“Spend what time you can with Weston,” Abigail urged him. They might, she thought, be the last days the little boy would see his father for quite a while.

But there wasn’t any time. The British came the next morning. They came across the East River at Kips Bay, about three miles above the city ramparts, near the Murray Hill estate. Everyone watched from the waterfront, and by all accounts, it was an awesome sight.

Five warships, at point-blank range, emptied salvo after salvo onto the shore, in a massive bombardment, while a fleet of flatboats, bearing four thousand redcoats, skimmed quickly across the river. As the redcoats charged onto the Manhattan shore, the defending militiamen, understandably, fled for their lives.

Abigail and her father stayed with little Weston at the house. There was nothing else to do. Hudson told them the Patriot forces were on the Bloomingdale road that led up the west side of Manhattan. Would they try to engage the redcoats, or slip past them? She didn’t know where James was. Her father was outside by the gate, listening for gunfire.

If the Patriot troops were heading out, so were the remaining Patriot civilians. It was a strange scene. Families with their possessions laden on wagons, or just handcarts, were going by. When she went out to her father, he told her he’d seen Charlie White ride past in a hurry. Did he say anything? she asked.

“No. But he waved.”

An hour passed. Then another. The silence was eerie. At last, her father heard the rattle of muskets. But in a few minutes, it stopped, and silence resumed. Twenty minutes went by. Then a lone horseman cantered into the street.

It was James. He rushed indoors.

“It’s over. I have to leave.”

“Was there a fight?”

“Fight? Hardly. The British started to come across the island. Our men were to make a stand above Murray Hill, and Washington came down to supervise. But at the first shots, our men bolted. Washington was like a madman, beating them with the flat of his sword, cursing them for cowards and worse. But they paid no heed. They ran like rabbits. It was shameful.”

“I thought Washington was a dry fellow.”

“No. He has a fearful temper. But he controls it, mostly.”

“Where are the British now?”

“On their way here. Howe moves at a snail’s pace—it’s almost as if he’s letting us get away. Perhaps he is. Who knows? But I have to leave now, Father. I only came to bid farewell.”

“My son.” Master put his hands on James’s shoulders. “You see how it goes with the Patriots. I implore you, for your own sake, for the sake of your family, give this business up. It’s not too late. Take off your uniform. Remain here at the house. I hardly think the British will give you any trouble if you do so.”