Sophia's War Page 11

  When she’ll be prettiest in my room.

  While I learned his singular hand, I could not help but notice this quirk of fate: looking and learning the hand he used to win me was my means of causing him to lose. Or so I hoped.

  43

  IN THE DAYS that followed, I had much access to John André’s desk, but discovered nothing. Then, on the eighth day of June, a Reverend Jonathan Odell called upon the major.

  I learned Mr. Odell’s name because the girl with whom I was working enjoyed telling me—in regular hearsay fashion—that Mr. Odell had been a British officer before going into the Church of England. “He’s been a steady visitor of late,” she confided. “Meeting with Major André.”

  Since John André had once taken pains to tell me he had no special interest in matters of religion, I found this curious. “Does Reverend Odell,” I asked, “come on church or military matters?”

  “I can’t say,” she confided. “Just seems an important friend. Whenever he comes, the major puts all business aside, brings Mr. Odell within his office, and locks the door.”

  “What do you think their dealings are about?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Maybe the major is going into the church.” Her giggle assured me it was not likely. But though my curiosity heightened, I was perplexed as to how I might learn more.

  However, two days after Mr. Odell had called at the Kennedy house, I was again cleaning Major André’s desk when I glimpsed a paper with the heading “Mr. Moore’s Memoranda.” What followed was a list:

  French fleet is on way

  Attack on Quebec

  West Point is under strength

  Hudson’s River chain easily smashed

  Rocky Hill redoubt weak

  Requests £10,000

  Of course, the word “attack” caught my attention, with a sense that this must be military in nature. So at last—something of interest. And the handwriting was definitely André’s.

  I studied the list, trying to make sense of what I saw. Though I knew Quebec was a city in Canada, I was ignorant about where or what was West Point. The same for Rocky Hill. Nor did I know what a “redoubt” was. As for “Mr. Moore,” the name meant nothing to me.

  Believing, however, that the memoranda would be of some interest to Mr. Townsend, I committed as much of the page to my memory as I could.

  I also stole a moment to gaze upon the maps that were set upon the wall. They were many, large, and complex. In my brief study, I could not locate a West Point.

  That night, when I came home, I wrote down all I could recall of that memorandum. The following morning I rose early and took a sealed note—inscribed to “Culper”—and went to the Kings Crown. As I expected, it was too early for anyone to be there, but I slipped the paper under the door.

  As I walked away, I allowed myself to think, I am learning John André’s secrets.

  It gave me pleasure.

  44

  THE NEXT DAY’S work at the Kennedy house passed without incident. I did some cleaning in Major André’s room but discovered only that the memoranda I’d previously seen was gone. Perhaps, I told myself, with disappointment, it meant nothing.

  By the time I was told I might go home, it was evening. Like most July nights, it was warm and humid, and I was looking forward to a cooling rest. As I passed up Broadway, however, Mr. Townsend had silently fallen into step by my side.

  He offered no greeting, but, speaking in a low voice, said, “Was there any more to that memorandum than you gave me?”

  “No, sir. Was it special?”

  “Do you have any idea who Mr. Moore is?”

  “None. What is West Point?”

  “A vital American fort. But it’s urgent that you find out who is Mr. Moore.”

  I said, “Do you know a Mr. Jonathan Odell?”

  “An obnoxious Tory churchman. What of him?”

  “He visits Major André.”

  Mr. Townsend merely muttered, “Hmmm.”

  I said, “Do you wish me—” But when I turned to complete the question, Mr. Townsend was already walking away from me.

  I thought, if he was so cautious, what should that tell me to do about my spying?

  A few days later, I was again in André’s office, where on his desk I found yet another note in his own hand, which was headed “Mr. Moore.” I immediately read it.

  French not going to Quebec. Rhode Island. Expects to get command of West Point. Americans sick of war. Wish to be on former footing.

  The words, in themselves, made little sense to me. Who is expected to command West Point? Who wishes to be on former footing? And indeed, What footing is that? Beyond all else, Who is Mr. Moore?

  As before, I committed the words to memory. When I finally reached home that night, I wrote them out that I might pass the information to “Culper.”

  I also asked Father if he knew where West Point was.

  “I believe it’s up along Hudson’s River, perhaps some fifty miles beyond Manhattan. On the western shore.”

  “Who controls it?”

  “I believe we do.” By we, he meant Americans.

  “Is it vital?”

  “I’m no military strategist, but I would think that if we lost it, New England would be lost. With so much of the South occupied by the British, to lose New England is as much to say all might be lost.”

  “What is a ‘redoubt’?”

  “A small, detached fortification,” he said. “Is all this part of your new, shall I say, occupation?”

  I said nothing.

  “I suppose you can’t tell me more,” he said.

  To which I said, “Have you ever heard of a Mr. Moore?”

  “Never.”

  Early next morning, I left a note for “Culper” at the Kings Crown. It contained what I had newly learned. For the first time I took pains to look about to make sure I was not being observed.

  Later that day, a curious incident. My companion and I were dusting John André’s office, including his mantel, and thus the flute. I could not refrain from looking at it, or refrain from thinking how the lieutenant once played for me.

