by Ron Carter
“If we do, I calculate three things will occur, all favorable to our campaign. First, we will have control of the Hudson River, and consequently much of New England. Second, Washington will have to fall back into New Jersey. And third, when he does, he will leave the French at Rhode Island stranded without support, and they will either leave, or they will be in our hands. With General Cornwallis in firm control of the South, and the French threat vanished, this rebellion will likely collapse of its own weight.”
Clinton stopped, and André knew he was waiting for a response.
“Exactly, sir. The key is Fort West Point.”
A smile of satisfaction flickered on Clinton’s face. “I’m glad you concur. That brings us to the question, at what stage are we in negotiations with Mr. Arnold for delivery by him of the Fort into our hands?”
André leaned slightly forward, eyes glowing with intensity. “In the past ten months, I’ve exchanged coded letters with him. His last demand was that we must deliver ten thousand pounds sterling now, and five hundred pounds annually thereafter, no matter the outcome of our plan, and twenty thousand pounds upon occupancy of the Fort by our forces.”
“What was our reply?”
“That we would pay him five hundred pounds now, and twenty thousand pounds for the taking of Fort West Point.”
“His response?”
“Unacceptable. He wanted his full price.”
“Good. That’s my recollection of it. Are you still in communication with him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send a message. I agree to his price if he can agree to two further terms. One, when we take the fort, we must take no less than three thousand prisoners with it. We must reduce Washington’s forces drastically. Two, the plan must move with great haste.”
“Excellent!” André exclaimed. “I’ll code the letter at once.”
“Do you have trustworthy agents to deliver it?”
“We do, sir. I must mention, Arnold has stated that should we reach agreement on the price, he will demand an audience with myself personally. He proposes a secret meeting at a place to be selected where he can confirm our agreement face to face. He’s a cautious man, sir.”
“And well he should be!” Clinton paused to narrow his eyes in thought. “This business of buying the cooperation of an enemy officer is dangerous. Are you certain you should be the one to meet with him?”
“He demanded it be me, sir. He has as much reason as I to assure our success. I am absolutely certain the arrangements can be made without flaw.”
Clinton’s face clouded, and then he leaned forward, eyes piercing. “Take every precaution. Be sure your couriers are reliable. If a meeting is arranged, it absolutely cannot be at his home, or at the fort, or at any American installation. It will be on neutral ground, or on our ground, or not at all. Under any circumstance, never carry a written document that can in any way implicate you. If you must meet Arnold, you must do so in your uniform. Civilian clothing, or any other garb will identify you as a spy should you be caught. Far too much depends on your success to take such risks. Am I clear?”
“You are, sir, and your advice is well-taken.” André paused to reflect for a moment. “Sir, is there anything else? I agree wholeheartedly that we must move on this immediately if we intend having the fort before winter. I can have the message coded by evening and on its way to Arnold by morning.”
Clinton stood. “Nothing further. You will keep me advised. Send the message at the earliest opportunity.”
His face alive with anticipation, André rose to face Clinton. “By early morning, sir.”
He closed the door as he left, and half a dozen officers turned to stare as he trotted down the hall to his office. Inside, he shed his tunic as he spoke to his aide.
“Have Joseph Stansbury here by five o’clock in the morning, with a strong horse.”
“Stansbury? The merchant? By morning? What if he’s away from his office?”
André turned piercing eyes. “Find him.”
He loosened the buttons at his wrists and rolled his sleeves to his elbows before he sat down at his desk and took up quill and paper. He had completed half of a first draft of the letter when the first grumble of thunder came from the east, across Long Island and the Hudson, to echo off the great Palisades cliffs on the New Jersey side. André paused for a moment, then lowered his head to concentrate and continue. A breeze turned to a wind that rattled at the windows, and suddenly thunder boomed overhead. Lightning leaped through the clouds, and André dropped his quill and strode to the French doors to draw aside the filmy drapes and peer upward. Time passed without notice while he remained at the French doors, fascinated at the incredible, raw power he saw in nature. He thrilled as he watched the storm bend trees and strip leaves and flinched at the thunderclaps that shook New York City. He did not know or care how long he remained there, awed, humbled; he only knew that it thrilled every fiber of his being.
The storm quieted, the clouds thinned, the sun broke through, and he went back to his desk, refreshed and invigorated.
At midnight André laid down his quill, dusted the fifth and final draft of the letter with salts, and stood to stretch muscles that had been set too long. He sat back down to read the letter once more, then folded and sealed it with blue wax. The document was addressed to “Mr. Moore,” a code name for Benedict Arnold, and signed by “John Anderson,” the code name for Jean André. To any casual reader the rather lengthy contents would appear to be an innocent business letter between two bargaining merchants. Nothing suggested the figures in the letter pertained to dates and numbers of troops, or that the rice and salt pork and fish being bought and sold were code words for cannon, gunpowder, and shot. With a weary sense of satisfaction, André pulled off his boots, stretched out on the cot against the wall in his office, and was instantly lost in a dreamless sleep.
