New York - The Novel

French ship sank,” her father told them all. “More likely it was taken. Solomon may still be out there somewhere, and we shouldn’t give up hope.” If the ship was still afloat, news of it would come across the high seas, sooner or later.
    Meanwhile, word was coming from the South of continuing British successes. Patriot heroes like Rutledge, Pickens and Marion “the Swamp” Fox were still doing their best to harass the redcoats and their supporters; but the southern Patriot army was not in good shape. Congress sent General Gates down into South Carolina, but Cornwallis soon smashed him at Camden.
    Perhaps to distract their thoughts from their private worries, Master kept his household busy. General Clinton, back in New York, dined several times at the house, and Abigail and Ruth made sure that these dinners were excellent. From the general, and his officers, Abigail received the impression that they now considered the war might be won. Her father thought so too.
    “I’m damn sure Clinton’s hatching a new plan of some kind,” he told her. “But whatever it is, he’s keeping it under his hat.”
    Of particular pleasure to Abigail was a dinner to which General Clinton brought two extra guests. One was Governor William Franklin, whom the Patriots had kicked out of New Jersey and who was living in the city now.
    It was interesting to observe Ben Franklin’s son at close quarters. You could see that he had many of the lineaments of his father’s face. But where the father cultivated features that were round and merry, the son’s were thinner, more patrician, and somewhat sour. As for his views on the Patriots, he explained them to her precisely.
    “I can say so in this house, Miss Abigail, because, as well as your brother, my own father is a Patriot. But while there are of course men of principle on the Patriot side, I consider most of them to be rebels and bandits. I still have a band of good men hunting Patriots down in New Jersey. And I personally should be well content to hang any we can catch.”
    She didn’t think she liked him.
    But young Major André was a very different matter. He was about her brother’s age, a Swiss Huguenot, whose faint French accent gave his conversation a special charm. What really delighted her, however, was that, serving on Clinton’s staff, he knew Grey Albion well. They spoke of him all evening.
    “I must confess, Miss Abigail,” he told her, “that I had heard of you from Albion, who spoke about you with admiration.”
    “He did?” She could not help a faint blush of pleasure.
    He gave her a kindly smile. “If it is not indiscreet, Miss Abigail, I could say that he spoke of you in terms of the highest regard. And equally, if it is not impertinent, I have the impression that you think well of him too.”
    “I do, Major André,” she confessed. “Very well.”
    “In my judgment, you could not bestow your regard on a better fellow.” He paused. “He told me also that he had been a close friend of your brother, James …”
    “I hope that one day their friendship may be resumed.”
    “We shall all hope for that day,” he agreed.
    “Well, Abby,” her father asked, when the guests had departed, “was that a good evening?”
    “A very good evening indeed,” she answered happily.

    So it came as a great shock ten days later, when her father told her: “Major André is taken, and like to be hanged.”
    “How? Where?”
    “Up the Hudson. Toward West Point.”
    Master had the full story from Clinton the following day.
    “It’s the devil of a business,” her father said. “Now I know what Clinton was up to, though he couldn’t tell me before. He’s been planning it for over a year, and young André was acting as go-between.”
    “Planning what, Papa?”
    “To get control of West Point. For whoever holds West Point controls the River Hudson. Get West Point from Washington, and we deal him a mortal blow. It might have been the end of the war.”
    “We were going to capture West Point?”
    “No. Buy it. Benedict Arnold, who’s one of Washington’s best commanders, had control of the fort. Clinton’s been working on him for morethan a year, negotiating over the money, mostly, he tells me. Arnold was going to hand the place over to us.”
    “A traitor.”
    Her father shrugged. “A man of mixed loyalties. Unhappy with the commands the Patriots had given him. Disapproved of their bringing in the French. Wanted the money for his family. But yes, a