Sophia's War (15 page)

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 Arnolds, 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.”

“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.