The Great Negro Plot (4 page)

Unfortunately, while John Hughson could fairly be called many things, none of them would be "intelligent." Instead of reappearing
with some incidental trace evidence that might lead the authorities away from his own culpability, the taverner took it one
step further and returned instead with
all
the stolen goods in question, silver coins, speckled linen, everything. The constables looked at the loot in disbelief, then
peered back at the beaming Hughson. There he stood, so happy and relieved to have the whole thing up and done with. Completely
unconscious of the fact that he'd just given proof that he was in direct possession of the stash the whole time, substantiating
definitively his own utter guilt in the matter.

Ah, the genius of John Hughson!

" MARY BURTON, OF THE CITY OF NEW-YORK, SPINSTER"

THERE MAY HAVE BEEN WORSE COLONIES THAN
New York in which to find yourself standing accused before the court in the eighteenth century, other places where mere accusation
alone seemed to be counted as evidence of wrongdoing. In nearby New Haven, for instance, 90 percent of defendants brought
to trial were found guilty. In New York, at least, nearly half of the accused on trial were given the chance to prove their
innocence (or feign it). And considering that the Hogg crime involved theft of personal property that amounted to a small
fortune, it was somewhat to John Hughson's advantage that the trial was being held on the American continent altogether, for
this was a time of even harsher punishment for thievery back in fair England, where intolerance for such sins had resulted
in frequent capital sentences. While the hangman's noose was offered for the crime of thievery in the new land as well, that
option was rarely selected. Even if convicted, with any luck, Hughson might be sentenced to a good flogging, or at worst a
pillorying, both of which it was, theoretically, possible to live through.

Colonial justice was made more complicated for its defendants by its simplicity: The justice of the case served not only as
a "judge" in the modern sense, but also played the role of prosecutor. Judges were responsible for choosing to go to trial,
gathering the incriminating evidence, securing the prosecuting witnesses, as well as interrogating both them and the suspects.
It was an arrangement that made impartiality, at best, difficult; a power dynamic that made any trial without an impartial
judge no more than a formality to sentencing. To make matters worse, most judges in the colonies had no qualifications for
the job other than that they were wealthy landowners with enough political clout to wrangle these influential, though part-time,
appointments. A census taken two decades after the events of 1741 found that only 41 percent of New York's judges had any
proper legal training or experience before taking the mantle. As prominent New Yorker, and former legal apprentice, William
Livingston would put it in 1745, "There is perhaps no Set of men that bear so ill a Character in the Estimation of the Vulgar,
as the Gentlemen of the Long Robe."

Standing before the court to hear the charges, John Hugh-son was joined by his wife, Sarah, per the court's order, along with
their lodger, Margaret Sorubiero.

Margaret Sorubiero, also known as Margaret Salingburgh, was better known as Peggy Kerry. What could be said of a common Irish
woman who lived above this tavern known to be populated by lowly whites and Negroes? That she was a prostitute, of course;
it was unproven but there was no need (there were hundreds of such women in the area around the fort). That her board and
lodging were paid for by Caesar, the primary Negro in question, was proof enough. The reason for this latest addition to the
alderman's request list was made clear when the Hughsons and Peggy laid eyes on the court's first witness.

"Mary Burton, of the city of New York, spinster, aged about sixteen years, being sworn, deposed," the clerk called, and the
slight peasant girl took center stage in the drama. Avoiding the penetrating glances of her former housemates, Mary nervously
began:

"Must have been two o'clock in the morning I'd seen him, that Negro, Caesar, the one what also goes by the name John Gwin
(or is it Quin?), sneaking in through the window of Miss Peggy. Yes, Peggy Kerry, this white woman. The Negro slipped right
into her bedroom window in the dark of night, he did. What's more, he often made her bed his own, made a habit of it. God's
truth."

The stage-whispered curses of the accused beside her threatened to cut Mary Burton's narrative short, but the mortified gasps
from the rest of the room pushed her on, fed her with attention, giving her the strength to continue.

"The following morn, the speckled linen, it was right there," Mary went on. "I seen the stolen fabric," she told them, but
what went unsaid was that Caesar had seen Mary see it, her eyes grow wide at the sight of the fine cloth. Mary failed to mention
that Caesar had thrown her two pieces of silver to shut her up, or that Peggy cut an apron from the material to give to her
to ensure her silence. Mary was not on trial here. She was simply an innocent corrupted.

