Mary had taken her hundred-pound reward from the city and combined it with my one-hundred-fifty-pound bribe to live in luxurious style in Clara’s house on Maiden Lane. As her funds dwindled, she had turned to her original trade, prostitution, to replenish her purse. The neighbors were soon complaining that she was running a bawdy house. The city fathers had arrested her and offered her a choice of the stocks or a one-way passage to the West Indies. Mary was last seen boarding a ship to Barbados.
Around the same time, people began assailing Horsmanden in public and private for the reckless way he had stampeded juries to guilty verdicts against every person indicted by the grand jury. Many New Yorkers began to mutter that most of the Africans who died at the stake or on the gallows had been innocent. The judge grew so defensive, he published a “Narrative” of the trials which made him sound like the savior of the city—but convinced no one.
I had been encouraged enough to hire a well-known Philadelphia lawyer to appeal Clara’s conviction on the ground that she had been denied counsel by Judge Horsmanden’s rush to judgment. The case was now before New York’s Supreme Court. I vowed to appeal it to the highest court in England, if necessary. If Clara’s guilty verdict were voided, Malcolm’s so-called crime would be transformed into an act of courage.
Meanwhile, I had been struggling to survive. I had found the great house, Hampden Hall, unlivable. It was virtually impossible to heat. The roof leaked; half the windows were broken. I decided to tear the grandiose structure down and build a more sensible house with the materials. Adam Duycinck borrowed a book of architectural drawings from a neighbor and designed a two-story slope-roofed farmhouse with wings to which more rooms could be added if necessary. We used the labor force from the farm to build it during the summer months, with some help from carpenters and stonemasons imported from New York and Hackensack.
With the mansion a heap of rubble, I decided the place should no longer be named after a long-forgotten English general. I renamed it Great Rock Farm, after a big grey boulder that lay in a field about a quarter of a mile from the house. “It’s an American name,” I said, remembering the way the Senecas named places and persons after the world around them.
Adam heartily agreed. He had taken on the job of overseeing the farm. One of the Africans, Luther, had long been working as foreman and handled the discipline and settled disputes about housing and other matters among the workforce. Adam handled the business end, keeping the books, buying seeds and tools. The twenty-five Africans working the farm were all slaves. I decided to promise them their freedom—but not immediately. I did not have the money to post the required two-hundred-pound bonds for each of them—and I pointed out there was no way for any of them to earn a living in rural New Jersey. To prove I meant my promise, I gave Luther and his wife, Bertha, the cook, their freedom and hired them for ten pounds a year wages.
The result of this small act of generosity—which I made in Clara’s name—was remarkable. The productivity of the farm doubled. Our wheat and corn and rye crops were twice as big as the previous year, under the miserly supposedly businesslike rule of a hired overseer. Granted, we had enjoyed better weather, but it was still a startling development. It showed the amazing power of that word freedom, the way it energized people’s souls.
There was a dark side to this inspiring story. As I studied Adam’s books, I saw it would be impossible to free the rest of the slaves, even on a gradual basis, and pay them decent wages if they all chose to stay—and show a profit. Wheat from New York and New Jersey was being undersold by newcomers from Europe who were swarming into western Pennsylvania and Maryland. The price was dropping steadily—and like the fur trade, the market was controlled by London merchants who resold at whacking profits what they bought from the hapless Americans.
Another problem was my slave-owning neighbors. Some of them ran huge farms, with as many as fifty field hands. On Sundays, Great Rock’s Africans visited other farms and the news of my attitude toward slavery soon became common knowledge. I began receiving unsigned letters such as this one:
If you want your house burned around your ears one night soon, free another of your Africans. We know the story of the part you played in trying to burn New York and would consider it simple recompense for the losses suffered by friends and relatives in that city. We will tolerate no talk of freedom for these ignorant creatures here in New Jersey. It will be answered as it was in New York—with the gun and torch.
