Sophia's War by Avi

and patriot troops surrounded the city. Nearby Long Island was unable to produce adequate amounts, and marauding British troops and Tory sympathizers could steal only so much. Shortages were such a constant that most food—for the British Army as well as for city citizens—was brought in huge fleets from Cork, Ireland, some three thousand miles away, a voyage of at least one month, and it could take longer.
    Now and again these ships came late because of weather, acts of war, or incompetence. Spoilage was as ordinary as theft and graft. Within a brief time, food prices rose like rockets, eight hundred percent and beyond. Most citizens suffered terribly. For the thousands of American prisoners in New York—already mistreated and malnourished—it meant death. Only the officers charged with their care grew rich. Indeed, there was an incessant illegal trade of common necessities.
    As for the war itself, in October 1777 our patriot army won a major victory over the British at Saratoga, far north of the city. General Benedict Arnold, though wounded, was not just victorious but the hero. In so doing, he once again proved himself the ablest commander in the patriot army. Had he not won in Montreal, Ticonderoga, and Lake Champlain and forced a huge British Army to surrender in Saratoga? His triumph brought a vital alliance with France.
    I told my father if we had two Benedict Arnolds, America could win the war.
    â€œAt least we have the one,” he replied. “And we have Washington.”
    â€œMy hero,” I replied, “is General Arnold.”
    Yet, to be truthful, during this same three-year period, American forces suffered defeats at Brandywine, Germantown, Monmouth, Savannah, and Augusta. All of Georgia was lost until we struck back at Kettle Creek and Stony Point. At one point, even Philadelphia was given up. Congress had to flee, but settled there again when Lord General Howe retreated from the city.
    In other words, although the patriot cause was not lost, it was not winning. Thus, in 1780, the struggle for independence still swung upon the hinge of history. The door to liberty was neither open nor shut, and though I knew it not, I would have my hand on that door.
    Over these three years, I changed. Taller. Fuller. More a young lady than a girl. If you think I speak from vanity, Mother herself exclaimed, “Your brother would not recognize you now.”
    There would be more he would not recognize.

31
    AFTER LIEUTENANT ANDRÉ left our home, seven officers were forced upon us, one after the other. Among them was a certain Captain Wilcox, who came from Philadelphia when General Howe retreated from that city. He regaled us with tales of a farewell extravaganza given for the retiring general, staged by none other than Captain John André.
    â€œIs he a captain now?” Mother asked.
    â€œPromoted by Lord Howe himself.”
    Captain Wilcox gossiped how André courted a certain Peggy Shippen, a celebrated young Philadelphia beauty only slightly older than I. “But of course,” said Captain Wilcox, “André is a romantic figure and flirts with all the pretty ladies.”
    Though Mother’s eyes were on me, I showed nothing, even as I told myself I cared naught about Captain André.
    But by then my life was much engaged. First, I took care of Mother and Father. Secondly, I continued to work for Mr. Gaine at his printing establishment. Mr. Gaine was—or so it seemed—a strong supporter of theBritish monarchy, writing and organizing his four-page weekly newspaper accordingly. Even so, I felt obliged to tell him about William. He expressed condolences, but Mr. Gaine was never one to reveal his complete thoughts.
    A constant flow of men came into his shop. Some were there to buy books, pamphlets, or medicines. Many were there to leave advertisements, bring news, or hear rumors. Mr. Gaine called these people newsmongers, people who must know what is happening before