War

March 1776

OUTSIDE, THE SKY was blue. Hudson had already told her that the streets were quiet. Abigail handed the letter back to her father, stepped into the hall where little Weston was waiting, and took the child by the hand.

“Come, Weston,” she said, “we’ll go for our walk.”

The boy was like her own child now. He was such a dear little fellow. She’d have given her life rather than let any harm come to him.

A year after James’s return, how the world had changed. For a while, the voices of moderation had still been heard. The Continental Congress had sworn they only wanted justice from Britain. In New York, men like John Jay had managed to restrain the Liberty Boys. But not for long.

The rebellion had taken on a life of its own. First, after the skirmishes of Lexington and Concord, when General Howe and his redcoats had tried to break out of Boston, the Patriots had inflicted terrible casualties on them at Bunker Hill. Then, up in the northern reaches of the Hudson River, Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys took the redcoats by surprise and seized the little fort of Ticonderoga, with all its heavy cannon. After this, the Congress had been so emboldened that they even tried a sortie into Canada.

Down in Virginia, the British governor had offered freedom to any slaves who cared to run away to join the British Army—which had made the Southern planters furious. In England, King George had declared the American colonies in a state of rebellion—which by now was the truth—and ordered their ports closed.

“The king’s declared war on us,” the Liberty Boys announced.

But the thing that had stirred people most was not a military engagement at all. In January 1776 an anonymous pamphlet had appeared. Soon it became known that the author was an Englishman named Thomas Paine, who’d recently arrived in Philadelphia. The pamphlet was entitled “Common Sense.” “Damned sedition,” John Master had called it, but as a piece of writing it was brilliant.

For not only did Paine argue for an independent America—God’s country, where fugitive Freedom could find a safe haven from Europe’s ancient evils—but he used phrases that echoed in the mind. King George became “the royal brute of Britain.” Of British rule he remarked: “There is something very absurd in supposing a continent to be governed by an island.” And of independence, simply and memorably: “’Tis time to part.” Within weeks “Common Sense” was being read all over the colonies.

By now it seemed unavoidable: it was war. New York, with its mighty harbor and control of the northern river route to Canada, would be a key point. Washington of Virginia, chosen by the Congress as commander-in-chief, had already inspected the city. Early in 1776, he’d sent Lee, his trusted general, to strengthen it.

If General Charles Lee had any connection with the notable Lees of Virginia, it must have been distant. For he turned out to be an eccentric Englishman. He’d served in America in the French and Indian War, and taken an Indian wife before returning to fight in Europe. Recently, however, he’d returned to America to settle. Passionate for the colonists’ cause, this hot-tempered military man strode around the city with his pack of dogs, usually followed by a crowd of curious children. He knew his business, though. In a month, he had laid the solid groundwork for the city’s defenses.

His presence in the city had had one other consequence for the Master family. When James went to offer his services, he had much impressed the peppery general, who had soon sent him up to Boston to join Washington.

As Abigail walked along Beaver Street, her mind turned to her dear brother, and she wondered how long it would be before she saw him again. She crossed the street to Bowling Green. Little Weston was tugging at her hand. She let him run ahead.

John Master looked at the letter again. It was not easy to get letters from England at the moment—and as a well-known Tory, he had to be cautious. Many of his Tory friends had left the city during the last months. Tryon, the royal governor, was safely on a ship in the harbor now. For Loyalists who dared to remain, it was wisest not to draw attention to oneself. A man who corresponded with England might be taken for a spy. But Albion had cleverly sent his letter through Boston, and a messenger had handed it to Solomon at the door of the house last night.

The letter was clear, concise, and not very encouraging.

A huge army was being gathered. So large, that British redcoats would not be enough. The government was hiring German mercenaries. They had even tried to get troops from Russia, but the Empress Catherine had refused them. There was no drawing back now.

There had been many in England whose sympathies lay with the rebels, he reminded Master. The Londoners, in particular, were the colonists’ friends. Even Lord North, the prime minister, was minded to be conciliatory, until the fighting started. In the House of Commons, Burke, Charles James Fox and other fine orators were still speaking out for the colonists’ cause. In the Lords, both the great Chatham, who had led England to victory over the French in the last war, and Franklin’s friend Lord Dartmouth were still prepared to urge compromise. A few army officers had even refused to serve against the colonists.

But once British soldiers were being killed, public sympathy had swung toward the government. It was only to be expected. Above all, King George, with all his honest heart, believed it was his duty not to give way. The majority in Parliament agreed with him. And even if they hadn’t, so many Members of Parliament had public offices which paid fine salaries for no work, or held military commissions where promotion depended on the government, or had friends with government contracts, or could, quite simply, be bribed, that Lord North could be certain of securing a majority.

Was there still hope? Yes, Albion said, for two reasons. The first was the vast expense of sending armies so far. The second was that France, seeing British power engaged in America, would probably attack other parts of the empire, and try to snatch back what they lost in the last war. Once the Patriots had seen what they were up against, and been thoroughly terrified, perhaps they would temper the more extreme of their demands, and a compromise might be reached.

He ended his letter on a lighter note.

