by Avi
It would have been easy to excuse myself by claiming the cause of my inaction was Mr. Townsend’s absence, which was none of my doing. Yet there I was, aware that General Arnold was about to commit horrible treason—treason that, in all likelihood, would lose the war for my country. What did I do? Serve food and wash dishes!
In such a state, I made a vow. I told myself that if, by some miracle, the meeting was in some way or fashion foiled, I must, given a second chance, do something.
Dear Reader:
From this point forward in my history, I will recount some events I did not see for myself, but learned about later from what people told me, plus the many things written and said after the actions.
With this understood, let me relate how things stood.
Sophia Calderwood
51
GENERAL ARNOLD AND Major André were trying to meet at Dobbs Ferry. The town was situated upon Hudson’s River, above Manhattan, some thirty-five miles below West Point in an area known as the neutral territory. It was called “neutral” since neither British or American forces controlled it. To the north were Americans. To the south, British. Thus, in popular jabber, Americans were styled “the upper party,” whereas the British were called “the lower party.”
The words and distinctions would have considerable import.
As planned, on September eleventh, André went up to Dobbs Ferry. Under a white flag of truce, he waited for Arnold. I could have no doubt: during this meeting, Arnold intended to provide André with the means of giving Fort West Point to the British.
You can guess then, my shock, as well as my elation, when the next day, September twelfth, John André was restored to Beekman Mansion and General Clinton. Only when I served them did I learn that the meeting with Arnold had not taken place.
What had happened? It appeared that Arnold—as planned—had a party of men row him down the river. As I have told you, the meeting was a secret. Indeed, it was so secret that a British gunboat, a few of which patrolled the river north of New York to watch American military movement, fired on Arnold, driving his boat back to shore—the shore opposite where André was waiting.
Thus, it fell out that the British themselves prevented the fateful meeting!
André was extremely frustrated. Nonetheless, he, Clinton, and Robinson discussed finding another way to meet Arnold.
Though I did not see the letters, André and Arnold must have managed to communicate. Arrangements for a new meeting were made. This plan was that André would board the Vulture, a British armed sloop that patrolled Hudson’s River, and sail up to a place called Tellers Point. How fitting, I thought, for the boat to be named after such a grasping bird!
Once the Vulture arrived on September fifteenth, Arnold would send a small boat for André. At that meeting, Arnold would tell André how best to conquer West Point. André would then reboard the Vulture and sail to New York City. With strategy in hand, the attack on West Point would commence.
Such was their plan.
Once again, I heard General Clinton tell André: when he met Arnold, he must stay in uniform. He further cautioned André not to go beyond the neutral territory, into American lines, or carry any incriminating documents.
André, with his charming smile, promised he would do as told.
When I heard them making this new plan, I recalled the vow I had made. Having been provided with a second chance to prevent the meeting of André and Arnold, I felt obliged to act. But how was I, a maid of fifteen, to array herself against such powerful men? It was not as if I had a plan, some powers, or even allies to go against these conspirators. There I was, far above the city. I knew not one person with whom I might confide.
On Friday the fifteenth, Major André and Colonel Robinson took a small sailboat up to the Vulture, which lay upon Hudson’s River.
The knowledge that they had done so made me deplore my helplessness. I loathed myself.
You may picture my bepuzzlement when, next day, I learned that this second meeting had not taken place either! Once again, some communication between Arnold and André must have occurred. For, having failed to reach the Vulture— I never knew why—Arnold promised that next time he would send a man named Joshua Smith to the Vulture, which would be anchored off that place called Tellers Point.
This Mr. Smith was the brother of the loyalist chief justice in New York City. Despite—or perhaps because of—this connection, Smith was a self-proclaimed patriot. Which is to say he was vague in his allegiance, and moved between both camps with ease. I don’t pretend to know his motives, I only know it was so.
