He had only just met his New York cousin for the first time, but already he had reservations about Dirk Master. He’d always known that their grandfathers, his namesake Eliot and Dirk’s grandfather Tom, had gone their separate ways. The Boston Masters had never had any contact with the Masters of New York. But as he was going to visit New York, Eliot had wondered whether enough time had passed to reestablish relations. Before writing to his kinsman, however, he had made some inquiries about these people, and ascertained that the merchant was a man of fortune. That was a relief, for Eliot would have been disappointed to have a kinsman who did not do well. But as to his character, well, that remained to be seen.

As it was a hot day, the merchant was wearing the light and simple coat called a banyan: sober enough. But the silk vest under it had concerned the lawyer. Too colorful. His periwig was too flamboyant, his cravat too loosely tied. Did these things suggest a character lacking in gravitas? Though his kinsman had warmly invited him to stay at his house while he attended the trial in New York, Eliot Master had instead made arrangements to stay with a reliable lawyer he knew; and seeing his cousin’s silk vest, he considered the choice had been wise.

You wouldn’t have guessed they were cousins. Dirk was large, and fair, with prominent teeth, and an air of genial confidence. Eliot was of medium size, his hair brown, his face broad and serious.

In Boston, the Master family lived on Purchase Street. Eliot was a deacon of the Old South Congregation Church, and a selectman. He was familiar with business. How could you not be, among the wharfs and watermills of Boston? His wife’s brother was a brewer—a good, solid enterprise, fortunately. But, as a graduate of the Boston Latin School and Harvard University, it was education and sound ethics that Eliot valued.

He wasn’t sure that his New York cousin possessed either.

Cautious though he was, Eliot Master was ready to stand up for principle. About slavery, for instance, he was firm. “Slavery is wrong,” he told his children. The fact that, even in Boston, about one person in ten was now a slave, made no difference to him at all. There were none in his house. Unlike many of the stern Boston men of the past, he would tolerate freedom in religion, so long as it was Protestant. Above all, like his Puritan ancestors before him, he was vigilant against any attempt at tyranny by the king. This was why he was here in New York, to witness the trial.