by Ron Carter
He stripped out the last of the milk, unlocked and opened the stanchion, seized the rope handle of the bucket, and was walking out the barn door when he heard the familiar voice of Smith from the kitchen door of his home.
“Samuel, I need you here.”
For a moment Samuel hesitated, troubled in his uneducated, unsophisticated mind. Odd things had been happening the last few days. Too many polished carriages bringing visitors in fine clothing, some in military uniform with too much gold braid, too many hushed conversations, too many nights when Samuel looked out the small window of his tenant’s house to see lights burning inside shaded windows in the larger Smith home. Still, Smith was the landlord, Samuel was the tenant-laborer, and New England was New England. Samuel turned toward the Smith home.
Smith’s eyes glowed with that self-importance felt by small men caught up in big things. He leaned forward and spoke softly, with exaggerated secrecy, as though alien ears were listening. “Follow me. Extremely important. Not a word to anyone.”
Samuel set the milk bucket inside the kitchen door and followed Smith up the stairs to stop at a bedroom door. Smith knocked, a voice called, “Come,” and Smith held the door while a bewildered Samuel entered. Inside, the aging laborer stopped short, eyes wide as he stared at a stocky, hawk-nosed man dressed in the most colorful uniform Samuel had ever seen. He stared, then turned to Smith, waiting for an explanation.
“Samuel, this is Major General Benedict Arnold of the Continental Army.”
Samuel’s mouth dropped open, and he stood mesmerized, staring.
Arnold stepped close and spoke as though taking Samuel into close confidence on a momentous issue. “Samuel, I’m informed you’re a patriot. Absolutely reliable. A man to be trusted with a critical mission.”
Arnold paused, waiting for a response.
Samuel licked suddenly dry lips, and shifted his feet. He stared at the floor and worked his battered wool cap with his hands, befuddled, unable to speak.
Silence held for a moment before Arnold continued. “I have need for such a man as yourself to go on the river tonight to bring a man to a meeting place four miles south of here. An extremely important man.”
Samuel licked dry lips and stammered, “Where on the river?”
“A British ship is anchored south of us, about twelve miles. The Vulture. The man is a secret agent. He’s aboard with critical information I need.”
Samuel began to shake his head. “A British ship? There’s patrols on the river at night. Too dangerous. Maybe that man can wait until daylight. I’m too tired tonight. Needin’ to get home.”
Arnold barely controlled his flare of temper at the thought of a nearly illiterate farmhand fouling the most carefully laid and momentous plan of the decade. “No, the man must be brought here in the cover of night. The information he carries is absolutely vital to General Washington. This man cannot be seen in the daylight.”
Samuel raised nervous fingers to scratch at his beard, then again shook his head. “I can’t row that far alone. Not in the dark.”
Smith saw the lightning in Arnold’s eyes and quickly pointed a finger at Samuel. “Then go get your brother. The two of you can do it.”
Smith hesitated, then nodded assent, and walked out without a word. Ten tense minutes passed with Arnold pacing, Smith waiting nervously, before Samuel returned. He avoided Arnold’s eyes while he twisted his hat in his hands.
“Couldn’t find Joseph, but I told my wife, and she said no. I can’t go. Too late. Too far. Too dangerous.”
Arnold lost control. He slammed his fist down on the table and Smith recoiled a step backward, terrified, as Arnold shouted, “You and your brother are both disaffected men! You will do as you’re told, or I’ll have you arrested for insurrection. Mutiny!”
White-faced, Samuel raised a conciliatory hand and blurted with a shaky voice, “No, no, there’s no need for arrest. I’ll talk to Joseph.”
He walked out the door a second time. Smith glanced at Arnold, who nodded and pointed, and Smith followed Samuel downstairs and out the door in the darkness to find Joseph.
Half an hour later Smith returned, smiling amiably. “They’re downstairs in the yard. They’ll go.”
“Bring them up,” Arnold demanded, and minutes later Smith returned with the two reluctant brothers.
