Sophia's War (8 page)

Then, on the sixteenth of November, we learned that the one place still held by American forces on Manhattan Island—Fort Washington, in the north—had fallen to a fierce British siege.

The news spread rapidly. Some fifty-nine Americans killed. Almost three
thousand
taken prisoner! Now all of Manhattan Island was in British hands. That, the
English wished us to know. Everything for our cause seemed to be going ill.

Though I had heard on the streets the news of the fort's surrender, John André took pleasure in telling us about it. He went further, assuring us that the war would be over soon and all political disputes settled in a proper, legal fashion. Britain would be supreme again. The king's peace would be the order of the day. “How much better for everyone,” he proclaimed.

Wishing to offer a mild tease, I rejoined, “Perhaps we'll have our Arnold come down Hudson's River and chase you all away.”

“Arnold?” he replied. “Who is he?”

“Our general who captured Montreal, as well as Fort Ticonderoga, and then kept your navy in check on that northern lake.”

“I assure you, Miss Calderwood,” André replied in perfect humor, “I don't know who this Arnold fellow is, but we shall prevail.”

I said no more. Though I would not admit it to anyone, I worried that he was right.

That night, however, he did say one other thing to me. We were alone in the common room. He had been playing his flute, and I was listening with appreciation. When he'd finished, I complimented him on his playing.

“I'm much obliged,” he told me. “But, Miss Calderwood, may I be frank with you?”

My heart fluttered. “You may.”

“You spoke of your admiration of that rebel general. ‘
Our
general,' you said.”

It took me a moment to catch his drift. “Arnold?”

“His name does not signify. I know you spoke with badinage, but I should advise you, such talk is taken seriously by my superiors. Respect for traitors is a grave matter. You must not, Miss Calderwood, let even one taint of this rebellion stain you. It could cause you and your family much harm.”

I felt myself go red in the face. Yet I took his warning to heart and was doubly relieved that we had said nothing about William. At the same time, the lieutenant's thoughtful caution made me admire him only more. Was he not protecting me?

I wanted to keep my heart locked tight. It took work. While aware that William was still missing—and the danger he posed for us—I thought of him less and less, while thinking increasingly about handsome, sociable, and charming Lieutenant John André. In short, I was joyful—in a blind way. I gave almost no thought to the future, as if nothing bad could happen.

Dear Reader, do not lose faith in me! I believed in our noble struggle. Every day I reminded myself I was a patriot. Still, there
were
things about which I feared. I knew our store of money kept diminishing. My father was not fully recovered. Mother was constantly worried. In fact, one day early in December, she called me into the back room.

As I stood beside the bed, Father told me that I must go again and see if Mr. Gaine had come back. The same for Mr. Rivington. If they had, I must beg to inquire if
there would be any work for him in the offering. He put a stress on “beg.”

“Are we so short of money?” I asked.

“I fear so,” said Father.

“And if he asks about your condition?”

“Say I have been ill.”

“And,” my mother cautioned yet again, “nothing about William.”

“Of course.”

When I told John André that I needed to go to Hanover Square, he obligingly offered to accompany me. To be sure, I was more than delighted to be stepping about town with the lieutenant.

Consider my happiness: me, an altogether smitten girl,
his
blue ribbon in my hair—worn like a love token—walking about town on the arm of a handsome officer in a smart red uniform.
What an elegant pair
, thought I. You may believe me when I say I felt as if my whole world was that moment.

The lieutenant and I were thus walking along Broad Street in the North Ward when we came upon a troop of men herded on by armed redcoats. Since Fort Washington had recently fallen, I supposed these men were prisoners from that rout.

These prisoners—some forty men—were the image of defeat: scrawny, foul, and bandaged. Their cheerless faces showed broken spirits, with no light of eye or smile on any face I saw.

Since they were passing right before us—in the street—our way was blocked. Of course, it was only
natural that I cast my eye upon them, not in any thoughtful way, but merely out of curiosity. As I recall, John André even made a jest at their expense, which, let it be admitted, made me giggle.

But even as I did, I saw my brother.

14

AT FIRST I
was not even sure it
was
he. I had to look extra hard, for the face I saw was besmeared with filth, and his clothing soiled and torn. There was, moreover, a cloth wrapped round his right thigh. He limped. Overall, this person was in a deplorable state.

