Sophia's War

  Contents

  PART ONE: 1776

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  PART TWO: 1780

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Glossary of Eighteenth-Century Words

  Author’s Note

  Bibliography

  FOR KILEY FRANK

  Dear Reader:

  It is a terrible thing to see a man hang. But that is why I did what I did. Was I right to act in such a way? You must decide. If, when you reach my last words, you cannot forgive me, so be it. Just know that although you will not find me in any history book, I shall tell the truth about what happened no matter how painful to me, the authoress of these words. For on these pages I have dared to put my trust in your heart.

  Sophia Calderwood

  PART ONE

  1776

  1

  IN THE MOMENTOUS year of 1776, on the twenty-second of September, my mother and I were rushing back to the city of New York. New York was where I was born, and where I had lived peacefully until just a few weeks before, when we had fled in fear for our lives. The war for our country’s independence had come to our door.

  First, my brother, William, along with thousands of other patriot soldiers, ferried across the East River to the village of Brooklyn to defend the city from a British attack. Alarmed by the danger, my father warned us we might have to leave. And indeed, the Americans lost that battle and retreated through Manhattan as Great Britain gained complete control of the city.

  But there was no news of William.

  Desperately worried, I could only hope he was still with General Washington’s army, and not taken prisoner. At times—though no one spoke it—we feared he had he been killed.

  Too frightened to wait until we could find out, Father had said we must leave our house. It was a wise decision. Soon after British troops occupied New York, a fire erupted and destroyed many buildings. But since we had taken flight to a friend’s farm north of the city, we lacked information about our home’s condition. Knowing that everything we had—money and possessions—might have been consumed in the fire, much of our lives was in awful derangement. After some days passed, Father and Mother decided that we must go home—if we still had one—and try to reclaim our lives.

  Not sure how secure the way would be, Father made the decision that Mother and I, being females, should travel first. It was his belief that English soldiers would not harm a mother and child. “Are they not,” he said, “our kinsmen and a civilized people?” Moreover, we would travel on a Sunday, Lords Day. Surely, all would be peaceful. As soon as Father determined that the roads were not dangerous for him, he would follow.

  So it was that before dawn on Sunday morning, Mother and I, full of disquietude, set out to walk the twelve miles to the city. With me clutching Mother’s hand tightly and barely looking up, we took the road called Harlem Lane. I may have been willowy for my twelve years of age, and my name was Sophia (the Greek word for “wisdom”), but you could just as well have called me “Frightened” and been done with it. In truth, as we hurried along, all my thoughts were on William. He must come home!

  It was late morning when we reached the outskirts of New York. By then my wood-soled shoes were soaking wet, my ankle-length linsey-woolsey dress was mud spattered, and the laces of my bonnet—a mobcap—would not stay tied.

  As we approached a ripe apple orchard, we observed a group of red-coated British soldiers, armed with muskets and bayonets, marching toward us. By their side, a drummer boy beat slow swinking strokes. An officer, a heavy, sweating man with a nose as bright red as his hair and uniform, strode along in high, black jack-boots. Following him was a Negro. His slave, I supposed.

  In the middle of the soldiers was a man whose hands were tied behind his back. Looking to be in his mid-twenties, and some six feet in height, he was considerably taller than the soldiers who surrounded him. Dressed in civilian clothing, he wore no jacket and had a white muslin shirt open at the collar. His light brown hair was arranged pigtail-style. In the slanting morning light, I noticed his blue eyes. I will admit, I thought him handsome.

  The young man walked with a dignified bearing, but his face was anything but serene. Rather, he bore a look of pale, raw intensity, with a gaze that appeared to be on nothing and everything at the same moment.

  “What are they doing with that young man?” I said in a low voice to Mother.

  She squeezed my hand, and in as fearful a voice as I had ever heard her utter, she said, “I think they are about to hang him.”

  Openmouthed, I watched as the men approached an apple tree upon which a ladder leaned. From a stout branch, a noose hung. Just beyond gaped an open grave, with a grave digger standing by, shovel in hand. We stopped and, along with a few other citizens, watched.

  When the officer shoved the prisoner to the foot of the ladder, I heard the young man say, “May I have a . . . Bible?” His voice, low and steady, broke on the last word.

  “No Bibles for damned rebel spies!” the officer shouted as if he wished us onlookers to hear. “Hoist him,” he commanded.

  Three redcoats, their faces blank, stepped forward. Two grabbed the young man’s arms as if to restrain him, though I saw no attempt to break free. Would that he had! The third soldier placed the noose round the prisoner’s neck and forced him up the ladder steps, even as another drew the rope tight under his chin.

  As they did these things, each beat of the pulsing drum stabbed my heart.

  Mother covered her lips with her fingers.

  “Do you wish to confess?” the officer shouted.

