They talked of other things after that, but Abigail could see that her father was deeply thoughtful. As they parted from Howe that night, Master turned to him. He sighed. “I think your plan would work, General,” he said sadly, “but tell me this: how would I get a pardon for my poor son?”

Howe shook his hand understandingly, but gave him no answer.

Now, on this sunny day in July, the activity at the docks told Abigail that the process of loading the ships had already begun. This might be the last cricket match Grey Albion and his friends took part in for a long time.

Like the other players, he was dressed in a white cotton shirt and breeches. He was wearing a peaked hat to protect his eyes from the sun. He was certainly graceful and athletic, as he raised the bat to strike.

The ball soared over their heads. He’d scored the winning run. Weston jumped up and clapped wildly. There was applause from all around Bowling Green, as the players were walking off. He was coming toward them, pulling off his cap, and as he came close, she realized that, beneath his curly hair, little beads of sweat were dripping from his brow.

“Well played, Grey,” said her father.

“Thank you, sir,” he answered, then smiled down at her. “Did you enjoy the game, Miss Abigail?” he asked. And as he did so, a tiny drop of sweat fell from his brow upon her wrist.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I liked it well enough.”

James Master sat on his horse with a spyglass to his eye. From where he was on the New Jersey shore, he had a perfect view across the huge waters of the harbor. And if he did not see the cricket ball that had just soared into the air behind the fort, he could see something a lot more interesting. A ship at dock, being loaded with supplies. He had already been there three hours, and this was the second loading he had seen. Behind him, a dozen troopers waited for their captain patiently.

Captain James Master had changed in the last year. His outlook and beliefs were the same, but he was a battle-hardened and experienced officer now. Something more, perhaps. If his unhappy marriage in London had given him his share of private bitterness, the last year had taught him much about the limits of human trust in general. And he had learned that not in the heat of battle, but by studying the cold endurance of the man he had come to revere.