New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [116]
After that, what could you expect? The outraged Dissenters were at daggers drawn with the whole British establishment. Respectable Presbyterian Assembly men found themselves in the same camp as Liberty Boys. Just when cool heads were needed, some of the best men in the city were making common cause with some of the worst.
As for today’s preaching, Master could understand why Mercy wanted to go. The great Whitefield himself had returned to the city. The word was that the preacher was unwell, but a huge crowd was gathering to hear him. It wasn’t that John objected to Whitefield himself, or his message. No doubt there’d be some members of the Anglican congregation in the crowd. People who, as Mercy would say, were coming to the light.
But it was still a mistake. These meetings only excited the passions. Good God, he thought, next we’ll have Charlie White burning down my house and saying he’s doing the work of the Lord.
These were the melancholy thoughts that occupied him after Mercy and Abigail had gone. He felt depressed, and lonely.
The preacher’s face was broad, and when he looked upward at the sky, the sun seemed to bless him with a special radiance. As he was helped up to the platform he had looked unwell; yet once his melodious voice rang out over the crowd on the Common, he seemed to draw new life from the inspiration of the day. The crowd was enraptured.
But Mercy could not concentrate.
Abigail was by her side. At ten years old, she was old enough to understand. At the moment, she was dutifully staring at the preacher, but Mercy suspected that Abby was not listening either. Several times already, she had seen her daughter glance around.
She had lied to the child when she told her that her father could not come, and she could see that she had been disappointed. She suspected that Abby had heard them arguing. What was the child secretly thinking? Mercy almost wished she hadn’t come. But it was too late to do anything about that now. Though they were at the fringe of the crowd, she couldn’t very well walk away from the preaching. How would that look? Besides, she had her pride.
Minutes passed. Then, suddenly, Abby was tugging at her arm.
“Look. Papa’s coming.”
He was striding toward them. Dear God, had he ever looked more splendid and more handsome? And he was smiling. She could scarcely believe it. He reached her, and took her hand.
“We went together to a preaching once,” he said softly. “So I thought we’d go again.”
She did not reply. She squeezed his hand. She knew what this had cost him. But after a minute or two she whispered: “Let’s go home, John.”
As they walked back arm in arm, little Abby was skipping ahead, joyful to see her parents united again.
“I have a confession, John,” said Mercy, after a while.
“What is that?” he asked affectionately.
“I think I went to the preaching because I have been angry with you, for many years.”
“Why?”
“Because I blamed you for letting James remain in London. It is five years now since I have seen my only son. I wish he were here.”
John nodded. Then kissed her hand.
“I shall write to him today, and tell him he is to return at once.”
The letter from James, together with one from Albion, was brought to the house early that evening. Hudson took them to Master in his library. Mercy and Abigail were reading in the parlor. He read them alone.
If the disorders in the colonies have been bad, you would scarcely believe what we have witnessed here in London. You may recall the fellow Wilkes, whose libel of the government and subsequent trial were somewhat like our famous Zenger affair in New York. Since then Wilkes, while in jail, had himself elected to Parliament. When this was disallowed, the radicals of London whipped up the mob, and they have almost taken over control of the streets of London. They cry “Wilkes and Liberty” just like your Liberty Boys of New York. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the business, it’s a shameful thing to see the mob