In 1776, young Sophia Calderwood witnesses the execution of Nathan Hale in New York City, which is newly occupied by the British army. Sophia is horrified by the event and resolves to do all she can to help the American cause.
Recruited as a spy, she becomes a maid in the home of General Clinton, the supreme commander of the British forces in America. Through her work she becomes aware that someone in the American army might be switching sides, and she uncovers a plot that will grievously damage the Americans if it succeeds. But the identity of the would-be traitor is so shocking that no one believes her, and so Sophia decides to stop the treacherous plot herself, at great personal peril: She’s young, she’s a girl, and she’s running out of time. And if she fails, she’s facing an execution of her own.
Sophia’s War
A Tale of the Revolution
(Avi)
Dear Reader:
It is a terrible thing to see a man hang. But that is why I did
what I did. Was I right to act in such a way? You must decide. If,
when you reach my last words, you cannot forgive me, so be it. Just
know that although you will not find me in any history book, I shall
tell the truth about what happened no matter how painful to me, the
authoress of these words. For on these pages I have dared to put my
trust in your heart.
Sophia Calderwood
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Part One
1776
the momentous year of 1776, on the Twenty Second
of September, my mother and I were rushing back
to the city of New York. New York was where I
was born, and where I had lived peacefully until just a few weeks
before, when we had fled in fear for our lives. The war for our
country’s independence had come to our door.
First, my brother William, along with thousands of other
patriot soldiers, ferried across the East River to the village of
Brooklyn, to defend the city from a British attack. Alar med by the
danger, my father warned us we might have to leave. And indeed,
the Americans lost that battle and retreated through Manhattan as
Great Britain gained complete control of the City.
But there was no news of William.
Desperately worried, I could only hope he was still with
General Washington’s army, and not taken prisoner. At times--
though no one spoke it—we feared he had he been killed.
In
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Too frightened to wait until we could find out, Father said we
must leave out home. It was a wise decision. Soon after British troops
occupied New York, a fire erupted and destroyed many buildings.
But since we had taken flight, we lacked information about our
home’s condition. Knowing that everything we had--money and
possessions-- might have been consumed in the fire, much of our
lives were in awful derangement. After some days passed, Father and
Mother decided that we must go home—if we still had a home—and
try to reclaim our lives.
Not sure how secure the way would be, Father made the
decision that Mother and I, being females, should travel first. 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?”
Moreover, we would travel on a Sunday, Lord’s Day. Surely, all
would be peaceful. As soon as Father determined that the roads were
not dangerous for him, he would follow.
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. With
me clutching Mother’s hand tightly and barely looking up, we took
the road called Harlem Lane. I may have been willowy for my twelve
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years of age, and my name was Sophia (the Greek word for wisdom),
but you could just as well have called me “Frightened” and be done
with it. In truth, as we hurried along, all my thoughts were on
William. He must come home!
It was late morning when we reached the outskirts of New
York. By then my wood-soled shoes were soaking wet, my ankle -
length linsey-woolsey dress was mud spattered, and the laces of my
bonnet—a mobcap—would not stay tied.
As we approached a ripe apple orchard, we observed a group
of red-coated British soldiers, armed with muskets and bayonets,
marching toward us. By their side, a drummer boy beat slow
swinking strokes. An officer, a heavy, sweating man with a nose as
bright as his hair and red uniform, strode along in high, black jack -
boots. Following him was a Negro. His slave, I supposed.
In the middle of the soldiers was a man whose hands were tied
behind his back. Looking to be in his mid-twenties, and some six feet
in height, he was considerably taller than the soldiers who
surrounded him. Dressed in civilian clothing, he wore no jacket and
had a white muslin shirt open at the collar. His light brown hair was
arranged pigtail style. In the slanting morning light, I noticed his
blue eyes. I will admit, I thought him handsome.
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The young man walked with a dignified bearing, but his face
was anything but serene. Rather, he bore a look of pale, raw
intensity, with a gaze that appeared to be on nothing and everything
at the same moment.
“What are they doing with that young man?” I said in a low
voice to Mother.
She squeezed my hand, and in as frightened a voice as I had
ever heard her utter, she said, “I think they are about to hang h im.”
Open-mouthed, I watched as the men approached an apple tree
upon which a ladder leaned. From a stout branch, a noose hung. Just
beyond gaped an open grave and a gravedigger stood by, shovel in
hand. We stopped and, along with a few other citizens, wa tched.
When the officer shoved the prisoner to the foot of the ladder, I
heard the young man say, “May I have a . . . Bible?” His voice, low
and steady, broke on the last word.
“No Bibles for damned rebel spies!” the officer shouted as if he
wished us onlookers to hear. “Hoist him,” he commanded.
Three redcoats, their faces blank, stepped forward. Two
grabbed the young man’s arms as if to restrain him, though I saw no
attempt to break free. Would that he had! The third soldier placed
the noose round the prisoner’s neck and forced him up the ladder
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steps, even as another drew the rope tight under his chin.
As they did these things, each beat of the pulsing drum stabbed
my heart.
Mother covered her lips with her fingers.
“Do you wish to confess?” the officer shouted.
I think the youth replied, but I was so appalled, I could not
comprehend his words. In fact, such was my distress that I cried,
“Have pity, sir. For God’s sake!”
The officer glared at me. “Be still, missy, or you’ll come to the
same fate!”
I shrank behind Mother, but peeked round to watch.
The officer turned back to his soldiers and shouted, “Swing the
rebel off!”
One of the soldiers kicked the ladder away. The young man
dropped. I gasped. His neck must have broken, for he died in an
instant. Perhaps that was God’s mercy. Sometimes a hanging is
nothing but slow strangulation.
Mother, pulling my hand, said, “Sophia! Come!” Sobbing, I
stumbled away.
Later we learned that the young man’s name was Nathan Hale.
Over time, his death proved of great er consequence than his life.
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Without any doubt, it altered the history of my country as it altered
mine. Indeed, what I had just witnessed was the beginning of my
extraordinary adventures.
I shall tell you what happened.
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