Did James tell you, the rumor has always been that Lord North’s mother cuckolded her husband with the king’s father? And that King George and his prime minister are thus half-brothers? (They look so alike, I’m sure ’tis true.) If the prime minister should ever grow weary of chastising the colonists, therefore, his royal brother, believing God to be on his side, will be sure to make him stick to his purpose.

Master had watched Abigail carefully as she read the letter. He had been amused at her shock when she came to the passage about the king and his brother.

“I never imagined, Papa,” she had said, “that Lord North was the king’s bastard brother. Are such things often done in England?”

“They have been known,” he had answered with a smile, “even in America.”

But the real point, he thought now, as he read the letter again, the real point was that there was still hope. There would probably have to be fighting, but once the Patriots discovered what they had done—despite Charlie White and the Liberty Boys, despite General Lee and his fortifications, despite the tragic folly of his own son James—a settlement of some kind would be negotiated. There was still hope for himself, and Abigail, and little Weston.

He sat for some time, contemplating the situation, until he was interrupted by a commotion at the door. In some surprise, he went into the hall, to find Hudson struggling to close the door upon two large men. A moment later, the door burst inward.

And he stared in horror.

There were only a few people on Bowling Green, and it was easy to entertain little Weston. James had taught him to throw and catch a ball, and all you had to do was throw the ball to him by the hour.

“Throw higher,” he would cry, or, “Further away.” He loved to show how he could jump, or dive for a catch. He was remarkable, she thought, for his age. Abigail always worried that he must long for his mother, and hoped she was able to make up for some of that lack. So although she found it quite boring to play catch for hours, that was more than made up for by the joy of seeing the little fellow so happy and proud of himself. She only wished that James were here to see it.

How excited she’d been when James had first returned. How tall and handsome he was. What joy she had felt to see him sitting at the family table. And what relief. With James there, she’d been sure, things would go better.

It had been on the third day that he had broken the news. He and his father were closeted together nearly an hour. She’d heard her father’s cry of pain, then raised voices, then a long rumble of conversation before her father had emerged, looking pale and grave.

“Your brother has decided to support the Patriot cause,” he told her. “I understand his reasons, though I do not agree with them. Now, Abby,” he had continued gently, “we must keep the family together, you and I. Discuss the subject with James as little as possible. On no account argue with him. He is your brother, and you must love and support him. Above all, little Weston must hear no cross word in this house.”

And that was what they had done. No one entering the house would ever suppose that James and his father were on different sides. The news of the day was discussed calmly. Master might offer an opinion on the competence of Washington, or the incompetence of the troops he was raising. James might shake his head over some unwise or arrogant decision made in London. But their discussions were always polite.

Not long after his return, they had all gone up into Dutchess County. Abigail had happy memories of visits to her grandfather, old Dirk Master, at his farm when she was a little girl. After he had died, John Master had kept the farmhouse, which they would use from time to time in the summer. The family’s sizable landholding in the county was managed by her sister Susan’s husband, along with his own estate.

On this occasion, they had stayed with Susan. It had been pleasant enough. Susan was becoming quite matronly now, and though happy to see her family, was more preoccupied with her children and running her farm than with the great affairs of the outside world. Her husband, a brisk, cheerful man, put it bluntly.

“We aim to stay out of trouble here, if we can.” He and James seemed to get on well enough, but Abigail could tell that, family loyalty aside, they had not much in common.

Just before they left, however, Susan did take her brother by the arm in an affectionate manner, and urge him: “Come to see us again, James, and do not wait too long. I am glad, after all these years, to know my brother again.” And James promised that he would.

As for her own relationship with her brother, Abigail could hardly have asked for anything better. He would often sit with her, tell her about the things he’d seen. Though his appearance was dignified, he could regale her with funny stories about his student days to make her laugh. He soon discovered the things she liked, and even with the port closed to English trade, he’d manage to find her something—some lace or ribbons, a book, or even a little posy of flowers that would please her. As for his son, he was a model father. When she watched him playing with Weston, or teaching him to read, or took the little boy for walks, she felt so proud of James.

And so, thank God, it was possible for her to love and respect both her father and her brother. She ran the house now, pretty well she thought. Hudson and his wife consulted with her on all day-to-day matters. She did her best to be a comfort to her father, a companion to James and a mother to Weston.

But why was James alone? Where was his wife? Soon after his arrival, Abigail had tried to ask him, but he had given her a vague answer and gently discouraged her from inquiring again. Her father knew no more than she did. Three weeks had passed before James could bring himself to tell them that he and Vanessa had had a serious falling-out.

“I still hope for a reconciliation,” he said, “but I cannot count upon it.” In the meantime, it was agreed that there was no need to say anything to little Weston. He was told that his mother would be coming to join them when she could, and though he clearly missed her, he seemed to accept her absence as some unexplained necessity of the adult world.

After several months, a letter came from Vanessa. It was written on thick paper, in a bold, firm hand. With messages of love for little Weston, she spoke of her concern about the rebellion, and asked when James meant to return, clearly giving no indication that she meant to join him.

