Sophia's War Page 8

  I went but haltingly. With the ladder swaying constantly and my arms aching, I was sure I must fall. More than once I had to pause and close my eyes, but managed to cling on. When I neared the ladder’s top, coarse hands reached down and yanked me roughly the final way. In moments I stood upon the deck, legs wobbly, head dizzy, heart pounding.

  Standing there, trying to regain my breath and balance, I was engulfed by the fetid stench of decay. I lifted my eyes and gazed about. All was in disorder, as if the ship’s tools, rope, sail, spars, deadeyes, and lanyards had begun to disintegrate. Midst it all, as if similarly undone, were men like those I had seen in the sugarhouse. They lay or sat about in semifrozen stupor, their emaciated, dirty bodies protected with naught but rags. To a man, they appeared deceased and haggard, nearer the shores of death than life.

  British soldiers, slovenly in appearance, were standing guard, some with muskets in hand, others with clubs. These ghastly looking men gazed upon me like birds of prey and I a passing morsel.

  “What do you want here?” came a harsh voice.

  I looked around. Though his jacket proclaimed him an officer, the man was as rantum-scantum as the others.

  “I’m asking what do you want here?” came the question again, louder.

  “I . . . brought food for my brother.” I held up my pathetic basket.

  “What’s his name?”

  “William. William Calderwood.”

  “You can try and find him.” As he spoke, he held out his hand, as if expecting me to give him the basket for permission to look.

  I held back.

  “If you want to look, you’ll need to give that over,” he demanded.

  I gave it to him.

  Then he said, “Money?”

  I gave him what I had.

  He seemed to calculate the amount. “More?”

  “None,” I said.

  That he kept the basket shocked me, but I did not say anything. A soldier was beckoning.

  He led me to an opening on the deck. Off to one side was a wooden grate. Steps—with a kind of side rail—led down into what appeared to be a bottomless pit. I turned to the soldier for instruction.

  “If he’s anywhere, it’s down there.”

  “Is there no light?”

  “What you see.”

  I was so frightened I could do nothing.

  “Step lively,” said the solider. “It’s getting on to night.”

  I forced myself to grip the handrail and began to descend into a black hole, from dark to darker, where night itself must sleep.

  Halfway down I stopped and stared about. Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the foul and rotten gloom. What I saw were men sprawled everywhere, entangled like rotting eels. All were in the most desolate conditions of neglect.

  This was the sugarhouse, twice as horrible. This was not mere disregard and ignorance. This, by multiple degrees, was murder.

  I was too frightened to go any farther.

  “William,” I called out. “William Calderwood!”

  No answer.

  “William!” I shouted. “William Calderwood!”

  No reply. Someone coughed. Groaned. Bodies shifted. The stench was overwhelming. I thought I heard the sound of retching. Then, from somewhere, I knew not where, a thin voice called, “Who asks?”

  “His sister.”

  “William Calderwood,” came the voice, “died two days ago.”

  28

  THOUGH IT WAS pitch night when I was rowed back to shore, it was nothing like the darkness in my heart. I do not know if there were sufficient words in Father’s dictionary to give reality to what I saw on the Good Intent. Enough to say that if you ever doubted the existence of Hell, I can tell you—it is real. That day I saw it. And as preachers remind us of Hell to shape our destiny, know that the Hell I saw shaped mine.

  So I trust you will completely accept it when I reveal that in my grief I vowed I would avenge William’s awful death. Moreover, I believed that John André had the power to save my brother. But he refused.

  By mid-January of 1777, all the rivers around New York were frozen solid. Just as, I believed, was my heart.

  Ah! But was that so? You, Dear Reader, must decide.

  PART TWO

  1780

  29

  THE DEATH OF William proved a terrible blow to my parents and to me. To lose one’s only son, heir, and dearest brother to such cruelty is beyond measure. Our suffering was immense. It grew even worse when we could not learn if he had been buried decently—if at all. As it has been said: “To lose a loved one is but part of living life, whereas to have a loved one vanish is a living death.”

