Stony Point on the Hudson River

Late September 1780

CHAPTER XXIV

* * *

Samuel Cahoon, tenant and farm-laborer in the employ of Joshua Hett Smith, angled west from the clapboard barn, striding with staff in hand, squinting into the setting September sun. A quarter mile behind him the mighty Hudson River, more than a mile wide, was a broad, bronze highway in the golden sunlight, flowing south past the small farm his landlord had carved out of the Highlands forest near the hamlet of Stony Point, with Fort Stony Point not far to the south. Before him was a small pasture enclosed by a split-rail fence that held Smith’s tan-and-white Guernsey milk cow and black Angus yearling steer. The steer was being fattened for winter food for the Smiths and Cahoons. The cow was another matter. All too well Samuel understood the law of nature that required a cow be milked twice a day, day in, day out, every day of the year. Fail, and the cow would dry up. A life spent working on farms owned by others had taught Samuel that nothing bound a man tighter than maintaining a family milk cow.

He came in his worn homespun, calling, “Queenie, Queenie,” as he always did, and Queenie raised her head from the grass and patiently walked to the pen through which she must pass to get to her stanchion in the barn, with its manger of dried grass hay and a half-quart of mixed grain. The black steer tossed its head and broke into a lope for a few yards, then slowed to a walk to follow, knowing that its half-quart of grain was waiting in a manger, sprinkled on top of hay.

Queenie thrust her head between the stanchion uprights and buried her muzzle in the feed while Samuel closed the bar and dropped the lock ring into place. He washed her bulging udder and set a heavy wooden bucket on the dirt, then leaned his forehead into the warm flank and began the steady stroking that drove streams of warm milk hissing into the froth that quickly formed.

He stripped out the last of the milk, unlocked and opened the stanchion, seized the rope handle of the bucket, and was walking out the barn door when he heard the familiar voice of Smith from the kitchen door of his home.

“Samuel, I need you here.”

For a moment Samuel hesitated, troubled in his uneducated, unsophisticated mind. Odd things had been happening the last few days. Too many polished carriages bringing visitors in fine clothing, some in military uniform with too much gold braid, too many hushed conversations, too many nights when Samuel looked out the small window of his tenant’s house to see lights burning inside shaded windows in the larger Smith home. Still, Smith was the landlord, Samuel was the tenant-laborer, and New England was New England. Samuel turned toward the Smith home.

Smith’s eyes glowed with that self-importance felt by small men caught up in big things. He leaned forward and spoke softly, with exaggerated secrecy, as though alien ears were listening. “Follow me. Extremely important. Not a word to anyone.”

Samuel set the milk bucket inside the kitchen door and followed Smith up the stairs to stop at a bedroom door. Smith knocked, a voice called, “Come,” and Smith held the door while a bewildered Samuel entered. Inside, the aging laborer stopped short, eyes wide as he stared at a stocky, hawk-nosed man dressed in the most colorful uniform Samuel had ever seen. He stared, then turned to Smith, waiting for an explanation.

“Samuel, this is Major General Benedict Arnold of the Continental Army.”

Samuel’s mouth dropped open, and he stood mesmerized, staring.

Arnold stepped close and spoke as though taking Samuel into close confidence on a momentous issue. “Samuel, I’m informed you’re a patriot. Absolutely reliable. A man to be trusted with a critical mission.”

Arnold paused, waiting for a response.

Samuel licked suddenly dry lips, and shifted his feet. He stared at the floor and worked his battered wool cap with his hands, befuddled, unable to speak.

Silence held for a moment before Arnold continued. “I have need for such a man as yourself to go on the river tonight to bring a man to a meeting place four miles south of here. An extremely important man.”

Samuel licked dry lips and stammered, “Where on the river?”

“A British ship is anchored south of us, about twelve miles. The Vulture. The man is a secret agent. He’s aboard with critical information I need.”

Samuel began to shake his head. “A British ship? There’s patrols on the river at night. Too dangerous. Maybe that man can wait until daylight. I’m too tired tonight. Needin’ to get home.”

Arnold barely controlled his flare of temper at the thought of a nearly illiterate farmhand fouling the most carefully laid and momentous plan of the decade. “No, the man must be brought here in the cover of night. The information he carries is absolutely vital to General Washington. This man cannot be seen in the daylight.”

Samuel raised nervous fingers to scratch at his beard, then again shook his head. “I can’t row that far alone. Not in the dark.”

Smith saw the lightning in Arnold’s eyes and quickly pointed a finger at Samuel. “Then go get your brother. The two of you can do it.”

Smith hesitated, then nodded assent, and walked out without a word. Ten tense minutes passed with Arnold pacing, Smith waiting nervously, before Samuel returned. He avoided Arnold’s eyes while he twisted his hat in his hands.

“Couldn’t find Joseph, but I told my wife, and she said no. I can’t go. Too late. Too far. Too dangerous.”

Arnold lost control. He slammed his fist down on the table and Smith recoiled a step backward, terrified, as Arnold shouted, “You and your brother are both disaffected men! You will do as you’re told, or I’ll have you arrested for insurrection. Mutiny!”

White-faced, Samuel raised a conciliatory hand and blurted with a shaky voice, “No, no, there’s no need for arrest. I’ll talk to Joseph.”

