Sophia's War Page 2

  Mother latched the front door and said, “At least we have our home and savings.”

  “And William,” I insisted.

  Though I knew Mother was in great anxiety about him too, all she said was “We can only pray for good news.” Then, after a painful sigh—a better reflection of her feelings—she said, “We’d best try to put things in order.”

  I found some ease in doing something useful.

  We were still cleaning when a harsh pounding came upon our door. Hoping it was one of our neighbors, I hastened to open it. Standing before the house was a troop of five British soldiers, all armed.

  4

  IN FRONT OF the soldiers stood an officer in a red regimental jacket complete with gold facings. He had a lengthy nose, a jutting chin, and a severe frown. A sword was at his side.

  “Sophia,” Mother called. “Who is it?”

  When I could find no words to reply, Mother came up behind me and looked. When she did, she gasped.

  The officer made a curt bow. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said in a Scot’s accent. “Captain Mackenzie. Is your husband at home?”

  “He’s—We expect Mr. Calderwood soon, sir,” said Mother.

  “Where is he?” he snapped.

  “I’m not sure, sir,” Mother replied. “He’s been hiding from the rebel army.”

  Her words took me by surprise. I had never known Mother to lie.

  “There’s nothing from which to hide, madam,” said the officer. “They have been roundly defeated. Your husband’s name?”

  “Hiram Calderwood.”

  Captain Mackenzie made a gesture. One of the soldiers, a sheaf of papers in hand, came forward and sorted through his lists. “He’s here, sir,” he announced.

  Captain Mackenzie nodded and said, “Good.” To my mother he said, “What’s your husband’s trade?”

  “A scrivener, sir. He most often works for Mr. Rivington and Mr. Gaine.”

  “I know naught of them.”

  “They publish loyalist newspapers.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” said Captain Mackenzie dryly. Next moment he issued an order to his men: “Search the house.”

  The redcoats acted as if we were not there. They opened cupboards, poked about the hearth—thank goodness we had retrieved the money—and went upstairs, where they searched under my parents’ bed, hauled out my trundle bed, and even broke open a trunk from which they dragged winter blankets. All was strewn about. Loathing them with all my heart, I renewed my rebellious vows.

  Their most intense search was in Father’s office. Papers and books were scrutinized. At one point, a soldier approached the captain with a pamphlet in his hand.

  Captain Mackenzie read the title aloud. “Common Sense,” he announced. “Do you know what this is, madam?”

  “No, sir,” said Mother. Another falsehood!

  “An incitement to rebellion,” said the captain. “I presume your husband read this. Does he credit what it says?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Calderwood doesn’t, sir,” said my mother.

  I know otherwise, I thought with pride.

  Grimacing, Captain Mackenzie ripped the pamphlet and tossed the pieces away. To my mother, he said, “Madam, if your husband does not return soon, he’ll be accounted a rebel and shall lose this house. If he does come back, he must subscribe his allegiance to the king at Scots Tavern, near City Hall. I warmly advise, madam, he wear the red ribbon to identify himself as a loyal subject.” He made a motion. One of the soldiers opened a pouch and held out a strip of red cloth.

  Mother bobbed a curtsy and took it. “I’ll be sure to tell him, sir.”

  “Finally,” the officer went on, “that room, where I presume your husband conducts his business, must be converted into your own sleeping quarters. The upstairs room will be taken over by the army.”

  “Sir?”

  “My orders are to find accommodations for our officers. You’ll be paid rent for the officer’s billeting.”

  “When will your officer arrive?”

  “Soon. Be so kind as to have the upstairs rooms in order. Good day to you, madam!”

  Captain Mackenzie made a curt bow and ordered his soldiers to depart.

  I shut the door behind them. Furious, I turned to Mother. “What were they looking for?”

  “Evidence that your father was a rebel.”

  I declared, “Father cannot sign that oath.”

  Mother, fingering the red ribbon, said, “Sophia, Mr. Calderwood will sign that oath if we wish to remain here.”

  “But if he doesn’t believe—”

  “Child!” snapped Mother. “What we think and what we say can no longer be the same! And we must not mention William.”

  I took refuge in the fact that she called me “child” only when distraught.

  “What if he appears?”

  She glared at me. “Did you not see that hanging?”

  That silenced me, for a moment. Then I said, “When do you think that British officer—the one who will stay here—will come?”

  “The officer said ‘soon,’” Mother answered. “Let’s trust that Mr. Calderwood comes first, and unharmed. But you heard the officer. If your father doesn’t arrive, we’ll lose this house.”

  “He will come, won’t he?”

  “I pray.”

  “We need William here.”

  “Sophia,” my mother said in her most severe voice, “find your own courage!”

  I was too dismayed to speak.

  “Let’s get back to work,” said Mother, and she began by gathering up the torn pages of Common Sense and tossing them into the hearth.

  In haste, I set to. All the while, I wondered what it would be like to have a stranger in our home. A British officer at that! I kept thinking of the officer who led Captain Hale to his death. What if he came to live with us. Or another as brutal? I supposed all were alike. Whoever he was, I knew I should despise him. But how would I ever learn to keep my emotions bottled? I was an ardent patriot. If I could not keep it secret, I knew the consequence.