Meanwhile, as the rebellion grew, James’s presence in the house seemed to afford them a measure of protection. Many of the Tory Loyalists were leaving, some sailing to England, others retiring to their farms, where they hoped they would not be troubled. Some went to Loyalist Kings or Queens counties on Long Island, though the Patriots would make occasional sweeps to harass them. As long as James was in the city, though, the Master house was considered a Patriot place.

Abigail had been playing with Weston for a little while when she carelessly threw the ball a bit too wide. Diving to one side, the boy hit his knee against a small rock, grazing it. She ran to him as he got up, his small face puckering. Apart from the trickle of blood, she could see that he’d soon have quite a bruise. She was expecting him to cry. “Shall we go home now?” she asked, as she started to wrap her handkerchief around the bloody knee. But he shook his head. And understanding that boys don’t cry, she went back to her former place, and threw him an easy catch, feeling sorry for him and proud of him at the same time.

They’d continued in this way for a minute or two more when she heard shouting coming from the street behind her. She paused to listen, but after a moment it seemed to die down. The ball passed back and forth a few more times when she became aware that people at the end of the green were starting to hurry in the direction the noise had come from, as though drawn to a spectacle of some kind. She hesitated, wondering what to do. “Throw, Abby,” called Weston as he tossed the ball to her.

Pretending to miss her catch, and turning to retrieve the ball, she went back a little way, trying to see what was happening—only to catch sight of Solomon, running toward her.

“You gotta stay here, Miss Abigail,” he told her breathlessly, as soon as he reached her.

“What is it?”

“The Boss,” he whispered to her, so that Weston should not hear. “They come for him. They sayin’ he’s a spy, on account of his gettin’ letters from England. Don’ you go back there,” he added urgently. But she wasn’t listening.

“Stay with Weston,” she commanded. She thrust the ball into his hand. “Keep him here.” And she began to run.

There was quite a crowd in front of the house. They were waiting expectantly. She tried to push through them, but before she could get to the gate, the front door of the house opened and the crowd let out a roar.

They had stripped her father to the waist, and his feet were bare. He was still a large and powerful man who could have put up a fight, but at least a dozen men were coming through the doorway with him, too many to resist. He was trying to maintain his dignity, yet his face was ashen. She had never seen her father at a disadvantage before. The men were jostling him.

The shouts from the crowd rose. By the sound of it, they wanted entertainment as much as revenge. On the steps in front of the door, her father was made to stop. One of the men was carrying a bucket of tar.

And now Abigail understood. It was no use trying to intervene; she knew she could do nothing. She had to think quickly. She turned, and started to run. Where should she go? Up to Wall Street? The City Hall was there, and people with authority. But the fort was closer. There was so little time. How long did it take, to tar and feather a man?

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.

“No, Charlie,” the man with the tar brush replied. “We ain’t arguing.”

“Good,” said Charlie White. “Cos this here’s the house of James Master, the Patriot officer, and it’s under protection. Anyone interfering with the people in this house …” He did not need to finish the sentence.

“All right, Charlie,” said the man with the tar brush, “whatever you say. Come on, boys.” And he led his men out to the street.

Charlie looked round the crowd, and meditatively cracked his whip over their heads. They began to disperse.

“You’d best go tend to your father, Miss Abigail,” Charlie said to her quietly, and gave her a hand down. By the time she reached the top of the steps, the cart was already moving away. He didn’t look back.

They were not troubled after that, though her father was greatly astonished by Charlie White’s protection. Seeing Charlie in the street two days later, Abigail stopped the carter and told him, “My father wants to thank you.” But Charlie shook his head. “It ain’t about him anyhow,” he said gruffly, and turned away.

A month after that, thank God, James came back from Boston, very pleased with himself. General Howe and his redcoats had been obliged to evacuate Boston and leave for Nova Scotia. And Washington had made him a captain. But the memory of her father’s humiliation never left Abigail’s mind, and made her all the more anxious to preserve and defend the family. One day, when James lightheartedly asked her, “Well, Abby, are you a Tory or a Patriot now?” she didn’t answer. “I think Weston is starting a cold,” she said. “He shouldn’t go out today.”

It was hard at times to say exactly who was in charge of New York. The royal governor and the old Assembly were a dead letter. There was usually a Patriot Provincial Congress in existence, run by men like Livingston of the old elite. Still moderate, the New York Congress continued to hope for a settlement. But in the streets of New York, it was the Liberty Boys who decided what should happen.

The preparations for war continued. The British might be up in Nova Scotia, but everyone knew they’d be back. Patriot troops were pouring in, and the Liberty Boys took a gleeful pleasure in finding the houses of departed Loyalists in which to quarter them. The Tory stronghold of King’s College was practically turned into a barracks. On the common above Charlie White’s home, a field of tents appeared. When Charlie White and his men insisted that every spare man be sent to help build the new ramparts along the river, even John Master, after some protest, agreed to send Solomon.

“If it makes you feel any better,” James told him, “General Lee doesn’t believe we can hold the city. The British ships can enter the harbor and blow us to bits if they choose. But he thinks we should put up a damn good fight first.”

