by Scott O'Dell
The roar of cannon went on most of the day; that and the far-off rattle of muskets. A farmer dropped in to sell cabbages and potatoes, eager to get rid of the produce before the British soldiers raided his farm. No rebel soldiers came to the tavern from Brooklyn Fort or from anywhere else.
But a few days later the British came, a half-dozen officers at first, then dozens more, until the tavern was full all day and into the night. No soldiers ever came, because it was against the rules of the British army for them to mix with the officers.
Mr. Pennywell hired two farm girls to help out in the kitchen and moved me inside to make change at the bar. Mrs. Pennywell gave me a pair of shoes with silver buckles to wear and a pink dress trimmed in white lace ruffles.
"You look like a picture," she said.
"I have seen ugly pictures," I answered.
"A pretty picture," she replied.
It was the first time I had ever been called pretty in the fifteen years of my life.
The British officers had good manners. They said "please" and "thank you, miss," and "may I bother you?" But the Hessians were different. They were very tall, fierce-looking men, and, as I found out, really had blond hair and blond mustaches, which they had blackened with black shoe polish. They bragged a great deal about how they never took prisoners, but ran them through with a single thrust of their bayonets. I hated to serve them at the bar and didn't after the first day.
The British officers smiled whenever I asked them if they knew my brother, Chad Bishop. But I kept asking, and at last one of them, Major Stirling, helped me. It happened in this way.
Since most of the officers wore wigs, Mr. Pennywell, hoping to increase his profits, turned one of his closets into a powder room, like one he'd seen in New York.
He cut a round hole in the door, big enough for a man to put his head through, and put a table in the closet and set up three candles in a holder. At five o'clock each night he moved me from the bar to the closet. I sat inside for an hour, with a comb and brush. An officer who wanted his wig fixed thrust his head through the hole. I covered his face with a cloth cone. Then I combed his wig and dusted it with sweet-smelling powder. I could do four wigs in an hour.
It was while I was powdering Major Stirling's wig that he said he would help me find my brother.
"I'll give you a note to Captain Cunningham," he said. "Cunningham is in charge of all the rebel prisoners. But there are thousands of prisoners. You'll need to be patient."
That Chad might be a prisoner had been my hope since the very first day of the battle. We had got news at the tavern that Brooklyn Fort had fallen to the British but that most of its defenders and other soldiers around Gowanus Bay had escaped in the dark of a rainy night and fled in hundreds of boats across the river into New York. But the British had pursued them and captured the city and taken many prisoners.
Major Stirling wrote a note for me to Captain Cunningham. I thanked him for his help and put it carefully away in a packet and the packet in my dress. That night I got out the money I had hidden under the bed, the tips I had earned in the bar, and counted it. I had in British gold coins and silver one pound and three shillings.
I looked out at the bay where British lights were shining on the water. The night was clear and windless. It smelled of the sea, but along with the sea was the dreadful smell that came in every night, the smell of dead soldiers. General Howe had not bothered to bury the patriots he had killed. Could Chad be among them, I wondered?
I got out Mrs. Jessop's Bible and read until dawn, praying on my knees at the end.
10
I SET OFF for New York City early the next morning. Mr. Pennywell didn't want me to go because he was in bad need of my help.
"I'll lose a tidy sum," he said, "if you go running off right in the middle of the most business we've ever had."
Mrs. Pennywell said, "This is no time for a young girl to be traipsing around. Things are quieter now than they have been, but who knows when they'll start up again."
"I have a letter from Major Stirling," I said. "It will protect me."
When they saw the letter and that I was determined, they grumbled but let me go. Mrs. Pennywell made me a parcel of food, enough for one good meal. Mr. Pennywell hitched up his wagon, took me down to the ferry, and gave me a note to his brother, who owned the Red Lion tavern.