It was Mr. Smith who would bring André ashore to Arnold. This third attempt at meeting would occur on the twentieth of September. Three days hence.
At this point, though you may consider it vast vanity, I came to believe that what had occurred was evidence of the hand of Providence.
Twice I had resolved to do something to block the treason.
Twice I failed to act, unable to think of what I might do. Yet the treason had not yet taken place.
Do you wonder that I should believe that Providence was demanding I take action? This time, I committed myself—absolutely—to do something. It all came down to this: I was the only patriot in America who knew the extreme danger our country was facing. How could I not act? Moreover, I had but three days to do so.
52
I HAD NOT thought out a plan. Far from it. I only knew if I were to save West Point, I must somehow prevent André and Arnold from meeting. Failing that, I must go to West Point itself and tell someone what was happening. In short, other than first getting to Tellers Point, I had no strategy.
Therefore, it was on the night of September sixteenth, a Saturday, when my housework was done and my companions had gone to sleep in that hot and airless attic, that I rose from my bed. I dressed myself, crept down the servants’ steps, and left Beekman Mansion by way of a back door.
To reach West Point, I needed to go fifty miles. In my favor was this: I had spent much time in Major André’s office looking at maps. That study had given me a general sense of the land that lay between Manhattan and West Point, the area known as the Hudson Valley.
I knew, of course, that Manhattan was an island. I knew I must, at some point, cross water. I was aware of the fact that the narrowest crossing was at Manhattan’s northern end. Furthermore, West Point was on the western side of Hudson’s River. In other words, I had two bodies of water to get over. I did not know how to swim.
Was ever so vital a journey taken with so many hugger-mugger thoughts! In truth, it was midsummer madness garbed in bits of bravery. But then, as someone said, All beginnings have wings of vanity. If that was so, I had taken flight with enormous wings.
I do not know what time I left the mansion, save that a bright half-moon provided enough light to guide me over rolling hills. Warm air, blessed with a slight breeze, kept me fresh. A few paths helped. Twice I passed roads, but they ran north-south and I was heading west. Occasionally, a grasshopper leaped, wings clacking to keep me alert. Glowflies resparkled here and there. Crickets chirruped. I heard foretelling owls, but what their hoots predicted I knew not.
The first dab of dawn had arrived when I reached Hudson’s River. The river was so much wider than the East River. In the early light I could not see across, but I could smell the river’s ripe expanse. Hudson’s River being tidal, the ocean reaches far inland with strong tides and the pungent smells of sea.
It was upon sensing the river’s vastness that I fully grasped the enormous compass—not to say goosery—of my enterprise. That said, my determination was so locked I could hardly pry it apart. Did I not have energy, strength, and most of all, motive? Reminding myself I had but three days, I began to walk northward.
As morning light grew, I observed the far Jersey shore, with its steep cliffs, an impassable barrier. I was traveling on the eastern shore, where the river quietly lapped a low beach. That beach was mostly pebbly, though now and again there were boulder
s, which I had to climb or circumvent. Here and there lay tangles of gray driftwood, while multitudes of white oyster shells paved the way. I heard no sounds save my munching steps, occasional squawking gulls, and shrieking terns. Once I caught sight of a big fish leaping and splashing down.
After about an hour’s walk, I had what I thought was a stroke of luck: I smelled burning wood. Mingled with that smell was the distinct scent of cooking fish. Coming round a bend, I espied a small fire burning near the water’s edge. Hauled upon the beach was what I took to be an old whaleboat, no more than twenty feet long, its single sail lowered. Nearby were a man and a woman, an elderly couple.
Tending the fire, cooking in an iron pot by stirring with a wooden spoon, the woman wore a sullied apron over an ankle-length and much-patched dress. A floppy cap sat over long, gray, and tangled hair. She wore no shoes.
Close by, the man sat cross-legged, mending a fishing net. He was bald, with a fringe of gray hair and spiky white whiskers. A buff jacket was on his back, a frayed cloth round his neck, and old, lumpy boots on his feet.