  Even as I had that thought, John André entered the room.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  My companion and I curtsied.

  Looking at me, he smiled and said to me, “Do you know what that instrument is?”

  “A flute, sir?”

  “Good for you.” Next moment he picked it up and began to play, only to soon stop. As he replaced it on the mantel, he said, “That was from happier days. Well, I must work. Ladies . . . ” He gestured to the door.

  My companion and I left. As the door shut behind us, she gave me a nudge. “He likes you.” She giggled.

  I made no response to her but only felt anger—How could he have forgotten me? But a new thought quickly tumbled forward: I have fooled him! That realization gave me something I had never experienced before—a sense of power.

  The same evening when I was coming home along Broadway, Mr. Townsend passed me without stopping. As he went by, he said, “You must find out about Mr. Moore.”

  “Sir!” But he was gone.

  July the fourteenth proved an extraordinary day.

  In the morning I had been asked as usual, along with another housemaid, to clean André’s office. When we arrived, the major was not there. As it happened, while we were still at work, he again walked in.

  I, along with my companion, immediately curtsied, bade him a “Good morning, sir,” and took steps to leave.

  “No, no,” he called. “I’ve only this letter to copy. But I must have the office ready for a visitor. Go on with your work.”

  That we did, while he sat down at his table, paper before him. Quill in hand, he commenced to write.

  He was still writing when an officer opened the side door—which led to General Clinton’s office—poked his head in, and said, “Sir, General Clinton wishes to see you directly.”

  André put his pen down and went o
ut of the room, shutting the door behind him. The moment he was gone I recalled Mr. Townsend’s words “You must find out about Mr. Moore.”

  With rash impulsiveness, I went to André’s desk and read what he had written: it was addressed to Mr. Moore. The part I could read said,

  HESH is much obliged to you for the useful Intelligence you have transmitted him. It corresponds with other information and gives him full conviction of your desire to assist him. He had hoped to communicate with you in a very satisfactory manner but is disappointed. His Excellency hopes you still keep in view the project of essentially cooperating with him. He thinks having the command of W. Point would afford

  That was all André had written before quitting his desk. Even as I reread it, struggling to commit it to my memory, I heard the squeak of the doorknob. I scurried away.

  André reappeared. Unaware of what I’d done, he sat down and resumed writing. When he finished, he blotted the paper with sand, gathered up what he had written, and went back out that side door, presumably to meet with Sir Henry again.

  As soon as he left the room, my companion burst into giggles. “You read what he was writing, didn’t you? What did it say? I suppose you can read.”

  Realizing I had acted recklessly—I could feel myself blushing—I nonetheless had wits to say, “He was refusing to grant someone a leave to visit his intended wife and was explaining why.”

  To my relief the girl made a silly laugh but seemed satisfied.

  As the day wore on, I kept turning over in my head what I had read so as to keep it fresh in my memory. At the same time, I continued to wonder who “HESH” was. And West Point was mentioned again. The words implied “Mr. Moore” would have command of West Point. What was meant by “cooperating”?

  Midafternoon, it came to me: “HESH,” meant His Excellency Sir Henry. And “cooperating” might mean “working with.”

  I did recall my father’s words that if America lost West Point, New England could be lost, and thereby the whole war. And that day the Reverend Odell visited again with André. Were there connections to all this?

  That evening, when I got home, the first thing I did was write down as much as I could recall of André’s letter. The following morning, as before, I slipped a message under the door of the Kings Crown, saying that I must speak with “Culper.” I was satisfied then that the next evening, as I was going home, Mr. Townsend fell in with me.

  I told him what I had read.

  He said, “To whom was that letter written?”

  “That Mr. Moore.”

  “I have searched,” he said with authority. “There is no Moore in the British command. Is the man mentioned at the headquarters?”

  “Not that I have heard.”

  “I suspect it is a false name,” he suggested. “You must find out who he really is. It’s vital.”

  We walked farther on, neither of us talking, until he said, “Miss Calderwood, I fear I may have to absent myself for a while.”

  I halted. “Why?”

  “Keep walking. I am not positive, but I may be suspected. You know I cannot take many risks. Though such suspicion has occurred before and proved an empty threat, it will be necessary for me to withdraw for a while.”

  I was taken aback. “What do you mean, withdraw?”

  “My father conducts a business at Oyster Bay. I shall remove there for a time.”

  “How long?” I said.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Is it far?”

  “The north shore of Long Island.”

  “What should I do if I learn some information about Mr. Moore?”

  “I’ll try to find a way for you to communicate with me.”

  “Mr. Townsend,” I said, “forgive me. But the information I give to you, you once told me it went to General Washington. Do you give it to him yourself? Could I do that?”

  He shook his head. “I send it to Connecticut, to a Major Tallmadge, who—” He cut himself short. “Forgive me. I—I should not speak of him,” he said with a stammer of embarrassment. “Blot that name from your memory.”

  “But, Mr. Townsend—”

  He had already stepped away.

  I watched him go. Insofar as he had given me no means of contacting him—save his fleeting, forgettable mention of this Tallmadge, I felt quite alone. Of course, telling me not to remember caused me to do the opposite. Tallmadge. I would remember that name.