  For a long while my parents remained sunk in plightful melancholy, aging rapidly before my eyes. Yes, over time they resumed a kind of being, though much subdued in spirit and strength. Father worked for a number of printers in the city and engaged in some legal copy work. He did it all at home, for one lasting effect of William’s death was that my parents almost never walked out. It was I who received and delivered Father’s work to various employers and did the marketing for Mother.

  But unlike my parents, I would not be defeated. With reports of prisoner deaths in British prisons multiplying, as did the denials, my hatred of the occupying British Army grew accordingly. Because of William’s and Captain Hale’s deaths (and all the others’), I wanted to become the soldier my brother had been. My intent was that I would somehow become a warrior in the great battle not yet won.

  But it was only three years after William’s death—in 1780—a leap year, when I reached the age of fifteen, that I finally had my chance. What I did had vast consequences, which I shall now set forth before you.

  30

  FIRST, HOWEVER, YOU must know some of the events that followed William’s death.

  Beyond all else, the war went on. New York City stayed under control of the British Army and remained their headquarters. The first commander in chief was Lord General Howe. From May 1778 forward, it was Sir Henry Clinton.

  Because New York was the principal British stronghold in America, the population grew, increased by ever more troops, English, Scot, and German. Tories arrived from all regions of the country. So did freedom-seeking slaves. The city’s population, it was claimed, came to exceed thirty thousand.

  Many British officers brought wives and children from England to build a regular military establishment. As a result, a lively social life ensued. There was theater, horse races (in Brooklyn), concerts, foxhunts, balls, banquets, and Monday-afternoon games of cricket. All this despite constant fear that General Washington’s army was about to attack.

  The city’s greatest difficulty was securing food. Rebellious citizens and patriot troops surrounded the city. Nearby Long Island was unable to produce adequate amounts, and marauding British troops and Tory sympathizers could steal only so much. Shortages were such a constant that most food—for the British Army as well as for city citizens—was brought in huge fleets from Cork, Ireland, some three thousand miles away, a voyage of at least one month, and it could take longer.

  Now and again these ships came late because of weather, acts of war, or incompetence. Spoilage was as ordinary as theft and graft. Within a brief time, food prices rose like rockets, eight hundred percent and beyond. Most citizens suffered terribly. For the thousands of American prisoners in New York—already mistreated and malnourished—it meant death. Only the officers charged with their care grew rich. Indeed, there was an incessant illegal trade of common necessities.

  As for the war itself, in October 1777 our patriot army won a major victory over the British at Saratoga, far north of the city. General Benedict Arnold, though wounded, was not just victorious but the hero. In so doing, he once again proved himself the ablest commander in the patriot army. Had he not won in Montreal, Ticonderoga, and Lake Champlain and forced a huge British Army to surrender in Saratoga? His triumph brought a vital alliance with France.

  I told my father if we had two Benedict A
rnolds, America could win the war.

  “At least we have the one,” he replied. “And we have Washington.”

  “My hero,” I replied, “is General Arnold.”

  Yet, to be truthful, during this same three-year period, American forces suffered defeats at Brandywine, Germantown, Monmouth, Savannah, and Augusta. All of Georgia was lost until we struck back at Kettle Creek and Stony Point. At one point, even Philadelphia was given up. Congress had to flee, but settled there again when Lord General Howe retreated from the city.

  In other words, although the patriot cause was not lost, it was not winning. Thus, in 1780, the struggle for independence still swung upon the hinge of history. The door to liberty was neither open nor shut, and though I knew it not, I would have my hand on that door.

  Over these three years, I changed. Taller. Fuller. More a young lady than a girl. If you think I speak from vanity, Mother herself exclaimed, “Your brother would not recognize you now.”

  There would be more he would not recognize.

