New York - The Novel

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 soaredinto 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