When the ceremonial retaking of New York was over, Owen and Faith would return to her old home in Pendleton, Massachusetts, while Sergeant Barley had agreed to farm Will’s place in Connecticut now that Will’s thieving relatives had departed to Canada.
It was all so neat, or it seemed to be. Things had a habit of unraveling, however well-laid plans might be.
Stark dismounted. “We will build a fort here.” No surprise. He was at the spot at the tip of Manhattan where earlier forts had been constructed. “It will defend the island and serve as a testimonial to our existence as a free nation.”
“George Washington would have loved it,” Will said to Owen who had ridden up beside him.
“You ever meet George Washington?” Owen asked.
“A handful of times, but nothing of significance. He had more important things on his mind.”
Washington’s mortal remains-his skull and a handful of bleached bones in a leather container-had been turned over to Stark by Cornwallis as a goodwill gesture. He could just as easily have dumped them in the river, but he hadn’t. Now they were interred at Washington’s estate at Mount Vernon at the request of his widow, Martha, who had been living quietly with relatives. There had been thought of building an enormous cathedral for his remains, but the forceful widow had put her small foot down and the thought was forgotten. For some reason, the British hadn’t destroyed the Washingtons’ elegant Mount Vernon home. Perhaps they had envisioned a plantation on the Potomac as a residence for some new British lord once the war was over.
The British frigates had disappeared from view. The last of their sails vanished beneath the curve of the earth. “They’re well and truly gone, Will,” Owen said.
“Truly gone indeed, Owen, but now we have a nation to build.”