by Avi
Bente shifted around expectantly.
Taken by surprise, I said, “It’s what I said. My mother is ill.”
“So you say. But yesterday, when we passed the Vulture, you were frightened. Why’s that? Made me think you were running away from something.”
“No, sir,” I insisted. “I’m not.”
It was a while before he suddenly said, “Where are you in this awful war?”
Fearful that no good would come of any answer I might make, I stayed silent and would not even look at him.
He said, “I don’t ask it of you—you’re a girl—but your father. I suppose you have one. You said you came from the city. What did you do there?”
“A housemaid, sir.”
He seemed to accept my answer, but then said, “I want nothing to do with this rebellion. I stand with the king. We had some land and cattle. The rebels stole it all when I wouldn’t pledge to their new government.”
I said, “I’m sorry to hear it, sir.”
He remained silent for a while, so that I thought his mood had passed. Instead, he leaned toward me and said, “Which side do you wish to be?”
“Side?” I said, thinking he meant which side of politics.
“Which side of the river,” he said. “I won’t carry rebel folk. If you’ll not declare with me, you must be against.” He gave a brusque nod as if agreeing with himself.
Not waiting for my reply, he abruptly shifted the tiller, causing the boat to sail toward the nearest shore, which was to the east.
I didn’t know what to say.
In moments we jolted against the shore. “Out, then,” he commanded.
I gazed about. Beyond the slim shingle of stone and rock lay thick forest. I appealed to Bente with a glance, but she would not lift her eyes to mine.
Johan said, “It’s not so far that you can’t walk the rest. Out!”
I stepped into the shallow, warm water and went on the land. Johan leaped from the boat too, but only to push it back out. He hauled himself in, turned the tiller, and without so much as a glance, sailed his boat away. Only then did Bente turn toward me, her face offering distress. Dismayed, I watched as the couple moved upriver until they passed from my view.
As I stood there on the shore, my breath coming with difficulty, I tried to recover my dizzy wits, quiet my heart, and sort out my circumstance. With but poor knowledge of where I was or what I might do, I felt marooned. Had I had been folly-blind to undertake this venture?
After some time had passed, I became calmer. I reminded myself that I had already come a long way. Moreover, there were less than two days until André’s meeting. Did not Johan say I was close to Tellers Point, that I might walk the rest? True, I was not sure how many miles Tellers Point was from West Point but had hopes I could reach it.
Having composed myself, I considered where I was. Before me ran the wide river. The opposite shore was nothing but forest, which rose like a wall. Behind me, the trees were equally thick, making the interior impossible to observe at any depth. Moreover, I had been left in a small cove, so I could not see north or south.
Yet I knew I could not remain where I was. That said, I was fearful of the forest and what might lurk within: savage animals, or people who might do me harm.
In short, the river was the sole road I knew. Little choice then but to continue moving north along its edge.
I set off.
55
THERE IS THAT expression “as the arrow flies,” which, presumably, means “straight.” You might contrast that with the phrase “as Sophia walked.” For I went every which way but straight. The undulations of the river shoreline were as jagged as handsaw teeth. I made progress northward, but never directly.
More often than not, I simply tried to follow the water’s edge, in and out, though now and again I attempted to wade across the many inlets, shoes in hand. In many places, the water was shallow, no higher than my knees. But sometimes the bottom dropped off sharply, forcing a retreat, so I must creep round that spot. Once, twice, I slipped, fell, and became soaked. I shook myself like a wet dog and went on. With my dress—dirty, damp, and torn in a few places—I must have appeared (if anyone were there to see) like a female Robinson Crusoe.
Three times I saw paths that led from the water’s edge into the forest. Once I came upon what I supposed was a landing. A broken boat lay to one side. Of people or houses I saw none, though I startled a raccoon that had come to the river’s edge to wash its food. How I wished I had food to wash! I saw no oysters but was sometimes cheered by flowers, goldenrod and purple asters, and countless flaming maple trees.
