by L. E. Waters
He has to pull away from his bread and throw his head back, he’s laughing so hard. He slams his fist down on the table, causing me to jump with his sudden anger. “My very name made British soldiers run!”
He stands up and goes searching in the space above the fireplace. “Where has Smith gone to anyway?”
I was wondering why he hasn’t noticed Peggy’s absence too. He pulls out a few slabs of smoked bacon and hands half to me so I can chew the fat, happy to have something to occupy my mouth as he rages on.
“If I hadn’t been there, Gates would have waited for Burgoyne to get his cannons in position for a classic siege. I contradicted his orders when Gates completely ignored my rightful position and led another attack before Burgoyne could regroup. I am the reason why this army is where it is now. I told my Norwich boys that we’d have them all in hell before night and by God we did!” He throws his fist up in the air and clenches his teeth. I can swear I see a tear squeeze out of his squinted eye.
His voice is choppy now. “I led them all in myself, with grape and musket pelting by me. My horse was shot out from under me and sent me flying in its death throes. When I tried to get back up, my leg—which was already wounded at Quebec—shattered beneath me. I am now sentenced to walk like an old, feeble man, hopping around on my heel for the rest of my life with never-ending pain, and what have they given me? They owed me. Gates got a gold medal and what did I get?”
He stares straight into my eyes, half-lunatic himself. “A damn court-martial!”
Seeing me freeze, unsure of what to say to this, he laughs again, quite disturbingly. “They damn well deserve it then, right?”
The strangeness of the moment throws me, and all I can say is, “You are doing the right thing.” Completely aware that he is the worst thing anyone can be—a traitor.
He gets up to leave, and I ask, “Can I take this map?”
He barely nods. “As a little bonus, General Washington has confided, and confided to me only, for fear of the information falling into the wrong hands”—he scoffs—“that he will be at King’s Ferry Sunday evening next, on his way to Hartford where he is to meet the French admiral and general and will lodge at Peek’s Kill.”
He goes outside to fill his pipe, and I leave him alone with his heavy thoughts.
Chapter 18
I walk up the creaking oak stairs to look for Peggy and Smith but the second floor is empty. I’m drawn to a large open door, leading out to the balcony, with cotton curtains billowing in the warm fall breeze. I stand overlooking the river at twilight and there my sloop rests patiently, waiting for my return. How I wish I could simply leap to it and put all this behind me. I lean on the thick white baluster railing. The sound of voices disturbs my longing. I calm my breathing to hear them better.
Smith pleads as Peggy cries. “I promise you, we will be together very soon. I cannot tell you how, but trust that I have our best interests in mind.”
Her voice is unsteady. “But I have a child with him, Joshua.”
“I will take care of him, and we will still have our own.”
“But how—” Peggy yelps in surprise as cannon fire interrupts from across the water.
Smoke plumes from the land beside where the Vulture anchors. Cannons answer back from the port side. Smith and Peggy rush down to stand beside me. We watch as the volleys last for almost an hour, when a huge explosion rattles the windows and causes Arnold to yell from the lower porch. “They blew up the damned American magazine!”
As soon as the smoke clears, my heart stills as I see the Vulture has raised its sails, and watch as the sloop-of-war sails away farther up the Hudson.
My neckerchief suddenly feels too tight, and I slip a finger down to loosen it.
Arnold shouts, “Someone must have been informed! There must be a spy in our midst!”
“No one was supposed to know the ship was there!” I yell. “How was it that the Americans were in neutral territory, with cannons ready, at this time of night?”
Smith fumes. “Your damned Clinton gave Obadiah leave that’s what! Giving him enough time to notify them. There are never cannons out this way.”
Peggy is frightened for us all.
I say, “I won’t get back now and light is almost up. I should have rowed the damn boat myself!”
Peggy turns to me with a look of horror on her beautiful face. “What will you do now, John?”
Arnold says, now behind us on the balcony, “He’ll have to leave at once, on horseback, and make his way through the outposts to where the Vulture has sailed.”
“I’ll take him to the British line.” Smith volunteers.
Arnold scoffs. “I have to busy myself preparing for Washington’s arrival.”
“He won’t make it through the outposts dressed in this.” Peggy frets, pulling open my greatcoat to show the lobster-red, gold-buttoned uniform.
“He will have to change.” Arnold insists as he turns to speak to Smith, “What have you got that will fit him?”
Smith walks to a tall armoire and pulls out something for me.
I shake my head at them. “I cannot change out of my uniform, the General has forbidden it, for my safety.”
“For your safety you must change out of these clothes, Major.” Arnold stares at me, eyes strained with concern.
I begrudgingly take the clothes offered. I keep on my shirt, waistcoat, breeches, and boots but borrow a claret colored coat, with gold-laced buttonholes and round civilian hat. I go to change in the other bedroom when Arnold hands me my notes. “Make sure you slip this inside the foot of your stockings. It will be the last place anyone will look.”
I nod, and then go to break yet another of Clinton’s rules. When I’m dressed in Smith’s satisfactory and simple civilian clothes, Peggy looks at me and laughs.