“And Washington?” his father asked.

“His instructions are to hold out.”

“The word is,” John told Abigail with some amusement, “that the Provincial Congress is planning to leave the city as soon as the British appear.”

“Where will they go?”

“White Plains, probably. That’s twenty-five miles north.” He grinned. “From there, I should think, they could safely jump either way.”

In mid-June another letter arrived from Albion, this time carried on a merchantman from the West Indies. He gave details of the huge force now approaching, and some brief words on the British commanders: General Howe in command, with his brother, Admiral Howe, in charge of the navy; General Clinton, raised in New York as a boy, an able commander; Cornwallis, also able, though hot-headed. He also gave Master an interesting piece of information. The Howe brothers would in addition be paid a huge stipend to negotiate a satisfactory peace. “So they are to pursue both war and peace at the same time.”

Did I ever mention another curious circumstance, that the Howe brothers are also cousins to the king? This comes about because the king’s great-grandfather had a bastard half-sister—to whom he was so close that many said she was his mistress too. However that may be, this lady married and her daughter, having become Lady Howe, gave birth to our general and admiral. The king likes them and calls them cousins. So you may say that this American expedition is quite a family business.

His letter assured Master that the force would be so overwhelming that victory would be speedy, and that, for whatever reason, it was generally assumed in England that the American colonists would be too soft to fight. His letter ended with a surprising piece of news.

I must also tell you that my son Grey accompanies the forces coming to America. Somewhat against my better judgment, he has prevailed upon me to buy him a commission in the army. I pray he will come through safely, and hope that he may have the opportunity of calling upon you. Who knows, perhaps he and James may even serve together, side by side.

When her father showed her the letter, Abigail read it with some astonishment.

“It seems, Papa,” she remarked, “that Mr. Albion does not know that James has become a Patriot. Yet you have written to him several times since that occurred. Did you not tell him?”

“I must have forgot.” He smiled at her a little ruefully. “I was hoping that James might change his mind.”

“Oh Papa,” she said, and kissed him.

It was in the last week of June that she witnessed a conversation between her father and her brother that made her feel proud of both of them.

Since May, the Continental Congress in Philadelphia had been meeting to discuss a general declaration of the reasons for their actions, and their future intentions. When all Thirteen Colonies had been asked to send delegates, the moderates of the New York Congress had done so, without great enthusiasm. Yet in the event, the men who gathered to consider the question were no wild radicals, but a sober group of merchants, farmers and lawyers, often with personal ties to Britain. Many were graduates of America’s finest universities—Harvard, William and Mary, Yale and the College of New Jersey at Princeton. One southern gentleman had been educated by the Jesuits in France. But three delegates had been at the Scottish universities of Edinburgh and St. Andrews; two more were graduates of Cambridge, one of Oxford; and six others had either been to school, or studied in England. Added to these was Ben Franklin, the former imperialist, who had been living in England for almost the whole of the last twenty years.

True, their leading lights were now committed to independence. John Hancock, the richest man in Boston, had long ago fallen out with the British government, though more on account of his stupendous smuggling activities than any profound point of principle. Jefferson, that glorious inheritor of the European enlightenment, and John Adams, the scholar lawyer, had both concluded that independence was necessary—though only after long periods of soul-searching. But many of the other delegates remained uncertain, and the word from Philadelphia late in June was that the colonies had still not reached agreement.

The conversation took place after dinner.

“Forgive me, my dear son,” Master began gently, “but as the British Army is soon expected, I must ask you this. If they come in huge force and defeat Washington utterly, will that not be the end of the whole matter? Aren’t you staking a great deal upon a most dangerous chance?”

“No, Father,” James answered. “We may lose the battle, but even British generals have warned the government that no army can hold down forever a people that wants to be free.”

“A quarter of the population is probably still Loyalist, and many others will go with the prevailing wind. The Howe brothers may also be able to offer a compromise that will satisfy most of the Patriots.”

“It’s possible. But there is every indication that Britain will never give us the real independence we seek.”

“What is it you want to create? A republic?”

“Yes. A free republic.”

“Be careful what you wish for, James. You have been to Oxford and know more history than I. Didn’t the stern Roman Republic fall into decadence? And in England, after they cut off King Charles’s head, Cromwell’s rule turned into such a dictatorship that the English brought back the monarchy again.”

“We shall have to do better.”

“A fine claim, my boy, but no country of any size has ever managed it.”

“Have faith, Father.”

“I haven’t, but never mind. Another question. The purpose of the present meeting in Philadelphia is to produce a document declaring the colonies’ intention to be independent, is it not?”

“Certainly.”

“Why is it so important?”

“Do you want my honest answer?”

“Of course.”

“Because, if we don’t, the French won’t take us seriously.”

“The French? This is for the French?”

“No. For ourselves as well. But for the French, it’s essential. Consider, the British have a navy which controls the seas. We colonists have only privateers. Against the Royal Navy, we haven’t a chance. But the French maintain a powerful navy, and they are a huge supplier of arms—down in the South, they are already supplying the Patriots, though in secret. But we cannot prevail over Britain, unless we have the French and their fleet. And much as they’d like to strike a blow against Britain, it will be expensive for them, and they won’t risk much unless they know that we truly mean business. That’s why we need a declaration. To show the French that we’re serious.”

