Remember the Morning

by Thomas Fleming

  Was he thinking of the Eagle Dance? I felt a rush of desire. What better way to start again? “At Elizabeth White’s wedding breakfast, I sat next to the most ribald old lady—her aunt. She had racy stories about all the great folks. She told me when the Duke of Marlborough came home from one of his campaigns in Flanders, he used to pleasure Lady Sarah on their bed without even taking off his boots.”

  A slow smile spread across Malcolm’s mouth. Had he been thinking similar thoughts? “What about this young fellow?” he said.

  “Peter can take him down to see the ships. They can both use the exercise.”

  “I want you to come too, Papa,” Hugh said. He did not understand what was passing over his head but Peter was a frequent companion on his outings.

  “We’ll go tomorrow. We’ll see every ship in the harbor,” Malcolm said.

  Mollified, Hugh permitted his mother and his nurse to put on his walking shoes and a jacket. He and Peter were soon out the door. I led Malcolm up the narrow stairs to our bedroom. Fall sunshine spangled the blue damask curtains and the sky blue hangings of the big canopy bed. As we undressed, I almost could not believe the ease with which I was achieving my goal. The raging man I had known in London seemed to have vanished. Had I learned some sort of magic in Philip Hooft’s arms? It was hard to give myself credit for the transformation.

  “My God, you’re as beautiful as ever,” he murmured, cupping his hands over my breasts.

  I ran my hands down his massive arms and back. He stirred the same rampant desire. It was radically different from the elegiac sweetness I had felt for Philip Hooft. I was loving more than a man here. Malcolm evoked the wilderness of my girlhood, the raw vitality of rushing rivers and forested earth. I felt the throb of the seasons, the power of the wind, the beat of the rain in his arms. I had been right to come home. This man was my life as well as my love.

  “Take me, take me,” I whispered. “I’ll never stop wanting you.”

  What followed was a mixture of tenderness and savagery. Affection—it was too soon to call it love—mingled with desire. There did not seem to be any lingering anger on either side. The coming was deep and mutual, not as wild as I remembered it, but I felt a need for a certain restraint because of the child in my womb. Malcolm seemed more than satisfied; he cradled me in his arms and called me “Cat” and kissed my pulsing throat.

  It was done. I was safe from public disgrace—and I had managed it without humiliation. As Malcolm caressed me with surprising tenderness, I juggled numbers and dates in my head. The baby would be born in seven months, if I remembered correctly when I stopped menstruating.

  Not high romance—and it had its negative effect. I had to learn again and again that souls mingle in the bedroom and the smallest alteration in feeling was detectable. Malcolm sensed a kind of withdrawal that made him wary. Was the old devious Catalyntie returning, now that he had satisfied her? I struggled to reassure him that my new sweetness was real. I told myself it was real. I had learned it in Philip Hooft’s arms and I would use it here.

  “Husband,” I murmured. “How dear that word has become to me. I want to make wife mean the same thing to you.”

  “I want that,” Malcolm said. “I want us to reach a new understanding, a new sympathy. I want to share with you my new thoughts about myself—and our country.”

  He recapitulated his turmoil, his near despair over his political discoveries in England. The extreme rottenness and savagery of their system of plundering the nation without regard for the feelings or welfare of the common people. How could a soldier, motivated by patriotism, serve such a gang of pirates? Only when he returned to New York did he realize that there was still a source of hope in his life.

  “It was here, in the sight of America itself, in contemplating it on the map—the immensity of it—the reach of the continent that awaits our sons and grandsons—that I realized there was still a place that patriotism could serve,” Malcolm said. “We can resist the English spirit of plunder, we can make a fresh start in a virgin land—and perhaps eventually rescue the mother country itself from her rottenness.”

  I thought this was the most arrant moonshine I had ever heard. I saw little or no difference in the rapacity of New York merchants and London merchants—or Amsterdam merchants, for that matter. The same animosity toward the rich permeated the lower classes. My visit to England had produced a very different view of the future. As soon as possible, the Americans must separate from the British or be devoured by them—reduced to the status of conquered provinces, like Ireland or Scotland.

