Sophia's War (12 page)

Immediately,
I
made a pledge: lady or no,
I
would rescue William.

23

FIRST, HOWEVER, I
needed to visit him. Since I had already gained some knowledge of what amount of bribe it would take to accomplish that, I believed it good fortune—in every sense—that Mr. Gaine had employed me. So it was that I went to his shop each day. It meant money in hand, highly valued British coin. That said, it was going to take time to earn what I thought would be required. Fortunately, while I worked, I also brought home advertisements for Father to edit.

On a number of occasions after my day's work, I went to the sugarhouse situated near Crown and Nassau Streets. It was close to a Dutch church and its adjacent graveyard. Until recently it had been used for the refining of Jamaican sugar; hence its name. Having been built like a fortress, with large stones to make it fireproof, it is hardly a wonder that the British converted it to a prison. Five stories high, it had small, deep-set windows covered with gratings, and but one entryway, a small, barred door on the Crown Street side.

Though there was no light within, I stood before it. Futile, of course. Yet I wanted to think that William's
face was one of those pressing at a window and that he saw me.

I remained for a while, then left.

At home Father continued to mend, if poorly. He got out of bed. He walked about. Though his arm and hand remained stiff and awkward in their movements, he made no complaint. Nonetheless, he stayed at home. While he did not say as much, I believed he thought that if he was seen and his wound noticed, there was the chance of his being arrested.

General Washington, as much as anyone knew, had hidden his small army somewhere in Pennsylvania. It's no wonder the British were convinced the war was all but over. Indeed, our Congress, anticipating an attack on Philadelphia, fled to the city of Baltimore. Nevertheless, a confident Lord Howe chose to stay in New York and settled into winter quarters.

I'll not deny I wished the war would end too, so William would be released. As for John André, I took satisfaction that I did not think of him, but prided myself on
not
thinking.

Then, three days after Christmas, we heard the astonishing news that General Washington had captured the town of Trenton from German troops and went on to
defeat
British troops at Princeton. The patriot cause was alive. Among the few with whom we still communicated, there was elation.

A confession:
I
was not so delighted. I knew what it meant: The war would continue. William was not going
to be free. Then I realized I was thinking that the freedom of my country was something less important than the freedom of my brother.

Ashamed of myself, but ever more desperate, I convinced my parents that I should take whatever money we had in hand and make an effort to see William. They agreed to let me try.

I went back to the sugarhouse. As I stood before the building, I watched two armed redcoat guards pass back and forth in front of the door. What a stronghold it was that it took so few guards to secure it!

Filled with apprehension, I gripped my money tightly in hand and stepped forward, waiting until one of the guards drew near.

“Sir!” I called.

The soldier halted and peered down at me but said nothing. An older man, tall and thin, he was what people call a dry-bones. His uniform was ill fitting and his equally wrinkled face bore a hook of a nose, dull eyes, and shaggy eyebrows. I wondered how many years he had been a soldier.

“Please, sir,” I said. “I have a brother inside. A prisoner. I am desperate to see him.”

“How do you know he's here?”

“A week ago, the guards at the King's College told me so.”

The soldier was silent for some moments before he said, “No one is allowed to visit.”

I took a breath. “Would some coins help?”

He peeked down at me with those graveyard eyes. “Likely,” he allowed.

I stepped forward and held out some forty shillings—more than a week's pay—in my cupped hands. “Will this do?”

He studied the coins but said and did nothing.

Reaching closer, I barely managed to say, “It's all I have, sir.”

He lifted his doleful gaze to my face, so that it took all my strength to look back. Then he said, “I got to share it with the other,” by which I took him to mean the other guard.

“I beg you, sir, I don't have more.”

He was silent for a few more moments before stretching out his hand. When I poured the coins into his large palm, he transferred them to his powder pouch. “What's his name?” he said.

“William Calderwood.”

“Follow me,” he said with a jerky movement of his head.

I followed him up a few stone steps. Using a large key, he unlocked the heavy door, pushed, and stepped into the sugarhouse.

