Sophia's War (26 page)

He and Robinson mused about what would be achieved when the assault of West Point took place. “I intend to ask General Clinton to let me lead the attack,” said André.

“He's bound to let you. Of course, it will be successful. Arnold must make it happen.”

André said, “The capture of the fort will bring an end to the war.”

“And,” added Robinson with a grin, “glory, promotion, and wealth for you. I suppose the king will bestow a title. And you only twenty-nine years old.”

André paced the mansion, waiting for the next morning, when a small sailboat would take him up the river to the
Vulture
, and to Arnold.

56

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING
, September twentieth, I awoke cold, bone sore, and very hungry. Forest, river, rocks, plus a wilderness of ignorance, surrounded me. For a while, I remained where I was, in painful melancholy. But I knew the reality. Not to continue would be fatal in all respects.

I roused myself and walked as the day before, along the river's edge. I went in, out, across modest inlets and small creeks, but always, always, I moved north.

In Beekman Mansion, Major John André, assisted by Peter Laune, his servant, dressed with care. It was imperative to André that when he met General Arnold he appear at his best. He would be representing the British Army. Everything he did, the way he appeared and talked, the way he dealt with others, would help to establish his authority, dignity, and power. It was not just an honor to wear the uniform; he would be representing the greatest nation on earth.

Besides, as André was well aware, General Arnold, despite his reputation as a good military man, was
not a gentleman, merely a colonial merchant. When André came face-to-face with him, he must assert his superiority from the first. There was something amusing too about the fact that Arnold had married Peggy Shippen, the girl André had flirted with when he was in Philadelphia.

As André stood before his looking glass, musing, adjusting his wig, there was a knock on his dressing room door. André's servant opened it. A soldier stood in the hallway. “Sir,” he said, saluting, while addressing Major André, “the boat you requested to take you and Colonel Robinson to the
Vulture
is ready.”

“Thank you.”

André's servant shut the door. “Sir, may I take the liberty of asking where you are going?”

“Just a pleasant excursion, Peter,” said André. “I'll be back very soon.”

I don't know how far I walked. Save for a handful of blackberries, I ate nothing. They colored my hands red, as if I were a murderess caught in the act. The dye reminded me of the black ink from Mr. Gaine's printing press. Those days seemed far beyond.

As I made my way, I began to perceive that directly north was a large extension of land that reached far into the river. Having no idea what it meant for my journey, I simply pressed on. As the day wore, however, I began to grasp that the land I'd seen had a shoreline that cut in deeply in an easterly direction.

I soon came upon the mouth of a wide inlet, far too
wide for me to wade across. Looking eastward, up the inlet, I saw I would have to go a goodly distance eastward before I could even consider crossing over.

The thought of such a detour wearied me. Would I never get there? In truth, I no longer really knew where
there
was!

At 7 p.m., Major André and Colonel Robinson reached the
Vulture.
Captain Sutherland welcomed them aboard again and showed them to a small cabin where a simple dinner awaited. Leaving his guests to their food, the captain ordered the ship's sails be hoisted, the anchor lifted. Slowly, the
Vulture
began to move upriver toward its appointed meeting place off Tellers Point.

In expectation of André's arrival, General Arnold went to the home of Mr. Joshua Hett Smith. It sat twenty miles south of West Point, on the western bank of Hudson's River. Situated on a bluff, it had a good view of Tellers Point. Moreover, it was not far from the shore point—Long Clove Mountain cove—where Arnold planned to meet André.

Arnold ordered Smith to find a boat and rowers, telling his friend that he was meeting a valued business visitor, a Mr. Anderson. Mr. Smith, having learned that safety for him in the war meant asking no questions, agreed to go to the
Vulture.
It would be anchored off Tellers Point. Mr. Anderson was on board. At midnight, Smith would convey the gentleman to shore. Arnold would meet him. Such was the plan.

Arnold was satisfied that this time the meeting would absolutely take place.

Tired, hungry, and dejected, having no idea where I was, I sat down upon a boulder and gazed upon Hudson's River. It was quite wide at that spot. The evening was hot. Mosquito flies buzzed my ears. I told myself I should take a short nap and then push on. I lay down, closed my eyes, and slept.

