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.