How sweet the name, sugarhouse. How cruel the reality. For we had entered a dank, murky hallway, where I was immediately assaulted by a suffocating stench of sweat, dirt, and excrement. The ceiling was low. There was no heat. The stone floors were spread with damp and rotten straw. Beyond all else, it was
astonishingly crowded with men, far too many for the space, like barely alive fish stuffed into a barrel.

Some men were leaning against the walls. Others sat. Many more lay prostrate on the stone floor. All were foul, with but scant clothing, a few bits looking like old uniforms. What garments they had gave ill comfort against the raw cold and extreme grime. Many had crude bandages. Some were shackled in chains. Even in the murk, I could see bodies shaking, presumably with chills, fever, fear, or all three.

When the guard and I appeared, gaunt, pallid faces turned to me, staring as if
I
were an apparition. Yet it was their faces, ghostlike, that begged for compassion. Not with words. They were as silent as ice.

The guard bellowed, “Girl here for her brother! William Calderwood!”

If they had told me William was dead, it could not have been more appalling than what was the response:
nothing
, nothing at all. Rather, these miserable men merely stared mutely at me with what I translated as wordless entreaties to do
something, anything
, to alleviate their degrading, putrid misery.

Suppressing my impulse to gag, I called, “William! William!” Oh, but my voice was too frail and useless against this storehouse of horrors.

When I received no answer, I had no choice but to wander about, calling, calling. The guard remained at my side.

Each level of the building was divided into two large rooms, with, as I had first observed, low ceilings and
naught but dim light seeping through the windows, windows further obscured by bars.

The condition of the prisoners was, at best, horrendous. The scene I'd witnessed when first I entered was repeated everywhere. All was crowded. All was filth, reek, and the cruel calamity of human disintegration and rot.

Constantly calling my brother's name, I had to force myself on. When I received no response, my terror grew.

Where is he?

24

I CALLED WILLIAM'S
name many times. But it was not until I reached the fourth floor that I found him. He was in a corner, midst a cluster of other men, grouped as if to share desolation.

He lay on the floor, looking far worse than when I saw him on the street with other prisoners. I could see for myself his thigh wound gave him much pain and was secreting greenish pus.

Indeed, if ever I have observed the face of war, it was William. Body as thin as any fence rail, covered with grime, hair sparse and discolored, eyes red-rimmed, and his youth all leached away. What remained was like a bleached and empty shell upon a barren ocean shore.

For his part, it was as if he did not believe anyone was seeking him. With effort, he pushed himself up on one skeletal elbow.

“Sophia?” he asked like a kitten mewing.

When my soldier guide stepped back with some crude courtesy, I dropped to my knees. William and I embraced. I am not ashamed to say that in our first moments we shared nothing but tears.

In bits and pieces, he told me all that had happened, from the battle in Brooklyn, now months ago, his retreat through Manhattan, his placement in Fort Washington, the siege there. How he was wounded. His capture. “These are some of my comrades,” he said, indicating the men around him.

“When we were first taken prisoner,” he told me, “the British and German soldiers went round in gangs and stole from us whatever things or comforts we had, even to our shoe buckles. They beat and kicked us repeatedly.

“At King's College, where I was first taken, they stole the bed clothing from those who were ill. There are many with prison fever. Many are dying here. The dead-cart comes and goes every day.”

Repeatedly I told him how much he was loved, that we would do everything we could to help him.

To my astonishment, even in that ghastly place, he asked, “Are we winning?”

I told what good news I had, Arnold's check of the British in the north. That General Washington had won great battles in Jersey. I did not tell him that the British had taken Newport.

And what did he say to his companions? “The army is still alive.”

In as low a voice as I could manage, I said, “Can one escape?”

“Some have tried. Almost none succeed. It takes strength.”

“Is there any way I can help?”

“Food,” he said. “We lack food. And decent water.”

“I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“My love to Father and Mother.”

“They are proud of you,” I said.

We embraced anew, after which I took my leave.

The soldier guided me out.

“Why do you treat them so cruelly?” I burst out.

He shrugged. “Call them prisoners and they've got rights. Better to call them rebels and say they've none. It's easier.” Then he added, “Just know the army commissioners whose job it is to feed them grow fat.”

Once outside, I gulped the cold, fresh air as if it were water and I were parched.