New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [146]
Then, early in the morning, they heard the guns begin to stir.
All morning the roar of cannon and the distant crackle of musket fire came across the water. Smoke rose from the hills of Brooklyn. But it was impossible to tell what was happening. Soon after noon, the sounds died down. Before evening, the news was clear. The British had smashed Washington, though the Patriots were still holding out on Brooklyn Heights, just across the river. Then it started to rain.
Abigail found her father at the waterfront the next morning. She had brought him a flask of hot chocolate. He was standing in the rain, wrapped in a greatcoat and wearing a large three-cornered hat. His telescope was sticking out of his pocket. She hoped he wasn’t going to catch a cold, but she knew he wouldn’t come home.
“There was a break in the clouds,” he said. “I could see our boys. The British have come round the side of the hill. They have Washington trapped against the river. He can’t escape. So it’s over. He’ll have to surrender.” He sighed. “Just as well.”
“You think James …”
“We can only hope.”
The rain continued all day. When her father came in at last, she had Hudson draw him a hot bath. That evening little Weston asked her: “Is my father killed, do you think?”
“Of course not,” she said. “They just moved to a safer place.”
The next day was the same, and her father mostly stayed indoors. But at noon, the rain ceased, and he rushed down to the waterside again. She went to him an hour later.
“What the devil are they waiting for?” he said irritably. “The British will have them now, as soon as their powder’s dry. Why in God’s name doesn’t Washington surrender?”
But nothing happened. At supper that evening he was tense, and scowled at everybody. That night he went out again, but soon returned.
“There’s a damn fog,” he growled. “Can’t see a thing.”
The hammering on the door came at midnight. It woke the whole house. Abigail rose from her bed hastily and hurried down, to find her father with a primed pistol in his hand and Hudson at the door. At a nod from Master, Hudson opened it.
And Charlie White walked in. He glanced at the pistol.
“Evening, John. Need your keys.”
“What keys, Charlie?”
“To your damn boats. Broke into your warehouse easy enough, but you’ve got so many padlocks, it’s wastin’ time.”
“What do you want with my boats, Charlie?”
“We’re gettin’ the boys back from Brooklyn. Hurry up, will you?”
“Dear God,” cried Master. “I’m coming.”
He was back an hour later. Abigail was waiting for him.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he told her excitedly. “They’ve got a whole fleet of boats. Barges, canoes, anything that’ll float. They’re trying to ferry the whole army across during the night.”
“Will it work?”
“As long as the British don’t realize what’s going on. Thank God for the fog.”
“And James?”
“No sign of him yet. I want you to wake up Hudson and Ruth, and start preparing hot broth, stew, whatever you can. The men I saw coming off the boats are in terrible shape.”
“We’re to feed Patriots?” she said in astonishment.
He shrugged. “They’re soaked to the skin, poor devils. I’m going back now.”
She did as he asked, and was in the kitchen with Hudson and his wife an hour later when her father entered again. This time he was grinning like a boy.
“James is back—he’ll be coming here shortly. I told him to bring his men. Have we got stew and broth?”
“Soon, Father. How many men is he bringing?”
“About two hundred. Is that a problem?”
The two women looked at each other.
“Of course not,” said Abigail.
As the men crowded into the house, James took Abigail and his father aside, and gave them a brief account of what had happened.
“We hadn’t properly secured our left flank. The Long Island Loyalists saw it and told the British. A force of British and Long Island men came round by Jamaica Pass during the night and attacked our rear in the morning.