New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  She didn’t think she liked him.

  But young Major André was a very different matter. He was about her brother’s age, a Swiss Huguenot, whose faint French accent gave his conversation a special charm. What really delighted her, however, was that, serving on Clinton’s staff, he knew Grey Albion well. They spoke of him all evening.

  “I must confess, Miss Abigail,” he told her, “that I had heard of you from Albion, who spoke about you with admiration.”

  “He did?” She could not help a faint blush of pleasure.

  He gave her a kindly smile. “If it is not indiscreet, Miss Abigail, I could say that he spoke of you in terms of the highest regard. And equally, if it is not impertinent, I have the impression that you think well of him too.”

  “I do, Major André,” she confessed. “Very well.”

  “In my judgment, you could not bestow your regard on a better fellow.” He paused. “He told me also that he had been a close friend of your brother, James …”

  “I hope that one day their friendship may be resumed.”

  “We shall all hope for that day,” he agreed.

  “Well, Abby,” her father asked, when the guests had departed, “was that a good evening?”

  “A very good evening indeed,” she answered happily.

  So it came as a great shock ten days later, when her father told her: “Major André is taken, and like to be hanged.”

  “How? Where?”

  “Up the Hudson. Toward West Point.”

  Master had the full story from Clinton the following day.

  “It’s the devil of a business,” her father said. “Now I know what Clinton was up to, though he couldn’t tell me before. He’s been planning it for over a year, and young André was acting as go-between.”

  “Planning what, Papa?”

  “To get control of West Point. For whoever holds West Point controls the River Hudson. Get West Point from Washington, and we deal him a mortal blow. It might have been the end of the war.”

  “We were going to capture West Point?”

  “No. Buy it. Benedict Arnold, who’s one of Washington’s best commanders, had control of the fort. Clinton’s been working on him for more than a year, negotiating over the money, mostly, he tells me. Arnold was going to hand the place over to us.”

  “A traitor.”

  Her father shrugged. “A man of mixed loyalties. Unhappy with the commands the Patriots had given him. Disapproved of their bringing in the French. Wanted the money for his family. But yes, a traitor.”

  “To Washington. General Clinton must like him, though.”

  “Actually, Clinton despises him. But to get West Point, he says, he’d have paid the devil himself.”

  “What happened?”

  “Our friend André had gone up to make the final arrangements. Then he got caught, and the Patriots discovered the plan. So Washington still has West Point and Arnold’s fled to our camp.”

  “And André?”

  “It’s a wretched affair. Like a fool, he’d taken off his uniform, which makes him a spy. Under the rules of war, Washington and his people are supposed to hang him. But they don’t want to do it—seems they like him—so they’re trying to work out a deal.”

  “I wonder if he and James have met.”

  “Perhaps. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  The final report from her father came a few days later.

  “André’s hanged, I’m afraid. Clinton was almost in tears. ‘They wanted Arnold for him,’ he told me. ‘But if I give them Arnold, I’ll never get another Patriot to come over. So they’ve hanged my poor André.’”

  For a moment, she wondered if James had been at the execution, then decided not to think about it.

  When James Master had approached the stone house where the condemned man was being held, he hadn’t expected to be there long. Washington himself had sent him on this brief errand of mercy. He meant to accomplish it quickly and courteously, and then to be gone. He was sorry for the fellow, of course—it was a wretched business—but James Master hadn’t much time for sentiment these days.

  Anyone who hadn’t seen James Master for a couple of years would have been struck by the change. His face was much thinner, for a start. But there was something else, a hardness in the set of his jaw, a strain in the muscles of his cheek, which could be signaling pain, or sourness, depending on his mood. Worse even than these, to anyone who loved him, would have been the look in his eyes. Iron determination resided in them, certainly, but also disillusion, anger and disgust.

  None of this was surprising. The last two years had been terrible.

  Getting the French into the war, though crucially important, had always been a cynical arrangement. But Washington had still hoped for a little more than he got. Admiral d’Estaing had frightened the British most effectively, but when Washington had tried to persuade him to a big joint operation to take New York, he’d refused, and he and his fleet now spent most of the time down in the West Indies, doing all they could to weaken the rich British interests there. This July General Rochambeau had arrived at Newport Rhode Island with six thousand French troops. But he’d insisted he stay with the French ships that had been bottled up there by the British Navy, so until he moved, he and his troops might as well not have come. As far as James could see, the French regarded the American colonies as a sideshow. If the Patriots were looking for moral support, they were almost as alone as when they’d started.

  Then there had been the behavior of the British themselves. Every Patriot newspaper in the colonies had been voicing outrage at the cruel treatment of American prisoners, and Washington tirelessly took the British commanders to task. But perhaps, despite all this, James himself had not quite wanted to believe that the people among whom he had lived, and that he thought he knew, would actually be guilty of such atrocities. It was the letter he’d received from his father that had finally told him everything. The letter itself had been brief. It informed him that Sam Flower had died of disease on a prison ship, that there was no grave for his family to visit, and had ended with these words: “More than this, my dear son, I cannot say, and would not wish to say.” James knew his father. What those words said, and what they did not say, told him the worst. A tide of rage and disgust had arisen within him and had set, over the long months, into a hardened, bitter hatred.

