New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [147]
Judging by the dispirited looks and haggard faces of his men, the remains of Washington’s army was not in much condition to fight.
The house became an impromptu camp for the rest of that day. In the yards, on fences and clothes lines, or laid on the ground, sodden tents and uniforms were spread out to dry, so that when the sun finally broke through steam rose all around the house. Hudson placed a big tub by the front gate, which Abigail repeatedly refilled with broth, to be served to any soldiers that passed.
Around noon, as Master himself was ladling out broth to some passing men, Washington rode by. His face was tired and drawn, but looked with surprise at the Loyalist merchant with his ladle.
Without a word, Washington raised a finger to his hat, and rode on.
But in the days that followed, things only got worse.
“Three-quarters of the Connecticut militia—that’s six thousand men—have upped sticks and left,” James reported. “Nobody thinks we can hold New York. Except maybe Washington. Who knows?”
If the British had the upper hand tactically, their strategy remained the same. They wanted to parlay. On September 11, John Adams, Rutledge and Ben Franklin himself arrived at Staten Island to talk with the Howes.
“The British offered to pardon everybody if we’d just drop the Declaration of Independence,” James said. “The delegation had to tell them no.”
His father said nothing. “Though it’d make a damn sight more sense to say yes, in my opinion,” he confided later to Abigail.
The next day the Patriot leaders had a war council.
“Washington was completely outvoted,” James told them. “We can’t hold the city. But there is another way of denying New York to the British.”
“What’s that?” asked his father.
“Burn it down.”
“Destroy New York? No sane man would do that.”
“John Jay wanted to.” James smiled. “But don’t worry, Father. Congress has forbidden it.”
Two days later, Washington moved his forces north to the rocky natural fortress of Harlem Heights, near his headquarters. But he still left five thousand men in the city under old General Putnam. He wouldn’t abandon New York without making a stand.
“I’m to stay here with Putnam,” James told them.
“Spend what time you can with Weston,” Abigail urged him. They might, she thought, be the last days the little boy would see his father for quite a while.
But there wasn’t any time. The British came the next morning. They came across the East River at Kips Bay, about three miles above the city ramparts, near the Murray Hill estate. Everyone watched from the waterfront, and by all accounts, it was an awesome sight.
Five warships, at point-blank range, emptied salvo after salvo onto the shore, in a massive bombardment, while a fleet of flatboats, bearing four thousand redcoats, skimmed quickly across the river. As the redcoats charged onto the Manhattan shore, the defending militiamen, understandably, fled for their lives.
Abigail and her father stayed with little Weston at the house. There was nothing else to do. Hudson told them the Patriot forces were on the Bloomingdale road that led up the west side of Manhattan. Would they try to engage the redcoats, or slip past them? She didn’t know where James was. Her father was outside by the gate, listening for gunfire.
If the Patriot troops were heading out, so were the remaining Patriot civilians. It was a strange scene. Families with their possessions laden on wagons, or just handcarts, were going by. When she went out to her father, he told her he’d seen Charlie White ride past in a hurry. Did he say anything? she asked.
“No. But he waved.”
An hour passed. Then another. The silence was eerie. At last, her father heard the rattle of muskets. But in a few minutes, it stopped, and silence resumed. Twenty minutes went by. Then