He walked out the door a second time. Smith glanced at Arnold, who nodded and pointed, and Smith followed Samuel downstairs and out the door in the darkness to find Joseph.

Half an hour later Smith returned, smiling amiably. “They’re downstairs in the yard. They’ll go.”

“Bring them up,” Arnold demanded, and minutes later Smith returned with the two reluctant brothers.

Arnold spoke. “Has the boat arrived?”

Smith shook his head. “It’s late.”

“Then we’ll wait.”

Minutes passed, and the two brothers began to fret, then once again became reticent, fearful.

“It’s late,” Joseph mumbled. “Ought to be goin’ home to my wife.”

“Arrest them!” Arnold shouted.

“Give me a few minutes,” Smith said, and led the two trembling brothers downstairs out into the darkness. Smith descended into the root cellar north of the house and returned with a crock jug with a corncob stopper jammed in the neck. The rum was half gone when he took it from the brothers, drove the corncob back into the opening, and returned it to the root cellar. As he walked back to the brothers, his servant boy crossed the yard. The boat had arrived.

Smith faced the two brothers. “The rest of the rum when you return.”

They nodded vigorously, and Smith returned to Arnold, waiting in the second floor bedroom.

“They’re ready. The boat’s waiting.”

“Then get on with it.”

Smith led them to his small boat dock on the river and helped the two brothers wrap the oarlocks with sheepskin to quiet the stroking of the heavy oars, and with Arnold watching from the window, the three of them, Smith and the two Cahoon brothers, silently pushed off into the smooth waters of the Hudson to disappear in the blackness, moving south, holding close to the shore.

Arnold, the man of action, who found release for the fire in his soul only in rising to strike mortal blows to the dragons in his life, sat on the bed in the second-story bedroom of the Smith home for only five minutes before he was on his feet, pacing, with the two-inch heel of his left boot ringing hollow on the hardwood floor. Five minutes later he descended to the kitchen and out into the yard, calling for the black servant boy who was to be his guide for the night.

“Saddle the horses!”

“Yes, massa.”

With Arnold leading, the two put their nervous horses over the lip of the rim above the river, sliding, plunging downward to the road that ran parallel to the great waterway. In near total-blackness Arnold reined his prancing mount south and raised it to a racking trot. One mile became two, then three, four, before the boy called, “This be the place.”

They reined their horses away from the road through thick ferns into a small opening in the woods, where they tied them. The boy sat down with his back against a tree for the wait, while Arnold resumed his relentless pacing. One of the horses tossed its head and stuttered its feet, and instantly Arnold’s hand darted to his saber. An unseen nocturnal creature of the forest rustled in the dry September leaves, and Arnold pivoted, crouched, ready. An owl inquired who had invaded his domain, and Arnold started.

Then the scraping of wood on sand and stones came from the river, and Arnold strode quickly to the edge of the rise bordering the river and stopped at the sound of a man scrambling up from the water’s edge. He heard Smith’s voice calling softly, and then the man was before him, a dim silhouette in the darkness.

“Anderson’s here.”

“Bring him up.”

In the quiet, Arnold listened to the oddly loud sounds of Smith’s descent, and then the clatter of dislodged stones falling as two men labored back up from the river, and then they were there—Smith, large and ungainly, and the other man, slender and graceful in a long, blue coat. A surge of excitement rose within Arnold’s breast. The deadly, dangerous work of two years was nearly finished. At last—long last—he was face-to-face with John André.

Arnold turned to Smith. “I will require privacy with Mr. Anderson. Take the Cahoon brothers and wait at the boat.”

Smith’s face fell. Clearly this was one of the most dramatic events of his life, and his presence was denied. Without a word he turned, motioned to the two brothers, and stalked away.

Alone in near pitch-blackness, the two men wearing the uniforms of mortal enemies faced each other. As never before they were aware that the treason and the treachery required in the sick business of selling and buying a country shrouds both parties in a black, evil cloud. But both knew they had come too far; that there was no turning back. They shrugged it off and began the sparring, the give and take, that would slowly evolve into the plan that must now be made.

Time passed as they completed the necessary preliminaries, wherein Arnold defined himself as the stubborn, recalcitrant warrior, and André became the pliant gentleman. With the dance finished, Arnold came directly to it.

“What plan do you propose to take Fort West Point? Washington is coming to inspect the fort soon. Do you want him there?”

In his offer to sacrifice General Washington to his lust for wealth and fame, Arnold reached the farthest depths of degradation. He was beyond redemption, impervious to the eternal truth that great traitors are detested and despised by both sides.

André shook his head. “If General Washington is there it is probable he will assume command. If he overrides your orders, the defense of the fort could change instantly, and the entire plan be lost in a moment.”

“Would it be better to draw Washington away with a raid on some outlying post, maybe Fishkill, or Danbury?”

Again André shook his head. “He’s too dangerous. If he sensed what was happening, he would be back at Fort West Point instantly, with a column armed and ready to fight.”

“Then we’ll have to wait until Washington has completed his inspection and gone back to his headquarters at White Plains.”

“I think that’s the safest course. What’s your plan for delivering three thousand troops to us at the time of the attack?”

“I will call in regiments from Fishkill and one or two other posts. Some will be inside the fort, some outside. There will be in excess of three thousand.”

