Remember the Morning (6 page)

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Authors: Thomas Fleming

BOOK: Remember the Morning
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But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you. To him that smiteth thee on the one cheek, offer also the other; and from him that taketh away thy cloke, withhold not thy coat also. Give to everyone that asketh thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also them likewise.
I could not begin to comprehend such advice. Jesus was telling us to forgive hatred and forgo revenge, to let people steal from you—and if they merely asked, to give them your property! Clara saw the beauty and power of it instantly. We did not have time to argue about it because neither she nor I could understand Schoolmaster Bogardus's attempts to explain his next topic—the war between the Protestant and Catholic religions.
Both faiths believed in Jesus, but Catholics thought their leader, the pope, who lived in Italy, was the only person able to speak in Jesus's name, while Protestants believed Jesus spoke directly to each person who professed faith in him. If that was not confusing enough, there was also a political side to the quarrel.
“The king of England does more than keep order in his empire,” Bogardus said. “He's the great defender of the Protestant religion against the pope of Rome.”
“As Senecas, we shall be neutral in this quarrel,” Clara said, with a smile.
“No one can be neutral. You'll be hated by both sides,” Bogardus said.
We ignored this prophetic remark and groaned in protest when he made us study the history of the “Glorious Revolution” of 1688, in which English Protestants had hurled the Catholic king, James II, off the throne and replaced him with a Protestant. The Stuarts, father and son, had fled to France, where they began plotting to regain their power. France and
Spain recognized James's son, James Edward Stuart, as the true King of England.
“As long as the Jacobites
4
wait in France, the Protestant King of England sits uneasily on his throne,” my grandfather said.
“It's all so complicated!” I complained. Already I was more interested in talking about business and a merchant's life than history and politics.
“History is always complicated. That's why it's important to understand it,” Grandfather said. “Otherwise it explodes in your face with no warning.”
To make his point, he invited two of his closest friends, Nathan Franks and William Laurens, to dinner to tell us how history had changed their lives. Franks was a small, lean man with the shrewd eyes of a sachem. He was Jewish. He told us his family had lived in Spain for many centuries, where they had prospered as merchants. But some Spaniards began preaching hatred against the Jews because they were not Christians. In 1492, the King of Spain expelled all the Jews from the kingdom. They became men and women without a country, wandering the world in search of refuge.
“For us, New York is an earthly paradise,” Franks told us. “No one preaches hatred here.”
“Only against Catholics. But that's politics,” my grandfather said, gazing fondly at his old friend.
William Laurens was a French Protestant. A swarthy man with a gold tooth, he told us about another explosion of religious hatred which drove his family from France. In 1572, on St. Bartholomew's Day, the French Catholics launched a general massacre of all Protestants. Before it ended, over six hundred thousand people died and the country was convulsed by civil war. Tens of thousands of French Protestants fled France to settle in England and the American colonies.
“I begin to think the world is a terrible place,” I said. “The Evil Brother seems at work everywhere, sowing hatred and war.”
“That's as good an explanation as any,” Grandfather said.
“I believe that in America, as it grows, we will see an end to such hatreds,” Nathan Franks said. “They are rooted in envy and greed more than anything else. Here, there will be abundance for all.”
“Let us drink to that noble vision,” William Laurens said.
The three old men raised their glasses to an America that existed only in their hopes. Clara and I would soon discover the real America was still far from their benevolent dreams.
I
N ABOUT THREE MONTHS, WHEN WE could express ourselves in English, Grandfather summoned Madame Mercereau, New York's best dressmaker, to outfit us. A tiny woman who talked rapidly in a heavy French accent, she tempted us with a half dozen fashion dolls wearing the latest Paris and London styles. We were dazzled by the profusion, the detail, the luxury of the dresses, with their rococo shell motifs, combined with flowers, feathers, ribbon bowknots, and every imaginable curve and curl. The range of fabrics—silks, satins, woolens of a dozen different textures—was equally incredible to us. Told we would have to tolerate corsets to wear them, we capitulated instantly.
Grandfather gave us each an allowance of fifty pounds—two hundred and fifty Spanish dollars—to spend on our clothes.
5
We both bought expensive dresses that dismayed the old man, who had urged us to be frugal and sensible. “These could only be worn at the King's Birthday Ball,” he said.
He mournfully added that there was very little chance of Clara being invited to such a ball. “In that case I won't go either!” I said.
Grandfather paid for the gowns and gave Madame Mercereau another fifty pounds for some everyday dresses. We paraded around the house in our ball gowns, learning to maneuver the hoops through doorways, curtsying to each other, posing in front of mirrors, reveling in our womanhood. The full-length mirrors in Grandfather's house had almost as much influence as the maps in changing our Seneca identities. A mirror made us aware of ourselves in a new way. We saw ourselves in our beautiful gowns and felt reborn. We could believe we had become new women.