How many hours I edged northward in such a fashion, I cannot say, but in time daylight dimmed to dusk. I searched and found a sandy patch between large boulders. Miserably cramped, damp, hungry, and weary, I tried to settle down.
As I lay there, night crickets creaked unceasingly and the river water jabbled. I gazed upon the stars in the vast black sky, and the half-moon, which gilded the river’s surface with a rippling golden hue. Will I be in time? I kept asking myself. I could not help wondering where John André was at that moment. Thinking of him, ever gallant, splendid in his uniform, handsome, self-assured, and eager to attack, to destroy my country, I fell asleep.
At Beekman Mansion, a restless Major André kept talking to Colonel Robinson, speculating why General Arnold had failed their two previous appointments.
“Then you think he’ll really come?” said Robinson.
“He’s committed himself,” said André.
He and Robinson mused about what would be achieved when the assault of West Point took place. “I intend to ask General Clinton to let me lead the attack,” said André.
“He’s bound to let you. Of course, it will be successful. Arnold must make it happen.”
André said, “The capture of the fort will bring an end to the war.”
“And,” added Robinson with a grin, “glory, promotion, and wealth for you. I suppose the king will bestow a title. And you only twenty-nine years old.”
André paced the mansion, waiting for the next morning, when a small sailboat would take him up the river to the Vulture, and to Arnold.
56
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, September twentieth, I awoke cold, bone sore, and very hungry. Forest, river, rocks, plus a wilderness of ignorance, surrounded me. For a while, I remained where I was, in painful melancholy. But I knew the reality. Not to continue would be fatal in all respects.
I roused myself and walked as the day before, along the river’s edge. I went in, out, across modest inlets and small creeks, but always, always, I moved north.
In Beekman Mansion, Major John André, assisted by Peter Laune, his servant, dressed with care. It was imperative to André that when he met General Arnold he appear at his best. He would be representing the British Army. Everything he did, the way he appeared and talked, the way he dealt with others, would help to establish his authority, dignity, and power. It was not just an honor to wear the uniform; he would be representing the greatest nation on earth.
Besides, as André was well aware, General Arnold, despite his reputation as a good military man, was not a gentleman, merely a colonial merchant. When André came face-to-face with him, he must assert his superiority from the first. There was something amusing too about the fact that Arnold had married Peggy Shippen, the girl André had flirted with when he was in Philadelphia.
As André stood before his looking glass, musing, adjusting his wig, there was a knock on his dressing room door. André’s servant opened it. A soldier stood in the hallway. “Sir,” he said, saluting, while addressing Major André, “the boat you requested to take you and Colonel Robinson to the Vulture is ready.”
“Thank you.”
André’s servant shut the door. “Sir, may I take the liberty of asking where you are going?”
“Just a pleasant excursion, Peter,” said André. “I’ll be back very soon.”
I don’t know how far I walked. Sa
ve for a handful of blackberries, I ate nothing. They colored my hands red, as if I were a murderess caught in the act. The dye reminded me of the black ink from Mr. Gaine’s printing press. Those days seemed far beyond.
As I made my way, I began to perceive that directly north was a large extension of land that reached far into the river. Having no idea what it meant for my journey, I simply pressed on. As the day wore, however, I began to grasp that the land I’d seen had a shoreline that cut in deeply in an easterly direction.
I soon came upon the mouth of a wide inlet, far too wide for me to wade across. Looking eastward, up the inlet, I saw I would have to go a goodly distance eastward before I could even consider crossing over.
The thought of such a detour wearied me. Would I never get there? In truth, I no longer really knew where there was!
At 7 p.m., Major André and Colonel Robinson reached the Vulture. Captain Sutherland welcomed them aboard again and showed them to a small cabin where a simple dinner awaited. Leaving his guests to their food, the captain ordered the ship’s sails be hoisted, the anchor lifted. Slowly, the Vulture began to move upriver toward its appointed meeting place off Tellers Point.
