Young Hudson hadn’t been having any luck. He’d tried a few inns, but been told there was no room. There were some disreputable places where he knew he could stay, but he’d avoided those so far. He’d gone to the house of a tailor he knew, hoping to get a berth there, but the man had left the city because times were bad. Another friend, a free black man like himself, had been thrown in jail. He’d been on his way to a ropemaker he knew when, passing by Vesey Street, he’d made a terrible mistake.

He’d noticed the smoking chimney at once. It belonged to a house a few doors down the street. Even in the gathering darkness, he could see the thick black smoke coming out of it, although he saw no sign of any flames. Somebody had better take a look at that, he’d thought, but not wanting to get involved, he’d been going on his way when the two watchmen came round the corner.

They saw the smoke too. And they saw a black man. And they stared at him. They were staring at him hard.

And then he’d panicked.

He knew what they were thinking. Was he a black man starting a fire? He could stay where he was, of course, and protest he was innocent. But would they believe him? In any case, with the ship’s captain looking for him, he hardly wanted to be questioned by the authorities. There was only one thing to do. He took to his heels and ran. The watchmen shouted and came after him, but he was faster than they were. A quick turn down an alley, over a wall, down another alleyway, and he’d lost them.

He was halfway along Ferry Street now, hoping he was safe, when he heard the footsteps hurrying behind him, and turned to see the two watchmen.

For a moment, he wondered what to do. Should he run? He might get away, but if he didn’t, then running would confirm his guilt. Could they even be sure, in the darkness, that he was the black man they’d seen in the other street? Probably not. But they mightn’t care about that. He hesitated, and was on the point of fleeing again, when he saw that another man was now coming toward him, from the other end of the street. Quite a big, fit-looking man, carrying a silver-topped stick. If he fled, and the watchmen gave chase, the man with the stick would probably catch him. There was nothing to do but stand his ground, with what dignity he could.

The two watchmen reached him. Although he wasn’t moving, one of them grabbed him by the collar.

“Gotcha.” The fellow shook him. “We saw you.”

“Saw what?”

“Back in Vesey Street. Startin’ a fire.”

“A what? I wasn’t in Vesey Street.”