by Avi
“Mr. Calderwood would like to speak to you in the morning.”
“I shall wait upon him. But, ladies, I have some wretched news. Wretched for me, at least.”
I looked up, startled.
“I’ve been transferred to Staten Island. That’s where most of the green-coated Hessian troops are. With my knowledge of German, I’m needed there. In short, I must be leaving your house.”
My release of tension upon hearing this news was followed by pain and regret. Was the removal his choice? Was it because he had learned about William? In an instant, I told myself he had real affection for me, and that this was his way of removing himself from our painful situation. That he was being considerate. Next moment I was sure he was merely removing himself from any connection with rebels. Forcing myself to look at him, I smiled warmly the way all women are taught to do.
When John André glanced in my direction, I tried to read his eyes. He turned away, so I chose to think that had been his way of assuring me we had a secret and it was safe. It was so like the books I’d read: true affection always has obstacles to overcome.
Mother made a short speech about how sorry she was to hear his news.
André thanked her and said he was required to say that no doubt another officer would come and take his place. The housing shortage remained acute.
“Will you be leaving soon?” Mother asked.
“Very soon. I won’t go without speaking to Mr. Calderwood. And I give you my pledge, if there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask.”
As he spoke these precise words, André glanced at me, which I chose to interpret as an offer to help William.
He made a chivalrous bow and bade us a good night. Just as he went up the steps, he paused to look to me again. Significantly, I thought.
Which is why, though in fact he said nothing, I had bravado enough to call, “Lieutenant, is there anything that has made you regret your staying here?”
That wonderful smile. “I assure you, Miss Calderwood, nothing. Quite the contrary.” That said, he bowed toward me, and then he and his servant were up the steps and out of sight.
As soon as he was gone, Mother turned to me. “There,” she said with enthusiasm. “He’s pledged to help William.”
I could only nod my agreement and turn away, so she would not see the tears of gratitude welling in my eyes. If John André did that, I would forgive him anything.
“It’s time for bed,” she said. “Will you bank the fire?” She left the room, tactfully giving me time to compose myself. Ah, she knew me well.
Grateful for her consideration, I knelt to work the coals into a smoldering heap so that they would remain until morning. In my state, I hardly knew what to do with the emotions I had for John André. No wonder that I made a metaphor of what I was doing: I would bank my fires of affection for John André, and wait for such day and time that I could allow them to burst into flame again.
I retrieved my blue ribbon and poem from their hiding place, a tin box in which I kept old flower petals, flowers he had once brought. I meant to throw all into the fire. Instead, after gazing at each item, I returned them to the box.
Moreover, I promised myself that starting the next day I would do everything in my power to assist my brother. As for John André, I would put aside—for now—any affection I had for him. If there is such a thing as pleasurable regret, I had it.
Ah, I blush to tell it so! But I have promised you honesty, Dear Reader, and I shall hold to it.
19
IN THE MORNING, not wanting to see John André, I left our house as soon as was convenient to Mother. Bundled in a wool cape against the frost, the rewritten advertisement papers clutched in hand, I headed for Hanover Square and Mr. Gaine.
Overhead the sky was gray, and an inch of white snow lay upon the ground. It softened the town’s hard edges, hid the mud, and muffled sharp sounds. People on the streets walked in haste, hands pinked with cold, white mists of breath before their mouths. Footprints on the streets reminded me of black currants on a one-penny bun. But now and again a scarlet-coated soldier hastened by, which put me in mind of my brother’s wound.
I had not gone far when I happened to meet a friend of Mother’s, Mistress Lorenz, a harmless gossip. It would have been rude not to pause and greet her.
“Good morning, madam,” I said.
“And to you too, Miss Calderwood. Any news of your brother?”
Not aware what, if anything, Mother had told her, I said only, “Nothing.”
“I’ve heard say,” she confided, “that General Washington is retreating across Jersey. Perhaps William is with him. Let’s pray he’s not a prisoner.” She leaned closer. “They say conditions are shocking.” Perhaps I paled, for she showed smug satisfaction at having educated me. Pressing my arm and mumbling, “My compliments to your mother, Miss Calderwood,” she went off.
I rushed on, not wishing to study her words. As it turned out, Mr. Gaine was in his shop, working his press, concentrating so that he did not notice me when I stood at the door. I watched him with interest, wondering what duties he would give me.
“Mr. Gaine,” I finally said, “good day.”
“Ah, Miss Calderwood. I’m positively delighted to see you.”
“My father’s compliments, sir. He’s done these for you.” I handed him the revised advertisements.
Mr. Gaine wiped his ink-stained hands upon his leather apron, took the papers, and leafed through them. “Excellent.” Then he considered me with a look of expectation. “And you, Miss Calderwood,” he said. “Did you discuss my offer of employment with your da?”
“I should be pleased to enter your service, Mr. Gaine. Father said you should call upon him soon.”
“Good news indeed! I’ll go today.” Mr. Gaine turned to a box, opened the lid, and took out some shilling pieces, which he handed to me. “Forgive me for presenting you with your father’s payment, Miss Calderwood. But I know ready money is in demand.”