So much money in his hand as Caesar sat that morning in the tavern, gloating. So much more than he could have ever earned
honestly, far more intoxicating to him than any liquor he could buy. Mary couldn't tell them that, because she couldn't imagine
the feeling, but she could tell other things.

"Caesar was all casual-like, too, the cat with a mouse, he was. Bought a pair of proper white stockings for his Peggy right
then from my master, added two mugs of punch on top to get his silver's worth. The master and the mistress both seen the speckled
linen that morning as well, as sure as I did."

As Mary spoke, the Hughsons sat in terror and disbelief. As they listened they blustered with indignation at such betrayal
from this hypocritical and scandalous girl!

"After Under-Sheriff Mills done arrived the first time in search of this soldier, Gwin, Mrs. Hughson hid the linen in the
garret. Then she took it out again after the first search to hide it under the stairs. She's real clever-like, so when the
constables came back they missed it. Then later that night, I seen the mistress carrying it to her mother's house."

John Hughson leaped to his feet, interrupting. "She is a vile, good-for-nothing girl!" he shouted. "She had been got with
child by her former master!"

Hughson hoped that his outburst might distract the court, but his bit of rumor was not the morsel in which this room was interested.

"Who else, young Burton?" the court demanded. "Who else took part in this nefarious plot? You are reminded, you are before
a court of law, and your pardon depends on a complete testimony."

"Well, just yesterday morning I was sweeping the porch and I heard the Dutchman John Romme saying to my master, Tf you will
be true to me, then I will be true to you.' To this my master replied, T will, and I will never betray you.' Which I found
odd and suspicious, as such."

With this added revelation, examining the room and pondering his own situation, Hughson belatedly came to the realization
that he was screwed, and it suddenly dawned on him how he had just managed to hurt his cause not only with the room but also
with the one person who had the power to stop this madness. In a typical John Hughson style adjustment of strategy, before
the entire audience to whom he had just defamed young Mary, Hughson instantly tried the opposite tactic of compliment and
flattery.

"She was a very good girl," he cried, assuring those who were still bothering to listen. "Why, in hard weather last winter,
she used to dress herself in me own clothes, put on boots, and go out with me in my sleigh in the deep snows into the commons
to help me fetch firewood for my family. Love her like one of my own, really."

In response, the crowd stared back at Hughson, largely quiet. The ones that were making a sound giggled at his ineptitude.

"Silence, man!" the deputy town clerk ordered him. "Continue. Speak the truth."

"I hardly dare speak," Mary cringed back dramatically. "I am so much afraid I will be murdered by them!"

Hughson and the other accused were doomed and they knew it. If there was any doubt, the testimony that came next from John
Vaarck, the baker—Caesar's owner—took that away as well. After demonstratively apologizing for the fact that he was too busy
with work to enslave his Negro properly, Vaarck told a story that would further cement the fate of the accused.

That very afternoon, he said, his younger slave, Bastian, had met his master's growing anxiety about this recent trouble with
a look of guilt of his own. "What do you know, boy?" the baker insisted he pressed him. They stood in the kitchen, where the
slave boy slept on a mat in the corner.

" 'Nothing, sir,' " the baker said Bastian had offered sheepishly. " T don't know nothing.' "

"This is no time for nonsense. Have it out now, boy, before that black bastard, Caesar, has us all marched to the gallows."

Bastian thought that an excellent point. After apparently allowing the thought to settle, the boy pointed down to the floor
below them.

"What? Something wrong with your bloody foot? Stop the riddles!"

"Look underneath the floor, sir. There's something down there."

Vaarck did indeed look down there. As far as he could tell, there was no trapdoor, no loose floorboard. In order to look underneath
his kitchen, Vaarck had to walk out his house, climb through his neighbor's yard, then come alongside to stare into the small
dark crevice beneath his home. Huffing, on his knees, Vaarck looked up at where Bastian stood behind him.

"And you just happened to come across this little hiding space, did you?"

Bastian shrugged back at his pink owner.

