There was finally the slightest of nods.
“You may spend the night with your friend. I regret to go through this formality, but do I have your word of honor that if there are any secrets Major Andre has kept concealed, that you will not allow him to speak of them?”
“Yes, sir,” Allen replied.
Washington looked over his shoulder at Peter.
“I am not questioning your adherence to honor, Major van Dorn, but you will be accompanied by Major Wellsley here throughout. You may remain with your friend until,” he paused, “until it is finished.”
Allen fought to hold back his emotions. This man was his enemy. On a field of battle if ever given the chance to bring him down, he would do so without hesitation. He was the heart and soul of their Revolution. Yet he could sense as well the inner conflict that Washington must be suffering at this moment, on the one hand compassion, wishing that these decisions did not confront him, and on the other, his sense of gravitas, of duty that demanded the response, ameliorated by this small act of compassion.
Again removing his hat, he bowed low. Washington, half standing, returned the salute.
Two
NEAR TAPPAN, NEW YORK
OCTOBER 1, 1780
As the door opened, Andre, who was sitting in a corner of what was actually a rather comfortable room, staring into a crackling fire, turned, looked back, and for once the formalities of a military life fell away entirely.
“Allen!”
The chair fell backward as he leaped up, came up to his old friend, and eagerly embraced him, patting him on the back.
There was wetness in the eyes of both men as they hugged—a most unusual act for the normally reserved Andre—until he, as if remembering himself, broke the embrace, stepped back, nervously clearing his throat, wiping his eyes, and then mumbling that he must have gotten a cinder in his eye.
He looked past Allen and saw Peter standing tensely in the doorway.
“John,” Allen announced formally, “this is a friend of mine from before the war. Major Peter Wellsley, may I introduce Major John Andre.”
The two exchanged polite bows.
“A friend of Allen is, of course, a friend of mine,” John offered, and pointed to a couple of straight-back chairs positioned by the fireplace, which was the only illumination in the room, as he lifted his own chair from the floor, motioning for them to sit.
“General Stirling was so kind as to send over a delightful bottle of claret. May I offer you some?”
“Of course, John,” Allen replied, again struggling to control his emotion, recalling so many evenings of John, ever the gracious host, offering to share whatever he had, even if huddled in a miserable tent while icy rain fell outside. Peter nodded in assent, but said nothing.
“Delightful, then. Wish I had some remnants of dinner, some roasted goose. I was told General Washington personally sent it down from his table, but alas, gentlemen, I did not expect guests and hunger dominated my thoughts.”
He poured some wine into two crystal goblets, handing them to his guests, and poured a third for himself. Allen noted the bottle was now little more than half consumed. If Stirling’s kindness was with the hope that John would consume the bottle in order to calm his nerves, John was maintaining his inner discipline even though at many a party at headquarters he had consumed bottle after bottle, and rarely shown an effect.
John turned his chair to face his friend, smiled, saying nothing, looking expectantly. Allen realized that some sort of hope had sprung in John’s heart at the sight of him.
He drew a deep breath, struggled to control his voice, trying to offer a comforting smile.
“Nothing has changed, John. You will face your fate in the morning.”
There was barely a flicker of emotion, a slight widening of the eyes, a drawing in of breath, nothing more. He looked down at his glass of claret, took a sip, and just stared at the fire with a strange distant smile.
“General Clinton made every effort for your release, but would not agree to the exchange of Arnold as demanded by Washington.”
“Well,” John sighed and actually chuckled, “exchanging a mere major for a general is rarely the form, you know.”
“Gentlemen, may I interject?”
Both turned to look at Peter.
“I have served directly under General Washington ever since Trenton. First as a private in his guard, promoted along the way, and now…” he fell silent.
Allen did not fill in the rest. He knew exactly what Peter’s position was. He served as an intelligence officer for Washington, the same way Allen served Clinton. During the campaigns in Jersey both knew details far beyond anything traditionally serving officers had from overseas or from other states. They shared a grasp of local personages, their loyalty to one side or the other, and thus both had risen quickly. The ever-backward and -forward movement of spies, be they professionals or amateurs, had revealed Peter’s position to him a year ago, and he assumed Peter knew the same about him.
It was, without doubt, why Washington had sent him down to meet him as an escort, why Washington had acquiesced to his appeal for an audience, and, of course, why Peter was sitting here now as their companion for the night. If John should in any way be indiscreet, Peter would pick up on it.
“What I am saying, gentlemen,” Peter continued, “is that General Washington is not a bloodthirsty man nor a vengeful man. Major Andre, in this tragic case of yours, he is constrained by the traditions and rules of war. There is no personal anger in him toward you. In fact, it is quite the opposite. All know that you have borne yourself as a gentleman of honor throughout this ordeal.”
Andre smiled and pointed back to the remains of the roast goose, well plucked over.
“Be certain to thank him for me for this excellent repast, and yes, I do know the positive qualities of his character, and what constrains him now.”
There was another moment of nervous silence.
“Another round, my friends?” he asked, standing and picking up the bottle to refill their glasses, though he poured only a small amount for himself.
