New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [145]
“I am convinced he’s as safe here as anywhere else,” he said.
That afternoon, a party of soldiers started to chop down a cherry tree that grew in front of the house. Most of the orchards in the city had already been cut down for firewood, but this seemed absurd. Her father had just gone out to remonstrate with them, and she was watching from the door, when, to her surprise, James walked by. To her even greater surprise, he was in the company of a very tall, upright man, whom she recognized immediately.
It was General Washington.
He was an impressive figure. If James Master stood six foot tall, the general was almost three inches taller. He stood ramrod-straight, and she had the sense that he was very strong. James, seeing his father, indicated him to the general.
“This is my father, sir. John Master. Father, this is General Washington.”
The general turned his gray-blue eyes toward John Master, and bowed gravely. He had a quiet dignity, and with his great height adding to the effect, it was easy to see why men regarded him as their leader. Abigail expected her father to bow his head politely in return.
But it seemed that John Master, for once, was determined to dispense with his usual good manners. Granting the great man only the minimum nod that courtesy demanded, he gestured toward the soldier with the axe and said: “What the devil’s the point in chopping down this tree?”
Washington stared at him. “I told all civilians they should leave the city,” he said coldly, ignoring the question.
“I’m staying,” said her father.
“Waiting for the British, no doubt.”
“Perhaps.”
Abigail was open-mouthed, wondering what was going to happen next. Would Washington have her father locked up? James was looking horrified.
But the great man only stared at Master impassively. He gave no sign of emotion at all. Then, without another word, he walked on. He had only gone a few yards, when he paused briefly next to James.
“Typical Yankee,” Abigail heard him say quietly. But whether her father also heard she could not tell. The tree, meanwhile, came down.
Five days later, the action began. Abigail could not see much from the waterfront. Ships were moving from their anchorage by Staten Island, but the operation was taking place round the southern end of Long Island, below Brooklyn, and was mostly out of sight. With her father’s small brass telescope, however, she did manage to pick out a dozen flatboats full of redcoats. Evidently they meant to advance across Flatbush to Brooklyn and the East River. Lying across their path, however, was a line of ridges where the Patriots were already digging in.
The next morning, while the British were ferrying still more troops to Long Island, Washington went over to Brooklyn, taking James with him. That evening, James returned with more detailed information.
“The British forces are huge. We think they’ll ship the Hessians across tomorrow. And then you have to add their American contingents, too.”
“You mean Loyalists?” said his father.
“Certainly. When Governor Tryon fled the city, he busied himself elsewhere, collecting Loyalist militia. And there are two regiments of New York and Long Island volunteers, besides. Washington will be fighting against Americans as well as British in Brooklyn. Oh, and there are eight hundred runaway slaves on the British side, too.”
“What does Washington mean to do?”
“We’re dug in along the ridges. The British will have to go through the passes under our fire, or try to march up steep slopes, which cost Howe so dearly when he tried it at Bunker Hill. So we think we can hold them.”
The next morning, when he left, James gave little Weston and Abigail a kiss, and shook his father’s hand warmly. Abigail knew what it meant.
Yet still the British took their time. Three more days passed. Abigail occupied herself with little Weston. Her father claimed he had things to attend to in the town, but she knew very well that he was