Sophia's War: A Tale of the Revolution

by Avi

  “Miss Calderwood,” he called. “Are you going to Mr. Gaine?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, feeling harassed.

  He was silent awhile, then said, “It’s not commonly known, but I am Mr. Rivington’s business partner.”

  What has this to do with me? I wondered.

  “I’m called a sleeping partner,” he went on. “That’s to say, we share, without public knowledge, ownership of a coffee house. The Kings Crown. Near Peck’s Slip.”

  When I said nothing, he resumed. “It’s a favorite place for British officers.”

  As if I care about British officers! I stopped and faced him. “Mr. Townsend, I cannot imagine the purpose of your continual chatter. Do you have some purpose?”

  He eyed me gravely. A young lady was not supposed to challenge a man. He even studied the street as if to see if we were being observed.

  “Miss Calderwood,” he said, “Mr. Gaine speaks of your high intelligence. Your remarkable memory.”

  “Sir—” I tried to interrupt.

  “I’ve noted the story of your brother,” he persisted, “and that you’ve taken his loss much to heart. During previous conversations, you implied you wished you could do something in his place. For his cause. The patriot cause. Is that correct?”

  This talk was dangerous.

  “Please, sir,” I said. “I don’t wish to discuss my private thoughts.” I stepped away, eager to get to Mr. Gaine’s shop.

  “But, Miss Calderwood,” he called after me, “I might be able to help you achieve your aim.”

  Without replying, I walked on. But how could I avoid wondering what kind of help he was suggesting? I almost wished he had followed me, that he might explain himself. What was he after? Was this dull man offering a courtship? How repelling!

  My day at the printing shop proved long. Though I concentrated hard on my duties, Mr. Townsend’s words pried upon my thoughts. What aims did he think I had? To be sure, I would have given much to help the patriot cause. Regardless: What could Mr. Townsend offer me in that regard? Or I to him?

  May I remind you, I was living in a city occupied by the enemy. To act against that enemy was to court great hazard. No one knew that better than I did.

  At one point during the afternoon, I turned to Mr. Gaine and said, “Mr. Gaine, sir, Mr. Townsend is your close acquaintance. What is your opinion of him?”

  Mr. Gaine, after some thought, said, “He is a man whom you can trust.”

  Trust with what? What game is in play?

  34

  THE DAY FOLLOWING, Mr. Gaine asked me to deliver a small parcel of books. Nothing unusual in that. What made me uneasy was that I was instructed to give them to a British officer, a Sergeant Cook. Moreover, the place for delivery was the coffeehouse near Peck’s Slip, the Kings Crown. This, I instantly recalled, was Mr. Rivington’s establishment, the one that Mr. Townsend secretly owned with the Tory printer.

  When I approached the Kings Crown, parcel in hand, I hesitated. Women were not always welcome in such places. Besides, I could not push aside my conviction that I had been lured here by a plot concocted by Mr. Gaine and Mr. Townsend. I don’t mean to suggest I sensed bodily harm. Yet if I had known then what was to be asked of me, I suspect I might not have taken one step within.

  The ground floor of the two-story wooden building was a large, open room, illuminated by lamps and candles, which added to the heat of the day. Posts held up the ceiling’s oak beams. Tables and Windsor chairs were set about at random. Brown wainscoting lined the walls. On these walls were tacked notices of merchant ship arrivals and departures along with cargos and prices. Official proclamations pertaining to trade were there, along with a gaudy-colored penny-portrait of King George. At the far back of the room was an enclosed area where the coffee maker worked his large copper kettles, cooking the coffee. The drink was served in saucers, distributed by a waiter.

  At one table sat three British officers. At another, two. Others sat alone. The British officers were talking loudly. A second group—they seemed to be merchants—kept their voices low.

  No one took notice of me. Uncertain, I approached the enclosed area, with its large window overlooking the room. Within, a man tended a fire. The smell of coffee was strong.