“Then you are truly the enemies of Britain,” his father sighed, “to entangle yourselves with her greatest enemy.” John Master shook his head. “Not only that, James. The kingdom of France is a papist tyranny. It represents everything you say you’re against.”

“Necessity, Father.”

“Well, I’m not sure it will work. I don’t believe the colonies will hold together. The differences, especially between North and South, are too great. They haven’t managed to agree in Philadelphia yet. Georgia didn’t even send proper delegates.”

“You may be right. I can’t deny it.”

His father nodded sadly, then poured more wine into James’s glass. And for some time longer, the two men discussed these desperate issues, without a cross word passing between them. And knowing how much pain her father must be suffering, Abigail could only admire his restraint.

Yet James too, she thought, must have made a sacrifice. For he could surely have remained in England and argued the colonists’ cause, without any risk to himself.

On the twenty-ninth day of June, the British fleet began to arrive. Abigail and her father watched from the fort. A hundred ships, carrying nine thousand redcoats, sailed up through the Narrows and anchored off Staten Island. It was an impressive sight. The British disembarked, but took no immediate action. Evidently they were waiting for more reinforcements. The city trembled. Two days later, James grimly confessed: “The Staten Island militia has gone over to the British. There are boatloads of Loyalists crossing from Long Island too.”

His father said nothing. But that evening, when they thought she had retired to her room, she heard her father quietly say: “It’s not too late for you to go to Staten Island too, James. I’d come to vouch for you.”

“I can’t, Father,” James replied.

On the eighth of July, James came in looking excited.

“The Philadelphia Congress has agreed to a Declaration of Independence.”

“All the colonies agreed?” his father asked.

“Almost all, though only at the last minute. New York abstained, but they’ll ratify.”

The next day, to her father’s disgust, a large number then swept down Broadway to Bowling Green, knocked down the bronze statue of King George, tore off his head, and carted the torso away. “We’ll melt it for bullets to shoot at the redcoats,” they declared. That evening, James brought a printed copy of the Declaration to show his father.

“Jefferson of Virginia wrote most of it, though Ben Franklin made corrections. You must confess, it’s rather fine.”

His father read it skeptically.

“‘Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.’ Novel idea, that last. Sounds like one of Tom Paine’s effusions to me.”

“Actually,” James corrected, “it’s adapted from the philosopher Locke. Except he said ‘property’ instead of ‘happiness.’”

“Well,” said his father, “property sounds a better investment to me.”

Declaration or not, the Patriot cause hardly looked promising. Although, in the South, the Patriots were still holding on to redcoats, up in Canada, they were getting nowhere. And in New York, on July 12, the British at Staten Island finally made a move. Abigail, her father and James went down to the waterfront to watch.

Two British ships were making their way across the harbor. The Patriots had a battery ready at the fort on Governor’s Island, a short distance out in the harbor, as well as the usual battery at the old fort, and another at Whitehall Dock, to guard the entrance to the Hudson River. As the British ships moved easily toward the Hudson, all the batteries began to blaze at them.

“They’re still out of range,” James remarked irritably. “What are those fools doing?” Gradually the ships drew closer. The shore batteries should have been able to pound the ships now, but their aim was hopelessly misdirected. The British ships, which could have annihilated them, didn’t even trouble to return fire. Then there was a loud explosion from one of the shore batteries. “It seems,” said John Master drily, “they’ve managed to blow themselves up.” James said nothing, as the British ships sailed into the Hudson and continued northward.

It was in the quiet of the evening, as the glow of sunset spread across the harbor, that Abigail and James, who had gone down to the waterfront again, caught sight of the masts approaching from the ocean. As the minutes passed, they saw ship after ship move in from the ocean, and draw toward the Narrows. They remained there, watching, as the red sun sank, and the whole mighty fleet swept in toward the anchorage.

“Dear God,” James murmured, “there must be a hundred and fifty of them.” And in the twilight, Abigail could see that her brother’s brave face was tense.

Yet still the British waited. They waited over a month. Admiral Howe, whose fleet this was, seemed as content as his brother to take his time. Washington, meanwhile, lodging up at the commandeered mansion of the Morris family overlooking the Harlem River, supervised the defenses of the city, New Jersey and Long Island with a calm and stately dignity that was to be admired.

By the time he was done, any ships trying to go up the Hudson would have had to pass between a pair of forts with batteries—Fort Washington up on Harlem Heights and Fort Lee on the opposite New Jersey shore—plus a further string of small forts which had been constructed across the East River on Brooklyn Heights, to protect the city from an attack across Long Island.

At the start of August, a flotilla arrived bearing Clinton and Cornwallis from the south, with eight more regiments. A few days later came another twenty-two ships, with yet more regiments from Britain. On August 12, the New Yorkers were astonished to witness a third huge fleet—a hundred ships this time—sail in with the Hessian mercenaries.

