Sophia's War (24 page)

At this point, though you may consider it vast vanity,
I
came to believe that what had occurred was evidence of the hand of Providence.

Twice
I had resolved to do something to block the treason.

Twice I failed to act, unable to think of what I might do. Yet the treason had not yet taken place.

Do you wonder that I should believe that Providence was
demanding
I take action? This time, I committed myself—
absolutely
—to do something. It all came down to this: I was the
only
patriot in America who knew the extreme danger our country was facing. How could I
not
act? Moreover, I had but three days to do so.

52

I HAD NOT
thought out a plan. Far from it. I only knew if I were to save West Point, I must somehow prevent André and Arnold from meeting. Failing that, I must go to West Point itself and tell someone what was happening. In short, other than first getting to Tellers Point, I had no strategy.

Therefore, it was on the night of September sixteenth, a Saturday, when my housework was done and my companions had gone to sleep in that hot and airless attic, that I rose from my bed. I dressed myself, crept down the servants' steps, and left Beekman Mansion by way of a back door.

To reach West Point, I needed to go fifty miles. In my favor was this: I had spent much time in Major André's office looking at maps. That study had given me a general sense of the land that lay between Manhattan and West Point, the area known as the Hudson Valley.

I knew, of course, that Manhattan was an island. I knew I must, at some point, cross water. I was aware of the fact that the narrowest crossing was at Manhattan's northern end. Furthermore, West Point was on the western side
of Hudson's River. In other words, I had
two
bodies of water to get over. I did not know how to swim.

Was ever so vital a journey taken with so many hugger-mugger thoughts! In truth, it was midsummer madness garbed in bits of bravery. But then, as someone said, All beginnings have wings of vanity. If that was so, I had taken flight with enormous wings.

I do not know what time I left the mansion, save that a bright half-moon provided enough light to guide me over rolling hills. Warm air, blessed with a slight breeze, kept me fresh. A few paths helped. Twice I passed roads, but they ran north-south and I was heading west. Occasionally, a grasshopper leaped, wings clacking to keep me alert. Glowflies resparkled here and there. Crickets chirruped. I heard foretelling owls, but what their hoots predicted I knew not.

The first dab of dawn had arrived when I reached Hudson's River. The river was so much wider than the East River. In the early light I could not see across, but I could smell the river's ripe expanse. Hudson's River being tidal, the ocean reaches far inland with strong tides and the pungent smells of sea.

It was upon sensing the river's vastness that I fully grasped the enormous compass—not to say goosery—of my enterprise. That said, my determination was so locked I could hardly pry it apart. Did I not have energy, strength, and most of all, motive? Reminding myself I had but three days, I began to walk northward.

As morning light grew, I observed the far Jersey shore, with its steep cliffs, an impassable barrier. I was
traveling on the eastern shore, where the river quietly lapped a low beach. That beach was mostly pebbly, though now and again there were boulders, which I had to climb or circumvent. Here and there lay tangles of gray driftwood, while multitudes of white oyster shells paved the way. I heard no sounds save my munching steps, occasional squawking gulls, and shrieking terns. Once I caught sight of a big fish leaping and splashing down.

After about an hour's walk, I had what I thought was a stroke of luck: I smelled burning wood. Mingled with that smell was the distinct scent of cooking fish. Coming round a bend, I espied a small fire burning near the water's edge. Hauled upon the beach was what I took to be an old whaleboat, no more than twenty feet long, its single sail lowered. Nearby were a man and a woman, an elderly couple.

Tending the fire, cooking in an iron pot by stirring with a wooden spoon, the woman wore a sullied apron over an ankle-length and much-patched dress. A floppy cap sat over long, gray, and tangled hair. She wore no shoes.

Close by, the man sat cross-legged, mending a fishing net. He was bald, with a fringe of gray hair and spiky white whiskers. A buff jacket was on his back, a frayed cloth round his neck, and old, lumpy boots on his feet.

Not sure if I had anything to fear from such people, I approached with caution.

“Good morning to you, mistress,” I called from a distance.

The woman squinted at me. “Good morning to you.” The man offered a curt nod.

Without ceasing her stirring, the woman said, “Do you live nearby?”

“In the city.”

“Miles 'way from home, then.”

I said, “And further to go.”

“Where's that?”

The first thing that popped out of my mouth was “Tellers Point.”

