by Avi
Then I noticed something. Turning to Mr. Baydon, I said, “There’s no more flag of truce. Can we stop them now?”
“The cannons could never find them.”
“But you must do something!”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe we can drive the Vulture away. Least that boat won’t be able to come back—if it tries.”
He ran down the hill. “Up! Up!” I heard him cry. “Unlimber the guns.”
With the boat going against the tide, the trip back to Long Clove Mountain cove took quite a while. In the humid air, the sweating Cahoon brothers grew ever more irritated. It was almost 2 a.m. when the boat finally touched land. Mr. Smith, at the stern, leaned forward toward André. “He’ll be waiting,” he said.
André stepped out of the boat and onto the shore. Boulders lay everywhere, but there was moonlight enough to see a crooked path running through them and up into the forest. André glanced back at Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith waved him forward.
André walked on, but halted where the pathway began to lead up. He peered into the gloom. Beneath the shadowy trees, he saw a man standing. He was of middling height, broad shouldered, his big head, even in the shadow, suggesting power.
“Is that you, Mr. Anderson?” called the man.
André said, “Mr. Moore?”
“I am he.”
Major André moved up the path to where General Arnold was waiting. They clasped hands.
When André moved up among the trees, Joshua Smith climbed out of the boat. He went up the path a few yards, wanting to make sure Mr. Anderson was gone. No sooner did he get on land than the Cahoon brothers shoved the boat back into the river.
Hearing a splash, Smith spun about. “Where are you going?” he shouted.
“Home!” cried one of the brothers. “We’ve had enough of this.” They began to row.
“You mustn’t!” called Smith, but the boat was already moving down-river. Incapable of taking any action, Smith merely watched. With a start, he swung back toward the forest. Mr. Anderson and General Arnold were out of sight. Not sure what to do, Mr. Smith decided it would be unwise to intrude.
The meeting between Major André and General Arnold lasted two hours. The talk was for the most part about West Point, with Arnold instructing André how best to attack the fort, the vulnerable points, the places Arnold had weakened. The general also spoke about his plan to trick George Washington into being captured.
He held out a detailed plan of West Point, marked with all the defenseless points.
André hesitated.
Arnold pressed him. “When you get back to the city, you’ll want to be absolutely sure of what I told you. There’s much to remember.”
André gazed at the papers in Arnold’s hand.
“I assure you,” urged Arnold, “the plans will make your attack much easier. A quick success will do much for your honor.”
André took the papers.
Then the two men began to negotiate how much money Arnold would receive for handing over the fort. He wanted a lot.
At 4 a.m., the meeting was over, with the two men having reached agreement on everything. Arnold walked André down to the water’s edge. Only Mr. Smith was waiting.
“Where’s the boat?” Arnold demanded.
“Gone.”
Upset, André turned to Arnold.
Arnold, struggling not to show concern, said, “You’ll have to wait until the morning to get back to the ship.”
“Wait where?” André demanded.
After a moment’s consideration, Arnold pointed to Mr. Smith. “His house.”
A frustrated André turned and gazed down the river. The water looked to be flowing away from him.
Arnold said, “There really is no choice.”
The two men rode horses to Joshua Smith’s house. As they went along the road, André saw an American soldier standing on guard. He immediately understood what it meant: they had gone out of the neutral zone and into the American lines. He pulled his collar up and his hat down.
Shortly before 5 a.m., they reached the Smith household, where the two men sat down to breakfast.
I thought Mr. Baydon would never get his cannons in place. First, the men had to roll the heavy pieces up to the top of Teller Point hill. There was no path and little light. Rocks, boulders, and soft spaces hindered them. The six-pounder went first. Then the howitzer. Lastly, they brought along the shot and powder wagon.
Then they had to come down the hill to the point, an even harder task, lest the heavy cannons escape their grasp and tip over. The horses were of hardly any use.
I kept my eyes on the Vulture. She did not move, but remained as still as the warm air. No one went to her or from her. Her deck was deserted. The gray river waters moved sluggishly.
Once the cannons were at the bottom of the hill, Mr. Baydon ordered the soldiers to build earthworks in front of them, protection in case the Vulture fired back. After he divided his men into two batteries, the guns were loaded.
By the time all was in place it was early morning. The first light was pale, the air humid. Shreds of mist trailed over the river. All was still.
“Are we ready?” Mr. Baydon called.
“Yes, sir.”
“Commence firing.”
A glowing spark was brought to the cannon touchhole. A flash of fire erupted from the muzzle, followed by an explosion. I watched the six-pound cannonball fly through the windless air like a dead bird. It struck the river twenty yards this side of the Vulture, sending up a tall spume of water.
Next moment, the howitzer got off its shot. The arc of its ball lofted higher than the cannon. It too missed the ship, but not by so far.
“Adjust aim!” Baydon commanded.
On the Vulture, men were scurrying about her deck.
It took four more shots before our cannonballs struck the Vulture. I saw splinters fly first, then heard a dull thud.
The Vulture began to fire back. Their shots fell short.
