In New York, however, Abigail had watched as the new British regime set in. For in the mind of General Howe, she now learned, the conduct of war assumed an aristocratic pattern. Summer was for fighting, winter for resting, and enjoying yourself—at least if you were a gentleman. And General Howe, it was soon clear, meant to enjoy himself.

Admittedly, New York was not exactly a resort. In fact, it was a confounded mess. For a start, a vast swathe of the western side of the city had been burned down in the fire. In place of block after block of charming Georgian, Dutch-gabled or wooden-frame houses, there was now a charred wasteland, almost three-quarters of a mile from end to end—a sea of freezing mud in the cold weather, and a stinking morass when it got warmer. This had become a huge bivouac, so disgusting that Master wryly confessed, “I prefer not to be on Broadway when the wind’s coming from the western side.” Besides this, the troops were crowded into a couple of barracks, and another permanent camp up on the Common. But for the British officers, and the Loyalists arriving from all quarters, there wasn’t enough proper accommodation, and hardly enough food to go round.

As for the unfortunate Patriot prisoners, who’d been taken in large numbers, they were being crammed into the almshouse, the Nonconformist churches or any secure space that could be found, and fed scraps if they were lucky.

For landlords, however, the shortage had benefits. “I’ve just been offered three times the old rent for that pair of row houses we own on Maiden Lane,” her father told Abigail in the spring.

Indeed, John Master was soon in high favor with the British command. A Loyalist merchant with huge experience, a fellow who’d lived in London, and who believed in compromise—he was exactly what they thought an American ought to be. General Howe took a particular liking to him, and several times invited him to dine. Wisely, Master was entirely frank with him about James, and the general seemed to trust him all the better for it. “William Franklin has the same problem with his father Ben as you do with your son James,” he genially remarked. In no time Master had contracts for supplying grain and meat from anywhere he could find them. This included the produce from the farmlands up in Dutchess County, and with a pass procured by her father, Susan was able to come into the city with supplies. Business was resumed with Albion in London. The army officers wanted any luxuries and comforts that he could supply. “I’ve never been busier,” he confessed.