If Malcolm were only here, I would dare them to try mobbing me. But the only man I had in the house was Adam, who begged me to cease all talk of freeing another African. I could only ruefully consent. But it buttressed my conviction that Malcolm’s dream of a morally pure America was patriotic moonshine.
In another month, I had not even Adam to protect me. The little fellow sickened and died of the great pox53 with lamentable swiftness. He bore it like the philosopher that he was, saying it was the price a man with a hump on his back must be prepared to pay for his pleasure. At the end he held my hand and again voiced his regret at destroying Clara’s child. I told him he was forgiven by her and any god worthy of our worship.
I had other worries. One was my new son, Paul. I gave birth to him a month after I arrived at the farm; Bertha, Luther’s wife, served as midwife. My first look at the child was unnerving. I had feared he would look like Philip Hooft. Instead, he was almost unnaturally beautiful, with features as perfectly formed as the Infant Jesus in a sacred painting and a head of black hair and dark brown eyes that could never be explained by any Dutch or Scottish genealogy. I was almost glad Malcolm was not present to ask me bluntly if the baby was his child. I abandoned my plan to name him Philip (Malcolm had heard a good deal about Philip Hooft) and called him Paul.
Paul’s brother Hugh was bounding into manhood. I had to think of giving him an education worthy of the great merchant I wanted him to become. I took him with me in our buggy to Hackensack, the nearest town, in search of a tutor. I discovered the minister of the Dutch Reformed Church was none other than Harman Bogardus, the teacher Cornelius Van Vorst had hired to civilize me and Clara. He was still a teacher at heart and for a modest fee offered to board Hugh in his house five days a week and instruct him in arithmetic and spelling and grammar.
At first Bogardus and I discussed the upheaval that had brought me to New Jersey in neutral terms. I remarked disconsolately that everyone in both provinces seemed to know the story. Bogardus abandoned his reserved pedagogic manner and revealed his true Dutch feelings. “I’ve told everyone I’m sure the charges against Clara were false and denounce as atrocious lies everything that’s rumored about you. Only an English judge like Daniel Horsmanden, with his barbaric ideas of justice, would have committed such atrocities against innocent Africans.”
I decided it would be best not to mention that some of the Africans were guilty—or that my Dutch uncle Johannes was Judge Horsmanden’s enthusiastic collaborator. Instead I lamented the loss of my business and talked plaintively about my financial problems at Great Rock Farm.
“Why don’t you open a store here in Hackensack?” Bogardus said. “Good-sized ships come up the river with no difficulty. From Hackensack to the New York border you have the most prosperous farmers in America—and almost every one of them is Dutch. The only store in town is run by an Englishman—who charges double New York’s prices and has nothing but cheap goods.”
For a moment I could not breathe. I was sure Cornelius Van Vorst was speaking to me in the voice of this man of God. It was, of course, exactly what I had been hoping Bogardus would say. I was familiar with the depth of the Hackensack River—I had seen oceangoing ships as large as Killian Van Oorst’s The Orange Prince at the town’s wharfs. I had also reconnoitered the Englishman’s store and was sure I could outsell him.
Back at the farm, I got the shock of my life. Drinking tea in my parlor was Robert Foster Nicolls. He gazed disdainfully at the oversized chairs and tables and sofa from baronial Hampden Hall and told me Chesley
White had died six months ago. Thanks to his marriage to Elizabeth White, Robert was now the head of the firm. He had decided to expand the business by opening stores in all the major port cities in America and had come over in pursuit of this object. He was also determined to collect the numerous debts which the kindhearted White had allowed various American merchants to pile up. One of the biggest was two thousand pounds to a certain Catalyntie Van Vorst Stapleton, former proprietor of the Universal Store on Pearl Street in New York.
“I’ve heard all about Malcolm’s fit of madness—and its predictable effect on your business,” Robert said. “How in God’s name did you let him do such a thing?”
“It was my idea as much as his,” I said. “We both love—and esteem—Clara. We couldn’t let her die on trumped-up charges extorted from witnesses threatened with the stake.”
