Sophia's War (11 page)

DESPITE THE SNOW
, it did not take me long to reach the college building. A large number of armed soldiers surrounded it, like a living, insurmountable wall. Knowing that it had become a prison, I could no longer think of it as a place of learning. Quite the opposite. Moreover, as I gazed upon the building's rows of windows, I fancied I could see many people inside. Too many. Even from a distance, I observed inmates crowding and pressing against the windows, as if seeking air. From one window, a hand reached out, like that of someone drowning in the sea.

In the off chance I'd be able to catch a glimpse of William at a window, I drew nearer. Even as I watched, a troop of soldiers, led by officers, emerged from the central door. With disgust, I saw the same portly, red-nosed officer who had marched Nathan Hale to his death leading the way. His lumbering stride was heavy and gross.

I knew his rank and name now—Provost Cunningham—and had learned his history. He had been abused by the Sons of Liberty—was William one of them?—and
was now revenging the favor multitimes. Thus does cruelty beget cruelty.

Afraid he would recognize me, I shrank back, but he passed without so much as a glance in my direction. Nonetheless, just to see him gave me a chill harsher than the cold air did.

Seeing the provost reminded me of my brother's possible fate, and my fears redoubled. Indeed, John André's words “By the laws of all countries, rebels taken in arms forfeit their lives. They should all be hung” were more than menacing. What if the lieutenant refused to intercede?

With my anxiety telling me that I must act in haste, I clutched my coins tightly and stepped forward. As I went, I tried to decide which of the soldiers I should approach. By that time I had seen so many British soldiers I could read their uniforms. That is to say, I knew which ones were common soldiers, which officers. John André had told me that British officers purchased their commissions. Therefore, since officers were most likely gentlemen, my innocence suggested they would be less inclined to take a bribe. Such reasoning suggested a lower-grade soldier would have more need and be more inclined to help me. So I scanned the line of guards and picked out a young soldier.

He was about the same age as William, with red cheeks and flaxen hair beneath his tall hat. On his shoulder was a musket with a bayonet, taller than he was. As I drew closer, he came to attention.

“Yes, miss,” he said, standing stiffly. “Good morning. You can't come any further, miss.”

“I know, sir. But I'm searching for my brother. I saw him led into the building, a prisoner.”

“Sorry, miss. Can't rightly help you.”

“Is there a way to be sure he's here?”

“Miss, there are some five thousand prisoners in the city.”

I did not move.

The soldier sighed. “The sergeant down the line, miss. He's got a ledger, but under orders from Provost Cunningham, he's not to give out names.”

“Is it something you can determine, sir?”

“Not usually, miss.”

I held out my hand. The two shilling pieces Mr. Gaine had given me rested in my palm. “It would be a kindness, sir.”

He stood still, as if considering my request. I observed his eyes move, first to my hand, then along the line of soldiers as if trying to determine if he was being watched.

“Step closer, miss,” he said in an undertone.

I did so, my hand out.

Quick as a flea jump, his free hand snatched the coins.

“What's his name?” he asked.

“William. William Calderwood.”

“Back off,” said the soldier, “as if going away.”

I retreated some yards. He stood where he had been until I wondered if he was going to do as I asked. Then
he shifted and marched down along the line of guards before stopping in front of a man I took to be an officer. They seemed to confer. Their hands touched. I suspect shillings were divided. The officer opened what appeared to be a book.

Back came my soldier. I waited for a few moments, then approached.

When I drew near, he spoke in a low voice to say, “He's been transferred to the sugarhouse on Crown Street.”

I had no choice but to walk away. My only thought was
John André
must
help us
.

21

HOME AGAIN AND
by my father's bed, the first thing I asked was “Did you speak to Lieutenant André?”

“Not yet.”

I told them what I had learned about William, after which Father said, “When I speak to the lieutenant, I'm sure he'll at least arrange a visit. We'll bring food. Dr. Dastuge.” He lowered his voice. “Find a way to free him.”

In the end, however, I had to tell them that whatever we did—even with John André's help—I had little doubt it would take lots of money. Had I not given all Mr. Gaine gave me just to get information?

Mother said, “Lieutenant André said someone would take his place. But that officer is not likely to be so forthright in his payments.”

