Sophia's War Read online

  I’ll not deny I wished the war would end too, so William would be released. As for John André, I took satisfaction that I did not think of him, but prided myself on not thinking.

  Then, three days after Christmas, we heard the astonishing news that General Washington had captured the town of Trenton from German troops and went on to defeat British troops at Princeton. The patriot cause was alive. Among the few with whom we still communicated, there was elation.

  A confession: I was not so delighted. I knew what it meant: The war would continue. William was not going to be free. Then I realized I was thinking that the freedom of my country was something less important than the freedom of my brother.

  Ashamed of myself, but ever more desperate, I convinced my parents that I should take whatever money we had in hand and make an effort to see William. They agreed to let me try.

  I went back to the sugarhouse. As I stood before the building, I watched two armed redcoat guards pass back and forth in front of the door. What a stronghold it was that it took so few guards to secure it!

  Filled with apprehension, I gripped my money tightly in hand and stepped forward, waiting until one of the guards drew near.

  “Sir!” I called.

  The soldier halted and peered down at me but said nothing. An older man, tall and thin, he was what people call a dry-bones. His uniform was ill fitting and his equally wrinkled face bore a hook of a nose, dull eyes, and shaggy eyebrows. I wondered how many years he had been a soldier.

  “Please, sir,” I said. “I have a brother inside. A prisoner. I am desperate to see him.”

  “How do you know he’s here?”

  “A week ago, the guards at the King’s College told me so.”

  The soldier was silent for some moments before he said, “No one is allowed to visit.”

  I took a breath. “Would some coins help?”

  He peeked down at me with those graveyard eyes. “Likely,” he allowed.

  I stepped forward and held out some forty shillings—more than a week’s pay—in my cupped hands. “Will this do?”

  He studied the coins but said and did nothing.

  Reaching closer, I barely managed to say, “It’s all I have, sir.”

  He lifted his doleful gaze to my face, so that it took all my strength to look back. Then he said, “I got to share it with the other,” by which I took him to mean the other guard.

  “I beg you, sir, I don’t have more.”

  He was silent for a few more moments before stretching out his hand. When I poured the coins into his large palm, he transferred them to his powder pouch. “What’s his name?” he said.

  “William Calderwood.”

  “Follow me,” he said with a jerky movement of his head.

  I followed him up a few stone steps. Using a large key, he unlocked the heavy door, pushed, and stepped into the sugarhouse.

  How sweet the name, sugarhouse. How cruel the reality. For we had entered a dank, murky hallway, where I was immediately assaulted by a suffocating stench of sweat, dirt, and excrement. The ceiling was low. There was no heat. The stone floors were spread with damp and rotten straw. Beyond all else, it was astonishingly crowded with men, far too many for the space, like barely alive fish stuffed into a barrel.

  Some men were leaning against the walls. Others sat. Many more lay prostrate on the stone floor. All were foul, with but scant clothing, a few bits looking like old uniforms. What garments they had gave ill comfort against the raw cold and extreme grime. Many had crude bandages. Some were shackled in chains. Even in the murk, I could see bodies shaking, presumably with chills, fever, fear, or all three.

  When the guard and I appeared, gaunt, pallid faces turned to me, staring as if I were an apparition. Yet it was their faces, ghostlike, that begged for compassion. Not with words. They were as silent as ice.

  The guard bellowed, “Girl here for her brother! William Calderwood!”

  If they had told me William was dead, it could not have been more appalling than what was the response: nothing, nothing at all. Rather, these miserable men merely stared mutely at me with what I translated as wordless entreaties to do something, anything, to alleviate their degrading, putrid misery.

  Suppressing my impulse to gag, I called, “William! William!” Oh, but my voice was too frail and useless against this storehouse of horrors.

  When I received no answer, I had no choice but to wander about, calling, calling. The guard remained at my side.

  Each level of the building was divided into two large rooms, with, as I had first observed, low ceilings and naught but dim light seeping through the windows, windows further obscured by bars.

  The condition of the prisoners was, at best, horrendous. The scene I’d witnessed when first I entered was repeated everywhere. All was crowded. All was filth, reek, and the cruel calamity of human disintegration and rot.

  Constantly calling my brother’s name, I had to force myself on. When I received no response, my terror grew.

  Where is he?

  24

  I CALLED WILLIAM’S name many times. But it was not until I reached the fourth floor that I found him. He was in a corner, midst a cluster of other men, grouped as if to share desolation.

  He lay on the floor, looking far worse than when I saw him on the street with other prisoners. I could see for myself his thigh wound gave him much pain and was secreting greenish pus.

  Indeed, if ever I have observed the face of war, it was William. Body as thin as any fence rail, covered with grime, hair sparse and discolored, eyes red-rimmed, and his youth all leached away. What remained was like a bleached and empty shell upon a barren ocean shore.

  For his part, it was as if he did not believe anyone was seeking him. With effort, he pushed himself up on one skeletal elbow.

  “Sophia?” he asked like a kitten mewing.

  When my soldier guide stepped back with some crude courtesy, I dropped to my knees. William and I embraced. I am not ashamed to say that in our first moments we shared nothing but tears.

