by Ron Carter
Arnold glanced at the two scrolls on the bed, then walked to a leather trunk against one wall, lifted the lid, and drew out half a dozen more documents, large and small.
“These are the maps and drawings.”
For a time the two men pored over the documents, Arnold pointing, explaining, André listening, questioning. It was late morning before they finished their work, then stopped. André stretched stiff muscles before he spoke to Arnold.
“I would like to take three of these documents back to General Clinton. He must see them.”
Arnold stroked his chin as he reflected. The documents were copies he had made in his own hand. His handwriting, and his signature, were easily identifiable. Still, if the daring plan he and André had crafted were to succeed, he would need the full support of General Clinton.
“Take them, but do not carry them in a pocket. Wrap them about your feet, inside your stockings. If there is any chance of someone discovering them, destroy them at once. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Is there anything else?”
“When do we leave this home?”
“We can’t leave together. I must get back to my headquarters or someone will suspect something. You remain here until after dark. You can return to your lines by horse on land or by the Vulture on the river, whichever seems safest to you at the time. I’ll provide two written passes to get you through our lines, no matter which way you choose. You’ll be safe. You must not be seen leaving, so remain hidden in the house until Smith can escort you in the dark.”
While André removed his boots and carefully slipped the three small documents inside his stockings, the remembrance came to him of Clinton’s stern look as he instructed, Never carry a written document that could incriminate you if discovered.
He pulled his boots back on, stood to stomp his feet into place, and straightened his tunic. Without further words Arnold nodded his satisfaction, turned, and walked out the door, down the stairs, and mounted a horse for the ride to the river where his barge was waiting to return him to his headquarters, perched on the bluffs on the east side of the Hudson.
Arnold knew no peace as the vessel moved across the river. He paced in the large, flat-bottomed boat, agitated, beginning to battle the grotesque demons that were suddenly, unexpectedly rearing their ugly heads in his heart and brain. His diseased thoughts created a thousand fears. If André were to be seen leaving the Smith farm in his British uniform, what? If the Vulture had been captured in the battle he had witnessed earlier, would it have become a death trap for both of them? What would become of them if an American patrol stopped André and searched and found the documents? Again and again he shook his head, unable to understand his own unforgivable lapse of judgment in allowing André to carry documents with his handwriting and signature on them.
The barge thumped into the landing on the east bank, and Arnold climbed into the waiting carriage, dour, troubled, for the ride back to his headquarters mansion. He pushed through the large doors into the great parlor and was quickly aware of the sullen faces and the furtive glances of the servants and aides. He mounted the stairs and stalked down the hall to the bedroom where Peggy was waiting and closed the door. As always, he brightened at the sight of his beautiful wife as she rose to face him.
“Is it finished?” she whispered.
He drew close to her and nodded vigorously. “Yes. As planned. The fort will be delivered within not many days. Within weeks we shall have our fortune. I expect before too long we will be granted titles by the king. Perhaps Lord and Lady.”
She smiled thinly, and Arnold exclaimed, “What is wrong? Something’s happened in this household in my absence.”
Peggy’s face became pensive. “The servants and the aides. They do not know why you were gone, and they’ve invented reasons. Some have guessed very close to the truth. I’ve denied any wrongdoing, but their doubts remain.”
Arnold drew and released a great sigh. “It will all be over soon, and whatever they think will not matter.”
In her mind Peggy silently agreed. Her heart was not so certain.
Across the river, alone in the second-floor bedroom of a man whose grasp of matters was limited and whose judgment was mediocre at best, André began to chafe, fretting. He went to the window looking out over the Hudson River, to peer up and down the broad expanse, searching for American gunboats that could be looking for the Vulture, but there were none. As the afternoon wore on, he opened the window and risked being seen by climbing out onto the roof to better view anything on the river to the south, where the British ship had disappeared. He saw only the usual rowboats and barges moving up and down, hauling goods or passengers.
In late afternoon, Smith marched up the stairs and rapped on the bedroom door. André unlocked it and Smith entered while André spoke.
“I’m leaving as soon as the sun begins to set.”
“I’ll have the horses ready.”
André’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to the ship.”
Smith shook his head. “It is too dangerous. The Vulture was hulled six times in the battle yesterday. She anchored downstream, near Ossining. The cannon and the magazine explosion attracted too many people. You can’t go to the ship.”
“I refuse to go by any other means.”
Smith shrugged, smiling. “General Arnold left two signed passes to get you through the American lines, one for the river, one if you go by land. If you want to go by the river, you will do so alone because neither I nor the Cahoons will go near the ship. It is out of the question.”
“What route if we go by land?”
“Ferry across the river. I’ll lead you on horses.”
“How many are coming?”
“Just three of us. Yourself, me, and the servant boy.”
“Lead me where?”
“Within easy distance of your own lines. You’ll be safe enough.”
“I’ll be ready within the hour.”
“Good. I’ll bring you clothes that will disguise you as a civilian. No one will question it.”
