New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [174]
“I’ll live,” said the mate.
“I don’t think so,” said the captain. And pulling out one of his pistols, he shot the mate in the head. “Throw him over too,” he ordered.
Having completed this business, he came back to Solomon again and, standing with his legs wide apart, eyed him, fingering the bullwhip thoughtfully as he did so.
“Like I said, you need a whippin’.” He paused, considering, then nodded to himself. “But though I should, I reckon I ain’t goin’ to whip you. No, I believe I’m goin’ to lie instead. I’m goin’ to say that you never been whipped because you are the most humble, obedient, hard-workin’, God-fearin’ nigger that ever walked the face of the earth. That’s what I’m goin’ to say.” He nodded. “An’ you know why?”
“No, Boss.”
“Because, you lyin’ Loyalist, son-of-a-bitch runaway, I’m goin’ to sell you.”
It was only when her father’s captain returned, expecting to find the French vessel already in New York, that Master realized that he had lost his prize, and had to tell Hudson that his son was missing. “I don’t think our French ship sank,” her father told them all. “More likely it was taken. Solomon may still be out there somewhere, and we shouldn’t give up hope.” If the ship was still afloat, news of it would come across the high seas, sooner or later.
Meanwhile, word was coming from the South of continuing British successes. Patriot heroes like Rutledge, Pickens and Marion “the Swamp” Fox were still doing their best to harass the redcoats and their supporters; but the southern Patriot army was not in good shape. Congress sent General Gates down into South Carolina, but Cornwallis soon smashed him at Camden.
Perhaps to distract their thoughts from their private worries, Master kept his household busy. General Clinton, back in New York, dined several times at the house, and Abigail and Ruth made sure that these dinners were excellent. From the general, and his officers, Abigail received the impression that they now considered the war might be won. Her father thought so too.
“I’m damn sure Clinton’s hatching a new plan of some kind,” he told her. “But whatever it is, he’s keeping it under his hat.”
Of particular pleasure to Abigail was a dinner to which General Clinton brought two extra guests. One was Governor William Franklin, whom the Patriots had kicked out of New Jersey and who was living in the city now.
It was interesting to observe Ben Franklin’s son at close quarters. You could see that he had many of the lineaments of his father’s face. But where the father cultivated features that were round and merry, the son’s were thinner, more patrician, and somewhat sour. As for his views on the Patriots, he explained them to her precisely.
“I can say so in this house, Miss Abigail, because, as well as your brother, my own father is a Patriot. But while there are of course men of principle on the Patriot side, I consider most of them to be rebels and bandits. I still have a band of good men hunting Patriots down in New Jersey. And I personally should be well content to hang any we can catch.”
She didn’t think she liked him.
But young Major André was a very different matter. He was about her brother’s age, a Swiss Huguenot, whose faint French accent gave his conversation a special charm. What really delighted her, however, was that, serving on Clinton’s staff, he knew Grey Albion well. They spoke of him all evening.
“I must confess, Miss Abigail,” he told her, “that I had heard of you from Albion, who spoke about you with admiration.”
“He did?” She could not help a faint blush of pleasure.
He gave her a kindly smile. “If it is not indiscreet, Miss Abigail, I could say that he spoke of you in terms of the highest regard. And equally, if it is not impertinent, I have the impression that you think well of him too.”
“I do, Major André,” she confessed.