Sophia's War Read Online Free PDF

Mr. Gaine published books and sold goods ranging from dice boxes and paper to reading glasses, lead pencils, medicines, plus many small items of general utility. One wall bore samples of the blank legal forms that he also printed: mortgages, deeds, invoices, and the like. Another wall had upper and lower cases of type—with many small compartments. From ceiling rafters, sheets of damp paper hung in readiness for printing.
    The room was centered by the large wooden press with its stone form for holding the type, the crank that rolled the paper forward, and the screw and lever, which pressed type to paper.
    On the floor was a boy on his hands and knees.
    As I watched, he picked up some bits and put them in a small leathern bucket that was by his side. His fingertips were black. When he paid no mind to me, I finally said, “Good day.”
    The boy took note of me, sat back on his legs, and touched a finger to his forehead, leaving a black mark.“James Penny,” he informed me. I took him to be about ten years of age, with a round, smudged face and curly brown hair. He wore no shoes.
    â€œIs Mr. Gaine here?” I asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere is he?”
    â€œOver to Jersey.”
    â€œHas he fled?”
    The boy studied me before answering, as if trying to decide what to say. The thought came: No one knows whom to trust . When he spoke, it was only to say, “I suppose he’ll be back.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œSoon, maybe. Not sure. Who are you? What do you want?”
    â€œMy father is Mr. Calderwood. He does copy work for Mr. Gaine.”
    â€œThe Mercury is being published by Mr. Serle these days. Lord Howe’s man.”
    I said, “My father sends his respects and says he’s prepared to work for your master again.”
    â€œWant me to tell Mr. Serle?”
    â€œIf you’d be so kind.”
    â€œAnd if Mr. Gaine gets back, I’ll tell him.”
    The “if” word again.
    â€œGood day,” the servant boy murmured, and turned back to the floor.
    I said, “What are you doing?”
    â€œPicking up type. Got all dumped. Always happening.”
    â€œGood day,” I said again, and retreated.
    Not sure what my parents would make of the disappointing news about Mr. Gaine and Mr. Rivington, I set off for home, going along Willard Street.
    I had not gone far when I heard the tramp of feet. 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. I recognized a few as citizens of the town who had been active among the radicals. One I think was William’s friend.
    In front of this procession marched the same portly, red-haired officer I had seen leading Captain Hale to his death. Just to see him made me fear that these prisoners were to suffer the same fate as Captain Hale.
    Though I searched for my brother among the men, he was not to be found. I did wonder if anyone had news of him but was sure I’d not be allowed to exchange words.
    I turned to a gentleman who, like me, had paused to watch.
    â€œWhere are they being taken?” I said.
    â€œOff to the new jail, the Bridewell, I suspect. That’s the provost, Cunningham, in the lead.”
    I glanced about nervously. “What will happen to them?”
    â€œThe prisoners? No notion,” said the man, without much sympathy, I thought.
    My heart heavy, I watched the wretched men go by. Behind them, I saw two additional British officers. In utter contrast to the prisoners, they were dressed withcare, in scarlet coats with blue facings, sash and sword. They wore high busbies. The two were talking to each other with animation and laughing.
    As I looked on, I noticed a prisoner who struggled somewhat behind the others. One of the officers also saw him. He drew his sword—which