“Excellent. Success in capturing that many armed soldiers will depend on how well we know the detail of the strengths and weaknesses of the fort and the surrounding terrain—which walls will be weakest. Where will your strongest and your weakest regiments be posted? Where are the ravines and the valleys and the hills that will give us cover? Where are the powder magazines, and can mines be laid inside them? Are there any secret tunnels beneath the walls? What is the best time to make the attack, day or night?”

Time passed without meaning as the two men talked, André asking, Arnold answering each question in detail. Gradually they firmed up the plan of how Arnold would avoid suspicion by issuing orders that on their face were competent, while in truth they would collectively bring Fort West Point to a condition in which a sudden attack in the right numbers, at precisely the right places, would undo the American defenses completely, leaving no choice but surrender. Arnold would raise the white flag at a time when there were still three thousand Americans under his command, and no one would question that surrender was the only order he could give.

Below them, at the river, Smith was shaking with the ague, muscles cramping, irritation mounting at the endless waiting. He glanced east across the river and realized the far skyline was separating from the black heavens. Dawn was coming.

He clambered up the hill to face both men, Arnold in his uniform, André still wearing the long blue coat that covered him to his knees. “Daylight’s coming. You’ll have to leave now if Anderson intends reaching the ship unseen.”

Arnold pointed. “Then go back down and tell the Cahoons to row him back.”

Smith was gone for less than five minutes when he returned, breathing heavy. “They say they were told to get Anderson and bring him here. They were not told they’d have to take him back to the ship. They’re too tired to do it.”

Smith braced himself for the worst from Arnold, but it did not come.

Arnold paced for a moment, favoring his injured leg, then spoke to André. “There are some papers you should see in the daylight. Maps. Drawings of the fort. I have them at the Smith home. Is there a reason you could not stay hidden there through the day and return to the ship tomorrow night?”

The warning issued by General Clinton flashed in André’s mind. Conduct the negotiations on neutral ground, or our ground. Not on theirs.

He paused for a moment while he weighed the risk against the gain. He knew the Vulture was under orders to remain at anchor until his return, whether tonight or tomorrow night. What could be lost?

“Yes. If the papers will be helpful, I’ll stay until tomorrow night.”

Arnold turned to Smith. “Take your servant boy and go down to the boat. The Cahoons can row you back. I’ll ride with Anderson.”

Smith awakened the sleeping boy, and the two descended the river-bank for the last time, while Arnold and André mounted the two horses and turned them north, Arnold leading. With the eastern sky turning from purple to gray, the road was deserted as they passed farms yet waiting for the rooster’s crow to bring in the new day. As they approached the lane to the Smith farm, west of them, they paused for a moment to ride to a low bluff from which they could see for miles up and down the great river. In the gray light of approaching sunrise, the river lay smooth and the colors of autumn muted in the rolling carpet of forest as far as the eye could see.

Neither man expected the rumble that shattered the silence as it rolled up the Hudson River Valley. The horses stuttered their feet and the men handled them rough to settle them as they peered south, to their right. Then André pointed.

“Cannon fire!” he exclaimed, “there, across the river at Teller’s Point.”

Both men peered across the river, then shifted to stand tall in the stirrups, searching the near bank for the shape of the Vulture, lying at anchor. Then came the second blast of cannon, and they saw an orange flame leap from the black shape of the ship, and a moment later a white cloud of burned gunpowder billowed upward near the shore. The guns from across the river answered, and again the Vulture’s cannon roared. Gun smoke rose on both sides of the broad expanse of water, the white clouds becoming pink, then golden as the first arc of the sun rose in the east.

Arnold jerked his mount around and called to André, “Follow me!” and the two men galloped west down the lane to the Smith home. They led their winded mounts into the barn and left them still saddled while they slammed the door, and Arnold led André at a run to the house and up the stairs into the privacy of the bedroom. André unbuttoned his long, heavy blue coat and dropped it on the foot of the bed, and for the first time faced Arnold in his full British uniform. Arnold walked back down to the kitchen for a bucket of well-water and a dipper and returned for both men to drink.

“Is there hot water to wash?” André asked, and Arnold returned to the kitchen to shake the grate in the stove, add kindling to the glowing embers that remained from the previous night, and set a kettle of water to heat. The two men removed their tunics in the bedroom to wash in the corner basin, and dry on the towels on the rack nearby.

André was buttoning his tunic when he asked, “Do you have the maps and drawings of the fort in this room?”

Arnold laid two scrolls on the bed, unrolled them, and the two men pored over them until the sounds of Smith barging up the stairs interrupted. Smith did not bother to knock. He threw the door open, both turned to face him, and Smith gaped!

Anderson stood before him in the uniform of a British major!

“You’re a British officer?” Smith blurted.

Arnold cut in to speak quietly, as though bringing Smith into a guarded, deep secret. “Mr. Anderson is only a merchant who had to wear such a uniform to complete his mission for me.”

Smith considered the explanation, then relaxed, a sly smile on his face, as though he had been made privy to a great, patriotic plan. “I see. Well, other men might not see that as readily as I, so we had better keep Mr. Anderson hidden for the day.”

Arnold put an arm about his shoulder. “Exactly. Breakfast?”

