Sophia's War (2 page)

Not sure how secure the way would be, Father made the decision that Mother and I, being females, should travel first. It was his belief that English soldiers would not harm a mother and child. “Are they not,” he said, “our kinsmen and a civilized people?” Moreover, we would travel on a Sunday, Lords Day. Surely, all would be peaceful. As soon as Father determined that the roads were not dangerous for him, he would follow.

So it was that before dawn on Sunday morning, Mother and I, full of disquietude, set out to walk the twelve miles to the city. With me clutching Mother's hand tightly and barely looking up, we took the road called Harlem Lane. I may have been willowy for my twelve years of age, and my name
was
Sophia (the Greek word for “wisdom”), but you could just as well have called me “Frightened” and been done with it. In truth, as we hurried along, all my thoughts were on William.
He must come home!

It was late morning when we reached the outskirts of New York. By then my wood-soled shoes were soaking wet, my ankle-length linsey-woolsey dress was mud
spattered, and the laces of my bonnet—a mobcap—would not stay tied.

As we approached a ripe apple orchard, we observed a group of red-coated British soldiers, armed with muskets and bayonets, marching toward us. By their side, a drummer boy beat slow swinking strokes. An officer, a heavy, sweating man with a nose as bright red as his hair and uniform, strode along in high, black jack-boots. Following him was a Negro. His slave, I supposed.

In the middle of the soldiers was a man whose hands were tied behind his back. Looking to be in his mid-twenties, and some six feet in height, he was considerably taller than the soldiers who surrounded him. Dressed in civilian clothing, he wore no jacket and had a white muslin shirt open at the collar. His light brown hair was arranged pigtail-style. In the slanting morning light, I noticed his blue eyes. I will admit, I thought him handsome.

The young man walked with a dignified bearing, but his face was anything but serene. Rather, he bore a look of pale, raw intensity, with a gaze that appeared to be on nothing and everything at the same moment.

“What are they doing with that young man?” I said in a low voice to Mother.

She squeezed my hand, and in as fearful a voice as I had ever heard her utter, she said, “I think they are about to hang him.”

Openmouthed, I watched as the men approached an apple tree upon which a ladder leaned. From a stout branch, a noose hung. Just beyond gaped an open grave,
with a grave digger standing by, shovel in hand. We stopped and, along with a few other citizens, watched.

When the officer shoved the prisoner to the foot of the ladder, I heard the young man say, “May I have a . . . Bible?” His voice, low and steady, broke on the last word.

“No Bibles for damned rebel spies!” the officer shouted as if he wished us onlookers to hear. “Hoist him,” he commanded.

Three redcoats, their faces blank, stepped forward. Two grabbed the young man's arms as if to restrain him, though I saw no attempt to break free. Would that he had! The third soldier placed the noose round the prisoner's neck and forced him up the ladder steps, even as another drew the rope tight under his chin.

As they did these things, each beat of the pulsing drum stabbed my heart.

Mother covered her lips with her fingers.

“Do you wish to confess?” the officer shouted.

I think the youth replied, but I was so appalled, I could not comprehend his words. In fact, such was my distress that I cried, “Have pity, sir. For God's sake!”

The officer glared at me. “Be still, missy, or you'll come to the same fate!”

I shrank behind Mother but peeked round to watch.

The officer turned back to his soldiers and shouted, “Swing the rebel off!”

One of the soldiers kicked the ladder away. The young man dropped. I gasped. His neck must have broken, for he died in an instant. Perhaps
that
was God's mercy.
Sometimes a hanging is nothing but slow strangulation.

Mother, pulling my hand, said, “Sophia! Come!” Sobbing, I stumbled away.

Later we learned that the young man's name was Nathan Hale. Over time, his death proved of greater consequence than his life. Without any doubt, it altered the history of my country as it altered mine. Indeed, what I had just witnessed was the beginning of my extraordinary adventures.

I shall tell you what happened.

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FIRST, HOWEVER, YOU
must know about my brother.

At seventeen years of age, William was five foot nine, with a lean face and bright eyes that seemed to want to observe everything. Such were his high spirits and boundless curiosity that Father referred to him—with a smile—as “our young fox.”

The natural leader of many friends, William was determined to become a lawyer, a profession my parents encouraged. Once he even confided to me that his goal was nothing less than to become governor of the New York Colony. In short, he was the family heir, name, and hope. Our entire future. I was certain there was nothing he could not do.

Not only was William an early believer in our country's independence, he favored the abolition of slavery and thought women should be educated. Thus, it was William—not my parents—who took time to teach me my letters and how to write. Not only did I learn to read well and fast, he said my understanding and memory were excellent.

Whereas Mother believed such education would
diminish my chance of marriage, William proclaimed, “Only a man who can esteem Sophia's intelligence is worthy of her beauty.”

What sister could not adore such a brother?

