In America, Britain’s armies had driven the rival French from Canada. In 1763, at the Peace of Paris, the French abandoned all their claims to the vast American hinterland, and were allowed only the modest town of New Orleans down in the Mississippi marshes; while their Catholic allies the Spanish had to give up their huge domains in Florida.

The whole eastern American seaboard was now Britain’s. Except for the presence of the Indians, of course. Recently, when a leader of the Ottawa Indians, named Pontiac, had started a rebellion that had terrified the colonists of Massachusetts, the British Army, aided by local sharpshooters, had smashed the Indians soon enough—a valuable reminder to the colonists of their need for the mother country. But beyond such necessary firmness, the British believed their policy was generous and wise. Let the Indians fear English power, but don’t stir them up. There was still plenty of empty land in the east. Any drive westward into the hinterland could wait for a generation or two. Cultivate the huge garden of the eastern seaboard, therefore, and enjoy its fruits.

Ben Franklin himself would not have disagreed. Indeed, thanks to his indefatigable lobbying, the prudent British government had even given him a valuable stake in the great enterprise. For his son William Franklin, with a law degree, but no administrative experience, was now made governor of the colony of New Jersey.

As for the rest of her far-flung empire and her rivalry with France, Britain now controlled the fabulous riches of India and the rich sugar island of Jamaica. Her navy dominated every ocean. Britannia ruled the waves.

Such was the enlightened, happy empire of Britain’s well-meaning young king.

But not everyone was happy.

The way Charlie White saw it, things were going from bad to worse, and no mistake. As he walked up Broadway, a sharp north wind was coming down the Hudson River, slicing through the January dusk like a knife. There was a thin, frozen crust of snow on the streets. And Charlie’s mood was black.

It was Twelfth Night. He’d been planning to give his wife a present, but he had nothing.

Well, almost nothing. A pair of mittens he’d found going cheap in the market. He’d been lucky there. But that was all.

“I wanted to buy you a new dress,” he’d told her sadly, “but it’s all I can do to put food on the table.”

“It’s all right, Charlie,” she said. “It’s the thought that counts.”

It was the same for most of their neighbors. It had been like this ever since the damned British Army had gone.