Sophia's War (7 page)

DURING THE NEXT
few weeks, things of considerable import happened.

To begin, Father mended so poorly that his right arm and hand were of small use. Dr. Dastuge came a few times, dressed his wound, and replaced the bandage. He also served us with a bill. It was paid, of course, but I heard my parents talk about our sinking funds. It was only what I already knew. After all, Father had not reestablished his means of earning income, and with food prices going up at an alarming rate—some 500 percent!—our money, accordingly, diminished.

Twice Father sent me out in hopes of his being restored to work. Mr. Rivington's shop remained closed. Mr. Gaine had not shown up. Though his servant boy was about, he could tell me nothing about his master's situation, not even if he would come back to the city.

Once, as I was leaving, the servant boy followed me to the door. In a private voice, he asked me if I had seen many sailors on the streets.

“I don't think I did. Why do you ask?”

“They're pressing boys they find on the streets.”

“Pressing?”

“Forcing them into their navy. I'm 'fraid to go out.”

“Then you must take care,” I said, and left him.

There it was; not even young children were safe. But then, all matters of law—trials, courts, judgments—were in the hands of the crude and unfair British military.

While my parents spoke of the absence of Mr. Gaine as unfortunate, I heard Father tell Mother it was just as well—for the time—since he was having much trouble working his hand in a normal fashion. To do his work—edit copy—he would have to use it.

“If he does not recover soon,” Mother confided to me, “you may need to hire out as a servant. With all these British officers about, a suitable position might be found.”

That was hardly what I would have liked, but if the need came, I knew I could not object.

We did learn that the British had taken so many prisoners they were using the Presbyterian and Dutch churches, Quaker meetinghouses, and even sugarhouses for prisons. I went to all in turn and stood before each, as if to stare at them could provide information. It was, of course, a useless endeavor. As for going to the army headquarters, Father feared telling the authorities that William had fought with the patriots might put us in jeopardy.

In short, we gained no news of William at all.

The other significant event was that Lieutenant
André moved into our house. Along with his servant, a boy of sixteen named Peter Laune, who carried in a large leather-covered, round-topped trunk, they resided on the top floor.

This Peter rarely spoke to me, or to my parents, but lived at the lieutenant's command. He was like André's silent shadow, important only to him.

Strictly speaking, it was the British commandant who should have paid us rent, but the lieutenant was kind enough to pay us out of his own pocket, twenty shillings a week, in good English coin. Given our circumstance, you may guess how appreciated this was.

I knew not what Lieutenant André did for the British Army, but when he was at our home, I found him most agreeable. The courteous mode that he had displayed when he first came to our house did not abate. Talkative, cheerful, and engaging, he played the part of a guest, rather than someone forced upon us. That he was the enemy, the occupying army, I was increasingly willing to put aside.

I was further delighted when he obliged me with stories of his life. I learned that he was twenty-six years old, of French Protestant origins. “But I beg you,” he said, “never think me devout.”

His father, who had been in trade, had died, leaving him the means to opt for a military life. Well educated, John André was able to speak French and German. He liked to chat about poetry, books, and writing with my father. The two even conversed about the war. Yes, the lieutenant was a fierce and loyal supporter of King
George and his Parliament. Nor did he hide his view that the Americans were not only in the wrong but traitors who must be brought to submission. In truth, his use of the word “American,” was meant to be a sly insult, a way of saying the “rebels,” as he always called them, were
not
British. Good-naturedly, he accused my father of being a “Leveler,” of wanting to make all men equal. Yet, for all that, he talked and debated with Father in an amiable, civilized fashion.

One day he supplied my father, who had yet to leave home, with a copy of the Oath of Allegiance to King George, which, he explained, once signed, would free my family from any inconvenience.

This is to certify that ___________________

hath submitted to government and taken

the Oath of Allegiance to his Majesty King

George this Oct 5, 1776 before me, Jeremiah

Tronson, One of the Judges of the Superior

Court.

I wondered if Father would put his name in the blank, but he did.

To my mother John André was ever accommodating and polite.

To me he was chivalrous as any imagined prince. Once he even brought me a blue ribbon for my hair, which I was captivated to have. As promised, he entertained me with his flute playing. To my ears he played exceedingly well. He asked Mother if he could make a
sketch of me. When she agreed, he found paper and brush pencil somewhere and drew my likeness, which I thought made me appear quite pretty.

