Sophia's War by Avi Page A

reaching Hanover Square, I turned to the signof the Bible and crown, Mr. Gaine’s printing shop. To my joy, he was there standing before his type case, filling a composing stick with letters.
    â€œAh, Miss Calderwood,” he said as soon as he saw me. “I’m surely delighted to see you. Where has your father been now? I’ve need of him.”
    Mr. Hugh Gaine was a short, stocky, round-faced, and stub-nosed man of some fifty years. Though he had been in America for a goodly while, he spoke with a strong Northern Irish accent. It was said that he was a successful man, yet I never saw him dressed other than in the simplest fashion, a suit of brown homespun cloth.
    This morning he wore no jacket but had on his leather work apron. I also noticed he had a red ribbon on his arm.
    â€œMr. Gaine,” I said. “My father sends his compliments. He’s been ill. But he’s close to recovery and wants me to tell you he’s eager for employment. I’ve inquired here a number of times.”
    â€œI’ve been to Jersey, Miss Calderwood. But I am back.” He peered about his work space, as if to see who might hear him. I saw no one, not even his servant boy.
    â€œNow you must inform your father,” he said loudly—perhaps wishing the world to hear—“that I have seen the way the river is flowing. That’s to say, I’ve convinced those who must be convinced—the British military authorities—that I’m eager for the restoration of His Majesty’s government in New York, and in all the colonies. In turn, they have graciously given me permissionto continue printing the Mercury. I don’t presume to know your father’s thinking about such matters, Miss Calderwood, but he’ll be needing to know mine.”
    As he spoke, he was looking at me in such a fashion, tipping a nod here, a blink there, that seemed to suggest the opposite of his words. But in those days, it was common for New Yorkers to act in just this contradictory fashion, some nicknackery or trick to suggest opposing minds. In other words, while Mr. Gaine was telling me he was now a loyalist, he was signaling the suggestion that he was still a patriot.
    Was this not what my parents had done? Was this not what I had done? Dear God! The war made deception our way of life.
    That said, I had to make a quick decision: my father needed employment.
    â€œI’m sure he will grasp your meaning, sir,” I replied, trying to be as fuzzy as he. “Then do you have work for my father?”
    â€œIf he would be so kind.” Mr. Gaine went to a table, upon which lay a scattering of papers. He gathered them up and handed them to me. “He can edit these advertisements left for publication. My usual rates.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” I said, and took them, certain that my father would be pleased. I turned to go.
    â€œMiss Calderwood!”
    I stopped.
    â€œYour father once told me you write and read well. Am I correct?”
    â€œYes, sir. My brother taught me,” I said.
    â€œMiss Calderwood, I had an apprentice. A boy. When I was restored to my home, I found that he had been pressed.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œTaken up and forced to join their navy.”
    It was exactly what the boy had feared. “I’m sorry, sir.”
    â€œA common practice. Nothing I, or anyone, can do about it. My problem, Miss Calderwood, is that there are few boys—boys who can read and write—left in the city to do the work. If I employ another, he too shall likely be taken. God’s truth: it’s difficult to do my printing with just two hands.
    â€œWhat I’m saying, Miss Calderwood, is this: Would you be willing to take on such a position? To be sure, unusual for a girl, but it’s to my knowing that there’s already been a woman printer down in Williamsburg, Virginia. I can instruct you. Say the word and I’ll discuss the details with your