  Then I reminded myself: it didn’t matter what I felt. Regardless, there was a fair likelihood we might yet lose our home, and worse.

  5

  AFTER WE HAD worked, cleaning and scrubbing and putting such furniture as remained back in place, Mother stood in the center of the almost empty common room. Her face was tense, her eyes closed. I could see her suffering.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “to have been cross. It’s difficult to know what to say or do.”

  “Could we send a message to Father that he needs to hurry?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Is there any place we could search for William?”

  “I don’t know where except that new prison.”

  “Then we should go,” I urged.

  Mother found a pin and attached the red ribbon to her sleeve. “Hopefully,” she said, “this will protect us.”

  Latching the door, we set out along Broadway toward the Commons, some eight or nine streets north. The nearer we approached, the more British troops we saw.

  I have learned that heart and eyes are one. That’s to say, one can see a thing, but when one is linked to it, the seeing is different. I had observed the new prison before. This time, as I drew closer, aware that my brother could be a prisoner, I now grasped how formidable a fortress it was.

  It had two stories of brick, some fifteen windows across—all with visible bars. The center section was three stories high. Chimneys stood at either end, plus four in the middle. Before the entryway stood a troop of redcoats on guard. A fence was all about.

  We stood and studied it. “Come,” Mother said at last. We moved toward the entryway and stopped in front of the soldiers.

  “Please, sir,” Mother said to an officer who seemed to be in charge. “Can I find out if my son is in the prison?”

  “A rebel?”

  “He joined General Washington’s army.”

  “You can apply for information at
the City Hall.”

  “But—”

  “Move on, madam!”

  We retreated.

  Struggling not to cry, I waited for Mother to decide what next to do. At length she said, “We’d best find some food.”

  Turning south and east, not talking, me gripping her arm, we went along narrow Maiden Lane toward the Fly Market, where we usually did our marketing. The market was by the East River docks, near the Long Island ferry.

  When we met a few friends, news was exchanged in hushed and uneasy tones. Mother spoke of the hanging we had witnessed. That’s how we learned the young man’s name. In addition, we were told how the American soldiers, having retreated through Manhattan, had continued their withdrawal. Though almost cut off by the English, most (so we were informed) happily reached security. The American troops did strike back with some small success, but our forces were obliged to retreat farther. The only patriot soldiers remaining on Manhattan Island were at the far north end, in Fort Washington. Whereas New York’s population had been some twenty thousand, hardly more than five thousand civilians remained.

  “We are at the mercy of the British,” a friend of my mother’s confided. Another said, “It’s the end of patriot dreams.”

  Though I refused to believe that, it was not for me, a girl, to dispute such thoughts.

  When we reached the Fly Market, it was startling to see what had happened. Beneath the long, open shed, many stalls had been abandoned or destroyed. Remaining vendors had little to offer. The shortages were because the ferries, which normally brought food from Long Island and Jersey, had been curtailed. Accordingly, costs were shockingly high. We were lucky to get an old cabbage, a three-pound loaf of stale bread, and some Indian corn for fourteen pence.

  We hurried home. When we got there, I was relieved that the British officer had not arrived. However, neither had Father. Or William.

  After I drew water from the street pump on Broadway, Mother cooked the cabbage in the hearth, using the one pot that had not been stolen. For firewood, we used pieces of broken chairs. To light the fire I had to go two houses down, to Mr. Porteus’s house, and beg a glowing ember from a frightened servant. The fire lit, the pages of Common Sense withered like dead flowers.

  By the time we had eaten and tidied as best we could, it was dark. Our inside shutters were closed. Father still had not returned. No word of William.

  As Mother and I sat in the tense and murky stillness, I heard the tramp of feet on the street. I leaped up, cracked open a shutter, and peeked out. A troop of British soldiers was marching down the way. As they passed, I heard the shouted command: “All citizens shall remain in their homes during curfew on pain of severe punishment!” It was repeated, ever fainter, as the crier passed along.

  I crept back to Mother. The same fears I had before—about Father, William, the war—filled my mind and heart. Both were heavy. We did not speak, just held hands.

  In time, she said, “Best to bed.”

  As she banked the fire, I latched the front door. We bedded in my parents’ room, on the second floor. As we lay down—fully clothed—I was aware that we were sleeping there for the last time. I slept by her side, not in the low trundle where I usually reposed.

  I could not rest. My worrying was too intense. I kept trying to rid myself, too, of images of that hanging. Oh, the pity I felt for that young man. The cruelty! I could not deny the fear and hatred I had of the British soldiers.

  Which comes first, I asked myself, fear or hatred?

  By the moonlight that seeped through our one small window, I wondered what trials would be ours on the morrow. Accordingly, I prayed hard, not only for Father’s and for William’s safety, but that our cause would not falter, and that I might find courage for myself. Though not sure it would be bestowed, I knew I would need it.

  Indeed, I did need it and very soon.