The superiority of the force across the water was total. Some thirty-two thousand of Europe’s finest troops against Washington’s untrained volunteers. One thousand two hundred naval cannon, against some small shore batteries that hadn’t hit two ships directly in front of them. If Admiral Howe chose, his gunners could reduce New York City to rubble. As for the Patriot forces, James reported that some of the troops in the camp were falling sick.

But Howe didn’t blast the city to bits. He tried to talk to Washington. He had no luck. Washington sent his first letter back, with the message: “You failed to address me as General.” Then he told the admiral: “Talk to Congress, not to me.”

“Is Washington foolish, Papa, to hold out?” Abigail asked one day.

Many people in New York clearly thought so. Families were loading their possessions onto carts every day, and taking the road north, out of the city. In some of the streets, every house was now empty.

“It’s a game of bluff,” Master answered. “Howe hopes to frighten us into submission. What’s passing in Washington’s mind, I do not know. If he truly supposes he can withstand the British, then he’s a fool. But I’m not sure that’s his game. Howe wants to weaken Patriot resistance by offering peace. Washington has to take that offer away from him. So he must force Howe to attack, and shed American blood.”

“That’s cruel, Papa.”

“It’s a gamble. If the Patriots panic, or if Washington is annihilated, then it’s all over. But if Washington can survive, then the Patriots’ moral cause is strengthened. As for the British, that huge fleet and those thousands of men are costing the government a fortune, every day.” He smiled. “If the British wanted to bombard New York, they’d have done it by now.”

There remained the question of which way the British would come. Would they come straight across the harbor and, supported by the huge firepower of their ships, dare a landing on Manhattan? Or would they come the other way, across the western end of Long Island to Brooklyn, and make the short crossing over the East River from there? Opinion was divided. So the Patriot militias were being split between the city and Brooklyn Heights.

Abigail watched some of them crossing to Brooklyn. To her eye, they did not seem very impressive. They marched untidily; many of them, having no proper uniforms, had made do with sprigs of greenery stuck into their hats.

In the third week of August, Washington ordered all civilians to quit the city. Assuming that they’d go up to the farm in Dutchess County, Abigail started making preparations to leave. But to her surprise, John Master told her they were staying. “You’d keep little Weston here?” she asked.

“I am convinced he’s as safe here as anywhere else,” he said.

That afternoon, a party of soldiers started to chop down a cherry tree that grew in front of the house. Most of the orchards in the city had already been cut down for firewood, but this seemed absurd. Her father had just gone out to remonstrate with them, and she was watching from the door, when, to her surprise, James walked by. To her even greater surprise, he was in the company of a very tall, upright man, whom she recognized immediately.

It was General Washington.

He was an impressive figure. If James Master stood six foot tall, the general was almost three inches taller. He stood ramrod-straight, and she had the sense that he was very strong. James, seeing his father, indicated him to the general.

“This is my father, sir. John Master. Father, this is General Washington.”

The general turned his gray-blue eyes toward John Master, and bowed gravely. He had a quiet dignity, and with his great height adding to the effect, it was easy to see why men regarded him as their leader. Abigail expected her father to bow his head politely in return.

But it seemed that John Master, for once, was determined to dispense with his usual good manners. Granting the great man only the minimum nod that courtesy demanded, he gestured toward the soldier with the axe and said: “What the devil’s the point in chopping down this tree?”

Washington stared at him. “I told all civilians they should leave the city,” he said coldly, ignoring the question.

“I’m staying,” said her father.

“Waiting for the British, no doubt.”

“Perhaps.”

Abigail was open-mouthed, wondering what was going to happen next. Would Washington have her father locked up? James was looking horrified.

But the great man only stared at Master impassively. He gave no sign of emotion at all. Then, without another word, he walked on. He had only gone a few yards, when he paused briefly next to James.

“Typical Yankee,” Abigail heard him say quietly. But whether her father also heard she could not tell. The tree, meanwhile, came down.

Five days later, the action began. Abigail could not see much from the waterfront. Ships were moving from their anchorage by Staten Island, but the operation was taking place round the southern end of Long Island, below Brooklyn, and was mostly out of sight. With her father’s small brass telescope, however, she did manage to pick out a dozen flatboats full of redcoats. Evidently they meant to advance across Flatbush to Brooklyn and the East River. Lying across their path, however, was a line of ridges where the Patriots were already digging in.

The next morning, while the British were ferrying still more troops to Long Island, Washington went over to Brooklyn, taking James with him. That evening, James returned with more detailed information.

“The British forces are huge. We think they’ll ship the Hessians across tomorrow. And then you have to add their American contingents, too.”

“You mean Loyalists?” said his father.

“Certainly. When Governor Tryon fled the city, he busied himself elsewhere, collecting Loyalist militia. And there are two regiments of New York and Long Island volunteers, besides. Washington will be fighting against Americans as well as British in Brooklyn. Oh, and there are eight hundred runaway slaves on the British side, too.”

“What does Washington mean to do?”

“We’re dug in along the ridges. The British will have to go through the passes under our fire, or try to march up steep slopes, which cost Howe so dearly when he tried it at Bunker Hill. So we think we can hold them.”

