Sophia's War (32 page)

“Yes?”

“Mr. Tucker? Joshua Smith at your service, sir. On business for General Arnold. My companion Mr. Anderson. I'm afraid night has overtaken us. Captain Boyd, just down the road, suggested you might be willing to put up a couple of weary travelers.”

The man examined Smith, then André.

“We have papers from the general to prove our peaceful mission,” said Smith.

“General Arnold? All right, then,” said the man. “Mind! I've but one spare room and bed.”

“Much obliged,” said Smith.

André and Smith, both wrapped in their coats, shared the bed. André didn't even bother to take off his boots.

“How much further will I need to go?” he asked.

“You'll be in the city tomorrow,” said Smith. “With ease.”

As André tried to sleep, all he could think was that in twenty-four hours, he would be safe and triumphant.

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?