  6

  DAYLIGHT CAME AFTER but a poor night’s sleep. I worked first with Mother cleaning the upstairs room, and then we turned Father’s office into a bedroom for the three of us. It was good to be busy, for it distracted me from dismal thoughts of Father and William. Yet as hours passed, with no word from either, my concerns only multiplied.

  Mother gave permission for me to go to the nearby homes of two dear friends, Pamela Jones and Constance Wright. I found their houses boarded, doors marked “GR,” or “George Rex.” Such a mark meant the British Army considered the occupants rebels and that they were taking possession of the house. I had no idea where my friends were. Indeed, I never saw them again.

  When night came, I told myself that Father and William would—must—be home next day. At least the house was in readiness.

  That night, as we went to bed in the new room, I listened to the watch going by: “All citizens shall remain in their homes during curfew on pain of severe punishment!”

  Huddled beneath the blanket, I began to wish Father would not come until the morning. After a while, there were no further sounds, not even the normal tread of the city’s black slaves carrying night soil to the river. With that thought, I drifted into sleep.

  In the middle of the night, a sound woke me. I sat up but saw nothing save a blade of pale golden moonlight sliding through a gap in the window shutter. Uncertain if I had really heard anything, I listened hard. A creaking; perhaps a swinging sign. The bang of what I hoped was a shutter. The soft moan of wind, which my brainwork told me was the despondent soul of Captain Hale. Perhaps he knew of my pity and had come in search of comfort.

  Shivering, I sank beneath the blanket and edged closer to Mother, only to hear the noise come again. That time I was sure it was tapping. When it came yet again, I became convinced it was upon our front door.

  “Mother—”

  She stirred. “What?”

  “I think someone’s at our door.”

  She pushed herself up. We both listened. The tapping came again.

  I squeezed her arm, “Do you think it’s that officer? Are they about to take our house?”

  “Stay,” she said, then slipped out of bed, wrapped her robe about, and went into the common room. I crept after her and watched as she pressed against the door. “Who is it?” she called.

  “It’s me!” I heard.

  Father’s voice!

  Mother pulled the door open, and there was Father. My heart rejoiced! But then he staggered forward, and in the feeble light, I saw how gaunt and ill he appeared. His clothing was torn and, in places, blood spattered.

  In haste, Mother shut and latched the door behind him. Swinging about, she tried to embrace him. He winced and moved away, panting so, he could not speak. He was holding his right arm in an awkward position.

  “Mr. Calderwood!” cried Mother. “What’s happened?”

  “As I was . . . coming through . . . the lines,” he stammered, “I was shot. Struck in the arm. But I am overjoyed to see you, Miss Saville.” Molly Saville was Mother’s maiden name, and Father would, in moments of affection, call her “Miss Saville.”

  Mother guided him to the settle. Using an ember from the hearth, she lit a candle. Wide-eyed, I stood by as she stripped off his torn and bloody shirt. He recoiled in pain. When I saw a jagged wound in the upper part of his right arm, I shrank back.

  He said, “Any news of William?”

  When Mother said, “Nothing,” he closed his eyes.

  “Fetch some water!” Mother called to me.

  I grabbed pot and candle, and, heedless of the night watch, dashed out to the street pump. When I got back, the fire was ablaze. As Mother heated the water, Father told us haltingly what had happened to him.

  Word had come to the farm where we’d been that British troops were scouring the countryside, arresting all men, rebel or no. Fearful of what might happen if soldiers arrived at the farm, and not wishing to make difficulties for his friends, he started for home as soon as night descended. Somewhere north of town, he came upon a British patrol. Not stopping lest he be taken prisoner, he bolted. That’s when
he was shot.

  “I don’t think the ball struck bone,” he said in a low, strained voice. Each passing moment he seemed to weaken.

  Mother turned to me. “Sophia, you need to get Dr. Dastuge.” The doctor lived farther down along Broadway.

  Even as I heard my mother speak, I, recollecting the crier’s call, “All citizens shall remain in their homes on pain of severe punishment,” was too fearful to move.

  “Sophia, it’s urgent! You just went for water. And it will be dawn soon. You must go now. No, wait!”

  She hurried to where we had been sleeping. When she returned, the red ribbon was in her hand. After placing my cape about my shoulders, she pinned the red ribbon to the collar.

  “Shall I take the candle?”

  “It will only draw attention. Now quickly!” she said. “And be watchful.” Opening the door, she all but shoved me out.

  7

  THE LATCH CLICKED behind me. Waiting for my heart to settle, I stood on the stone step and gazed about. Not so much as a needle of light escaped from the house. To the east, a little light—a band of Dutch orange—lay low, a promise of a fair day. In the air, a tang of salt sea, along with a whiff of charred wood. From somewhere overhead, a squawking seagull.

  Though most city streets were narrow and crooked, Broadway was wide and straight, so I was able to glance up and down. Not a soul. I reminded myself where I had to go, a few streets in a southerly direction. Normally an easy walk. At that moment it seemed very far.

  Shivering with cold fear, I strengthened my will by reminding myself of Father’s need. But as I set off, my heartbeat, my panting breath, my footsteps on cobblestones, seemed as loud as thunderstorms. Nay, louder. But then, all noise alarms when it is surrounded by a fearsome silence.