot and Dirk’s grandfather Tom, had gone their separate ways. The Boston Masters had never had any contact with the Masters of New York. But as he was going to visit New York, Eliot had wondered whether enough time had passed to reestablish relations. Before writing to his kinsman, however, he had made some inquiries about these people, and ascertained that the merchant was a man of fortune. That was a relief, for Eliot would have been disappointed to have a kinsman who did not do well. But as to his character, well, that remained to be seen.

As it was a hot day, the merchant was wearing the light and simple coat called a banyan: sober enough. But the silk vest under it had concerned the lawyer. Too colorful. His periwig was too flamboyant, his cravat too loosely tied. Did these things suggest a character lacking in gravitas? Though his kinsman had warmly invited him to stay at his house while he attended the trial in New York, Eliot Master had instead made arrangements to stay with a reliable lawyer he knew; and seeing his cousin’s silk vest, he considered the choice had been wise.

You wouldn’t have guessed they were cousins. Dirk was large, and fair, with prominent teeth, and an air of genial confidence. Eliot was of medium size, his hair brown, his face broad and serious.

In Boston, the Master family lived on Purchase Street. Eliot was a deacon of the Old South Congregation Church, and a selectman. He was familiar with business. How could you not be, among the wharfs and watermills of Boston? His wife’s brother was a brewer—a good, solid enterprise, fortunately. But, as a graduate of the Boston Latin School and Harvard University, it was education and sound ethics that Eliot valued.

He wasn’t sure that his New York cousin possessed either.

Cautious though he was, Eliot Master was ready to stand up for principle. About slavery, for instance, he was firm. “Slavery is wrong,” he told his children. The fact that, even in Boston, about one person in ten was now a slave, made no difference to him at all. There were none in his house. Unlike many of the stern Boston men of the past, he would tolerate freedom in religion, so long as it was Protestant. Above all, like his Puritan ancestors before him, he was vigilant against any attempt at tyranny by the king. This was why he was here in New York, to witness the trial.

It had been proper of his cousin to ask him and his daughter to dinner that day, and useful that, while Kate rested at their lodgings, Dirk was showing him round the town. The merchant was certainly well informed; and clearly proud of his city. Having walked up Broadway and admired Trinity Church, they had taken the road north as it followed the line of the ancient Indian track, until they were nearing the old pond.

“The land to the east was all swamp a couple of years ago,” the merchant told him. “But my friend Roosevelt bought it, and look at it now.” The area had been drained and laid out as handsome streets.

Such development was impressive, the lawyer remarked, when he’d heard how New York’s trade had been suffering in recent years.

“Trade is bad at present,” the merchant acknowledged. “The sugar planters in the West Indies were too greedy and overproduced. Many have gone under, so that our own trade, which lies chiefly in supplying them, has been badly hit. Then those damn fellows in Philadelphia are supplying flour at lower prices than we can.” He shook his head. “Not good.”

Since New York had been stealing away Boston’s trade for half a century, the Bostonian could not entirely suppress a smile at New York’s present discomfort.

“You still do well, though?” he asked.

“I’m a general trader,” said his cousin. “The slave trade’s still good.”

Eliot Master was silent.

On their way back, they passed by Mill Street, and Dirk Master indicated a building there.

“That’s the synagogue,” he said, easily. “Not a bad building. They have two communities, you know: the Sephardics, who came here first from Brazil—rather gentlemanly; and the Ashkenazim, Germans—not gentlemen, but more of them. So they elect an Ashkenazi as president of the congregation, but the services are Sephardic. God knows if the Germans understand them. Funny really, don’t you think?”

“I do not think a man’s religion is a laughing matter,” said the lawyer, quietly.

“No. Of course. Wasn’t quite what I meant.”

It might not have been. But the Boston man thought he detected in the merchant’s manner a hint of moral carelessness—confirmation that he’d been right to have reservations about that silk vest.

They were about to part, when Dirk Master suddenly stopped, and pointed.

“There he is,” he cried. And seeing Eliot look puzzled, he smiled. “That young devil,” he explained, “is my son.”

The lawyer stared in horror.

Eliot Master would never admit to having a favorite, but of his five children, he loved his daughter Kate the best. She had the most brains—though he thought it a pity they should be wasted on a girl. He liked his women to read and think, but only to the degree that would be considered appropriate. She also had a sweet nature, almost to a fault. At the age of five, she had been distressed by the poor folk she had seen in Boston. Well and good. But it had taken him three years of patient explaining to make her understand there was a difference between the deserving and the undeserving poor.