As daylight grew, our cannonballs began to repeatedly hit the ship. Six shots struck her between wind and water. Sails and rigging were torn. Our firing continued.
From behind the Vulture, four small boats emerged. They had ropes attached to the ship. Next moment the ship’s anchor broke the water’s surface. Without wind, the Vulture could not move. To take her out of our cannons’ range, they were towing her downriver. I did not think that much damage had been done to her. But it was enough to make her move away.
At Mr. Smith’s house, André, hearing cannonading from the river, jumped up from the breakfast table. Standing before the front window, he fixed his eyes on the far shore. He could see Tellers Point and the Vulture quite well. Even as he watched, there were puffs of smoke, followed by the discharge of cannons. Then he saw the Vulture move, hauled downriver by four small boats. He watched, dumbfounded, as the ship disappeared from view.
61
AS THE VULTURE moved downriver, out of cannon range, Mr. Baydon and the soldiers gave a cheer.
But I felt balked. Was the fourth man I saw in the small boat André? I wanted to think so. If it was, did that mean he had met with General Arnold? Was he still on land? If so, what would he do next? As I recalled, the plan was for him to get to the Vulture, that he might sail in haste to New York City. There the transport ships, laden with soldiers, were waiting to be transported up Hudson’s and then attack. With the Vulture gone, surely André—if still on land—would try to get to the city.
I turned to Mr. Baydon. “If that spy tries get to New York City and can’t go by ship, how would he go?”
He shrugged. “Walk. Horse.”
“Are there roads?”
“Of course. But on the western side of the river, there are plenty of American troops to catch someone. Wouldn’t be smart to go that way. Then again, he might cross the river and try to get there by way of Connecticut. Wouldn’t be easy, either. Lots of our troops are there, too.
“I suppose his best way, the shortest, would be
by working his way down—the reverse of what you did—along Hudson’s River to the closest British lines.”
“Where are they?”
“Above White Plains but below Tarrytown. Somewhere in between. It’s always a bit uncertain. The way to get there is like a funnel. Not many choices.”
Hearing “Tarrytown,” I immediately recalled John Paulding, William’s comrade, who lived there. “How far off is that Tarrytown?”
“About the same distance to Fort Lafayette. But south. You said you sailed up Hudson’s. You must have gone right by it.”
I said, “Do you know a soldier by the name of John Paulding?”
Mr. Baydon shook his head and lost interest in talking to me. Instead, he busied himself working with his men to get the cannons back to the fort.
Alone, I tried to think what I should do. Yes, André, heading for the city, might be traveling on the western side of the river. Or by way of Connecticut. Or not moving anywhere. But if he was moving south, the way Mr. Baydon suggested, I must, at the very minimum, make an effort to stop him. Useless, perhaps, but at least I would have tried. I could not rest easy unless I did.
I decided then that I would go to that Tarrytown, the place where Mr. Paulding told me I might find him. Did he not say I could come to him if I had need? If ever the need, it was now, my last chance to stop André from reaching New York City.
When the soldiers were ready to go to Fort Lafayette, I started walking along with them, at least for the length of Tellers Point. When we came to a split in the path, they turned northward.
“Mr. Baydon,” I said. “I’m not going with you.”
“Where, then?”
“Back home.”
“Not intending to walk, are you?”
“I must.”
“Not sure you should, miss. Don’t know whom you might meet. They call it the neutral ground, but it isn’t. Not really. Cowboys or skinners always lurking. I’ve seen it. The whole area is in a bad way. You can’t trust anyone down there.”
“I came, didn’t I?”
He seemed as mystified by me as ever. “Suppose,” he allowed.
I said, “Goodbye. Thank you,” then started, not even looking back. I was sure I could feel his eyes on my back.
It did not take me long to reach the Croton River. Once there I searched for the spot where Mr. Baydon and Mr. Groogins had made the crossing. When I found it, I came upon their canoe easily. I dragged it to the river and, albeit clumsily, for I had never paddled such before, got across.
I felt badly that I had removed the canoe from their use, but the situation was too critical for me to give it much thought. Once across the Croton River I turned westward and retraced my steps. Just before I reached Hudson’s River, I discovered a wide, well-worn road that ran south. Certain it would prove far easier passage than along the river’s edge, I took it, hoping it would lead me to Tarrytown. And Mr. Paulding. As I went, I forced myself to acknowledge that there was no certainty he would be there. Or, for that matter, André.
62
AT MR. SMITH’S HOUSE, General Arnold told André that, as commander of West Point, he needed to go to his upriver headquarters so as not to arouse suspicion. He told the major that he was welcome to wait and see if the Vulture reappeared. “But,” he advised, “you might have to travel by land.”
André struggled not to show distress. “Won’t that be dangerous?”
“Not in the least,” Arnold assured him.
“How would I go?”
“The closest British lines will be north of White Plains. I promise you, Mr. Smith knows the land and the people hereabouts perfectly. He’ll guide you with safety. Even better, I’ve drawn up a letter—a pass—signed by me that permits John Anderson to go through the lines. You may be sure: my authority is absolute. No possibility of difficulties. Even if you are stopped, my note will get you through.” He held out his hand. “I trust to see you soon.”