It was a bright and cool morning. The bay was crowded with boats going back and forth. Drums were rattling off in the distance, but they sounded friendly, as if they were celebrating good news. I followed the instructions of the ferryman, just as he gave them, for getting to Mr. Pennywell's tavern. The maple trees in the little park I went through on the way up from the ferry were beginning to turn red. I wondered if the trees at home were turning.
A sleepy-eyed girl was scrubbing the steps at the Red Lion. I showed her the note I was carrying, whereupon she shouted through the open door in a screechy voice, "Someone here to see Mr. Pennywell."
After a long time a man with a white wig came to the door. I gave him the note and explained that I was seeking my brother, Chad Bishop.
"He's a rebel," I said. "He might have been captured by the British at the battle for Brooklyn. He might be a prisoner in this city. I trust you can help me to find him if he is."
Mr. Pennywell pursed his lips. I had the feeling that he didn't want the British to think that he was connected in any way with the rebels, especially a rebel prisoner, or with me.
"I don't know where your brother's to be found," he said. "But down this street is an old sugarhouse where the British are holding prisoners." He took the girl by the arm. "Show Sarah Bishop where it is and come back. And don't talk to anyone on the way."
It was a short walk. A red brick building with three stories stood on a street that ran down to a pier and the North River. There were small windows in the front of the building and at each of them I saw faces, crowded together, peering out into the street. There wasn't a sound. The place could have been empty.
Four soldiers in red coats and white leggings were walking up and down in front of the building with muskets on their shoulders.
"That's the place," the girl blurted out and disappeared around a corner. I heard her running fast.
On the door of the building was a sign that read LAMBERT & SONS—SUGAR MERCHANTS. Two soldiers Stood on each side of the doorway. By their uniforms and mustaches and long black hair I recognized them as Hessians. One opened the door for me but didn't smile.
I walked into a small room where a young officer with thick lips sat at a table sucking at a pipe. I stood for a while with my hands folded until he looked up and asked me who I was and why I was there.
I told him my name. "I think that my brother, Chad Bishop, is a prisoner," I said and gave him the note Major Stirling had given me.
"Captain Cunningham, the Provost, is at the far end of the town," he said. "But we might just have your brother here. What is his name? I forget."
"Chad," I said.
"Chad what?"
"Chad Bishop."
There was a paper lying on his desk with a long list of names written down. He ran a finger along it.
"Bishop, Bishop. I find Barten, Barnes, Bellows, Bent. But I find no Bishop."
My heart sank.
The officer picked up another paper with a long list of names, which he read slowly, saying them to himself. He stopped.
"Bishop, Chad Bishop," he said. "I was wrong. He's listed. He's here in prison. One of the first prisoners to be brought in after the battle of Brooklyn Heights."
I felt like shouting. I tried to but I made only a small, fluttering noise. I felt as if I were about to fall blindly on the floor, and I almost did.
At last I found my voice. "He's a prisoner? Truly?"
The officer gave me a painful glance. "I have just finished telling you that Chad Bishop is in this prison."
"I must talk to him."
"To do so," the officer said, "you must first get permission from Captai
n Cunningham. If he sees fit, he will arrange a meeting. You have a note to the captain. And I'll send a note that will help, too. I'll see that you talk to Captain Cunningham tomorrow. I'll send a messenger at once."
The officer pressed his lips gently against the stem of his pipe and blew out a puff of smoke.
"In the meanwhile," he said, "if by chance you have something in the order of a present for your brother, I'll be glad to see that he receives it. Money to buy food. A warm blanket. Winter's coming on."
I took out the money I had in the packet. I wanted to give him all of it, but something held me back. I gave him only half the money.
"Chad's very young," I said. "He has a big appetite. Maybe food would be the best."
The officer opened a drawer and put the money away. "This will buy him extra rations for a month," he said.
He gave me instructions on how to get to the Provost. "Be there in the morning early. It may take you all day to see Captain Cunningham."
