by Avi
I pressed on, only to spy some people standing close together in the street. Frightened, I stopped and gawked. It was three tall men, theirs faces ghostlike. One of them lifted a lantern. With the light bright in my eyes, I forced myself forward. Drawing closer, I saw they were three British soldiers, red jacketed, with white trousers and black boots. Their tall, fur hats—what they called busbies—towered over me. In their hands were muskets with bayonets. One of those guns was pointed right at me.
“Halt!”
Panic-struck, I decided that boldness might be perceived as innocence. I went on, my breathing quick, my steps hesitant, my heart a hammer.
“Why are you on the street?” demanded an angry voice. “There’s a curfew.”
I swallowed hard, then said, “Please, sir, I’m fetching Dr. Dastuge. For my father. He has a fever.”
The one who held the lantern lifted it higher, as if to appraise me. Perhaps he saw the red ribbon on my cape.
“Your name?” he demanded.
“Sophia,” I said, and then added with a stroke of daring, “the same as the king’s daughter.”
The lantern lowered. One of the soldiers said, “Where does this doctor reside?” His voice was softer.
“Broadway. Number 276, I think. Just one street further.”
“We’ll guide you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Wanting no second invitation, I darted forward and skirted the soldiers, not wishing to even glance at them. They came right behind.
“Are you thankful we drove the rebels out?” one of the soldiers asked from behind my back.
“Of course, sir,” I replied, afraid to look round lest they see the lie upon my face.
“We’re only here to restore the king’s peace,” another of them said.
“I’m pleased,” I said, but to myself, I thought, Is this what our lives will be like, constantly lying?
In moments, I was before the doctor’s home. I glanced back at the soldiers to ask permission. When one nodded, I knocked.
It was some time before the door opened a wedge. “Yes?”
It was Dr. Dastuge himself. Had his family and servants fled? He was a short, stout man, bald, with a fat and grizzled face. When he drew close and wheezed, I smelled liquor.
In a low voice, so the soldiers would not hear, I told him of Father’s injury.
“A bullet?” he rewhispered.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I told the soldiers escorting me that it was a fever.”
He rubbed his bulging, red-rimmed eyes with a fat and dirty finger, hoisted a small wooden chest, and gave me a nod. “Lead the way.”
I returned along Broadway, the doctor at my side, his gait clumsy, his breath a periodic puff. Daylight increased. A rooster crowed from somewhere. The soldiers remained close. But the nearer we came to my house, the more I feared that the soldiers would enter and discover Father’s true condition. Knowing that captured rebels were being put in prisons, I made a desperate, silent prayer: Do not come in.
8
UPON REACHING OUR door, I turned toward the soldiers. “Thank you, sirs,” I said.
One touched a finger to his busby. “Happy to be helpful, miss,” he said. And they went off. Allowing myself a breath, I watched them go. I had to admit that they had been kind.
The doctor entered our dim house. I followed, shutting the door behind me.
“Good morning to you, madam,” said the doctor.
“Thank you for coming,” Mother returned in a hushed voice, her eyes bright with tears. “Mr. Calderwood is in the back room. Did my daughter tell you—”
“She did, madam. A lodged musket ball.” He held up his box. “My instruments. Bring a candle.”
Mother said, “Sophia, stay here.”
She led the doctor away, while I sat before the hearth. The low, flickering flames caused shadows to gambol all about me. Trembling, I drew my cloak tight. From the back room, I began to hear muffled voices. First Mother’s, then Father’s—(faintly), then, finally, the doctor’s. I strained to listen. When Father moaned, I pressed my hands together so tightly they ached.
Quiet resumed. All I could do was wait. William still missing. Father wounded. Mother in tears. Before my eyes, the image of that hanging. I began to shiver uncontrollably. “Sophia,” I scolded myself. “Be brave. Be brave!” I whispered the Lord’s Prayer. I said the first few sentences of our Declaration, which William had insisted I learn: “We hold these truths . . . ” Be strong, I told myself over and over again.
The back room door opened. The doctor emerged looking more disheveled than before. Bloodstains soiled his shirt.
Mother, looking wan, followed.
“Keep him abed,” the doctor advised her. “I shall look in later. I wish you a good day, madam.”
“The like to you,” she said.
I hurried to open the door.
The doctor gave me a nod and left. I shut the door and turned to Mother. She was holding her hands to her eyes.
I said, “Is he is all right?”
“He should be.” She held out her hand. In her palm lay a musket ball. It was bloody. “He’ll need time to heal. I don’t know what use of his arm or hand he’ll have.”
I peeked into the back room. Father lay abed. Eyes closed, hands resting on the bloodstained coverlet, he appeared to sleep. I retreated.
In the common room, Mother was sitting in the chair, slumped over.
“Can I do anything?” I said.
“You fetched the doctor.”
“Soldiers stopped me along the way.”
“What did you say?”
“I lied.”
Her glance showed approval. “It is hard.”
I said, “At least we’ll not lose the house.”
“The British officer has yet to come,” she said.
We sat side by side, not speaking. At length Mother stood up. “We can’t sit like this.” She raked up the fire and set Indian corn to boil in the pot.