  But I said nothing to contradict my visionary husband. Instead, I told him the similar prophecies Major James Wolfe had made about America’s future while I was nursing his wounds in Amsterdam. “This gives me a purpose too,” I said. “The stronger we become in a business way, the better we can stand up to them.”

  “Yes, but you must promise me an absolute end to such tricks as smuggling and bribing customs officers. I want us to raise a standard to which every honest man can repair.”

  “Of course I’ll promise. With a merchant like Chesley White behind me in London, I have no need to stoop to such things.”

  There followed an uneasy silence. Were we both recognizing that we were talking more like the officers of a corporation than lovers? Ruefully, I began to see the impersonality of Malcolm’s new view of me. I was his American wife, his political and business partner. Love, personal love, had very little to do with our new arrangement. That emotion was still reserved for Clara. Could I bear it? I wondered. Even more ruefully, I realized I had little choice.

  We went back to talking business. I asked him about the New Jersey lands. Had he taken possession of them?

  “Yes. But we’ll have to borrow a devil of a lot of money to restore them. My stepmother did nothing but suck cash out of the farms through an overseer. The poor Africans are half starved, the big house a ruin. The barn roof fell in and they’ve used the ballroom as a granary.”

  “This only makes it all the more imperative for me to get down to business at the store,” I said. “We have a huge debt to pay off.”

  The next morning, I hurried to the Universal Store. Adam Duycinck was on hand to display the books, which made unhappy reading. The goods I had shipped from Chesley White’s London warehouses were not selling well. Before they arrived, Adam and Sophia Cuyler had done little but sell off the merchandise on the shelves. When they ran out of an item, they were afraid to sign bills of exchange to restock it—so fearful had I made them with my laments about imminent bankruptcy before we sailed to England. As a result we had lost dozens of our best customers who would not be easily regained.

  A few minutes after I finished examining the books, we were interrupted by two agitated visitors. Rebecca Hogg was a short stout woman with a round fat face and haughty manner. She ran a small general store on the corner of Broad and South William Street. With her was a tall, long-nosed, more agreeable woman named Anne Kannady who sold candles not far away. “I’m here to report a burglary,” Rebecca Hogg said. “The useless constables we pay with our tax money are doing nothing to catch the thieves.”

  Mrs. Hogg’s shop had been broken into sometime last night. It was the tenth burglary she had heard about—she suspected the authorities were concealing the real number. She had lost over forty Spanish dollars, silver, linen, and assorted goods worth another ten pounds. “Some of the Spanish money was peculiar. Square pieces of eight. I hope you’ll keep a lookout for it,” she said.

  “Of course we will,” I said. I was being polite—and sympathetic. It seemed unlikely that any of our goods would be paid for in that kind of small change. Most of our sales were to the wealthy and charged to their accounts. Bills were sent to the buyers’ husbands each month.

  “We think it’s the Africans,” Anne Kannady said. “It’s time we banished them from the city. They do nothing but make more money for the rich. Or help them live in ease.”

  “There are some free Africans as hone
st and respectable as you or I am,” I responded with not a little warmth. “My friend Clara Flowers, for instance.”

  “Doesn’t she run Hughson’s Tavern?” Rebecca Hogg said. “How can you call her respectable? Half the customers are whores and the rest are the very people we’re talking about. Slaves that are breaking the curfew laws and like as not plotting their next heist.”

  “I don’t think you have any right to say such things, Mrs. Hogg. I resent them—in Clara’s name.”

  “She’s running that place with your money, from what I hear. Some people will do anything to make themselves rich,” Mrs. Hogg said.

  The usually good-natured Anne Kannady grew alarmed. “Mind your temper, Rebecca. Mrs. Stapleton is one of my best customers.” She smiled nervously at me. “She’s very upset over her losses. It’s a great deal of money to her.”

  “I’m upset over the way some supposedly respectable people are ready to defend thieves and blackguards,” Rebecca Hogg said.

