Sophia's War (18 page)

“Mr. Townsend—”

“Anything you believe is significant you shall convey to me. No more. No less.”

“Won't they discover me?”

“The world being what it is, Miss Calderwood, your being a girl shall mask your true occupation.”

Nothing he said could have excited me more. “Can you really place me in the position?”

“I'm on good terms with someone in the household. Not that they know me—as you do. So, yes.”

No sooner confronted with reality than I felt queasy. I turned my back on him and thought of ways to wiggle free. “One problem, sir. My parents depend upon my wages.”

“Whatever you earn here, Miss Calderwood, you will receive the same amount. I will answer for it.”

He would say no more but waited. As for me, I could think of no other rational objections to Mr. Townsend's offer, save fright, which I was not prepared to admit.

“When would I begin?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!”

“Our need for information is urgent. We don't wish to lose any opportunity.”

“Mr. Townsend,” I abruptly asked. “How did you come to this employment?”

“Did you ever hear of Nathan Hale?”

Startled, I could only stare.

“When Hale died, General Washington established a scheme of spies. Mr. Paine's words recruited me.” Leaving me to assume the rest, Mr. Townsend asked, “Are you still willing?”

I said, “How secret shall this be?”

“Only you, Miss Calderwood, and I shall know.”

“But Mr. Gaine—”

He brushed the question aside with a wave of his hand. “Now, then,” he hurried on, “tomorrow morning at eight o'clock you shall meet me outside the Archibald Kennedy house—number one Broadway.”

Feeling rushed, I found another excuse. “But if I
do
discover something, how can I inform you?”

“You shall leave notes for me—under the name Culper—at the Kings Crown. That's why I wished you to see it. Have you other questions?”

I could think of none.

“Then we agree?”

I think I nodded. Oh, fateful nod!

It was then he added, “I must give one warning. This is a dangerous thing I—and now you—will be doing. To be found out could be fatal. It's best to be skittish. From time to time, I might even find it best to withdraw. That means there may be times you will be without me.”

“And if I am?”

“You will need to make decisions on your own. Can you do that?”

What could I say other than “I think so”?

“Then, till tomorrow.” That said, Mr. Townsend left me.

At home that night my talk was so small that Mother wanted to know if I was ill. I assured her I was fine.

Indeed, out of a sense of obligation—I might be taken and held without their knowing—I finally blurted out what I was about to do. As I expected, my parents were appalled. Urged me not to. Spoke of it as folly. Of danger. As my parents, they ordered me not to.

Their opposition became my strength. To every argument, fear, and threat, my only answer was “I'm doing it for William. His comrades.” I would not be turned.

Not as strong as I, they eventually gave up.

Oh, you who would prefer weak parents. Think again!

I spent a tossing night, wondering about all that might happen. How would I comport myself? Was I capable of deception? Would I know what information was of value? What way would I convey that information to Mr. Townsend? Why use a false name—Culper—for messages? He hinted he might have to withdraw for a while. Would I—if necessary—be able to deal alone?
Would Mr. Townsend really give the information I provided to General Washington? How would he do so?

I had no answers to such questions.

Moreover, it came to me that the oft-used symbol for Great Britain was a lion, and that on the morrow, I was going to place myself in the beast's great, sharp-toothed jaws.

38

I AWOKE BEFORE
I needed to. I breakfasted and hurried to market for Mother. Happily, I had no papers to deliver for Father. Without further words to my stony-faced parents, I walked to number one Broadway.

The city knew no grander building than the one known as the Archibald Kennedy house. A large two-story—plus attic—brick building, it was almost sixty feet wide at the street. On each of the two main floors were four big windows, all with shutters. The entryway was a massive white door reached by four stone steps, the door bracketed with stately wooden and fluted columns. The closer I came to this commanding structure, the more my resolution shrank. Did I really wish to commit myself to such an outrageous act—to be a spy?

When I stood before the building and saw two tall British guards–one on each side of the front door, standing at fierce attention, bayoneted muskets in hand—I struggled to maintain my resolve. Even as I observed it all, other soldiers—they appeared to be officers—were entering and leaving the house.

“Miss Calderwood.”

Startled, I looked around. It was Mr. Townsend.

“We need to go round the back,” he said quietly.

Led by him, I went down an alley on the north side of the building. At the rear was a low door—the servants' entrance, but guarded as out front, by two soldiers.

Mr. Townsend approached them. One of the soldiers seemed to recognize him. “We're here to see Mrs. Benjamin.”

“Very good, Mr. Townsend.” The soldier saluted Mr. Townsend but took no notice of me. It made me recall Mr. Townsend's remark that “Your being a girl shall mask your true occupation.” Now “folly,” not “occupation,” seemed a better word.

The other solider opened the door for us.

We stepped down into a spacious kitchen with an immense hearth and stone floor, as well as tables, cabinets, and large basins. On one wall, bright copper pots were shelved in orderly fashion. Others hung from the ceiling. Barrels stood about, containing I knew not what. On the massive central table, mounds of vegetables, a large fish, a side of beef, plus loaves of bread. Considering the city's shortage of food, it was astonishing to see such abundance. It filled me with resentment and stiffened my resolve.

Three women were hard at work preparing food. Two were young, and the third was a large, elder woman, who turned to greet us.

“Ah, Mr. Townsend. Good day.”

“Mrs. Benjamin, this is the girl I spoke to you about.”

I curtsyed as the woman eyed me up and down.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “We can try her. Miss, if you would sit there, I'll send for Mrs. Ticknor. She's chief housekeeper. She'll inform you of your duties. Mr. Townsend,” she said, “much obliged.”

To her he said, “I'll send that cloth you requested to your home.” To me he
said
nothing but gave me his customary brief bow and departed.

I took the chair where I'd been directed, and waited. One of the younger women left the room, presumably to fetch that Mrs. Ticknor. Since Mrs. Benjamin and the other young woman paid no further notice of me, I sat there trying to take in as much as I could, while pondering the notion that in exchange for a bolt of cloth, I had been engaged as a spy.

I was still sitting there waiting when into the room stepped John André.

39

MY HEART LURCHED
. My throat tightened. I could hardly breathe. All I did was gawk at him.

As for John André, he went right to Mrs. Benjamin and spoke about some special guests to be at that night's dinner with General Clinton. A discussion of the menu ensued. At one point he casually glanced round the room and rested his eyes on me.

Did he recognize me? I saw not so much as a glimmer of notice in his eyes. No, he knew me not, no more than had John Paulding. Once a girl, now a woman. What better disguise! Next instant he turned away, finished talking, then left. The kitchen resumed what it had been doing before.

“Mrs. Benjamin,” I said when I could carry on with normal breathing, “that officer who was just here, who is he?”

“Major André? He's General Henry Clinton's chief of staff. Just back from Charleston. Next to His Excellency, the general, he's the most powerful man here.”

“Is he a major, then?”

“And soon to be promoted higher, they say.”

“What are his duties?”

“Lord. What doesn't he do? Schedules the general's appointments and sees everyone who comes. Receives and answers the general's letters. Approves sick leave. Writes reports for the general. In all of General Clinton decisions, he has a part. And, so it's said, he's scoutmaster.”

“Scoutmaster?”

“You know: the word they use for the one in charge of intelligence. Spies and the like. I daresay our army has a host of them. And the rebels, I suppose, have theirs. Major André is not only in charge of our spies, he's supposed to catch the rebel ones.”

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