Smith clumped back down the stairs, and Arnold and André heard the rattle of an iron skillet on the stove as he sliced ham and cold potatoes into the pan and set the teakettle for hot water. He brought breakfast to the bedroom where the men ate, discussing things of no importance, listening to the ongoing rumble of cannon down the river. They all stopped at the sound of a horrendous blast, then set their plates aside to run to the window to look downriver, where a great cloud of white smoke rose two hundred feet into the clean, clear blue of the morning sky on the east bank of the Hudson.

“The magazine,” Arnold cried. “The American powder magazine at Teller’s Point has exploded!”

Smith raised an arm to point. “The Vulture is weighing anchor! She’s unfurling her sails—leaving—back down the river toward the British lines!”

André’s head thrust forward, face pasty white, eyes wide, as he watched the ship move out into the current. For a moment he was seized with panic as the vessel disappeared around the arcing sweep of the river. His face darkened, and he turned to Arnold, hot, accusing.

“I was supposed to be aboard that ship when she sailed!”

Arnold raised a calming hand. “Don’t be alarmed. The Vulture will drop anchor a little further down—maybe at Ossining—and you can board her there. If she doesn’t, there are other ways. I am still in command of American forces here. I’ll see to it.”

Arnold turned to Smith. “It is essential that someone protect us. Take up a position from which you can see everyone on the road. Report back here at once if any patrols come, or if anyone enters the lane. Do you understand?”

Smith bobbed his head, smiling with the heady feeling of being entrusted with an important role in a grand scheme. A scheme to do what, he did not know; it was enough that the great Benedict Arnold had taken him into his confidence. Smith winked at Arnold and hurried from the room.

Arnold glanced at the two scrolls on the bed, then walked to a leather trunk against one wall, lifted the lid, and drew out half a dozen more documents, large and small.

“These are the maps and drawings.”

For a time the two men pored over the documents, Arnold pointing, explaining, André listening, questioning. It was late morning before they finished their work, then stopped. André stretched stiff muscles before he spoke to Arnold.

“I would like to take three of these documents back to General Clinton. He must see them.”

Arnold stroked his chin as he reflected. The documents were copies he had made in his own hand. His handwriting, and his signature, were easily identifiable. Still, if the daring plan he and André had crafted were to succeed, he would need the full support of General Clinton.

“Take them, but do not carry them in a pocket. Wrap them about your feet, inside your stockings. If there is any chance of someone discovering them, destroy them at once. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Is there anything else?”

“When do we leave this home?”

“We can’t leave together. I must get back to my headquarters or someone will suspect something. You remain here until after dark. You can return to your lines by horse on land or by the Vulture on the river, whichever seems safest to you at the time. I’ll provide two written passes to get you through our lines, no matter which way you choose. You’ll be safe. You must not be seen leaving, so remain hidden in the house until Smith can escort you in the dark.”

While André removed his boots and carefully slipped the three small documents inside his stockings, the remembrance came to him of Clinton’s stern look as he instructed, Never carry a written document that could incriminate you if discovered.

He pulled his boots back on, stood to stomp his feet into place, and straightened his tunic. Without further words Arnold nodded his satisfaction, turned, and walked out the door, down the stairs, and mounted a horse for the ride to the river where his barge was waiting to return him to his headquarters, perched on the bluffs on the east side of the Hudson.

Arnold knew no peace as the vessel moved across the river. He paced in the large, flat-bottomed boat, agitated, beginning to battle the grotesque demons that were suddenly, unexpectedly rearing their ugly heads in his heart and brain. His diseased thoughts created a thousand fears. If André were to be seen leaving the Smith farm in his British uniform, what? If the Vulture had been captured in the battle he had witnessed earlier, would it have become a death trap for both of them? What would become of them if an American patrol stopped André and searched and found the documents? Again and again he shook his head, unable to understand his own unforgivable lapse of judgment in allowing André to carry documents with his handwriting and signature on them.

The barge thumped into the landing on the east bank, and Arnold climbed into the waiting carriage, dour, troubled, for the ride back to his headquarters mansion. He pushed through the large doors into the great parlor and was quickly aware of the sullen faces and the furtive glances of the servants and aides. He mounted the stairs and stalked down the hall to the bedroom where Peggy was waiting and closed the door. As always, he brightened at the sight of his beautiful wife as she rose to face him.

“Is it finished?” she whispered.

He drew close to her and nodded vigorously. “Yes. As planned. The fort will be delivered within not many days. Within weeks we shall have our fortune. I expect before too long we will be granted titles by the king. Perhaps Lord and Lady.”

She smiled thinly, and Arnold exclaimed, “What is wrong? Something’s happened in this household in my absence.”

Peggy’s face became pensive. “The servants and the aides. They do not know why you were gone, and they’ve invented reasons. Some have guessed very close to the truth. I’ve denied any wrongdoing, but their doubts remain.”

Arnold drew and released a great sigh. “It will all be over soon, and whatever they think will not matter.”

In her mind Peggy silently agreed. Her heart was not so certain.