  She stormed out of the store, leaving me speechless. Adam Duycinck looked haggard. I suddenly remembered what he had told me about the Hughsons’ dealing in stolen goods. “Do you know anything about this?” I said.

  “Not a thing!” Adam said, almost jumping out of his skin.

  “Have we lost anything to these burglars?”

  Sophia Cuyler shook her head. “I ordered double padlocks for our doors. Mrs. Hogg is right about the number of break-ins. It’s well over twenty. My husband tells me there’s been even bigger thefts out of the warehouses. Someone stole sixty firkins of butter from John Vergereau’s a month ago.”

  “Sixty firkins! That’s three thousand pounds!” I said. “What could burglars do with that much butter?”

  “Sell it to some enterprising ship captain in the dark of the night,” Adam said. “They’d clear two hundred pounds at least.”

  “Let’s put three padlocks on our doors,” I said. “These fellows are serious.”

  At Hughson’s, Clara was supervising Mary Burton in a thorough cleaning of the taproom. Mary was supposed to mop the place after they closed each night. But she often begged off in her whining way, claiming she was too tired. In the morning, she would sleep late and escape the chore. Two days of this and the floor would be a mess of crusts and broken glass and burnt tobacco. Mary was whining as usual, claiming her back was sprained, her elbows practically broken from carrying heavy trays.

  Through the door burst Rebecca Hogg and Anne Kannady. With them was Anne’s husband, James, one of the members of the Night Watch whom Clara had overheard yesterday on Roosevelt Wharf, talking about Africans as criminals. His thickset friend, Robert Hogg, Rebecca’s husband, was with him.

  “Where’s your master?” Rebecca Hogg said to Clara.

  “My master? I have no master,” Clara said. “You know that as well as I do, Mrs. Hogg.”

  “A likely story,” Rebecca Hogg snarled. “Don’t you pay him a share of what you make for your fucking?”

  “I’m half owner of this tavern, Mrs. Hogg. I don’t fuck sailors,” Clara said.

  “John Hughson!” Rebecca Hogg said. “Come down here.”

  Hughson soon appeared, pulling on his coat. He looked frightened, even though he towered over Mrs. Hogg and her friends.

  “We have evidence that some of the square pieces of eight robbed from my store last night were passed here for drinks. Do you know anything about it?” Mrs. Hogg said.

  “Not a thing,” Hughson said.

  “Our witness told us it was Vraack’s Caesar who passed it. A known thief.”

  “I saw no square pieces of eight,” Hughson said.

  “We’ve got a warrant to search your premises,” Constable Kannady said.

  “Search away,” Hughson said.

  The two men stamped upstairs. Clara watched, dread consuming her. Was it the beginning of their destruction? In twenty minutes, the constables returned, looking glum. “There’s nothing to be found,” Kannady admitted.

  Anne Kannady turned to Mary Burton. “Do you know anything about this, child?” she said in a kindly voice.

  Mary shook her head.

  “I’ve heard you complain about this man when he sent you to me for candles,” Mrs. Kannady said, gesturing to John Hughson. “If you proved him a thief, I’m sure the judge would free you of your indenture.”

  Clara shuddered at the hungry light in Mary’s eyes as she considered this offer. The girl’s gaze flicked to John Hughson’s bulk. Did she notice his hands opening and closing? “I know nothing of thievery,” Mary said.

  The constables and their wives departed, Rebecca Hogg loudly urging them to summon a magistrate and at least arrest Caesar on the basis of the witness who saw him with the money. Hughson glared at Mary. “If you ever say a word,” he said. “You’ll be in the river next morning.”

  “I won’t—I won’t ever!” Mary wailed. She was terrified, as well she should be. Hughson could break her neck with a single blow. “Don’t let him hit me, Clara,” she begged.

  In the Indian part of her soul, Clara knew it would be wise to kill Mary Burton then and there. But the Christian part of her soul could not tolerate such a crime. “Finish the floor,” she said. “We’ll be opening in ten minutes.”