  “Yes, miss?” said the man when I drew close. “How can I help you?” His face was pox-scarred and sweaty.

  “I have a parcel for Sergeant Cook.”

  The man examined me with his squinty eyes, and then pointed to a soldier sitting alone and reading a newspaper. I approached him.

  “Sir?”

  He glanced up.

  “Mr. Gaine asked me to deliver this to you, sir.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, and held out his hands. “Thank you. Much obliged.”

  I handed him the parcel. He took it, set it on the tabletop, and resumed his reading, taking no more note of me.

  I stood confused and embarrassed. Was this all that was to happen? An errand? With a sense of being fooled—and disappointed—I turned and moved toward the door. When I did, a man rose from the table nearest the door. Mr. Townsend.

  I halted immediately.

  “Miss Calderwood,” he said with his customary bow. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  I glared at him.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice low. “Mr. Gaine suggested that you would be here on his behalf. I won’t detain you for a moment.”

  “Why did you want me to come here?” I demanded.

  “I wished you to know this place.”

  “Why?”

  Instead of answering, he asked, “May I walk with you back to Mr. Gaine?”

  “Sir, you may have tricked me into coming here, but I cannot control what you do.” I stepped onto the cobblestone street.

  As Mr. Townsend kept by my side, I hastened on. He spoke shortly. “Miss Calderwood, did you notice any difference between merchants and soldiers at the Crown?”

  “Their dress, obviously,” I replied, aware that he was drawing me in. “And the soldiers talk loudly.”

  “Exactly. Did you hear? They were talking about the fall of Charleston. The British think the end of the war is near.”

  “They have thought so for years.”

  “Their thoughts could be of value.”

  “Not to me, sir.”

  “But,” he said softly, “I’m sure General Washington would like to know what they think.”

  I halted and faced him with astonishment. “General Washington?”

  A quick finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  I gawked at him. “Mr. Townsend, what are you suggesting?”

  “Miss Calderwood,” he said, his gaze firmer than I would have given him credit for. “I’m not suggesting. I am revealing a fact.”

  “You mean,” I started to say, “you are getting information for—”

  A quick hand of caution. “Just say, here too, I am a sleeping partner.”

  I could have little doubt he was telling me he was a spy! But all I said was “Are Mr. Gaine and Mr. Rivington both in this partnership?”

  “One hopes their public reputations proclaim otherwise.”

  I said, “You haven’t answered my question, sir.”

  “It must suffice.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Miss Calderwood, I know about you, your father, and your brother. Moreover, you have intimated to me that you would like to take some part in our struggle. Your reputation proclaims that you are a patriot, smart, quick, and with a superior memory.”

  I felt like a stuck pig. “Speak it out, sir,” I cried with frustration, though fearful of his answer. “How could I play a part?”

  I must have spoken too loudly, for he glanced about, then said, “I think it would be better if we walked. And I beg you. Lower your voice. Let’s not draw attention.”

  We went on without speaking.

  In time he said, “With the fall of Charleston, our situation is precarious. Miss Calderwood, you asked, ‘How could I play a part in this struggle?’ I k
now of a way.”

  I whispered, “What would it be?”

  His only answer was “I presume you will be at Mr. Gaine’s shop tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “Better to talk in private,” he said. “Good day, Miss Calderwood.” He went off.

  35

  THINK ME NOT a bufflehead. I understood Mr. Townsend’s meaning. He called himself a “sleeping partner,” a sly way of saying “spy.” Moreover, the way he referred to General Washington left me in no doubt for whom he was securing information.

  That said, I was astonished. I had believed Mr. Townsend the tamest of men. Then I recalled how he listened and did not offer opinions like other men. But he did ask many questions. I now understood he lived the proverb “Wise heads have quiet tongues and eager ears.”

  Yet that he revealed this to me, that he chose to connect me with what he was doing, and seemed to suggest that I too could be a spy, was extraordinary. To begin, it was considered base that anyone should do a low, dishonorable, deceitful thing as spy. How could I—a fifteen-year-old virtuous girl—act so?

