As the summer of 1783 turned to autumn, it was clear that the British must soon leave the city. But the British commander was firm. “We’ll leave as soon as every Loyalist who wants to leave has safely departed.”

They were leaving by their thousands. A few were New Yorkers, but most were Loyalists who were coming through New York from elsewhere. Some shipped to England, the majority to maritime Canada. The British government paid their passage.

And then there were the former slaves that the British had freed. They too were departing, though for a different reason—to escape their Patriot owners. Hardly a day went by when Abigail didn’t hear of some Patriot arriving in the city and scouring the streets and waterfront for his former slaves.

“Washington’s quite clear about it,” Master remarked. “He says they’ve every right to reclaim their property, but the British say that’s not fair. Anyway, the poor devils would sooner freeze up in Nova Scotia than be slaves again.”

About one slave, however, there was no news. It had taken some time, but Master had finally been able to discover the fate of his missing French prize. “She’s back in French service, down in the Caribbean. But what happened to Solomon, I can’t discover. He isn’t aboard her now, that’s for certain.” To Hudson he promised: “I am still searching for him. He may well have been sold, but we shouldn’t give up hope.” To Abigail he confessed: “If I find him, I’ll buy him back for Hudson and give him his freedom immediately. But I fear that the chances of finding him are not good.”

It was at the start of October that the letter from Vanessa arrived. It was addressed to John Master, as usual. It informed him, in her bold hand, that she was leaving London, being obliged to go to France. She didn’t say why. She expressed regret that she was unable to come to New York to see Weston, and her usual gratitude that he was in his grandfather’s safe hands. But it was the postscript that caused Master to cry out in utter astonishment.

The news in London is that Grey Albion was last week married.

Abigail found her brother at West Point. Hudson took her there. She was directed up to the ramparts, where, as soon as she reached him, she handed him the letter.

As he read his wife’s plans to leave London, and her words about their son, James’s face remained grave, but impassive. As he read the postscript, Abigail watched him closely. He gave a start. Then he frowned, and read it again. But he did not look at her. Instead, he stared out from the ramparts, over the River Hudson far below, for a few moments.

“They told me he was dead,” he said tonelessly.

“You did not ascertain?”