Not sure if I had anything to fear from such people, I approached with caution.
“Good morning to you, mistress,” I called from a distance.
The woman squinted at me. “Good morning to you.” The man offered a curt nod.
Without ceasing her stirring, the woman said, “Do you live nearby?”
“In the city.”
“Miles ’way from home, then.”
I said, “And further to go.”
“Where’s that?”
The first thing that popped out of my mouth was “Tellers Point.”
“A fair ways,” said the man.
I stood there looking at them, uncertain how to proceed, wondering what I should say if they asked more questions.
“What’s at the point?” the woman asked.
“My mother is ill,” I said, surprised how easily the lie—without thought—came to my lips.
The woman stirred her pot awhile and then said, “Best come and eat, then.”
I sat upon the ground and was handed a wooden bowl of fish, which was pleasing. As we ate, the woman told me that they had been to the city to sell dried salmon, that her name was Bente, her husband’s name Johan, their family name Vanzandt—Dutch.
I warned myself to speak with care, since Dutch New Yorkers were said to be loyalists.
At length Bente asked, “What ails your mother?”
“They just said she was ill,” I said.
Johan said. “Do you mean to walk the whole way?”
“I must.”
“We’re fisherfolk,” said Bente. “From upriver. Rhine-beck town.”
“Going home,” added Johan. “Just waiting till the tide shifts. The river rises four, five feet with the tide,” he explained. “Hard to go against it.”
I said nothing.
Then Johan added, “It’ll take you three days to walk to Tellers Point. What’ll you do for food?”
Embarrassed not to have even thought of such a thing, I stayed mum.
Bente reached out, tapped my knee with a crooked finger, and said, “You’d best come with us. What’s your name?”
“Molly Saville,” I said, offering the old lie with ease.
Thus it was settled that I’d sail up river with them.
Even as I agreed to travel with them, John André was arranging yet again to sail up the same river to that British sloop the Vulture, from which Mr. Smith would fetch him.
53
THOUGH I WAS eager to depart, it was necessary to wait till the river tide flooded north. Moreover, despite being very tired, I dared not sleep, worried they would leave without me. As it happened, it took some hours before Johan announced, “We can go.”
After loading their few possessions—kettle and fishing equipment—we pushed the boat into the water. Bente and I scrambled in while Johan shoved until he was up to his waist, then clambered aboard.
While I sat down in the bottom, amidships, Bente hoisted a triangular sail—a lateen rig—up the short mast. Johan took the stern, hand upon the tiller, which he shifted. The boat turned and the gray and patched canvas stiffened with breeze. We heeled slightly, righted ourselves, and began to move in a northerly direction.
Johan maneuvered the small boat until she ran a middle course upriver. Not that we went fast or in a straight line. The wind, hedged in by the cliffs on the western bank of the river, as well as the forest on the eastern, was erratic. Johan tacked constantly, but the zigzags brought us upriver.
Happily, the couple did not talk much. Rather, Johan concentrated on his steering, while Bente threw out a fishing line and put her attention to that. I spent my time gazing upon the shore.
It was a hot and humid day with a haze hugging the river, softening the light. Here and there, horse-stingers darted cross the water’s surface. Once, at the river’s edge, I saw a buck with many-pronged antlers that had come down to drink among the drooping tree leaves, leaves already tinged with autumn reds.
Convinced I would now reach West Point in time, I allowed myself to relax. As we sailed north, the steady slip-slap of the bow teased me to sleep. Only when Johan abruptly called out, “Ship ahead!” did I awaken.
Sitting up, I looked where he pointed.
Upriver I saw a one-masted ship with a square topsail and large mizzen sail furled on her single mast and boom. Facing north, she lay quietly in the water, riding so calmly I presumed she was at anchor. Along her port quarterdeck, I counted six small cannon muzzles. From her stern hung a limp flag, so enfolded I could not determine who it was. A few people were on her deck.