As I slept, the
Vulture
sailed right by me. When it reached Tellers Point, its anchor splashed down and held. Waiting for Arnold or his messenger to arrive, André walked the deck with Colonel Robinson.

Onshore, Mr. Smith was having a difficult time recruiting rowers to take him to the ship. It was unfortunate, but General Arnold and Mr. Anderson would have to wait until the next night to meet.

57

I AWOKE WITH
a jolt only to realize I had slept through the night. Springing to my feet, I looked around. To the north was a ship. It took but a moment for me to recognize the
Vulture.

I stared at it with consternation. Had the meeting of Arnold and André already taken place? Might André still be on the ship? Frantic, I hastened eastward along the shore of that wide inlet, walking, running, sometimes, in my haste, stumbling.

After a while, I began to grasp that I was not moving along an inlet but the mouth of yet another river. A wide river. While I could see that in the far distance it was narrowing, I was unsure at what point I would be able to cross.

I had gone, perhaps, half an hour, constantly balked, and hot beneath the sun, when I spied two men by the river's bank. I halted.

They were sitting side by side on the trunk of an old tree. Close was a canoe. What's more, these men were in uniform. Soldiers. Yes, I could see that they were not
red
uniforms but blue ones. Even so, I didn't know what
to do. With my exhaustion and frustration, I was hardly capable of determining uniforms. I believed—or wanted to believe—that they were from the American army, but I dared not trust my judgment. If wrong, all would be lost. In my befuddlement, I even wondered, recalling that the
Vulture
was not so far away, that perhaps one of these men was General Arnold.

As a result, I simply stood where I was, gawking. Before I could make up my mind what to do, one of the soldiers spied me and jumped up. His companion did the same. That one held a musket. Both wore blue jackets with bands of white across their chests. They stood there staring at me. But then, they could have no idea where I came from. With my dress disordered, soiled, and torn, my face and hair the same, I might as well have been a witch.

My first thought was that I should run away. However, you must believe me when I say it was not courage but utter fatigue that made me call out, “Who are you?”

The soldier who had first stood answered, “Philip Groogins.” He was a young man.

“Richard Baydon,” said the other, middle-aged.

Poised to flee, I said, “What army do you belong to?”

“The upper party,” said the young one. “American.”

“From Fort Lafayette,” said the one name Baydon. He nodded cross the river.

“Under the command of Colonel James Livingston,” Mr. Baydon went on when I said nothing. “Who are you?”

“Miss Molly Saville. I must speak with your commander.”

“Why?” They seemed truly bewildered.

Though unsure what to say, I could not hold myself back. “Something awful is about to happen,” I cried out.

“What?”

The direct question unnerved me. Who was I to trust? I said, “I can only inform your officer.”

They studied me. It was Mr. Groogins who said, “You need to tell us
something.
”

I pointed back from where I had come. “There's a British ship out there. The
Vulture
. Just north of the land. Off some point.”

“Tellers Point?”

“I suppose,” I said, only then realizing I had come close to where I wished to be. “She's bringing a spy.”

They exchanged looks before turning back to me.

“Where do you come from?” asked Mr. Baydon.

“New York City.”

Again they just gazed as if not believing me. Mr. Groogins said, “From British lines?”

“Please,” I said. “It's urgent. Your commander needs to know about that ship and the spy. You must take me to him.”

“It's some miles north.”

“I don't care!” I cried, increasingly exasperated.

“You sure about what you said?”

“I beg you! You can see the ship for yourself. Please, it's urgent!”

The two conferred in private voices, now and again
glancing in my direction as if uncertain what to make of me. I suspect they thought me daft, and must do
something
on that account, if for no other reason.

“All right,” said Mr. Baydon. “We'll take you. Come along.”

They went to their canoe, picked it up, and set in the river, then beckoned me to join them. I got in while they pushed it out.

With strong paddle strokes, we crossed the river. As we went, I said, “Where are we?”

“This is the Croton River. Over there—” Mr. Baydon paused. “Do you really not know where you are?”

“Only a bit.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“Some fisherfolk took me part of the way from Manhattan Island in their boat. For the rest I walked.”

“Alone?”
said Mr. Groogins.

I nodded.

The two exchanged looks of doubt but said no more.