New York - The Novel

though they’dneeded sledges to get there. But by the end of winter, the Continental army was exhausted.
    Spring and summer had only brought news of awful defeats in the South. Two and a half thousand Continentals taken prisoner at Charleston, not counting local militias as well. Yet still the Patriots held on, and hoped for better things—partly because men like James Master were quite determined that, having gone so far against an enemy they had come to hate, they would never turn back.
    It was a grim-faced, iron man, therefore, who now strode into the stone house where poor Major André was awaiting execution.
    Above, the sun was shining down on the general’s camp at Tappan. The northern end of Manhattan was only ten miles away down the Hudson River. Ten miles, however, that the luckless prisoner had not managed to negotiate. Certainly André had been unlucky, but also foolish, after parting from the traitor Arnold, to have taken off his uniform to get away in disguise. Having done that, he’d made himself a spy. Washington had insisted that he be given a proper, formal trial, and he’d been able to argue his case. But the verdict could hardly be otherwise, and tomorrow he was due to hang.
    André was sitting quietly in the room where he was housed. He had been writing letters. On a sideboard were the remains of a meal he’d been sent from Washington’s table. James had seen him at a distance several times in recent days, but not spoken to him yet. At his entry the young Swiss courteously arose, and James informed him of his purpose in being there.
    “I am instructed by the general to ensure that you have everything you need. Any letters you wish to send, any other services I can arrange for you …”
    “I have everything I require, I think,” André answered with a faint smile. “You said your name was Captain Master?”
    “At your service, sir.”
    “How strange. Then I believe I had the pleasure of dining with your father and your sister, just recently.” And seeing James’s look of surprise, he remarked: “I did not guess then that I should have the honor of seeing you also. Perhaps you would like to hear how they are.”
    Fully ten minutes passed while André gave him an account of his father and sister. They were both in perfect health and good spirits, André assured him. No, he had to confess, he had only seen young Weston fleetingly,but he knew from Abigail that the boy was well and enjoying his time at school. Such news was welcome to James indeed. During the winter, communication with his family had been impossible, and he had only received news of them once in the last few months when he’d been able to see Susan. Having satisfied all his questions, and after a brief pause, André said quietly: “When I was down at Charleston with General Clinton, I also had the pleasure of coming to know an old friend of yours. Grey Albion.”
    “Grey Albion?” James stared at him, and almost remarked that he feared he might find it difficult to think of Albion as a friend any more. But he quickly recovered his manners and said politely that, indeed, he had fond memories of living in the Albions’ London house.
    “I learned in Charleston of Albion’s deep attachment to your sister,” André went on. “And it was charming to hear from her that his regard for her is returned.”
    “Ah,” said James.
    “Let us hope,” said André, “that when this unfortunate war is concluded, in one manner or another, these two charming young people may be able to find the happiness together that they desire.” He paused. “Perhaps I may witness it,” he shrugged, “from above.”
    James said nothing. He looked down at the floor, thought for a moment and then, having formed his face into a pleasant mask, inquired: “If they do marry, was it your impression that Grey means to return to live in London?”
    “Without a doubt. The family’s situation there, I understand, is very agreeable.”
    “It is,” said James, and rose to go.
    “There is one thing you could do for me, my friend,” said André now. “I have already made my request to the general, but if you have any influence with him, you might be kind enough to urge my case. A spy is hanged like a criminal. It would be a kindness if he would allow me to be shot like a gentleman.”

    In October, her father told Abigail that he’d received a letter from Grey Albion, to say that the army was moving north. It seemed that Cornwallis thought he