Across the river, alone in the second-floor bedroom of a man whose grasp of matters was limited and whose judgment was mediocre at best, André began to chafe, fretting. He went to the window looking out over the Hudson River, to peer up and down the broad expanse, searching for American gunboats that could be looking for the Vulture, but there were none. As the afternoon wore on, he opened the window and risked being seen by climbing out onto the roof to better view anything on the river to the south, where the British ship had disappeared. He saw only the usual rowboats and barges moving up and down, hauling goods or passengers.

In late afternoon, Smith marched up the stairs and rapped on the bedroom door. André unlocked it and Smith entered while André spoke.

“I’m leaving as soon as the sun begins to set.”

“I’ll have the horses ready.”

André’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to the ship.”

Smith shook his head. “It is too dangerous. The Vulture was hulled six times in the battle yesterday. She anchored downstream, near Ossining. The cannon and the magazine explosion attracted too many people. You can’t go to the ship.”

“I refuse to go by any other means.”

Smith shrugged, smiling. “General Arnold left two signed passes to get you through the American lines, one for the river, one if you go by land. If you want to go by the river, you will do so alone because neither I nor the Cahoons will go near the ship. It is out of the question.”

“What route if we go by land?”

“Ferry across the river. I’ll lead you on horses.”

“How many are coming?”

“Just three of us. Yourself, me, and the servant boy.”

“Lead me where?”

“Within easy distance of your own lines. You’ll be safe enough.”

“I’ll be ready within the hour.”

“Good. I’ll bring you clothes that will disguise you as a civilian. No one will question it.”

Forty minutes passed before Smith returned with a common coat and a round-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. André stripped off his tunic; his breeches and boots could pass for those of a civilian merchant. As he shrugged into the coat and placed the hat on his head, he was hearing Clinton’s voice. At all times be in uniform—if you’re caught in disguise you could be hung as a spy. He pushed the echo from his brain and buttoned the coat. From all outward appearance, John André was a civilian.

Smith was jovial, nearly boisterous as they mounted their horses and spurred them down the lane to a dirt road that wound down to the ferry dock. They rode with Smith chattering, André silent, the boy disinterested and detached, following. André started at the sight of a mounted American officer approaching, but Smith threw back his head to laugh uproariously.

“Come ride between us,” he called to Major John Burrows. “We’ll stop for tea. That’s my farm just down the road. You can water and pasture your horse there if you like.”

Burrows eyed Smith for a moment, then André. “Thank you, sir, but I must be on my business.” He turned his mount onto a side road and rode away. André released held breath, then turned to stare angrily at Smith. The harshness in André’s eyes escaped Smith, who continued his harangue as they passed the fort at Stony Point.

“Hear about the fight we had there? The British took it, and we came and took it back. Taught ’em a lesson, we did.”

They put their horses down the incline to the ferry dock, and as they approached the black, aging timbers, André’s breathing quickened. Near the dock was a large tent with many American officers milling about outside it, some seated at a table, passing around a large bowl half-filled with rum. André was remembering that not long before, he had personally been involved in negotiating the surrender of many Americans near Fort Stony Point. He had stood face-to-face with a great number of angry American officers, some of whom had been exchanged and returned to the American army and reassigned. Would any of them be among those at the tent? And if they were, would any of them recognize him?

Smith hailed the officers with gusto, and they acknowledged him. André buried his chin against his chest, bowed stiffly from the hips, and spurred his horse onto the heavy planking of the ferry dock and turned. For a moment his heart stopped. Smith had reined in beside the officers seated at the table and dismounted.

André heard him bellow, “Why, that bowl’s empty! Where’s more rum?”

The officers laughed. One produced a jug, and they poured, and the bowl continued around the table. André turned his back to the American and waited, the servant boy beside him. He heard Smith blustering to the officers of the secret mission entrusted to him, fraught with danger, pivotal in the war effort, and the American officers nodded, smiled, winked at each other, and passed the bowl.

With the sun touching the western rim of the Hudson River Valley, Smith led his horse to André and the waiting boy, and they followed him to a freight boat just docked. They loaded the horses, Smith gave orders, and the four oarsmen and the coxswain pushed away from the dock and buried their oarblades in the water.

Smith slapped one of the crew on the back and announced, “If you’ll row faster, there’ll be something on the far shore to revive your spirits!”

The rhythm of the oars increased.

As the barge thumped into the dock on the east bank, Smith put coins in the hand of the coxswain, added one more, and pointed to the lights of a tavern to the north. They unloaded the horses and in full darkness, Smith led them up the incline to the road leading south. He stopped once at the home of Colonel James Livingston to give his personal greeting, and told the Colonel his business was far too important to be delayed by an invitation to grog and supper. They rode on into the night for just over an hour, when Smith turned into a lane leading to lights in a home.

“Andreas Miller’s home,” he said to André. “We stay here the night.”

At dawn Smith awakened to find an impatient André, who had neither taken off his clothes nor slept during the night, standing over him. André insisted they saddle their horses and be on the road before sunrise. The rested horses moved easily down the south road, putting the American posts steadily further behind them and bringing them ever closer to the British lines. They passed Pine Bridge, then came to the Croton River crossing, the northern perimeter of the British patrols. At last they were leaving rebel territory and entering British-held ground. A great surge of relief swept through André, and it loosened his tongue. He began talking of the beginning of the revolution, the history of warfare, and trivia that puzzled Smith.

