It was a cruel custom. A ritual humiliation. Strip a man, paint him with tar, then throw feathers all over him, which would stick to the tar. There was the shame of nakedness, the blistering pain of the hot tar, the suggestion that he were dark-skinned like a native or a slave, and feathered like a chicken, ready for the pot. When they’d done their work, they led the man through the streets, for all the town to mock. Afterward he had to scrape and scrub his blistered skin. Men had been known to die of it.

She ran as fast as she could, looking wildly about her as she went, in the hope that there might be somebody in the street with authority to stop the appalling business. Reaching the gate of the fort, she rushed to the sentry.

“Where is your officer?” she cried. “I need an officer.”

“None here,” he answered.

“My father—they’re going to tar and feather him.”

“Try City Hall, maybe,” he said with a shrug.

“Damn you,” she cried, and turning in desperation, she began to run up Broadway.

She had gone a hundred yards when she saw the cart. It was standing at the side of the street, while the carter chatted to a passer-by. Abigail didn’t hesitate. “Help,” she called out to the carter. And the fellow turned.

“City Hall,” she panted. “Please take me. They’re going to tar and feather my father.”

Thank God the carter didn’t hesitate. A strong arm pulled her up. Glancing at his face, she thought she might have seen him before, but she didn’t know where. Without a word, he whipped up his horse, and the cart moved briskly to the middle of Broadway. But then, instead of going north, it veered round.

“To City Hall,” she cried. “For God’s sake, go to City Hall.”

But the carter took no notice, and then unexpectedly said: “If you want to save him, Miss Abigail, then sit tight.”

Before she could understand what was happening, they were entering Beaver Street. Seeing the crowd, the carter didn’t slow down at all, but drove straight at them, so that they scattered. Her father was still at the top of the steps. The men had already daubed his chest and back, and they were just about to tar his feet. They looked up in surprise at the interruption.

“Stop that!” the carter shouted in a gruff voice. He clearly expected to be obeyed.

The man with the tar brush hesitated, but his companion holding the bucket cursed and protested: “He’s a damn Tory spy.”

The carter’s whip snaked out so fast that Abigail hardly saw it. An instant later, the man with the bucket let out a howl, as the whiplash caught his hand, and he dropped the bucket, spreading tar all over the steps.

“Are you arguing with me?” the carter inquired.