  Hughson asked Clara to find John Ury. It looked as if Caesar was about to be arrested. What if he talked? “He’ll deny everything,” Clara said. “Passing a square piece of eight proves nothing. But those constables may come back. You better get that stuff from Hogg’s shop out of here.”

  “Why?” Hughson said. “It’s tucked away under the stairs. They didn’t come close to finding it.”

  It was hard to deal with a man who was both stupid and arrogant. Clara went looking for John Ury. He was tutoring Adolphus Philipse’s son. She knocked on the door of the family’s redbrick mansion on Broad Street. A plump young woman answered the door. “Go around the back,” she said.

  “I’m here to see Professor Ury,” Clara said.

  “Go around the back!” the obnoxious creature said and slammed the door in Clara’s face.

  Clara trudged down the alley to the back door. A black cook led her up a rear stairs to the second floor and pointed down the hall. She found Ury reading French to a fat boy of twelve who looked like a male version of the young woman who had answered the front door. “Mr. Ury?” Clara said.

  He closed the boy’s door and they conferred in the hall. Ury paled when he heard about Caesar. “He’s essential to our plan. No one else can lead the Africans,” he said.

  “Hughson wants to see you. He’s very upset.”

  “I’ll come within the hour.”

  Back at the tavern, Clara found Sarah and John Hughson in an anxious conference upstairs. “Caesar’s been arrested,” Sarah said. “We just heard the news from Cuffee. He’s in a panic, thinking he’ll be next.”

  “I’ll try to hire a lawyer,” Clara said. “If Caesar holds his tongue there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “There isn’t a lawyer in the city who’ll take his case,” Hughson said.

  He was right about that. John Ury arrived an hour later. He had talked to a lawyer he trusted, who told him to forget the idea. Only if Caesar’s master, old John Vraack, pleaded for him, as he had often done in the past, was there any chance of an early release.

  The Hughsons’ oldest daughter, also named Sarah, rushed into the room. She was a tall pretty girl of about twenty, with her mother’s looks and father’s lack of brains. “The constables came and took Mary away!” she said.

  John Ury decided to leave immediately. “There’s nothing to be gained if I’m arrested too,” he said.

  Later in the afternoon, Rebecca Hogg and her constable husband returned with Undersheriff John Mills. He was the same slovenly man who had run the city jail when Clara spent a night there with Caesar. Mrs. Hogg was bristling with triumphant exultation. “Mary Burton has told us a great deal,” she said. “She’s sure my stolen property’s hidden in this house. She said my husb
and trod upon it but wasn’t cute enough to see it.”50

  “She’s a damn liar. I’ll give her the whipping of her life when she gets back here,” John Hughson roared.

  “You’ll do no such thing. She’s been remanded to the protection of the sheriff until this matter is settled. If her word proves true, you’ll see no more of her as an indentured slavey. She’s told us how you’ve all but worked her to death.”

  “The girl is a liar and a whore!” Sarah Hughson said.

  “Tell us where the goods are, John,” Undersheriff Mills said. “You may get out of this with your whole skin if you play an honest part.”

  Hughson’s small brain churned. Clara could almost hear the machinery grinding. “Maybe I know where some things is hid. I’ll bring them to you,” he said.

  Sarah Hughson could only stare in horror. Clara began seeing everything through the red haze. Hughson went upstairs and returned with a bundle of linens and a silver candlestick. Rebecca Hogg snatched them away. “You goddamned thief. You’ll hang for this. You and your wife and your black whore!”

  “You all better come along to City Hall,” Undersheriff Mills said.

  “I had nothing to do with this,” Clara said.

  “You own half this tavern, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come along then. Or get dragged.”

  In City Hall, a constable was sent to the house of Judge Daniel Horsmanden. Mary Burton was brought in by another constable. Caesar appeared, shackled hand and foot. Mary testified that she had seen the Hughsons accepting stolen goods from him.

  “But not her,” she said, pointing to Clara. “She was always tellin’ Caesar to change his ways.”

  “But she knew about his thefts?” Judge Horsmanden asked.