by Avi
Pushing away such vile thoughts, my heart beating painfully, I could only stare.
“Is something the matter?” I heard John André ask as if from across the sea.
“Who are they?” I murmured, not having wits to know what else to say.
“Prisoners.”
“What . . . what will happen to them?” I stammered.
“These men have rebelled against their lawful government” was his reply. “They must pay the penalty for their stupidity. By the laws of all countries, rebels taken in arms forfeit their lives. They will be treated no better than they deserve.”
“What do you mean?” I said, taken aback by his harshness.
“They should all be hung.”
“Hung!” I cried. Upon the instant, my mind filled with the ghastly image of Nathan Hale, which cojoined with that of my brother.
“But they have only sought to defend our liberties,” I heard myself say, echoing a phrase Father had used. That I, too, had thought. Indeed, before I could think of what I was saying, I blurted out, “As my brother has.”
John André gazed upon me with bepuzzlement.
Realizing what I had done, I turned from him, aghast.
Then I heard him say, “Miss Calderwood, are you saying you have a brother?”
My blunder made me afraid to speak or even glance at him. I was equally fearful to look, as it were, at myself. Who am I? What was I thinking? I did not know how to respond. Or what to do. By this time, the prisoners had moved farther down the street.
“Miss Calderwood,” André pressed, “am I to understand you have a brother fighting for the rebels?”
I stood there mute.
“Come, come, Miss Calderwood, rebellion does not suit you,” he said in his lighthearted fashion. “Let grown men take care of such matters. A maid should not pay any mind to disputed politics.”
Unable to look at him, I said, “And what . . . what should a maid put her mind to?”
He boldly turned me about so I had to face him. “To making yourself as agreeable to me as possible,” he said. “That’s the proper employment for a fair young lady. As for a brother, a rebel brother”—he gave me his most brilliant smile—“let’s agree I did not hear you speak. We shall ignore him.”
Flabbergasted—how could I ignore my brother!—I said nothing, but gaped at André as if he were a stranger.
“Miss Calderwood,” he went on, “you have my promise: I shall not say one word to your esteemed parents. Or,” he added meaningfully, “to the authorities.”
As I stood there, I recalled the first time I had seen Lieutenant André. The time when he’d struck that poor, dawdling prisoner with his sword. His words and that memory reminded me that John André was our enemy. Further, I recalled who I was: his enemy, enemy to his army, his government. And I remembered what I was, what he had mockingly called “American.”
These thoughts came upon me like blinding bursts of cannon shot so that I could only retreat. “Forgive me,” I managed to say, “I must go.”
Whirling about, I began to hurry down the street in the same direction taken by the prisoners. I needed to see where William was going.
Even as I went, I was aware that the lieutenant stayed in step with me. I paid him no mind. But after some moments, he reached out, gently touched my arm, and said, “Miss Calderwood, I fear I have offended you by my words. Your brother means nothing to me.”
“But, sir,” I cried, my voice ragged with emotion, my eyes streaming, “he means everything to me.” At the same time I shrugged off his touch, which only moments before I would have treasured.
“You must forgive me,” he said.
Somehow, I retorted, “You only spoke your mind, sir.”
“Miss Calderwood,” he insisted, “please be assured I did not mean to say anything to suggest I don’t esteem you.”
“Thank you for your company. I can find my own way now.”
“Hanover Square is this way.” He pointed in a direction opposite where I was heading.
Making no reply, I kept on after the prisoners.
He halted, but called, “I look to see you at home, Miss Calderwood. ’Pon my honor, I’ll be more civil with my tongue and opinions.”
I hurried after the prisoners.
Moments later, I stopped and watched the lieutenant sauntering away. My primary thought was I have put my family in peril. Then, not sure what else to do, I turned and fairly ran in the same direction that I saw my brother—and the other prisoners—go.
15
AS THE MEN moved slowly down the center of the street, I hurried alongside, searching for another glimpse of my brother. When I saw him, I shouted, “William!”
Some heads—not his—shifted.
“William!” I cried again, in as loud and unladylike a voice as I could muster. “William! It’s me! Sophia!”
That time he turned and looked about.
“Here!” I shouted, and raised my hand.
His face blossomed into some life.
“Where are they taking you?” I shouted.
Before he could respond, one of the soldiers came up to him and, with the butt of his musket, struck him on the shoulder.
As William stumbled, I stifled the scream in my throat. It was only because he was caught by one of his fellow prisoners that he did not fall. The soldier who hit him turned toward me. “Go home, girl!”
I had the wits to let the line of prisoners pass. But only briefly. Short of breath, heart racing, greatly disconcerted, I began to follow again, this time making sure I stayed behind the prisoners.
The column of captives proceeded north, going to the west of the Commons area, until they reached the block between Murray and Barclay. They were, I now grasped, going to the King’s College, a wide, tall building, with an elegant cupola top center. It was where William had been going to school before hostilities had begun in earnest. Now it was surrounded by soldiers. And the prisoners, including William, were being shoved inside. His school was to become his prison.