Reaching into the darkness, hoping not to find a handful of skunk or porcupine for his efforts, Vaarck's hand came on the
texture of rough fabric atop the dry soil. As he pulled out the heavy bag, the contents clinked as they rubbed together. Plates,
stolen linen, filled it.

That bastard Caesar, Vaarck said he thought. He'd spent good money on that darky, gave him damn near free rein, and this was
how Caesar had repaid him.

What interested the court as much as the booty, which was brought out now for the three judges to see, was the location itself.

When questioned Vaarck told them, "The only way you can get down there is through the yard of John Romme." That neighbor whose
yard the house and its kitchen adjoined was the very John Romme whom Mary Burton had just described as being in cahoots with
John Hughson. The area was only accessible through Romme's small yard, Vaarck insisted. The implication: that even if his
own slave had strayed, there were whites guilty of more than just loose management, to be discovered in this affair. John
Romme was married into the Dutch upper class of the colony, but this allegation and implication of guilt was too much to ignore.
Despite his high-up connections, John Romme was sent for immediately.

Not even adding another white suspect, this one a member of the old Dutch gentry, would be able to move John Hugh-son from
the focus of the judicial eye. Considering the social relations and possible ramifications of prosecuting one of their own
class for such a petty crime, if anything, an arrest of John Romme would make it more likely the Hughsons would be made the
scapegoats, that the burden of blame could be carried by them completely. Fate dictated this to be the case, as the constables
sent to retrieve Romme returned with the news that the gentleman had already absconded. Still, too much of a political bother,
really, when you had a perfectly good (and perfectly guilty) white man to take the burden right in front of you. So it turned
out that John Hughson was good for something after all.

Seeing his predicament, Hughson thought confession his best alternative, and proved to have much to offer to the conversation.
He confided that Peggy had given him goods, and told him that they had been left by Caesar, a stash, Hughson admitted, he
later delivered to his mother-in-law. He added that he proceeded to hide the silver coins through repeated visits to confound
the investigation. He further went on to say that it was Peggy that gave him the remainder of the bundle, which he delivered
that morning to the authorities.

The court scribe struggled to keep up with Hughson's guilty revelation, making sure the language was correct to ensure its
legal worth. Finishing up the last words, the document was turned back to Hughson for his approval.

"Sign your confession, John Hughson. Your testimony will be noted," the court clerk told him on completion. Hughson just stared
at the lengthy page, its ink still wet.

But now he declined to put his signature to the document.

"What? What are you on about?" the court demanded. "It's your confession, man. You agreed to give your confession; you've
already told the room of your part in this matter, what is the point of resistance now? Don't be daft, sign the paper."

Hughson continued to stare at the words on the page, considering the matter. Then, coming to a decision, he shook his head
at the whole thing. "No, I don't think I shall. No, not at all. Thank you anyway, gentlemen."

"Are you quite mad? Sign the paper!"

"There is no occasion for me to sign it," Hughson insisted.

The court was aghast at the insolence of this rascal. They were so busy voicing the outrage over this affront to the court
that they didn't bother to discern that the reason John Hugh-son wouldn't sign the confession was in fact fairly practical.
The old fool couldn't read even the simplest words on the page, even if he could have managed more than an X to add to them.
He was illiterate.

Regardless, both John and Sarah were remitted right then and there, with the understanding that they would be brought back
in front of the Supreme Court on the very first day of the next term.

The last white on trial, Peggy Kerry, had more fight to offer. Despite the wealth of witnesses against her and the detailed
confessions, Peggy stood on the witness stand unmoved, and unmoving.

"Do you, Peggy Kerry, admit to having had possession of the stolen property from Hogg's store?"

"I do not," the redhead resisted, her back straight despite the societal shame engendered in that room and foisted down upon
her.

"You do not even admit to the repeated attempts to conceal the evidence from the rightful authorities, as already laid out
by the confession of your landlord, John Hughson?"

"I most certainly do not." Peggy stood strong, ignoring the rumbling of the onlooking crowd.

"Will you admit, then," the court continued, "as it has already been revealed here this day, that you willingly have shared
your bed with a Negro property of Vaarck, the baker, this notorious black called Caesar, that now stands bound in this courtroom?"