Chapter One: New Digs, New Duds
Three weeks, nearly 500 miles. It was a new personal best for Cato, and he felt rather proud of himself for it. Those navigation tips he'd received from an older runaway had been a great help. Unfortunately, his master was just as determined to get him back as he was to get away. It was his 13th try, and 13 was starting to feel like a lucky number for Cato—until it wasn't. His master had finally caught up to him in New York City, where Cato had been hoping to smuggle himself aboard a ship headed for Nova Scotia. The young African man knew he wouldn't be getting off with just a beating this time.
Nope. This time he got dragged straight to the auction block. Cato sighed in resignation. Another changing of hands; another gamble to see whether the man who bought him this time was kind or cruel, clever or an idiot. Cato had seen it all. And he was honestly bored of it. From the day he arrived on these shores as a severely abused, skin-and-bones, sickly, small child, he had dreamed of freedom and had tried to reach out and take it at every opportunity. He'd had five masters already, and whoever paid for him today would be number six. He was passed around the South and labeled as an especially troublesome negro, meaning that whenever he got a new master, a "breaking in" period would follow. It never worked. Cato would feign submission—even gain his new owner's trust—and then make a break for the property line. Unfortunately, he knew nothing of navigation or wilderness survival, and was usually caught less than a mile from his starting point. These last couple of escapes had allowed him to test skills he'd acquired from watching other slaves and successful runaways who hid out right under his master's nose. Obviously he still had to refine his tactics. But at least his master was dumb enough to leave him at his halfway point instead of dragging him all the way back to the starting line.
Cato defiantly ignored the auctioneer's prompts to stand up straight and not slouch. He wasn't going to offer anything more than the energy it took to stand in place. These white men didn't deserve his full attention. No white man had ever been kind to him. He shuffled a bit as the auctioneer read off his details and opened the bidding.
"Do I hear £50?" the auctioneer called.
Silence. Cato smirked. It seemed no one wanted a runaway that had managed to make it all the way from Virginia.
Suddenly, a hand went up, and a voice that sounded slightly foreign called, "£50!"
Cato traced the hand to its owner, a tall man with a very light complexion, wearing what was apparently the latest style in this city. It wasn't clear whether he powdered his hair or wore a wig, but at any rate, he appeared to be in his 30s. Cato pursed his lips. Another aristocrat who probably had a big farm somewhere outside of town.
The man was the only bidder, and Cato was sold just a few seconds later. The man paid the promised amount, then turned and introduced himself to Cato.
"Pleasure to meet a spunky lad like yourself," he said. "My name is Hercules Mulligan, and I'm in need of an assistant at my tailor's shop."
Seriously? thought Cato. A tailor? And what a name! Hercules Mulligan. It was a rather unique name. Cato had met one very big, strong slave who had been named Hercules, but had believed it to be unique to him. There was something...oddly inspiring about the name when combined with the surname Mulligan, though Cato couldn't quite put his finger on what that might be.
"And what's your name, lad?" Mulligan prodded.
"Oh! Uh...Cato, sir."
Mulligan smiled. "Well, Cato, let's see what we can do about getting you a nice suit and teaching you a skill that's far less difficult than working the fields. And also some good ol' corned beef, just like mama used to make. Maybe a dram o' whiskey, too."
Irish. Mulligan must be Irish. Cato knew they were common in the northern colonies, and the southern gentlemen of English descent had nothing kind to say about the apparent obsession with alcohol that the men of the Emerald Isle possessed. But from what Cato was learning, there was something to be said for Irish hospitality. But a tailor? Cato had found himself in service to a tailor? That was certainly different.
Cato was further surprised as they seemed to travel further into town rather than out of it. Eventually, they arrived on a street with a lot of fancy shops along it, and then at a shop with a sign that Mulligan read aloud: "'Hercules Mulligan: Tailor and Haberdasher.' Here it is, my pride and joy!"
What on earth is a haberdasher? Cato thought.
Above the shop there appeared to be an apartment, presumably Mulligan's. Cato wondered where he was to sleep.
Upon entering the shop, Cato found himself surrounded by the most impressive clothing and fabrics he'd ever seen. No one down south possessed clothes like these.
Mulligan hurried behind the counter to pull out some books. He opened one and wrote in it, conversing as he did so.
"You'll have a small room in the apartment above us. It's the only empty room; I sleep in the other bedroom. It's clean and comfortable and furnished. Lessons will begin this evening, after business is done."
"Lessons, sir?"
Mulligan picked up a long ribbon and walked over to Cato, gesturing for him to hold out his arms as he stretched the ribbon along them.
"Why, your sewing lessons, of course," Mulligan said. "Can you read, Cato?"
"No, sir."
"Well, we shall have to teach you if you're to take and fill customers' orders. We also encourage tips here, so if you'd like to store your share away for a rainy day..." He gave Cato a wink, then wrapped the ribbon around the black man's chest. "Yes, you'll also make a fine model for some of my men's fashions. Good measurements; good dimensions. You'll be easy to outfit."
Cato wasn't entirely sure, but he felt he'd somehow been elevated to some sort of house slave. After all, why else would he be getting fancy clothes and a room of his own in the master's house?
Mulligan finished up his measurements and wrote them down in another book. Every once in a while he looked up at Cato, who was still taking in his surroundings, and gave a little hum as he pondered his new slave's complexion and which fabrics would best complement it.
