Sophia's War (6 page)

“Has he fled?”

The boy studied me before answering, as if trying to decide what to say. The thought came:
No one knows whom to trust
. When he spoke, it was only to say, “I suppose he'll be back.”

“When?”

“Soon, maybe. Not sure. Who are you? What do you want?”

“My father is Mr. Calderwood. He does copy work for Mr. Gaine.”

“The
Mercury
is being published by Mr. Serle these days. Lord Howe's man.”

I said, “My father sends his respects and says he's prepared to work for your master again.”

“Want me to tell Mr. Serle?”

“If you'd be so kind.”

“And if Mr. Gaine gets back, I'll tell him.”

The “if” word again.

“Good day,” the servant boy murmured, and turned back to the floor.

I said, “What are you doing?”

“Picking up type. Got all dumped. Always happening.”

“Good day,” I said again, and retreated.

Not sure what my parents would make of the disappointing news about Mr. Gaine and Mr. Rivington, I set off for home, going along Willard Street.

I had not gone far when I heard the tramp of feet. Turning, I saw, hedged in by armed British soldiers, a parade of ragged men. A fair number had bandages wrapped about heads or arms, some of which bore brown stains of old blood. To a man, they had disconsolate looks and did not walk so much as shuffle. I recognized a few as citizens of the town who had been active among the radicals. One I think was William's friend.

In front of this procession marched the same portly, red-haired officer I had seen leading Captain Hale to his death. Just to see him made me fear that these prisoners were to suffer the same fate as Captain Hale.

Though I searched for my brother among the men, he was not to be found. I did wonder if anyone had news of him but was sure I'd not be allowed to exchange words.

I turned to a gentleman who, like me, had paused to watch.

“Where are they being taken?” I said.

“Off to the new jail, the Bridewell, I suspect. That's the provost, Cunningham, in the lead.”

I glanced about nervously. “What will happen to them?”

“The prisoners? No notion,” said the man, without much sympathy, I thought.

My heart heavy, I watched the wretched men go by. Behind them, I saw two additional British officers. In utter contrast to the prisoners, they were dressed with
care, in scarlet coats with blue facings, sash and sword. They wore high busbies. The two were talking to each other with animation and laughing.

As I looked on, I noticed a prisoner who struggled somewhat behind the others. One of the officers also saw him. He drew his sword—which made me recoil—and with the flat of it, struck the man on his backside, shouting, “Move on, rebel!”

Even as he hit the defenseless prisoner, he laughed. I detested him with all my heart.

When the prisoners continued to march northward, the young officer did not follow. Instead, he glanced at a piece of paper he had in hand, saluted his fellow officer, then turned west down Maiden Lane.

Though it vexed me greatly that this cruel fellow was going in the same direction I must go, there was nothing for it but to follow. Not wishing to be near, I kept back and waited for him to turn off in some other direction.

Alas, he continued to walk the same way as I, going straight until he reached Broadway. There he paused, consulted his paper, and moved toward our house. When I saw him knock upon
our
door, it came to me like summer thunder: this cruel British soldier must be our boarder.

10

MOTHER OPENED THE DOOR.

The officer touched his hat in a salute and made a slight bow. “Madam,” I heard him say in a bright, cheerful fashion, “your most humble servant. Lieutenant John André, Seventh Foot, Royal Fusiliers.”

Mother stared at him in astonishment. She said, “How can I help you, sir?”

The lieutenant held out his paper. “It's my pleasant duty to inform you, madam, that I have been ordered by Commandant Robertson to reside here. While I have no doubt it may be somewhat inconvenient, such are the fortunes of war. I assure you, madam, it's my desire that you will find me courteous, appreciative, and no burden to your generous hospitality.”

It was not a speech I expected.

Mother, clearly uncertain what to do or say, stood gawking at the soldier. Then she noticed me standing on the street, looking on. “Sophia,” she called. “Come. Our boarder has arrived.”

The officer turned and I truly saw him. He was a youngish man of middling height, olive complexioned,
with black hair and a cheerful, graceful air. Upon seeing me, he offered a bright smile, which I had to admit was frank and open.

To my mother he said, “Is this your daughter?”

“Yes, sir, she is.”

“Your servant,” he said to me, with a bit of a dip. In all my life, I had never been bowed to before, much less heard such polite address as “Your servant.” Besides, I thought myself a girl, not a lady. That said, I was flattered. Indeed, his cheerful civility put me into confusion, from which I was saved when Mother said to him, “Please come in, sir.”

