Sophia's War Read Online Free PDF Page A

followed.
    â€œKeep him abed,” the doctor advised her. “I shall look in later. I wish you a good day, madam.”
    â€œThe like to you,” she said.
    I hurried to open the door.
    The doctor gave me a nod and left. I shut the door and turned to Mother. She was holding her hands to her eyes.
    I said, “Is he is all right?”
    â€œHe should be.” She held out her hand. In her palm lay a musket ball. It was bloody. “He’ll need time to heal. I don’t know what use of his arm or hand he’ll have.”
    I peeked into the back room. Father lay abed. Eyes closed, hands resting on the bloodstained coverlet, he appeared to sleep. I retreated.
    In the common room, Mother was sitting in the chair, slumped over.
    â€œCan I do anything?” I said.
    â€œYou fetched the doctor.”
    â€œSoldiers stopped me along the way.”
    â€œWhat did you say?”
    â€œI lied.”
    Her glance showed approval. “It is hard.”
    I said, “At least we’ll not lose the house.”
    â€œThe British officer has yet to come,” she said.
    We sat side by side, not speaking. At length Mother stood up. “We can’t sit like this.” She raked up the fire and set Indian corn to boil in the pot.
    â€œSometime this morning,” she told me, “you must see if Mr. Gaine or Mr. Rivington are about.”
    As I have explained, Father worked for these newspaper printers. I had been to their shops with Father many times and had taken messages back and forth, so I knew his employers fairly well, as they knew me.
    Mother said, “You’ll tell them he’s in the city.”
    â€œCan he work?”
    â€œHe needs the pay. Since the work is usually done here, you can help him. I’m glad William taught you to read.”
    I nodded.
    Mother was silent a while. Then she said, “Things are so topsy-turvy, I’m not sure the printers will even be here.”
    â€œShall I tell them what happened to him?”
    â€œI don’t know what side they are on.”
    I thought for a moment and then said, “Mother, who am I to trust?”
    She considered my question. “Me. Father.” And then she said, “And William—if he returns.”
    The word “if” rang as loudly as a fire bell.

9
    MIDMORNING, THE DAY cool and bright, I set out to see the printers. Many soldiers were on the streets. Missing were traders, mechanics, vendors, and clergy. And mind, the city had more than two hundred churches. Children were scarce. Citizens were dazed and wary and appeared to keep their distance one from another.
    What a contrast to the British soldiers. They strode about like the loud, boisterous victors they were, devils of fear and disorder. They repeatedly made ill-mannered remarks to civilians, to women more than men. Hoping to avoid their indelicacy, I worked to look the other way.
    I went first to Mr. Rivington’s shop at the other end of Wall Street, where he had his press. He also sold books and medicines, like Bateman’s Golden Spirit of Scurvy Grass, which Mother once made me take, and Dr. Ryan’s Incomparable Worm-Destroying Sugar Plumbs, which, thankfully, she did not. The place was closed, but a man who was loitering about told me Mr. Rivington was yet in London, where he had fled from the Sons of Liberty some time ago.
    I walked on to Hanover Square, in the southern partof town, the wealthy ward. Though called a square, it was in fact, triangular. Right off Queen Street, it had fine houses, both wood and brick, along with shops, business establishments, and taverns. Fortunately, it was untouched by the fire.
    Mr. Gaine had a three-story building, with a sign depicting a Bible and a crown, his mark. He and his family lived above, while the lower floor was where he had his press, which produced his newspaper, the Mercury .
    I walked in. The smell of printer’s ink, a mix of varnish and lampblack, filled the air.