“A fair ways,” said the man.

I stood there looking at them, uncertain how to proceed, wondering what I should say if they asked more questions.

“What's at the point?” the woman asked.

“My mother is ill,” I said, surprised how easily the lie—without thought—came to my lips.

The woman stirred her pot awhile and then said, “Best come and eat, then.”

I sat upon the ground and was handed a wooden bowl of fish, which was pleasing. As we ate, the woman told me that they had been to the city to sell dried salmon, that her name was Bente, her husband's name Johan, their family name Vanzandt—Dutch.

I warned myself to speak with care, since Dutch New Yorkers were said to be loyalists.

At length Bente asked, “What ails your mother?”

“They just said she was ill,” I said.

Johan said. “Do you mean to walk the whole way?”

“I must.”

“We're fisherfolk,” said Bente. “From upriver. Rhine-beck town.”

“Going home,” added Johan. “Just waiting till the tide shifts. The river rises four, five feet with the tide,” he explained. “Hard to go against it.”

I said nothing.

Then Johan added, “It'll take you three days to walk to Tellers Point. What'll you do for food?”

Embarrassed not to have even thought of such a thing, I stayed mum.

Bente reached out, tapped my knee with a crooked finger, and said, “You'd best come with us. What's your name?”

“Molly Saville,” I said, offering the old lie with ease.

Thus it was settled that I'd sail up river with them.

Even as I agreed to travel with them, John André was arranging yet again to sail up the same river to that British sloop the
Vulture
, from which Mr. Smith would fetch him.

53

THOUGH I WAS
eager to depart, it was necessary to wait till the river tide flooded north. Moreover, despite being very tired, I dared not sleep, worried they would leave without me. As it happened, it took some hours before Johan announced, “We can go.”

After loading their few possessions—kettle and fishing equipment—we pushed the boat into the water. Bente and I scrambled in while Johan shoved until he was up to his waist, then clambered aboard.

While I sat down in the bottom, amidships, Bente hoisted a triangular sail—a lateen rig—up the short mast. Johan took the stern, hand upon the tiller, which he shifted. The boat turned and the gray and patched canvas stiffened with breeze. We heeled slightly, righted ourselves, and began to move in a northerly direction.

Johan maneuvered the small boat until she ran a middle course upriver. Not that we went fast or in a straight line. The wind, hedged in by the cliffs on the western bank of the river, as well as the forest on the eastern, was erratic. Johan tacked constantly, but the zigzags brought us upriver.

Happily, the couple did not talk much. Rather, Johan concentrated on his steering, while Bente threw out a fishing line and put her attention to that. I spent my time gazing upon the shore.

It was a hot and humid day with a haze hugging the river, softening the light. Here and there, horse-stingers darted cross the water's surface. Once, at the river's edge, I saw a buck with many-pronged antlers that had come down to drink among the drooping tree leaves, leaves already tinged with autumn reds.

Convinced I would now reach West Point in time, I allowed myself to relax. As we sailed north, the steady
slip-slap
of the bow teased me to sleep. Only when Johan abruptly called out, “Ship ahead!” did I awaken.

Sitting up, I looked where he pointed.

Upriver I saw a one-masted ship with a square topsail and large mizzen sail furled on her single mast and boom. Facing north, she lay quietly in the water, riding so calmly I presumed she was at anchor. Along her port quarterdeck, I counted six small cannon muzzles. From her stern hung a limp flag, so enfolded I could not determine who it was. A few people were on her deck.

“What is she?” I asked.

“The
Vulture
,” said Johan. “British. She patrols the river here about. Captain Sutherland commands.”

Openmouthed, I realized that this was the same ship that John André was intending to board to meet Arnold.

Thinking that perhaps André might already be on board, I tried to imagine what
he
might do if he knew
I
was on this tiny boat trying to keep him from his
appointment. André and I, hiding from each other, equally deceitful but bent upon opposite goals.

Fearful, I turned to Johan. “Will she stop us?” I asked. “Board us?”

I suspect my face betrayed anxiety, for the old man gazed at me with more intensity than he'd shown before. “You needn't be concerned,” he said. “Captain Sutherland knows me.”

I wished I had not spoken.

As we drew even with the
Vulture
, Johan lifted an arm in greeting. Someone on the deck answered the salute. For my part, I turned away and could not help trying to make myself small.