  45

  SOME DAYS LATER, in the morning, I was cleaning the vestibule at the Kennedy house when Major André and two other officers passed by me. Talking loudly, they said they’d been given leave to cross the river to Brooklyn, where, that day, horse races were being held. André was in high spirits. It reminded me of the day I walked out with him—full of joy, which utterly evaporated when I saw William as prisoner. My determination to revenge him was recalled. Perhaps that is why I did what I did.

  Going to the races: no doubt it was because General Clinton had gone north to Beekman Mansion, where he sometimes stayed. Things were more relaxed at headquarters when the general was at Beekman. In short, we cleaning girls would be left more alone than usual.

  As it happened, during the morning, when another girl and I were in Major André’s office, there came a knock on the door. Since my companion was closest to the door—I was mopping a corner of the room—she went and opened it. Standing there, letter in hand, was the Reverend Odell.

  He held up a sealed letter. “It is of considerable consequence that this letter reach Major André. Would you be so good as to place it on his desk?”

  “Of course, sir.” My companion took the letter, and when Mr. Odell retired, she shut the door, brought it to the desk, put it down, and resumed her work.

  My curiosity was much sparked. As soon as I had an opportunity, I drew close to the desk and glanced at the letter. It was addressed to a “Mr. Anderson.”

  I gazed at it: If it is for Major André, who then is Mr. Anderson?

  As I worked about the room, I could not get the letter out of my mind. Wanting much to read it, and certain that André was gone for the day—as was General Clinton—I devised a crude stratagem.

  When our cleaning was done, and just as we were stepping out of the room, the door half closed, I said, “I forgot my mop.”

  I slipped back into the room and picked up the mop where I had deliberately left it near the desk. In almost the same movement, I snatched up the Odell letter and placed it in my apron pocket. Only then did I leave the room.

  My companion took no notice.

  It was one thing to have the letter. Quite another to read it. Moreover, now that I possessed it, I was aware of the extreme danger in which I had placed myself. Every time someone took any note of me, it was, I was sure, discovery.

  What if Major André appeared and asked for it?

  What if General Clinton asked?

  What if Mr. Odell did as much?

  I trembled.

  As the day wore on, and I could find no way to read the letter in private, the gross stupidity of what I’d done grew upon me. I had a mind to destroy it. Burn it. But there proved no opportunity. Over time, no letter in a pocket ever weighed more.

  Hours passed and I had yet to read or destroy the letter. As more time went by, I grew convinced I must lay it back on the desk. But though people talk of the difficulty of stealing something, it is perhaps even harder to restore a thing with equal success.

  During the afternoon, Mrs. Ticknor told me, along with two other housemaids, to clean the central stairway. Seeing my chance, I took the lead, going up the steps ahead of the others.

  Crouched down, back to my companions, I plucked the letter from my pocket, only to realize that my day’s movements had broken the wax seal. Fumbling, I opened the letter.

  The first thing I noted was the signature at the end, which was “Moore.” It other words, it was a letter from Mr. Moore.

  There was an opening address, and then it read:

  I addressed a l
etter to you expressing my sentiments and expectations, viz, that the following preliminaries be settled previous to cooperating. First, that S Henry secure to me my property, valued at ten thousand pounds sterling, to be paid to me or my heirs in case of loss; and as soon as that shall happen, hundred pounds per annum to be secured to me for life, in lieu of the pay and emoluments I give up, for my services as they shall deserve if I point out a plan of cooperation by which SH shall possess himself of West Point—

  I had to read that phrase again and again.

  by which SH shall possess himself of West Point—

  I suddenly understood: this was a plan to give over West Point to Sir Henry.

  Even as I was reading, I heard a sound behind. I glanced around and saw Sir Henry himself, back from his journey north, coming up the steps.

  46

  PANIC-STRUCK, I shoved the letter into my pocket and, head bowed, applied myself desperately to my cleaning task. Next moment the general passed me, going up to his private rooms. He paid no mind to me. Probably he did not even notice me—a girl at her menial work.

  Though I wished urgently to reread what I had read—as well as to consider the rest—I was too unsettled.

  Rather, I concentrated on my cleaning with but one thought: I must replace the letter. Yet there was another thing to do first. Searching out a lit candle, I held the broken seal to the heat and fused it mostly as it was. Then, at the first opportunity, I crept back to Major André’s office, forced myself to dart in, and flung the letter on the desk. I escaped even faster, heart pounding like a baby bird’s. I spent the remainder of the day in clutching tension that I would be undone. I must leave this place, I thought.

  But simultaneously I went, so to speak, in an opposite direction; that is, I went over and over what I’d read. For I was perfectly convinced that Mr. Moore—whoever he was—was planning to find a way to have General Henry Clinton take possession of West Point. From what I knew—my father’s words seconded by Mr. Townsend—such an event would be an utter catastrophe for the patriot cause.

  Nevertheless, there remained that vital unanswered question: Who was Mr. Moore? No patriot, of that I could be certain. Further, Mr. Townsend had suggested “Moore” was not a real name, that “Moore” was a fabrication, even as I called myself “Molly Saville.”