Sophia's War (17 page)

THINK ME NOT
a bufflehead. I understood Mr. Townsend's meaning. He called himself a “sleeping partner,” a sly way of saying “spy.” Moreover, the way he referred to General Washington left me in no doubt for whom he was securing information.

That said, I was astonished. I had believed Mr. Townsend the tamest of men. Then I recalled how he listened and did not offer opinions like other men. But he
did
ask many questions. I now understood he lived the proverb “Wise heads have quiet tongues and eager ears.”

Yet that he revealed this to
me
, that he chose to connect
me
with what
he
was doing, and seemed to suggest that
I
too could be a spy, was extraordinary. To begin, it was considered base that
anyone
should do a low, dishonorable, deceitful thing as spy. How could I—a fifteen-year-old virtuous girl—act so?

And the danger.
The peril.
More than three years had passed, but it took only an instant for me to recall Nathan Hale's death and Provost Cunningham's words to him, “No Bibles for damned rebel spies.” How well I
remembered his words to
me
: “Be still, missy, or you'll come to the same fate!”

Most powerfully of all, I recalled William, and his companions, the horrors of the sugarhouse and the
Good Intent
. I had heard that there were women prisoners on the prison ship
Jersey
. Would I risk all that? And yet it was those same appalling facts that reminded me of my profound craving to avenge such crimes.

Thus, it must be said: when I grasped the implication of Mr. Townsend's words, a tremor of exhilaration passed through me. Did I not constantly chide myself about my unfulfilled vow to avenge my brother's death?

Yet what had I
done
? Nothing.

Did I not remind myself of our Declaration and its list of British crimes? Was I not a patriot?

Yet what had I
done
? Nothing.

What of Mother's strong words, that I must find my courage and use it?

Yet what I had
done
? Nothing.

Here, at last, was opportunity.

But—come solutions, come quibbles. What if I were found out? Did I wish to practice such trickery? If caught, could I accept an end to life by hanging? Did I not have a responsibility toward my parents? What if they lost another child—me? Who would care for them in a reduced state and in old age? What if I were unable to do what Mr. Townsend asked? What if I made hash of it all?

Like bees upon the whitest flower, these questions swarmed round me. Of answers, I had none.

36

I WALKED HOME
along Broadway, my head swirling with these hard thoughts. As if to tease me, the air was soft, almost sweet, but such was my agitated humor, I reminded myself that spring is most unpredictable.

From somewhere I heard music playing. I soon discovered its origins when I went by the Trinity Church ruins. That evening it was aglow with candles and colored paper lanterns, a weekly event. While musicians played and armed soldiers kept mere citizens at bay, British and Hessian officers and their women danced about and
on
the old graves. To my sensibilities, it was an image of what the British were doing to my country. How I despised them.

Then, as I drew closer to home, a new question weighed upon me: Should I tell my parents what I was considering? I had no doubt that they would insist I
not
do what Mr. Townsend requested.

I chose to say nothing.
There
, I chided myself,
I am already deceiving my parents!

At some point during the evening, our currently
billeted officer, Captain Ponton, arrived. He was a loud, rude man, and I had no fondness for him. Moreover, that night he was somewhat bosky. After idle talk—about how the British would soon trample Americans everywhere—he staggered up to his room. With him gone, my parents took themselves off. Happily, I was left alone with my mind.

I sat there wondering what specifically Mr. Townsend would ask me to do. Would it be hard? Easy? How dangerous? Did I have the courage?

At some point, I heard a soft rapping on our door. Having dozed, I started. Picking up the low-burning candle, I went to the door, eased it open, and peeked out.

A large man was standing on our step, cocked hat pulled down, partly concealing his face. I could see he was not clean, wore a rough jacket, baggy trousers, and muddy boots, and that he was looking at me with puzzlement, as if he had, perhaps, come to the wrong door.

Suddenly, I recognized him. “John Paulding?” I cried. “Is that you?”

I suspect you'll not recall the name. Mr. Paulding was William's friend, the one who urged him to join the army just before the battle in Brooklyn. The last time I'd seen him was when the two marched off together.

“And you are—?”

“Sophia Calderwood.”

“Miss Calderwood! Forgive me. You've quite grown.”

I reached to draw him inside.