Arnold spoke. “Has the boat arrived?”
Smith shook his head. “It’s late.”
“Then we’ll wait.”
Minutes passed, and the two brothers began to fret, then once again became reticent, fearful.
“It’s late,” Joseph mumbled. “Ought to be goin’ home to my wife.”
“Arrest them!” Arnold shouted.
“Give me a few minutes,” Smith said, and led the two trembling brothers downstairs out into the darkness. Smith descended into the root cellar north of the house and returned with a crock jug with a corncob stopper jammed in the neck. The rum was half gone when he took it from the brothers, drove the corncob back into the opening, and returned it to the root cellar. As he walked back to the brothers, his servant boy crossed the yard. The boat had arrived.
Smith faced the two brothers. “The rest of the rum when you return.”
They nodded vigorously, and Smith returned to Arnold, waiting in the second floor bedroom.
“They’re ready. The boat’s waiting.”
“Then get on with it.”
Smith led them to his small boat dock on the river and helped the two brothers wrap the oarlocks with sheepskin to quiet the stroking of the heavy oars, and with Arnold watching from the window, the three of them, Smith and the two Cahoon brothers, silently pushed off into the smooth waters of the Hudson to disappear in the blackness, moving south, holding close to the shore.
Arnold, the man of action, who found release for the fire in his soul only in rising to strike mortal blows to the dragons in his life, sat on the bed in the second-story bedroom of the Smith home for only five minutes before he was on his feet, pacing, with the two-inch heel of his left boot ringing hollow on the hardwood floor. Five minutes later he descended to the kitchen and out into the yard, calling for the black servant boy who was to be his guide for the night.
“Saddle the horses!”
“Yes, massa.”
With Arnold leading, the two put their nervous horses over the lip of the rim above the river, sliding, plunging downward to the road that ran parallel to the great waterway. In near total-blackness Arnold reined his prancing mount south and raised it to a racking trot. One mile became two, then three, four, before the boy called, “This be the place.”
They reined their horses away from the road through thick ferns into a small opening in the woods, where they tied them. The boy sat down with his back against a tree for the wait, while Arnold resumed his relentless pacing. One of the horses tossed its head and stuttered its feet, and instantly Arnold’s hand darted to his saber. An unseen nocturnal creature of the forest rustled in the dry September leaves, and Arnold pivoted, crouched, ready. An owl inquired who had invaded his domain, and Arnold started.
Then the scraping of wood on sand and stones came from the river, and Arnold strode quickly to the edge of the rise bordering the river and stopped at the sound of a man scrambling up from the water’s edge. He heard Smith’s voice calling softly, and then the man was before him, a dim silhouette in the darkness.
“Anderson’s here.”
“Bring him up.”
In the quiet, Arnold listened to the oddly loud sounds of Smith’s descent, and then the clatter of dislodged stones falling as two men labored back up from the river, and then they were there—Smith, large and ungainly, and the other man, slender and graceful in a long, blue coat. A surge of excitement rose within Arnold’s breast. The deadly, dangerous work of two years was nearly finished. At last—long last—he was face-to-face with John André.
Arnold turned to Smith. “I will require privacy with Mr. Anderson. Take the Cahoon brothers and wait at the boat.
”
Smith’s face fell. Clearly this was one of the most dramatic events of his life, and his presence was denied. Without a word he turned, motioned to the two brothers, and stalked away.
Alone in near pitch-blackness, the two men wearing the uniforms of mortal enemies faced each other. As never before they were aware that the treason and the treachery required in the sick business of selling and buying a country shrouds both parties in a black, evil cloud. But both knew they had come too far; that there was no turning back. They shrugged it off and began the sparring, the give and take, that would slowly evolve into the plan that must now be made.
Time passed as they completed the necessary preliminaries, wherein Arnold defined himself as the stubborn, recalcitrant warrior, and André became the pliant gentleman. With the dance finished, Arnold came directly to it.
