Sophia's War (23 page)

There was much more: in a stroke, my ability to watch John André was erased just when the treacherous meeting with Arnold was to take place. In a matter of days.

Did my despair matter? Not a jot. On the night before we departed for Beekman Mansion I went home along Broadway, wishing only that Mr. Townsend would appear. He did not.

Though I knew for a certainty that a frightful event was about to take place, I had been rendered utterly useless.

Do you wonder that as I lay down to sleep I wept? All, all was for naught.

50

BEEKMAN MANSION WAS
a large, graceful building a few miles north of the city. When the British occupied New York it was taken first by General Howe and then by General Clinton. I knew hardly anything of its past, save that it was where Nathan Hale had his so-called trial.

Though General Clinton and his officers went along on horseback, we six female servants went by jolting wagon. I was certain I had lost all contact with André and Arnold's plot. Indeed, I have must have appeared so forlorn, one of my companions asked me if had been jilted by a suitor.

In a sense, I had.

Once at the mansion, I was told that another girl and I would serve table. During that first night, when I brought in the soup, I found that seated at the table was Major John André.

Can you imagine my astonishment?

Dressed as smartly as ever, he wore a red jacket with gold facings and green trim. His wig was powdered snow white. If he recognized me from the Kennedy house,
he gave no sign. Of course, he would hardly have bothered to notice the likes of me. I cannot say which I felt most—resentment or joy.

That first dinner was a relaxed affair, with talk of refined matters: a play performed in the city's Theatre Royal, the latest gossip from London, an officers' ball planned in the city. Major André even recited a poem he had written that mocked American soldiers, a poem being published in Mr. Gaine's
Mercury.
It was the only mention of the war and it brought much laughter.

Once the formal dinner was over and the women withdrew from the table, General Clinton, Major André, and a certain Colonel Beverly Robinson remained.

I had seen Colonel Robinson at headquarters. American born, he had joined the British ranks months ago. He did more, leading a regiment called the Loyal Americans—loyal, that is, to King George.

The talk among these men shifted to military matters. In fact, when I brought in the silver coffeepot, I heard them speaking about the coming meeting between Major André and General Arnold. Among the three, Arnold's name was bandied about openly. Though shocking, I found it satisfying that
I
had previously discovered most of it on my own.

What were they saying?

A meeting of Arnold and André was to happen at a place called Dobbs Ferry, a community up Hudson's River. Recalling the maps I had studied at the Kennedy house, I knew this was in the general direction of West Point.

André mentioned that Arnold wished him
not
to wear his uniform at the meeting, but come disguised as a merchant named John Anderson. Anderson, of course, was the name André used to communicate with Arnold.

“I don't care what name you use,” General Clinton scolded, “but under no circumstance, Major, shall you remove your uniform. The danger is too great.”

“You know how it is,” Robinson agreed. “Be captured in your uniform, and you will be treated as an officer. Without a uniform, you'll be considered a spy.”

A smiling André promised to follow the order. Then, quite casually, he announced that General Arnold had suggested that there was a good chance that when they took West Point they would be able to capture General Washington.

Though André spoke offhandedly, there was a potent pause after this remark.
General Washington captured!
Even I stopped my serving.

“If we do that,” said Clinton, “it will absolutely end the war.”

“God grant it,” said Colonel Robinson.

“For all of this to work,” General Clinton instructed André, “surprise is crucial. Once you confer with Arnold, you
must
retreat to the city as fast as possible. Troops are already waiting to begin the attack upon the fort.”

How hard for me to keep my self-control and still serve.

Though I dawdled, I learned no more. When I brought more coffee to the room, they had moved on to other matters.

That night, in the stifling attic of the house, in the narrow bed I shared with another girl, I all but boiled with frustration. I was much like the person who labors forever at planning a voyage, draws detailed maps, packs trunks—yet goes nowhere. I was failing my brother and my country. Of course, I slept but poorly.

In the morning, I learned that André and Robinson had gone off, presumably to that Dobbs Ferry.

