New York - The Novel

hard knocks at the next engagement.”
    She noted also that his tone toward herself had changed. If he had treated her as a little sister before, he would talk to her now of more serious things—the progress of the war, the chances for peace, and the future of the colonies. Not only that, he would ask her what she thought, and seemed to give her opinion quite equal weight with his own.
    “I wish I could show you London, Miss Abigail,” he once remarked.
    To make conversation, she asked him what he liked best about London. She knew about the great sights from her father, but he spoke of more intimate things, of handsome old parks by the river, of ancient churches where Crusaders had prayed, or narrow city streets with timbered houses and haunting echoes. And when he did so, his handsome face took on a tender look.
    On another day, he spoke about his family. “You’d like them, Miss Abigail, I think. My father is very courtly. I’m a clumsy fellow compared to him.” And once, he spoke of his old nanny. “She lives in our house still, though she is nearly eighty now. I like to sit with her and keep her company, when I can.” Abigail was glad to think of him showing such solicitude.
    As the spring of 1779 began, encouraging news came from the South. Down in Georgia, Savannah had fallen to the British redcoats, then Augusta. Soon the whole of Georgia was back under British rule. In New York, there was talk of an expedition up the River Hudson. Albion mentioned these plans to her in passing, but her father told her: “He’s pleadedwith Clinton to let him go. He wants to see some action.” And some time later he said, “Albion’s got his wish.”
    It was not until the end of May that the little flotilla of boats were ready to set off. Abigail stood with her father on the wharf to watch. The men, in their scarlet tunics and white crossbands, looked very smart. Grey Albion was going briskly about his business, and Abigail realized that she had never seen him like this before—hard, stern-eyed, giving crisp orders to the men. And far too busy, naturally, to take any notice of her.
    As the boats went out into midstream and started up the great river, she turned to her father.
    “James is up there, Papa. What if he and Grey …”
    “I know, Abby,” he answered quietly. “Let’s not think about it.”

    Some time passed before they heard news. The redcoats were doing well; Washington was holding West Point, but they’d taken two of his smaller forts. Word also came that there had been casualties.
    Grey Albion was brought back a day later. Abigail was told to take Weston to a friend’s house while the surgeon performed his work.
    “Nothing to worry about,” her father said firmly. “A musket ball in the leg. The surgeon’ll have it out in no time.” But when they returned later that day, John was looking solemn. “All’s well. He’s sleeping,” he told Weston. But to Abigail he confessed, “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
    When she saw him in the morning, his eyes were half closed, but he recognized her, and smiled weakly. The next day she went in to him several times. In the evening, she noticed that he was shivering. By late that night, he was running a high fever.
    The wound was infected. The doctor, who knew them well, was brisk. “I suggest you nurse him, Miss Abigail,” he told her after he had cleaned the wound. “You’ll do quite as well as any nurse I can provide. Let’s pray the infection doesn’t spread,” he added, “and I don’t have to take his leg. You must do the best you can to cool the fever. That’s the greatest enemy.”
    In the days that followed, Albion’s condition varied. Sometimes he was feverish and delirious, and she could only do her best to cool his brow and his body with damp towels. At other times he was lucid, but he worried.
    “Will they take my leg off?” he’d ask.
    “No,” she lied to him, “there’s no fear of that.”
    And thank God, the infection did not spread—though ten days passed before he began to mend, and more than a month until he began to hobble about on a crutch, and look like himself again.
    It was the day before he first began to walk that a tiny incident occurred. If, that is, it occurred at all. She had been sitting in a wing chair in his room while he slept. The afternoon sun was coming in pleasantly through the open window. The room was quiet. And she must have fallen asleep herself. For in her sleep, she dreamed that they