Sophia's War (34 page)

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!

I was of two minds. I was relieved that no
personal
harm would come to André, at least no harm by
my
hand. West Point, I told myself, could still be saved and Arnold exposed. It was everything I desired.

However, when Colonel Jameson chose to send André to General Arnold, I had no doubt that Arnold would protect him. Worse, it was more than likely that Arnold would find a way to free André to do as much destruction as the two had always planned. Arnold's traitorous designs might remain hidden. The loss of West Point might still take place.

In short, once again, all I had done was in jeopardy.

When André was led away, Mr. Paulding came to me and offered to guide me back to Tarrytown.

“Mr. Paulding,” I said, “remember what I told you about General Arnold. It's a great mistake to send André to him.”

“There was nothing I could do, Miss Calderwood. You have no proof.”

It was then—as if Providence again chose to take
things in hand—that into North Castle rode Major Benjamin Tallmadge. With his arrival, everything changed. Again.

Who was Major Tallmadge?

Nothing makes me remember a fact more than being told to unknow it, and Tallmadge was the name Mr. Townsend had urged me to blot from memory—the man to whom he passed on the information I gave him.

And here was Major Tallmadge in New Castle.

Colonel Jameson, his superior, told him all that had happened. The major was upset. “Was it wise to send that man to Arnold?” he demanded.

“What objections could you possibly have?” asked Jameson.

“Why did Arnold give that British major a pass?” Tallmadge asked. “Why did he say he was on business with the general?”

Jameson had no answer.

Tallmadge, greatly troubled, took himself off, as if he had a need to think what to do. I observed him, as he stood slouched against a tree, falling into what is called a “brown study,” some gloomy meditation.

Convinced that Providence was again supplying me the chance to stop the harm I had worked so hard to prevent, I went up to Major Tallmadge. Such was his concentration that I stood before him a good while before he even noticed me. Then he said, “Yes, miss. Do you have something to say to me?”

“Please, sir,” I began. “Is the name Robert Townsend familiar to you?”

His mouth fell open. He came to quick attention. “And if it was?”

I said, “I work for him.”

It took him a moment before he said, “I beg you to explain yourself, miss.”

In haste, I revealed that Mr. Townsend had placed me in General Clinton's headquarters to spy. I further told him what I had discovered. That I had been giving my information to Mr. Townsend until he disappeared. “Is he all right?” I asked.

“He's fine,” said the major.

“What are you to him?” I asked.

“He reports to me,” said Major Tallmadge. “Now repeat,” he said with growing potheration, “what you just said, about General Arnold and this Major André.”

I did as he requested. All of it. Then he said, “Stay right here.” He took a step away.

“Please, sir,” I called. “You must not mention my name.”

Over his shoulder he said, “You haven't given it.”

I watched him as he marched over to Colonel Jameson. The two began to argue hotly. Not wishing to be brought into the debate, I stayed far away so that I did not hear their words.

Their intense argument—if that is what it was—lasted quite a while. It ended when Major Tallmadge broke away and came back to me.

“Thank you,” he said to me. “We have reached a
compromise. Major André will be brought back here. But Colonel Jameson insists that General Arnold be told what has happened. As for the papers Major André had on his person, they have already been sent to General Washington. I didn't inform the colonel about you. Mr. Townsend's name remains a secret.”

Such was my shock, I just stood there, unable to speak. From my point of view, it was the worst possible outcome: Arnold's plan to take West Point not yet fully revealed even as Arnold was being informed his own treason had been discovered.

Major Tallmadge must have sensed my upset, for he said, “You seem to be troubled by my actions, miss.”

When I found myself unable to explain, he went on, “Though you may have never heard the name, miss, I had a dear friend whose name was Nathan Hale. Years ago the British caught him. They hung him as a spy. I've waited years to have my revenge. Betrayal is a horrifying thing.”

Nothing he said could have given me more pain. Still, that was also the moment that gave me a new resolve. I must speak to John André.

69

ANDRÉ WAS TAKEN
to the town of South Salem and was held prisoner in a large farmhouse. A heavy guard was set about. Though I tried to find a way to him, he was not allowed any visitors.

As for General Arnold, it was just as I predicted. He was at his headquarters near West Point, waiting for Washington to arrive, when he received Colonel Jameson's letter explaining all that had happened. Realizing his plot had been exposed, Arnold abandoned his young wife and galloped to Hudson's River. Once there, he commanded boatmen to row to the
Vulture
, which was still waiting for André farther down the river. The ship, though slightly damaged, was able to take Arnold to New York. Subsequently, he put on a British uniform and fought against his countrymen.

As for General Washington, when he learned all that happened, he put West Point on alert and directed a feverish effort to strengthen the fort in case it came under attack.

In other words, because of what I did, West Point
was
saved, but now John André was a prisoner, held as a spy.

And I knew only too well how the military treated spies.