  In bits and pieces, he told me all that had happened, from the battle in Brooklyn, now months ago, his retreat through Manhattan, his placement in Fort Washington, the siege there. How he was wounded. His capture. “These are some of my comrades,” he said, indicating the men around him.

  “When we were first taken prisoner,” he told me, “the British and German soldiers went round in gangs and stole from us whatever things or comforts we had, even to our shoe buckles. They beat and kicked us repeatedly.

  “At King’s College, where I was first taken, they stole the bed clothing from those who were ill. There are many with prison fever. Many are dying here. The dead-cart comes and goes every day.”

  Repeatedly I told him how much he was loved, that we would do everything we could to help him.

  To my astonishment, even in that ghastly place, he asked, “Are we winning?”

  I told what good news I had, Arnold’s check of the British in the north. That General Washington had won great battles in Jersey. I did not tell him that the British had taken Newport.

  And what did he say to his companions? “The army is still alive.”

  In as low a voice as I could manage, I said, “Can one escape?”

  “Some have tried. Almost none succeed. It takes strength.”

  “Is there any way I can help?”

  “Food,” he said. “We lack food. And decent water.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “My love to Father and Mother.”

  “They are proud of you,” I said.

  We embraced anew, after which I took my leave.

  The soldier guided me out.

  “Why do you treat them so cruelly?” I burst out.

  He shrugged. “Call them prisoners and they’ve got rights. Better to call them rebels and say they’ve none. It’s easier.” Then he added, “Just know the army commissioners whose job it is to feed them grow fat.”

  Once outside, I gu
lped the cold, fresh air as if it were water and I were parched.

  I turned to the guard. “Can I bring him food and water?”

  He shrugged.

  I guessed his meaning. “How much?”

  “All you can.”

  I turned away and started for home.

  As if to hide the utter misery of what I had seen, the snow began to fall again. The cold had intensified. I recalled my brother’s question, “Are we winning?”

  What is winning? I wondered.

  As I walked away, the nearby church bell began to peal, as if announcing someone’s death. I wept all the way home, my hot tears freezing on my face.

  25

  THE NEW YEAR, 1777, arrived. It was a year, as someone said, that had three gallows in its name.

  It took me a week—the first week of the year—to earn what I thought was the necessary money to bribe my way back into the sugarhouse.

  So it was on a Sunday afternoon, after we had gone to services at St. Paul’s Church, that Mother filled my handbasket with bread, some meat, and a clay jar of water. At the bottom of the basket lay all the money we had been able to put aside.

  The day was much like the others we had been experiencing that early January; rock cold and blustery. Now and again snow swirled, like goose feathers dumped from a pillow. Above, the iron-gray sky hung low. Streets were deserted. The only sound was the munch of snow beneath my boots, like breaking bones.

  I had bundled myself as best I could, woolen cape held tight about my throat, cap pulled down, hands so chilled I kept switching them to carry the basket. On my cape, the ribbon of allegiance. Red, I thought, red with shame. Oh, Desperation, your other name is Deception.

  As I approached the sugarhouse, I was hoping the guard with whom I had dealt before would be there. I was not to be disappointed. Even from afar, I recognized his thin, gangly form. I went right to him.

  “A good morning to you, sir.”

  As if he had been in a doze, he started.

  “Do you remember me, sir?” I said. “You helped me find my prisoner brother the other day.”

  “Wondered if you’d come back.”

  I held up the basket. “I’ve brought some food for him and if—”

  He cut me off. “He’s no longer here.”

  “But where—?”

  “I saw him led off to the Good Intent.”

  “Forgive me, sir. I don’t know your meaning.”

  “He’s on a prison ship. In Hudson’s River.”

  “But you said, ‘the good intent.’”

  “A two-masted square rigger. The Good Intent is her name. Turned her into a prison ship.”

  “You jest.”

  “There’s no humor in me, miss.”

  I stood there in a state of disbelief. “Can I visit this ship?”

  “Don’t know. She’s just off the King’s Wharf. It’ll take money.”

  I stood unmoving for a while, dumbfounded, angry, and tormented, all of which rendered me incapable of deciding what to do. Except the aching need to do something.

  Next moment I whirled about, and with my momentary fury providing me some heat, I clutched my basket and started west and north, toward Hudson’s River.

  The King’s Wharf lay at the foot of Partition Street, somewhat north of where the Jersey Ferry used to run. To get there I had to walk through the burnt ruins of the city fire. In many places, people had patched together crude huts from salvaged timbers and discarded sails, so there were a fair number of tents. The area had even begun to be called “canvas town.” It was here that many of the freedom-seeking slaves were forced to live.

  Threads of rising smoke suggested little fires for small warmth and cooking. No doubt they used charred remains for fuel. The city was devouring itself.

  The King’s Wharf jutted into the river. Coils of rope, barrels, baskets, and crates lay about in no order. A rusty and cracked cannon lay on its side. Ships of various sizes—I noticed a sloop and schooner, plus one frigate—were tied to the wharf. Even as I stood there, the wharf creaked and groaned like a sick man.

