Chapter 7: The Art of Looting
- Colonial-NewYorker
- 13 hours ago
- 5 min read
VII
ARTES LATROCINII
Vauxhall, York City
That Friday night had been a lovely evening truth be told; perfect for a leisurely stroll about town or a romantic adventure in the park, not intolerably cold, nor too windy, and the stars were shining fiercely. Yet serenity often ends as quickly as it comes. Previous to the march down the Broadway, when the steady glow of illumination could be seen from the exalted vantage upon the rampart, where men watched the army of candles march on and on as the reverent peal of bells heralded their arrival, before all this I say, a messenger boy was sent ahead of the warfront into no-man’s-land, carrying a small missive in his youthful hands. He ran foolishly up to the door of Fort George, ignoring the many cannon pointed right upon his little frame, and waited. A sentry was standing by and came to the boy, who hastily pushed that missive into his hands. The sentry then took it to Cadwallader Colden, who was deep within his study, pacing about and thinking of what to do with the matter at hand. The letter read in short:
Sir, The People of this City and Province of New York, have been inform'd that you bound yourself under an Oath to be the Chief MURDERER of their Rights and Privileges, by acting as an Enemy to your King and Country to Liberty and Mankind in the Inforcement of the Stamp-Act which we are unanimously determined shall never take Place among us, so long as a Man has Life to defend his injured Country. . . We can with certainty assure you of your Fate if you do not this Night Solemnly make Oath before a Magistrate, and publish to The People, that you never will, directly nor indirectly, by any Act of yours or any Person under your Influence, endeavour to introduce or execute the Stamp-Act, or any Part of it, that you will to the utmost of your Power prevent its taking Effect here, and endeavour to obtain a Repeal of it in England. So help you God. We have heard of your Design or Menace to fire upon the Town, in Case of Disturbance, but assure yourself, that, if you dare to Perpetrate any Such murderous Act, you'll bring your grey Hairs with Sorrow to the Grave, You'll die a Martyr to your own Villainy, and be Hang'd like Porteis, upon a Sign- Post, as a Memento to all wicked Governors, and that every Man, that assists you, Shall be, surely, put To DEATH.
His old hands had trembled as he read the final line, and his mind was fixed. Thanks be to God! the parapet silenced their guns, and no anarchist drew his very last that night (save one poor soul from consumption), but rather they freely strolled about, lost in the violent reverie into which they devolved, and such was the case of two dear friends who, growing bored of the bonfire near the fort, wandered about until they found a lovely manse surrounded by a lovely garden, which surely in the summer time bore a phalanx of tulips, but now sported autumn’s frozen harvest.
The house was surrounded by a fence broken in at some points, and hastily covered in placards that read:
PRO PATRIA the first Man that either distributes or makes use of Stampt Paper let him take Care of his House, Person, and Effects. We dare. VOX POPULI
These two men, unworthy of names, were not the first to find this home fit for plunder, nor the last. “Should we?” asked one, “of course” said the other. They slowly approached the house, two stories tall with elegant brick and fine large windows beaming warm light into the darkness. As they approached, they heard within the ruckus of glass breaking and the clinking of china and plate, as others had already commenced their looting. It was the home of Major James it was, though they didn’t know it, they didn’t care whose it was. Opportunity for such nefarious action so rarely proffers itself, that these two poor unfortunates thought it a godsend that the night offered itself to them as a time to increase their fortune, for as they believed, such dandies who owned homes as lavish as this, such macaroni, yea, they stole it from ‘em didn’t they?
The white door was dangling from a single hinge, and had another placard knifed upon it, which read:
A FUNERAL LAMENTATION On the Death of LIBERTY Who finally expires this First of November, In the Year of our Lord M. DCC. LXV. And of our Slavery YEAR I
However, these two were illiterate and passed it without notice. Just as they crossed the threshold, a choir of young lads passed in the street, hollering this song at the top of their youthful lungs:
The Birthright we hold, Shall never be sold,
But sacred maintained to our Graves;
Nay, and ere we'll Comply, We will gallantly die,
for we must not and will not be SLAVES;
BRAVE BOYS, We must not, and will not be SLAVES.
The song unheeded by these two, they proceeded onto the first room on their right. Another looter took notice of them, but hurried up the stairs, preferring to cut his losses and seek his fortune far from the newcomers. To the right was a study. “Worthless things” reckoned the first, as he beheld a room filled with books, a damask sofa, telescopes, and maps. “Aye, shit paper it is”, said the second. They abandoned that room, seeing as there was nothing of worth to them there, and proceeded to the first bedchamber, wherein they decided, “let us see who can find the brightest silver, the clearest crystal, or the loveliest gold,” and they split up singing “Liberty and no Stamps”. One searched the room and found a chamber pot of silver, and pissed in it, smirking. The other found the cellar and drunk near a pipe of ice-wine and stole a loaf of rye.
They collected together what was to them a horde of treasure, a box of engraved silverware, a bag of bread, some bottles of rum, a snuffbox or two, and a golden ring. They took their spoils and left the home, which was then being invaded by others who saw the same opportunity they had. They thanked their lucky stars and made their way back from whatever dark hole whence they came. As is known, the only rule of gentlemanly thievery is this: only take what was taken, for you deserve it. If you take what was taken and owed, you are no thief but are merely lucky and brave. —‘Tis equity, indeed.
Politics and protest are a good pretense for equity.
Warning: The Yellow Cardinal contains adult themes that may not be suitable for all audiences under the age of 18. Some chapters may contain descriptions of graphic scenarios including but not limited to: suggestive materials, violence, 18th century racism and slavery, sexism, etc. Read with caution and/or parental permission.
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