The warehouse had been quiet when I came in, but now I heard a humming sound, like the hives of tormented bees, as though hundreds of men were whispering.
The officer opened the door and bowed and I went out into the street. The air felt fresh and sweet after the stench of the warehouse. Blank faces still showed at the windows. Someone called down to me. The voice didn't belong to my brother. But Chad was a prisoner, a prisoner! That was all that mattered.
11
I HADN'T EATEN anything since my supper at the Lion and Lamb, so the first thing I did was to stop and consume most of the food Mrs. Pennywell had put up for me. The street was crowded with soldiers, some of whom had remarks to make. I paid no attention to them.
I didn't like Mr. Pennywell's surly brother. I was sure that if I went back it would make him uncomfortable and me as well. Instead, I looked elsewhere in the same district for a room that I could afford. It was near Whitehall slip on the fourth floor of a run-down building that seemed as if it might topple into the river at any moment. The woman who took my shilling and tuppence had stringy hair and green eyes.
That night I ate the two buns I had saved and drank a mug of tea that the woman gave me. The place had a name, but the letters were mostly scaled off and all I could read was "Tal," then a gap, and the letter "o." People were running around everywhere making a noise, and I did not get to sleep until nearly midnight. I slept for only a short time.
I heard a child crying somewhere. Next, I heard someone running down the rickety stairs. The room didn't have a window, but there was a crack in the wall and through it I saw a bright light. At first I thought it was the moon coming up. When the light grew brighter I knew it wasn't the moon. I didn't think about fire for a while, not until smoke began to curl through the crack in the wall.
The place was already burning when I ran down the stairs. As I came to the landing that led down to the first floor, I saw flames leaping everywhere. There was a window beside me. I hesitated for a moment. Then I heard a voice from outside shouting for me to jump. And I went to the window and jumped.
I lay stunned on my back in a patch of weeds. Then a man set me on my feet and dragged me away from the building. A wind was blowing sparks across the sky, and soon the whole street was ablaze. There were screams and shouts and people running. I ran after them, down a dark street, not knowing where I was going. I came to a graveyard. People were clustered among the tombstones. I still held my dress in my hand. I found a bush and slipped on the dress over my chemise.
A woman who held a dog in her arms stopped sobbing to tell me that it was Trinity Church that was on fire. She had been baptized in the church and so had her husband.
"It's a terrible pity," she said. "Such a beautiful steeple; one hundred and forty feet it rises toward heaven. If only the fire brigade would come. There was no warning. The dirty rebels took all the bells when they fled."
It seemed curious that she would be worrying about the steeple at a time like this.
The steeple caught fire. Just then a fire engine pulled into the street, close to the church. Men, dozens of them, formed a line and began to pass buckets of water to each other. The last man dumped the water into a tank atop the engine, and four others standing there pumped it on the blaze.
The pumping had just started when three men with blackened faces streaked past me out of the shadows. They carried knives, long, sharp knives that glittered when light from the flames struck them. They ran swiftly down the line, slashing at the thin leather buckets. The buckets were ruined. They fell apart and spilled water all over the street and down the gutter.
One of the men dodged toward me. As he passed, he dropped his knife at my feet and quickly disappeared into the crowd. It was valuable. Not thinking, I picked it up.
I was holding on to the knife when two British soldiers grasped me by both arms and pushed me through the crowd and into a wagon that was filled with screaming women. The driver shouted at his horses. As we rumbled through a night of smoke and swirling sparks, I sat stunned and speechless.
12
THE WAGON HAULED us through clouds of billowing smoke to a cold gray building, Captain Cunningham's headquarters. The fire hadn't reached this far, but behind me the sky was red with leaping flames.
I was taken to a room, guarded by two soldiers with bayonets. There was a thin pallet in one corner and I lay down but didn't sleep. In the morning they brought me a cup of tea and a piece of moldy bread. I had finished the parcel Mrs. Pennywell had given me, so I ate the bread and drank the tea, which was weak. Not an hour went by that I didn't feel the front of my dress to make sure I had not lost Major Stirling's letter or my money.