“What plan do you propose to take Fort West Point? Washington is coming to inspect the fort soon. Do you want him there?”
In his offer to sacrifice General Washington to his lust for wealth and fame, Arnold reached the farthest depths of degradation. He was beyond redemption, impervious to the eternal truth that great traitors are detested and despised by both sides.
André shook his head. “If General Washington is there it is probable he will assume command. If he overrides your orders, the defense of the fort could change instantly, and the entire plan be lost in a moment.”
“Would it be better to draw Washington away with a raid on some outlying post, maybe Fishkill, or Danbury?”
Again André shook his head. “He’s too dangerous. If he sensed what was happening, he would be back at Fort West Point instantly, with a column armed and ready to fight.”
“Then we’ll have to wait until Washington has completed his inspection and gone back to his headquarters at White Plains.”
“I think that’s the safest course. What’s your plan for delivering three thousand troops to us at the time of the attack?”
“I will call in regiments from Fishkill and one or two other posts. Some will be inside the fort, some outside. There will be in excess of three thousand.”
“Excellent. Success in capturing that many armed soldiers will depend on how well we know the detail of the strengths and weaknesses of the fort and the surrounding terrain—which walls will be weakest. Where will your strongest and your weakest regiments be posted? Where are the ravines and the valleys and the hills that will give us cover? Where are the powder magazines, and can mines be laid inside them? Are there any secret tunnels beneath the walls? What is the best time to make the attack, day or night?”
Time passed without meaning as the two men talked, André asking, Arnold answering each question in detail. Gradually they firmed up the plan of how Arnold would avoid suspicion by issuing orders that on their face were competent, while in truth they would collectively bring Fort West Point to a condition in which a sudden attack in the right numbers, at precisely the right places, would undo the American defenses completely, leaving no choice but surrender. Arnold would raise the white flag at a time when there were still three thousand Americans under his command, and no one would question that surrender was the only order he could give.
Below them, at the river, Smith was shaking with the ague, muscles cramping, irritation mounting at the endless waiting. He glanced east across the river and realized the far skyline was separating from the black heavens. Dawn was coming.
He clambered up the hill to face both men, Arnold in his uniform, André still wearing the long blue coat that covered him to his knees. “Daylight’s coming. You’ll have to leave now if Anderson intends reaching the ship unseen.”
Arnold pointed. “Then go back down and tell the Cahoons to row him back.”
Smith was gone for less than five minutes when he returned, breathing heavy. “They say they were told to get Anderson and bring him here. They were not told they’d have to take him back to the ship. They’re too tired to do it.”
Smith braced himself for the worst from Arnold, but it did not come.
Arnold paced for a moment, favoring his injured leg, then spoke to André. “There are some papers you should see in the daylight. Maps. Drawings of the fort. I have them at the Smith home. Is there a reason you could not stay hidden there through the day and return to the ship tomorrow night?”
The warning issued by General Clinton flashed in André’s mind. Conduct the negotiations on neutral ground, or our ground. Not on theirs.
He paused for a moment while he weighed the risk against the gain. He knew the Vulture was under orders to remain at anchor until his return, whether tonight or tomorrow night. What could be lost?
“Yes. If the papers will be helpful, I’ll stay until tomorrow night.”
Arnold turned to Smith. “Take your servant boy and go down to the boat. The Cahoons can row you back. I’ll ride with Anderson.”
Smith awakened the sleeping boy, and the two descended the river-bank for the last time, while Arnold and André mounted the two horses and turned them north, Arnold leading. With the eastern sky turning from purple to gray, the road was deserted as they passed farms yet waiting for the rooster’s crow to bring in the new day. As they approached the lane to the Smith farm, west of them, they paused for a moment to ride to a low bluff from which they could see for miles up and down the great river. In the gray light of approaching sunrise, the river lay smooth and the colors of autumn muted in the rolling carpet of forest as far as the eye could see.
