Sophia's War Page 19

  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.

  “You to be,” I said, saying what would he would not say. “When you refused to help my brother, William, he died a prisoner in one of your loathsome prison ships. That’s when I too made a pledge. I pledged that I would avenge his death and the death of his many companions. I came here to tell you I, for one, have kept my pledge.”

  He remained quiet, just staring at me. At last, he said, “Then, Miss Calderwood, you have become a lady.”

  He sat down and, without another word, picked up his pencil and began to draw a sketch of me.

  How curious the mind. Upon that instant, I recalled what he had once told me, that, “My talent in sketching is showing people as they really are.”

  Not wanting to see how I really was, I hurried from the room.

  70

  I LEFT TAPPAN before John André’s death. It is, as I said at the beginning, a terrible thing to see a man hang.

  John André was buried in a grave near the gallows in Tappan, New York. Some years later, his remains were taken to England and were reinterred in London’s Westminster Abbey. It was in a section known as the Hero’s Corner.

  I do not believe he was a hero, for he and his army waged a terrible war against my countrymen—including my beloved brother. How many perished in New York prisons? Shortly after the war, this notice appeared everywhere.

  To all Printers of Public news-papers

  Tell it to the whole World, and let

  It be published in every News Paper

  throughout America, Europe, Asia, and

  Africa, to the everlasting disgrace and

  Infamy of the British King’s Commanders

  At New-York, That during the late War,

  it is said ELEVEN THOUSAND SIX

  HUNDRED and FORTY-FOUR American

  Prisoners, have suffered death by their inhuman,

  Cruel, savage and barbarous usage on board

  the filthy and malignant BRITISH PRISON

  SHIP called the JERSEY, lying at New York.

  Britons tremble lest the vengeance of Heaven

  Fall on your life, for the blood of these

  Unfortunate victims!

  An AMERICAN

  And this was just the Jersey. Not the Good Intent or other hulks. Not the sugarhouses. Not the churches used as prisons. What had my father said about the British: “Are they not our kinsmen and a civilized people?”

  How deceived we were!

  In 1824, some time after John André was laid to his final rest in England, I crossed the ocean and visited the abbey. Kneeling, I placed on his grave the faded blue ribbon he once gave me. For I knew two things: that I had caused his hanging death and that I adored him.

  You see, I no longer wish to be at war with myself.

  Dear Reader:

  My story is done, but I remain your most humble servant,

  Sophia Calderwood

  GLOSSARY OF EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY WORDS:

  affixedness

  The state of being affixed; devoted attachment

  bagwig

  A wig fashionable in the eighteenth century, the back hair of which was enclosed in an ornamental bag

  balked

  Frustrated

  badinage

  Humorous, witty, or trifling discourse; cheerfulness, playfulness, banter

  blank

  As in not to listen

  bosky

  Somewhat the worse for drink, tipsy

  brainwork

  Thinking

  bufflehead

  A fool, blockhead, stupid fellow

  candle auctions

  An auction in which bids were taken for as long as a candle flame burned

  common

  In this sense, a room that was open to all, as contrasted with a private room, such as a bedroom

  compass

  Direction

  credit

  Belief

  derangement

  Disturbance of order or arrangement; displacement

  emotion

  An agitation of mind; an excited mental state tending to excite

  gunwale

  The upper edge of a ship’s side; in large vessels, the uppermost planking, which covers the timberheads and reaches from the quarterdeck to the forecastle on either side; in small craft, a pi
ece of timber extending round the top side of the hull

  fluster

  Confuse

  folly-blind

  To act foolishly

  forcibility

  The quality of being forcible

  glowflies

  Fireflies

  gossery

  Silliness such as is attributed to the goose

  glumming

  That which looks glum or sullen

  horse-stinger

  Dragonfly

  Hudson’s River

  The Hudson River, as it is called today, has been called Hudsons River, Hudson’s River, the North River, and even on one (French) map as the Orange River. A British military map (the Ratzer Map, published in1776) references it as Hudson’s River.

  hugger-mugger

  Concealment, secrecy; especially in the phrase “in hugger-mugger”: insecret, secretly, clandestinely

  hurly-burly

  Commotion, tumult, confusion

  in the fact

  In the act

  indelicacy

  Rudeness

  jabber

  The act of jabbering; rapid and indistinct or unintelligible talk; gabble, chatter; gibberish (consider “jabberwocky”)

  jabbled

  A slight, agitated movement of water or other liquid; a splashing or dash-ing in small waves or ripples

  kinsmen

  Relatives of the same family

  laxy

  Loose in texture

  leveler

  Someone who believes in making all people equal without social or property distinctions

  linsey-woolsey

  A textile material woven from a mixture of wool and flax; now a dress material of coarse inferior wool woven upon a cotton warp

  mobcap

  A large cap or bonnet covering much of the hair, typically of light cotton with a frilled edge, and sometimes tied under the chin with ribbon, worn by women in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries

  muttonhead

  A dull or stupid person

  mumpish

  Sullenly angry; depressed in spirits; sulky

  nicknackery

  Small, trifling

  nizy

  A fool or simpleton

  pixie-led

  Led astray by pixies; lost; bewildered, confused