“What is she?” I asked.
“The Vulture,” said Johan. “British. She patrols the river here about. Captain Sutherland commands.”
Openmouthed, I realized that this was the same ship that John André was intending to board to meet Arnold.
Thinking that perhaps André might already be on board, I tried to imagine what he might do if he knew I was on this tiny boat trying to keep him from his appointment. André and I, hiding from each other, equally deceitful but bent upon opposite goals.
Fearful, I turned to Johan. “Will she stop us?” I asked. “Board us?”
I suspect my face betrayed anxiety, for the old man gazed at me with more intensity than he’d shown before. “You needn’t be concerned,” he said. “Captain Sutherland knows me.”
I wished I had not spoken.
As we drew even with the Vulture, Johan lifted an arm in greeting. Someone on the deck answered the salute. For my part, I turned away and could not help trying to make myself small.
As we sailed northward, Johan stole glances at me, as if trying to discover something. Though fearful I’d given myself away, there was nothing I could do.
We sailed on. At some places, the river broadened greatly. Other places it narrowed. On both shores, the land rose high. When I gazed upriver, I began to see highlands, a few peaks crowned in gloomy clouds. As the day wore on, these clouds began to spread and fill the sky. Then the wind freshened and bore a ripe, earthy smell, the scent of rain. Ripples fluttered the river’s surface.
“Squall coming,” Johan announced, and aimed his boat toward the eastern shore.
Fretful, my unspoken thought was I’m losing time.
As we ground against a stony beach, rain began to patter. We hauled the boat high, left it, and then threaded ourselves among the dense trees until we found a spot protected by a canopy of branches. By then the rain was pelting.
Bente and I scurried about in search of fallen wood. It was she, using flint, spark, and breath, who expertly lit a fire. During that time I had slept on the boat, she must have caught a salmon. Now she cleaned it with a knife and proceeded to cook it.
The rain came harder. A sudden crack of lightning made me jump. Moments later, lumbering thunder came, followed by even heaver rain. Water dripped in silver sheets.
For some hours, we waited beneath that storm. In time,
it moved on, leaving the air as sweet as Adam’s first day. By then, however, it was night, and the tide had turned.
“No farther today,” Johan announced.
We sat before the smoky, sparky fire. My damp clothing itched. No one spoke. At one point, however, Johan abruptly said, “Tell me, girl, what’s in the city that you’re running from?”
“Nothing, sir,” I answered truthfully, relieved when he asked no more. But sensing that he had become suspicious, I wished my time with them were done. Should I slip into the forest? Alas, though I had little knowledge as to where we were, or how far from West Point, I realized I had but two days left to stop Arnold from meeting André. I therefore resolved to stay with these people as long as I might manage it.
54
HAVING SLEPT ON damp ground, we awoke at dawn, the nineteenth of September. For breakfast we ate what remained of the fish from the night before. There was not much talk as we waited for Johan to announce that the tide was flooding in our favor. Meanwhile, I kept out of his way by bailing water from the boat.
When Johan pronounced us ready, we pushed the boat back into the river, climbed in, raised the sail, and kept heading north. I was much relieved.
In New York City, His Excellency General Henry Clinton sent orders to his troops on the transport ships to be ready to make an assault in a few days’ time. He told Admiral Rodney that the attack would be upon Fort West Point but asked that he keep it a secret.
General Arnold was having difficulties finding the means to reach the Vulture. Unable to secure a boat or find rowers, the meeting with André had to be put off yet another night.
The Vanzandts and I sailed for about an hour beneath a bright morning sky. It was already warm.
I said, “How far have we come?”
Johan answered, “’Bout twenty miles south of your Tellers Point.”
That pleased me.
Johan was quiet for an interval, but then said, “You seem a good girl, miss. All the same, I sense something wrong. You need tell me what it is.”