“It’s appreciated, Mr. Gaine,” I said, hoping he would not always be so stiff and formal.
We made our farewells. Then, with the coins held tightly in hand, I headed north toward the King’s College and, hopefully, William.
20
DESPITE THE SNOW, it did not take me long to reach the college building. A large number of armed soldiers surrounded it, like a living, insurmountable wall. Knowing that it had become a prison, I could no longer think of it as a place of learning. Quite the opposite. Moreover, as I gazed upon the building’s rows of windows, I fancied I could see many people inside. Too many. Even from a distance, I observed inmates crowding and pressing against the windows, as if seeking air. From one window, a hand reached out, like that of someone drowning in the sea.
In the off chance I’d be able to catch a glimpse of William at a window, I drew nearer. Even as I watched, a troop of soldiers, led by officers, emerged from the central door. With disgust, I saw the same portly, red-nosed officer who had marched Nathan Hale to his death leading the way. His lumbering stride was heavy and gross.
I knew his rank and name now—Provost Cunningham—and had learned his history. He had been abused by the Sons of Liberty—was William one of them?—and was now revenging the favor multitimes. Thus does cruelty beget cruelty.
Afraid he would recognize me, I shrank back, but he passed without so much as a glance in my direction. Nonetheless, just to see him gave me a chill harsher than the cold air did.
Seeing the provost reminded me of my brother’s possible fate, and my fears redoubled. Indeed, John André’s words “By the laws of all countries, rebels taken in arms forfeit their lives. They should all be hung” were more than menacing. What if the lieutenant refused to intercede?
With my anxiety telling me that I must act in haste, I clutched my coins tightly and stepped forward. As I went, I tried to decide which of the soldiers I should approach. By that time I had seen so many British soldiers I could read their uniforms. That is to say, I knew whic
h ones were common soldiers, which officers. John André had told me that British officers purchased their commissions. Therefore, since officers were most likely gentlemen, my innocence suggested they would be less inclined to take a bribe. Such reasoning suggested a lower-grade soldier would have more need and be more inclined to help me. So I scanned the line of guards and picked out a young soldier.
He was about the same age as William, with red cheeks and flaxen hair beneath his tall hat. On his shoulder was a musket with a bayonet, taller than he was. As I drew closer, he came to attention.
“Yes, miss,” he said, standing stiffly. “Good morning. You can’t come any further, miss.”
“I know, sir. But I’m searching for my brother. I saw him led into the building, a prisoner.”
“Sorry, miss. Can’t rightly help you.”
“Is there a way to be sure he’s here?”
“Miss, there are some five thousand prisoners in the city.”
I did not move.
The soldier sighed. “The sergeant down the line, miss. He’s got a ledger, but under orders from Provost Cunningham, he’s not to give out names.”
“Is it something you can determine, sir?”
“Not usually, miss.”
I held out my hand. The two shilling pieces Mr. Gaine had given me rested in my palm. “It would be a kindness, sir.”
He stood still, as if considering my request. I observed his eyes move, first to my hand, then along the line of soldiers as if trying to determine if he was being watched.
“Step closer, miss,” he said in an undertone.
I did so, my hand out.
Quick as a flea jump, his free hand snatched the coins.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“William. William Calderwood.”
“Back off,” said the soldier, “as if going away.”
I retreated some yards. He stood where he had been until I wondered if he was going to do as I asked. Then he shifted and marched down along the line of guards before stopping in front of a man I took to be an officer. They seemed to confer. Their hands touched. I suspect shillings were divided. The officer opened what appeared to be a book.
Back came my soldier. I waited for a few moments, then approached.
When I drew near, he spoke in a low voice to say, “He’s been transferred to the sugarhouse on Crown Street.”
I had no choice but to walk away. My only thought was John André must help us.
21
HOME AGAIN AND by my father’s bed, the first thing I asked was “Did you speak to Lieutenant André?”
“Not yet.”
I told them what I had learned about William, after which Father said, “When I speak to the lieutenant, I’m sure he’ll at least arrange a visit. We’ll bring food. Dr. Dastuge.” He lowered his voice. “Find a way to free him.”
In the end, however, I had to tell them that whatever we did—even with John André’s help—I had little doubt it would take lots of money. Had I not given all Mr. Gaine gave me just to get information?
Mother said, “Lieutenant André said someone would take his place. But that officer is not likely to be so forthright in his payments.”
“Here’s some good fortune,” said Father. “While you were gone, Mr. Gaine stepped by. He and I agreed to terms and conditions for your employment. Five shillings the day. He expects to see you tomorrow.”
“Hopefully,” said Mother, “that money will be sufficient.”
I surely desired it. But even more than that, I counted on John André’s words, “If there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask.”
Which meant there was nothing to do but wait for Father to speak to him.
22
AS IT HAPPENED, that night the lieutenant came home late, so there was no talk. The next day, I left early for Mr. Gaine’s printing shop, where my training as a printer commenced. Thus, I learned about type cases, type racks, the difference between upper and lower case letters, composing sticks, forms, wetting troughs, and quoins. I came to learn such a word as “galley,” the difference between “puller” and “beater,” how to ink type, plus a veritable encyclopedia of other words and tasks too numerous to list.