Major André, guarded by two hundred mounted Continental soldiers, was taken north to Arnold's headquarters, from which place the traitorous general had fled. Once there, Major André wrote two letters. The first was to General Clinton, explaining what had happened, blaming himself and no other for his capture. He had not followed Clinton's orders to remain in his British uniform, had passed into American lines, and carried incriminating papers.

The second letter was to General Washington. In this letter, he admitted he was a British officer but insisted that he was not a spy, that he had been acting under the protection of General Arnold.

Washington made no reply, save that André was taken west across the river, first to West Point, then south, to the village of Tappan. In all his movements, he was accompanied by many troops. Major Tallmadge was at his side.

I too went along.

After André came back to South Salem, once again John Paulding asked me where I wished to go.

“I need to see what happens to John André,” I told him.

He did not ask the reason. Though I believe he sensed
my unease, I did not share my troubled thoughts. In truth, I am not sure I could have expressed them. I hardly understood them myself. I only knew I must speak to André. Had I not caused this history to happen? I must see it to its end—whatever it might be.

Mr. Paulding borrowed a horse and bade me ride behind him. Thus it was that we went on to Tappan, following after André. In all this time, just as Mr. Paulding had promised, he treated me as if he was my brother.

News of André's capture and Arnold's treason spread everywhere. The whole countryside was in a state of much unsettlement. One might say it fairly seethed. Soldiers were everywhere. Many citizens came to Tappan to watch, exchange gossip, or to gain a glimpse of André.

Washington ordered that André be put on military trial for being a spy. It was quickly done. Major John André was found guilty.

He was condemned to death by hanging.

Something else happened. Whereas Arnold's treachery was widely known and hated, André became a figure of sympathetic fascination. I believe it was because, surrounded by our regular army, with men of high rank, he regained his dignity. He did more, keeping himself in as distinguished and dashing a manner as he ever did. Though he was imprisoned and guarded in a house, he was fed and cared for with the care and consideration due his rank and his person and because he was seen as a gentleman. How different an imprisonment as compared to the sugarhouse and the
Good Intent
.

What was my reaction to all of this? No person was ever sicker of heart.

Ah, but what did I
do
?

Though André was under a sentence of a hanging death, attempts were made by General Washington to exchange André for Arnold, who was now with General Clinton in New York City. The exchange did not happen. But André's servant, Peter Laune, arrived in Tappan, I know not how. When he came, he brought André's best and brightest uniform.

I stayed about the house where André was kept and simply crept in, taking on the role of a house servant, since I knew how well to play it. It was exactly as Mr. Townsend had once said to me, “The world being what it is, Miss Calderwood, your being a girl shall mask your true occupation.”

On the very morning of Major André's execution, I gained entry into his prison room merely because I carried a pitcher of cool water.

When I entered the room, André, dressed in his elegant regimental uniform, was calmly sitting at a table, sketching. His disconsolate servant was standing at the far side of the room.

When I approached him, Major André barely lifted his eyes from his work. All he said was “Thank you, miss. You may set it down.”

I did as he asked, but remained standing in place and just observed him. He was as handsome as ever. Nothing about his manner, his movements, suggested
his grim circumstance. I forced myself to remember the first time I saw him. That was when, laughingly, he struck a lagging prisoner with his sword. In addition, I recalled his words when I had seen my brother on the street:

“These men have rebelled against their lawful government. They must pay the penalty for their stupidity. By the laws of all countries, rebels taken in arms forfeit their lives. They will be treated no better than they deserve. They should all be hung.”

At length he looked up at me. He said, “Yes, miss. Is there something I can do for you?”

Barely speaking above a whisper, I said, “You do not know me, do you?”

He gazed at me. “You seem somewhat familiar. But I fear I cannot place you.”

I just stood there.

“Ah!” he suddenly said, his face flushed with excitement. “You worked at General Clinton's headquarters. You cleaned my office.”

“I did,” I said.

He jumped to his feet. “Have you come to help me?”

“I was more than a house cleaner.”

“I don't understand.”

“I am Sophia Calderwood. When you first came to the city, you lived in our house.”

He said nothing. Just stood there. But there was, I think, gradual recognition.

“Do you recall,” I went on, “that when my brother
was taken prisoner by your army, I asked for your help to save him. You pledged to give it. But then, do you know what you said?”

He remained mute.

“You told me your honor as a British officer forbade you from helping him. And then you said, ‘Miss Calderwood, can I in turn remind you of your age, which, I believe, is merely twelve. A promise to a girl is
not
a pledge to a lady. You are not yet a lady.' That's what you said.”

Though I was finding it difficult to speak, I said, “Major André, I wanted—” I struggled to find my voice. “I wanted you to know,” I went on, “you need to know that I am the one who uncovered your plot. It's I who exposed it and put an end to it.”

“Then you were a spy,” he said slowly. “Like they have accused—” He stopped speaking.