Robert smirked at the way I stumbled on the word love. “You might have given some thought to people like my father-in-law, who’d trusted you to behave like an intelligent businesswoman. Two thousand pounds’ worth of goods thrown into Pearl Street! I can assure you, no one in London will ever do business with you again.”
“How is your wife? Has she come to New York with you?”
“Elizabeth’s in London saying her prayers. That’s all she’s good for,” Robert said.
His patent unhappiness was a small but empty satisfaction. I could almost hear Malcolm warning me not to betray an innocent young woman like Elizabeth White into the hands of a scoundrel. It was dismaying to discover that honesty and honor might have some value in this confusing world. Or, to put it another way, just desserts had a way of turning up at the most unexpected moments.
“I can’t pay you the money now,” I said. “But I plan to open a store in Hackensack soon. I’ll put you at the head of my creditors.”
Robert shook his head. He saw no reason to have mercy on me, remembering the coldness I had displayed toward him in London. If there is anything more heartless than sworn enemies, it is former lovers. “You would have been wiser to pack your baby on your back like a squaw and follow your husband north. I’m sure Clara has been warming his wigwam all winter.”
Robert finished his tea and smiled in a wry humorless way. He had grown less attractive with age. Some men acquire flesh as they grow older; others grow lean. Was it a commentary on the state of their souls? I was sure this was the case with Robert. His dry lips, his rheumy eyes, his sallow complexion, suggested some sort of withering process was at work.
“I’ve always rather fancied this estate,” he said. “Perhaps it’s got something to do with the scenes of my youth. I’m thinking of staying in New York for a while. Every gentleman needs a country house. I rather hold it against you, tearing down Hampden Hall.”
“You wouldn’t—you couldn’t—turn out Malcolm’s sons. No matter what you think of me.”
“Think of you? I think you’re still a rather attractive woman. Perhaps it comes down to what you might be willing to do to persuade me to extend this debit.”
“Get out of here.”
He sauntered to the door. “I’m staying at the Fighting Cock on the Broadway. You know where it is, I’m sure.”
“I’ll get a lawyer. No judge will turn me out.”
He laughed at this idea. “Jonathan Belcher, the new royal governor of New Jersey, is an old friend of my father’s. He’s here to repair a damaged fortune, I might add. It would be cheaper to pay me than bribe him.”
He mounted his horse and rode off. Should I give myself to him? It was more than mere desire. He wanted to savor the triumph of forcing me to submit—to do anything and everything to please him for money. Having loved and abandoned me for money, he was eager to flaunt me around New York as his whore, proving him right about my character from the start.
In the morning, Bertha appeared with little Paul. She had become tremendously fond of the child. “He wants his momma. No one else will do,” she said, and lifted the boy into the bed, where he surprised me by curling up with a contented sigh and falling asleep. It was the first time he had exhibited an iota of affection for me.
The sight of his innocent face recalled my sense of loving purpose, the reason why I was in New Jersey. I would not turn my back on that memory now, no matter what Robert Nicolls threatened to do. I climbed into my buggy and returned to Hackensack for another conference with Harman Bogardus. When I told him about Robert’s threat, his Dutch blood virtually simmered with indignation.
“Come next week to a meeting of the Board of Elders,” he said. “I’ll have them ready to consider your plight as their Christian duty—not to mention their honor as Dutchmen!”
A week later I was back in Hackensack in Bogardus’s dining room, which was so full of tobacco smoke I could barely breathe. Dutch farmers never went anywhere without their pipes. Around the big mahogany table sat the half dozen elders of the Dutch Reformed Church, listening to Bogardus tell them to open their purses and persuade their friends to do likewise to help this good woman in distress.
