Sophia's War (16 page)

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?

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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.

“Miss Calderwood,” he called. “Are you going to Mr. Gaine?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, feeling harassed.

He was silent awhile, then said, “It's not commonly known, but I am Mr. Rivington's business partner.”

What has this to do with me?
I wondered.

“I'm called a sleeping partner,” he went on. “That's to say, we share, without public knowledge, ownership of a coffee house. The Kings Crown. Near Peck's Slip.”

When I said nothing, he resumed. “It's a favorite place for British officers.”

As if I care about British officers!
I stopped and faced him. “Mr. Townsend, I cannot imagine the purpose of your continual chatter. Do you have some purpose?”

He eyed me gravely. A young lady was not supposed
to challenge a man. He even studied the street as if to see if we were being observed.

“Miss Calderwood,” he said, “Mr. Gaine speaks of your high intelligence. Your remarkable memory.”

“Sir—” I tried to interrupt.

“I've noted the story of your brother,” he persisted, “and that you've taken his loss much to heart. During previous conversations, you implied you wished you
could
do something in his place. For his cause. The patriot cause. Is that correct?”

This talk was dangerous.

“Please, sir,” I said. “I don't wish to discuss my private thoughts.” I stepped away, eager to get to Mr. Gaine's shop.

“But, Miss Calderwood,” he called after me, “I might be able to help you achieve your aim.”

Without replying, I walked on. But how could I avoid wondering what kind of
help
he was suggesting? I almost wished he had followed me, that he might explain himself. What was he after? Was this dull man offering a courtship? How repelling!

My day at the printing shop proved long. Though I concentrated hard on my duties, Mr. Townsend's words pried upon my thoughts. What aims did he think I had? To be sure, I would have given much to help the patriot cause. Regardless: What could Mr. Townsend offer me in that regard? Or
I
to him?

May I remind you, I was living in a city occupied by the enemy. To act
against
that enemy was to court great hazard. No one knew that better than I did.

At one point during the afternoon, I turned to Mr. Gaine and said, “Mr. Gaine, sir, Mr. Townsend is your close acquaintance. What is your opinion of him?”

Mr. Gaine, after some thought, said, “He is a man whom you can trust.”

Trust with what? What game is in play?

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THE DAY FOLLOWING
, Mr. Gaine asked me to deliver a small parcel of books. Nothing unusual in that. What made me uneasy was that I was instructed to give them to a British officer, a Sergeant Cook. Moreover, the place for delivery was the coffeehouse near Peck's Slip, the Kings Crown. This, I instantly recalled, was Mr. Rivington's establishment, the one that Mr. Townsend secretly owned with the Tory printer.

When I approached the Kings Crown, parcel in hand, I hesitated. Women were not always welcome in such places. Besides, I could not push aside my conviction that I had been lured here by a plot concocted by Mr. Gaine and Mr. Townsend. I don't mean to suggest I sensed bodily harm. Yet if I had known then what was to be asked of me, I suspect I might not have taken one step within.

The ground floor of the two-story wooden building was a large, open room, illuminated by lamps and candles, which added to the heat of the day. Posts held up the ceiling's oak beams. Tables and Windsor chairs were set about at random. Brown wainscoting lined
the walls. On these walls were tacked notices of merchant ship arrivals and departures along with cargos and prices. Official proclamations pertaining to trade were there, along with a gaudy-colored penny-portrait of King George. At the far back of the room was an enclosed area where the coffee maker worked his large copper kettles, cooking the coffee. The drink was served in saucers, distributed by a waiter.

At one table sat three British officers. At another, two. Others sat alone. The British officers were talking loudly. A second group—they seemed to be merchants—kept their voices low.

No one took notice of me. Uncertain, I approached the enclosed area, with its large window overlooking the room. Within, a man tended a fire. The smell of coffee was strong.

“Yes, miss?” said the man when I drew close. “How can I help you?” His face was pox-scarred and sweaty.

“I have a parcel for Sergeant Cook.”

The man examined me with his squinty eyes, and then pointed to a soldier sitting alone and reading a newspaper. I approached him.

“Sir?”

He glanced up.

“Mr. Gaine asked me to deliver this to you, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, and held out his hands. “Thank you. Much obliged.”

I handed him the parcel. He took it, set it on the tabletop, and resumed his reading, taking no more note of me.

I stood confused and embarrassed. Was this
all
that was to happen? An
errand
? With a sense of being fooled—and disappointed—I turned and moved toward the door. When I did, a man rose from the table nearest the door. Mr. Townsend.

I halted immediately.

“Miss Calderwood,” he said with his customary bow. “I am pleased to meet you.”

I glared at him.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice low. “Mr. Gaine suggested that you would be here on his behalf. I won't detain you for a moment.”

“Why did you want me to come here?” I demanded.

“I wished you to know this place.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “May I walk with you back to Mr. Gaine?”

“Sir, you may have tricked
me
into coming here, but I cannot control what
you
do.” I stepped onto the cobblestone street.

As Mr. Townsend kept by my side, I hastened on. He spoke shortly. “Miss Calderwood, did you notice any difference between merchants and soldiers at the Crown?”

“Their dress, obviously,” I replied, aware that he was drawing me in. “And the soldiers talk loudly.”

“Exactly. Did you hear? They were talking about the fall of Charleston. The British think the end of the war is near.”

“They have thought so for years.”

“Their thoughts could be of value.”

“Not to me, sir.”

“But,” he said softly, “I'm sure General Washington would like to know what they think.”

I halted and faced him with astonishment.
“General Washington?”

A quick finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

I gawked at him. “Mr. Townsend, what are you suggesting?”

“Miss Calderwood,” he said, his gaze firmer than I would have given him credit for. “I'm not
suggesting.
I am revealing a fact.”

“You mean,” I started to say, “you are getting information for—”

A quick hand of caution. “Just say, here too, I am a sleeping partner.”

I could have little doubt he was telling me he was a spy! But all I said was “Are Mr. Gaine and Mr. Rivington both in this partnership?”

“One hopes their
public
reputations proclaim otherwise.”

I said, “You haven't answered my question, sir.”

“It must suffice.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Miss Calderwood, I know about you, your father, and your brother. Moreover, you have intimated to me that you would like to take some part in our struggle. Your reputation proclaims that you are a patriot, smart, quick, and with a superior memory.”

I felt like a stuck pig. “Speak it out, sir,” I cried with frustration, though fearful of his answer. “How could I play a part?”

I must have spoken too loudly, for he glanced about, then said, “I think it would be better if we walked. And I beg you. Lower your voice. Let's not draw attention.”

We went on without speaking.

In time he said, “With the fall of Charleston, our situation is precarious. Miss Calderwood, you asked, ‘How could I play a part in this struggle?' I know of a way.”

I whispered, “What would it be?”

His only answer was “I presume you will be at Mr. Gaine's shop tomorrow?”

I nodded.

“Better to talk in private,” he said. “Good day, Miss Calderwood.” He went off.

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