But among the many desperate emotions that churned within me, the strongest was
rage
, rage at myself. Never mind what I had discovered. What had I done?
Nothing
.

It would have been easy to excuse myself by claiming the cause of my inaction was Mr. Townsend's absence, which was none of my doing. Yet there I was, aware that General Arnold was about to commit horrible treason—treason that, in all likelihood, would lose the war for my country. What did I do? Serve food and wash dishes!

In such a state, I made a vow. I told myself that
if
, by some miracle, the meeting
was
in some way or fashion foiled, I must, given a second chance, do
something.

51

GENERAL ARNOLD AND
Major André were trying to meet at Dobbs Ferry. The town was situated upon Hudson's River, above Manhattan, some thirty-five miles below West Point in an area known as the neutral territory. It was called “neutral” since neither British or American forces controlled it. To the north were Americans. To the south, British. Thus, in popular jabber, Americans were styled “the upper party,” whereas the British were called “the lower party.”

The words and distinctions would have considerable import.

As planned, on September eleventh, André went up to Dobbs Ferry. Under a white flag of truce, he waited for Arnold. I could have no doubt: during this meeting, Arnold intended to provide André with the means of giving Fort West Point to the British.

You can guess then, my shock, as well as my elation, when the next day, September twelfth, John André was restored to Beekman Mansion and General Clinton. Only when I served them did I learn that the meeting with Arnold had
not
taken place.

What had happened? It appeared that Arnold—as planned—had a party of men row him down the river. As I have told you, the meeting was a secret. Indeed, it was so secret that a British gunboat, a few of which patrolled the river north of New York to watch American military movement, fired on Arnold, driving his boat back to shore—the shore opposite where André was waiting.

Thus, it fell out that the British themselves prevented the fateful meeting!

André was extremely frustrated. Nonetheless, he, Clinton, and Robinson discussed finding another way to meet Arnold.

Though I did not see the letters, André and Arnold must have managed to communicate. Arrangements for a
new
meeting were made. This plan was that André would board the
Vulture
, a British armed sloop that patrolled Hudson's River, and sail up to a place called Tellers Point. How fitting, I thought, for the boat to be named after such a grasping bird!

Once the
Vulture
arrived on September fifteenth, Arnold would send a small boat for André. At that meeting, Arnold would tell André how best to conquer West Point. André would then reboard the
Vulture
and sail to New York City. With strategy in hand, the attack on West Point would commence.

Such was their plan.

Once again, I heard General Clinton tell André: when he met Arnold, he
must
stay in uniform. He further cautioned André not to go beyond the neutral territory, into
American lines, or carry any incriminating documents.

André, with his charming smile, promised he would do as told.

When I heard them making this new plan, I recalled the vow
I
had made. Having been provided with a
second
chance to prevent the meeting of André and Arnold, I felt obliged to act. But how was I, a maid of fifteen, to array herself against such powerful men? It was not as if I had a plan, some powers, or even allies to go against these conspirators. There I was, far above the city. I knew not one person with whom I might confide.

On Friday the fifteenth, Major André and Colonel Robinson took a small sailboat up to the
Vulture
, which lay upon Hudson's River.

The knowledge that they had done so made me deplore my helplessness. I loathed myself.

You may picture my bepuzzlement when, next day, I learned that this second meeting had not taken place either! Once again, some communication between Arnold and André must have occurred. For, having failed to reach the
Vulture—
I never knew why—Arnold promised that next time he would send a man named Joshua Smith to the
Vulture
, which would be anchored off that place called Tellers Point.

This Mr. Smith was the brother of the loyalist chief justice in New York City. Despite—or perhaps because of—this connection, Smith was a self-proclaimed patriot. Which is to say he was vague in his allegiance, and moved between both camps with ease. I don't
pretend to know his motives, I only know it was so.

It was Mr. Smith who would bring André ashore to Arnold. This
third
attempt at meeting would occur on the twentieth of September. Three days hence.