He was anxious, therefore, to find the right husband for Kate. A man intelligent, kind and firm. At one time, he had considered his respected neighbor’s son, young Samuel Adams, although the boy was a few years younger than Kate. But he had soon seen that there was a waywardness and lack of application in the boy that ruled him out. As Kate was now eighteen, her father was all the more careful that she should never be taken to any place where she might form an unfortunate attachment.

Naturally, therefore, he had hesitated to bring her to New York, where the presence of these cousins, about whom he knew little, might add to the risk.

But she had begged to come. She wanted to attend the trial, and she certainly understood the legal issues far better than the rest of his children. She would be safely with him all the time, and he had to admit he was always glad of her company. So he’d agreed.

Before him, not fifty yards away, he now saw a tall fair-haired youth, accompanied by three common sailors, coming out of a tavern. He saw one of the sailors laugh, and slap the youth on the back. Far from objecting, the young man, who was wearing a shirt that was none too clean, made some cheerful jibe and laughed in turn. As he did so, he half turned, allowing the lawyer a clear sight of his face. He was handsome. He was more than handsome.

He looked like a young Greek god.

“Your daughter must be about the same age,” the merchant said cheerfully. “I expect they’ll get on. We’ll expect you for dinner then, at three.”

Kate Master looked at herself in the glass. Some of the girls she knew got little dressmaker’s dolls with the latest fashions from Paris and London. Her father would never have allowed such vanities in the house. But if she dressed more simply, she was still pleased with the result. Her figure was good. Her breasts were pretty—not that anyone would see them, because a lace modesty piece covered all but the tops. The material of her bodice and skirt was a russet silk, worn over a creamy chemise, that suited her coloring. Her brown hair was arranged simply and naturally; her shoes had heels, but not too high, and round toes, because her father did not approve of the new pointed shoes that were the latest fashion. Kate had a fresh complexion; and she’d used powder so lightly, she didn’t think her father would notice.

She wanted to look well for these New York cousins. She wondered if there would be any young men of her age.

When they arrived at the house in the fashionable South Ward near the old fort, Kate and her father were both impressed. The house was handsome. Above a basement were two floors, five bays across, simple and classical. A gentleman’s house. As they went in, they noticed a big oak cupboard in the hall, obviously Dutch, and two upright chairs from the time of Charles II. In the parlor, there were solemn pictures of Dirk’s parents, some shelves holding a black-and-gold tea set from China, and several elegant walnut chairs with tapestry seats, in the Queen Anne style. It all proclaimed that the New York Masters had had their money a good, long time.

Dirk greeted them warmly. His wife was a tall, elegant lady, whose soft voice gently let them know that she was confident of her place in society. And then there was their son, John.

Her father hadn’t told Kate about the boy. Though she tried not to do so, she found herself stealing glances at him. He was wearing a spotless white shirt of the best linen, and a green-and-gold silk vest. He wore no wig—and why would he, with his magnificent mane of wavy golden hair? He was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen in her life. He said a few polite words when they were introduced, though she hardly heard them. But he contented himself with listening to his father speak, so she could only wonder what he was thinking.

Before dinner, the conversation was confined to family inquiries. She learned that John had two sisters, both away, but no brothers. He was the heir, then.

The dinner was excellent. The food plentiful, the wine good. Kate was placed on the merchant’s right, between him and John. The conversation was general and cordial, but she could tell that everyone was being cautious, anxious not to offend the other party. Mrs. Master remarked that she knew the lawyer they were staying with. And her husband said that he hoped his cousin would find some good legal minds among the members of the New York Bar.

“There are fine minds in New York outside the legal profession,” Eliot responded politely. “The fame of Governor Hunter’s circle still resounds in Boston, I assure you.”

Governor Hunter, who had come after the eccentric Lord Cornbury, had gathered a notable circle of friends, mostly Scots like himself, into a sort of intellectual club. Two decades later, this circle was still reverently spoken of by men of culture in other cities. Kate had often heard her father refer to them. She glanced at the boy on her right. He was looking blank. Beyond him, his mother’s stare was vague.

“Ah, Hunter,” said their host firmly. “I wish we were always so lucky with our governors.”

Hoping to draw young John into the conversation, Kate remarked to him that she noticed more Negroes in New York than Boston. Yes, he answered quietly, about one in five of the city’s population were slaves.

“My father does not approve of slavery,” she said brightly, and received a warning look from Eliot. But their host intervened in his easy manner.

“You may have noticed that the servants in this house are not Negro slaves, Miss Kate, but Irish servants working out their indentures—to pay for their voyage mostly. However, it’s true that I’m in the slave trade. Some of the best Boston families, like the Waldos and Faneuils, are in it too. A Boston merchant I know said his three main lines are Irish butter, Italian wine and slaves.”

