Sophia's War (19 page)

JUST BEFORE, MY
heart had been beating wildly. Now I truly believed it had stopped altogether.

“Very well, then,” Mrs. Benjamin went on without noticing my reaction. “What name do you wish to be called?”

Who
thinks
about one's choice of name? But somehow I managed to find tongue enough to give my mother's name. “Molly,” I managed to say. “Molly Saville.”

Mrs. Ticknor arrived in the kitchen. She was a small, plump, red-faced middle-aged woman, bursting with much forcibility. Despite her size, the woman attended to her duties like a barn swallow, forever swooping here, there, and everywhere. In her charge were nine housemaids, first and second floor, of which I was the newest.

“Never forget,” she prattled rapidly as she gave me a tour, “this house is the most important in the city and, I daresay, in the country. His Excellency General Henry Clinton insists that things be done to perfection.”

From floor to ceiling, wealth and fashion gilded every inch of the headquarters. The outsized rooms all had fireplaces with marble mantels, stylish chairs
with tapestry backings and cushions, as well as graceful tables on thick rugs. Crystal chandeliers—loaded with bayberry candles—dangled from ceilings. Upon the walls hung portraits of bewigged and bemetaled military men who gazed condescendingly down from their perches.

The top floor housed General Clinton's living quarters. I was instructed that I was a “first-floor girl, and not to go where I was not asked.” During my time there, I generally did not know the general was about unless I heard him playing his violin in his private quarters.

The first-floor up-front rooms were the dining room and parlor. The parlor served as a waiting room for those who came to call upon the general. Indeed, there were crowds of such visitors—officers, government men, and merchants—morning, noon, and night. Dinners were as elaborate as they were late.

My tasks, as Mrs. Ticknor unfolded them, appeared endless: polishing windows, floors, and door locks. Dusting picture frames, mantels, desks, and chairs. I was to serve food, take dishes away, and when called upon, wash linen, napkins, and the like. In short, I must do whatever I was told. Further, I was to be in the house no later than six in the morning and would be released only in the evenings, until I was no longer needed.

On that first floor, in the back, was the commander in chief's office. Directly across the hallway, with special access, was John André's place of work. Mrs. Ticknor stopped before the door and announced, “I need to
show you Major André's office. Cleaning it will be a key part of your duties.”

Alarm enveloped me.
What if he is there? What if this time he recognizes me?

All the same, I wished to see it, the more so when Mrs. Ticknor, hand on the doorknob, spoke with reverence. “You must pay attention to the major. He's risen swiftly, and will go far. Everyone acknowledges he's that rarity, a favorite of General Clinton. The two confer about
everything
. Indeed, they say nothing happens in this house to which the major is not a party.” She lowered her voice: “The power behind the throne.

“But for all his importance,” she went on, “the major is courteous and, while firm, doesn't seek fault. His friendly and ungrudging ways have made him a favorite of the staff. We all dearly love him. I'm sure you will too.”

Why did that give me a pinch of pain?

She knocked—my heart was knocking too—and upon receiving no answer, opened the door.

I was thankful—or was I disappointed?—the room was deserted. I examined it. There was a large table in the center of his room—a chair behind it, two chairs before. Upon the table were many papers. A few lay spread about, but most were in neat stacks. Writing quills stuck up from a wide mouthed jar next to an inkwell and a box of blotting sand. On one wall, a portrait of someone in an elegant uniform. Mostly, however, the walls bore pinned-up maps, more than I had ever seen. As for what places they represented, I could not say.

Like every other room in the house, it had a large fireplace, but this being summer, no fire was laid. I did note that André's flute lay upon the mantel. Recalling how he used to play for me, it was impossible not to have emotioned thoughts. I did my first dusting while denying them away.

“He's been working hard of late,” Mrs. Ticknor went on, her voice ripe with respect. “He arrives in his office before the general and stays much later. It shall be your responsibility to get here in the morning each day, before he does, to tidy.”