Forty minutes passed before Smith returned with a common coat and a round-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. André stripped off his tunic; his breeches and boots could pass for those of a civilian merchant. As he shrugged into the coat and placed the hat on his head, he was hearing Clinton’s voice. At all times be in uniform—if you’re caught in disguise you could be hung as a spy. He pushed the echo from his brain and buttoned the coat. From all outward appearance, John André was a civilian.
Smith was jovial, nearly boisterous as they mounted their horses and spurred them down the lane to a dirt road that wound down to the ferry dock. They rode with Smith chattering, André silent, the boy disinterested and detached, following. André started at the sight of a mounted American officer approaching, but Smith threw back his head to laugh uproariously.
“Come ride between us,” he called to Major John Burrows. “We’ll stop for tea. That’s my farm just down the road. You can water and pasture your horse there if you like.”
Burrows eyed Smith for a moment, then André. “Thank you, sir, but I must be on my business.” He turned his mount onto a side road and rode away. André released held breath, then turned to stare angrily at Smith. The harshness in André’s eyes escaped Smith, who continued his harangue as they passed the fort at Stony Point.
“Hear about the fight we had there? The British took it, and we came and took it back. Taught ’em a lesson, we did.”
They put their horses down the incline to the ferry dock, and as they approached the black, aging timbers, André’s breathing quickened. Near the dock was a large tent with many American officers milling about outside it, some seated at a table, passing around a large bowl half-filled with rum. André was remembering that not long before, he had personally been involved in negotiating the surrender of many Americans near Fort Stony Point. He had stood face-to-face with a great number of angry American officers, some of whom had been exchanged and returned to the
American army and reassigned. Would any of them be among those at the tent? And if they were, would any of them recognize him?
Smith hailed the officers with gusto, and they acknowledged him. André buried his chin against his chest, bowed stiffly from the hips, and spurred his horse onto the heavy planking of the ferry dock and turned. For a moment his heart stopped. Smith had reined in beside the officers seated at the table and dismounted.
André heard him bellow, “Why, that bowl’s empty! Where’s more rum?”
The officers laughed. One produced a jug, and they poured, and the bowl continued around the table. André turned his back to the American and waited, the servant boy beside him. He heard Smith blustering to the officers of the secret mission entrusted to him, fraught with danger, pivotal in the war effort, and the American officers nodded, smiled, winked at each other, and passed the bowl.
With the sun touching the western rim of the Hudson River Valley, Smith led his horse to André and the waiting boy, and they followed him to a freight boat just docked. They loaded the horses, Smith gave orders, and the four oarsmen and the coxswain pushed away from the dock and buried their oarblades in the water.
Smith slapped one of the crew on the back and announced, “If you’ll row faster, there’ll be something on the far shore to revive your spirits!”
The rhythm of the oars increased.
As the barge thumped into the dock on the east bank, Smith put coins in the hand of the coxswain, added one more, and pointed to the lights of a tavern to the north. They unloaded the horses and in full darkness, Smith led them up the incline to the road leading south. He stopped once at the home of Colonel James Livingston to give his personal greeting, and told the Colonel his business was far too important to be delayed by an invitation to grog and supper. They rode on into the night for just over an hour, when Smith turned into a lane leading to lights in a home.
“Andreas Miller’s home,” he said to André. “We stay here the night.”
At dawn Smith awakened to find an impatient André, who had neither taken off his clothes nor slept during the night, standing over him. André insisted they saddle their horses and be on the road before sunrise. The rested horses moved easily down the south road, putting the American posts steadily further behind them and bringing them ever closer to the British lines. They passed Pine Bridge, then came to the Croton River crossing, the northern perimeter of the British patrols. At last they were leaving rebel territory and entering British-held ground. A great surge of relief swept through André, and it loosened his tongue. He began talking of the beginning of the revolution, the history of warfare, and trivia that puzzled Smith.
Smith stopped at the home of a Dutch widow, who prepared them a simple breakfast. They ate with Smith chattering, then walked back to their waiting horses. Smith untied the reins on his mount and spoke.
“I can go no further. Too dangerous. From here south, there are British patrols out all the time. You’ll be safe.”
“You have the passes?” asked André.
Smith drew from his coat the two passes Arnold had signed, authorizing John Anderson to pass unmolested through American lines, whether on land or water, and handed them to André.
“There they are. They will see you through any American lines.”
André seized the coveted papers and thrust them into the pocket of the jacket that Smith had provided. “I will need a few dollars in Continental money. I can leave my watch with you for security.”
Without a word Smith handed over what money he had, and André thrust it into his pocket, then drew out his watch and offered it to Smith.
Smith shook his head and without a word he mounted, and he and his servant reined their horses around, headed north to whence they had come.
André’s head rolled back for a moment in stark relief. The loquacious, irritating Smith was gone! He was finally in territory controlled by the British. If an errant American patrol should stop him, he had the signature of none other than Major General Benedict Arnold, Commander of Fort West Point, on a pass that must be honored by all Americans. He was safe! The tense gamble had succeeded. Soon enough England would have the rebellious colonies under control, and his role in arranging it would open the gates of all England to him.
