Sophia's War (3 page)

AFTER WITNESSING CAPTAIN
Hale's death, Mother and I, too numb to speak, continued into town. Passing Fresh Pond and then the Commons, we saw countless military tents. English soldiers, fully armed and in red uniforms, formed a sea of scarlet. German troops—many of whom bore fierce mustaches—were in their green uniforms. Scot troops were in their kilts.

We passed the new prison, called Bridewell. Though not fully built, men were being marched in. “Prisoners,” Mother murmured. I prayed that William was still with General Washington.

On city streets, we saw that cobblestones had been pulled up. Barricades remained. As we reached Broadway, we began to grasp the great devastation wrought by the fire. Even beautiful Trinity Church was destroyed. Its gigantic steeple of 175 feet, its roof, and all within were gone, including a fine organ and library. The church building stood like part of its own forlorn cemetery.

Misery was everywhere. Tattered, soot-smudged citizens, reduced to beggary, poked though the wreckage
of homes, searching midst scorched wood, blackened red bricks, and charred cedar roof shingles. The stench was awful.

Greatly agitated, Mother and I, holding our dresses up to avoid the mud, all but ran down Broadway. I gained some assurance when I saw that the east side of Broadway—our side—appeared for the most part intact, the spaced-apart houses unharmed. Nevertheless, gardens, usually so splendid in September, were choked with ash and weed.

Imagine our joy when we reached Wall Street and saw that our small, two-story wooden house was unscathed. Even better, the door was open. Perhaps William was home! We rushed inside.

Alas, no one was there. Moreover, much was in shambles, with some furniture destroyed, dishes smashed, and our four pewter plates gone. The old brass candlestick, a family heirloom of a hundred years, had disappeared from the mantel. As for the food we left in storage—nothing remained.

Mother went right to the hearth, stepped within, reached high, and pulled down the small iron chest Father had hidden. Opening it, she found our little hoard: twelve English sixpence, an English shilling, four crown pieces, plus two Spanish
reales
. Relief showed on Mother's face. Then I found an overlooked candle box. We would have some light.

But when we examined Father's workplace at the back of the house, we found much of it in disarray. Father was a scrivener, a copier of legal documents as
well as a copy editor for the newspaper publishers, both Mr. Rivington (publisher of the
Gazette
) and Mr. Gaine (publisher of the
Mercury
). Many of Father's treasured books—his Johnson dictionary, his Pope, Locke, Richardson, his adored
Robinson Crusoe
—lay torn and broken. Spilled ink made frozen shadows on the floor. Quills lay scattered like a bird ripped apart.

Mother latched the front door and said, “At least we have our home and savings.”

“And William,” I insisted.

Though I knew Mother was in great anxiety about him too, all she said was “We can only pray for good news.” Then, after a painful sigh—a better reflection of her feelings—she said, “We'd best try to put things in order.”

I found some ease in doing something useful.

We were still cleaning when a harsh pounding came upon our door. Hoping it was one of our neighbors, I hastened to open it. Standing before the house was a troop of five British soldiers, all armed.

4

IN FRONT OF
the soldiers stood an officer in a red regimental jacket complete with gold facings. He had a lengthy nose, a jutting chin, and a severe frown. A sword was at his side.

“Sophia,” Mother called. “Who is it?”

When I could find no words to reply, Mother came up behind me and looked. When she did, she gasped.

The officer made a curt bow. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said in a Scot's accent. “Captain Mackenzie. Is your husband at home?”

“He's—We expect Mr. Calderwood soon, sir,” said Mother.

“Where is he?” he snapped.

“I'm not sure, sir,” Mother replied. “He's been hiding from the rebel army.”

Her words took me by surprise. I had never known Mother to lie.

“There's nothing from which to hide, madam,” said the officer. “They have been roundly defeated. Your husband's name?”

“Hiram Calderwood.”

Captain Mackenzie made a gesture. One of the soldiers, a sheaf of papers in hand, came forward and sorted through his lists. “He's here, sir,” he announced.

Captain Mackenzie nodded and said, “Good.” To my mother he said, “What's your husband's trade?”

“A scrivener, sir. He most often works for Mr. Rivington and Mr. Gaine.”

“I know naught of them.”

“They publish loyalist newspapers.”

“I'm pleased to hear it,” said Captain Mackenzie dryly. Next moment he issued an order to his men: “Search the house.”