Cato didn't have too long to explore the shop, as the bell above the door jingled, announcing the entry of a customer, a drearily dressed, humble-looking man who seemed very out of place in a fancy tailor shop like this. However, he did hold a much nicer coat in one arm.
"Ah, Mr. Townsend!" Mulligan greeted with a smile. "Come to your senses about adding a splash of color to your life, have you?"
The man rolled his eyes but returned the grin. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Mulligan. However, we had a bit of an incident at the inn today, and I've promised to replace a gentleman's coat that was unfortunately ruined. Even though it was entirely the fault of the two men involved in the, ah...dispute."
"I see," Mulligan said, still grinning. "Well, I'm sorry I missed it. Nonetheless, I can arrange to have this gentleman's bill sent to you, but he'll have to come in himself for measurements."
"No need, sir, I have his coat right here." Townsend handed the coat to Mulligan, who held it up to look at it. The tailor whistled through his teeth as he inspected the tears and beer stains that had marred the coat beyond usefulness, and which before now had been covered by the undamaged portion of the garment.
Cato raised his eyebrows. Clearly York City's standards for gentlemanly conduct were more lax than those of the South.
"Cato," Mulligan called, "run into that back room and see if you can find me a few swatches of fabric in this color."
Cato nodded silently and obeyed. When he reached the back room, which was clearly the main work room, Cato was confronted with a mess of benches, bolts of fabric, sewing supplies, and fabric scraps strewn haphazardly everywhere. How was he supposed to find anything in this mess? He grabbed a few items that closely matched the color of the coat and returned to the sales floor.
"Here are your fabrics, master," he said, handing the items to Mulligan, who had to drop the coat to accept the three bolts of fabric thrust into his arms.
The Irishman chuckled. "I think your first lesson this evening will be on sewing terminology. You didn't need to get all this, lad. I only needed small squares of these fabrics, which I have...somewhere back there. I do need to organize things." He glanced back at Townsend. "I think I need to take care of this. I'll speak to you at a later time, if you please, Mr. Townsend."
Townsend nodded, shot Cato a sympathetic look, and turned to leave the store without another word.
Mulligan tilted his head toward the work room. "Come, Cato, let's see what we can do about making the space back here a little more workable for the both of us."
Cato complied, still utterly confused about these new circumstances. His curiosity had suppressed his desire to search for escape routes, at least for the moment. And Mulligan had offered to teach him how to read, a skill any negro could use in their quest for freedom. Maybe, just maybe, he would stick around for a little while. It could benefit him in the long run, when he finally did complete the last half of his journey to Canada and freedom.
The rest of the day was spent cleaning up the back room and fetching supplies as Mulligan served his clients. Cato was free to go back and forth between the sales floor and the back room as often as he needed, and he observed that most of Mulligan's clientele were very wealthy. They either ignored him or shot him dirty looks, as though they expected him to be neither seen nor heard. Cato wanted so badly to glare back at them, but kept his eyes down and on his work. He overheard one customer comment that he was surprised to see a negro in such an upscale store, noting that a slave should be kept away from the wares for fear he might dirty, damage or even steal them.
"Oh, Cato wouldn't do any of that," Mulligan said. "He's my assistant. I've such a work load lately that I needed someone to help me with it, and that young man looked like he needed a fresh start."
"How very compassionate," the customer responded sarcastically.
Cato mulled this information over. Mulligan wanted to give him a fresh start? Well, he did offer to teach Cato a new trade, how to read, and had even said he could keep any tips he earned. Cato had only ever earned one tip in his entire life; a single silver coin that had gone immediately to buy his very own loaf of bread. Were all these promises just Mulligan's way of guaranteeing that Cato wouldn't try to run at the first opportunity?
It wasn't long before Mulligan declared closing time. The two men tidied the shop, and Mulligan continued to help Cato familiarize himself with the building. When their chores were done and the work room was in some semblance of order, the men retreated upstairs to Mulligan's apartment.
"It's not much," Mulligan admitted as he opened the door to the flat and ushered Cato in. "I'm just a bachelor at the moment. Got my eye on a pretty girl in town, though; Beth. A bonnie lady. Your room will be the one just down the hall there. We open at eight in the morning. For now, I'll put a kettle on, and we can scare something up for supper."
Cato went to inspect his room. It was small, but just as Mulligan had said, it was furnished with a bed and a chest of drawers. Cato headed straight for the bed and collapsed into it. A bed. A real bed. He'd never been in one before. He had only ever had a crude, straw-covered pallet to sleep on. And if he was lucky, he might get a second blanket in the winter. The mattress beneath him was also stuffed with straw, but it felt like the fluffiest cloud compared to what he had previously known. And the blankets were heavenly.
Cato didn't even have time to consider his options. Within minutes of falling into bed, he drifted into the deepest, most restful sleep he'd ever had in his life. He knew that his life was finally, finally changing for the better.
Little did he know just how much change was in store; not just for him, but for Mulligan and for all of York City. For the country. For the world. And Cato was about to play a small, yet vital role in that change.
AN: The man who came in with the coat was Samuel Townsend, not Robert. We won't be meeting Robert for some time. I've got some research to do yet on his involvement in the Culper Ring and his contact with Mulligan, if it happened at all outside of Turn: Washington's Spies. For the record, this will NOT be a crossover. However, many elements within this story will be heavily influenced by Turn.
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