I stood for a while outside the ring of guards feeling altogether hurly-burly but trying to regain my composure. All I knew was that I must do something to help my brother. Would they let me visit? Could I bring him food? Would they allow him a doctor?
My next thought was to hasten home and inform my parents about what I had learned. No doubt they would be both greatly relieved and deeply worried—just as I was.
That said, I knew I needed to settle myself. I decided the best way to do so would be to go on to Hanover Square and inquire about Mr. Gaine, as Father had asked me to do. Off I set, relieved to be alone, though my thoughts were as crowded as an unruly mob.
As I went, I kept thinking about William and his suffering. Yet I must admit, I was also thinking of myself, mortified that I had allowed myself to foolishly, and childishly, be distracted by John André. I was reminded of the old adage: Nothing makes one older than knowing how young you are.
Upon reaching Hanover Square, I turned to the sign of the Bible and crown, Mr. Gaine’s printing shop. To my joy, he was there standing before his type case, filling a composing stick with letters.
“Ah, Miss Calderwood,” he said as soon as he saw me. “I’m surely delighted to see you. Where has your father been now? I’ve need of him.”
Mr. Hugh Gaine was a short, stocky, round-faced, and stub-nosed man of some fifty years. Though he had been in America for a goodly while, he spoke with a strong Northern Irish accent. It was said that he was a successful man, yet I never saw him dressed other than in the simplest fashion, a suit of brown homespun cloth.
This morning he wore no jacket but had on his leather work apron. I also noticed he had a red ribbon on his arm.
“Mr. Gaine,” I said. “My father sends his compliments. He’s been ill. But he’s close to recovery and wants me to tell you he’s eager for employment. I’ve inquired here a number of times.”
“I’ve been to Jersey, Miss Calderwood. But I am back.” He peered
about his work space, as if to see who might hear him. I saw no one, not even his servant boy.
“Now you must inform your father,” he said loudly—perhaps wishing the world to hear—“that I have seen the way the river is flowing. That’s to say, I’ve convinced those who must be convinced—the British military authorities—that I’m eager for the restoration of His Majesty’s government in New York, and in all the colonies. In turn, they have graciously given me permission to continue printing the Mercury. I don’t presume to know your father’s thinking about such matters, Miss Calderwood, but he’ll be needing to know mine.”
As he spoke, he was looking at me in such a fashion, tipping a nod here, a blink there, that seemed to suggest the opposite of his words. But in those days, it was common for New Yorkers to act in just this contradictory fashion, some nicknackery or trick to suggest opposing minds. In other words, while Mr. Gaine was telling me he was now a loyalist, he was signaling the suggestion that he was still a patriot.
Was this not what my parents had done? Was this not what I had done? Dear God! The war made deception our way of life.
That said, I had to make a quick decision: my father needed employment.
“I’m sure he will grasp your meaning, sir,” I replied, trying to be as fuzzy as he. “Then do you have work for my father?”
“If he would be so kind.” Mr. Gaine went to a table, upon which lay a scattering of papers. He gathered them up and handed them to me. “He can edit these advertisements left for publication. My usual rates.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and took them, certain that my father would be pleased. I turned to go.
“Miss Calderwood!”
I stopped.
“Your father once told me you write and read well. Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir. My brother taught me,” I said.
“Miss Calderwood, I had an apprentice. A boy. When I was restored to my home, I found that he had been pressed.”
“Sir?”
“Taken up and forced to join their navy.”
It was exactly what the boy had feared. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“A common practice. Nothing I, or anyone, can do about it. My problem, Miss Calderwood, is that there are few boys—boys who can read and write—left in the city to do the work. If I employ another, he too shall likely be taken. God’s truth: it’s difficult to do my printing with just two hands.
“What I’m saying, Miss Calderwood, is this: Would you be willing to take on such a position? To be sure, unusual for a girl, but it’s to my knowing that there’s already been a woman printer down in Williamsburg, Virginia. I can instruct you. Say the word and I’ll discuss the details with your father.”
Though completely surprised by his suggestion, I was gratified. If Father gave his approval, it would mean more money for our household. “I’ll tell my father what you’ve proposed,” I said, bobbing a curtsy.
“Do so soon,” he said, and turned back to his work at the type cases.
I headed for home. The notion of being employed in such a fashion had never entered my head. But, as Mr. Gaine said, these were unusual times. I recalled, too, my mother telling me our need was such that I might have to take work as a house servant in a British officer’s home. To me, an inky printer’s shop would be preferable.
I glanced at the papers Mr. Gaine had given me. I could read them perfectly well and knew how my father would make them compact, ready for the press. Even if Father were not well enough to work on them, I could. As for the other employment promised in his shop, I was not sure what the tasks would be, but I’d not be shy. Learning a trade had to be useful for me. But mostly, if there was more money for us, there would be more money to help free William.