Looking in the mirror, with rouge and lipstick on my white face and my hair crimped in the latest style, I convinced myself I was almost as attractive as Clara. I was a head taller, and my breasts were not as luxurious, but I had a long, graceful neck and a passable face. My nose was either sharp or fine, depending on your generosity, but my eyes were a bold blue. I told myself I was like a piece of fine filigreed ivory, while
Clara's beauty was a dark glowing opal. Men might love both kinds of women.
For almost six months, we lived in our unreal world of learning and luxury. Our meals were prepared by Grandfather's aging Negro cook, Shirley, and her husband, Peter. In the evenings we were entertained by musicians and singers Grandfather invited to perform the latest scores from London. He was particularly fond of George Frideric Handel, who was King George's court musician. Clara found the music thrilling. She could not hear enough of it. I listened to it, but my mind traveled up the Hudson to Albany and imagined agonizing deaths for my parents' murderers.
On other nights Grandfather entertained us with the story of his life. It was full of narrow escapes from death in the northern forests and on the sea. Listening to him, I concluded that the hidden power who ruled the world had decreed long ago who would die and who would live to grow old.
Almost as astonishing were the bitter disappointments Grandfather had known in his long life. “There was another Catalyntie, for whom you're named, Pettikin,” he told me. “She was my first wife. We were married less than a year when I took her with me on a voyage to Holland. In the English Channel we were struck by a great storm. A wave rolled over the entire ship, flinging her on her beam ends. My darling wife was swept from our cabin into the sea.”
His voice grew so choked, his breathing so labored, we were alarmed. “I found another good woman to love. But nothing can replace the love that awakens the heart. Hold fast to that love if you can, dear girls. Though life often seems determined to fling difficulties in your path.”
Dark thoughts, deep thoughts. But we were too young to value them. As we mastered the customs and language of New York, we grew more and more impatient to join the world that was swirling past our windows each day. On a sunny Sunday afternoon in October, while Grandfather was taking a nap, we each put on one of our expensive gowns and strolled down Broad Street arm in arm, as we had often walked along the shore of Lake Ontario.
On the green lawn known as the Bowling Green, beside the looming walls of Fort George at the tip of Manhattan Island, we gazed in astonishment at the swarms of people promenading in brightly colored silks and satins, the men flourishing canes, the women parasols. Was everyone in New York as rich as Cornelius Van Vorst?
Suddenly a sharp voice cried, “This won't do!”
It was my aunt, Gertrude Van Vorst. She was dressed in the highest style, a silk kerchief over her lace-edged cap, a taffeta cloak with wide ruching at the waist, elbow sleeves with deep cuffs—and an enormous
hoop. With her was her glowering husband, Johannes, and the man everyone had called “Judge” at the peace council. He flourished a gold-headed cane and gazed at us as if we were poisonous snakes.
“This won't be tolerated in New York,” Aunt Gertrude shrilled, pointing to Clara. “That Negar should walk ten steps behind you, her head meekly bowed, as befits a servant! You must never allow so much as a finger to touch her in public. Where did she get this dress? It must have cost twenty or thirty pounds! Do you want us all to have our throats cut some dark night? I shall speak to your grandfather about this, straightaway!”
“Aunt,” I said in somewhat halting English. “I'm sure Grandfather will tell you what I tell you now. It's none of your business.”
“It's the business of every white person in New York, as you will soon discover,” Uncle Johannes said. “Don't you agree, Judge Horsmanden?”
“I certainly do,” said Horsmanden. “In my opinion, the Common Council should pass a law to be enforced under a penalty of thirty lashes for each offense, forbidding such displays. Nothing but firm unwavering authority can control these people.”
He glared at Clara as he said this. A dozen other women—and several men—were staring at us with the same angry disapproval on their faces. Flustered, I withdrew my arm from Clara's—and saw for the first time—but not, alas, for the last—pain and reproach gather in my Seneca sister's brown eyes.
The Van Vorsts and Judge Horsmanden proceeded on their way. In the crowd of hostile spectators I saw a familiar face: the blond giant who had rescued Clara from Bold Antelope. Malcolm Stapleton—I had made a point of learning his full name—sauntered over to us, accompanied by his hunchbacked friend, Adam Duycinck.
“Is what my aunt and uncle tell me true?” I asked. “I can't treat Clara as my friend in public?”
“It might be better to walk a few paces apart,” Malcolm said. “But side by side is all right. I don't make Duycinck here walk behind me. Though he's so ugly I probably should.”
“If I did, it would be only to plant my foot up your backside,” Duycinck said.
I liked the little hunchback; he talked like an Indian. “What's wrong with me putting my arm around Clara?” I asked.
“People want to keep the Africans in their places,” Malcolm said. “They're worried about an insurrection. I think it's all stuff.”
“Why do you bring them here if you fear them so?” I asked.
Malcolm shrugged. “A lot of people say it's a mistake. But the mechanics and the farmers need the labor. White men don't come to New York much since our trade dropped away these past five years.”
