“I cannot. I must go.” He embraced Abigail, went to where little Weston was watching wide-eyed, picked him up and kissed him. Then he turned back to his father.

“There is one more thing I have to say to you, Father.”

“Tell me quickly.”

“In all the world you are the man I would soonest trust with my son.” With that, he embraced him, and was gone.

They watched James until he was out of sight. After that, they turned indoors, and her father went into his office and closed the door. A moment later, through the door, Abigail heard him burst into tears.

“Come, Weston,” she said to the little boy, “let us go to Bowling Green.”

The entry of the British was like the entry of every conquering army. Whether out of joy, or fear, people waved and shouted with delight. Her father hoisted a Union Jack above the door. Since much of the city was empty, the army could have their pick of quarters. “Though no doubt,” her father warned her, “some colonel will want to commandeer this house.”

The British were moving quite swiftly now, to take over most of Manhattan Island. But the next day the Patriots, having fled so ignominiously before, suddenly put on a show.

Up in the north of the island, just below the Patriot encampments on Harlem Heights, a party of several hundred redcoats, chasing some Connecticut Rangers away, suddenly saw a swarm of Patriots sweeping down upon them from the high ground. There was a sharp exchange, but the Patriots pressed bravely forward, and this time the redcoats had to flee.

No doubt this put some heart into the Patriots. But strangely, Abigail noticed, it seemed to please her father too. “At least the Americans gave some account of themselves,” he remarked.

It was at eleven o’clock precisely the following morning, while her father was out, that Hudson came to inform her that an English officer was at the door. “No doubt he wants to commandeer the house,” she said with a sigh, and went to the door.

And found there an officer, a little younger than her brother, whose hair was a mess, but who looked down at her with the most beautiful blue eyes.

“Miss Abigail?” he inquired. “I am Grey Albion.”

Fire

1776

THE GREAT FIRE of New York began at midnight on September 30.

Hudson saw the flames when he went to shutter the upper windows. They weren’t far off, down below the fort on Whitehall Dock, he guessed. “Wind’s blowing this way,” he told his wife Ruth. “I’d best go and take a look.”