“My daughter meant no discourtesy, cousin,” Eliot said quickly, “and few people in Boston agree with me.” Clearly he was determined that the dinner should pass off easily. “Though I do confess,” he could not help adding, “that as an Englishman, I can’t ignore the fact that a senior British judge has ruled that slavery should not be legal in England.”

Dirk Master looked at his Boston cousin thoughtfully. He’d been quite curious to meet him. He himself was the only Master in the male line in New York. His van Dyck cousins had been women who’d married and moved out of the city. So he’d few relations to call his own. This Boston lawyer was certainly a very different kind of man, but he didn’t dislike him. That, at least, was a start. His daughter seemed pleasant enough, too. He leaned back in his chair, and considered his words.

“Forty years ago,” he said, “my Dutch grandfather was a fur trader. The fur trade still continues, but it’s not so important now. My other grandfather, Tom Master, was in the West Indies trade. And that trade has now grown so huge that three-quarters of all the business of this city derives from supplying the sugar plantations. And sugar plantations need slaves.” He paused. “As to the morality of the slave trade, cousin, I respect your opinion. My Dutch grandfather intended to free the only two slaves he had.”

Eliot bowed his head noncommittally.

A mischievous twinkle came into the merchant’s eye.

“But at the same time, cousin,” he continued, “you may acknowledge that we British are also guilty of a mighty hypocrisy in this matter. For we say that slavery is monstrous, yet only if it takes place on the island of Britain. Everywhere else in the British Empire, it’s allowed. The sugar trade, so valuable to England, entirely depends upon slaves; and British vessels carry thousands every year.”

“It cannot be denied,” Eliot politely acknowledged.

“Does it concern you, sir,” Kate now ventured, “that New York is so dependent upon a single trade?”

The merchant’s blue eyes rested upon her, approvingly.

“Not too much,” he answered. “You’ve heard of the Sugar Interest, I’ve no doubt. The big sugar planters have formed a group to influence the London Parliament. They have huge wealth, so they can do it. They and their friends sit in the legislature; other Members of Parliament are persuaded or paid. The system reaches into the highest quarters. And this lobbying, as we may call it, of Parliament has been entirely successful. During the last few years, while the sugar trade has been down, the British Parliament has passed two measures to protect it. The greatest is the Rum Ration. Every man serving aboard a British Navy vessel is now given half a pint of rum per day. I do not know what this costs the government, but multiplied across the entire navy and through the whole year, it is a truly astounding quantity of rum—and therefore of molasses from the plantations.” He smiled. “And not only is the Rum Ration their salvation, but that salvation is eternal. For once you give a sailor the expectation of rum as his right, he will not be weaned from it. Stop the rum and you’ll start a mutiny. Better still, as the navy grows, so does the rum ration and the fortunes of the sugar planters. So you see, Miss Kate, New York’s sure foundation is actually the English Sugar Interest.”

Kate glanced at her father. She knew this cynical use of religious words could not be pleasing to him, though she secretly rather enjoyed the tough frankness of the merchant’s mind.

“You said there was a second measure, sir,” she said.

“Yes. The Molasses Act. It says we may only buy molasses from English traders and English ships. That keeps the price of molasses high and protects the English planters. I do not like it so well, because I also manufacture rum here in New York. I could buy my molasses far cheaper from the French traders, if it were allowed.” He shrugged.

It was now that young John Master chose to speak.

“Except that we do.” He turned to Kate and grinned. “We get molasses from the Frenchies outside the port and smuggle ’em in. ’Tain’t legal, of course, but it’s what Pa does. I go out on those runs,” he assured her, with some pride.

The merchant looked at his son with exasperation.

“That’s enough, John,” he said loudly. “Now what we should all like to hear,” he bowed toward Eliot, “is my cousin’s opinion of tomorrow’s trial.”

Eliot Master looked down at the table. The truth was, he felt a sense of relief. If, before arriving at the house, his secret terror had been that his daughter might take a liking to her handsome cousin, upon entering the house, seeing the young man cleaned up, and realizing that he must be heir to a fortune far larger than his own in Boston, he had been faced with an uncomfortable proposition: whatever his feelings about these New Yorkers and their business, would he really have the right to deny her, if Kate should wish to marry such a rich kinsman? So far, he had been struggling. But now, by his foolish intervention, this boy had just exposed himself and his family for what they were. Not only slavers, but smugglers as well. Their fortune, so much greater than his own, was explained. He would be polite to them, naturally. But as far as Eliot Master was concerned, they were no better than criminals. His duty as a father, therefore, required him only to ensure that his daughter saw this young scoundrel for what he was.

