No one had heard from James, and so Abigail was not sure if he was still nearby or far away. But for some reason, at this time, she began to experience a feeling of dread that would not go away. Indeed, as the weeks passed, this sense of ill omen grew stronger. To share her fears, she felt sure, was to invite the fates to accomplish them. The only thing to do was keep them to herself.

“I’ve just been with Clinton,” her father announced one afternoon. “He’s convinced that Washington means to attack New York. He wants to bring Cornwallis’s main force back up here, but London’s all for Cornwallis’s damned Virginia adventure and won’t hear of it.” He shrugged. “Cornwallis has engagements with Nathaniel Greene and wins them, but each time he does so, he loses men, and Greene regroups and comes at him again. Our commanders still expect a great Loyalist rising, but it never happens, and Patriot partisans make raids against every outpost. Cornwallis is digging himself into a hole. Clinton’s told him to set up a naval base and send troops up here, but although Cornwallis says he’s creating the base at Yorktown, he hasn’t sent Clinton a single man.”

In high summer, the news that Washington longed for and Clinton dreaded came. A new fleet, under Admiral de Grasse, was coming from France. Soon, it appeared on the horizon. By July, Rochambeau, with his five thousand veteran French troops, had moved out of Rhode Island and come to meet Washington just above the city at White Plains. Washington was deploying his forces closer and closer now. British scouts reported: “We’ve seen the Americans. They could be here in hours.” Inside the city, the streets were full of drilling troops. The northern palisade was being strengthened. Young Weston was excited.

“Will there be a battle?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose so,” Abigail lied.

“Will my father come to protect us?”

“General Clinton has all the soldiers we need.”

“I still wish Father would come,” said Weston.

But strangely, nothing happened. The long days of August passed. The city was tense, but still the French and American allies made no move. They seemed to be waiting for something.

And then, late in the month, they suddenly went away. The French troops, the main body of Washington’s forces, the big French fleet, they all went off together. Evidently, there had been a change of plan.

“Perhaps they have decided New York is too difficult to take,” Abigail suggested. But her father shook his head.

“There’s only one explanation,” he said. “They think they can trap Cornwallis.”

But the fate of the British Empire did not rest upon the army. It never had. It never would. It was the British Navy that controlled the oceans, supplied the soldiers, and saved them when in need.

At the end of August, a dozen ships arrived in New York harbor. Admiral Rodney, a first-rate leader, had command. “But he’s only brought twelve ships,” Master complained. “We need the whole fleet.”