Sophia's War (5 page)

Shivering with cold fear, I strengthened my will by reminding myself of Father's need. But as I set off, my heartbeat, my panting breath, my footsteps on cobblestones, seemed as loud as thunderstorms. Nay, louder. But then, all noise alarms when it is surrounded by a fearsome silence.

I pressed on, only to spy some people standing close together in the street. Frightened, I stopped and gawked. It was three tall men, theirs faces ghostlike.
One of them lifted a lantern. With the light bright in my eyes, I forced myself forward. Drawing closer, I saw they were three British soldiers, red jacketed, with white trousers and black boots. Their tall, fur hats—what they called busbies—towered over me. In their hands were muskets with bayonets. One of those guns was pointed right at me.

“Halt!”

Panic-struck, I decided that boldness might be perceived as innocence. I went on, my breathing quick, my steps hesitant, my heart a hammer.

“Why are you on the street?” demanded an angry voice. “There's a curfew.”

I swallowed hard, then said, “Please, sir, I'm fetching Dr. Dastuge. For my father. He has a fever.”

The one who held the lantern lifted it higher, as if to appraise me. Perhaps he saw the red ribbon on my cape.

“Your name?” he demanded.

“Sophia,” I said, and then added with a stroke of daring, “the same as the king's daughter.”

The lantern lowered. One of the soldiers said, “Where does this doctor reside?” His voice was softer.

“Broadway. Number 276, I think. Just one street further.”

“We'll guide you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Wanting no second invitation, I darted forward and skirted the soldiers, not wishing to even glance at them. They came right behind.

“Are you thankful we drove the rebels out?” one of the soldiers asked from behind my back.

“Of course, sir,” I replied, afraid to look round lest they see the lie upon my face.

“We're only here to restore the king's peace,” another of them said.

“I'm pleased,” I said, but to myself, I thought,
Is this what our lives will be like, constantly lying?

In moments, I was before the doctor's home. I glanced back at the soldiers to ask permission. When one nodded, I knocked.

It was some time before the door opened a wedge. “Yes?”

It was Dr. Dastuge himself. Had his family and servants fled? He was a short, stout man, bald, with a fat and grizzled face. When he drew close and wheezed, I smelled liquor.

In a low voice, so the soldiers would not hear, I told him of Father's injury.

“A bullet?” he rewhispered.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I told the soldiers escorting me that it was a fever.”

He rubbed his bulging, red-rimmed eyes with a fat and dirty finger, hoisted a small wooden chest, and gave me a nod. “Lead the way.”

I returned along Broadway, the doctor at my side, his gait clumsy, his breath a periodic
puff
. Daylight increased. A rooster crowed from somewhere. The soldiers remained close. But the nearer we came to my
house, the more I feared that the soldiers would enter and discover Father's true condition. Knowing that captured rebels were being put in prisons, I made a desperate, silent prayer:
Do not come in.

8

UPON REACHING OUR
door, I turned toward the soldiers. “Thank you, sirs,” I said.

One touched a finger to his busby. “Happy to be helpful, miss,” he said. And they went off. Allowing myself a breath, I watched them go. I had to admit that they had been kind.

The doctor entered our dim house. I followed, shutting the door behind me.

“Good morning to you, madam,” said the doctor.

“Thank you for coming,” Mother returned in a hushed voice, her eyes bright with tears. “Mr. Calderwood is in the back room. Did my daughter tell you—”

“She did, madam. A lodged musket ball.” He held up his box. “My instruments. Bring a candle.”

Mother said, “Sophia, stay here.”

She led the doctor away, while I sat before the hearth. The low, flickering flames caused shadows to gambol all about me. Trembling, I drew my cloak tight. From the back room, I began to hear muffled voices. First Mother's, then Father's—(faintly), then, finally, the doctor's. I strained to listen. When Father moaned, I
pressed my hands together so tightly they ached.

Quiet resumed. All I could do was wait.
William still missing. Father wounded. Mother in tears. Before my eyes, the image of that hanging.
I began to shiver uncontrollably. “Sophia,” I scolded myself. “Be brave. Be brave!” I whispered the Lord's Prayer. I said the first few sentences of our Declaration, which William had insisted I learn: “We hold these truths . . . ”
Be strong
, I told myself over and over again.

The back room door opened. The doctor emerged looking more disheveled than before. Bloodstains soiled his shirt.

