New York - The Novel

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 hadHudson 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