Meanwhile, despite the conditions, the British officers were doing their best to re-create the pleasures of London. They opened a theater and, there being no troupe to perform, put on the plays themselves. As the spring of 1777 progressed, there were races, dances, cricket. And then, of course, there were the women.
“Armies always attract women,” her father remarked to Abigail, and she could see why. The streets might be filthy, but the officers parading through them in their bright uniforms were like so many gorgeous birds in plumage. Nor were the married ladies of the city indifferent to the brave showing of the officers, or to their power. Mrs. Loring, the wife of the Commissar of Prisoners, was so often seen with General Howe that it was assumed she was his woman.
“Is she his mistress?” Abigail asked her father.
“I can only say,” he answered, “that she is always at his side.”
Indeed, an air of agreeable sensuality, warmly encouraged by the commander, descended upon the richer part of the town.
Every so often, Abigail would be aware that Grey Albion had gone out in the evening and not returned by the time Hudson locked the house. Several times, curious, she had seen him quietly enter the house after Hudson had opened it up again soon after dawn. Reflecting on this to Ruth in the kitchen, one morning in May, she’d received from that lady an amused smile.
“Ain’t nothin’ lackin’ in that young man, Miss Abigail, you can be sure.”
But as summer approached, everyone knew that the British would make their move. Although the colonies, from Boston and New Hampshire in the North down to the plantation states of the South, were nominally under Patriot control, the only organized Patriot army was still the ill-trained and much depleted force commanded by George Washington, down in New Jersey, barring the road to Philadelphia.
In June, General Howe had made a sortie toward Washington, and Grey Albion and his fellow officers had been gone for a while. Though he believed, like his fresh young officers, that his regular troops would destroy the Patriots in open battle, Howe had learned at Bunker Hill that, with good cover, the Patriot sharpshooters could inflict terrible damage. When he couldn’t get the battle he wanted, therefore, he was back in New York by the end of the month. So the question now was, what would he do next?
It was just the previous day that Abigail’s father had been asked to supper with Howe. On a whim, he had taken her too.
She’d found it strange to be sitting so close to the general. The only other guests were Mrs. Loring and a couple of other officers. Knowing what she knew, each time the general turned his big fleshy face and protruding eyes toward her, Abigail could not help imagining that she was gazing into the face of King George III himself.
The meal was simple, but enjoyable. Howe was in a friendly mood, and she could see that he liked her father, but it was also clear that the general had something he wished to discuss.
“Tell me, Master,” he said after a while, “have you any knowledge of the terrain up the Hudson?” When her father said he had, Howe continued. “You’ve never met General Burgoyne, I think. Gentleman Johnnie, they call him. A dashing fellow. Gambling man. Writes plays in his spare time.” The general sniffed. This last, Abigail could see, was no compliment.
“I heard that he did well up in Canada, but that he’s headstrong,” her father said frankly.
“All sail and no ballast, though I grant he’s brave and daring. He has the ear of the ministry, though, especially Lord George Germain, and as you know he now means to come down the Hudson Valley from Canada, take Albany, hold Ticonderoga and the other forts, and thus cut Washington off from the whole north-east. Daring plan. Wants to make a great name for himself. Thinks it will be easy.”
“How will he travel?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps along the forest trails.”
“He’ll find it tough going. Trails can be blocked. He’s a sitting duck for sharpshooters.”
“Germain suggests I go up to join him, then we’d come down together. But he doesn’t insist upon it.” Howe glanced meaningfully at Abigail. “I know you are loyal, Master, but this must be in confidence.” He paused.
Her father turned to her. “Abby, you must promise me now, upon your love for me as your father, that you will never repeat any word that passes in this room tonight, to a living soul. May I have your promise?”
“Yes, Father, I promise.”
“Good.” Howe gave a brief nod, and continued. “In the coming days, the ships here will be loaded. Any spy will be able to see that. But they won’t know where we are going. We might be going upriver to Burgoyne, or down the coast to the South, where the Loyalists may rise to help us. Or, I could sail round into the Chesapeake Bay and up toward Philadelphia.”
“Where Congress is.”
“Precisely. If we took their great base from them, cut Washington off from the South, and trapped him between New York and Philadelphia, then I think his position would be desperate. There would still be a large garrison here in New York. When Burgoyne arrives, it’ll be even stronger. Then Washington would have to fight in the open between two proper armies. With luck it wouldn’t come to that, and he’d have the sense to give up.” He stared at John Master. “My own staff are divided. You know the terrain—do you think it could be done?”
“Yes,” Master said slowly, “I think it could.”
They talked of other things after that, but Abigail could see that her father was deeply thoughtful. As they parted from Howe that night, Master turned to him. He sighed. “I think your plan would work, General,” he said sadly, “but tell me this: how would I get a pardon for my poor son?”
Howe shook his hand understandingly, but gave him no answer.
