As little doubt could be entertained but that peace would soon follow, I found it necessary to take some steps to insure the safety of several persons within the enemy’s lines, who had served us faithfully and with intelligence during the war. As some of these were considered to be of the Tory character . . . I suggested to Gen. Washington the propriety of my being permitted to go to New York, under the cover of a flag. This he very readily granted, and I proceeded to New York, where I was surrounded by British troops, tories, cowboys, and traitors.
The whole experience of crossing into Manhattan must have been rather surreal for Tallmadge, as he enjoyed the unusual privilege of dining with General Carleton himself, and noted that “by the officers of the army and navy I was treated with great respect and attention.” He added, “It was not a little amusing to see how men, tories and refugees, who a little before uttered nothing but the terms, rebels and traitors to their King, against all the officers of the American army, would now come around me while in New York, and beg my protection against the dreaded rage of their countrymen.”
Despite the various distractions, the bids for his attention, and his high-profile status, Tallmadge was able to meet quietly and safely with Townsend and the others he was seeking out to ensure their security when the British finally evacuated the city. “While at New York I saw and secured all who had been friendly to us through the war, and especially our emissaries,” he wrote. Then he rode north again to Newburgh to wait for Washington’s next orders:
Having accomplished all my business in New York, I returned again to the army, and made my report to the Commander-in-Chief. The troops now began to be impatient to return to their respective homes, and those that were destined for that purpose, to take possession of the city. Gen. Washington now dismissed the greater part of the army in so judicious a way, that no unpleasant circumstances occurred.
The troops broke camp and returned home, their service completed and their dreams for liberty realized. Only those soldiers appointed to ride into New York with Washington stayed on, eager and grateful to be part of that historic moment.
FINALLY BACK IN NEW YORK
At noon on Tuesday, November 25, 1783—coincidentally, the same date as Robert Townsend’s thirtieth birthday—Washington rode into Manhattan, with Benjamin Tallmadge among the officers at his side. A contingent rode ahead, scanning the streets as the last of the British officers boarded their ships; Washington followed with his officers and troops spanning eight across. In the previous days and hours leading up to that moment, some joyful Patriots had hoisted American flags over their homes only to have them torn down; in a few cases, they came to blows with the redcoat enforcers. But now the citizens of New York, no longer subject to British law or British soldiers, waved flags freely as Washington rode forward. Church bells tolled not in warning but in celebration, and the shouts after each firing of the cannons were triumphant rather than terrified. Some people even crowded at the water’s edge, waving at the ships set for departure and laughingly bidding the defeated soldiers on board a lovely trip home. “So perfect was the order of march, that entire tranquility prevailed, and nothing occurred to mar the general joy,” Tallmadge wrote.
Every countenance seemed to express the triumph of republican principles over the military despotism which had so long pervaded this now happy city. Most of the refugees had embarked for Nova Scotia, and the few who remained, were too insignificant to be noticed in the crowd. It was indeed a joyful day to the officers and soldiers of our army, and to all the friends of American independence, while the troops of the enemy, still in our waters, and the host of tories and refugees, were sorely mortified. The joy of meeting friends, who had long been separated by the cruel rigors of war, cannot be described.
The next nine days were filled with celebrations and visitations as Washington toured the city. As his step-grandson, George Washington Parke Custis, would later record, the general even made a special stop at the shop of James Rivington, much to the surprise of many of the officers in his company, who considered Rivington a Loyalist scoundrel whose continued presence in the newly freed New York seemed an affront to all Patriots. But Washington seemed purposeful, even determined, as he excused himself to speak privately with Rivington about (so he claimed) certain books that the printer intended to order from London. The two men disappeared briefly, then came back to the front room, where Washington prepared to take his leave.
“Your Excellency may rely upon my especial attention being given to the agricultural works,” Rivington said as he escorted the party to the door, voicing the sentiments most dear to the tired general’s heart at that moment, “which, on their arrival, will be immediately forwarded to Mount Vernon, where I trust they will contribute to your gratification amid the shades of domestic retirement.”
At noon on December 4, Washington met with his officers in Fraunces Tavern, just a few blocks from Rivington’s establishment and the Fly Market, where Robert Townsend had operated his shop and carried out his spying duties. “The time now drew near when the Commander-in-Chief intended to leave this part of the country for his beloved retreat at Mount Vernon,” Tallmadge recorded in his memoirs, adding that “it was made known to the officers then in New York, that Gen. Washington intended to commence his journey on that day.”
Entering the room promptly at twelve o’clock, Washington seated himself and enjoyed a light lunch before raising his glass of wine; speaking in a voice heavy with emotion, he told them: “With a heart full of love and gratitude I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.”
Following the toast, Washington paused before adding, “[I] shall feel obliged if each of you will come and take me by the hand.” One by one, the officers silently came forward to embrace the general.