He held back. “Is it safe to come in?”

“We have a British officer forced upon us,” I said.

He pulled away. “Can we go round back?” he asked.

I nodded. As he retreated, I followed him, candle in hand. I found him sitting on the ground. I blew the candle out, knelt by his side, and poured out questions. “Where have you come from? Where have you been? Why did you come?”

He told me that ever since that battle in Brooklyn he'd been mostly with Washington's army, moving up and down the country. His stories were amazing and affecting. He had seen and done much.

Only recently he'd been posted to Westchester County—his native area—where he had been ordered to patrol what was called the “neutral country.” This was the area just north of Manhattan under the control of neither patriot nor Tory. His task was to watch for pillaging Tories—called “cowboys”—and prowling redcoats.

Being close to the city, he'd come to visit his intended wife—Miss Sarah Teed—whom he had not seen in many months. He was also determined to pay his respects to my parents. “I'd heard of William's death some while ago,” he said. “I've long wished to come, but I haven't been able. I'm awful sorry.” So it was that this night, knowing officers would be distracted by the Trinity dance, he slipped across the lines and made his way.

“Thank you,” I said. “You were ever the good friend. Was it dangerous to come?”

“The neutral area is always infested with thieves, spies, as well as enemy soldiers. But, Miss Calderwood,
I'm not sure I know what danger is anymore. Tell me about William. Do you blame me for getting him to enlist?”

“You were not the only one to urge him. And we were proud of him.” I related to Mr. Paulding all that happened to cause his death.

Though he knew about the sugarhouse and prison ships, William's story made him angry. “You must,” he said, “give your parents my condolences.”

He asked me about myself, but I spoke only about my work with Mr. Gaine, nothing about Mr. Townsend's offer.

He told me he needed to leave the city quickly, it being risky for him to stay. “They would make short work of me if I were to be caught. But from this time forward, Miss Calderwood,” he added earnestly, “I beg you, consider me your brother. If ever you need anything, leave word for me at the place called Tarrytown.”

Though I could not imagine doing such a thing, I was touched. I thanked Mr. Paulding with all my heart. He in turn gave me a quick, brotherly embrace and slipped into the night.

Certain I would not see him again, I went to the common room and gave myself to my decision about Mr. Townsend.

I do not mean to claim that Mr. Paulding's coming that night caused me to make up my mind. No more than did seeing those officers dance upon the sacred graves at Trinity Church. Or Captain Ponton's crude and tipsy remarks. Only that they proved very timely. Perhaps,
as it's said, coincidences are God's small messages.

Surely, if Mr. Paulding could expose himself to so much danger on behalf of our country, if William could give his life, if Nathan Hale could give his, if I must witness British officers dance upon our graves, how dare
I
do nothing? Need I remind you I had reason and motive enough? All these things gave blood to my heart.

Thus, I made up my mind. I would join Robert Townsend. I would become a spy.

37

NEXT MORNING I
went off to Hanover Square. For most of the day I worked setting lines of advertising type. Dull work indeed, and tedium agitates the soul. My mind spun about the questions I would pose to Mr. Townsend.

It was late afternoon when he appeared. When he came in, he did not even look at me, but conversed with Mr. Gaine about small matters. Perhaps Mr. Townsend had changed
his
mind. Part of me wished he had.

At length, however, Mr. Townsend turned to me. Bowed. “Miss Calderwood, good afternoon.”

Curtsy. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Might you wish a word with me?”

Mr. Gaine shifted round so deliberately, I was sure he understood what was afoot.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

Mr. Gaine removed his leather apron and said, “Forgive me, Mr. Townsend. I've got me a small errand. Miss Calderwood, be so good as to look after.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, certain he did not wish to hear my conversation with Mr. Townsend. Indeed, within
moments that gentleman turned to me and said, “Miss Calderwood, have you come to a decision?”

I said, “I wish to help.”

“Bravo.”

“But, Mr. Townsend,” I said in haste, “I first need to know how you intend to make use of me.”

“There is a house servant position available in the British headquarters at number one Broadway. I've been asked to find a young woman to take on the chores there.”

“But how could my being a house servant help?”

“Within such a place there must be much unguarded talk. Papers left about. The like. All you need do is look and listen. An opportunity not to be missed.”