Now, on this sunny day in July, the activity at the docks told Abigail that the process of loading the ships had already begun. This might be the last cricket match Grey Albion and his friends took part in for a long time.
Like the other players, he was dressed in a white cotton shirt and breeches. He was wearing a peaked hat to protect his eyes from the sun. He was certainly graceful and athletic, as he raised the bat to strike.
The ball soared over their heads. He’d scored the winning run. Weston jumped up and clapped wildly. There was applause from all around Bowling Green, as the players were walking off. He was coming toward them, pulling off his cap, and as he came close, she realized that, beneath his curly hair, little beads of sweat were dripping from his brow.
“Well played, Grey,” said her father.
“Thank you, sir,” he answered, then smiled down at her. “Did you enjoy the game, Miss Abigail?” he asked. And as he did so, a tiny drop of sweat fell from his brow upon her wrist.
“Oh yes,” she said. “I liked it well enough.”
James Master sat on his horse with a spyglass to his eye. From where he was on the New Jersey shore, he had a perfect view across the huge waters of the harbor. And if he did not see the cricket ball that had just soared into the air behind the fort, he could see something a lot more interesting. A ship at dock, being loaded with supplies. He had already been there three hours, and this was the second loading he had seen. Behind him, a dozen troopers waited for their captain patiently.
Captain James Master had changed in the last year. His outlook and beliefs were the same, but he was a battle-hardened and experienced officer now. Something more, perhaps. If his unhappy marriage in London had given him his share of private bitterness, the last year had taught him much about the limits of human trust in general. And he had learned that not in the heat of battle, but by studying the cold endurance of the man he had come to revere.
Last December, after his untrained troops had been chased out of New Jersey by the redcoats, George Washington could have been forgiven if he’d despaired. Two of his fellow generals—Lee, to whom he had entrusted the fortification of New York, and Gates, up the Hudson Valley, both of them British army officers who reckoned they knew more than he did—had lobbied hard to replace him. Even the
untrained troops he had, having enlisted only for the calendar year, were likely to leave by the month’s end. Others weren’t even waiting, but deserting. Apart from a brief skirmish or two, his army had been humiliated, captured or chased away in every place. As the campaign season ended, what was left of his army were camped beyond the Delaware River, which was stoutly guarded on the other side by tough Hessian soldiers. Not appreciating Howe’s views on the aristocratic season for war, Washington feared that if the Delaware froze solid, the British commander might sweep south to cross it with his whole army.
“Whatever Howe does,” he told James, “we have to give some account of ourselves before our men depart.” Something had to be done to lift Patriot morale.
At least the Patriots had a talent for mounting raids. James had gone on several. They harassed the enemy, but they also provided information. There were plenty of American Loyalists in the area, aiding the Hessians. Without his having to do anything, the sight of James’s tall figure holding a pistol was enough to frighten most of these into talking, and one cowering farmer told him: “The Hessians have moved into Trenton now. About fourteen hundred of them. It’s quite open, no ramparts. Your own deserters have told them you mean to strike at them, but their commander refuses to build ramparts because he despises you.”
They hadn’t many troops—some five thousand men left, a third of them unfit for duty. But early in December two thousand of Lee’s men turned up, thank God, followed by five hundred from Gates, and a thousand more from Philadelphia. Still a modest force, but enough. Yet hardly well equipped. There was ammunition—every man had at least sixty rounds, and enough powder—but their uniforms were in a pitiful state. And many of the troops no longer had boots, and were marching through snow and ice with their feet wrapped only in cloth.
Notwithstanding these difficulties, the plan Washington hatched was daring. They would strike across the river—in midwinter and at night—and take the Hessians by surprise.
“We’ll make three crossings,” he explained to James. “One as a diversion, a second to bring reinforcements. But the main body of nearly two and a half thousand men will cross with me, then sweep down on Trenton and hit them before dawn. We’ll outnumber the Hessians, so I think we have a chance. With luck, all three forces can then unite and strike against Princeton too.”
What a night it had been. They’d assembled on the afternoon of Christmas Day. At dusk, the transports had been brought from their hiding places to the riverbank: large, open ferries for the cannon and horses, high-sided Durham boats for the men. To recognize each other in the darkness, there was a password: “Victory or Death.” The river was narrow, though there were ice floes everywhere. As the darkness deepened, the wind whipped up choppy waves. Then sleet began to fall, then hail.
Washington took the first boat across to secure the landing. James was at his side. Rather than attempt to sit down in the boat, which was filling with rainwater, they all stood. With the darkness and the storm, James could hardly see his hand in front of his face. All he could hear was the rattle of hailstones and the bumping of ice on the high sides of the Durham.
“Terrible conditions, Master,” Washington muttered.
“There’s one good thing, sir,” James said. “The Hessians will never believe we’d cross in such weather.”