“The simple thought that we were then about to part from the man who had conducted us through a long and bloody war . . . and that we should see his face no more in this world, seemed to me utterly insupportable,” Tallmadge wrote. A solemn procession marched Washington to the docks, where he would begin his journey home to Virginia. He was a tired man who earnestly believed his life of public service was over, and that the next generation would be those called upon to lead the country through the coming years. Tallmadge narrated the scene with a note of finality:
We all followed in mournful silence to the wharf, where a prodigious crowd had assembled to witness the departure of the man who, under God, had been the great agent in establishing the glory and independence of these United States. As soon as he was seated, the barge put off into the river, and when out in the stream, our great and beloved General waived his hat, and bid us a silent adieu.
“WE THE PEOPLE”
Not long after General Washington’s departure for civilian life, his brothers in arms followed suit. “In a few days,” Tallmadge recorded, “all the officers who had assembled at New York to participate in the foregoing heart-rending scene, departed to their several places of abode, to commence anew their avocations for life.” They could, at long last, enjoy the future for which they had all so gallantly fought.
Tallmadge, too, returned home to a memorable celebration he described in rather poetic terms in his memoirs:
Having for seven years been banished from the home of my father, at Brookhaven, in Suffolk county, on Long Island, I determined to visit the place of my nativity. . . . Being principally Whigs, and now emancipated from their late severe bondage, the people had determined that they would celebrate the occasion by some public demonstration of their joy. They therefore concluded to have public notice given, that on a day near at hand, they would have an ox roasted whole on the public green, to partake of which all were invited to attend. I remember well, that after a most joyful meeting with my former friends (many of whom I had not seen since the war commenced), I was appointed master of ceremonies for the occasion. W
hen the ox was well roasted, the noble animal on his spit was removed to a proper place, and after a blessing from the God of Battles had been invoked by my honored father, I began to carve, dissect, and distribute to the multitude around me. The aged and the young, the male and the female, rejoiced to receive a portion, which, from the novelty of the scene, and being in commemoration of so great an event, obtained a particular zest. All was harmony and joy, for all seemed to be of one mind.
A Tory could not have lived in that atmosphere one minute. . . . The joy of the Whig population through the island was literally unbounded.
Tallmadge then set out to ride eastward across Long Island to visit friends and survey the land. As he rode from town to town, he was quite delighted to find that the Patriotic fervor had not been lost by those citizens who had endured much suffering under the rule of the British and the political dominance of the Loyalists: “Private hospitality and public honor were most liberally bestowed on any man who had served in the revolutionary army.”
As picturesque as Tallmadge’s transition back to civilian life was, his former commander George Washington would not have long to enjoy his own “shades of domestic retirement,” as James Rivington had wished for him. Despite making every effort to remain out of the public eye, on April 30, 1789, Washington once again found himself in New York City, the capital of the new nation. This time, however, his hand was resting not upon his sword but upon a Bible as he was sworn in to the office of president of the United States. He had not wanted the position and had only accepted reluctantly when he was finally persuaded that his leadership would help unify the former colonies of the infant nation that were still struggling on wobbling legs toward complete self-governance free of foreign presence or occupation. Washington also declined all other titles and honoraria other than the simple and direct address of “Mr. President.”
A DISAPPOINTING VISIT
The following year, Washington made a tour of Long Island to meet the people and examine the damage done to land and property during the British occupation. But he also had it in mind to privately visit with and thank the individuals who had risked so much to gather intelligence and smuggle it to him.
He approached Setauket on April 22, 1790, and made a stop at “the House of a Capt. Roe, which is tolerably dect. with obliging people in it.” Whether those obliging people with whom he passed several pleasant hours included the rest of the Setauket Culpers—Benjamin Tallmadge, Abraham Woodhull, and Caleb Brewster—or if he was even aware that he was lodging under the roof of one of those very spies he had journeyed to thank, Washington did not say. His knowledge of the ring members’ true identities was, after all, quite limited by design. He had not wanted to know more than he needed to in order to protect them, and several of the members (Townsend in particular) had been insistent that Washington never learn their names. The following day he took his leave of Roe’s tavern and continued westward, where his tour took him to Oyster Bay. His brief notes make no mention of a meeting with Robert Townsend or any member of his family, despite the senior Samuel’s numerous run-ins with the law and his suffering as Colonel Simcoe’s reluctant landlord. Had Washington been aware of the debt of gratitude that he owed to a certain native son of this town, his stay surely would not have been so brief. Instead, he made his visit, paid his respects to the brave citizens of the town, and rode on, having never met the man he so earnestly sought to thank.
By the time the president crossed the ferry back to Manhattan at sundown on April 24, he had completed his circuit around the part of the island wherein lived the ring of spies who had served him so faithfully and carried out their weighty task with such dedication and courage. He had sincerely hoped to have some time with the mysterious Culper Junior, who had risked his life, health, and well-being for so long, passing in and out of the lion’s mouth every day, seeking to still the monarch’s roar within American borders. But no matter the greetings sent the general’s way and the invitations extended, Townsend never stepped out of the shadows to meet with his commander in chief. It was a great honor, to be sure, but not one that Townsend sought. He did not want praise or celebration; the greatest reward Washington could give him was simply a return to a quiet and unassuming life as a man subject to no king but God.