Thus satisfied, he turned his mind to the trial of John Peter Zenger.

If tomorrow’s trial was of great consequence for the American colonies, its origins lay in England. Political events in London never took long to affect Boston and New York. As Dirk Master liked to say: “London gives us laws, wars and whores.” By “whores,” however, he meant the royal governors.

Though there were honorable exceptions, like Governor Hunter, most of these men came to America only to line their pockets, and the colonist knew it. And the present governor was among the worst. Governor Cosby was venal. In no time he had made illegal grabs for money, rigged courts and elections, and thrown out judges who did not give him what he wanted. The only newspaper in the city being under the governor’s control, some of the merchants had started another of their own, to attack Cosby and expose his abuses. They’d hired a printer named John Peter Zenger to produce it. The governor was determined to close it down. And to this end, last year, he had thrown Zenger in jail, and was now about to try him for seditious libel.

Eliot Master placed his fingers together. As a lawyer, he saw several issues. “My first comment,” he began, “refers to the manner of Zenger’s arrest. I understand that he is not a rich man.”

“He’s a poor immigrant from Palatine Germany,” said the merchant. “Trained here as a printer. Though he’s turned out to have quite a talent for writing.”

“And having arrested him, the governor arranged for his bail to be set at an outrageous sum, which Zenger could in no way afford? And as a result, he has languished in jail for eight months?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then there is a point of principle here,” the Boston lawyer said, “concerning excessive bail. It should not be allowed. But the main issue,” he continued, “is that the royal governor has been offended.”

“We’re all ready to offend this royal governor,” his host remarked, “but because poor Zenger printed the paper, he’s being used as the scapegoat. Our people are determined to provide him with a good defense. And the new jury are quite decent fellows. I believe seven of them are even Dutch, so no friends of the governor’s. Has the fellow a chance?”

“I think not,” answered Eliot. “If it can be shown that Zenger did in fact print the offending articles, the law says that the jury must find him guilty.”

“There’s not much doubt that he printed the piece,” said the merchant. “And he’s continued to put out new issues of his journal by passing fresh articles to his wife under the door of his cell. But what about the fact that every word he printed about Governor Cosby is true? Shouldn’t that count for something?”

“Our British law of libel says that’s no defense,” the lawyer answered. “And if the words insult the king’s representative, they are seditious libel. True or false, it makes no difference.”

“That is monstrous,” said the merchant.

“Perhaps.” Eliot nodded. “My present concern is that the law is being misused. And that is why I am so anxious to see this trial.”

“You must be,” his cousin remarked, “to come all the way from Boston to see it.”

“I will tell you plainly,” Eliot Master continued, “I think this no small matter. The Zenger trial, in my opinion, goes to the very root of our English liberties.” He paused a moment. “A century ago, our ancestors left England because King Charles I was setting up a tyranny. When Members of Parliament challenged his right, he tried to arrest them; when honest Puritans printed complaints of his sins, he cut off their ears, branded them and threw them in prison—using this very same charge, we should note, of seditious libel. Eighty-five years ago the tyranny of King Charles was ended when Parliament cut off his head. But that did not end all future abuses. And now, in the little tyranny of this governor, we see the same process at work. This trial is sent to us, I believe, as a test of how we value liberty.” During this speech, he had raised his voice considerably.

“Well, cousin,” said the merchant with a new respect, “I see you are quite an orator.”

It was not often that Kate heard her cautious father speak with such passion. It made her feel proud of him. Hoping he would approve, she joined the conversation now.

“So when Locke speaks of natural law, and the natural right to life and liberty, would that not include the liberty to speak one’s mind?” she asked.

“I think so,” said her father.

“Locke?” queried Mrs. Master, looking bemused.

“Ah, Locke,” said their host. “Philosopher,” he said to his wife, as he tried to remember something about the thinker whose doctrines, he knew, were inspiring freedom-loving men on both sides of the Atlantic.

“You read philosophy?” Mrs. Master asked Kate, in some perplexity.

“Just the famous bits,” said Kate cheerfully, with a smile toward the boy who, she supposed, had done the same. But young John Master only gazed at the table and shook his head.

It was now that Kate decided that the Greek god by her side might be shy. It rather increased her interest. She wondered what she could say to encourage him. But raised in the literary Boston household of her father, she still had not quite comprehended that she was in alien territory.

