Sophia's War: Chapters 1–9

After some days passed, Father and Mother decided that we must go home—if we still had one—and try to reclaim our lives.

It was his belief that English soldiers would not harm a mother and child. “Are they not,” he said, “our kinsmen and a civilized people?”

So it was that before dawn on Sunday morning, Mother and I, full of disquietude, set out to walk the twelve miles to the city.

Dressed in civilian clothing, he wore no jacket and had a white muslin shirt open at the collar.

Whereas Mother believed such education would diminish my chance of marriage, William proclaimed, “Only a man who can esteem Sophia’s intelligence is worthy of her beauty.”

The Boston Massacre, the battles of Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill, made the discord in New York more intense and brought on riots.

Many of our beautiful trees were chopped down so fortifications could be erected.

William took me to Fort George again, from where I saw a vast forest of masts.
He gazed at the formidable threat.

“I promise you,” he told me, “liberty shall always triumph over tyranny.”

So it was that just before that Brooklyn battle, William and John Paulding marched bravely away, muskets on their shoulders, sprigs of green in their hats in lieu of real uniforms.

Only a deft stratagem—and a thick fog—allowed General Washington to bring his reduced army back to Manhattan Island.

Only a deft stratagem—and a thick fog—allowed General Washington to bring his reduced army back to Manhattan Island.

We waited as long as it was deemed prudent. Then Father said we must find safety.

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.

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.

In front of the soldiers stood an officer in a red regimental jacket complete with gold facings. He had a lengthy nose, a jutting chin, and a severe frown. A sword was at his side.

The officer made a curt bow. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said in a Scot’s accent. “Captain Mackenzie. Is your husband at home?”

The redcoats acted as if we were not there. They opened cupboards, poked about the hearth—thank goodness we had retrieved the money—and went upstairs, where they searched under my parents’ bed, hauled out my trundle bed, and even broke open a trunk from which they dragged winter blankets.

All was strewn about.

Their most intense search was in Father’s office. Papers and books were scrutinized.

I was an ardent patriot. If I could not keep it secret, I knew the consequence.

The shortages were because the ferries, which normally brought food from Long Island and Jersey, had been curtailed.

As we lay down—fully clothed—I was aware that we were sleeping there for the last time. I slept by her side, not in the low trundle where I usually reposed.

It was good to be busy, for it distracted me from dismal thoughts of Father and William.

The soft moan of wind, which my brainwork told me was the despondent soul of Captain Hale. Perhaps he knew of my pity and had come in search of comfort.

Mother pulled the door open, and there was Father. My heart rejoiced! But then he staggered forward, and in the feeble light, I saw how gaunt and ill he appeared.

I grabbed pot and candle, and, heedless of the night watch, dashed out to the street pump.

As Mother heated the water, Father told us haltingly what had happened to him.

Word had come to the farm where we’d been that British troops were scouring the countryside, arresting all men, rebel or no.

I pressed on, only to spy some people standing close together in the street. Frightened, I stopped and gawked. It was three tall men, theirs faces ghostlike.

The one who held the lantern lifted it higher, as if to appraise me. Perhaps he saw the red ribbon on my cape.

He was a short, stout man, bald, with a fat and grizzled face.

I returned along Broadway, the doctor at my side, his gait clumsy, his breath a periodic puff.

She led the doctor away, while I sat before the hearth. The low, flickering flames caused shadows to gambol all about me.

Mother, looking wan, followed.

What a contrast to the British soldiers. They strode about like the loud, boisterous victors they were, devils of fear and disorder.

Turning, I saw, hedged in by armed British soldiers, a parade of ragged men. A fair number had bandages wrapped about heads or arms, some of which bore brown stains of old blood. To a man, they had disconsolate looks and did not walk so much as shuffle.

In front of this procession marched the same portly, red-haired officer I had seen leading Captain Hale to his death.

Though it vexed me greatly that this cruel fellow was going in the same direction I must go, there was nothing for it but to follow.

When I saw him knock upon our door, it came to me like summer thunder: this cruel British soldier must be our boarder.