Sophia's War: A Tale of the Revolution

  65

  MR. SMITH AND Major André were up at dawn. They thanked the man who had put them up for the night. André offered to pay something, but was refused, with the words, “You can pass the welcome on to others in good time.”

  When the two men mounted their horses, the light of dawn was made dimmer with a morning fog and slight drizzle.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mr. Smith. “I know the road perfectly. We’re heading for the town of Crompond.”

  They moved slowly through the fog.

  It was Mrs. Abbatt, who, with a gentle shake of my shoulder, woke me from deep sleep.

  “Your friend Mr. Paulding is here,” she said. “He’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  Though my body sorely ached, I bestirred myself. The morning’s light was dullish. The air felt damp. I went into the kitchen, where Mr. Paulding was waiting. He seemed to fill the small room’s space.

  “Good morning, Miss Calderwood,” he said. “I have managed to find some friends to help us.”

  Mrs. Abbatt handed me a bowl of warm milk and some bread. I devoured it in haste and handed her back the bowl. “Thank you for your kindness, madam,” I said.

  “My pleasure. I hope all goes well.”

  So did I.

  John Paulding and I stepped out of the house. A thin ground fog and slight drizzle softened the world much like the fuzz upon a peach. Two young men were waiting. Each had muskets in the crooks of their arms.

  “My friends,” said Mr. Paulding, introducing them. “Isaac Van Wart. David Williams. Gentlemen, my family friend Miss Calderwood.”

  They nodded friendly greeting, but said no words.

  “We need to wait along the Albany Road,” Mr. Paulding explained. “Do you mind the wet?” he said to me.

  “Not at all.”

  “We’d best go on.”

  We left the town and turned north along the same road I had come by the day before. Mr. Paulding’s friends went before us.

  “Mr. Paulding—” I said. “If we do stop Major André, what will happen next?”

  “I’ll be honest and say I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But I suppose we’d turn him over to the regular army.”

  “What will they do with him?”

  “If what you say is correct, I suppose they’ll hang him.”

  I felt as if someone had struck me across the face.

  Let it be admitted, throughout my pursuit of John André I had never contemplated what might be the consequence if he were captured. All my efforts had been on preventing his meeting with General Arnold and then averting the loss of West Point. Yet despite those efforts, evidence suggested—but did not yet prove—that a meeting had taken place. In short, as far as I knew, I had failed.

  The one chance of stopping the treasonous play was to keep André from reaching New York City. Now, perhaps, with Mr. Paulding’s help, we could stop him. But if we did, and Mr. Paulding did turn him over to our regular soldiers, what did I wish to happen next?

  I will say it plain: the mere consideration that John André might be hung appalled me. I beg you to recall that I had never forgotten Nathan Hale and his fate. The notion of André being hung filled me with profound horror. And guilt.

  Did I feel guilty that I might be the means by which he might die? Or—was I guilty of wishing to spare him?

  But—was not John André the enemy? Did he not refuse to help William and therefore bring on my brother’s ghastly death? Had I so forgotten the nightmare of the sugarhouse and the Good Intent? Had John André not taken up arms and used them to kill my countrymen? On the field of battle? In prisons? Was not his government, his king, bent upon suppressing our freedom, our natural rights? Was he not at this same moment working to bring defeat to my country?

  He was guilty of those things.

  Were these not reasons enough to stop him?

  Was I to be that gross and false image, the weak woman, who pushes aside all reason to embrace the folly of blind emotion?

  The mere possibility was a scandal to me, Sophia Calderwood, who wished to think of myself as strong of will and mind. John André no longer knew me. Why should I know him as other than the enemy?

  And yet I was anguished, an anguish from which I could not free myself.

  I have said before how the war made us live lives of deception. There was the question, had I deceived myself? Was all I’d done for a noble cause, to have my nation’s fair revenge? Or were my actions motivated by my wish for him to recognize me? To treat me as he had done when I was a girl? When I fancied he cared for me?