  And the danger. The peril. More than three years had passed, but it took only an instant for me to recall Nathan Hale’s death and Provost Cunningham’s words to him, “No Bibles for damned rebel spies.” How well I remembered his words to me: “Be still, missy, or you’ll come to the same fate!”

  Most powerfully of all, I recalled William, and his companions, the horrors of the sugarhouse and the Good Intent. I had heard that there were women prisoners on the prison ship Jersey. Would I risk all that? And yet it was those same appalling facts that reminded me of my profound craving to avenge such crimes.

  Thus, it must be said: when I grasped the implication of Mr. Townsend’s words, a tremor of exhilaration passed through me. Did I not constantly chide myself about my unfulfilled vow to avenge my brother’s death?

  Yet what had I done? Nothing.

  Did I not remind myself of our Declaration and its list of British crimes? Was I not a patriot?

  Yet what had I done? Nothing.

  What of Mother’s strong words, that I must find my courage and use it?

  Yet what I had done? Nothing.

  Here, at last, was opportunity.

  But—come solutions, come quibbles. What if I were found out? Did I wish to practice such trickery? If caught, could I accept an end to life by hanging? Did I not have a responsibility toward my parents? What if they lost another child—me? Who would care for them in a reduced state and in old age? What if I were unable to do what Mr. Townsend asked? What if I made hash of it all?

  Like bees upon the whitest flower, these questions swarmed round me. Of answers, I had none.

  36

  I WALKED HOME along Broadway, my head swirling with these hard thoughts. As if to tease me, the air was soft, almost sweet, but such was my agitated humor, I reminded myself that spring is most unpredictable.

  From somewhere I heard music playing. I soon discovered its origins when I went by the Trinity Church ruins. That evening it was aglow with candles and colored paper lanterns, a weekly event. While musicians played and armed soldiers kept mere citizens at bay, British and Hessian officers and their women danced about and on the old graves. To my sensibilities, it was an image of what the British were doing to my country. How I despised them.

  Then, as I drew closer to home, a new question weighed upon me: Should I tell my parents what I was considering? I had no doubt that they would insist I not do what Mr. Townsend requested.

  I chose to say nothing. There, I chided myself, I am already deceiving my parents!

  At some point during the evening, our currently billeted officer, Captain Ponton, arrived. He was a loud, rude man, and I had no fondness for him. Moreover, that night he was somewhat bosky. After idle talk—about how the British would soon trample Americans everywhere—he staggered up to his room. With him gone, my parents took themselves off. Happily, I was left alone with my mind.

  I sat there wondering what specifically Mr. Townsend would ask me to do. Would it be hard? Easy? How dangerous? Did I have the courage?

  At some point, I heard a soft rapping on our door. Having dozed, I started. Picking up the low-burning candle, I went to the door, eased it open, and peeked out.

  A large man was standing on our step, cocked hat pulled down, partly concealing his face. I could see he was not clean, wore a rough jacket, baggy trousers, and muddy boots, and that he was looking at me with puzzlement, as if he had, perhaps, come to the wrong door.

  Suddenly, I recognized him. “John Paulding?” I cried. “Is that you?”

  I suspect you’ll not recall the name. Mr. Paulding was William’s friend, the one who urged him to join the army just before the battle in Brooklyn. The last time I’d seen him was when the two marched off together.

  “And you are—?”

  “Sophia Calderwood.”

  “Miss Calderwood! Forgive me. You’ve quite grown.”

  I reached to draw him inside.

  He held back. “Is it safe to come in?”

  “We have a British officer forced upon us,” I said.

  He pulled away. “Can we go round back?” he asked.

  I nodded. As he retreated, I followed him, candle in hand. I found him sitting on the ground. I blew the candle out, knelt by his side, and poured out questions. “Where have you come from? Where have you been? Why did you come?”