He fell in step beside us. Duycinck walked a few paces behind us, bawling, “Is this far enough, Master?”
“Is he a slave?” I asked.
“He's an indentured servant. That means he's signed a contract to work for my parents for a certain number of years in order to pay off the cost of his passage across the Atlantic.”
“Why was he unable to pay for it?”
“He was a convict. The British accused his mother of being a witch. They burned her at the stake and deported him. Now he wants revenge on every Englishman under the sun.”
“That's not true,” Duycinck howled. “I'm perfectly willing to let all the Englishmen on the islands of Bermuda, Jamaica, and Barbados die in their own good time—of sunstroke. It's the rest I want to kill.”
I hesitated, confused. “Aren't you English?”
“He's American,” Duycinck bawled. “Though the booby can barely admit it. He'd rather kiss English asses until they pretend he's one of them.”
American
. It was the first time I had heard the word. It made perfect sense. This continent was called North America. Why not call the people born on it Americans? It was silly to call them English. England was three thousand miles away.
Malcolm did not seem to like being called American. He raised a fist which could demolish the hunchback with a blow. Duycinck danced away, pretending to cringe.
“Miss Van Vorst!”
Strolling toward us in a brilliant blue coat, green silk waistcoat, and snowy white breeches was Rob-ert of the foxy face. “How lovely you look,” he said. He gave me a sweeping bow and kissed my hand. I had learned his full name too: Robert Foster Nicolls.
I felt my face grow hot. The man was attractive. By now I had learned that his father was the royal governor of the province. Mr. Nicolls knew how to compliment a woman. Malcolm Stapleton seemed to have none of his graces. He did not even talk in the same liquid voice.
“I've been wondering what happened to you and your pretty little Negar,” Nicolls said, smiling at Clara. “How quaint of you to dress her in such high style.”
“Clara is my friend,” I said. “We don't regard her as a slave. My grandfather intends to free her as soon as possible.”
“A noble sentiment,” Nicolls said. “Worthy of a lover of liberty. May I call on you, now that you have mastered our language so well?”
“Of course,” I said, immensely flattered.
In the middle distance, I glimpsed Malcolm Stapleton gazing on us
with a glum expression on his face. Did he wish that he was charming me in Nicolls's suave style?
Back at Grandfather's house, we found a fuming Cornelius Van Vorst saying good-bye to Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Johannes and their friend Judge Horsmanden. “The notions these people are acquiring. Aping British attitudes,” he roared, as soon as the door closed. “We Dutch have never treated our Africans as lower beings. We eat with them at our tables. We consider them part of our families.”
As his anger mounted, the dark red color flooded into Grandfather's cheeks again. His breath came in short heavy gasps. He collapsed into a wide-bottomed armchair and pulled on his grey side-whiskers. “But I fear you'd better follow your aunt's advice,” he said to me. “Twenty years ago, in the year 1712, the blacks attempted to revolt and seize the town. They killed twenty-eight white men. One of them was your Aunt Gertrude's father. Ever since, many people live in fear of another insurrection. You must accept the fact that you and Clara are of different races and act accordingly in public.”
“What a hateful idea!” I said.
“To get safely through the world, you must often wear a false face,” Grandfather said.
“False faces are evil!” Clara said. “Only shamans, people with special powers, can wear them and keep their hearts pure.”
“You must try to discover that power in your own heart,” Grandfather said.
“How do you keep your heart pure?” I asked.
“By loving people,” he said. “Love cleanses the heart of the world's filth and shame and sorrow.”
“I met a man today who loves me,” I said. “I sensed it from the moment he first looked at me.”
“Who is he?” my grandfather said, alarm in his voice.
“Mr. Nicolls, the royal governor's son.”
“My dear, that fellow—”
A choking sound erupted from Grandfather's throat. The purple color crowded into his cheeks until they were almost black. With a groan he toppled from his chair, striking his head on the claw foot of a nearby couch.
“The doctor,” he whispered. “Dr. Hopper.”
I sent our butler Peter rushing into the street to find Dr. Hopper. His wife Shirley, Clara, and I tried to lift Grandfather onto the couch but he was much too heavy. We put a pillow under his bleeding head and Shirley gave him some brandy. The liquor seemed to revive him briefly, but he soon sank into a dazed torpor.
A tall, dry-lipped man with a withered neck, Dr. Hopper was almost
as old as Grandfather. He ordered Clara to summon the coachman and with the help of two husky Africans recruited from the street, they carried the old man upstairs to his bed. He vomited up black blood, which Dr. Hopper said was a very bad sign.
“We must bleed him immediately,” he said.
Opening a vein in Grandfather's arm, the doctor extracted an astonishing amount of thick dark blood. Clara and I watched, wondering what good this sort of treatment could possibly do. The Seneca's false faces, the chants and spells to banish the Evil Brother, seemed a better way to challenge death.

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