“Last summer,” she remarked to him, “we saw some of the Harvard men perform an act of Addison’s Cato. I have heard that the whole play is to be given later this year in our American colonies. Do you know if it’s coming to New York?” The question was pertinent to the Zenger trial. For Addison, founder of England’s Spectator magazine, and model for every civilized English gentleman, had scored a huge success with his account of how a noble Roman republican had opposed the tyranny of Caesar. The play’s reputation had long since crossed the Atlantic, and she felt sure her companion would have read of it in the newspapers. But all she got was a “Don’t know.”

“You must forgive us, Miss Kate, if we concern ourselves more with trade than literature in this house,” the merchant remarked; though he felt bound to add, with a hint of reproach: “I believe, John, you’ve heard of Addison’s Cato.”

“Trade holds the key to liberty,” the Boston lawyer added firmly, coming to their aid. “Trade spreads wealth, and in so doing, it promotes freedom and equality. That’s what Daniel Defoe says.”

At last young John looked up with a ray of hope.

“The man that wrote Robinson Crusoe?”

“The very same.”

“I read that.”

“Well then,” said the lawyer, “that is something.”

They made no further attempts at literary conversation, but for a time devoted their attention to the three handsome fruit pies that had just been brought in. Yet as he glanced round the table, Eliot Master was not unhappy. He had been quite pleased with his own little oration, and he meant every word of it. His cousin had been quite right that he would not have come here, all the way from Boston, if he was not passionate about the matter. As for his cousin Dirk’s character, he might be a rogue, but he evidently wasn’t a fool. That at least was something. The merchant’s wife, he privately discounted. That left the boy.

It was entirely clear, he thought, that this boy, however good-looking, was of slight intelligence. Good enough for the company of rough sailors and smugglers, but otherwise a lout. There was no possibility, he felt sure, that his Kate, who had acquitted herself so well in the conversation, could have any interest in such a fellow. His mind at rest, he took a second slice of apple pie.

So he was even more gratified by the brief exchange that ended the dinner.

It was nearly time to leave. Kate had done her best to entertain her cousin John. She’d asked him about how he passed his time, and discovered that he liked best to be down at the waterside, or better yet on a ship. By gentle probing, she had learned something more of his family’s business. Like other merchants of their kind, the New York Masters engaged in a wide range of activities. Besides owning several vessels, they had a thriving store, they made rum, albeit with illegal molasses, and even undertook to insure other merchant ships. He did not use many words, and spoke quietly, but once or twice he looked at her directly, and it was all she could do not to blush as she gazed into his eyes, which were as blue as the sky. Whether he liked her, however, she had no idea.

Before they rose from the table, Dirk Master made her father promise that he would come to visit them again while in New York, and she was glad that her father politely said that he would.

“You’ll be at the court for the whole trial?” the merchant asked.

“From the beginning to the end.”

“And Miss Kate?” their host inquired.

“Oh, indeed,” she said enthusiastically. “My father is concerned with royal tyranny, but I have come to support the freedom of the press.” Her father smiled.

“My daughter is of the same opinion as the poet: ‘As good almost kill a man as kill a good book.’”

It was the sort of quotation that, in their Boston household, might be heard on any day of the week.

“‘He who destroys a good book, kills reason itself,’” Kate immediately chimed in.

Their host looked at them both, and shook his head.

“It sounds familiar, but what are you quoting?” he asked genially.

Kate was surprised he would need reminding. The words came from John Milton, author of Paradise Lost. Not from a poem, but a pamphlet, the greatest defense of Free Speech and the freedom of the press that was ever penned.

“It’s from Milton’s Areopagitica,” she said.

“Ah, Milton,” said her host.

But young John’s face contracted into a frown.

“Harry who?” he asked.

It came unbidden. She did not even have time to think. She burst out laughing.

And young John Master blushed, and looked ashamed.

“Well,” said her father cheerfully, as they walked back to their lodgings, “the dinner could have been worse. Though I’m sorry your New York kinsmen turn out to be smugglers.”

“Mr. Master seems well informed,” she suggested.

“Hmm. In his way, I dare say. The boy, I’m afraid,” he added confidently, “is beyond redemption.”

“Perhaps,” she ventured, “you are too harsh.”

“I think not.”

“I liked him, Father,” she said, “very much.”

The court was on the main floor of the City Hall on Wall Street. The courtroom was a light-filled, lofty space. The two judges, Philipse and Delancey, wigged and robed in scarlet, sat enthroned upon a dais. The jury sat together on two benches to their left. The crowd of people, of all sorts, were seated around the sides, and on the floor of the hall. It might have been a Protestant congregation about to hear a preacher. In the center, before the judges, was the dock, like a box pew, for the accused. He had not far to come, for the cells were in the basement of the building.

