New York - The Novel

Pennsylvania. “These are the times that try men’s souls,” Tom Paine had declared.
    At Christmas, Washington had led a daring raid across the Delaware and struck at the British and Hessian garrisons. It was a brave gesture. Then he’d been able to dodge Cornwallis, and lead his army to camp at Morristown from where, thank God, James had managed to send a letter to let them know that he was alive. But John Master did not think much of the Patriots’ chances.
    “Washington took one trick, but the British still hold all the good cards.”

    In New York, however, Abigail had watched as the new British regime set in. For in the mind of General Howe, she now learned, the conduct of war assumed an aristocratic pattern. Summer was for fighting, winter for resting, and enjoying yourself—at least if you were a gentleman. And General Howe, it was soon clear, meant to enjoy himself.
    Admittedly, New York was not exactly a resort. In fact, it was a confoundedmess. For a start, a vast swathe of the western side of the city had been burned down in the fire. In place of block after block of charming Georgian, Dutch-gabled or wooden-frame houses, there was now a charred wasteland, almost three-quarters of a mile from end to end—a sea of freezing mud in the cold weather, and a stinking morass when it got warmer. This had become a huge bivouac, so disgusting that Master wryly confessed, “I prefer not to be on Broadway when the wind’s coming from the western side.” Besides this, the troops were crowded into a couple of barracks, and another permanent camp up on the Common. But for the British officers, and the Loyalists arriving from all quarters, there wasn’t enough proper accommodation, and hardly enough food to go round.
    As for the unfortunate Patriot prisoners, who’d been taken in large numbers, they were being crammed into the almshouse, the Nonconformist churches or any secure space that could be found, and fed scraps if they were lucky.
    For landlords, however, the shortage had benefits. “I’ve just been offered three times the old rent for that pair of row houses we own on Maiden Lane,” her father told Abigail in the spring.
    Indeed, John Master was soon in high favor with the British command. A Loyalist merchant with huge experience, a fellow who’d lived in London, and who believed in compromise—he was exactly what they thought an American ought to be. General Howe took a particular liking to him, and several times invited him to dine. Wisely, Master was entirely frank with him about James, and the general seemed to trust him all the better for it. “William Franklin has the same problem with his father Ben as you do with your son James,” he genially remarked. In no time Master had contracts for supplying grain and meat from anywhere he could find them. This included the produce from the farmlands up in Dutchess County, and with a pass procured by her father, Susan was able to come into the city with supplies. Business was resumed with Albion in London. The army officers wanted any luxuries and comforts that he could supply. “I’ve never been busier,” he confessed.
    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