  31

  AFTER LIEUTENANT ANDRÉ left our home, seven officers were forced upon us, one after the other. Among them was a certain Captain Wilcox, who came from Philadelphia when General Howe retreated from that city. He regaled us with tales of a farewell extravaganza given for the retiring general, staged by none other than Captain John André.

  “Is he a captain now?” Mother asked.

  “Promoted by Lord Howe himself.”

  Captain Wilcox gossiped how André courted a certain Peggy Shippen, a celebrated young Philadelphia beauty only slightly older than I. “But of course,” said Captain Wilcox, “André is a romantic figure and flirts with all the pretty ladies.”

  Though Mother’s eyes were on me, I showed nothing, even as I told myself I cared naught about Captain André.

  But by then my life was much engaged. First, I took care of Mother and Father. Secondly, I continued to work for Mr. Gaine at his printing establishment. Mr. Gaine was—or so it seemed—a strong supporter of the British monarchy, writing and organizing his four-page weekly newspaper accordingly. Even so, I felt obliged to tell him about William. He expressed condolences, but Mr. Gaine was never one to reveal his complete thoughts.

  A constant flow of men came into his shop. Some were there to buy books, pamphlets, or medicines. Many were there to leave advertisements, bring news, or hear rumors. Mr. Gaine called these people newsmongers, people who must know what is happening before it is published. They therefore knew that in the spring of 1780 the war was going badly for our new country. Charleston, in Carolina, was under siege and believed likely to fall. If it did—so it was thought—the whole South would be lost.

  For my part, I felt a boiling fury that there appeared no likelihood that America would win the war and secure its independence. Somebody needed to do something.

  Where was Washington?

  Where was Arnold?

  Who would revenge William’s death?

  Then I met Robert Townsend and everything changed.

  32

  IT WAS AN evening in May 1780, and I was going home after a day’s work upon Mr. Gaine’s press. The air was heavy and humid, with alternate moments of sun and squally rain, which is to say, an ordinary New York spring day.

  At the press earlier that day, Mr. Gaine had been engaged in conversation with a Mr. Townsend, who was in the shop quite often. Twenty-five years old, Mr. Townsend was in the dry-goods business. I found him dry too. Slight in stature, with an expanse of brow beneath curly hair, he had a large nose—upon which sat small, round eyeglasses—thin lips, and a strong chin. He kept his hair in pigtail fashion and dressed simply, Quaker-style.

  Not one to put himself forward, he was given to mild speech and bland emotions. He appeared interested merely in the births, lives, and deaths of citizens and whatever trifling news there was about the war.

  That day, as he spoke to Mr. Gaine, they now and again glanced at me, which I took as a hint that I should blank my ears. Yet when I left the shop at the end of the workday, Mr. Townsend stepped out with me.

  We proceeded in the same direction, I in front, wanting to get home before the next plout of rain. When a sudden shower slapped down, I scampered for protection ’neath an open stable roof to wait out the weather. Mr. Townsend joined me in the same dry space. We stood side by side, without speaking.

  “Forgive me, mistress,” he unexpectedly said, “I believe you work in Mr. Gaine’s shop.”

  “I do, sir.”

  He offered a slight, formal bow. “Robert Townsend. I’m frequently at his shop.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve seen you. My name is Sophia Calderwood.”

  We watched the dripping rain.

  “Unusual occupation for a young lady,” he offered. “Printer.” A remark I took as meant to fill the time.

  “Expenses being what they are, sir,” I replied, “my employment aids my family.”

  Momentarily, he said, “A large family?”

  “Father, Mother, and I.”

  “You are then, so to speak, the family’s son.”

  “My brother died, sir,” I blurted, “three years ago.”

  “I’m exceedingly sorry. A regrettable accident?”

  Stung by the casualness of the remark—my thoughts about William were never far—I snapped, “I doubt dying in a foul prison ship should be considered an accident.” Embarrassed to have overspoke, I stepped away. “Good evening, sir.”

  I scurried home. Once there I suppressed my ever-simmering rage about the British, while promising myself I’d give no further thought to Mr. Townsend.