  The last winter had been terrible. Washington’s camp at Morristown had been well constructed and perfectly laid out. Their log cabins had been sealed with clay, and Washington himself had occupied a sturdy house nearby. But no one could have predicted the weather. Twenty-eight snowstorms buried them almost up to the roofs of the cabins. Sometimes they ate nothing for days at a time. Washington had been an inspiration—he’d even held an officers’ dance in a local tavern, though they’d needed sledges to get there. But by the end of winter, the Continental army was exhausted.

  Spring and summer had only brought news of awful defeats in the South. Two and a half thousand Continentals taken prisoner at Charleston, not counting local militias as well. Yet still the Patriots held on, and hoped for better things—partly because men like James Master were quite determined that, having gone so far against an enemy they had come to hate, they would never turn back.

  It was a grim-faced, iron man, therefore, who now strode into the stone house where poor Major André was awaiting execution.

  Above, the sun was shining down on the general’s camp at Tappan. The northern end of Manhattan was only ten miles away down the Hudson River. Ten miles, however, that the luckless prisoner had not managed to negotiate. Certainly André had been unlucky, but also foolish, after parting from the traitor Arnold, to have taken off his uniform to get away in disguise. Having done that, he’d made himself a spy. Washington had insisted that he be given a proper, formal trial, and he’d been able to argue his case. But the verdict could hardly be otherwise, and tomorrow he was due to hang.

  André was sitting quietly in the room where he was housed.
He had been writing letters. On a sideboard were the remains of a meal he’d been sent from Washington’s table. James had seen him at a distance several times in recent days, but not spoken to him yet. At his entry the young Swiss courteously arose, and James informed him of his purpose in being there.

  “I am instructed by the general to ensure that you have everything you need. Any letters you wish to send, any other services I can arrange for you …”

  “I have everything I require, I think,” André answered with a faint smile. “You said your name was Captain Master?”

  “At your service, sir.”

  “How strange. Then I believe I had the pleasure of dining with your father and your sister, just recently.” And seeing James’s look of surprise, he remarked: “I did not guess then that I should have the honor of seeing you also. Perhaps you would like to hear how they are.”

  Fully ten minutes passed while André gave him an account of his father and sister. They were both in perfect health and good spirits, André assured him. No, he had to confess, he had only seen young Weston fleetingly, but he knew from Abigail that the boy was well and enjoying his time at school. Such news was welcome to James indeed. During the winter, communication with his family had been impossible, and he had only received news of them once in the last few months when he’d been able to see Susan. Having satisfied all his questions, and after a brief pause, André said quietly: “When I was down at Charleston with General Clinton, I also had the pleasure of coming to know an old friend of yours. Grey Albion.”

  “Grey Albion?” James stared at him, and almost remarked that he feared he might find it difficult to think of Albion as a friend any more. But he quickly recovered his manners and said politely that, indeed, he had fond memories of living in the Albions’ London house.

  “I learned in Charleston of Albion’s deep attachment to your sister,” André went on. “And it was charming to hear from her that his regard for her is returned.”

  “Ah,” said James.

  “Let us hope,” said André, “that when this unfortunate war is concluded, in one manner or another, these two charming young people may be able to find the happiness together that they desire.” He paused. “Perhaps I may witness it,” he shrugged, “from above.”

  James said nothing. He looked down at the floor, thought for a moment and then, having formed his face into a pleasant mask, inquired: “If they do marry, was it your impression that Grey means to return to live in London?”

  “Without a doubt. The family’s situation there, I understand, is very agreeable.”

  “It is,” said James, and rose to go.

  “There is one thing you could do for me, my friend,” said André now. “I have already made my request to the general, but if you have any influence with him, you might be kind enough to urge my case. A spy is hanged like a criminal. It would be a kindness if he would allow me to be shot like a gentleman.”

  In October, her father told Abigail that he’d received a letter from Grey Albion, to say that the army was moving north. It seemed that Cornwallis thought he could roll all the way up the east coast. John Master was less sanguine.

  “Clinton’s worried. He says Cornwallis isn’t a bad commander—he’s vigorous, and always on the attack, but that’s also his weakness. Unlike Washington, Cornwallis has never learned patience. After his recent victories, he’s the hero of the hour, and with all his aristocratic connections, he deals directly with the ministry, and thinks he can do as he pleases. Clinton is now forced to send men to support him, but he’s afraid Cornwallis will overreach himself.”

  He did not say so, but Abigail understood what her father was hinting.

  “You mean that Albion may be in more danger than he thinks, Papa.”

  “Oh, I dare say he’ll be safe enough,” her father answered.

  Late in the year, Clinton was forced to send still more troops to help Cornwallis. He placed them under the competent command of his new recruit, the traitor Benedict Arnold.

  James Master had not gone to André’s execution. André’s request for a firing squad had not been granted, but he’d been allowed to fit the noose around his own neck, and had done it skillfully, so that when the cart was pulled away and he dropped, his death was almost instant.

