So after it was all over, Charlie went out again. His wife said there was no point and he knew it. But he couldn’t just sit there. It was a dark night now, and the wind had a vicious bite to it. The clouds in the sky were ragged, and through their tatters, you could see the faint, cold glimmer of a star or two. The streets were almost empty.

He walked down Broadway, called in at a few taverns, but had no luck. He passed Trinity Church and continued southward. He was entering the area he hated now.

The Court area, they called it these days. The old fort had become Fort George. In front of it, the small park of Bowling Green had been neatly railed off into a fashionable enclave, with street lamps at each corner to deter any vagrants from loitering. The governor’s house was here. Even the taverns had royal names.

Rich mansions loomed in the darkness all around. It mattered not to their owners—families like Livingston, Bayard, van Cortlandt, De Lancey, Morris—whether the city was going through boom or bust. They were impregnable, in their inherited security. Charlie turned east, into Beaver Street. At the end of it, he came to some railings, and a pair of handsome iron gates, surmounted by lamps. These protected a wide cobbled path and steps leading up to a large classical house. The shutters had not been closed; the warm light from the tall windows streamed out into the yard.

John Master’s house. He’d built it soon after his return from London.

Charlie continued across the southern end of Manhattan until he came to the East River. The long waterfront of docks and warehouses was quiet now, the ships so many shadows in the water. He walked along the wharfs a little way, then turned up Queen Street. There were lighted windows here, taverns still open.

He’d gone fifty yards when he came upon the shape on the ground. It was a black man, huddled in a blanket, against a warehouse wall. He glanced up at Charlie and, without much hope, held out his hand.

“Boss?”

Charlie looked down at him. Another sign of the times. All over the city, the smaller masters, short of cash, had been freeing their household slaves. It was cheaper than feeding them. They were everywhere: free blacks, with nothing to do but beg. Or starve. Charlie gave him a penny. Just after Schemmerhorn’s Wharf, he came to a large tavern, and went in.

There was quite a crowd in there, mariners mostly. Over at a table, he caught sight of a carter he knew. Big fellow, red hair. Never liked him much. If he could remember his name, he supposed he might speak to him, though he didn’t really want to. But the carter had got up and was coming toward him. Well, no need to be rude. Charlie gave him a nod.