The fattest of them, Arent Schuyler, who owned the largest farm in Bergen County, looked enough like Cornelius Van Vorst to be a younger brother. “We live in New Jersey,” Schuyler said. “Why should we worry about a judgment for debt from New York courts? Everything depends on the attitude of our royal governor. I understand he’s badly in need of money—and the assembly has declined to raise his salary. In my grandfather’s day, when a governor found himself in such a fix, he solicited donations from the citizens. We had something called ‘the blind tax’ which wise men paid—because it guaranteed them the governor’s friendship. I suggest a new blind tax on behalf of Mrs. Stapteton—which I’ll take to Perth Amboy for a little talk with the governor.”
Each of the elders promptly subscribed ten pounds to the blind tax and recommended that all the members of the church be exhorted to contribute at least a pound. In two weeks, Bogardus reported they had collected four hundred pounds. The spirit of Dutch independence was alive and well in Bergen County! Once more I felt the sheltering presence of Cornelius Van Vorst’s spirit.
Arent Schuyler, puffing cheerfully on his pipe, soon appeared at Great Rock Farm to report on his trip to Perth Amboy. “His Excellency greatly appreciated the concern of the citizens of Bergen County for his welfare,” he said with a straight face—though the glint in his blue eyes left no doubt that he appreciated his own wry humor. “After much talk about crops and the late war, I mentioned your problems as of great concern to us. He assured me he would speak to the chief justice of the province about the matter and that henceforth you should not have the slightest concern about losing your land. Now you can get to work on your store in Hackensack.”
“I haven’t a cent to buy goods. No one will honor my credit, with Nicolls’s judgment against me.”
“You go to New York and buy whatever you need and draw the bill on me,” Schuyler said. “Once, many years ago, when I was a very young farmer, my wheat crop rotted. I didn’t have enough money to pay for new seeds. I had just married and my wife had expensive tastes. I had many bills to pay. I went to New York and a merchant named Cornelius Van Vorst, a fat old fellow like I am today, loaned me two hundred pounds on my good name. He didn’t even ask me to sign for it. He said he knew an honest Dutchman when he saw one.”
“I fear I’ll run up a good deal more than two hundred pounds—”
“I know, I know. But I bet you’ll make it back before the snow flies. The vrouws of Bergen County know how to spend their husbands’ money, believe me.”
I rushed to New York and spent a thousand pounds to launch another Universal Store, with the emphasis on quality. I bought nothing but the finest silks, lustring, satins, and velvets and persuaded one of New York’s best seamstresses to move to Hackensack to make dresses and negligees and nightgowns on the spot—guaranteeing a perfect fit. I bargained furiously to get the goods at close to wholesale prices—not difficult because the end of the war with France and Spain had created a worldwi
de slack in business.
Back in New Jersey, Arent Schuyler invited me to his spacious house on the Hackensack River above the town and from there we rode out each day to visit farmhouses throughout Bergen County. Again and again, he introduced me as Catalyntie Van Vorst Stapleton, leaning on my Dutch name so hard the English name was barely pronounced. He told everyone about my new store and allowed me to do the rest of the talking about my goods. The old man closed the conversation by remarking that Mrs. Schuyler expected to buy all her clothes at this remarkable new emporium.
Customers flowed through my doors. My English competitor soon closed his second-rate shop in disgust, leaving all the business in the county to me. In three months, I was able to repay half of Schuyler’s loan. But the effort this took was virtually all-consuming. I barely saw little Paul at Great Rock Farm. Many nights I slept on a cot in the rear of the store. When I went back to the farm, I seldom arrived before dark and left the next day at dawn. I saw as little of Hugh at school in Hackensack.
One Sunday I arrived at the farm in midafternoon. “Paul. Where are you, Paulie?” I called as soon as I came in the door. I had a wooden gunboat I had bought on a shopping trip to New York.
There was no response to my call. Finally his brother Hugh said: “He’s in his room. He’s angry at you.”
“Why in the world?”
“He says his tummy hurt all night and you didn’t come when he cried.”
In his room, I found Paul sitting on the floor with a red crayon in his hand, drawing great broad strokes on a piece of paper. “Look at the boat I brought for you, Paul,” I said.
Remember the Morning Page 44
