3

AFTER WITNESSING CAPTAIN Hale’s death, Mother and I, too numb to speak, continued into town. Passing Fresh Pond and then the Commons, we saw countless military tents. English soldiers, fully armed and in red uniforms, formed a sea of scarlet. German troops—many of whom bore fierce mustaches—were in their green uniforms. Scot troops were in their kilts.

We passed the new prison, called Bridewell. Though not fully built, men were being marched in. “Prisoners,” Mother murmured. I prayed that William was still with General Washington.

On city streets, we saw that cobblestones had been pulled up. Barricades remained. As we reached Broadway, we began to grasp the great devastation wrought by the fire. Even beautiful Trinity Church was destroyed. Its gigantic steeple of 175 feet, its roof, and all within were gone, including a fine organ and library. The church building stood like part of its own forlorn cemetery.

Misery was everywhere. Tattered, soot-smudged citizens, reduced to beggary, poked though the wreckage of homes, searching midst scorched wood, blackened red bricks, and charred cedar roof shingles. The stench was awful.

Greatly agitated, Mother and I, holding our dresses up to avoid the mud, all but ran down Broadway. I gained some assurance when I saw that the east side of Broadway—our side—appeared for the most part intact, the spaced-apart houses unharmed. Nevertheless, gardens, usually so splendid in September, were choked with ash and weed.

Imagine our joy when we reached Wall Street and saw that our small, two-story wooden house was unscathed. Even better, the door was open. Perhaps William was home! We rushed inside.

Alas, no one was there. Moreover, much was in shambles, with some furniture destroyed, dishes smashed, and our four pewter plates gone. The old brass candlestick, a family heirloom of a hundred years, had disappeared from the mantel. As for the food we left in storage—nothing remained.

Mother went right to the hearth, stepped within, reached high, and pulled down the small iron chest Father had hidden. Opening it, she found our little hoard: twelve English sixpence, an English shilling, four crown pieces, plus two Spanish reales. Relief showed on Mother’s face. Then I found an overlooked candle box. We would have some light.

But when we examined Father’s workplace at the back of the house, we found much of it in disarray. Father was a scrivener, a copier of legal documents as well as a copy editor for the newspaper publishers, both Mr. Rivington (publisher of the Gazette) and Mr. Gaine (publisher of the Mercury). Many of Father’s treasured books—his Johnson dictionary, his Pope, Locke, Richardson, his adored Robinson Crusoe—lay torn and broken. Spilled ink made frozen shadows on the floor. Quills lay scattered like a bird ripped apart.

Mother latched the front door and said, “At least we have our home and savings.”

“And William,” I insisted.

Though I knew Mother was in great anxiety about him too, all she said was “We can only pray for good news.” Then, after a painful sigh—a better reflection of her feelings—she said, “We’d best try to put things in order.”

I found some ease in doing something useful.

We were still cleaning when a harsh pounding came upon our door. Hoping it was one of our neighbors, I hastened to open it. Standing before the house was a troop of five British soldiers, all armed.