“You mean Loyalists?” said his father.

“Certainly. When Governor Tryon fled the city, he busied himself elsewhere, collecting Loyalist militia. And there are two regiments of New York and Long Island volunteers, besides. Washington will be fighting against Americans as well as British in Brooklyn. Oh, and there are eight hundred runaway slaves on the British side, too.”

“What does Washington mean to do?”

“We’re dug in along the ridges. The British will have to go through the passes under our fire, or try to march up steep slopes, which cost Howe so dearly when he tried it at Bunker Hill. So we think we can hold them.”

The next morning, when he left, James gave little Weston and Abigail a kiss, and shook his father’s hand warmly. Abigail knew what it meant.

Yet still the British took their time. Three more days passed. Abigail occupied herself with little Weston. Her father claimed he had things to attend to in the town, but she knew very well that he was down at the waterfront, hour after hour, telescope in hand, trying to see what was happening. The night of the twenty-sixth of August was surprisingly cold. A gibbous moon hung in the sky.

Then, early in the morning, they heard the guns begin to stir.

All morning the roar of cannon and the distant crackle of musket fire came across the water. Smoke rose from the hills of Brooklyn. But it was impossible to tell what was happening. Soon after noon, the sounds died down. Before evening, the news was clear. The British had smashed Washington, though the Patriots were still holding out on Brooklyn Heights, just across the river. Then it started to rain.

Abigail found her father at the waterfront the next morning. She had brought him a flask of hot chocolate. He was standing in the rain, wrapped in a greatcoat and wearing a large three-cornered hat. His telescope was sticking out of his pocket. She hoped he wasn’t going to catch a cold, but she knew he wouldn’t come home.

“There was a break in the clouds,” he said. “I could see our boys. The British have come round the side of the hill. They have Washington trapped against the river. He can’t escape. So it’s over. He’ll have to surrender.” He sighed. “Just as well.”

“You think James …”

“We can only hope.”

The rain continued all day. When her father came in at last, she had Hudson draw him a hot bath. That evening little Weston asked her: “Is my father killed, do you think?”

“Of course not,” she said. “They just moved to a safer place.”

The next day was the same, and her father mostly stayed indoors. But at noon, the rain ceased, and he rushed down to the waterside again. She went to him an hour later.