Mother, looking wan, followed.

“Keep him abed,” the doctor advised her. “I shall look in later. I wish you a good day, madam.”

“The like to you,” she said.

I hurried to open the door.

The doctor gave me a nod and left. I shut the door and turned to Mother. She was holding her hands to her eyes.

I said, “Is he is all right?”

“He should be.” She held out her hand. In her palm lay a musket ball. It was bloody. “He'll need time to heal. I don't know what use of his arm or hand he'll have.”

I peeked into the back room. Father lay abed. Eyes closed, hands resting on the bloodstained coverlet, he appeared to sleep. I retreated.

In the common room, Mother was sitting in the chair, slumped over.

“Can I do anything?” I said.

“You fetched the doctor.”

“Soldiers stopped me along the way.”

“What did you say?”

“I lied.”

Her glance showed approval. “It is hard.”

I said, “At least we'll not lose the house.”

“The British officer has yet to come,” she said.

We sat side by side, not speaking. At length Mother stood up. “We can't sit like this.” She raked up the fire and set Indian corn to boil in the pot.

“Sometime this morning,” she told me, “you must see if Mr. Gaine or Mr. Rivington are about.”

As I have explained, Father worked for these newspaper printers. I had been to their shops with Father many times and had taken messages back and forth, so I knew his employers fairly well, as they knew me.

Mother said, “You'll tell them he's in the city.”

“Can he work?”

“He needs the pay. Since the work is usually done here, you can help him. I'm glad William taught you to read.”

I nodded.

Mother was silent a while. Then she said, “Things are so topsy-turvy, I'm not sure the printers will even be here.”

“Shall I tell them what happened to him?”

“I don't know what side they are on.”

I thought for a moment and then said, “Mother, who am I to trust?”

She considered my question. “Me. Father.” And then she said, “And William—if he returns.”

The word “if” rang as loudly as a fire bell.

9

MIDMORNING, THE DAY
cool and bright, I set out to see the printers. Many soldiers were on the streets. Missing were traders, mechanics, vendors, and clergy. And mind, the city had more than two hundred churches. Children were scarce. Citizens were dazed and wary and appeared to keep their distance one from another.

What a contrast to the British soldiers. They strode about like the loud, boisterous victors they were, devils of fear and disorder. They repeatedly made ill-mannered remarks to civilians, to women more than men. Hoping to avoid their indelicacy, I worked to look the other way.

I went first to Mr. Rivington's shop at the other end of Wall Street, where he had his press. He also sold books and medicines, like Bateman's Golden Spirit of Scurvy Grass, which Mother once made me take, and Dr. Ryan's Incomparable Worm-Destroying Sugar Plumbs, which, thankfully, she did not. The place was closed, but a man who was loitering about told me Mr. Rivington was yet in London, where he had fled from the Sons of Liberty some time ago.

I walked on to Hanover Square, in the southern part
of town, the wealthy ward. Though called a square, it was in fact, triangular. Right off Queen Street, it had fine houses, both wood and brick, along with shops, business establishments, and taverns. Fortunately, it was untouched by the fire.

Mr. Gaine had a three-story building, with a sign depicting a Bible and a crown, his mark. He and his family lived above, while the lower floor was where he had his press, which produced his newspaper, the
Mercury
.

I walked in. The smell of printer's ink, a mix of varnish and lampblack, filled the air. Mr. Gaine published books and sold goods ranging from dice boxes and paper to reading glasses, lead pencils, medicines, plus many small items of general utility. One wall bore samples of the blank legal forms that he also printed: mortgages, deeds, invoices, and the like. Another wall had upper and lower cases of type—with many small compartments. From ceiling rafters, sheets of damp paper hung in readiness for printing.

The room was centered by the large wooden press with its stone form for holding the type, the crank that rolled the paper forward, and the screw and lever, which pressed type to paper.

On the floor was a boy on his hands and knees.

As I watched, he picked up some bits and put them in a small leathern bucket that was by his side. His fingertips were black. When he paid no mind to me, I finally said, “Good day.”

The boy took note of me, sat back on his legs, and touched a finger to his forehead, leaving a black mark.
“James Penny,” he informed me. I took him to be about ten years of age, with a round, smudged face and curly brown hair. He wore no shoes.

“Is Mr. Gaine here?” I asked.

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“Over to Jersey.”