Though hard and inky work, it was never drudgery. I liked it. Moreover, Mr. Gaine was impressed—he said so—by my quickness and willingness to learn. So it was that on that first day I went home weary but content. The knowledge that I was earning money, which could help William, gave added pleasure. For the moment I could think of nothing else.
But when I stepped into my house, I was taken aback by the sight of Lieutenant André’s large trunk in the middle of the common room. Sitting on it was his servant, Peter.
Although I had tried to put aside all tender sentiments regarding John André, I will be honest and say that when I saw the trunk and understood that he was about to go, my heart tumbled.
“Is your master leaving now?” I asked Peter.
“He is saying his farewells to your parents” was the answer. The young man somehow hoisted the large trunk upon his back and left the house.
I knew what I could have done. Should have done. Gone into the back bedroom and made my respectful farewells along with my parents. If, as I assumed would be the case, John André offered some help concerning William, I should be there to thank him too.
Instead I remained where I was, opting for a romantical meeting with him—alone.
I had some while to wait, which I did with rising agitation. Might it be better to avoid him? Was I not confused enough about my feelings toward him as it were? As proof of my bewilderment, I did nothing. At length the inner door opened and André appeared. His look was serious, to which his dark complexion, black hair, and strong eyes gave a somber cast. When he gazed around, however, and saw me, his face brightened. That easy, frank smile, which I had come so much to admire, flashed upon me like new light.
“Miss Calderwood!” he exclaimed. “I am delighted to see you, indeed. I was afraid I was going to miss you.”
“Then you are really leaving?” I said, which, overall, was as dull a remark as one could make.
“Taken to Staten Island this very night. I was just paying my respects to your parents.”
There followed a moment of awkwardness. I did wonder that my parents did not follow him. The realization that they had not gave me unease.
“Did my parents ask . . . ?” I faltered.
“Did they request my help regarding your unfortunate brother?”
I nodded.
“They did, Miss Calderwood. They did.” He paused.
I tried to read the small smile on his lips. Was it pleasure? Mockery? Sadness? Why would he not speak? “And?” I forced myself to say.
“Miss Calderwood, I beg you to comprehend the delicacy of my situation. I am the eldest son of my family, and with my father deceased, I am responsible for my relations: mother, three sisters, and a younger brother, whose name, by the by, is also William. In short, Miss Calderwood, I must not let the slightest hint of irregularity brush against my honor as a British officer. That honor is the most important thing in my life.
“I assure you, Miss Calderwood, my positing to Staten Island is pure coincidence but, given the circumstance, you must agree, fortunate for all.”
I added other meanings to his words but said only, “Can you not get—as you did for my father—an allegiance form for my brother?”
“I fear he has already taken up arms against the government.”
“Then you won’t help?”
“No.”
“But, lieutenant, you pledged to—”
“Miss Calderwood, I cannot.”
To hear that was as much to say “There shall be no more daylight.”
Struggling for words, I said, “Lieutenant André, may I, may I remind you what you said to me, ‘I give you my pledge. If there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask.’”
He was silent for a moment. Then, no longer smiling, h
e replied, “Miss Calderwood, can I in turn remind you of your age, which, I believe, is merely twelve. A promise to a girl is not a pledge to a lady. You are not yet a lady.”
Then he made a curt bow and left the house, leaving me alone with profound humiliation and rage.
Immediately, I made a pledge: lady or no, I would rescue William.
23
FIRST, HOWEVER, I needed to visit him. Since I had already gained some knowledge of what amount of bribe it would take to accomplish that, I believed it good fortune—in every sense—that Mr. Gaine had employed me. So it was that I went to his shop each day. It meant money in hand, highly valued British coin. That said, it was going to take time to earn what I thought would be required. Fortunately, while I worked, I also brought home advertisements for Father to edit.
On a number of occasions after my day’s work, I went to the sugarhouse situated near Crown and Nassau Streets. It was close to a Dutch church and its adjacent graveyard. Until recently it had been used for the refining of Jamaican sugar; hence its name. Having been built like a fortress, with large stones to make it fireproof, it is hardly a wonder that the British converted it to a prison. Five stories high, it had small, deep-set windows covered with gratings, and but one entryway, a small, barred door on the Crown Street side.
Though there was no light within, I stood before it. Futile, of course. Yet I wanted to think that William’s face was one of those pressing at a window and that he saw me.
I remained for a while, then left.
At home Father continued to mend, if poorly. He got out of bed. He walked about. Though his arm and hand remained stiff and awkward in their movements, he made no complaint. Nonetheless, he stayed at home. While he did not say as much, I believed he thought that if he was seen and his wound noticed, there was the chance of his being arrested.
General Washington, as much as anyone knew, had hidden his small army somewhere in Pennsylvania. It’s no wonder the British were convinced the war was all but over. Indeed, our Congress, anticipating an attack on Philadelphia, fled to the city of Baltimore. Nevertheless, a confident Lord Howe chose to stay in New York and settled into winter quarters.