Smith says, “I can hardly recognize you without all your bows, André.”
Arnold tucks a small piece of paper into my pocket and says, “A pass from General Arnold will get you through the outposts if they give you any trouble.”
“What is the name on the pass?”
“John Anderson, of course.”
“I cannot go under an alias. You have to make it out for Major André.”
Arnold shakes his head. “I will not implicate myself in such a way. If you want the pass, it must be Anderson.”
Smith opens the door impatiently. “We better leave now. We wait any longer you can meet Washington himself.”
“Godspeed, Major,” Arnold says.
While readying to leave, a flushed Peggy begins to cry. I can’t tell if it’s due to hugging me, or not being able to hug Smith goodbye, but I’m happy to think it’s a little of both. After releasing me from her tight embrace, she pulls something out of her pocket and ties it around my neck. She hands a duplicate to Smith quickly and says in a whisper, “It is for protection. Be sure to keep it on you.”
She runs to the balcony to watch as Smith, Jeremiah, and I get on our horses and make our way down to where Smith’s replacement rowers are set to be. There is no boat at the bank, and Smith squints out to see a boat halfway across the water. Smith yells, “Where are you going?”
One of the rowers stands up, rocking their ship precariously, and shouts, “You took too bloody long! With all this cannon fire, we’re going home!”
“Get back here at once!” I yell.
The rowers shout back, “Catch another ferry back to England, you ratty puff!”
The blood leaves my face. We’re forced to start out across the most dangerous road I’ve ever been set on in my life.
Chapter 19
We ride for some time before we catch up to an American officer. I whisper to Smith, “We had better slow down.”
However, the officer turns back to watch our approach, and Smith calls out, “Hello there!”
The officer slows his pace and gives a bow, as Smith introduces us as merchants on our way to Philadelphia. “Officer Burrows, would you like company on your way throug
h to West Point?”
I can’t believe Smith asked. I wish I could show my anger but have to smile as Burrows nods happily. Smith and Burrows chat on like two old women. Finally, Burrows says he has to take a different road, and we say good luck. As soon as he is out of earshot, I chide, “Have you no brain? We are to lay low as we are making our way.”
“Then wouldn’t it be wise to act as though we have nothing to hide if we want to keep suspicion at bay?”
Jeremiah, looking like he has just realized what he is witnessing, pulls his thick lips in tightly and swallows hard.
“I do not think we should draw undue attention to ourselves.”
“Let me decide what we should do.” His eyes narrow. “I have done this on both sides of the lines for years without issue.”
I keep as quiet as Jeremiah, who is now drenched in sweat, flushes with uneven redness beneath his brown skin. We watch the road ahead as Smith whistles a song that sounds to be of Irish origin. I get caught up in trying to name the familiar tune, something about Carlow, when he pauses a moment to say, “We’re passing the fort at Stony Point.”
My heart speeds up as we lean back in our saddles with the sharp incline down the embankment and only quickened more so at the sight of the officers dining in front of a campfire by a row of tents.
“My good officers!” Of course Smith bellows out, drawing the many faces toward us that most likely would not have left their bowls had we trotted by unannounced.
“Your bowls are practically empty! Here is some bread baked by my boy here this morning.” Smith throws out two loaves to two different groups and is received with quick and eager hands and suddenly happy faces. I keep trotting down to the ferry as Smith has stopped, but Smith is still noisy enough for me to hear all the way to the ferry. The officers give a cheer to Smith when they all take a tear of the bread.
Smith says, “My fine men, I am passing through on a mission of great importance.”
I almost turn my horse around to stop the fool.
“What do you think of being in New York in three weeks’ time?”
The men cheer at Smith’s positivity and whoop for more, but Smith’s horse speeds up to my side and I only give him a glare, which causes him to giggle and gallop ahead of me. We bring our horses onto the longboat. I relax as I sit watching the water ripple as our boat makes its way across, closer and closer to British territory. I look down the river, as far as I can see, for the Vulture and spy her off in the far distance. I can’t wait to be safe on her weathered deck.
Once we reach the eastern shore, Smith stops suddenly in front of a fine house and yells, “Take a moment, Anderson. I need to speak to the Commandant here about another matter. It will take but a minute.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Is this something that could wait until you were on your way back? This isn’t a romantic stroll you and I are on, I remind you.”
Smith puts a hand up innocently. “I promise it won’t take a moment.”
I sit on my horse as it walks to the side yard and bends to graze even with the bit still in its mouth. I glance up to see Jeremiah looking every bit as itchy and uncomfortable as I do. Night falls in around us, and I have a terrible time keeping my hungry horse away from the family’s lush cemetery grass. I finally hear him shout out joyfully to the guests inside the entranceway. “Oh, I am Commander Arnold’s right hand man, I tell you. He has just stayed with his wife at my very house. Arnold has given me the task of escorting a mysterious gentleman friend of his.”
My mouth drops open and the male and females make interested and surprised noises.
A lovely lady’s voice sings out, “Please, please, Joshua, bring your mysterious man to join our table. We are in need of stimulating conversation.”