It took moments of stupefied gawking for me to become convinced it
was
my brother, William. Horrified, I wanted to shout his name, but I held myself back because I was standing right next to John André. Had I not been told by both my parents that the lieutenant must know
nothing
about William? Had
he
not said as much? Was that not what
I
had wished? There was something so much more bitter: the truth is that I, for that moment, wished I
had
no brother.

Pushing away such vile thoughts, my heart beating painfully, I could only stare.

“Is something the matter?” I heard John André ask as if from across the sea.

“Who are they?” I murmured, not having wits to know what else to say.

“Prisoners.”

“What . . . what will happen to them?” I stammered.

“These men have rebelled against their lawful government” was his reply. “They must pay the penalty for their stupidity. By the laws of all countries, rebels taken in arms forfeit their lives. They will be treated no better than they deserve.”

“What do you mean?” I said, taken aback by his harshness.

“They should all be hung.”

“
Hung!
” I cried. Upon the instant, my mind filled with the ghastly image of Nathan Hale, which cojoined with that of my brother.

“But they have only sought to defend our liberties,” I heard myself say, echoing a phrase Father had used. That I, too, had thought. Indeed, before I could think of what I was saying, I blurted out, “As my brother has.”

John André gazed upon me with bepuzzlement.

Realizing what I had done, I turned from him, aghast.

Then I heard him say, “Miss Calderwood, are you saying you have a
brother
?”

My blunder made me afraid to speak or even glance at him. I was equally fearful to look, as it were, at myself.
Who am I? What was I thinking?
I did not know how to respond. Or what to do. By this time, the prisoners had moved farther down the street.

“Miss Calderwood,” André pressed, “am I to understand you have a
brother
fighting for the rebels?”

I stood there mute.

“Come, come, Miss Calderwood, rebellion does not suit you,” he said in his lighthearted fashion. “Let
grown
men
take care of such matters. A maid should not pay any mind to disputed politics.”

Unable to look at him, I said, “And what . . . what should a maid put her mind to?”

He boldly turned me about so I had to face him. “To making yourself as agreeable to
me
as possible,” he said. “That's the proper employment for a fair young lady. As for a brother, a
rebel
brother”—he gave me his most brilliant smile—“let's agree I did not hear you speak. We shall ignore him.”

Flabbergasted—how could I ignore my brother!—I said nothing, but gaped at André as if he were a stranger.

“Miss Calderwood,” he went on, “you have my promise: I shall not say one word to your esteemed parents. Or,” he added meaningfully, “to the authorities.”

As I stood there, I recalled the first time I had seen Lieutenant André. The time when he'd struck that poor, dawdling prisoner with his sword. His words and that memory reminded me that John André was our
enemy.
Further, I recalled who
I
was:
his
enemy, enemy to
his
army,
his
government. And I remembered what
I
was, what he had mockingly called “American.”

These thoughts came upon me like blinding bursts of cannon shot so that I could only retreat. “Forgive me,” I managed to say, “I must go.”

Whirling about, I began to hurry down the street in the same direction taken by the prisoners. I needed to see where William was going.

Even as I went, I was aware that the lieutenant stayed in step with me. I paid him no mind. But after some
moments, he reached out, gently touched my arm, and said, “Miss Calderwood, I fear I have offended you by my words. Your brother means nothing to me.”

“But, sir,” I cried, my voice ragged with emotion, my eyes streaming, “he means everything to me.” At the same time I shrugged off his touch, which only moments before I would have treasured.

“You must forgive me,” he said.

Somehow, I retorted, “You only spoke your mind, sir.”

“Miss Calderwood,” he insisted, “please be assured I did not mean to say anything to suggest I don't esteem you.”

“Thank you for your company. I can find my own way now.”

“Hanover Square is this way.” He pointed in a direction opposite where I was heading.

Making no reply, I kept on after the prisoners.

He halted, but called, “I look to see you at home, Miss Calderwood. 'Pon my honor, I'll be more civil with my tongue and opinions.”

I hurried after the prisoners.

Moments later, I stopped and watched the lieutenant sauntering away. My primary thought was
I have put my family in peril.
Then, not sure what else to do, I turned and fairly ran in the same direction that I saw my brother—and the other prisoners—go.

15