Sophia's War: A Tale of the Revolution by Avi

Author:Avi [Avi]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Childrens, City & Town Life, Colonial & Revolutionary Periods, Fiction, Girls & Women, Historical, Lifestyles, United States
ISBN: 9781442414426
Google: PfzfAAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1442414421
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2013-09-23T23:00:00+00:00

41

MY FIRST WEEK of work, though arduous, proved typical. Chores were endless, and of small interest. I arrived early and left late, worn out. That said, my fear of discovery subsided, because the only ones who paid any attention to me were my sister cleaners and Mrs. Ticknor.

Indeed, it was rare for me to labor alone. That said, the women I worked with were quite companionable. While we toiled, there were moments of casual chatter and gossip, which I was interested to hear. Much talk was about various officers being sent off, who was dashing, who disgraced, who praised, and the like. Indeed, among the girls there was some competition as to who could learn—and share—the most. The wages of drudgery is gossip.

The common view about the war was that it could not last long, that American fortunes were much diminished, that of the British Army ascending. But then, most of the women were passionate loyalists. Did they care that the king imposed taxes on us without consent or cut off our trade from the world? Think of dying prisoners? Not a jot! I would have loved to argue reason into them but dared not. Indeed, I found their loyalist chat of use.

Of John André, one of them confided, “With all his open charm, there is much that is closed in him.”

Another passing comment: that Major André, since the capture of Charleston (in the Carolinas), had been focused on something that required lengthy conferences with General Clinton. The gossip was that a grand military action—“some bold stroke”—was under review. As someone said, “Hopefully, it will bring a quick end to the war.”

You may well perceive my keen desire to know what that bold stroke might be.

I saw John André regularly, and absolutely, he did not recognize me. He was courteous and kind to me but took no notice in any way. His smiles were bestowed on everyone. His regard was such that I might as well have been invisible.

On my part, I found him not so different from three years previous. His uniform was more elaborate—as befitted his higher rank—while his olive-hued skin, dark eyes, and black hair set him off to good advantage. His face still gave every suggestion of honest openness. Though I knew he was a soldier and had seen coarse times, I could have believed the word “charming” had been invented for him. Hardly a wonder that he was a favorite.

But what did I feel about him? Each time I saw him, I asked myself that question. Though I searched my heart for answers, I was convinced I found no affixedness. Instead, I insisted that the flush of sensibility I felt whenever I saw him was merely fear of discovery. I had but to think that he could have saved William, and all the horrors of my brother’s death rose before me. To that dreadfulness what had André said? “I must not let the slightest hint of irregularity brush against my honor as a British officer.”

His honor.

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