Those few who knew the Culpers’ secret kept it close, and all Washington could do was carry in his heart the gratitude he had for the sacrifices of his brave spies, which were no less meaningful for having been made in city streets and country back roads as on a battlefield. For these men and women, too, had given their all to “establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity.”
CHAPTER 18
Life After the Ring
With the end of the war and the start of the American republic, the Culpers could return to their lives as ordinary citizens. While a few were not shy about their role in the war effort and enjoyed a bit of notoriety for their daring adventures, most did what all good spies do: They carried on in obscurity as ordinary and unassuming people whose neighbors never knew they had led double lives. Their stories were packed away like pressed flowers in the pages of a book—quietly waiting, undetected for years—to reward some curious reader decades later with the intricacy and beauty of their design. There were whispers, rumors, and legends, of course—but no one pursued them, happy to leave well enough alone when the desired outcome of liberty had been reached, though at a high and terrible cost.
Caleb Brewster, after his years of excitement rowing back and forth across Long Island Sound in his whaleboat and engaging in hard-fought skirmishes, found that the second part of his life was much quieter than the first, though he was never far from the sea. He married Anne Lewis of Fairfield, Connecticut, in 1784, and moved to a farm at Black Rock, southwest of Bridgeport, where the couple had several children. Brewster passed away at his farm on February 13, 1827, and for all of his prodigious feats of bravery and skill during the war, his headstone notes his eventual rank of captain and then sums up his service simply: “He was a brave and active officer of the Revolution.”
James Rivington had a less tranquil retirement. According to George Washington Parke Custis, during the private meeting between Washington and Rivington in the bookshop, the officers in the front room could distinctly hear a bag of gold coins being handed to the bookseller for his spying services during the war. Custis, however, was not actually present for the events and had a habit of occasionally embellishing stories in accordance with his own imagination. Whether gold really changed hands during this meeting or not remains unclear. But what is certain is that Rivington and his shop received special protection in the days and weeks following the British evacuation; there would be no burning and looting as had occurred at the hands of the Sons of Liberty in 1775. Later correspondence of Washington’s confidants defended Rivington against libel. He remained in New York, though his newspaper business suffered because of his reputation as a staunch enemy of the new republic. He was eventually forced to close his shop, but with eight children to support back in England, several bad investments, and a personal taste for the high life, his financial situation deteriorated until he was forced to serve time in debtors’ prison. He died in New York, where he had spent thirty-six of his seventy-eight years of life, on July 4, 1802.
Austin Roe, like Caleb Brewster, achieved the rank of captain and carried that title proudly for the rest of his life. He and his wife, the former Catherine Jones, had eight children; in 1798, the family moved from Setauket, on the north shore of Long Island, to Patchogue, almost exactly opposite on the southern shore, and opened a hotel. Unlike many of the other Culpers, Roe enjoyed sharing stories of his spying adventures with locals and patrons at his inn, though he was careful to protect the privacy of his fellow ring members. He passed away on November 29, 1830, at the age of eighty-one.
Benjamin Tallmadge married M
ary Floyd, daughter of Major General William Floyd, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. The couple moved to Connecticut, where they had seven children; in 1792, Tallmadge was appointed postmaster for the town of Litchfield. He would later serve sixteen years in the House of Representatives (1801–17). Interestingly, in January 1817, one of the final matters Tallmadge undertook as a congressman before leaving office was to campaign against granting a pension to the three men (John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams) who first captured John André. According to a popular weekly circular of the time, Tallmadge argued that the men were hardly heroes, despite their public image, but were, in fact, “of that class of people who passed between both armies, as often in one camp as in the other.” His objection was rooted in the fact that “when Major André’s boots were taken off by them, it was to search for plunder, and not to detect treason. . . . If André could have given to these men the amount they demanded for his release, he never would have been hung for a spy, nor in captivity.” Tallmadge died on March 7, 1835. He was eighty-one years old.
Robert Townsend never spoke of his service, never applied for a pension, never corrected those who assumed he had done nothing but tend his shop during the war, and never, it seems, recovered emotionally from the blow of Agent 355’s capture and imprisonment. After the war he grew even more reserved and reclusive. Dr. Peter Townsend, the son of his brother Solomon, took a particular interest in his somber, silent uncle Robert and often asked him about his service during the war, but the older man was tight-lipped and shared very little. Townsend kept to himself, staying near his brothers and their families but never marrying himself, though he may have fathered a child with his French-Canadian housekeeper in the years following the war. The child—a large, blond, blue-eyed boy who resembled all the Townsend men except the slender, dark Robert—was named Robert Townsend Jr. by his mother, Mary. There was some suspicion that another Townsend brother, the flirtatious William, the “flower of the family,” who happened at that time to share a house with Robert, was actually the father. But Robert, having no other children, took responsibility for the boy’s education and welfare; his will includes bequests for his supposed son, several nephews, and a niece. Townsend developed strong abolitionist beliefs and staunchly opposed any type of slave ownership; later in life he worked on behalf of some former slaves of his father’s to help them gain their freedom. The man once known as Culper Junior died exactly three years after Benjamin Tallmadge, on March 7, 1838, at the age of eighty-four.
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