“Sometime this morning,” she told me, “you must see if Mr. Gaine or Mr. Rivington are about.”
As I have explained, Father worked for these newspaper printers. I had been to their shops with Father many times and had taken messages back and forth, so I knew his employers fairly well, as they knew me.
Mother said, “You’ll tell them he’s in the city.”
“Can he work?”
“He needs the pay. Since the work is usually done here, you can help him. I’m glad William taught you to read.”
I nodded.
Mother was silent a while. Then she said, “Things are so topsy-turvy, I’m not sure the printers will even be here.”
“Shall I tell them what happened to him?”
“I don’t know what side they are on.”
I thought for a moment and then said, “Mother, who am I to trust?”
She considered my question. “Me. Father.” And then she said, “And William—if he returns.”
The word “if” rang as loudly as a fire bell.
9
MIDMORNING, THE DAY cool and bright, I set out to see the printers. Many soldiers were on the streets. Missing were traders, mechanics, vendors, and clergy. And mind, the city had more than two hundred churches. Children were scarce. Citizens were dazed and wary and appeared to keep their distance one from another.
What a contrast to the British soldiers. They strode about like the loud, boisterous victors they were, devils of fear and disorder. They repeatedly made ill-mannered remarks to civilians, to women more than men. Hoping to avoid their indelicacy, I worked to look the other way.
I went first to Mr. Rivington’s shop at the other end of Wall Street, where he had his press. He also sold books and medicines, like Bateman’s Golden Spirit of Scurvy Grass, which Mother once made me take, and Dr. Ryan’s Incomparable Worm-Destroying Sugar Plumbs, which, thankfully, she did not. The place was closed, but a man who was loitering about told me Mr. Rivington was yet in London, where he had fle
d from the Sons of Liberty some time ago.
I walked on to Hanover Square, in the southern part of town, the wealthy ward. Though called a square, it was in fact, triangular. Right off Queen Street, it had fine houses, both wood and brick, along with shops, business establishments, and taverns. Fortunately, it was untouched by the fire.
Mr. Gaine had a three-story building, with a sign depicting a Bible and a crown, his mark. He and his family lived above, while the lower floor was where he had his press, which produced his newspaper, the Mercury.
I walked in. The smell of printer’s ink, a mix of varnish and lampblack, filled the air. Mr. Gaine published books and sold goods ranging from dice boxes and paper to reading glasses, lead pencils, medicines, plus many small items of general utility. One wall bore samples of the blank legal forms that he also printed: mortgages, deeds, invoices, and the like. Another wall had upper and lower cases of type—with many small compartments. From ceiling rafters, sheets of damp paper hung in readiness for printing.
The room was centered by the large wooden press with its stone form for holding the type, the crank that rolled the paper forward, and the screw and lever, which pressed type to paper.
On the floor was a boy on his hands and knees.
As I watched, he picked up some bits and put them in a small leathern bucket that was by his side. His fingertips were black. When he paid no mind to me, I finally said, “Good day.”
The boy took note of me, sat back on his legs, and touched a finger to his forehead, leaving a black mark. “James Penny,” he informed me. I took him to be about ten years of age, with a round, smudged face and curly brown hair. He wore no shoes.
“Is Mr. Gaine here?” I asked.
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“Over to Jersey.”
“Has he fled?”
The boy studied me before answering, as if trying to decide what to say. The thought came: No one knows whom to trust. When he spoke, it was only to say, “I suppose he’ll be back.”
“When?”
“Soon, maybe. Not sure. Who are you? What do you want?”
“My father is Mr. Calderwood. He does copy work for Mr. Gaine.”
“The Mercury is being published by Mr. Serle these days. Lord Howe’s man.”
I said, “My father sends his respects and says he’s prepared to work for your master again.”
“Want me to tell Mr. Serle?”
“If you’d be so kind.”
“And if Mr. Gaine gets back, I’ll tell him.”
The “if” word again.
“Good day,” the servant boy murmured, and turned back to the floor.
I said, “What are you doing?”
“Picking up type. Got all dumped. Always happening.”
“Good day,” I said again, and retreated.
Not sure what my parents would make of the disappointing news about Mr. Gaine and Mr. Rivington, I set off for home, going along Willard Street.
I had not gone far when I heard the tramp of feet. Turning, I saw, hedged in by armed British soldiers, a parade of ragged men. A fair number had bandages wrapped about heads or arms, some of which bore brown stains of old blood. To a man, they had disconsolate looks and did not walk so much as shuffle. I recognized a few as citizens of the town who had been active among the radicals. One I think was William’s friend.
In front of this procession marched the same portly, red-haired officer I had seen leading Captain Hale to his death. Just to see him made me fear that these prisoners were to suffer the same fate as Captain Hale.
Though I searched for my brother among the men, he was not to be found. I did wonder if anyone had news of him but was sure I’d not be allowed to exchange words.
I turned to a gentleman who, like me, had paused to watch.
“Where are they being taken?” I said.
“Off to the new jail, the Bridewell, I suspect. That’s the provost, Cunningham, in the lead.”