In expectation of André’s arrival, General Arnold went to the home of Mr. Joshua Hett Smith. It sat twenty miles south of West Point, on the western bank of Hudson’s River. Situated on a bluff, it had a good view of Tellers Point. Moreover, it was not far from the shore point—Long Clove Mountain cove—where Arnold planned to meet André.
Arnold ordered Smith to find a boat and rowers, telling his friend that he was meeting a valued business visitor, a Mr. Anderson. Mr. Smith, having learned that safety for him in the war meant asking no questions, agreed to go to the Vulture. It would be anchored off Tellers Point. Mr. Anderson was on board. At midnight, Smith would convey the gentleman to shore. Arnold would meet him. Such was the plan.
Arnold was satisfied that this time the meeting would absolutely take place.
Tired, hungry, and dejected, having no idea where I was, I sat down upon a boulder and gazed upon Hudson’s River. It was quite wide at that spot. The evening was hot. Mosquito flies buzzed my ears. I told myself I should take a short nap and then push on. I lay down, closed my eyes, and slept.
As I slept, the Vulture sailed right by me. When it reached Tellers Point, its anchor splashed down and held. Waiting for Arnold or his messenger to arrive, André walked the deck with Colonel Robinson.
Onshore, Mr. Smith was having a difficult time recruiting rowers to take him to the ship. It was unfortunate, but General Arnold and Mr. Anderson would have to wait until the next night to meet.
57
I AWOKE WITH a jolt only to realize I had slept through the night. Springing to my feet, I looked around. To the north was a ship. It took but a moment for me to recognize the Vulture.
I stared at it with consternation. Had the meeting of Arnold and André already taken place? Might André still be on the ship? Frantic, I hastened eastward along the shore of that wide inlet, walking, running, sometimes, in my haste, stumbling.
After a while, I began to grasp that I was not moving along an inlet but the mouth of yet another river. A wide river. While I could see that in the far distance it was narrowing, I was unsure at what point I would be able to cross.
I had gone, perhaps, half an hour, constantly balked, and hot beneath the sun, when I spied two men by the river’s bank. I halted.
They were sitting side by side on the trunk of an old tree. Close was a canoe. What’s more, these men were in uniform. Soldiers. Yes, I could see that they were not red uniforms but blue ones. Even so, I didn’t know what to do. With my exhaustion and frustration, I was hardly capable of determining uniforms. I believed—or wanted to believe—that they were from the American army, but I dared not trust my judgment. If wrong, all would be lost. In my befuddlement, I even wondered, recalling that the Vulture was not so far away, that perhaps one of these men was General Arnold.
As a result, I simply stood where I was, gawking. Before I could make up my mind what to do, one of the soldiers spied me and jumped up. His companion did the same. That one held a musket. Both wore blue jackets with bands of white across their chests. They stood there staring at me. But then, they could have no idea where I came from. With my dress disordered, soiled, and torn, my face and hair the same, I might as well have been a witch.
My first thought was that I should run away. However, you must believe me when I say it was not courage but utter fatigue that made me call out, “Who are you?”
The soldier who had first stood answered, “Philip Groogins.” He was a young man.
“Richard Baydon,” said the other, middle-aged.
Poised to flee, I said, “What army do you belong to?”
“The upper party,” said the young one. “American.”
“From Fort Lafayette,” said the one name Baydon. He nodded cross the river.
“Under the command of Colonel James Livingston,” Mr. Baydon went on when I said nothing. “Who are you?”
“Miss Molly Saville. I must speak with your commander.”
“Why?” They seemed truly bewildered.
Though unsure what to say, I could not hold myself back. “Something awful is about to happen,” I cried out.
“What?”
The direct question unnerved me. Who was I to trust? I said, “I can only inform your officer.”