Late in the afternoon they came for me. They marched me down a long, bare hall, down a second hall, a third, and into the presence of Captain Cunningham himself. I could scarcely breathe from fright.
He was a large man with a round, pink face. He wore a white wig. Some of the powder had fallen onto his shoulders. He smiled a cold smile and asked me where I was living when the fire started.
"At an inn," I said, "near Whitehall slip."
"The fire, as you well know, started there at Whitehall slip."
"I don't know where it started, sir. I woke up and heard shouts. Flames were leaping outside the window. I heard screams and saw people running around."
Captain Cunningham picked up a paper from his desk. "I have this message from Lieutenant Stone. You talked to him yesterday. Your name is Sarah Bishop?"
"Yes, sir."
"You asked about your brother, Chad Bishop?"
"Yes."
"Lieutenant Stone informed you that he was holding your brother there in Lambert Prison. The lieutenant made an error. Your brother is not in Lambert Prison. He is on the Scorpion, a prison ship anchored in Wallabout Bay.
"You thought," he said, "when you ran forth from your lodging last night and used this knife upon the fire buckets—you thought that the fire would spread to Lambert Prison. And that in the excitement your brother would have a chance to escape. You didn't know that he was not in Lambert Prison, but on a ship in Wallabout."
I began to see that Lieutenant Stone had lied. He had taken my money, knowing full well that Chad wasn't in Lambert Prison. I was glad now that I had given him only half of what I owned.
Captain Cunningham took a knife from his desk. He stood up and came around the desk. He glared at me. His eyes were red-rimmed and looked like two little onions that had been boiled a while in port wine.
"This is the weapon you used," he said, thrusting the knife toward me. "Do you recognize it?"
"I didn't slash the buckets, sir. I couldn't have. I don't have the strength. It was one of the men, a man twice my size. He dropped the knife at my feet and fled into the crowd. I picked it up."
"Why?"
"I don't know, sir. I thought it was valuable, I guess."
"Preposterous!" Captain Cunningham snorted, pausing to take a pinch of snuff. "Your brother is a rebel and so you are a rebel. The more I think, the
more I am convinced that it is you who set the fire in the first place."
He took my chin in his hand. I drew away, but he caught my arm.
"You set the fire," he said, "did you not? Tell the truth or it will go hard with you."
He wore gold rings with colored stones. The lace on his shirt front gave off a sweet odor. His hands looked pudgy but they were strong. My arm hurt where he grasped it.
"Tell the truth."
I shook my head. "No," I said. "No."
Captain Cunningham went back and sat down at his desk. Quills were sticking up from a glass filled with shot, like quills on a porcupine. He picked one out, scribbled something down, and handed the paper to an orderly.
"I am sending you back to Lambert Prison," he said. "You will be held there until you appear for trial tomorrow. Between whiles I advise you to think seriously of the consequences if I find that you have lied to me. And may I remind you that I have three witnesses, three women, who will testify that they saw you running about with a knife in your hand."
The three, I was certain, were three of the women who had been hauled away with me in the wagon.
"I also have as a witness the landlady of the Talliho Inn. She is prepared to testify that she saw you running down the stairs just before the fire started up in the building next door."
I said nothing. I was silent out of the fear that had seized upon me.
13
I WAS TAKEN back to Lambert Prison by an orderly with a pistol in his belt. He handed me over to Lieutenant Stone and gave him the note Captain Cunningham had hastily scribbled down.
After the lieutenant had read the note he pointed to a bench and asked me to sit down. He seemed nervous. His pipe had gone out and he lit it.
"I made a mistake," he said. "I thought your brother was a prisoner of mine. I have found out that he is not. I am very sorry that I made the mistake. You may understand how this is possible, with hundreds of new prisoners coming in and going out every week."
