by Avi
The lieutenant said, “A most satisfactory accommodation, madam.”
“Will you be moving right in?” she asked.
“As soon as my servant can bring my things. As I said, I’ve just been released in a prisoner exchange. I don’t have very much.”
“This servant of yours, will he be staying here too?”
“Peter? Of course.” He made a step to the door.
“Sir,” said Mother.
John André paused to look at her.
“My husband, Mr. Calderwood, is in bed, in the back room. In all candor, sir, I must tell you he was wounded in the fighting.”
A play of sorrow flitted upon the lieutenant’s face. “I trust he’s in good health?”
“The doctor has seen him.”
“I am glad to hear it. Shall we agree that I won’t need to know under what circumstance he received his regrettable wound?”
“You are most kind, sir.”
He bowed. “I wish you a good evening, madam.”
And John André went.
Mother and I exchanged looks of pleasurable surprise. “Perhaps,” she said, “we have been lucky.”
“He plays music,” I said, barely suppressing my newfound enthusiasm. “And draws and likes to read.”
Mother studied me. “I think he’s already charmed you,” she said.
“He asked me if I was an only child.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was. Mother,” I went on, “he’s not at all what I thought he’d be.” In truth, I was pixie-led.
Mother looked at me so fixedly, I hurried into the back room to inform Father that Mr. Gaine was not in the city.
“We shall have to be patient.” Then he said, “Sophia, it will be you who will need to search for William.”
“Why?”
“With this officer lodging here, it might be suspicious if your mother went out too frequently.”
“Yes, Father.”
“At least we are here and safe. We must be proud—if quiet—that William is defending our liberties.”
In my thoughts, however, I was already impatient for the return of the lieutenant. Yet that was the last thing I was prepared to share with my parents. Nor did I tell them how I’d first seen John André.
11
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 abou
t, 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!
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.
