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By Root 1469 0

through the porthole with a sharp chill. He could recall the last time it had been winter, the cries of the beast deadened by the cold. Many men had died then, too many for the guards to notice. It was a strange blessing, food tossed down onto the bodies of those who would not need it, a small feast for those who still survived. The wind ripped at his face, the memories of those months long past, and he felt a hard shiver, wetness in his pants clinging to him. He stared at the rippling sunlight, blessed warmth, saw the reflections in motion, a ship, tall white sails. She was large, a grand man-o-war, moving out through the harbor by the power of the chilling breeze. He watched her until she drifted away, the familiar dream filling him, standing in her bow, the open sky in front of him, the wind carrying him away to some glorious place. He was alone on the ship, no one to cry out, no one to suffer beside him, just the sunlight, washing over him, carrying him home.

The ship disappeared beyond the edge of the bay, and the wind began to bite his face, the tears cutting his cheek. He leaned away from the porthole, his legs giving way, the energy gone, and he sat, settled down into the smells, the cries, and the madness.

CORNWALLIS HAD BOARDED THE SHIP AT FIRST LIGHT, STOOD ON THE deck in the brisk biting wind. Above him in the East River, he could see the prison ships, a ragged line of useless hulks, motionless, no sign of the grotesque cargo below their decks.

He looked toward Long Island, toward the home he had occupied, a pleasant manor house owned by some Tory aristocrat, the man long gone, imprisoned by the rebels perhaps. Cornwallis would not take up residence in the city, had no need for the astounding debauchery of the place. If he visited the city at all, it was to attend Clinton’s headquarters, a grand mansion called the Kennedy House, on the southernmost end of Broadway. Even without the degrading behavior of the officers, the city had become its own nightmare, the ruins from the fire providing shelter for anyone who could not afford to buy themselves into British luxury. The poor, and many not so poor had massed into the ruins to construct a makeshift village of shacks and scraps of tents, which had become known as Canvastown. With the army keeping mainly to itself, Canvastown had become the most dangerous place in the city. Crime and disease were commonplace, and the utter lack of sanitation had created a massive open sewer that far surpassed the horrors they had left behind in Philadelphia.

Cornwallis had attended some of the parties, could hardly decline an invitation from Clinton himself. He had learned quickly why both the officers and their society damsels seemed to bathe themselves in so much perfume. From the depths of Canvastown, and even from the narrow streets that had escaped the fire, the concentration of refugees had created a permanent stench throughout the city that even the elite could not avoid. Since no one had any kind of solution for absorbing the influx of loyalists, they could only try to mask themselves from their presence. Even Cornwallis had to agree that a substantial dousing of perfume was an acceptable alternative to the fog of odor that even the wealthy could not escape.

Though Clinton felt he should remain in the city, that responsibility was not shared by Cornwallis. Long Island had become a place to play. From his new home, Cornwallis had ample opportunity for hunting and fishing, long rides through the hills that two years before had framed bloody battlefields. Many of the senior officers took advantage, and seemed far more enthusiastic about the outdoor distractions than what they left behind in the city. But the carefree life was fragile, and no matter the pageantry of the fox hunts or the pheasant shoots, the stark reality could not be avoided. Long Island itself was far from secure, and every foraging party or social gathering was subject to the presence of guards. Every day, patrols and cavalry units probed and swept across the countryside. Not so far from the shores of