  However, in the months that followed, James had brooded constantly on what André had told him about Abigail. Had he been able to visit his sister he would certainly have confronted her about the matter at once. But short of getting himself smuggled into the city—at the mere thought of which Washington would have been outraged—there was nothing he could do. He had started to compose a letter to his father, but had laid it aside for several reasons. It was clear, firstly, that Grey Albion was not in New York, and so the relationship was hardly likely to advance at present. Nor was it a subject he cared to trust to a letter, which might always fall into the wrong hands. But most of all, he felt a sense of hurt, both that Abigail should have acted against his wishes, and that neither she nor her father had seen fit to tell him about it. So he brooded.

  And God knows, during the winter that followed, he had time to brood.

  Washington made his main winter quarters at Morristown again. But this time he split his forces among several places, in the hope of getting them, and the horses also, more adequately fed. The winter had not been like the previous one, but it had been full of sorrow. The Continental paper currency issued by the Congress was now virtually worthless—it had depreciated by a factor of three thousand times. The troops were supposed to be paid by the province from which they’d come, and those from Pennsylvania, in particular, had not been paid in three years. Discovering that a large group were on the point of mutiny, General Clinton had sent messengers to them offering full pay if they would switch sides, but angry though they were, the Pennsylvania men had treated this bribe with contempt, and fortunately Pennsylvania had finally paid up. There had been other protests also, but the Patriot forces had still come through the winter more or less intact.

  All the same, it was clear that the Patriot cause was very close to collapse. Though Washington had sent the rugged Nathaniel Greene to rally what was left of the Patriot army in the South, he knew how small the forces down there were. Tower of strength though he was, he confided to James: “If the French will not join us this summer for a mighty strike, either in the North or in the South, then I do not know how we can continue.” And if the Patriot cause collapsed, nobody cared to think of the consequences.

  Meanwhile, there was little to do. Through the long and miserable months, therefore, James thought about Albion and his sister. If the world around him was dismal and filled with awful threats, in his imagination, also, he was assailed by phantoms. He felt deserted by his family, powerless, impotent. Memories of his own unhappy marriage came to haunt him, thoughts of English arrogance, coldness and cruelty crowded into his mind. Sometimes it seemed to him, however unfairly, that Albion and Abigail were deliberately acting deviously, and then he suffered a blinding rage. At the least, he decided, Albion was planning to steal his sister, break up his family and take her away to a country he had come to hate. Why, he even thought, if I should not survive this war, perhaps they and my father will take little Weston to England too.

  For behind all these imaginings, with which he tortured himself, there lay one great assumption, a passionate feeling of identity that, before the war, would not have occurred to him. Abigail and Weston, his precious family, were not to be English. Never. He could not bear the thought of it. They were not English, they were Americans.

  In the spring, news filtered up from the South. The Patriots had engaged Cornwallis and inflicted casualties. Even the fearsome Tarleton had been badly beaten in a skirmish. But Cornwallis was pressing into Virginia with Benedict Arnold. Richmond had been taken. And now Arnold had set up a base on the coast.

  It was typical of Washington that, though he did not know the cause, he should have noticed that James had something on his mind. One d
ay, therefore, James found himself called into the general’s presence.

  “We can’t let Cornwallis and Arnold range freely in Virginia,” Washington told him. “So I’m sending three thousand men down there, to see what we can do. I’m giving the command to Lafayette, because I trust him. And I think I should like it, Master, if you went too.”

  May passed, and June. The weather was warm, and New York was quiet for the moment. It was known that Lafayette had gone south, but most people still thought that if he could get enough support from the French, Washington must soon make a move in the North.

  No one had heard from James, and so Abigail was not sure if he was still nearby or far away. But for some reason, at this time, she began to experience a feeling of dread that would not go away. Indeed, as the weeks passed, this sense of ill omen grew stronger. To share her fears, she felt sure, was to invite the fates to accomplish them. The only thing to do was keep them to herself.

  “I’ve just been with Clinton,” her father announced one afternoon. “He’s convinced that Washington means to attack New York. He wants to bring Cornwallis’s main force back up here, but London’s all for Cornwallis’s damned Virginia adventure and won’t hear of it.” He shrugged. “Cornwallis has engagements with Nathaniel Greene and wins them, but each time he does so, he loses men, and Greene regroups and comes at him again. Our commanders still expect a great Loyalist rising, but it never happens, and Patriot partisans make raids against every outpost. Cornwallis is digging himself into a hole. Clinton’s told him to set up a naval base and send troops up here, but although Cornwallis says he’s creating the base at Yorktown, he hasn’t sent Clinton a single man.”

  In high summer, the news that Washington longed for and Clinton dreaded came. A new fleet, under Admiral de Grasse, was coming from France. Soon, it appeared on the horizon. By July, Rochambeau, with his five thousand veteran French troops, had moved out of Rhode Island and come to meet Washington just above the city at White Plains. Washington was deploying his forces closer and closer now. British scouts reported: “We’ve seen the Americans. They could be here in hours.” Inside the city, the streets were full of drilling troops. The northern palisade was being strengthened. Young Weston was excited.