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.