The next morning, when he left, James gave little Weston and Abigail a kiss, and shook his father’s hand warmly. Abigail knew what it meant.

Yet still the British took their time. Three more days passed. Abigail occupied herself with little Weston. Her father claimed he had things to attend to in the town, but she knew very well that he was down at the waterfront, hour after hour, telescope in hand, trying to see what was happening. The night of the twenty-sixth of August was surprisingly cold. A gibbous moon hung in the sky.

Then, early in the morning, they heard the guns begin to stir.

All morning the roar of cannon and the distant crackle of musket fire came across the water. Smoke rose from the hills of Brooklyn. But it was impossible to tell what was happening. Soon after noon, the sounds died down. Before evening, the news was clear. The British had smashed Washington, though the Patriots were still holding out on Brooklyn Heights, just across the river. Then it started to rain.

Abigail found her father at the waterfront the next morning. She had brought him a flask of hot chocolate. He was standing in the rain, wrapped in a greatcoat and wearing a large three-cornered hat. His telescope was sticking out of his pocket. She hoped he wasn’t going to catch a cold, but she knew he wouldn’t come home.

“There was a break in the clouds,” he said. “I could see our boys. The British have come round the side of the hill. They have Washington trapped against the river. He can’t escape. So it’s over. He’ll have to surrender.” He sighed. “Just as well.”

“You think James …”

“We can only hope.”

The rain continued all day. When her father came in at last, she had Hudson draw him a hot bath. That evening little Weston asked her: “Is my father killed, do you think?”

“Of course not,” she said. “They just moved to a safer place.”

The next day was the same, and her father mostly stayed indoors. But at noon, the rain ceased, and he rushed down to the waterside again. She went to him an hour later.

“What the devil are they waiting for?” he said irritably. “The British will have them now, as soon as their powder’s dry. Why in God’s name doesn’t Washington surrender?”

But nothing happened. At supper that evening he was tense, and scowled at everybody. That night he went out again, but soon returned.

“There’s a damn fog,” he growled. “Can’t see a thing.”

The hammering on the door came at midnight. It woke the whole house. Abigail rose from her bed hastily and hurried down, to find her father with a primed pistol in his hand and Hudson at the door. At a nod from Master, Hudson opened it.

And Charlie White walked in. He glanced at the pistol.

“Evening, John. Need your keys.”

“What keys, Charlie?”

“To your damn boats. Broke into your warehouse easy enough, but you’ve got so many padlocks, it’s wastin’ time.”

“What do you want with my boats, Charlie?”

“We’re gettin’ the boys back from Brooklyn. Hurry up, will you?”

“Dear God,” cried Master. “I’m coming.”

He was back an hour later. Abigail was waiting for him.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he told her excitedly. “They’ve got a whole fleet of boats. Barges, canoes, anything that’ll float. They’re trying to ferry the whole army across during the night.”

“Will it work?”

“As long as the British don’t realize what’s going on. Thank God for the fog.”

“And James?”

“No sign of him yet. I want you to wake up Hudson and Ruth, and start preparing hot broth, stew, whatever you can. The men I saw coming off the boats are in terrible shape.”

“We’re to feed Patriots?” she said in astonishment.

He shrugged. “They’re soaked to the skin, poor devils. I’m going back now.”

She did as he asked, and was in the kitchen with Hudson and his wife an hour later when her father entered again. This time he was grinning like a boy.

“James is back—he’ll be coming here shortly. I told him to bring his men. Have we got stew and broth?”

“Soon, Father. How many men is he bringing?”

“About two hundred. Is that a problem?”

The two women looked at each other.

“Of course not,” said Abigail.

As the men crowded into the house, James took Abigail and his father aside, and gave them a brief account of what had happened.

“We hadn’t properly secured our left flank. The Long Island Loyalists saw it and told the British. A force of British and Long Island men came round by Jamaica Pass during the night and attacked our rear in the morning. Then the whole line rolled up. We must have lost twelve hundred men—that’s killed, not counting the wounded. It was a disaster. If Howe had followed up and attacked us on Brooklyn Heights, then it would all be over. As it is …” He gave a despairing gesture. “We live to fight another day. Perhaps.”

Judging by the dispirited looks and haggard faces of his men, the remains of Washington’s army was not in much condition to fight.

The house became an impromptu camp for the rest of that day. In the yards, on fences and clothes lines, or laid on the ground, sodden tents and uniforms were spread out to dry, so that when the sun finally broke through steam rose all around the house. Hudson placed a big tub by the front gate, which Abigail repeatedly refilled with broth, to be served to any soldiers that passed.

Around noon, as Master himself was ladling out broth to some passing men, Washington rode by. His face was tired and drawn, but looked with surprise at the Loyalist merchant with his ladle.

Without a word, Washington raised a finger to his hat, and rode on.

But in the days that followed, things only got worse.

“Three-quarters of the Connecticut militia—that’s six thousand men—have upped sticks and left,” James reported. “Nobody thinks we can hold New York. Except maybe Washington. Who knows?”