  How contemptible! How low! How degrading!

  Never mind what I been. The question was, what would I do . . . now?

  The fog had mostly lifted when John André and Joshua Smith, moving south, reached the small cluster of houses known as the town of Crompond. Blocking the road was an armed young man in American uniform.

  “Captain Foote!” he announced himself. “Where are you men going?”

  “General Arnold asked me to escort Mr. Anderson south,” replied Mr. Smith.

  André handed down Arnold’s pass. Captain Foote glanced at it briefly, handed it back, and waved them on. “Colonel Jameson’s dragoons are at Wright’s Mill,” he said to André. “They might give you an escort.”

  Mr. Smith thanked the young officer. He and André headed south. “Sounds like you might want to avoid Wright’s Mill,” said Mr. Smith.

  André heard the warning but said nothing.

  They stopped at a farmhouse and asked an old woman if they could buy some food. The woman offered some corn mush, which was gratefully received. She would not take an offered payment.

  A mile farther down the road Mr. Smith halted. “Well, sir,” he said. “Pines Bridge is just a short way along. From here on, you’ll more likely find less Continental troops and more cowboys. You know, those of the lower party. To be honest, I’ve worked to keep myself in the shade—neither light or dark. You’d best go on yourself.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” said André, and the two shook hands. “Thank you for all your efforts, sir.”

  With a farewell wave, Smith turned his horse and headed back north. André, now alone, pressed toward the south. When he reached the Croton River, he passed over the Pines Bridge. Half a mile farther on, he came upon a boy walking by the road.

  “Hello, lad. Am I heading right for Wright’s Mill?”

  “’Bout a mile on there’s a fork. To the left for Wright’s Mill. To the right for Tarrytown.”

  “Thank you,” said André, and threw the boy a sixpence for his information.

  André pressed on. As the boy had told him, he reached a fork in the road. He paused. Wright’s Mill was where the American dragoons were stationed. He turned to the right, toward Tarrytown.

  66

  WITH MR. PAULDING in the lead, the three men moved along the road. I came behind, trying desperately to deal with my swirling thoughts and emotions. What have I done? I kept asking myself. What should I do?

  Shortly after we left town, Mr. Pauling brought us to a thickly wooded area that crowded in upon both sides of the road.

  “Miss Calderwood,” said Mr. Paulding. “My friends and I shall keep ourselves on this side. I suggest you remain on the other side, out of sight. But not so far that I can’t signal to you. If someone appears, I’ll look to you. You’ll need to watch. If it’s your man, just raise your hand and we’ll stop him. If you don’t signal, we’ll let him pass on. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, finding it hard to speak. “It does.”

  “Do you wish to confront him?”

  “No,” I said instantly.

  We deployed ourselves. The three of them went to one side of the road, and I, quite alone, was fairly hidden on the other.

  As we waited, all those questions I just laid before you kept churning within my head, each with a multitude of possibilities, choices, wishes, and regrets. I did not know what to think. Or do.

  It
all came to two things: What were my feelings about John André? And if he did come, how should I act?

  What feelings did I have for him?

  I believe we waited for a few hours. It was yet morning, and I was still lost in all my mental commotion when I saw that Mr. Paulding was waving his hand at me.

  With a pounding heart, I turned my eyes along the road.

  A man appeared, pushing a barrow.

  When I saw that it was not André, I made no sign to Mr. Paulding. The man passed by. We continued to wait.

  It was not long before a brown horse and rider appeared.

  Though his clothing was utterly different than I had ever seen upon him, I immediately knew it was John André. What’s more, I could tell from the way he sat upon the horse that he was exhausted. And I, my heart anything but calm, felt a pang of pity for the man.

  I darted a glance across the road. Mr. Paulding was looking right at me, waiting again for me to sign—or not.

  Oh, weak heart, I cried to myself, tell me what to do! Shall I preserve his life or mine?

  I lifted my hand.

