As he walked home, James felt neither sorrow, nor even anger, but disgust. When he reached the house, he went quietly to his bureau, and took out the last letter from his father. As he read over its urgent plea that he should come to see his mother, he was overcome with shame. If not with his family, he resolved to take ship as soon as possible. Then he retired to his dressing room, where he slept alone.

He rose late, and breakfasted by himself. He was about to leave for Albion’s office when the butler gave him a letter. It was written in Vanessa’s bold hand. It announced that she had left, early that morning, that she was going to the Continent, and that she could not say when she would return.

It was just before Christmas that James went to see Ben Franklin. To his surprise, when he told the old man his decision, Franklin did not try to dissuade him.

“The fact is,” Franklin confessed, “I have come to the same conclusion. I have been knocking upon every door I know in London. Some still open to me, and those that do, all tell me the same story. The British government will not budge. I always believed that compromise was possible. Now, I no longer believe it.” He smiled. “Your young lawyer friend was right, it seems. I expect to be following you shortly.”

“I had not realized how much we colonials are despised.”

“The British are angry. When people are angry, any insult will do; and prejudice is magnified into a cause.”

“I had not understood British arrogance, either.”

“All empires become arrogant. It is their nature.”

James parted from the old man with warm expressions of goodwill. It only remained to prepare for his journey, and, since his mother was gone, to take little Weston with him. This at least was a blessing: Weston would see his grandparents after all.

As he took the little fellow’s hand to board the ship, he made only one private vow: the little boy must never know that his mother did not love him.

War

March 1776

OUTSIDE, THE SKY was blue. Hudson had already told her that the streets were quiet. Abigail handed the letter back to her father, stepped into the hall where little Weston was waiting, and took the child by the hand.

“Come, Weston,” she said, “we’ll go for our walk.”

The boy was like her own child now. He was such a dear little fellow. She’d have given her life rather than let any harm come to him.

A year after James’s return, how the world had changed. For a while, the voices of moderation had still been heard. The Continental Congress had sworn they only wanted justice from Britain. In New York, men like John Jay had managed to restrain the Liberty Boys. But not for long.