He pushed on, easy in the saddle, thoughts running free, when the horse slowed, then shied. From nowhere three ragged, dirty men stood barring the roadway, muskets raised. One stepped forward and grabbed the bridle of André’s horse.
For two seconds André studied the men and concluded they were obviously Loyalists, a Tory patrol. “Gentlemen,” he began, smiling at the abuse of the word, “I hope you belong to our party.”
“What party?” The man asking the question was nearly seven feet tall, spare, lean, broad-shouldered, long-faced.
“The King’s, of course,” André responded.
The giant nodded but said nothing, waiting for André to continue.
“I’m an officer in the British military. I’ve been on His Majesty’s secret business, and I can not be detained. For a token to let you know I’m a gentleman . . .” André drew his gold watch from the jacket pocket and extended it toward the towering man.
The giant paid no attention to the watch. “Get off the horse.”
For the first time, André sensed these three were not Loyalists, but rebel Americans. A chill ran up his spine. He forced his best theatrical laugh. “It appears I must do anything to get along.” He drew Arnold’s pass from his pocket and leaned forward to hand it to the giant, knowing the signature of General Arnold was his guarantee of free passage.
The huge man held the pass close to his face and slowly mouthed each word, while his two companions held their muskets aimed at André, waiting. The man’s face drew down in puzzlement, and again he gave the direct order.
“Get down from the horse.”
André swung down, talking as he did. “Gentlemen, you had best let me go, or you’ll bring trouble down on yourselves. You are obstructing the General’s business.”
The big man spoke laboriously. “You said you’re a British officer. The pass is signed by Gen’l Arnold, and he’s an American. There’s bad people on this road and maybe you’re one of them. If you’re a British officer, where’s your money?”
André started to reach for the Continental dollars given him by Smith, and stopped. A British officer would be carrying British currency.
“I have none,” André exclaimed.
The American to the right of the huge man blurted, “A British officer without money?” His face contorted in sarcasm. “Let’s search him.”
They took André to a gate, he squeezed through, and they followed him into a thicket screened away from the road.
“Take off your clothes,” the big man demanded.
Three minutes later André stood stripped to his underwear and stockings while the three men pawed through his clothing. They found his gold watch and the second pass signed by Arnold and little else. For a moment they conferred, and the two smaller men pointed to the pass. The giant shook his head, and André realized the two smaller men were illiterate. They could not read. The huge man opened his mouth to speak when one of the smaller men pointed to André.
“Take off your stockings.”
André hesitated. The two smaller men reached to grasp him, and he raised a hand to stop them while he pulled off his stocking, and he held his breath as the three small maps and drawings fell to the ground. Instantly the three men were on them, and the big man unfolded them and slowly mouthed each word. For three minutes that were an eternity, André stood still, waiting to see if this great oaf knew what he had in his hands.
The giant looked up from the paper and stared at André. “This man is a spy!” he bellowed.
The smallest man leveled his musket on André’s chest. “Get dressed.”
André reached for his breeches. “I have it in my power to reward you,” he exclaimed. “One thousand guineas each, if you’ll allow m
e to complete my mission for General Arnold.”
The three ragged Americans paused, and the big one drew them aside. For five minutes they talked among themselves, gesturing toward André from time to time while he dressed. They returned shaking their heads and spoke roughly.
“We’re delivering you to an officer.”
André’s mind went blank for a moment, and he struggled to force some semblance of reason into his shattered thoughts. If he was delivered to an American officer, he would play the role of John Anderson, special secret agent to General Benedict Arnold. No competent officer would in his wildest imaginings suppose that the great American hero was a traitor! Who would risk the wrath of the entire Continental Army by accusing Benedict Arnold of treasonous behavior? What officer would dare go over Arnold’s head and report any suspicions directly to General Washington? None. Absolutely none. It was clear. Any officer receiving the documents from his stockings, together with the pass written by General Arnold, would obviously take the entire matter to Arnold himself!
And what would Arnold do? Thank the officer profusely, swear him to secrecy, and deliver André safely into British hands.
André shrugged it off lightly. “As you wish. The sooner the better.”
The three pointed back up the road, then stopped at the sound of men approaching around the first turn. Seconds later four more American soldiers appeared. For ten minutes the three holding André captive explained the curious pass, the clandestine documents, their deep suspicions, and their decision to deliver the entire matter into the hands of an officer. The four bobbed their heads, agreed to help take André to the nearest outpost, and the seven of them prodded André forward.
Within the hour the cluster of men reached the tiny American command post at North Castle, delivered their request to a picket, and minutes later found themselves in the tent of Lieutenant Colonel John Jameson.
André breathed in relief. Jameson was a Virginian—a gentleman, whom André judged would treat him with utmost courtesy.
Jameson studied the strange group, staring hard at the giant, who stood a foot taller than any man in the tent, before he spoke.