For hours André paced behind the upper windows of Smith’s house, watching for the Vulture. From time to time he studied the maps and notes about West Point that Arnold had given him. The attack could not fail. If it could begin. But the time passed slowly, and the Vulture did not come back.
All that day I walked along the wide, well-trod path. I went through woods, although now and again there were open areas. Off to my right I caught glimpses of Hudson’s River, never far. As for the few homes and barns I observed, all were in pitiable condition. The war had indeed swept the area and reduced much to a sad state. Whether it was by the hands of British or American forces, I could not tell. It was only what Mr. Baydon had told me. Since he also cautioned me not to trust anyone, I remained alert for any danger.
It must have been in the afternoon, when I, thirsty and hungry, saw an old house set back from the path. Its roof, missing shingles, sagged like the back of an old horse. Two front windows were covered with something, not glass. The front door leaned out, as if broken. A skinny wisp of smoke rose from its brick chimney.
Wanting to be sure I was going in the right direction, I decided it would be worthwhile to knock. Perhaps I might also get something to eat.
I drew close to the door—not too close—and called a greeting. When no answer came, I repeated myself, louder. I was about to go away when someone, bent and broken, emerged from inside. It took me a moment to realize it was a man.
“Good day, sir,” I called.
“Who are you?”
“Please, sir. I need to get to Tarrytown. Is this the way?”
“You British? American?”
“American.”
“Someone stole my cow,” he let me know, voice heavy with injury.
“Not I, sir. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Is this the way to Tarrytown?” I asked again.
“Seven miles,” said the old man with a feeble gesture of his thin hand as he went back into the house.
I didn’t ask for food. But at least I was going the right way and it was not far.
Joshua Smith approached André. “Sir, I doubt that ship is going to come back. In any case, even if it does, I have no means of reaching it.”
“What do you propose, sir?”
“General Arnold has left a horse for you. And he told me he issued you a pass with his name. That’s as good as gold. I assure you, no one among the upper party will challenge it. The east side of the river will be best. I’ll take you as far as the Croton River, Pines Bridge. Once there, you’ll have no trouble getting south in safety.”
André, who must have wondered if Smith knew who he was, only said, “I suppose that’s best.”
“But you’ll have to get out of that uniform, sir,” said Smith. “We’ll be in American-controlled territory. Civilian clothing will be better. General Arnold asked me to provide some. I’ll get them right now. And, sir,” said Smith, “if we’re to use the ferry at Kings, we’ll need to hurry.”
In private, André changed out of his uniform. The civilian clothes Smith gave him fit him reasonably well, but he kept his own military boots. As for the maps and papers Arnold had provided—about West Point fortifications—André slipped them in his left sock, pulled the sock on, and stepped into the boot. All was out of sight and secure.
Once dressed, with a wide-brimmed hat firmly on his head, André joined Mr. Smith. He was ready to go.
André mounted a brown horse with a white star on its forehead. On the left shoulder, letters had been branded. They read “USA.”
I began to see more houses and farms. These were in better condition than the sad house I had seen previously. It gave me some expectation that I was approaching Tarrytown. The thought revived my strength.
Farther on, I saw Hudson’s River on my right. The town must be on its shore. Then I passed an old stone church in good repair. I crossed over a creek, walked on, and saw a school, a blacksmith shop, a few private houses, as well as some people going about their business. I choose an old dame to speak to, who, when I came near her, observed me with such
distaste that I needed no mirror to know my deplorable state.
“Good evening, mistress. Can you help me?”
“With what?” she said, backing up a step. I suspect she thought me a beggar.
“Is this Tarrytown?”
“What else would it be?”
“I’m looking for Mr. John Paulding.”
“What need do you have of him?” she demanded.
“He’s a family friend. I must find him.”
She gazed upon me with much severity. “I have no idea where he is,” said the woman.
Heart sinking, I took a step away.
“But if he’s anywhere near,” she called after me, “I suppose it will be at Van Tassel’s tavern.”
I waited for her to say more.
“Right along there,” she said, pointing. Though feeling she was sending me away, I nonetheless went as she directed. As I walked I tried not to think what would happen if I could not find Mr. Paulding.
The tavern, a two-story wooden building, was close. Over the wide door, a swinging sign bore the painted words “Van Tassel.” Next to its door was a bench. Sitting there was a portly, bewhiskered man, smoking a clay pipe. A sleeping dog lay at his feet.
Agitated at the thought that Mr. Paulding would not be there, I approached slowly. When the man by the door paid me no mind, I pulled at the heavy door and stepped inside.
63
IT WAS LATE afternoon when Joshua Smith and John André, on horses, set off along the three-mile roadway north to Kings Ferry. From that point, they hoped to cross Hudson’s to its eastern shore. Smith took the lead. André had his coat collar up, his brimmed hat turned low, his eyes on his horse’s neck. He and Smith did not speak. The only sound was the clop-clop of the horse hooves and the squeaking of saddles.
Unexpectedly they were joined by an American soldier on horseback.