  The moment I did, Mr. Paulding and his two friends fairly leaped out upon the road so that Major André could not go forward. Taken by surprise, he clutched nervously at the horse’s reins and stared down upon the men, but mostly at Mr. Paulding, who had grabbed the horse’s bridle.

  In fact, I believe the green German military coat my friend was wearing confused him. For André, settling himself upon his saddle with all his dignity on display, said, “Gentlemen, I trust you belong to our party.”

  “What party is that?” said Mr. Paulding.

  “The lower,” said André. Then he added, “I am an officer in the British service and have been on particular business in the country. I hope you will not detain me.”

  The men exchanged glances, after which Mr. Paulding said, “Climb down, sir.”

  André, not budging, said, “But I must get along.”

  No one moved.

  “Down, sir!” insisted Paulding.

  Apparently grasping that he must deal with these men, André pulled out Arnold’s pass and handed it down. Isaac Van Wart took it and unfolded it. I rather suspect he could not read, for he passed it to Mr. Paulding, whom I knew could.

  “My lads,” said an impatient André, “you’re going to get yourselves into a lot of trouble.”

  Mr. Van Wart grinned and said, “But you just said you were a British officer.”

  “I’m engaged upon the general’s business,” said André. “Do you intend to rob me?”

  “You need not worry,” said Mr. Paulding. “We don’t intend to take your money.”

  “Good,” said André. “I don’t have any.”

  “British officers always have money,” said Mr. Van Wart. He turned to Mr. Paulding.

  “Let’s search him,” said Paulding.

  “Get down,” commanded Mr. Williams.

  After a moment of hesitation, André dismounted. The men removed his coat and jacket and went through his pockets. They found two watches and a few dollar bills, nothing more. They threw the clothing onto the ground.

  “Take off your boots,” said Mr. Van Wart.

  André looked hard at him—as if insulted by the demand—but sat down upon the ground. Mr. Van Wart bent over and yanked off both boots. The men searched inside them. Once more, they found nothing.

  It was Mr. Paulding who said, “Take off your socks.”

  André did not move, but just sat there. Mr. Williams reached down and yanked off the right sock. They found nothing. It was an impatient Mr. Paulding who pulled off the left sock. When he did, the papers Arnold had given André tumbled out.

  Williams snatched them up and handed all to Mr. Paulding, who examined the papers closely. It was then he said, “This man is a spy.”

  67

  IN ALL OF these proceedings, Mr. Paulding did not look at me. I am equally certain that John André never noticed me in my place of concealment. Yet I, to my increasing mortification, watched and heard it all. The way the men went through André’s pockets, pulled away his boots, and then stripped him of his stockings was like some crude mockery. I have no doubt that for André, it being low Americans who had accosted him and treated him thus was deeply wounding to his pride.

  Indeed, the major, standing there in his bare feet, offered the men a large sum of money—a bribe—if they would let him pass. He smiled. He tried his charm. He bullied. He threatened. He offered more money. The three men refused it all. To see André’s growing frustration, anger, and finally his humiliation made me ashamed. Had I not tried bribes to free William?

  It was Mr. Paulding who said to him, “Mount up. We need to take you to Colonel Jameson. He’s my superior. He can decide what to do with you.”

  André put on his socks and shoes slowly. I knew him well enough to read his thoughts and looks: How dare such men treat me so! As if to regain some dignity, he picked up his coat and hat and dusted them off.

  Only then did he remount his horse. Once set, he again offered money for his freedom, considerably more than he had before. It was to no avail.

  Taking the reins of André’s horse in hand, Mr. Williams began to lead the way north, along the road. Mr. Van Wart took a place by André’s side, one hand on the major’s boot, as if to remind him he was there. Mr. Paulding came last, behind the horse.

  As they started off, Mr. Paulding turned to determine where I was.