Even then the soldier paused, turned toward me, and with a polite gesture, indicated that he wished
me
to enter first. His condescension was a further bewilderment to me, who had resolved to hate the man. Yet I could hardly remain upon the street. Instead, in what I thought was a haughty, frosty manner (childishly contrived), I walked past him and into the house.

He took off his tall hat and followed.

The three of us stood in the common room in momentary awkwardness. The lieutenant gazed at the sparseness and spoke to my mother, with an occasional glance at me. “Madam, I thank you for your welcome,” he said as if he had been an invited guest. “My primary regret is that it's this war, this unnatural rebellion—like some brother-to-brother squabble—which brings us together.

“My deepest desire is that our small differences will soon be peacefully resolved to the benefit of all. In the meanwhile, I am sure we can make the best of it. I am
not one to rise at a feather. And when I tell you that I have only lately come from the wilds of Pennsylvania, where I was held a prisoner by a greasy committee of dullards, you may believe I'm heartily delighted to be here.”

The kind speech flustered my thoughts.

“Thank you, sir,” Mother said. “Shall we show you your room?”

“You are most kind.”

Mother turned to me. “Sophia, be so good . . . ”

That she had asked me to do the honors took me by surprise, until I grasped that she needed to inform Father who had come, so as to decide what to reveal to the officer about his condition.

It was I, then, who led John André to our upstairs room. Once there he gazed about. “This will be fine,” he said. “And a trundle bed! Perfect for my servant. And your name is Sophia?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled with approval. “They say His Majesty's favorite daughter has that name.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. Though I doubted that was why my parents chose it, I was gratified he liked it.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twelve.”

“You seem older.”

I felt my face flush.

“An only child?”

Though I wished he had
not
said “child,” I said, “I am, sir, yes.”

He did not seem to notice my hesitation.

“Do you like music?” he asked.

“I do, sir.”

“Excellent! I play the flute. I shall be pleased to have you for an audience. And you must know that you are a pretty miss, and someday, if you will give permission, I will make a sketch of you. I have some talent there.”

“You are kind,” I said, a weak response to his gallant banter.

“And your father,” he said. “What occupation does he follow?”

“A scrivener, sir.”

“Excellent! A man of letters. Do you read and write, Sophia?”

“Yes, sir. I've read Richardson, Fielding, and—” I almost said Mr. Paine but caught myself.

“Wondersome! You and I shall get on. I must admit, sometimes I try to write poetry.” He turned toward the steps and paused to let me go first, which I did.

Mother was in the common room, waiting for us.

The lieutenant said, “A most satisfactory accommodation, madam.”

“Will you be moving right in?” she asked.

“As soon as my servant can bring my things. As I said, I've just been released in a prisoner exchange. I don't have very much.”

“This servant of yours, will he be staying here too?”

“Peter? Of course.” He made a step to the door.

“Sir,” said Mother.

John André paused to look at her.

“My husband, Mr. Calderwood, is in bed, in the back room. In all candor, sir, I must tell you he was wounded in the fighting.”

A play of sorrow flitted upon the lieutenant's face. “I trust he's in good health?”

“The doctor has seen him.”

“I am glad to hear it. Shall we agree that I won't need to know under what circumstance he received his regrettable wound?”

“You are most kind, sir.”

He bowed. “I wish you a good evening, madam.”

And John André went.

Mother and I exchanged looks of pleasurable surprise. “Perhaps,” she said, “we have been lucky.”

“He plays music,” I said, barely suppressing my newfound enthusiasm. “And draws and likes to read.”

Mother studied me. “I think he's already charmed you,” she said.

“He asked me if I was an only child.”

“What did you say?”

“That I was. Mother,” I went on, “he's not at all what I thought he'd be.” In truth, I was pixie-led.

Mother looked at me so fixedly, I hurried into the back room to inform Father that Mr. Gaine was not in the city.

“We shall have to be patient.” Then he said, “Sophia, it will be you who will need to search for William.”

“Why?”

“With this officer lodging here, it might be suspicious if your mother went out too frequently.”

“Yes, Father.”

“At least we are here and safe. We must be proud—if quiet—that William is defending our liberties.”

In my thoughts, however, I was already impatient for the return of the lieutenant. Yet that was the last thing I was prepared to share with my parents. Nor did I tell them how I'd first seen John André.

11