CHAPTER 8

July 20, 1780

New York, New York

The largest of the summer balls unfolds before me—this one hosted by several families at the assembly hall, because no one home can accommodate so large an affair. But my mind is not on the festooned revelers who swirl past me. Instead, I’m thinking about the success of the past few weeks and a special evening Robert and I shared in its wake. And I’m smiling to myself.

Immediately upon the British soldiers’ return to New York—riding high on their capture of Charleston—rumors began to surface about a French fleet sailing to our shores to aid the Continental Army. But no one knew where these ships would land, not even General Washington. I listened to many conversations in which British officers speculated about the location, and I learned that General Clinton planned to send troops and ships to attack the French on the Rhode Island coast, where he believed they would make shore. The moment I heard this, I raced to tell Robert. My intelligence led to an intricate plot in which Washington leaked false information to the British, indicating that he planned to take back New York while Clinton’s troops were in Rhode Island, and thereby prompting Clinton to turn back from Rhode Island, giving the French unimpeded access to our shore. This victory was one that Robert and I celebrated in the privacy of his shop after closing time, with a toast and our first real kiss.

I return to the present moment, wondering whether another opportunity for espionage will reveal itself this evening. At several recent gatherings and dinners, I’ve noticed a certain smugness adopted by the British officers, even beyond the swagger with which they returned from Charleston, a swagger that was not diminished by their failure to intercept the French in Rhode Island. What is happening, I wonder, to justify this new confidence? Will I learn its source tonight?

I find the men to be strangely silent once I’m in their presence. Several seemingly innocent queries placed with the usual cadre of officers yield nothing, and I begin to despair of learning some tightly held secret. Frustrated at the British recalcitrance, I stand near the ballroom door with a group of young women I’ve known my whole life, talking, as usual, about nothing. It is then that Major André himself sidles up to me and asks for a dance.

The other women raise eyebrows and whisper among themselves as the musicians strike the first few chords of a minuet. Although the polished, attractive Major André is notoriously flirtatious with most of the young ladies, he only dances with a select few. He rests one hand on my waist and another on my shoulder, and I find myself nervous in the presence of the central British intelligence officer, the man with spies and schemes abounding, the man upon whom I have been spying. Will he sniff out the intruder in his midst?

“How is it that we’ve often been in each other’s company over these past months, and yet we’ve never danced?” He poses a question that I’m sure he’s asked countless times to countless women.

“I think it must be because you’ve never asked, sir.”

He guffaws, a rather jolting sound coming from his compact mouth. “Nicely said, Miss…? Apologies for not knowing your name.”

“Miss Morris, sir, and please don’t apologize. I have the advantage in that, while there are many young Loyalist women in this town, there is only one you.”

He laughs again, drawing the attention of the ever-present audience on the periphery of the dance floor. “I’m glad to learn we’re in the company of such witty Loyalist women.”

“Loyalist women who are excited to have you back. We welcomed the news from Charleston, but we’re so pleased that you all have returned to New York, and that you’re winning this fight.”

“I appreciate your support, Miss Morris. Our victories in New York and Charleston are only the beginning. We will soon have the entire coast at our disposal.”

Here it is, I think. This innuendo must be the source of the heightened British confidence I’ve observed. But what exactly is going to yield the coast to the British? I’m so close to the secreted truth, and I cannot allow the opportunity to pass, even though it’s risky to pursue the information I seek.

While I muse on the best course, I respond with the flattery he expects. “I have no doubt of it, Major André.”

Do I dare ask him the sort of questions I’ve posed to the others? Will he suspect me? Maybe he asked me to dance because he suspects me already.

The major continues, “Don’t think that it will be easy, Miss Morris. Although the Continental Army is a gaggle of rag-tag upstarts in comparison to our well-trained troops, they have the fury of the indignant, unwarranted though that may be. Still, I have no doubt that we will prevail.”

Putting aside Robert’s ongoing concerns about my safety, I decide to take the risk. It may be my only chance.

“It sounds as though securing the coast—I think that’s what you said—” I add with false uncertainty, “will be instrumental in the British success, yes?”

“Ah, you’ve been listening,” he teases. “Yes, we have plans in motion that will deliver the seaboard to us. Now I cannot tell you more, even though you are a dutiful citizen of the Crown. I can, however, assure you that you have no reason to worry.”

“I’d never worry with you in charge, Major André. You will undoubtedly ensure that our land is fully restored to British rule soon. And I wouldn’t understand the details of your plans anyway.”

“I don’t doubt that, dear girl, and I wouldn’t tax you so. But be assured that we have a leader of the Continental Army in alignment with our views, and that will help our cause immeasurably.”

I nod blankly, and turn the conversation to the sorts of entertainment I imagine he enjoys in England. We thus converse on an utterly inane topic, as I turn the information he’s shared round and round in my mind.

“Those were his precise words?” Robert asks the next afternoon, his voice raised excitedly.

I repeat them. “Yes, verbatim, André said: ‘We have a leader of the Continental Army in alignment with our views, and that will help our cause immeasurably.’ This person must be in one of the commanding roles somewhere along the coast, given the context.”

Robert shakes his head in disbelief. “Washington has a traitor in his midst! And a senior officer, at that.”

“So it would seem.”

“But who?”

“I’ve been thinking through every possibility, and I would venture to guess that leader is tied to one of the waterfront forts. Perhaps West Point? I understand that its location, on a sharp bend in the Hudson River, would allow it to dictate ships’ access to the river, and thus the state. And we know how important New York is to the success of either side.”

“Yes, it’s very strategic. Although I don’t think the fort currently has a commander.”

“Maybe the leader that André mentioned is attempting to secure the command.”

Robert nods and reaches for my hand. “You’ve outdone yourself, Elizabeth.”

I feel my cheeks flush with his compliment, as I hold his hand in mine. “Thank you, Robert.”

Despite his praise, his expression is somber, and he says, “But I worry about the position in which you might’ve placed yourself to acquire this information.”

“What do you mean?”

“André has a reputation.”

“He did not dishonor me, Robert.” I squeeze his hand. “I know it may be inconceivable to you—you who don’t think less of women’s intellect—but almost every other man believes he can tell anything to a woman without repercussions, assuming our inherent inability to understand. And such men don’t need special encouragement to reveal their secrets—even a spymaster.”