Sophia's War Read Free Page B

when one is linked to it, the seeing is different. I had observed the newprison before. This time, as I drew closer, aware that my brother could be a prisoner, I now grasped how formidable a fortress it was.
    It had two stories of brick, some fifteen windows across—all with visible bars. The center section was three stories high. Chimneys stood at either end, plus four in the middle. Before the entryway stood a troop of redcoats on guard. A fence was all about.
    We stood and studied it. “Come,” Mother said at last. We moved toward the entryway and stopped in front of the soldiers.
    â€œPlease, sir,” Mother said to an officer who seemed to be in charge. “Can I find out if my son is in the prison?”
    â€œA rebel?”
    â€œHe joined General Washington’s army.”
    â€œYou can apply for information at the City Hall.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œMove on, madam!”
    We retreated.
    Struggling not to cry, I waited for Mother to decide what next to do. At length she said, “We’d best find some food.”
    Turning south and east, not talking, me gripping her arm, we went along narrow Maiden Lane toward the Fly Market, where we usually did our marketing. The market was by the East River docks, near the Long Island ferry.
    When we met a few friends, news was exchanged in hushed and uneasy tones. Mother spoke of the hanging we had witnessed. That’s how we learned the youngman’s name. In addition, we were told how the American soldiers, having retreated through Manhattan, had continued their withdrawal. Though almost cut off by the English, most (so we were informed) happily reached security. The American troops did strike back with some small success, but our forces were obliged to retreat farther. The only patriot soldiers remaining on Manhattan Island were at the far north end, in Fort Washington. Whereas New York’s population had been some twenty thousand, hardly more than five thousand civilians remained.
    â€œWe are at the mercy of the British,” a friend of my mother’s confided. Another said, “It’s the end of patriot dreams.”
    Though I refused to believe that, it was not for me, a girl, to dispute such thoughts.
    When we reached the Fly Market, it was startling to see what had happened. Beneath the long, open shed, many stalls had been abandoned or destroyed. Remaining vendors had little to offer. The shortages were because the ferries, which normally brought food from Long Island and Jersey, had been curtailed. Accordingly, costs were shockingly high. We were lucky to get an old cabbage, a three-pound loaf of stale bread, and some Indian corn for fourteen pence.
    We hurried home. When we got there, I was relieved that the British officer had not arrived. However, neither had Father. Or William.
    After I drew water from the street pump on Broadway,Mother cooked the cabbage in the hearth, using the one pot that had not been stolen. For firewood, we used pieces of broken chairs. To light the fire I had to go two houses down, to Mr. Porteus’s house, and beg a glowing ember from a frightened servant. The fire lit, the pages of Common Sense withered like dead flowers.
    By the time we had eaten and tidied as best we could, it was dark. Our inside shutters were closed. Father still had not returned. No word of William.
    As Mother and I sat in the tense and murky stillness, I heard the tramp of feet on the street. I leaped up, cracked open a shutter, and peeked out. A troop of British soldiers was marching down the way. As they passed, I heard the shouted command: “All citizens shall remain in their homes during curfew on pain of severe punishment!” It was repeated, ever fainter, as the crier passed along.
    I crept back to Mother. The same fears I had before—about Father, William, the war—filled my mind and heart. Both were heavy. We did not speak, just held hands.
    In time, she said, “Best to