If the British had the upper hand tactically, their strategy remained the same. They wanted to parlay. On September 11, John Adams, Rutledge and Ben Franklin himself arrived at Staten Island to talk with the Howes.

“The British offered to pardon everybody if we’d just drop the Declaration of Independence,” James said. “The delegation had to tell them no.”

His father said nothing. “Though it’d make a damn sight more sense to say yes, in my opinion,” he confided later to Abigail.

The next day the Patriot leaders had a war council.

“Washington was completely outvoted,” James told them. “We can’t hold the city. But there is another way of denying New York to the British.”

“What’s that?” asked his father.

“Burn it down.”

“Destroy New York? No sane man would do that.”

“John Jay wanted to.” James smiled. “But don’t worry, Father. Congress has forbidden it.”

Two days later, Washington moved his forces north to the rocky natural fortress of Harlem Heights, near his headquarters. But he still left five thousand men in the city under old General Putnam. He wouldn’t abandon New York without making a stand.

“I’m to stay here with Putnam,” James told them.

“Spend what time you can with Weston,” Abigail urged him. They might, she thought, be the last days the little boy would see his father for quite a while.

But there wasn’t any time. The British came the next morning. They came across the East River at Kips Bay, about three miles above the city ramparts, near the Murray Hill estate. Everyone watched from the waterfront, and by all accounts, it was an awesome sight.

Five warships, at point-blank range, emptied salvo after salvo onto the shore, in a massive bombardment, while a fleet of flatboats, bearing four thousand redcoats, skimmed quickly across the river. As the redcoats charged onto the Manhattan shore, the defending militiamen, understandably, fled for their lives.

Abigail and her father stayed with little Weston at the house. There was nothing else to do. Hudson told them the Patriot forces were on the Bloomingdale road that led up the west side of Manhattan. Would they try to engage the redcoats, or slip past them? She didn’t know where James was. Her father was outside by the gate, listening for gunfire.

If the Patriot troops were heading out, so were the remaining Patriot civilians. It was a strange scene. Families with their possessions laden on wagons, or just handcarts, were going by. When she went out to her father, he told her he’d seen Charlie White ride past in a hurry. Did he say anything? she asked.

“No. But he waved.”

An hour passed. Then another. The silence was eerie. At last, her father heard the rattle of muskets. But in a few minutes, it stopped, and silence resumed. Twenty minutes went by. Then a lone horseman cantered into the street.

It was James. He rushed indoors.

“It’s over. I have to leave.”

“Was there a fight?”

“Fight? Hardly. The British started to come across the island. Our men were to make a stand above Murray Hill, and Washington came down to supervise. But at the first shots, our men bolted. Washington was like a madman, beating them with the flat of his sword, cursing them for cowards and worse. But they paid no heed. They ran like rabbits. It was shameful.”

“I thought Washington was a dry fellow.”

“No. He has a fearful temper. But he controls it, mostly.”

“Where are the British now?”

“On their way here. Howe moves at a snail’s pace—it’s almost as if he’s letting us get away. Perhaps he is. Who knows? But I have to leave now, Father. I only came to bid farewell.”

“My son.” Master put his hands on James’s shoulders. “You see how it goes with the Patriots. I implore you, for your own sake, for the sake of your family, give this business up. It’s not too late. Take off your uniform. Remain here at the house. I hardly think the British will give you any trouble if you do so.”

“I cannot. I must go.” He embraced Abigail, went to where little Weston was watching wide-eyed, picked him up and kissed him. Then he turned back to his father.

“There is one more thing I have to say to you, Father.”

“Tell me quickly.”

“In all the world you are the man I would soonest trust with my son.” With that, he embraced him, and was gone.

They watched James until he was out of sight. After that, they turned indoors, and her father went into his office and closed the door. A moment later, through the door, Abigail heard him burst into tears.

“Come, Weston,” she said to the little boy, “let us go to Bowling Green.”

The entry of the British was like the entry of every conquering army. Whether out of joy, or fear, people waved and shouted with delight. Her father hoisted a Union Jack above the door. Since much of the city was empty, the army could have their pick of quarters. “Though no doubt,” her father warned her, “some colonel will want to commandeer this house.”

The British were moving quite swiftly now, to take over most of Manhattan Island. But the next day the Patriots, having fled so ignominiously before, suddenly put on a show.

Up in the north of the island, just below the Patriot encampments on Harlem Heights, a party of several hundred redcoats, chasing some Connecticut Rangers away, suddenly saw a swarm of Patriots sweeping down upon them from the high ground. There was a sharp exchange, but the Patriots pressed bravely forward, and this time the redcoats had to flee.

No doubt this put some heart into the Patriots. But strangely, Abigail noticed, it seemed to please her father too. “At least the Americans gave some account of themselves,” he remarked.

It was at eleven o’clock precisely the following morning, while her father was out, that Hudson came to inform her that an English officer was at the door. “No doubt he wants to commandeer the house,” she said with a sigh, and went to the door.

And found there an officer, a little younger than her brother, whose hair was a mess, but who looked down at her with the most beautiful blue eyes.

“Miss Abigail?” he inquired. “I am Grey Albion.”