Sophia's War Read Free

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 aswell 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.

4
    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.
    â€œSophia,” Mother called. “Who is it?”
    When I could find no words to reply, Mother came up behind me and looked. When she did, she gasped.
    The officer made a curt bow. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said in a Scot’s accent. “Captain Mackenzie. Is your husband at home?”
    â€œHe’s—We expect Mr. Calderwood soon, sir,” said Mother.
    â€œWhere is he?” he snapped.
    â€œI’m not sure, sir,” Mother replied. “He’s been hiding from the rebel army.”
    Her words took me by surprise. I had never known Mother to lie.
    â€œThere’s nothing from which to hide, madam,” said the officer. “They have been roundly defeated. Your husband’s name?”
    â€œHiram Calderwood.”
    Captain Mackenzie made a gesture. One of the soldiers, a sheaf of papers in hand, came forward and sorted through his lists. “He’s here, sir,” he announced.
    Captain Mackenzie nodded and said, “Good.” To my mother he said, “What’s your husband’s trade?”
    â€œA scrivener, sir. He most often works for Mr. Rivington and Mr. Gaine.”
    â€œI know naught of them.”
    â€œThey publish loyalist newspapers.”
    â€œI’m pleased to hear it,” said Captain Mackenzie dryly. Next moment he issued an order to his men: “Search the house.”
    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. Loathing them with all my heart, I renewed my rebellious vows.
    Their most intense search was in Father’s office. Papers and books were scrutinized. At one point, a soldier approached the captain with a pamphlet in his hand.
    Captain Mackenzie read the title aloud. “ Common Sense ,” he announced. “Do you know what this is, madam?”
    â€œNo, sir,” said Mother. Another falsehood!
    â€œAn incitement to rebellion,” said the captain. “I presume your husband read this. Does he credit what it says?”
    â€œI’m sure Mr. Calderwood doesn’t, sir,” said my mother.
    I know otherwise , I thought with pride.
    Grimacing, Captain Mackenzie ripped the pamphlet and tossed the pieces away. To my mother, he said, “Madam, if your husband does not return soon, he’ll be accounted a