He sat back down, picking up a couple of split logs of hickory, and set them into the fire. Within seconds they were crackling and sparking.
“Tending a fire is a most relaxing pastime,” he said, smile never vanishing. “I detest boors who just throw the logs in, sparks and ash flying. It shows no respect for the fire itself. Each log should be carefully set to complement the others already aflame, to catch their heat, ignite properly, and add to the symmetry. A good fire is a work of art in and of itself, and I consider myself something of a Rembrandt with such things.”
“I remember the night after Brandywine,” Allen chuckled. “Pouring rain, and yet you got one going to heat our cold hash.”
Andre nodded, gazing at the flickering flames, holding his glass of claret up to the flame as if to examine the color of the wine before taking another sip.
“’Tis a comfort at least we do not live in medieval times. I will confess there would be a bit of a dread if fire was to be my fate.”
Both looked over at him, shaking their heads, and Allen knew what the hint was.
“John?”
Andre looked sidelong at him.
“It will be by hanging, but you already know that.”
“As a soldier you know what I would have preferred. I had hoped our good Clinton could have influenced that.”
“Sir, I can attest that every officer of your court-martial appealed for it…” Peter hesitated, “the other way, but rules of war, as you know.”
“Of course, of course,” Andre said and for the first time Allen could sense a bit of a falling away of the facade.
Then, strangely, Andre chuckled.
“Perhaps a last-minute reprieve as in the dramas. Courier gallops up crying, stop the hanging, shoot him instead! That would be rather droll don’t you think?”
“One can hope,” Allen whispered looking over at Peter who remained silent
, just staring at the fire.
“Could stand for a bit of music right now,” Andre quickly said, changing the subject as if he had allowed his wish to venture too far outside his outwardly calm demeanor.
“Wish we had Franklin’s glass harmonica right now,” Allen replied. “Such a fascinating instrument. What fun we had while living in his house.”
“Glass harmonica?” Peter asked, obviously trying to make conversation to help shift the topic to other things.
John went into a lengthy description of the instrument, the other two laughing as he tried to imitate the strange ethereal sound. Allen and he together hummed the Mozart piece written for the instrument.
They were interrupted by Jenkins, Major Andre’s manservant, who had been allowed to come through the lines to attend to him, bearing another bottle of wine, this one a port with the compliments of General Greene. Uncorking the bottle Jenkins refilled their glasses, even though John’s was only half empty, stood there woodenly for a moment, and then actually broke down into a sob.
John stood, went over to Jenkins, and put his hands on the man’s shoulders.
“Now none of that, Jenkins.”
“But, sir, you all seem so jovial. Sir, ’tis a great wrong, this, what they are doing, I can hardly bear it.”
John patted him on the shoulder.
“A gentleman does not lament his fate in public, Jenkins, he faces it as a gentleman. For after all, all our candles are but brief flickers of light in eternity. Especially for a soldier. Remember our old barracks toast?”
He held up his glass.
“Gentlemen, to a long war, or a bloody plague and rapid promotion.”
This time he at least drained half the glass. Allen, slightly bleary-eyed, but fearful of his own emotions, drained his entire glass, and motioned to Jenkins for another, while Peter just took a polite sip, obviously aware of his duty tonight to stay sober and attentive.
Jenkins did as requested, and then just stood there, tears coursing down his cheeks.
“Now Jenkins, cast not a dim pall over this night. It is my last upon this earth, and I want to fill it with life, the companionship of comrades, and not with tears. You are excused, Jenkins, and please compose yourself before you leave this room.”
His servant left, wiping the tears from his eyes with a damp sleeve.
So the long hours of night, the last night Major John Andre would know on this earth, passed in song, the telling of soldiers’ tales, sips of wine, and a midnight repast of cheese and bread sent from an anonymous benefactor. Several times Allen or John had to nudge Peter awake in his chair, joking that he was duty bound to stay awake so that no secrets might pass.
Peter just sat quietly as if lost in thought, letting the two friends talk through the night, until finally a couple of hours before dawn, John stood up, went to the window to look out at the early autumn morning sky.
“Orion is up high,” he whispered. “Strange to think, tomorrow night it will rise, and I will not be here to see it.”
“At least from here,” Peter replied.
John said nothing, just gazing out the window, morning mists beginning to rise off the Hudson.
“All of this, the river flowing by with all its majesty, Orion rising, the first birdsongs of dawn, and I will not be here. I’ve had just over thirty years and how swiftly it flowed, just like that river, but now I am at an end.”
Hands behind his back, Allen could see they were clasped, clenching and unclenching, as if he could only let the inner tension and fear show when not directly facing others. Andre lowered his head for a moment, as if in prayer, then turned, features fixed in a smile.
“I pray you do not think me rude, but think I should sleep for a while. I do want to look fresh and proper for my stroll through the valley of death.”
Neither Allen nor Peter spoke as John stretched out on a narrow cot tucked up in the far corner of the room. As he settled down he looked over at Peter.
“I am certain our friends out in the corridor can guide you to a place to rest.”
