15

AS THE MEN moved slowly down the center of the street, I hurried alongside, searching for another glimpse of my brother. When I saw him, I shouted, “William!”

Some heads—not his—shifted.

“William!” I cried again, in as loud and unladylike a voice as I could muster. “William! It’s me! Sophia!”

That time he turned and looked about.

“Here!” I shouted, and raised my hand.

His face blossomed into some life.

“Where are they taking you?” I shouted.

Before he could respond, one of the soldiers came up to him and, with the butt of his musket, struck him on the shoulder.

As William stumbled, I stifled the scream in my throat. It was only because he was caught by one of his fellow prisoners that he did not fall. The soldier who hit him turned toward me. “Go home, girl!”

I had the wits to let the line of prisoners pass. But only briefly. Short of breath, heart racing, greatly disconcerted, I began to follow again, this time making sure I stayed behind the prisoners.

The column of captives proceeded north, going to the west of the Commons area, until they reached the block between Murray and Barclay. They were, I now grasped, going to the King’s College, a wide, tall building, with an elegant cupola top center. It was where William had been going to school before hostilities had begun in earnest. Now it was surrounded by soldiers. And the prisoners, including William, were being shoved inside. His school was to become his prison.

I stood for a while outside the ring of guards feeling altogether hurly-burly but trying to regain my composure. All I knew was that I must do something to help my brother. Would they let me visit? Could I bring him food? Would they allow him a doctor?

My next thought was to hasten home and inform my parents about what I had learned. No doubt they would be both greatly relieved and deeply worried—just as I was.

That said, I knew I needed to settle myself. I decided the best way to do so would be to go on to Hanover Square and inquire about Mr. Gaine, as Father had asked me to do. Off I set, relieved to be alone, though my thoughts were as crowded as an unruly mob.

As I went, I kept thinking about William and his suffering. Yet I must admit, I was also thinking of myself, mortified that I had allowed myself to foolishly, and childishly, be distracted by John André. I was reminded of the old adage: Nothing makes one older than knowing how young you are.

Upon reaching Hanover Square, I turned to the sign of the Bible and crown, Mr. Gaine’s printing shop. To my joy, he was there standing before his type case, filling a composing stick with letters.

“Ah, Miss Calderwood,” he said as soon as he saw me. “I’m surely delighted to see you. Where has your father been now? I’ve need of him.”

Mr. Hugh Gaine was a short, stocky, round-faced, and stub-nosed man of some fifty years. Though he had been in America for a goodly while, he spoke with a strong Northern Irish accent. It was said that he was a successful man, yet I never saw him dressed other than in the simplest fashion, a suit of brown homespun cloth.

This morning he wore no jacket but had on his leather work apron. I also noticed he had a red ribbon on his arm.

“Mr. Gaine,” I said. “My father sends his compliments. He’s been ill. But he’s close to recovery and wants me to tell you he’s eager for employment. I’ve inquired here a number of times.”

“I’ve been to Jersey, Miss Calderwood. But I am back.” He peered about his work space, as if to see who might hear him. I saw no one, not even his servant boy.

“Now you must inform your father,” he said loudly—perhaps wishing the world to hear—“that I have seen the way the river is flowing. That’s to say, I’ve convinced those who must be convinced—the British military authorities—that I’m eager for the restoration of His Majesty’s government in New York, and in all the colonies. In turn, they have graciously given me permission to continue printing the Mercury. I don’t presume to know your father’s thinking about such matters, Miss Calderwood, but he’ll be needing to know mine.”

As he spoke, he was looking at me in such a fashion, tipping a nod here, a blink there, that seemed to suggest the opposite of his words. But in those days, it was common for New Yorkers to act in just this contradictory fashion, some nicknackery or trick to suggest opposing minds. In other words, while Mr. Gaine was telling me he was now a loyalist, he was signaling the suggestion that he was still a patriot.

Was this not what my parents had done? Was this not what I had done? Dear God! The war made deception our way of life.

That said, I had to make a quick decision: my father needed employment.

“I’m sure he will grasp your meaning, sir,” I replied, trying to be as fuzzy as he. “Then do you have work for my father?”

“If he would be so kind.” Mr. Gaine went to a table, upon which lay a scattering of papers. He gathered them up and handed them to me. “He can edit these advertisements left for publication. My usual rates.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and took them, certain that my father would be pleased. I turned to go.

“Miss Calderwood!”

I stopped.

“Your father once told me you write and read well. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir. My brother taught me,” I said.

“Miss Calderwood, I had an apprentice. A boy. When I was restored to my home, I found that he had been pressed.”

“Sir?”

“Taken up and forced to join their navy.”

It was exactly what the boy had feared. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“A common practice. Nothing I, or anyone, can do about it. My problem, Miss Calderwood, is that there are few boys—boys who can read and write—left in the city to do the work. If I employ another, he too shall likely be taken. God’s truth: it’s difficult to do my printing with just two hands.

“What I’m saying, Miss Calderwood, is this: Would you be willing to take on such a position? To be sure, unusual for a girl, but it’s to my knowing that there’s already been a woman printer down in Williamsburg, Virginia. I can instruct you. Say the word and I’ll discuss the details with your father.”

Though completely surprised by his suggestion, I was gratified. If Father gave his approval, it would mean more money for our household. “I’ll tell my father what you’ve proposed,” I said, bobbing a curtsy.

“Do so soon,” he said, and turned back to his work at the type cases.

I headed for home. The notion of being employed in such a fashion had never entered my head. But, as Mr. Gaine said, these were unusual times. I recalled, too, my mother telling me our need was such that I might have to take work as a house servant in a British officer’s home. To me, an inky printer’s shop would be preferable.

I glanced at the papers Mr. Gaine had given me. I could read them perfectly well and knew how my father would make them compact, ready for the press. Even if Father were not well enough to work on them, I could. As for the other employment promised in his shop, I was not sure what the tasks would be, but I’d not be shy. Learning a trade had to be useful for me. But mostly, if there was more money for us, there would be more money to help free William.