New York - The Novel

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 bowedgravely. 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,”