The redcoats acted as if we were not there. They opened cupboards, poked about the hearth—thank goodness we had retrieved the money—and went upstairs, where they searched under my parents' bed, hauled out my trundle bed, and even broke open a trunk from which they dragged winter blankets. All was strewn about. Loathing them with all my heart, I renewed my rebellious vows.

Their most intense search was in Father's office. Papers and books were scrutinized. At one point, a soldier approached the captain with a pamphlet in his hand.

Captain Mackenzie read the title aloud. “
Common Sense
,” he announced. “Do you know what this is, madam?”

“No, sir,” said Mother. Another falsehood!

“An incitement to rebellion,” said the captain. “I presume your husband read this. Does he credit what it says?”

“I'm sure Mr. Calderwood doesn't, sir,” said my mother.

I know otherwise
, I thought with pride.

Grimacing, Captain Mackenzie ripped the pamphlet and tossed the pieces away. To my mother, he said, “Madam, if your husband does not return soon, he'll be accounted a rebel and shall lose this house. If he does come back, he must subscribe his allegiance to the king at Scots Tavern, near City Hall. I warmly advise, madam, he wear the red ribbon to identify himself as a loyal subject.” He made a motion. One of the soldiers opened a pouch and held out a strip of red cloth.

Mother bobbed a curtsy and took it. “I'll be sure to tell him, sir.”

“Finally,” the officer went on, “that room, where I presume your husband conducts his business, must be converted into your own sleeping quarters. The upstairs room will be taken over by the army.”

“Sir?”

“My orders are to find accommodations for our officers. You'll be paid rent for the officer's billeting.”

“When will your officer arrive?”

“Soon. Be so kind as to have the upstairs rooms in order. Good day to you, madam!”

Captain Mackenzie made a curt bow and ordered his soldiers to depart.

I shut the door behind them. Furious, I turned to Mother. “What were they looking for?”

“Evidence that your father was a rebel.”

I declared, “Father cannot sign that oath.”

Mother, fingering the red ribbon, said, “Sophia, Mr. Calderwood will sign that oath if we wish to remain here.”

“But if he doesn't believe—”

“Child!” snapped Mother. “What we think and what we say can no longer be the same! And we must not mention William.”

I took refuge in the fact that she called me “child” only when distraught.

“What if he appears?”

She glared at me. “Did you not see that hanging?”

That silenced me, for a moment. Then I said, “When do you think that British officer—the one who will stay here—will come?”

“The officer said ‘soon,'” Mother answered. “Let's trust that Mr. Calderwood comes first, and unharmed. But you heard the officer. If your father doesn't arrive, we'll lose this house.”

“He will come, won't he?”

“I pray.”

“We need William here.”

“Sophia,” my mother said in her most severe voice, “find your own courage!”

I was too dismayed to speak.

“Let's get back to work,” said Mother, and she began by gathering up the torn pages of
Common Sense
and tossing them into the hearth.

In haste, I set to. All the while, I wondered what it would be like to have a stranger in our home. A British officer at that! I kept thinking of the officer who led
Captain Hale to his death. What if
he
came to live with us. Or another as brutal? I supposed all were alike. Whoever he was, I knew I should despise him. But how would I ever learn to keep my emotions bottled? I was an ardent patriot. If I could not keep it secret, I knew the consequence.

Then I reminded myself: it didn't matter what I felt. Regardless, there was a fair likelihood we might yet lose our home, and worse.

5

AFTER WE HAD
worked, cleaning and scrubbing and putting such furniture as remained back in place, Mother stood in the center of the almost empty common room. Her face was tense, her eyes closed. I could see her suffering.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “to have been cross. It's difficult to know what to say or do.”

“Could we send a message to Father that he needs to hurry?”

“Impossible.”

“Is there any place we could search for William?”

“I don't know where except that new prison.”

“Then we should go,” I urged.

Mother found a pin and attached the red ribbon to her sleeve. “Hopefully,” she said, “this will protect us.”

Latching the door, we set out along Broadway toward the Commons, some eight or nine streets north. The nearer we approached, the more British troops we saw.

I have learned that heart and eyes are one. That's to say, one can
see
a thing, but when one is
linked
to it, the seeing is different. I had observed the new
prison before. This time, as I drew closer, aware that my brother could be a prisoner, I now grasped how formidable a fortress it was.