New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  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 m
oving 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 co
mpletely 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.