“Here's some good fortune,” said Father. “While you were gone, Mr. Gaine stepped by. He and I agreed to terms and conditions for your employment. Five shillings the day. He expects to see you tomorrow.”

“Hopefully,” said Mother, “that money will be sufficient.”

I surely desired it. But even more than that, I counted
on John André's words, “If there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask.”

Which meant there was nothing to do but wait for Father to speak to him.

22

AS IT HAPPENED
, that night the lieutenant came home late, so there was no talk. The next day, I left early for Mr. Gaine's printing shop, where my training as a printer commenced. Thus, I learned about type cases, type racks, the difference between upper and lower case letters, composing sticks, forms, wetting troughs, and quoins. I came to learn such a word as “galley,” the difference between “puller” and “beater,” how to ink type, plus a veritable encyclopedia of other words and tasks too numerous to list.

Though hard and inky work, it was never drudgery. I liked it. Moreover, Mr. Gaine was impressed—he said so—by my quickness and willingness to learn. So it was that on that first day I went home weary but content. The knowledge that I was earning money, which could help William, gave added pleasure. For the moment I could think of nothing else.

But when I stepped into my house, I was taken aback by the sight of Lieutenant André's large trunk in the middle of the common room. Sitting on it was his servant, Peter.

Although I had tried to put aside all tender sentiments regarding John André, I will be honest and say that when I saw the trunk and understood that he was about to go, my heart tumbled.

“Is your master leaving now?” I asked Peter.

“He is saying his farewells to your parents” was the answer. The young man somehow hoisted the large trunk upon his back and left the house.

I knew what I could have done. Should have done. Gone into the back bedroom and made my respectful farewells along with my parents. If, as I assumed would be the case, John André offered some help concerning William, I should be there to thank him too.

Instead I remained where I was, opting for a romantical meeting with him—alone.

I had some while to wait, which I did with rising agitation. Might it be better to avoid him? Was I not confused enough about my feelings toward him as it were? As proof of my bewilderment, I did nothing. At length the inner door opened and André appeared. His look was serious, to which his dark complexion, black hair, and strong eyes gave a somber cast. When he gazed around, however, and saw me, his face brightened. That easy, frank smile, which I had come so much to admire, flashed upon me like new light.

“Miss Calderwood!” he exclaimed. “I am delighted to see you, indeed. I was afraid I was going to miss you.”

“Then you are really leaving?” I said, which, overall, was as dull a remark as one could make.

“Taken to Staten Island this very night. I was just paying my respects to your parents.”

There followed a moment of awkwardness. I did wonder that my parents did not follow him. The realization that they had not gave me unease.

“Did my parents ask . . . ?” I faltered.

“Did they request my help regarding your unfortunate brother?”

I nodded.

“They did, Miss Calderwood. They did.” He paused.

I tried to read the small smile on his lips. Was it pleasure? Mockery? Sadness? Why would he not speak? “And?” I forced myself to say.

“Miss Calderwood, I beg you to comprehend the delicacy of my situation. I am the eldest son of my family, and with my father deceased, I am responsible for my relations: mother, three sisters, and a younger brother, whose name, by the by, is also William. In short, Miss Calderwood, I must not let the slightest hint of irregularity brush against my honor as a British officer. That honor is the most important thing in my life.

“I assure you, Miss Calderwood, my positing to Staten Island is pure coincidence but, given the circumstance, you must agree, fortunate for all.”

I added other meanings to his words but said only, “Can you not get—as you did for my father—an allegiance form for my brother?”

“I fear he has already taken up arms against the government.”

“Then you won't help?”

“No.”

“But, lieutenant, you pledged to—”

“Miss Calderwood, I cannot.”

To hear that was as much to say “There shall be no more daylight.”

Struggling for words, I said, “Lieutenant André, may I, may I remind you what you said to me, ‘I give you my pledge. If there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask.'”

He was silent for a moment. Then, no longer smiling, he replied, “Miss Calderwood, can I in turn remind you of your age, which, I believe, is merely twelve. A promise to a girl is
not
a pledge to a lady. You are not yet a lady.”

Then he made a curt bow and left the house, leaving me alone with profound humiliation and rage.