  I think the youth replied, but I was so appalled, I could not comprehend his words. In fact, such was my distress that I cried, “Have pity, sir. For God’s sake!”

  The officer glared at me. “Be still, missy, or you’ll come to the same fate!”

  I shrank behind Mother but peeked round to watch.

  The officer turned back to his soldiers and shouted, “Swing the rebel off!”

  One of the soldiers kicke
d the ladder away. The young man dropped. I gasped. His neck must have broken, for he died in an instant. Perhaps that was God’s mercy. Sometimes a hanging is nothing but slow strangulation.

  Mother, pulling my hand, said, “Sophia! Come!” Sobbing, I stumbled away.

  Later we learned that the young man’s name was Nathan Hale. Over time, his death proved of greater consequence than his life. Without any doubt, it altered the history of my country as it altered mine. Indeed, what I had just witnessed was the beginning of my extraordinary adventures.

  I shall tell you what happened.

  2

  FIRST, HOWEVER, YOU must know about my brother.

  At seventeen years of age, William was five foot nine, with a lean face and bright eyes that seemed to want to observe everything. Such were his high spirits and boundless curiosity that Father referred to him—with a smile—as “our young fox.”

  The natural leader of many friends, William was determined to become a lawyer, a profession my parents encouraged. Once he even confided to me that his goal was nothing less than to become governor of the New York Colony. In short, he was the family heir, name, and hope. Our entire future. I was certain there was nothing he could not do.

  Not only was William an early believer in our country’s independence, he favored the abolition of slavery and thought women should be educated. Thus, it was William—not my parents—who took time to teach me my letters and how to write. Not only did I learn to read well and fast, he said my understanding and memory were excellent.

  Whereas Mother believed such education would diminish my chance of marriage, William proclaimed, “Only a man who can esteem Sophia’s intelligence is worthy of her beauty.”

  What sister could not adore such a brother?

  While William was an early follower of the radical Mr. Thomas Paine, Father was of a more traditional bent. They would debate for hours at a time, and enjoyed it. I tried to follow and, you may be sure, took William’s side.

  That said, the many swirling disputes and political events of 1776 were not fully understood by me. With patience, William tried to educate me. He talked, taught, and catechized me endlessly about our rights, freedoms, and natural liberties. He read me Mr. Paine’s Common Sense in its entirety. Hardly a wonder that I considered my elder brother the source of all wisdom. Let it be said, that I, despite my age, could give an earnest defense of our rightful freedoms.

  In September 1775, William began attending King’s College. How proud I was to see him in his smart new black suit and cocked hat, with a volume of John Locke’s A Letter Concerning Toleration, a gift from Father, tucked under his arm! He soon became friends with other young radicals, including Alexander Hamilton.

  For some time, but especially during 1775 and into 1776, there had been turmoil in New York City. Disturbances and violent clashes erupted between those who supported the British monarchy (people labeled them “Tories” or “loyalists”), and those who, like my brother (and me), believed passionately that our liberties were being stolen by that “great brute” (Mr. Paine’s words) King George III and his Parliament. The defenders of our rights—like William and his friends—called themselves “patriots.” My own friends and I did no less.

  The Boston Massacre, the battles of Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill, made the discord in New York more intense and brought on riots.

  To the far north, Fort Ticonderoga was captured by the patriots Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold. They removed the cannons and dragged them on sleds across New England, where they were used to liberate Boston.

  Patriots everywhere rejoiced, none more so than I did.

  Nonetheless, pro-British Tories remained in charge of the city. Red-coated British troops marched out of Fort George and tried to suppress what they called “the mob,” the group that called itself the Sons of Liberty. William’s college was closed. As a result, he became ever more active in politics and marched with the local militia.

  As he paraded by, I stood near the road and cheered.

  In the spring of 1776, patriot soldiers, led by General Charles Lee, came into town and simply took over. They forced the loyalists to give way.

  Then George Washington and his Continental troops entered New York. When they arrived, many Tories—including the mayor—fled to safer havens along the Hudson Valley, to Long Island, Charleston, even to London.

  William took me down to Bowling Green, by Fort George, and pointed out British ships of war, which lay anchored in the city’s lower bay. “That’s where many of the Tory cowards have fled,” he told me. “Onto those ships.”

  Never mind that the ships bristled with guns.

  But with the dispersal of the Tories, it was as though the plague had come to New York. The city became strangely vacant of citizens. Houses closed. Shops locked. As patriot soldiers prepared for the inevitable British attack, the town became a military camp. Many of our beautiful trees were chopped down so fortifications could be erected. Barricades were built. Few water vendors were to be seen on the streets. Merchant ships remained tied up at the wharfs, their sails furled like folded arms. Trade by land and sea—the true life of the town—all but ceased.