At ten minutes before five o’clock a.m. he was sitting on his cot trying to clear cobwebs from his fogged brain when the rap came at the door. At twenty minutes past five o’clock, with the first arc of the August sun casting shadows westward, Joseph Stansbury mounted a strong black mare and raised her to a gallop, moving north, up Manhattan Island. At midmorning the following day, he reined the weary horse in at the front entrance of a mansion on the east side of the Hudson River where General Arnold had established his headquarters and home. The estate had once been owned by Beverley Robinson, a Loyalist faithful to the Crown, from whom General William Howe had earlier confiscated it for his command headquarters. The great house, isolated on a rocky, uninviting plot of ground, faced west with a full view of Fort West Point across the Hudson River. General Arnold found a sense of solace in the solitude.
Stansbury tied the reins of his mare to the iron ring on a post before the building and walked between the two-storied columns of the portico to face the two pickets guarding the door. They recognized him and gave him unchallenged passage inside. Five minutes later he was facing Benedict Arnold, alone, in the luxurious library that served as Arnold’s office.
The courier reached inside his coat to draw out the sealed letter. “A business message, sir,” he said. He had sworn never to use the name André, or to ever refer to the clandestine correspondence between the two conspirators in any context other than simple business dealings, no matter the time or the place or those present or who might hear.
There was a tremor in Arnold’s hand as he reached for the document and broke open the seal. He motioned Stansbury to sit as he sank onto his chair and brought every nerve to focus on the coded handwriting. He read it a second time with the quiet ticking of the mantel clock the only sound in the room, and then a third time.
Then he peered at Stansbury. “Do you know the contents of this?”
Stansbury shook his head.
“Are you to wait for a reply?”
“That was not my instruction.”
“You will need rest and refreshment before you return.” Arnold stood and rapidly limped to the
door to call his aide. He gave curt instructions and watched Stansbury follow the aide down the hall. He was turning back into his office when a voice from behind brought him around. A young lieutenant hurried toward him from the front foyer, with a letter in his hand.
“Sir, this just arrived. I believe it is from your wife. I thought you would want it at once.”
Arnold grasped the letter to study the handwriting, and his heart leaped. From Peggy! After a month of silence, at last, a letter from Peggy in Philadelphia!
“Thank you.” He limped to his desk and broke the seal as he sat down. Eagerly he studied the small, beautifully scrolled letters and straight lines, then tipped his head back, eyes closed in exultation. “She wants to come here,” he exclaimed. “At last, she wants to be here.”
He called loudly, “Aide,” and the door opened almost instantly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring a scribe immediately. And a map of all roads and the best inns between here and Philadelphia. I have a journey to plan and a letter that must leave here today.”
For more than an hour the scribe furiously dashed off notes as Arnold disgorged advice, admonishments, orders, instructions, and pleadings to his Peggy. Get out of the carriage at all river crossings, at all ferry crossings. Carry wine to brace her spirits and those in her party. Stay only at the best inns, as Arnold outlined them. Bring her own sheets, as there was a possibility those provided at the inns would not be immaculately clean. Send a trusted messenger ahead to arrange meals, to avoid exhausting delays. Place a featherbed on the seat of the wagon to rest as the carriage moved forward. Do not travel longer than comfortable at any one time, to avoid fatigue.
The letter was carried by special messenger, and five days later the impatient Arnold ordered his carriage to meet her at Kingsbridge, to escort her the last day of the journey. When at last she arrived at the great mansion, Arnold met her at the front doors and lifted his blond, blue-eyed, stunningly beautiful bride, half his age, into his arms and carried her to their sumptuous bedroom where she could bathe from the grime of dust and heat and rest from the rigors of the six-day trip.
At ten o’clock the following morning, Arnold closed the door to their bedroom and sat opposite Peggy at a table near the French windows. He was beaming with a rare inner excitement. “I received news,” he said, “that I believe is the key to our future.”
Instantly Peggy focused, waiting.
“General Clinton has lately appointed John André to the post of Adjutant General, and has commissioned him a major.”
Peggy’s hand flew to her breast as she realized the critical advantage it could bring to their plan to gain wealth and fame from the King.
“When?” she blurted.
“Within the past twelve days.”
“Does General Clinton know General Washington appointed you commandant of West Point?”
“Yes. That intelligence reached him within days after Washington made the decision on August eighth.”
“Then everything has come into place! It’s been nearly a year since we received anything from André. Has he discarded our plan?”
Arnold’s eyes glowed. “To the contrary.” He drew out the coded letter from André. “General Clinton has agreed to almost all of our terms!”
Peggy gasped, wide-eyed, shocked. “Twenty thousand pounds?”
“Twenty thousand pounds for Fort West Point, ten thousand pounds for intelligence already delivered, and five hundred pounds per year thereafter.”
“You said almost all our terms. What did he change?”
“Nothing, but he did require that when we surrender the fort, we deliver three thousand rebel soldiers with it. He wants to reduce the rebel numbers enough to fatally weaken their army.”
“How many are garrisoned there now?”
“Just over fifteen hundred. It will be my responsibility to persuade General Washington to transfer fifteen hundred more here within the next two or three weeks.”
“Any other conditions?”