16
THE NEARER I came to home, the more disordered my feelings. Was it excitement or distress? Excitement to have seen William alive. Agony at his condition. Misery, too, that John André might be at home. Though I was certain I could rely upon his promise that he would make no problems for my family regarding William, I had no desire to see him.
Fortunately, when I stepped into the house, he was absent and I was able to rush to the back room. My father was abed, my mother in a chair beside him.
“I saw William!” I cried, and revealed all I had discovered.
But—not one word about John André.
The news that William was alive made it easier for my parents to hear the awful things about his condition.
“I suppose he must have been at Fort Washington,” said Father.
“But what will happen to him now?” Mother said, as much to herself as to us.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Father said, “Perhaps we could ask Lieutenant André for assistance when he gets home.”
Mother said, “But he knows nothing about William.”
That’s when I forced myself to say, “He does know.”
“How?” my father demanded.
Reluctantly, I told them what had happened when I saw William on the street. At first their response was to say nothing but to look intently at me, so that I hardly knew what to make of their thoughts. Was it censure or sympathy?
But all Father said was, “Perhaps the lieutenant’s knowledge is for the best. Did he truly say he’d act as if you had not spoken?”
I nodded.
Mother turned to Father. “Then perhaps you should ask his assistance,” she said. “He has been a guest in our house.”
I thought, Not really a guest.
“I will,” said Father. “As a gentleman, he can hardly refuse.”
“At the least,” said Mother, “he can find a way for us to visit William.”
I, however, remembered what John André had told me, that William—along with all rebels—should be hung. Too frightened to quote his words, I only said, “There are soldiers all around the college.”
“Hopefully one can pass a coin to a guard to gain admittance,” said Father. “It’s common practice.”
Mother, more bluntly, said, “Do we have the money for a bribe?”
Her words were the perfect prompt for me to say, “There is some good news. I found Mr. Gaine at his shop.”
“Excellent,” said Father. “What did he say? Is there any work?”
I held up the papers. “He wants you to take these advertisements and reduce them. The usual rates, he said to tell you.”
When Father put out his good hand, I gave him the papers. After a quick perusal, he said to me, “With your help, we’ll do them easily.”
Then—with hesitation—I told my parents that Mr. Gaine wished to employ me.
Mother immediately expressed her astonishment and doubts, but Father took to it more kindly. There was discussion between them as to whether it was a proper thing for a girl to do such work. For my part, I reminded them we needed more money if we were going to help William.
Father, breaking into a rare smile, said, “Then it will be as Mr. Paine wrote, ‘Our new nation is a blank sheet for us to write upon.’ And who shall do that better than a girl printer? You must tell Mr. Gaine that if he calls, I’m willing to discuss the matter.”
In a matter of two hours, my father and I had completed all Mr. Gaine’s notices. I planned to take the rewritten advertisements back to the printer the next day and, hopefully, collect our payment.
“Between Lieutenant André and some ready money, we’re sure to free William,” Mother said.
Please, God, I thought. Make it so.
17
THAT EVENING A frost came, along with damp cold that promised snow. Father, weary with pain, gave up waiting for the lieutenant and went to sleep. Mother and I stayed by the fire. We had been talking about William. Mother, having convinced herself that John André was going to provide assistance, was much more at ease. I was not about to share my forebodings.
There was a lull in our conversation, after which Mother suddenly said, “Sophia, there is something I need to say to you about Lieutenant André.”
&nb
sp; “What about him?”
Mother made me wait while she appeared to shape her words. “You are twelve years old, a child, I would say,” she began. “But a young woman, nonetheless.” She paused, and in the interval I could feel myself growing warm—not from the fire, but with discomfort. “It is wonderful that the lieutenant will help us,” she said. “But, Sophia, you are showing a reckless infatuation with him.”
“A what?”
“A misplaced affection. I must say it’s neither proper nor intelligent. Consider your age. Our situation. His position.”
Even as I bowed my head, I knew my cheeks were crimson.
She patted my hand gently. “Though we will be extra grateful to him when he helps William, there will be a better time, place, and other persons upon which you can bestow your affections.”
“I assure you,” I spoke the lie. “I have none for him.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” She took my hand and held it, as if to remind me that I was still a child. “But be careful,” she whispered. “Young women are severely judged.”
We sat there in quietude, during which time I thought of her words. Even as I knew she was right, I resented the notion that she treated my emotions as childish. I sought some gratification in that she used the words “young woman” to describe me.
In the midst of the stillness, there was a sharp rap upon the outside door. Next moment John André, along with his servant, entered the house.
18
“LADIES,” CALLED THE lieutenant cheerfully as he and his servant stamped their boots and rubbed hands together, “I wish you a good evening. It’s pleasing to have a fire.” Snow was on his shoulders.
Both Mother and I had risen when they came in, and she dutifully replied to the lieutenant’s greeting. Full of unease, I kept my eyes upon the ground but could not avoid peeking up at him. He was gazing only at Mother. Is he keeping himself from looking at me?
He must have sensed our mood, for he said, “Is something amiss?”