Smith stopped at the home of a Dutch widow, who prepared them a simple breakfast. They ate with Smith chattering, then walked back to their waiting horses. Smith untied the reins on his mount and spoke.

“I can go no further. Too dangerous. From here south, there are British patrols out all the time. You’ll be safe.”

“You have the passes?” asked André.

Smith drew from his coat the two passes Arnold had signed, authorizing John Anderson to pass unmolested through American lines, whether on land or water, and handed them to André.

“There they are. They will see you through any American lines.”

André seized the coveted papers and thrust them into the pocket of the jacket that Smith had provided. “I will need a few dollars in Continental money. I can leave my watch with you for security.”

Without a word Smith handed over what money he had, and André thrust it into his pocket, then drew out his watch and offered it to Smith.

Smith shook his head and without a word he mounted, and he and his servant reined their horses around, headed north to whence they had come.

André’s head rolled back for a moment in stark relief. The loquacious, irritating Smith was gone! He was finally in territory controlled by the British. If an errant American patrol should stop him, he had the signature of none other than Major General Benedict Arnold, Commander of Fort West Point, on a pass that must be honored by all Americans. He was safe! The tense gamble had succeeded. Soon enough England would have the rebellious colonies under control, and his role in arranging it would open the gates of all England to him.

He pushed on, easy in the saddle, thoughts running free, when the horse slowed, then shied. From nowhere three ragged, dirty men stood barring the roadway, muskets raised. One stepped forward and grabbed the bridle of André’s horse.

For two seconds André studied the men and concluded they were obviously Loyalists, a Tory patrol. “Gentlemen,” he began, smiling at the abuse of the word, “I hope you belong to our party.”

“What party?” The man asking the question was nearly seven feet tall, spare, lean, broad-shouldered, long-faced.

“The King’s, of course,” André responded.

The giant nodded but said nothing, waiting for André to continue.

“I’m an officer in the British military. I’ve been on His Majesty’s secret business, and I can not be detained. For a token to let you know I’m a gentleman . . .” André drew his gold watch from the jacket pocket and extended it toward the towering man.

The giant paid no attention to the watch. “Get off the horse.”

For the first time, André sensed these three were not Loyalists, but rebel Americans. A chill ran up his spine. He forced his best theatrical laugh. “It appears I must do anything to get along.” He drew Arnold’s pass from his pocket and leaned forward to hand it to the giant, knowing the signature of General Arnold was his guarantee of free passage.

The huge man held the pass close to his face and slowly mouthed each word, while his two companions held their muskets aimed at André, waiting. The man’s face drew down in puzzlement, and again he gave the direct order.

“Get down from the horse.”

André swung down, talking as he did. “Gentlemen, you had best let me go, or you’ll bring trouble down on yourselves. You are obstructing the General’s business.”

The big man spoke laboriously. “You said you’re a British officer. The pass is signed by Gen’l Arnold, and he’s an American. There’s bad people on this road and maybe you’re one of them. If you’re a British officer, where’s your money?”

André started to reach for the Continental dollars given him by Smith, and stopped. A British officer would be carrying British currency.

“I have none,” André exclaimed.

The American to the right of the huge man blurted, “A British officer without money?” His face contorted in sarcasm. “Let’s search him.”

They took André to a gate, he squeezed through, and they followed him into a thicket screened away from the road.

“Take off your clothes,” the big man demanded.

Three minutes later André stood stripped to his underwear and stockings while the three men pawed through his clothing. They found his gold watch and the second pass signed by Arnold and little else. For a moment they conferred, and the two smaller men pointed to the pass. The giant shook his head, and André realized the two smaller men were illiterate. They could not read. The huge man opened his mouth to speak when one of the smaller men pointed to André.

“Take off your stockings.”

André hesitated. The two smaller men reached to grasp him, and he raised a hand to stop them while he pulled off his stocking, and he held his breath as the three small maps and drawings fell to the ground. Instantly the three men were on them, and the big man unfolded them and slowly mouthed each word. For three minutes that were an eternity, André stood still, waiting to see if this great oaf knew what he had in his hands.

The giant looked up from the paper and stared at André. “This man is a spy!” he bellowed.

The smallest man leveled his musket on André’s chest. “Get dressed.”

André reached for his breeches. “I have it in my power to reward you,” he exclaimed. “One thousand guineas each, if you’ll allow me to complete my mission for General Arnold.”

The three ragged Americans paused, and the big one drew them aside. For five minutes they talked among themselves, gesturing toward André from time to time while he dressed. They returned shaking their heads and spoke roughly.

“We’re delivering you to an officer.”

André’s mind went blank for a moment, and he struggled to force some semblance of reason into his shattered thoughts. If he was delivered to an American officer, he would play the role of John Anderson, special secret agent to General Benedict Arnold. No competent officer would in his wildest imaginings suppose that the great American hero was a traitor! Who would risk the wrath of the entire Continental Army by accusing Benedict Arnold of treasonous behavior? What officer would dare go over Arnold’s head and report any suspicions directly to General Washington? None. Absolutely none. It was clear. Any officer receiving the documents from his stockings, together with the pass written by General Arnold, would obviously take the entire matter to Arnold himself!

And what would Arnold do? Thank the officer profusely, swear him to secrecy, and deliver André safely into British hands.

André shrugged it off lightly. “As you wish. The sooner the better.”