Neither man expected the rumble that shattered the silence as it rolled up the Hudson River Valley. The horses stuttered their feet and the men handled them rough to settle them as they peered south, to their right. Then André pointed.
“Cannon fire!” he exclaimed, “there, across the river at Teller’s Point.”
Both men peered across the river, then shifted to stand tall in the stirrups, searching the near bank for the shape of the Vulture, lying at anchor. Then came the second blast of cannon, and they saw an orange flame leap from the black shape of the ship, and a moment later a white cloud of burned gunpowder billowed upward near the shore. The guns from across the river answered, and again the Vulture’s cannon roared. Gun smoke rose on both sides of the broad expanse of water, the white clouds becoming pink, then golden as the first arc of the sun rose in the east.
Arnold jerked his mount around and called to André, “Follow me!” and the two men galloped west down the lane to the Smith home. They led their winded mounts into the barn and left them still saddled while they slammed the door, and Arnold led André at a run to the house and up the stairs into the privacy of the bedroom. André unbuttoned his long, heavy blue coat and dropped it on the foot of the bed, and for the first time faced Arnold in his full British uniform. Arnold walked back down to the kitchen for a bucket of well-water and a dipper and returned for both men to drink.
“Is there hot water to wash?” André asked, and Arnold returned to the kitchen to shake the grate in the stove, add kindling to the glowing embers that remained from the previous night, and set a kettle of water to heat. The two men removed their tunics in the bedroom to wash in the corner basin, and dry on the towels on the rack nearby.
André was buttoning his tunic when he asked, “Do you have the maps and drawings of the fort in this room?”
Arnold laid two scrolls on the bed, unrolled them, and the two men pored over them until the sounds of Smith barging up the stairs interrupted. Smith did not bother to knock. He threw the door open, both turned to face him, and Smith gaped!
Anderson stood before him in the uniform of a British major!
“You’re a British officer?” Smith blurted.
Arnold cut in to speak quietly, as though bringing Smith into a guarded, deep secret. “Mr. Anderson is only a merchant who had to wear such a uniform to complete his mission for me.”
Smith considered the explanation, then relaxed, a sly smile on his face, as though he had been made privy to a great, patriotic plan. “I see.
Well, other men might not see that as readily as I, so we had better keep Mr. Anderson hidden for the day.”
Arnold put an arm about his shoulder. “Exactly. Breakfast?”
Smith clumped back down the stairs, and Arnold and André heard the rattle of an iron skillet on the stove as he sliced ham and cold potatoes into the pan and set the teakettle for hot water. He brought breakfast to the bedroom where the men ate, discussing things of no importance, listening to the ongoing rumble of cannon down the river. They all stopped at the sound of a horrendous blast, then set their plates aside to run to the window to look downriver, where a great cloud of white smoke rose two hundred feet into the clean, clear blue of the morning sky on the east bank of the Hudson.
“The magazine,” Arnold cried. “The American powder magazine at Teller’s Point has exploded!”
Smith raised an arm to point. “The Vulture is weighing anchor! She’s unfurling her sails—leaving—back down the river toward the British lines!”
André’s head thrust forward, face pasty white, eyes wide, as he watched the ship move out into the current. For a moment he was seized with panic as the vessel disappeared around the arcing sweep of the river. His face darkened, and he turned to Arnold, hot, accusing.
“I was supposed to be aboard that ship when she sailed!”
Arnold raised a calming hand. “Don’t be alarmed. The Vulture will drop anchor a little further down—maybe at Ossining—and you can board her there. If she doesn’t, there are other ways. I am still in command of American forces here. I’ll see to it.”
Arnold turned to Smith. “It is essential that someone protect us. Take up a position from which you can see everyone on the road. Report back here at once if any patrols come, or if anyone enters the lane. Do you understand?”
Smith bobbed his head, smiling with the heady feeling of being entrusted with an important role in a grand scheme. A scheme to do what, he did not know; it was enough that the great Benedict Arnold had taken him into his confidence. Smith winked at Arnold and hurried from the room.