Clambering, sodden, onto the far bank at last, they sent the boat back, and waited for the next batch of men to come over. Though it could not have taken so very long, it felt to James as if their crossing had lasted an eternity. And indeed, although Washington had planned to have his entire force, horses and cannon all across by midnight, it was three in the morning before his daring crossing of the Delaware was completed and the two thousand four hundred men were finally able to form into two columns for their march, through the remainder of the night, down to the little open town of Trenton.
As they began their march, James could not help reflecting grimly: if he lived through this adventure, and his grandchildren ever asked him what it was like to cross the Delaware with Washington, he’d have in all honesty to answer: “We couldn’t see a thing.”
The sleet had turned to snow. Riding beside the column, James realized that the bleeding feet of the men without boots were leaving dark little trails of blood in the snow. But on they pressed, with Washington going up and down the line, murmuring words of encouragement in the darkness. It was dawn as they approached the outposts of the encampment at Trenton.
Memories of battles are often confused. But certain things about that morning’s engagement remained very clearly in James’s mind: Washington leading the attack in person on the outposts; the well-trained Hessians, caught by surprise, falling back in good order, firing as they went. The sight of Trenton in the gray early morning—two wide streets, a scattered collection of timber houses, looking so strangely peaceful, despite the sudden commotion.
In the excitement of the moment, he hardly noticed the danger as the bullets zipped past him, but he did notice with pride that the Patriots were fighting well. With surprising speed, they had field cannon set up at the head of the main streets, raking the Hessians with grapeshot. A detachment had swiftly cut off the enemy’s retreat on the Princeton road. After a spirited engagement, the main body of Hessians had been trapped in an orchard, and nine hundred men surrendered.
By mid-morning, it was all over. Learning that his other two commanders had failed to bring their forces across the River Delaware the night before, Washington had wisely gone back to safety across the river by noon the same day.
But they had defeated the Hessians. They’d taken hundreds of prisoners. In no time, news of Washington’s success had spread all over the Thirteen Colonies, delighting the Congress, and putting heart into every Patriot.
The following months had been hard, but bearable. James had grown steadily closer to General Washington, and he had come to appreciate not only the external difficulties his leader faced—with supplies, deserters, spies and the problems of yearly enlistment—but also that, behind his aloof manner, his commander was secretly troubled by doubt and melancholia. And the fact that the general had to overcome these inner conflicts, also, made James admire him all the more.
In March, Mrs. Washington had come from Virginia to join her husband in camp, and this led to a lightening of everyone’s spirits. For if the general was inclined to seem cold and distant, Martha Washington was warm and comfortable. She would invite even the most junior officers to eat with them, as if they were all part of a large, extended family. She might, in her own right, be one of the richest women in Virginia, but she’d tend the sick and wounded men by the hour. Come the spring of 1777, James was so devoted to his commander that Washington might have been his second father. And the general clearly liked and trusted him in turn.
There was one thing about their relationship that amused James Master—as a young Yankee officer had complained to him that Easter.
“You have an unfair advantage over me, Master, with the general.”
“What’s that?”
“He likes you because he thinks you’re a gentleman. And he doesn’t really like me, because he reckons I’m not.”
“He thinks very highly of you,” James assured him.
“Oh, he treats me well. He’s the fairest man I have ever met, and I’d follow him to the gates of Hell. But it’s the same with all us Yankees from the north-east—he doesn’t like our manners.”
In fact, James had noticed the same thing himself. As well as being born a Southern gentleman, Washington’s marriage to Martha had brought him into the highest social circles in Virginia, whose style of life was closer to that of the English landed gentry than to a Yankee merchant from Massachusetts or Connecticut.
“I always use my best London manners in his presence,” James confessed with a laugh. “But it wouldn’t count for a thing if I failed in my duties.”
More subtly, however, James suspected the great man considered that his years in London made him useful
. Washington would often ask him about how he thought the English might react to one situation or another. He was also impressed that James had known Ben Franklin, and asked many questions about how he had conducted himself in London. When news came that Congress had sent Franklin to Paris to get French support, the general had remarked to James frankly: “What we do here is of great importance, but in the long run, the outcome of this war may be decided in Paris. I am glad you give me such a good account of Franklin’s abilities as a diplomatist.”
If Washington liked what he considered the gentlemanly manners of the Old World, there was one aspect of British behavior, however, that gave him great concern. This was the terrible treatment given to American prisoners. James disapproved no less, but understood it better.
“The British don’t consider us soldiers, even now. They see us as rebels, and to call us anything better would be to admit the legitimacy of our cause. So as far as they’re concerned, our Patriots captured at Brooklyn are not prisoners of war at all. They are traitors, sir, and lucky not to be hung.”
This Washington could never accept.
“I have reports of prisoners being treated worse than animals,” he exploded. And he gave particular instructions that any rough punishment his men might have been tempted to use toward the captured Hessians must be disallowed. He’d been writing personally in protest to the British generals ever since he took command. But there was no sign that the British took the slightest notice. “Have they no humanity?” he once cried to James.
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