The three pointed back up the road, then stopped at the sound of men approaching around the first turn. Seconds later four more American soldiers appeared. For ten minutes the three holding André captive explained the curious pass, the clandestine documents, their deep suspicions, and their decision to deliver the entire matter into the hands of an officer. The four bobbed their heads, agreed to help take André to the nearest outpost, and the seven of them prodded André forward.

Within the hour the cluster of men reached the tiny American command post at North Castle, delivered their request to a picket, and minutes later found themselves in the tent of Lieutenant Colonel John Jameson.

André breathed in relief. Jameson was a Virginian—a gentleman, whom André judged would treat him with utmost courtesy.

Jameson studied the strange group, staring hard at the giant, who stood a foot taller than any man in the tent, before he spoke.

“Gentlemen, could I know your names?”

The huge man, stooping beneath the ceiling of the canvas tent, answered.

“John Paulding.” He gestured to the men on either side of him. “This is David Williams and Isaac Van Wart. We was on picket duty when this man come down the road. These other men came later and joined us to bring in this man. Says his name is Anderson. He had some papers.”

Jameson turned to André. “Is that your name, sir?”

“Yes. John Anderson.”

“I understand you were carrying papers?”

“Yes. They have them.”

Paulding handed the pass and the three documents to Jameson, who eased back in his chair, intent on reading the pass, then examining the three documents. For a time the tent was silent while the men waited on Jameson. He finally stood with the papers in his hand.

“Gentlemen, there are some matters I will have to handle for a few minutes. I trust you will remain here until I return.”

He walked out of the tent to his own quarters to sort out what the combination of documents told him. He realized the handwriting on the pass was identical to that on the maps and the chart. If Arnold had written the pass, he had also created the other three documents. He remembered that General Arnold had notified him that should a John Anderson appear from the British lines, he was to be sent on to Arnold’s command post at Fort West Point immediately. That was not the problem. The problem was that this man claiming to be John Anderson had been arrested moving the wrong direction. Further, the information on the maps and the chart would be helpful to one side only, and that was the British, not the Americans.

For the first time in the mind of any responsible American officer, the monstrous thought took root that General Benedict Arnold might be a traitor.

Jameson paced the floor for a few moments, then walked back to the tent where the others waited.

“Mr. Anderson, I am going to enter an order that you are to be returned to General Arnold.”

André exulted inside, but from all appearances passed it off casually, as though there were no other choice. Jameson sat down at the table and carefully drafted his letter to Benedict Arnold.

“I have sent Lieutenant Allen with a certain John Anderson taken going into New York. He had a passport signed in your name. He had a parcel of papers taken from under his stockings, which I think to be of a very dangerous tendency. The papers I have sent to General Washington.”

He finished the brief letter, signed it, and handed it to Lieutenant Solomon Allen.

“You will take this letter to General Benedict Arnold at once. The prisoner is to be delivered to South Salem where it is safer than here, and held pending further orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

With soldiers on all sides of André, Lieutenant Allen mounted his horse and led his squad northward toward South Salem, further inland from the river, where André was to be held prisoner under Lieutenant Joshua King. Then Allen took an enlisted man with him and rode on to Benedict Arnold’s headquarters on the bluff overlooking the Hudson River to deliver Colonel Jameson’s letter.

Colonel Jameson waited until the men were safely out of sight before he drafted a second letter, addressed to General Washington.

“ . . . and enclosed herewith are three documents discovered in the stocking of the man claiming to be John Anderson. I forward them to you only to be certain you are apprised of the facts so as to make an informed judgment on the question of whether or not General Benedict Arnold might be implicated in . . .”

Five minutes later a messenger was galloping north to find General Washington, who was at that moment on the Danbury road, traveling from Hartford to the Hudson.

The question quickly became, which letter would be delivered first? The one to Benedict Arnold, or the one to General Washington?

As the two messengers galloped in divergent directions, Benedict Arnold was taking his place at the breakfast table in his headquarters building on the east bank of the Hudson. With him were two officers, Major Samuel Shaw and Major James McHenry, who had just arrived bearing greetings and a message from General Washington. The General sent his compliments and wished to inform Arnold and his lady that General Washington and his party would arrive shortly. Peggy was as yet upstairs, preparing for the visit from their commander.

Arnold stood.

“You will excuse me for a moment. I must see to it breakfast is ready for the General when he arrives. I will be but a moment.”

He walked from the table through the kitchen into the buttery, and was startled when an exhausted and dusty Lieutenant Allen, together with an equally road-weary enlisted man, were shown in. They came to attention.

“Sir,” Allen exclaimed, “we were ordered to deliver this letter from Colonel Jameson to you with all haste.”

Arnold accepted the document and broke the seal while he studied the two messengers, surprised and chagrined at their unexpected appearance and their insistence that they see him instantly, at all cost.

Then he read the letter, and every fiber of his being went numb. For long moments he stood unable to move, to think. He raised his head and stammered, “Wait here. Go nowhere. I must write an answer.”

The astonished Allen watched Arnold dart from the room, and he heard his rapid steps down the hall, out into the yard.

Arnold called to the first servant he saw, “Get to the barn this second. Have my horse saddled and ready to go at once!”