Two females peer around the massive oak door to get a look at me, and I turn away quickly, satisfying their excitement and only making myself more mysterious. I could shoot Smith right here. I should’ve brought Obadiah with me instead of this fool. At least he wouldn’t have talked.
“Oh, no ladies, but thank you. My secret traveling companion must get to his important destination as soon as he can. It is much too important to the American cause to be delayed, even if it would be spent with such lovely ladies as yourself.”
Giggling ensues, the door opens wide, and Smith steps out and bows as he replaces his beaver skin hat. The Commandant now stares at me with his aged eyes squinted so tight it looks as if they aren’t even open. I take my hat off slightly in a quick greeting and turn my horse back to the road as all colors of light disappears.
I only hear him ride up behind me and keep my head to the road as I ignore him. I pray that he’ll see I’m not finding his antics as humorous as he is and cease. We cross a long, covered bridge, which is so dark midway that I can only rely on my horse to find its way to the other side. The trees grow over the roads so thickly it becomes hard to see. The houses, lit up from warm fires, come far and few betwixt as we come nearer and nearer to the ravaged neutral territory.
“Curse these winding and bent roads. We’d already be there if these roads were straight.”
A voice rings out in the cold dark, startling not only us but our horses.
“Who goes there?” it says.
Smith speaks at once, “Friends.”
A sentry steps out of the woods into the road with his bayonet flashing in the meager light. “Friends of which party?”
“The upper party.”
Must have been a code word.
The sentry takes another step closer. The scant light hits a deep cleft in his chin and causes his face to appear cut from stone. “What are you doing out here at this hour, headed toward the British line?”
I hold my breath as Smith answers, and I’m ready for the bayonet to be jabbed through me.
“I am under the direct and confidential orders of General Arnold.”
“Why would Arnold have you going into enemy territory?” He looks him up and down with beady eyes. “Unarmed and out of uniform.”
“Must I define the word con-fid-ent-ial?” He says the last word slowly to emphasize it.
He glares at me. “Who’s he?”
“John Anderson, merchant from King’s Ferry, on an important errand for General Arnold.”
He studies me for a moment and then says, “If General Arnold—”
I pull the pass out of my breast pocket before he can answer and after he brings the note close to his eyes, says, “It looks legit. You may pass, but ‘tis not a safe place for unarmed men. General Arnold mustn’t have cared much for you or your con-fid-ent-ial mission if he sends you out here.” He seems disappointed as he hands my pass back.
“What have you seen out here?” Smith asks.
“Some limey-lover cowboys out raiding in the name of the King. If you had any sense in your head at all you’d try your damnedest to get one of these shut-in families hiding in these houses to take you in.”
The Sentry fades back into the darkness, and I finally smile. “I welcome those limey-lover cowboys with open arms.”
But Smith stops. “I can’t fall into their arms, though, since I still need to keep my cover.”
“I will vouch for you Smith, and once we get on the Vulture, Clinton will attest to your cause.”
“No, I need to stay with the rebels until everything is seen through. I can’t be caught now. We must find a family to stay with tonight, or I will have to let you go from here.”
“But we are still in rebel territory, and I can’t find my way without a guide.”
“Then you have no choice then, do you?” He turns and goes up a small dirt road to a little red saltbox nestled into a slight incline.
“There’s no one here,” I say as I search for smoke coming from the chimney and seeing none.
“Families go to bed early around here now.” He knocks loudly on the door.
Nothing.
He knocks again.
Again nothing.
I pull his arm away. �
��No one is here.”
But Smith bangs on the door and yells in, “All we want is a place to lay our heads. That’s it, nothing more! If you give us that, we will pay you well for it!”
The bar slides back quickly, and I’m shocked to see a large and frightened family hovering behind the door.
That night we sleep in the same small rope bed crowded into the attic with dried corn on either side of us. Or I should say Smith sleeps, for the thoughts of what might befall me tomorrow run through my head. I won’t close my eyes until I reach my ship.
Smith says, as we’re on our way to our horses in the morning, “Did you even sleep an hour?”
“Do I look that miserable?” I try to laugh.
“I’ve seen sailors arriving in port after a long journey who look better than you do now.”
The family comes out to see us off, and the skinny children run around our horses, making them nervous. Smith says, “We’re sure gut-foundered. Do you have a bit to eat? We will pay well for it.”
The mother looks up worriedly at the father, and he replies, embarrassed, “Raiders came through two nights ago and cleaned us out. All we fed the children was some Indian corn, which you’re welcome to share.”
The haggard mother runs inside and comes out holding two bowls of yellow mush in her apron. Smith and I look at the horrid stuff and start shoveling it into our mouths trying not to taste it. Smith glances at Jeremiah, standing solemnly by the horses, and he says, “Ma’am, another bowl for my boy here please, and kindly take this for the children.”
Her face brightens as she takes the continental dollars from Smith’s outstretched hand. The father walks over, appearing to accept the extreme kindness suspiciously. We take to the road as the cicadas start humming, predicating another steaming hot day.