Mrs. Ticknor said no more but, putting a dust cloth in my hand, set me to polishing brass fixtures in the dining room.

As I went about my tasks that first day, I tried to speculate what kind of information might be in those papers I had seen on Major André's desk. If this was “the most important house in the city” and “nothing happens in this house to which the major is not a party,” his office must contain a trunk of useful intelligence. It was my task to unpack those things,
not
to engage with the major.

41

MY FIRST WEEK
of work, though arduous, proved typical. Chores were endless, and of small interest. I arrived early and left late, worn out. That said, my fear of discovery subsided, because the only ones who paid any attention to me were my sister cleaners and Mrs. Ticknor.

Indeed, it was rare for me to labor alone. That said, the women I worked with were quite companionable. While we toiled, there were moments of casual chatter and gossip, which I was interested to hear. Much talk was about various officers being sent off, who was dashing, who disgraced, who praised, and the like. Indeed, among the girls there was some competition as to who could learn—and share—the most. The wages of drudgery is gossip.

The common view about the war was that it could not last long, that American fortunes were much diminished, that of the British Army ascending. But then, most of the women were passionate loyalists. Did they care that the king imposed taxes on us without consent or cut off our trade from the world? Think of dying
prisoners? Not a jot! I would have loved to argue reason into them but dared not. Indeed, I found their loyalist chat of use.

Of John André, one of them confided, “With all his open charm, there is much that is closed in him.”

Another passing comment: that Major André, since the capture of Charleston (in the Carolinas), had been focused on
something
that required lengthy conferences with General Clinton. The gossip was that a grand military action—“some bold stroke”—was under review. As someone said, “Hopefully, it will bring a quick end to the war.”

You may well perceive my keen desire to know what that
bold stroke
might be.

I saw John André regularly, and absolutely, he did not recognize me. He was courteous and kind to me but took no notice in any way. His smiles were bestowed on everyone. His regard was such that I might as well have been invisible.

On my part, I found him not so different from three years previous. His uniform was more elaborate—as befitted his higher rank—while his olive-hued skin, dark eyes, and black hair set him off to good advantage. His face still gave every suggestion of honest openness. Though I knew he was a soldier and had seen coarse times, I could have believed the word “charming” had been invented for him. Hardly a wonder that he was a favorite.

But what did I
feel
about him? Each time I saw him, I asked myself that question. Though I searched my
heart for answers, I was convinced I found no affixedness. Instead, I insisted that the flush of sensibility I felt whenever I saw him was merely fear of discovery. I had but to think that he could have saved William, and all the horrors of my brother's death rose before me. To that dreadfulness what had André said? “I must not let the slightest hint of irregularity brush against my honor as a British officer.”

His
honor.
My
dear William!

So you may be sure, I insisted that John André was the enemy. I
must
hate him.

And yet I was dimly aware of this contradiction: I wished him to notice me, while aware that if he did, it might well prove fatal.

42

ON MY SECOND
day of work I found myself—as would be the case almost every day—in Major André's office, cleaning with another housemaid. Once there, I seized the opportunity to tidy his desk that I might read anything that lay there.

All too quickly, I realized that while I could read some papers, I had access only to the top-most sheets unless I shifted them, which I was loath to do. Moreover, since my opportunities were but fleeting, it was fortunate that I could read as fast as I could.

Upon that first occasion, I discovered nothing I thought would be of interest to Mr. Townsend. I could only trust there would be other opportunities.

There did prove one perplexing difficulty. There were
many
papers on the major's desk. Which ones were written in André's hand, and which were not, I could not readily determine.

However, that night when I got home, I found a way to solve that problem: the poem John André had written to me. I had it still in a tin box, hidden away along
with the blue ribbon. Once the poem was retrieved, I studied it anew.

No matter how young the flower

Which has yet to burst to bloom,

The time will come, its finest hour

When she'll be prettiest in my room.

While I learned his singular hand, I could not help but notice this quirk of fate: looking and learning the hand he used to
win
me was my means of causing him to
lose
. Or so I hoped.

43