Kate and her father had secured good seats in the front row. She looked around the hall eagerly, taking in the scene. But most interesting of all to her was to witness the change in her father. To the outside observer, he looked the quiet, careful lawyer that he was; but to Kate, his unwonted paleness, the alertness in his eye, and the taut nervousness of his face told a different story. She’d never seen her father so eager in her life.

Bradley, the Attorney General, in wig and long black gown, plump and confident, was nodding briskly to people here and there. The court had appointed a lawyer named Chambers, competent enough, to defend the printer. The Attorney General nodded to Chambers, too, as though to say: “It is not your fault, sir, that you are about to be crushed.”

And now there was a stir. Through a small door at the back of the court, two officers like huge, black bumblebees were bringing Zenger in. How small he seemed between them, a neat little fellow in a blue coat, who nonetheless kept his head up bravely as they led him to his box, and shut him in.

The charge was read. The Attorney General rose.

Kate had been to trials before. She knew what to expect. It did not take the lawyer long to say that Zenger was a “seditious person” guilty of libels designed to scandalise and vilify the good Governor Cosby. The jury listened. She could not tell what they thought.

Then Chambers rose and said a few lackluster words in the printer’s defense. She saw her father frown. “You’d have thought,” he whispered in her ear, “that Zenger’s backers would have given him better help than this.”

But just then, something strange occurred. An old gentleman, who had been sitting quietly near the back, suddenly stood up and made his way stiffly forward.

“If it please Your Honors, I am retained to represent the accused.”

“And who are you?” one of the judges asked irritably.

“The name’s Hamilton, Your Honor. Andrew Hamilton. Of Philadelphia.”

And now Kate saw her father start, and lean forward excitedly.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“The finest trial lawyer in America,” he answered in a low voice, while the whole court buzzed.

It was clear that the judges and the Attorney General had been completely taken by surprise, but there was nothing they could do about it. They were still more astonished when the Philadelphia lawyer calmly told them: “My client does not deny that he published the offending articles.” The Attorney, therefore, had no need to call any witnesses. This was followed by a long silence, until, looking rather puzzled now, Attorney Bradley stood to declare that if indeed the accused did not deny publishing the libels, then the jury must find him guilty. Glancing a little nervously at Hamilton, he also reminded the jury that it didn’t matter whether the newspaper articles were true or false. It was libel anyway. Then, for a considerable time, citing law, custom and the Bible, the Attorney explained to the jury why libel was so serious a crime, and why, under law, they had no choice but to pronounce Zenger guilty. Finally, he sat down.

“Hamilton’s lost it already,” Kate whispered to her father, but he only answered, “Wait.”

The old man from Philadelphia seemed to be in no hurry.

He waited while Chambers said a few words for the defense, then, having shuffled his papers, he slowly rose. Though he addressed the court politely, the look on his face seemed to suggest that he was slightly puzzled by the whole proceedings.

For it was hard for him, he told them, to see why they were all here. If a reasonable complaint about a bad administration was a libel, it was news to him. Indeed—he gave the jury a wry, sideways glance—he wouldn’t even have realized that the articles in Zenger’s paper referred to the governor personally, if the prosecutor hadn’t assured the court that they did. At this, several of the jurymen grinned.

Moreover, he pointed out, the legal authority for the prosecutor’s idea of libel came from the tyrannical Star Chamber court of fifteenth-century England. Hardly encouraging. And besides, wasn’t it possible that a law made in England, centuries ago, might have become inappropriate for the American colonies today?

It seemed to Kate that this sounded disloyal to England, and she glanced at her father; but he leaned across and whispered: “Seven of the jurors have Dutch names.”

Yet for some reason, the old man suddenly seemed to wander. It was just like the case of American farmers, being subject to English laws that were designed for a different kind of landholding system, he declared. He seemed to have a particular interest in farming. He talked of horses and cattle, and was just warming to the subject of fencing livestock, when the prosecutor rose to point out that all this had nothing to do with the case. And Kate might have concluded that the old man from Philadelphia had indeed lost the thread of his argument, if she had not noticed that three of the jurors, who looked like farmers, gave the prosecutor a black look.

The prosecutor would not be denied, however. The charge was libel, he reminded them, and the defense had already admitted it. But now old Andrew Hamilton was shaking his head.

“We are charged with printing and publishing ‘a certain false, malicious, seditious and scandalous libel,’” he pointed out. It was up to the Attorney now to prove that Zenger’s complaints about the evil governor were false. For in fact, he offered, he’d be happy to prove that every word was true.