“Not at all,” Peter replied. “I am not sleepy.”
He looked over at Allen who simply shook his head, and then stood up to place an extra log on the fire, as Andre would have preferred it.
To Allen’s amazement, John actually fell asleep, and within minutes was snoring lightly. He stood up to fetch the bottle of wine, offering to fill Peter’s glass, and this time Peter accepted and drained half of it. Allen topped off his glass.
“My God, that man has nerve,” Peter whispered.
“He is my friend, and yes, he does have nerve. To fall asleep like that with only a few hours left.”
“This is worse than waiting for a battle to start,” Peter sighed, sitting back down to stare at the fire.
“Suppose he was your comrade or friend, what would you think then?”
Peter, leaning forward, drained the rest of his wine.
“As we carried your brother—my friend—back from Trenton, I knew he was dying.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Allen replied sharply. “Remember, I was there and he was my brother.”
Peter held up his hand, as if to ask for silence and to forestall an argument.
“Sorry, just remembering.”
“Death watch for a friend, who deserves a better fate,” Allen whispered. “Damn it, in your heart, is this fair?”
“You know I can’t answer that,” Peter replied. “If all was reversed and your Clinton was going to hang one of my comrades, do you think any appeals by Washington or me would change it?”
“Andre is different.”
“Andre was caught as a spy.”
“Andre is different,” Allen retorted, voice choked with emotion.
“Gentlemen, please.” It was John, half rolled over, looking toward them. “If you wish to argue my fate please go elsewhere and let me rest in peace.”
The two friends from long ago, now divided, looked at each other.
“Rest in peace,” John whispered, as if dwelling on the irony of the request. He rolled back over to face the wall.
Peter lowered his head. Allen, silent, just stared at the fire, occasionally putting in another log, while outside the first birds of dawn were chirping, the eastern sky shifting from darkness to indigo, then to golden red, and finally the light of approaching dawn.
A knock on the door caused the two to stand up, startled.
“Surely, not already?” Allen gasped, as he went to the door and opened it. It had aroused John as well, who sat up on the cot, looking about a bit hazily, like any man roused from deep and peaceful slumber. Allen wondered if the full reality of what he was awaking to this morning had dawned on him, or if John was still half lost in some final pleasant dream.
He opened the door and to his surprise and relief it was not the guard detail, but Jenkins, bearing a silver tray, covered with a dish.
“Excuse me gentlemen,” Jenkins whispered. “It’s breakfast for the major, sent with the compliments of General Washington himself.”
“And nothing else?” Allen whispered hopefully.
Jenkins could only shake his head as Peter opened the door wide, the corridor outside empty except for two sentries who were leaning against the far wall, barely awake.
John was already standing up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, yawning, running his hands through his hair. Jenkins set the tray down and uncovered it. It was a meal of fried ham, potatoes, scrambled eggs, and of all things, a steaming pot of coffee.
John smiled as he went over to the table and sat down.
“Would you gentlemen care to join me? The general in his largesse has sent more than I can possibly consume.”
The two shook their heads. Though hungry, how any man could eat at a time like this was beyond Allen. He feared if he took a single bite he’d vomit it back up. It was just the same as he always felt in the final moments before battle was joined.
Jenkins stood silent, drawing a napkin around Jo
hn’s neck.
“Not too tight, now,” John said, trying to joke, and again Jenkins begin to fill up with tears.
“Jenkins, none of that. I know your tears come straight from the heart, but do not unman me with them.”
Jenkins nodded, unable to speak.
“Would you be so good as to fetch some hot water? I wish to be freshly shaved for the occasion, brush down my uniform, and I’m not sure of the protocol here: Should I wear my wig or not?”
He actually looked over at Peter as he spoke.
Peter, remembering previous hangings, swallowed hard.
“May I suggest, sir, no wig.”
He did not add that often the wig came flying off, or shifted to an unsightly angle, especially if the victim’s neck was not broken and he began to instinctively kick and struggle in his death agonies, as he slowly strangled at the end of the rope.
“Fine then, forget powdering the wig, Jenkins. Now please be quick with the hot water and razor.”
He actually ate a fair part of the meal, then asked for a moment of privacy to relieve himself. John and Peter stepped outside to do the same. A long column of troops was coming in from the encampment behind the residence, and started to deploy around the gallows on three sides. A group of officers came down the road from the direction of Washington’s headquarters, the judges of the court-martial, required by tradition to witness the carrying out of the sentence imposed. Allen looked toward General Greene hoping that somehow there would be a last moment reprieve. He caught the man’s gaze. Greene looked straight at him and gave a subtle shake of his head.
The two went back into the room. The breakfast tray was set aside, Jenkins already shaving John, his face red from the effect of the razor. How tempting, Allen thought, more than one man had escaped the terror of the hangman’s noose by, at such a moment, just seizing the razor and cutting his own throat. But that would be so out of place for John that there was not even a guard posted directly alongside Jenkins. The two sentries were just standing by the door, curiously looking in, one whispering to the other a comment about Andre’s nerve.
Victory at Yorktown: A Novel Page 5