  He told me that ever since that battle in Brooklyn he’d been mostly with Washington’s army, moving up and down the country. His stories were amazing and affecting. He had seen and done much.

  Only recently he’d been posted to Westchester County—his native area—where he had been ordered to patrol what was called the “neutral country.” This was the area just north of Manhattan under the control of neither patriot nor Tory. His task was to watch for pillaging Tories—called “cowboys”—and prowling redcoats.

  Being close to the city, he’d come to visit his intended wife—Miss Sarah Teed—whom he had not seen in many months. He was also determined to pay his respects to my parents. “I’d heard of William’s death some while ago,” he said. “I’ve long wished to come, but I haven’t been able. I’m awful sorry.” So it was that this night, knowing officers would be distracted by the Trinity dance, he slipped across the lines and made his way.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You were ever the good friend. Was it dangerous to come?”

  “The neutral area is always infested with thieves, spies, as well as enemy soldiers. But, Miss Calderwood, I’m not sure I know what danger is anymore. Tell me about William. Do you blame me for getting him to enlist?”

  “You were not the only one to urge him. And we were proud of him.” I related to Mr. Paulding all that happened to cause his death.

  Though he knew about the sugarhouse and prison ships, William’s story made him angry. “You must,” he said, “give your parents my condolences.”

  He asked me about myself, but I spoke only about my work with Mr. Gaine, nothing about Mr. Townsend’s offer.

  He told me he needed to leave the city quickly, it being risky for him to stay. “They would make short work of me if I were to be caught. But from this time forward, Miss Calderwood,” he added earnestly, “I beg you, consider me your brother. If ever you need anything, leave word for me at the place called Tarrytown.”

  Though I could not imagine doing such a thing, I was touched. I thanked Mr. Paulding with all my heart. He in turn gave me a quick, brotherly embrace and slipped into the night.

  Certain I would not see him again, I went to the common room and gave myself to my decision about Mr. Townsend.

  I do not mean to claim that Mr. Paulding’s coming that night caused me to make up my mind. No more than did seeing those officers dance upon the sacred graves at Trinity Church. Or Captain Ponton’s crude and tipsy remarks. Only that they proved very timely. Perhaps, as it’s said, coincidences are God’s small messages.

  Surely, if Mr.
Paulding could expose himself to so much danger on behalf of our country, if William could give his life, if Nathan Hale could give his, if I must witness British officers dance upon our graves, how dare I do nothing? Need I remind you I had reason and motive enough? All these things gave blood to my heart.

  Thus, I made up my mind. I would join Robert Townsend. I would become a spy.

  37

  NEXT MORNING I went off to Hanover Square. For most of the day I worked setting lines of advertising type. Dull work indeed, and tedium agitates the soul. My mind spun about the questions I would pose to Mr. Townsend.

  It was late afternoon when he appeared. When he came in, he did not even look at me, but conversed with Mr. Gaine about small matters. Perhaps Mr. Townsend had changed his mind. Part of me wished he had.

  At length, however, Mr. Townsend turned to me. Bowed. “Miss Calderwood, good afternoon.”

  Curtsy. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Might you wish a word with me?”

  Mr. Gaine shifted round so deliberately, I was sure he understood what was afoot.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  Mr. Gaine removed his leather apron and said, “Forgive me, Mr. Townsend. I’ve got me a small errand. Miss Calderwood, be so good as to look after.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, certain he did not wish to hear my conversation with Mr. Townsend. Indeed, within moments that gentleman turned to me and said, “Miss Calderwood, have you come to a decision?”

  I said, “I wish to help.”

  “Bravo.”

  “But, Mr. Townsend,” I said in haste, “I first need to know how you intend to make use of me.”

  “There is a house servant position available in the British headquarters at number one Broadway. I’ve been asked to find a young woman to take on the chores there.”

  “But how could my being a house servant help?”

  “Within such a place there must be much unguarded talk. Papers left about. The like. All you need do is look and listen. An opportunity not to be missed.”