The faces of the jurors lit up. They were looking forward to this. But Kate saw her father shake his head.

“It won’t wash,” he muttered. And sure enough, for several minutes, though the old lawyer struggled with might and main, the Attorney and the judge interrupted him again and again to deny him his point. The law was the law. Truth made no difference. He had no defense. The prosecutor looked satisfied; the jury did not. Old Andrew Hamilton stood by his chair. His face was strained. He seemed to be in pain, and about to sit down.

It was over, then. By a monstrous law, poor Zenger was to be doomed. Kate looked at the printer, who was still very pale and upright in his box, and felt not only sympathy for him, but shame at the system that was about to condemn him. She was most surprised, therefore, to see her father suddenly gaze at old Hamilton with admiration.

“By God,” he murmured to himself. “The cunning old fox.” And before he could explain it to her, they saw the Philadelphia lawyer turn.

The change was remarkable. His face had cleared. He stood tall. It was as if, like a magician, he had suddenly transformed himself. There was a new light of fire in his eyes. As he started to speak, his voice rang out with a new authority. And this time, no one dared interrupt him.

For his summing-up was as masterful as it was simple. The jury, he reminded them, was the arbiter in this court. Lawyers could argue, the judge could direct them how to find; but they had the power to choose. And the duty. This wretched law of libel was as uncertain as it was bad. Almost anything you said could be twisted and turned into libel. Even a complaint against abuse, which was every man’s natural right.

By this means, a governor who did not wish to be criticized could use the law as a weapon, and place himself above the law. It was a legally sanctioned abuse of power. And what stood between this tyranny and the liberties of a free people? They, the jury. Nothing else.

“The loss of liberty, to a generous mind, is worse than death,” he proclaimed. The case was not about a printer in New York, it was about their right, and their duty, to protect free men against arbitrary power, as many other brave men had done before them.

Now, he told the jury, it was up to them. The choice was in their hands. And with that, he sat down.

The judge was not pleased. He told the jury that despite anything the Philadelphia lawyer said, they should find the printer guilty. The jury retired.

As the court broke out into a hum of conversation, and Zenger continued to sit upright in his box, Kate’s father explained to her.

“I did not realize myself what he was up to. He made the jury furious that the common-sense defense of Zenger—that the poor devil did no more than say the truth—was to be disallowed. And then he played the card he had intended to play all along. It’s called Jury Nullification. A jury has the right to decide a case, notwithstanding anything they have heard regarding a defendant’s guilt, or the state of the law. It is the last and only defense against bad laws. After a jury has refused to convict, the law does not change, but few prosecutors want to bring a similar action, for fear that future juries will do the same thing. That is the tactic old Hamilton has just deployed. And brilliantly.”

“Will it work?”

“We’re about to find out, I think.”

For the jury was already returning. They filed into place. The judge asked if they had a verdict. The foreman said that they had. He was told to give it.

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said firmly.

The judge cast his eyes to heaven. And the people in the courtroom erupted with glee.

Eliot Master looked so happy as they left the court that Kate put her arm through his—a familiarity she would not have attempted normally, but one which was accepted.

“This has been an important day in our history,” her father remarked. “I am glad, Kate, that you were here to see it. I think that tomorrow, we may safely depart for Boston. Indeed,” he continued, with a wry smile, “I have only one regret.”

“What is it, Father?”

“That tonight, we must sup with our cousins.”

Young John Master turned into Broadway. He passed several people he knew, but gave them the briefest nod he could and kept his head down. As he passed Trinity Church, he glanced up. Its handsome Anglican tower seemed to look down on him with contempt. He wished he’d come up some other street.

He didn’t need reminding he was worthless.

The buttoned-up man from Boston had made that pretty clear yesterday. Politely, of course. But when the lawyer had learned that he’d read Robinson Crusoe, his patronizing “Well then, that is something” had said it all. The Boston man thought he was an idiot. John was used to it. The vicar at their church, the principal of his school, they were all the same.

His father had always let him work in the business and enjoy the company of the mariners with whom he was comfortable. But only because he was kind, and accepted him as he was.

His father and his teachers would have been surprised to know that, secretly, John had sometimes tried to study. If he could acquire some knowledge, he’d thought, one day he’d surprise them all. But it was no good. He would stare at the book, but the words would arise from the page in a meaningless blur; he would fidget, glance out of the window, look at the page again; try as he might, nothing ever seemed to make sense. Even when he did read a few pages, he’d find that soon afterward, he could remember nothing of what he’d read.