  Beyond lay the wide Hudson’s River. In the glumming, Jersey was barely visible. Against the New York shore, clumps of mottled, grit-encrusted ice had formed, while farther out larger chunks floated by like deformed and filthy swans. I wondered if the whole river would freeze, as sometimes happened.

  Anchored in the river were more ships, which, by their cannon ports, I knew to be ships of war. Others I supposed were transports. I did see a two-masted brig, which appeared to be in ill repair. I wondered if it was the Good Intent, though its appearance dressed it to the contrary. To my eyes, the whole scene was composed of multiple shades of mumpish gray, devoid of any warmth of life, a corpse-colored landscape.

  As I approached the dock, I saw several soldiers seated on boxes. These boxes had been set round a large iron kettle, from which, as if some demon were being cooked, fingers of flickering flames reached up.

  The soldiers, their ruddy faces reflecting the hellish glow, held out their hands as if to grasp those fiery fingers. Nearby, their muskets stood upright like a gathering of frozen stalks of Indian corn.

  I removed the money from the bottom of the basket and put it into a pocket so I could reach it with ease. Then, shivering from cold and raw emotions, my breath a dead mist before my lips, I approached the soldiers. I had to stand off awhile before one of the soldiers even bothered to consider me.

  “What say you, miss? You selling something?” He gestured to the basket I was clutching tightly.

  “No, sir. It’s the prison ship. The Good Intent. If it can be visited, I should like to.”

  “Why?”

  “My brother’s on it.”

  The soldiers eyed one another mutely, as if needing to react together.

  A soldier asked, “What makes you sure he’s on it?”

  “I was told by a guard at the Crown Street sugarhouse.”

  “Is your brother still alive?”

  “God a mercy, sir!”

  The soldier shrugged. “They die a lot.”

  “Heaved off like frozen logs,” added another.

  “I’m sure he’s alive,” I insisted. When no one spoke, I said, “Is there anyone that can take me?”

  “It costs.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “If you think its cold here, it’s worse there.”

  Another said, “Anyway, it’s growing late. There’s not much time.”

  “Please, sirs. It’s my brother.”

  “What do you have in the basket?” said another.

  “Food.”

  “Willing to be searched, miss?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They didn’t.

  One of the soldiers shifted round. “Your brother, you say. How old are you?”

  “Twelve, sir.”

  “I have a sister near that age. I wish she’d come for me.”

  “I beg you, sirs.”

  No one moved. I just stood there. Then the soldier who had last spoken—who had a sister—stood up with a grunt. “Come along.”

  “How much shall I give you?”

  “Just come,” he growled.

  I followed.

  26

  WE WENT DOWN some rickety steps toward the water and boarded a small, smutty rowboat. I took my place in the narrow stern seat, while the soldier, oars in his large raw-red hands, sat facing me.

  He pushed off.

  The river proved choppy enough that I had to cling to my seat. Large chunks of ice floated by, thumping and shuddering our boat, whose prow constantly smacked the water’s surface, sending up cold spray, which froze upon me. Now and again the soldier-rower slipped his draw, splashing more water on me. I was quickly wet, trembling, and ever more fearful.

  The soldier grunted with each pull of his oars. I dared not say anything, but clutched my basket to control my shakes. The monotonous slap, slap of the oars put me in mind of a ticking clock and made me terrified I was too late.
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  As we drew closer to the Good Intent, she loomed ever larger. The flinty-gray color of her hull gave her the appearance of some monstrous dead fish. Indeed, there seemed to be no life about her. She bore no sails. No flags. Icicles dangled from her spars like rows of white shark teeth, while her bow was hung about with frozen seaweed, which made me think of Neptune’s beard. Anchor lines ran from bow and stern. But then, she was not going anywhere. Gun ports were blocked, although a series of small holes had been cut high into her hull.

  The soldier said, “Mind, it’s late, miss. I can’t stay long. No one on board will take you back. You don’t want to stay on her, miss. It’ll be worth your life. Get off quick as you can. I’ll wait.”

  “I’m grateful for your help.”

  “You’re a brave one. Remind me of my sister, God keep her.”

  “Where is she?”

  A shrug. “Don’t know. Five years gone since I seen her last.”

  When we were very near to the ship, a sailor leaned over the gunwale. “Who’s there?” he called in a thick, guttural voice.

  My soldier called, “A visitor for a prisoner!”

  “It’s late.”

  “She’ll hurry.”

  “She? A lady, then?” I could hear the leer.

  “Girl.”

  “Girl? Ha! Any money?”

  The soldier allowed me to answer, which I did with a quick nod.

  “Aye!” my soldier shouted up.

  “What’s the watchwords?”

  “Good health to King George.”

  “Come on.”

  27

  LIKE A SUCKLING PUP, our boat nudged the looming ship, which towered over me and seemed beyond reach. Next moment a rope ladder clumped down. That I had to climb unnerved me. The thought must have been on my face because my soldier said, “There’s no other way, miss. Yes or no?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He grabbed the ladder, held it taut. With our boat pitching and yawing beneath my feet, basket heavy in the crook of my arm, I took hold of the ladder with two hands. Though it was icy cold and slippery, I began to climb.