New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [129]
But it was not only the subject of Vanessa he wished to avoid. There was something else he had concealed from his father.
They were just finishing breakfast the next morning when Hudson announced: “Solomon says there’s a lot of people going up to Wall Street.”
By the time James and his father got there, a crowd of thousands already blocked the street. The focus of interest seemed to be City Hall. They had only been there a few moments when two men approached them, and James found himself being introduced to John Jay, the lawyer, and a robust figure wearing a bright waistcoat, who he learned was Duane, the merchant.
“What’s going on?” John Master demanded.
“They want us to arm the city against the British,” said Jay.
“An outrage!” cried Master.
“What’ll you do?” James asked.
“Give them what they want, I think,” Jay answered calmly.
“You’d condone armed rebellion?” Master cried again. He looked at James as if to say, “This is what we have come to.” Then turning back to Jay, he indicated the crowd. “Is that what you and your people want?”
James watched the Patriot lawyer carefully, wondering what his attitude would be. Just then, a roar broke out from the crowd.
“My people?” John Jay looked at the crowd with disdain. “A disgusting mob,” he said coldly.
“Yet you’re prepared to lead them,” Master protested.
“There are larger issues at stake,” the lawyer replied.
“We have to do it, Master,” Duane interposed. “It’s the only way to control ’em.”
Master shook his head in disbelief. “Let’s go home, James,” he said.
But James did not want to return just yet. Telling his father he’d come home in a while, he lingered in the area for some time, watching the people in the street. He walked around the town, pausing now and then to talk to storekeepers and others he encountered—a rope-maker, a flower seller, a couple of mariners, one or two merchants. In the middle of the morning, he went into a tavern and sat, listening to the conversation. By the end of the morning, he was certain that the plan he had already formed was correct.
It was mid-afternoon when he entered the tavern known as Hampden Hall. Inquiring of the innkeeper, he was directed to a table, where two men were sitting. Striding over to it, he addressed the elder of the two.
“Mr. White? Mr. Charlie White?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Name’s James Master. I think you know my father.”
Charlie raised his wrinkled brow in surprise. “And what would you want with me?” he asked suspiciously.
“A word.” James glanced at the other man, who was about his own age. “You’d be Sam?” The man indicated that he probably was. James nodded. “Fact is, gentlemen, I believe I owe you both an apology. Mind if I sit down?”
It did not take James long to tell them how, all those years ago, his father had instructed him to go to Charlie’s house to meet Sam. He related how he’d meant to come, how he’d procrastinated, failed to show up, and then lied to his father. “The sort of thing,” he admitted sadly, “that boys are apt to do. My father always supposed I’d been to see you,” he continued. “And when I met you afterward, Mr. White, I let you think he never told me to go at all.” He shrugged. “So, as I said, I reckon I owe you an apology,” he concluded, “and my poor father too.”
Sam was looking at his father. Charlie said nothing.
“I don’t seem to be doing much better now that I’m older,” James went on. “My father summoned me home again and again, to see my mother. I didn’t come. Now I’m here at last, and I find that I’m too late. She died while I was on my way.”
“Your mother was a kind lady,” Charlie said quietly. “I’m sorry she’s gone.” He paused for a moment. “This don’t make me your father’s friend, though.”
“I know.”
“You and him will always be Loyalists. Me and Sam will be Patriots. Way I see it, we’ll probably be fighting each other before long.”
“Perhaps, Mr. White. But maybe not. There’s something