  Wobbly with emotion, I stepped out onto the road. For a moment I stood there and watched them move along, incapable of clear thought. Part of me wished to run away. The greater part insisted that I must see all that happened. And indeed, I did follow, but kept a considerable distance behind. Yes, I did not want John André to see me. I also did not wish the men to see the pain in my heart.

  What have I done?

  The answer I insisted upon—then—was I have saved my country.

  68

  ALONG WITH HIS FRIENDS, Mr. Paulding led John André in the direction of Wright’s Mill. Along the way, they paused at a place called Reed’s Tavern, where Major André was given milk and bread.

  I stood apart and watched him. He seemed despondent. How strange for me to see him without his charm, his beguiling smiles and graces. It made me think of a puppet from which the inner, living hand had been removed, making him empty of life.

  It was at Reed’s Tavern that Mr. Paulding discovered that Colonel Jameson and his troops had been transferred to a place called North Castle, some six miles farther. They turned that way.

  When Mr. Paulding informed me of their new direction, he asked me what I wished to do.

  “I’ll follow along,” I said.

  As they went, I am quite sure that John André never so much as glanced back to where I was, for as before I remained some distance behind. Thus I always was there, always watching, but never part of the group that included John André.

  Yet, in my way, was I not the closest of all?

  I kept asking myself, What is this man to me? I kept reminding myself that he had been trying to destroy my country.

  As we moved along, Mr. Paulding twice came to inquire after me. I assured him I was fine in all respects, which, of course, was not true. Making no explanations, I told Mr. Paulding I preferred to continue but keep out of sight.

  So it was that we walked all day, the only one mounted being André.

  Late afternoon we reached North Castle, a place hardly more than a sawmill and a few farmhouses. Here Mr. Paulding found Colonel Jameson and his troop of dragoons. They were awaiting the arrival of some important officer whose name was not mentioned. As soon as we arrived, Mr. Paulding turned Major André—along with the papers they had found on him—over to the colonel.

  The news of André’s capture and who he was quickly spread among the soldiers and then, apparently, elsewhere. I hardly know how, but soon civilians, attracted by the hubbub, gathered. The word “spy” was on all lips.

  When I drew c
lose, no one paid me any mind. No doubt each group thought I was part of another group. You may be sure I never let André see me.

  The enthusiasm brought on by who and what André was, and the seriousness of the charge against him, as well as there being no meeting house, was such that a loud discussion about what to do with him was conducted in public.

  There was no question about the meaning of the papers found on André—plans and diagrams about an attack on West Point. Colonel Jameson was greatly shocked, as were all the other soldiers on duty. So too the civilians. Yet, let it be noted that General Arnold had not put his name on them. Still, there was that pass Arnold had provided for “Mr. Anderson.” That seemed to incriminate André and Arnold, but it was not conclusive. Then again, the major had told Mr. Paulding and his friends that he was a British officer. He further claimed, “I’m engaged upon the general’s business.”

  Arnold’s role in all this thus remained a mystery to all—save Mr. André and me. I, in my emotional turmoil, was hardly going to step forward and proclaim what I knew. For his part, André was not about to reveal what he had been doing.

  There we were, bound together by knowledge neither dared to reveal.

  Colonel Jameson made two decisions. First, he decided to send all the captured papers to General George Washington, who was apparently somewhere close, in Connecticut. Second, Jameson made up his mind to send Major André to General Arnold’s headquarters. There was some logic in this insofar as Arnold was, after all, the commander of West Point, and Jameson’s superior. Jameson believed it was General Arnold’s responsibility to deal with this presumed spy.

  Mr. Paulding objected. When pressed for a reason, he, unwilling to engage me, and reluctant to accuse Arnold, could give no reason. In so doing, he was easily overruled by his superior, Colonel Jameson.

  To be sure, André made no protest. He must have been aware that being sent to Arnold was the best thing that could happen to him.

  With intense perplexity, I watched and listened but did nothing when the major, arms tied behind his back, and guarded by a lieutenant and four militiamen, was taken away. To Arnold!