God knows his father was no scholar either. John had watched him bluffing the Boston lawyer and his daughter as they talked about philosophers and the like. But at least his father knew enough to bluff. And even his father had been embarrassed when he hadn’t heard of Addison’s Cato. The note of reproach in his father’s voice had made him so ashamed.

It wasn’t as if these people from Boston were from another world. He couldn’t just say: “These are lawyers, men of the cloth, nothing to do with a family like ours.” They were his own kith and kin. Close cousins. Kate was a girl of his own age. What must they think of their relations in New York?

Not only that they were stupid and uneducated, but that they were common smugglers. Yes, he’d gone and blurted that out too, in his stupidity, to embarrass his father even more.

But the worst moment, the memory that made him cringe, had been with the girl.

The truth was that although he was pretty familiar with the girls he met with the sailors around the town, he’d always been rather shy with the girls from families like his own. They all knew that at school he’d been a fool. His manners were unpolished. Even with his fortune, he wasn’t considered much of a catch; and the knowledge that this was the case made him avoid the fashionable girls even more.

But this girl from Boston was different. He’d seen that at once. She was nice-looking, but she was unaffected, and simple. And kind. He’d watched her efforts to draw him out of his shyness, and been grateful. Even if he hadn’t read the books she had, the way she spoke with her father, and her affection toward the lawyer, impressed him. She was everything, he supposed, that one day he’d like in a wife. While they talked, he’d even found himself thinking, was it possible that he could hope to marry someone like this? She was his second cousin. There was that between them. The thought of it was strangely exciting. Could it be that, despite his roughness, she might like him? Though Kate did not realize it, he was observing her closely. Each time the conversation exposed his ignorance, he told himself he was a fool even to think of her. Each time she was kind to him, he felt a new hope rising.

Until she had laughed at him. He knew she hadn’t meant to—which made it even worse. “Harry who?” he’d asked, and despite herself, she had burst out laughing. He couldn’t blame her. He had made an utter fool of himself. In her eyes, he could never be anything but an oaf. And she was right. That’s all he was. It was useless.

Now she and her father were coming to the house to sup with them again, and his father had told him not to be late.

At the corner of the street ahead, there was a tavern. He went in.

The mood at supper was festive. The whole city was rejoicing. Zenger the printer was free. Hamilton was the toast of the town. That very evening began the saying that would be repeated for generations to come: “If you’re in a tight spot, get a Philadelphia lawyer.”

Dirk Master had produced his best wine; and Eliot, in a mellow mood, was glad to drink it. Though the evening supper was normally a much lighter meal than the formal afternoon dinner, the sideboard and table were soon piled with oysters, baked clams, cooked hams, cold cuts, sweetmeats, and more besides. Mrs. Master seemed less reserved than before. Though hardly a lover of literature, she discovered that Kate, like her, was an avid reader of popular women’s novellas, so they found plenty to talk about.

There was only one puzzle. Where was young John Master?

Kate had given much thought to their second meeting. She had so much regretted her thoughtless laugh before; as well as being hurtful, it was also rude. It had always been part of her upbringing that a mistake, however regrettable, can usually be corrected. She was determined, therefore, both to make a better impression this time, and to make amends. For an hour before coming, she had carefully prepared herself. She’d rehearsed subjects of conversation that she thought he might like; she had thought hard about anything she could say to overcome the bad impression she must have made; and she had put on a simple dress with a small brown-and-white check that suited her very well.

For to her own surprise, she found that young John Master’s lack of learning hardly troubled her at all. It was not just that he looked like a Greek god—though that, she confessed to herself with some amusement, was a factor. There was something else about him, an inner strength and honesty she thought she divined, and an intelligence too—different from her father’s, but not to be scorned. And, strangely touching and appealing in a way that was new to her, was another realisation: the Greek god was vulnerable.

So from the moment they arrived, she had been waiting 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 pleased. The trial was never forgotten. It became a milestone in the history of America. And the people at the time sensed correctly that it was so.

There was one other feature of the trial that was little remarked upon, however.

The rights that Eliot Master believed in, the rights claimed by Andrew Hamilton and exercised by the jury, came from the common law of England. It was Englishmen, alone in Europe, who had executed their king for being a tyrant; it was England’s great poet, Milton, who had defined the freedom of the press; it was an English philosopher, Locke, who had argued for the existence of men’s natural rights. The men who fired the cannon knew they were British, and they were proud of it.

Yet when old Hamilton addressed the jury, he had made one other point that they had liked. An ancient law, he told them, might have been a good law long ago, in England; but it could also become a bad law centuries later, in America. Though no one particularly remarked upon this statement, the idea had been sown. And it would put down roots, and propagate, in the huge American land.