  Two days later, however, the man showed up at Mr. Gaine’s shop again. As was often the case, gentlemen were there discussing war news—in particular, the Siege of Charlestown. Mr. Townsend ventured no opinion, but, as always, mostly listened. Soon after, he departed.

  At my usual hour, I headed for home. Within moments I became aware of footsteps. I looked round. It was Mr. Townsend.

  His formal bow. “Forgive me, Miss Calderwood,” he said gravely. “Since we exchanged words, I’ve wanted to speak to you.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, reminding myself that this time I must keep my tongue better tempered.

  “I fear,” he said, “when you mentioned the death of your brother, I didn’t have the presence of mind to offer my condolences.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and moved on.

  He kept in step. “You said he died in one of the prison ships. A rebel soldier?”

  “A patriot soldier,” I said before catching myself.

  “Alas,” he murmured. “It’s said there are thousands languishing in the various prisons in and around the city. The prison hulk the Jersey in Wallabout Bay being the worst. And in this heat. Have you heard of Provost Cunningham?”

  Merely to hear that loathsome name stressed me. “Forgive me, sir,” I snapped. “I don’t wish to talk about these matters. Good evening.” I hurried on, satisfied that Mr. Townsend did not follow. Still, I was puzzled why he should speak to me at all.

  The day following, I was alone in the printer’s shop filling composing sticks with lines of advertisements for next Monday’s edition of the Mercury. Hearing a sound, I turned. There again was Mr. Townsend. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t hear you. May I be of assistance?”

  His annoying bow. “I was hoping to speak to Mr. Gaine.”

  “Was he expecting you?”

  “I think not.”

  “I don’t know when he’ll arrive, sir. Can I take a message?”

  “It will keep. Good morning,” he murmured, and turned to go. But upon reaching the door, he paused. “Miss Calderwood, I cannot free my mind of what you said about your unfortunate brother. It must be exceedingly difficult, being a young woman and thereby incapable of taking his place.”

  “I do wish it were otherwise,” I said, my irritation on the rise.

  He gazed at me for a moment and then said, “Sometimes, Miss Calderwood, it can be done.”

&nbs
p; “How, sir?”

  A formless hand gesture. “It’s the leap year. Women are given leave. Yes, we must speak again.” Then, as if plucking something from the air, he abruptly said, “Do you know Mr. Rivington?”

  Everyone knew Mr. Rivington. In the fall of 1777, he had been appointed Printer to the King’s Most Excellent Majesty. Given license to publish Wednesday and Saturday, twice the rate as any other paper, he called his newspaper the Royal Gazette and supported the British. Though my father detested Rivington’s views, he was compelled to do his copy work by way of income. That was my sole connection to Mr. Rivington. Why Mr. Townsend should mention the man, I could not fathom.

  Yet after asking me that, Mr. Townsend remained silent, as if trying to come to a decision. In the end he merely said, “My compliments to Mr. Gaine.”

  With those words, he left.

  What are this man’s intentions? I kept thinking. Does he have some meaning? Is he suggesting I should take William’s place? Yes, that was a thought I often had. But how could I, Sophia Calderwood, a refined and educated young woman, do so? Indeed, what might anything I undertook have to do with Mr. Townsend?

  Then, when Mr. Gaine came back, the first thing he said was “Was Mr. Townsend here? He had an appointment to meet me.”

  I was sure Mr. Townsend had voiced the opposite. All I said, however, was “He only just left.”

  “It can’t matter,” said Mr. Gaine.

  But I thought—it must matter. No sooner had Mr. Townsend left than Mr. Gaine arrived—as if they had conspired so that Mr. Townsend might speak to me privately.

  Why?

  33

  NEXT MORNING I needed to stop at Mr. Rivington’s print shop to deliver editing work done by my father. Mr. Townsend was there. He seemed to be shadowing me! Refusing to even look at him, I delivered Father’s work and left. Mr. Townsend followed me onto the street.