I glanced about nervously. “What will happen to them?”
“The prisoners? No notion,” said the man, without much sympathy, I thought.
My heart heavy, I watched the wretched men go by. Behind them, I saw two additional British officers. In utter contrast to the prisoners, they were dressed with care, in scarlet coats with blue facings, sash and sword. They wore high busbies. The two were talking to each other with animation and laughing.
As I looked on, I noticed a prisoner who struggled somewhat behind the others. One of the officers also saw him. He drew his sword—which made me recoil—and with the flat of it, struck the man on his backside, shouting, “Move on, rebel!”
Even as he hit the defenseless prisoner, he laughed. I detested him with all my heart.
When the prisoners continued to march northward, the young officer did not follow. Instead, he glanced at a piece of paper he had in hand, saluted his fellow officer, then turned west down Maiden Lane.
Though it vexed me greatly that this cruel fellow was going in the same direction I must go, there was nothing for it but to follow. Not wishing to be near, I kept back and waited for him to turn off in some other direction.
Alas, he continued to walk the same way as I, going straight until he reached Broadway. There he paused, consulted his paper, and moved toward our house. When I saw him knock upon our door, it came to me like summer thunder: this cruel British soldier must be our boarder.
10
MOTHER OPENED THE DOOR.
The officer touched his hat in a salute and made a slight bow. “Madam,” I heard him say in a bright, cheerful fashion, “your most humble servant. Lieutenant John André, Seventh Foot, Royal Fusiliers.”
Mother stared at him in astonishment. She said, “How can I help you, sir?”
The lieutenant held out his paper. “It’s my pleasant duty to inform you, madam, that I have been ordered by Commandant Robertson to reside here. While I have no doubt it may be somewhat inconvenient, such are the fortunes of war. I assure you, madam, it’s my desire that you will find me courteous, appreciative, and no burden to your generous hospitality.”
It was not a speech I expected.
Mother, clearly uncertain what to do or say, stood gawking at the soldier. Then she noticed me standing on the street, looking on. “Sophia,” she called. “Come. Our boarder has arrived.”
The officer turned and I truly saw him. He was a youngish man of middling height, olive complexioned, with black hair and a cheerful, graceful air. Upon seeing me, he offered a bright smile, which I had to admit was frank and open.
To my mother he said, “Is this your daughter?”
“Yes, sir, she is.”
“Your servant,” he said to me, with a bit of a dip. In all my life, I had never been bowed to before, much less heard such polite address as “Your servant.” Besides, I thought myself a girl, not a lady. That said, I was flattered. Indeed, his cheerful civility put me into confusion, from which I was saved when Mother said to him, “Please come in, sir.”
Even then the soldier paused, turned toward me, and with a polite gesture, indicated that he wished me to enter first. His condescension was a further bewilderment to me, who had resolved to hate the man. Yet I could hardly remain upon the street. Instead, in what I thought was a haughty, frosty manner (childishly contrived), I walked past him and into the house.
He took off his tall hat and followed.
The three of us stood in the common room in momentary awkwardness. The lieutenant gazed at the sparseness and spoke to my mother, with an occasional glance at me. “Madam, I thank you for your welcome,” he said as if he had been an invited guest. “My primary regret is that it’s this war, this unnatural rebellion—like some brother-to-brother squabble—which brings us together.
“My deepest desire is that our small differences will soon be peacefully resolved to the benefit of all. In the meanwhile, I am sure we can make the best of it. I am not one to rise at a feather. And when I tell you that I have only late
ly come from the wilds of Pennsylvania, where I was held a prisoner by a greasy committee of dullards, you may believe I’m heartily delighted to be here.”
The kind speech flustered my thoughts.
“Thank you, sir,” Mother said. “Shall we show you your room?”
“You are most kind.”
Mother turned to me. “Sophia, be so good . . . ”
That she had asked me to do the honors took me by surprise, until I grasped that she needed to inform Father who had come, so as to decide what to reveal to the officer about his condition.
It was I, then, who led John André to our upstairs room. Once there he gazed about. “This will be fine,” he said. “And a trundle bed! Perfect for my servant. And your name is Sophia?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled with approval. “They say His Majesty’s favorite daughter has that name.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. Though I doubted that was why my parents chose it, I was gratified he liked it.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twelve.”
“You seem older.”
I felt my face flush.
“An only child?”
Though I wished he had not said “child,” I said, “I am, sir, yes.”
He did not seem to notice my hesitation.
“Do you like music?” he asked.
“I do, sir.”
“Excellent! I play the flute. I shall be pleased to have you for an audience. And you must know that you are a pretty miss, and someday, if you will give permission, I will make a sketch of you. I have some talent there.”
“You are kind,” I said, a weak response to his gallant banter.
“And your father,” he said. “What occupation does he follow?”
“A scrivener, sir.”
“Excellent! A man of letters. Do you read and write, Sophia?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve read Richardson, Fielding, and—” I almost said Mr. Paine but caught myself.
“Wondersome! You and I shall get on. I must admit, sometimes I try to write poetry.” He turned toward the steps and paused to let me go first, which I did.