They studied me. It was Mr. Groogins who said, “You need to tell us something.”
I pointed back from where I had come. “There’s a British ship out there. The Vulture. Just north of the land. Off some point.”
“Tellers Point?”
“I suppose,” I said, only then realizing I had come close to where I wished to be. “She’s bringing a spy.”
They exchanged looks before turning back to me.
“Where do you come from?” asked Mr. Baydon.
“New York City.”
Again they just gazed as if not believing me. Mr. Groogins said, “From British lines?”
“Please,” I said. “It’s urgent. Your commander needs to know about that ship and the spy. You must take me to him.”
“It’s some miles north.”
“I don’t care!” I cried, increasingly exasperated.
“You sure about what you said?”
“I beg you! You can see the ship for yourself. Please, it’s urgent!”
The two conferred in private voices, now and again glancing in my direction as if uncertain what to make of me. I suspect they thought me daft, and must do something on that account, if for no other reason.
“All right,” said Mr. Baydon. “We’ll take you. Come along.”
They went to their canoe, picked it up, and set in the river, then beckoned me to join them. I got in while they pushed it out.
With strong paddle strokes, we crossed the river. As we went, I said, “Where are we?”
“This is the Croton River. Over there—” Mr. Baydon paused. “Do you really not know where you are?”
“Only a bit.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“Some fisherfolk took me part of the way from Manhattan Island in their boat. For the rest I walked.”
“Alone?” said Mr. Groogins.
I nodded.
The two exchanged looks of doubt but said no more.
Once we had crossed the river, they set their canoe among trees where I supposed it would not be readily seen.
Mr. Baydon said, “This way.” With him in the lead, and the younger soldier behind me—I think they were guarding me—we started walking along a wide path that went through the forest.
58
IT WAS A long march, but not difficult, the path being fairly even and the trees by which we walked thick enough that it shielded us from the sun. We barely talked. I did ask them where they came from. “Jersey,” said Mr. Baydon. When Mr. Groogins said, “Connecticut,” I had a mind to ask if he knew a Mr. Tallmadge—the man to who
m Mr. Townsend reported information—but thought better of it.
Once I asked, “Under whom does your commander, this Colonel Livingston, serve?”
“General Arnold.”
Dear God! Was coming here the worst thing to have done? But there was no turning away.
On we went until Mr. Baydon said, “Almost there.”
Within moments, we stepped out of the forest into a clearing where there were many tree stumps. We proceeded up a small hill. At the hill’s crown was a wall of upright logs. Behind that were higher mounds of earth. Perhaps thirty soldiers were standing atop these mounds, muskets in hand. All watched us draw close.
“Fort Lafayette,” said Mr. Groogins.
Off to the left I could see the broad expanse of Hudson’s River. We had been walking parallel to it all along.
Mr. Baydon lifted his musket over his head and called something. In moments a wide gate in the log wall swung out and we walked into Fort Lafayette.
The fort consisted of an open parade ground enclosed by walls of logs and earth, upon which a few cannons were mounted. All pointed toward the river. Close by, shot was stacked.
In the center of the fort area was a small log house. My escorts led me straight to it and rapped on the door. I looked back. The fort gates had been shut. I would not be able to leave.
“Enter!” called a voice.
We stepped inside the cabin, which was no more than a rayless, musty room with a dirt floor and an unmade cot against one wall. In the center was a table, upon which lay maps, torn and curled at their edges. Seated behind the table was a soldier. As we came forward, he looked up.
A lean, unshaven face with tired, red-rimmed eyes looked upon me with puzzlement. His uniform was dirty, sweat stained. A shock of gray hair suggested he might have been grandfather to the soldiers who had brought me. Though I supposed this man was Colonel Livingston, the fort’s commander, I saw nothing officer-like about him. Of course, I had not seen an American officer for three years. This man appeared ordinary, without the military authority or bearing of the British officers I had come to know.