“My talent,” he informed me, “is showing people as they really are.”

I blushed.

In short, having never met so well bred and civilized a man as John André, I was greatly flattered by his attentions. Indeed, I was nothing less than enthralled.

12

NEW YORK CITY
did not resume what it was. The streets were ever more thronged with enemy soldiers. While there was much orderly marching about, day and night there was rowdiness and drunkenness. Street brawls were frequent. When I was out, I had to become accustomed to vulgarity, aggravation, and insults.

Some mornings, when I went to market, I would see the word “liberty” or “freedom” scrawled on walls, perhaps with bits of burnt wood from the great fire. The words never lasted more than a day, yet would always reappear elsewhere.

Despite all this, going about was vital. It was on the streets that we met our few remaining friends. That enabled us to gather a little news and the rumors of the war. Of course, these exchanges occurred only when out of sight of soldiers.

Thus, in the middle of October, I learned that a battle had been fought on a lake—Champlain—somewhere in the New Hampshire Grants. It seems the British sent a fleet down the lake from Canada to attack our forces and seal off New England. Those ships were met by a navy of
our own making. While the English were not defeated, they were checked and forced to retire. I rejoiced.

I further learned that these American forces were under the command of Benedict Arnold, who had captured Montreal and Fort Ticonderoga. A Connecticut man. They said he was so resourceful he had built a navy right in the forest! For once I had an American general to think about with pride. Not that I could speak it.

Then something of like news came from just north of Manhattan (White Plains), where another battle was fought between General Washington's troops and Lord Howe's men. Again, the British, though not overcome, were stopped. My spirits soared.

Nonetheless, the fierce grip the British held upon the city meant that more and more Tories showed up in town, as did loyalist refugees from other colonies. In addition, since the British promised slaves their freedom if they abandoned their patriot masters and came within British lines, large numbers of Negros were on the streets, far more than ever before. With so many people reestablished, city trade began to resume its normal business. But in all things, the army held hardfisted control.

In short, this was a time of much confusion for me. I was a patriot, eager for good news about our side. I worried constantly about my brother, William. Simultaneously, I was excited by what I took to be the special attentions John André had for me.

He took me to watch the guard changing. He showed
me where Lord Howe was living, at the foot of Broadway. Side by side, we watched Punch and Judy puppets on the street (Punch in an American uniform), and laughingly applauded the Devil (Benjamin Franklin!) dragging Punch to Hell.

André read me poetry, some of it his. He even offered to take me to a soldiers' ball. I was all eagerness, but when he made application to my mother, she, to my mortification, said no. I retreated in a pout.

Let it be admitted: if a twelve-year-old girl has enough heart, it does not take her long to think of herself as being in love. I daresay I liked the thought of myself—for the first time—in such a bemused and pleasant state. Of course, I had no friends left in whom to confide. So I told no one—neither John André nor my mother—of my emotions. Moreover, I allowed myself to think he fancied me. Why, he even wrote a poem for me.

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.

Simple to be sure, but though I kept it hidden in a secret place, you can imagine how regularly I read it.

Let me be forthright: I was perfectly aware that a war was going on. I considered myself an ardent patriot. Yet, I must confess, I began to think of my brother, William, as a
problem
. What if he—about whom John André knew nothing—suddenly appeared? How would the lieutenant deal with a rebel soldier in our midst?
How would
I
deal with it? Would William attack André? These questions gave me moments of perplexity and confusion. More shame on me! But though William did not appear, in fairness to me, he was frequently in my thoughts.

That said, there I was—a twelve-year-old girl—feeling real affection for one of the enemy. And early affection, as I would learn, lasts late.

13

NOVEMBER 1776 CAME
, and with it the airborne chill of arriving winter. With still no news about my brother, we began to fear the worst. Perhaps William
had
died in the Brooklyn battle. That being such an awful thing to contemplate, we chose to believe otherwise. After all, if he were safe with General Washington's army, he would have no means of communicating with us. Living in occupied New York, we were quite sealed off from the rest of the country. No, I refused to think him gone. But while I adored my brother, I was aware how much my esteem for John André grew. Though my emotions remained in a state of constant flux, I worked hard to keep them silent. You can imagine my puzzledom!