While William was an early follower of the radical Mr. Thomas Paine, Father was of a more traditional bent. They would debate for hours at a time, and enjoyed it. I tried to follow and, you may be sure, took William's side.

That said, the many swirling disputes and political events of 1776 were not fully understood by me. With patience, William tried to educate me. He talked, taught, and catechized me endlessly about our rights, freedoms, and natural liberties. He read me Mr. Paine's
Common Sense
in its entirety. Hardly a wonder that I considered my elder brother the source of all wisdom. Let it be said, that I, despite my age, could give an earnest defense of our rightful freedoms.

In September 1775, William began attending King's College. How proud I was to see him in his smart new black suit and cocked hat, with a volume of John Locke's
A Letter Concerning Toleration
, a gift from Father, tucked under his arm! He soon became friends with other young radicals, including Alexander Hamilton.

For some time, but especially during 1775 and into 1776, there had been turmoil in New York City. Disturbances and violent clashes erupted between those who supported the British monarchy (people labeled them “Tories” or “loyalists”), and those who, like my brother (and me), believed passionately that
our liberties were being stolen by that “great brute” (Mr. Paine's words) King George III and his Parliament. The defenders of our rights—like William and his friends—called themselves “patriots.” My own friends and I did no less.

The Boston Massacre, the battles of Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill, made the discord in New York more intense and brought on riots.

To the far north, Fort Ticonderoga was captured by the patriots Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold. They removed the cannons and dragged them on sleds across New England, where they were used to liberate Boston.

Patriots everywhere rejoiced, none more so than I did.

Nonetheless, pro-British Tories remained in charge of the city. Red-coated British troops marched out of Fort George and tried to suppress what they called “the mob,” the group that called itself the Sons of Liberty. William's college was closed. As a result, he became ever more active in politics and marched with the local militia.

As he paraded by, I stood near the road and cheered.

In the spring of 1776, patriot soldiers, led by General Charles Lee, came into town and simply took over. They forced the loyalists to give way.

Then George Washington and his Continental troops entered New York. When they arrived, many Tories—including the mayor—fled to safer havens along the Hudson Valley, to Long Island, Charleston, even to London.

William took me down to Bowling Green, by Fort George, and pointed out British ships of war, which lay anchored in the city's lower bay. “That's where many of the Tory cowards have fled,” he told me. “Onto those ships.”

Never mind that the ships bristled with guns.

But with the dispersal of the Tories, it was as though the plague had come to New York. The city became strangely vacant of citizens. Houses closed. Shops locked. As patriot soldiers prepared for the inevitable British attack, the town became a military camp. Many of our beautiful trees were chopped down so fortifications could be erected. Barricades were built. Few water vendors were to be seen on the streets. Merchant ships remained tied up at the wharfs, their sails furled like folded arms. Trade by land and sea—the true life of the town—all but ceased.

I was pleased to inform my anxious parents that “we” patriots could not fail to prevail.

Then in late June, an immense British fleet arrived and anchored in the Narrows, just off Staten Island. William took me to Fort George again, from where I saw a vast forest of masts.

He gazed at the formidable threat. “I promise you,” he told me, “liberty shall always triumph over tyranny.”

I had not a single doubt that he was right.

It was about then that he, at the urging of his good friend John Paulding, joined George Washington's army. So it was that just before that Brooklyn battle, William and John Paulding marched bravely away, muskets on
their shoulders, sprigs of green in their hats in lieu of real uniforms. Sure that our soldiers, including my brother and his friend, would protect us, I cheered them off with pride.

Then, on August 22, in Brooklyn, more than fifteen thousand English and German troops attacked. Our soldiers were utterly defeated. Many were killed. As many as two thousand patriots were taken prisoner. Only a deft stratagem—and a thick fog—allowed General Washington to bring his reduced army back to Manhattan Island.

As one who could recite the crimes the British had committed—the ones cited in our Independence Declaration—I never considered that such a defeat could happen. Were not patriots in the right? Would not God Himself favor us? Was not our cause just? Was not my brave brother there?

When news of the defeat spread, as the patriot army fled through and away from the city, we patriots were greatly alarmed. I needed William to return. And his friend, too, Mr. Paulding.

We waited as long as it was deemed prudent. Then Father said we must find safety.

Shortly after we left, the fire erupted that destroyed a quarter of the town's buildings. The British claimed American rebels set it, and were on the lookout for arsonists and spies. Thus it came to be that Captain Nathan Hale—in regular life a schoolteacher in Connecticut—was taken.

Captured on Long Island, Hale was tricked into
revealing that he was a spy for General Washington. He was hauled into town, where the British Lord General Howe, head of the British Army, condemned him to be hung the next day. That, to my everlasting horror, is what we witnessed.

Dear Reader, I beg you, do
not
forget that Captain Hale was
hung
for being a spy. Over time, these consequences were enormous for me.

At that time, when American expectations were so badly bent, you may well understand my chief concern was William.

But I beg you not to misunderstand. I was still a passionate, if young, patriot.

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