  I was pleased to inform my anxious parents that “we” patriots could not fail to prevail.

  Then in late June, an immense British fleet arrived and anchored in the Narrows, just off Staten Island. William took me to Fort George again, from where I saw a vast forest of masts.

  He gazed at the formidable threat. “I promise you,” he told me, “liberty shall always triumph over tyranny.”

  I had not a single doubt that he was right.

  It was about then that he, at the urging of his good friend John Paulding, joined George Washington’s army. So it was that just before that Brooklyn battle, William and John Paulding marched bravely away, muskets on their shoulders, sprigs of green in their hats in lieu of real uniforms. Sure that our soldiers, including my brother and his friend, would protect us, I cheered them off with pride.

  Then, on August 22, in Brooklyn, more than fifteen thousand English and German troops attacked. Our soldiers were utterly defeated. Many were killed. As many as two thousand patriots were taken prisoner. Only a deft stratagem—and a thick fog—allowed General Washington to bring his reduced army back to Manhattan Island.

  As one who could recite the crimes the British had committed—the ones cited in our Independence Declaration—I never considered that such a defeat could happen. Were not patriots in the right? Would not God Himself favor us? Was not our cause just? Was not my brave brother there?

  When news of the defeat spread, as the patriot army fled through and away from the city, we patriots were greatly alarmed. I needed William to return. And his friend, too, Mr. Paulding.

  We waited as long as it was deemed prudent. Then Father said we must find safety.

  Shortly after we left, the fire erupted that destroyed a quarter of the town’s buildings. The British claimed American rebels set it, and were on the lookout for arsonists and spies. Thus it came to be that Captain Nathan Hale—in regular life a schoolteacher in Connecticut—was taken.

  Captured on Long Island, Hale was tricked into revealing that he was a spy for General Washington. He was hauled into town, where the British Lord General Howe, head of the British Army, condemned him to be hung the next day. That, to my everlasting horror, is what we witnessed.

  Dear Reader, I beg you, do not forget that Captain Hale was hung for being a spy. Over time, these consequences were enormous for me.

  At that time, when American expectations were so badly bent, you may well understand my chief concern was William.

  But I beg you not to misunderstand. I was still a passionate, if young, patriot.

  3

  AFTER WITNESSING CAPTAIN Hale’s death, Mother and I, too numb to speak, continued into town. Passing Fresh Pond and then the Commons, we saw countless military tents. English soldiers, fully armed and in red uniforms, formed a sea of scarlet. German troops—ma
ny of whom bore fierce mustaches—were in their green uniforms. Scot troops were in their kilts.

  We passed the new prison, called Bridewell. Though not fully built, men were being marched in. “Prisoners,” Mother murmured. I prayed that William was still with General Washington.

  On city streets, we saw that cobblestones had been pulled up. Barricades remained. As we reached Broadway, we began to grasp the great devastation wrought by the fire. Even beautiful Trinity Church was destroyed. Its gigantic steeple of 175 feet, its roof, and all within were gone, including a fine organ and library. The church building stood like part of its own forlorn cemetery.

  Misery was everywhere. Tattered, soot-smudged citizens, reduced to beggary, poked though the wreckage of homes, searching midst scorched wood, blackened red bricks, and charred cedar roof shingles. The stench was awful.

  Greatly agitated, Mother and I, holding our dresses up to avoid the mud, all but ran down Broadway. I gained some assurance when I saw that the east side of Broadway—our side—appeared for the most part intact, the spaced-apart houses unharmed. Nevertheless, gardens, usually so splendid in September, were choked with ash and weed.

  Imagine our joy when we reached Wall Street and saw that our small, two-story wooden house was unscathed. Even better, the door was open. Perhaps William was home! We rushed inside.

  Alas, no one was there. Moreover, much was in shambles, with some furniture destroyed, dishes smashed, and our four pewter plates gone. The old brass candlestick, a family heirloom of a hundred years, had disappeared from the mantel. As for the food we left in storage—nothing remained.

  Mother went right to the hearth, stepped within, reached high, and pulled down the small iron chest Father had hidden. Opening it, she found our little hoard: twelve English sixpence, an English shilling, four crown pieces, plus two Spanish reales. Relief showed on Mother’s face. Then I found an overlooked candle box. We would have some light.

  But when we examined Father’s workplace at the back of the house, we found much of it in disarray. Father was a scrivener, a copier of legal documents as well as a copy editor for the newspaper publishers, both Mr. Rivington (publisher of the Gazette) and Mr. Gaine (publisher of the Mercury). Many of Father’s treasured books—his Johnson dictionary, his Pope, Locke, Richardson, his adored Robinson Crusoe—lay torn and broken. Spilled ink made frozen shadows on the floor. Quills lay scattered like a bird ripped apart.