Neither of the captains were in port, so he’d signed on with another, and sailed out of New York on the seventeenth of the month, St. Patrick’s Day. The voyage had gone well enough. They had reached Jamaica, sold their cargo, and started their return by way of the Leeward Islands. But at that point, the ship had needed repairs. He’d been paid, and taken on by another ship’s master, to sail up the coast to New York and Boston.

He’d learned his lesson there. The captain was a useless drunkard. Twice the ship had nearly been lost in storms before they even reached the Chesapeake. The crew wouldn’t be paid until they reached Boston, but long before they reached New York, he’d decided to cut his losses and jump ship. He had his pay from the last voyage, and he reckoned he could stay in New York until one of his grandfather’s captains turned up.

He’d slipped away from the ship that morning. All he needed to do was to avoid the waterfront for a few days until his present ship and her drunken master had gone. He might be a Negro, but he was a free man, after all.

It had been mid-afternoon when he went to the baker’s. The baker’s son, a boy of about his own age, had been there. For some reason, the boy had given him an awkward look. He’d asked for the baker, but the boy had shaken his head.

“He’s been dead a month. Mother’s running the business.”

Hudson expressed his sorrow, and explained that he had come for his chest. But when he said that, the boy just shrugged. “Don’t know anything about a chest.” It seemed to Hudson that the boy was lying. He asked where the baker’s widow was. Away until the next day. Could he look for the chest? No. And then the strangest thing had happened. He’d never been particular friends with the baker’s son, but they’d known each other most of their lives. Yet now the boy had suddenly turned on him as if the past had never been.

“You’d better be careful, nigger,” he said viciously, “if I were you.” Then he waved him away. Hudson had still been in a state of astonishment when he went into the tavern, and met the slave who explained what was going on.

The best thing might have been to go back to the waterside, but he didn’t want to encounter the captain, who’d be looking for him by now. In the worst case, he could head out of the town, and sleep in the open. But he didn’t want to do that. The thought that the baker’s family might have stolen his money worried him considerably.

He was moving cautiously, therefore, as he made his way through the streets.

The trouble had started on March 18. A mysterious fire broke out in the governor’s house, and the fort had been burned down. Nobody knew who’d done it. Exactly a week later, another fire had started. Seven days after that, van Zant’s warehouse had burst into flames.