“None.” He paused, then went on. “I have not yet responded to them. What are your thoughts?”
Peggy’s answer was instant. “Accept! Accept at once! Bring this cruel war to an end on honorable terms. Both the rebels and the British will revere you for doing it. We will be able to assume the life you have earned, the life you so richly deserve!”
Arnold sobered. “There are delicate matters that must be handled. I will not proceed until I have met with André personally, and have written documents from him that will protect me should it ever become necessary.”
“Meet where? Here? In New York?”
“That’s the problem. I am certain André will be hesitant to come here, and I assure you I am not willing to go to New York. The risk would be onerous. We will have to meet on neutral ground.”
“How will you arrange it?”
“We will have to select someone we can trust absolutely to make the contact and the arrangements.”
“Who?”
“I haven’t yet decided. Franks? Stansbury? Varick? Smith?”
Peggy wrinkled her nose. “Is there anyone else?”
“Possibly. That can be determined later. The heavier question is, where?”
Peggy shrugged. “Kingsbridge? Verplanks? Stony Point?”
Arnold’s forehead wrinkled. “There are rebels all up and down the river. I’m not at all certain André would agree to it. Too many eyes watching.”
“Then meet at night! Somewhere in the woods.”
“Joshua Smith has a home in the forest near Stony Point. No patrols go into those woods.”
“Then meet there.”
“André would have to come up the Hudson. An unidentified boat would likely be seen and stopped, even at night.”
Peggy frowned. “Surely there must—”
Arnold suddenly leaned forward to cut her off. “Wait a moment. There’s a British sloop, a warship, that’s been moving up and down the river for weeks, doing little more than flying the Union Jack to intimidate the rebels. A common sight to both sides. No one even pays attention to it anymore. If André were to go aboard that ship at New York City, and leave it at night by rowboat near Stony Point, a rendezvous could be arranged in those woods with no one the wiser. Very few people would need to know, which would reduce the risk. It might work.”
“What’s the name of this ship?”
“The Vulture.”
For a moment Peggy stared. “The Vulture?” A shudder ran through her. “There’s no time to waste. How are you to contact André?”
“Coded letter by messenger.”
“Then write a coded letter and make the arrangements. André can come up the river aboard the Vulture and row ashore at night. You can meet in the woods near the home of Joshua Smith, or maybe even in his house, if he will agree. You can conclude the matter before dawn and both return while it is still dark enough to escape rebel eyes. Do it. Do it now.”
Notes
The individuals, motives, and chronology of events by which Benedict Arnold entered into his treasonous bargain with the British to sell Fort West Point to them, are extremely complex. To present the entire affair in detail would require at least two volumes. For this reason it has been necessary to set forth only the essence of the sad affair. Therefore, the contents of this chapter are an abridgment of the facts, in which every effort has been made to preserve the essence of the matter, while excluding less important detail. The names, dates, and occurrences described herein are historically accurate. Many conversations are verbatim quotes from the best records available.
After Benedict and Peggy Arnold contacted John André in an attempt to open a dialogue regarding Arnold cooperating with the British, more than one year elapsed in which little else was done, because André was unwilling to meet their demands for money. Then, General Clinton determined that the Americans were going to store great supplies of munitions and supplies at Fort West Point and concluded he must take the fort. He contacted Joh
n André to inquire if Benedict Arnold could deliver the fort without a battle. André determined to put the question before Arnold.
From that point, the essence of the plot developed as herein set forth (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 307–45; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 556–75).
Stony Point on the Hudson River
Late September 1780
CHAPTER XXIV
* * *
Samuel Cahoon, tenant and farm-laborer in the employ of Joshua Hett Smith, angled west from the clapboard barn, striding with staff in hand, squinting into the setting September sun. A quarter mile behind him the mighty Hudson River, more than a mile wide, was a broad, bronze highway in the golden sunlight, flowing south past the small farm his landlord had carved out of the Highlands forest near the hamlet of Stony Point, with Fort Stony Point not far to the south. Before him was a small pasture enclosed by a split-rail fence that held Smith’s tan-and-white Guernsey milk cow and black Angus yearling steer. The steer was being fattened for winter food for the Smiths and Cahoons. The cow was another matter. All too well Samuel understood the law of nature that required a cow be milked twice a day, day in, day out, every day of the year. Fail, and the cow would dry up. A life spent working on farms owned by others had taught Samuel that nothing bound a man tighter than maintaining a family milk cow.
He came in his worn homespun, calling, “Queenie, Queenie,” as he always did, and Queenie raised her head from the grass and patiently walked to the pen through which she must pass to get to her stanchion in the barn, with its manger of dried grass hay and a half-quart of mixed grain. The black steer tossed its head and broke into a lope for a few yards, then slowed to a walk to follow, knowing that its half-quart of grain was waiting in a manger, sprinkled on top of hay.
Queenie thrust her head between the stanchion uprights and buried her muzzle in the feed while Samuel closed the bar and dropped the lock ring into place. He washed her bulging udder and set a heavy wooden bucket on the dirt, then leaned his forehead into the warm flank and began the steady stroking that drove streams of warm milk hissing into the froth that quickly formed.