The servant turned and bolted for the barn while Arnold, wild-eyed, voice rising, seized a second servant by the arm.

“Go this instant down to the dock and tell the crew to have my barge ready to leave immediately.”

The servant saw the hysteria in the blue eyes and sprinted for the steep trail down to the river.

Arnold spun and as fast as he could move on his crippled left leg, ran back into the house to clamber up the stairs.

Peggy was still in her bed, waiting for two young officers who had gallantly volunteered to fetch fresh peaches for her from the orchard. She heard the pounding feet in the hall and was just rising when Arnold burst through the door and slammed it shut. Peggy’s hands flew to her breast at the sight of him, white-faced, trembling, hair awry.

“All is lost,” he exclaimed. “Washington knows everything!”

A small cry escaped Peggy just as a loud pounding came at the door. Arnold turned and stepped back, certain that armed soldiers were about to smash their way into the room under orders to take him. In the next second the voice of David Franks came through the door.

“General, I thought you would want to know. His Excellency, General Washington, is approaching with his party.”

Peggy gasped and fainted back on her bed. Arnold tore the door open, barged past Franks, and shouted over his shoulder, “I’m going to cross the river to prepare a reception for General Washington at Fort West Point.”

Arnold thundered down the stairs, out the back door, and ran as hard as his disabled leg would allow to the barn. Without a word he leaped onto his saddled horse, spun the animal, and kicked it in the ribs with all his strength. He reined the running animal around the corner of the barn and instantly hauled it to a sliding stop to avoid plowing into four of General Washington’s dragoons. Arnold was reaching for his two saddle pistols when the shocked officers halted and the leader spoke.

“The Commander is just behind us. He sent us ahead to prepare for his arrival.”

“Stable your mounts in the barn,” Arnold exclaimed, and once again dug his spurs into his horse to race across the barnyard, break to the left, and put the plunging animal down a long, steep precipice to the river. He brought the horse to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust, leaped to the ground, and for reasons known to no one, stopped to strip his saddle from the frightened, rearing horse. He threw it into the barge, leaped in behind it, and shouted orders.

“Launch! Get away from this dock! Steer for Stony Point.”

Once in the current, he again shouted orders. “To the Vulture. I have business on board the Vulture.”

Behind Arnold, up the steep bluff in his headquarters, Peggy stirred, then opened her eyes, and a heart-wrenching moan came from deep within as the remembrance of her terrified husband flooded her brain. From the floor beneath she heard the mix of men in conversation, prominent among them the calm, firm voice of General Washington. She flung herself prostrate on the bed and buried her face in the pillows to silence her sobbing. She could not allow the General to sense something was tragically wrong until her husband had time to escape.

The men below finished their breakfast, and left the house with General Washington. They descended to the dock and boarded a boat for the crossing of the Hudson, with Washington wondering if Arnold would welcome his arrival with a formal cannonade from the fort, but the big guns remained silent. They tied to the pier on the west side of the river and were climbing from the boat to the heavy oak planking when Colonel Lamb came down the trail from the fort at a run, puffing, to stop before the General.

“Excellency,” he panted, “had I known of your arrival, I would have prepared an appropriate reception.”

Washington’s blue-gray eyes narrowed in question. “Is General Arnold on the post?”

Lamb caught something in Washington’s stolid face, and his eyes widened. “No, Excellency. I have not seen him this morning.”

A taint of suspicion began in Washington’s heart, but he covered it. “Very well. Let us proceed to the fort.”

Across the river, in the Arnold household, in the brightness of a sun on the early fall glory of the Hudson River Valley in autumn, Colonel Richard Varick remained in his bedroom, light-headed with a fever, not wishing to mingle with others in the household. He was startled by the opening of the window above his bed from the outside, and the appearance of Franks’s head in the frame. He stared as Franks exclaimed, “John Anderson has been arrested as a spy! Benedict Arnold is a traitor! A villainous traitor!”

At that instant, Peggy Arnold in her bedroom could restrain herself no longer. Her moans and shrieks startled Varick, who leaped from his bed and ran down the hall to throw open her bedroom door and dash across the room to her bedside. She jerked upright and seized his hand in both of hers and cried, “Colonel Varick, have you ordered my child to be killed?”

Varick stared in shock for several seconds, unable to grasp what was happening, and Peggy slipped from the bed onto her knees before him, clinging desperately to his hand, face tipped upward, tears running, voice high, hysterical.

“I beg of you, plead with you, do not kill my baby!”

Varick reached to help her to her feet, but she shrank from him. Behind him, Franks and Dr. William Eustis burst into the room, and the three men lifted Peggy back to her bed and covered her.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Varick said soothingly. “Your husband will be home soon. All will be well with you.”

It was then Peggy shrieked, “No! No! The General will never be home again. He will never return. He is gone forever, there, there, there!” She was pointing at the ceiling, toward the heavens. “The spirits have carried him up there. They have put hot irons on his head!”

Varick stared. He could make no sense of the ravings, nor could he divine a reason that General Benedict Arnold would never return. His face fell as the thought pierced him, She’s raving mad! A lunatic!

He pulled a chair to her bedside and sat down, ready to do what he could to protect her from herself until her husband arrived to take charge of his wife.

It was early afternoon when General Washington and those with him returned to the Arnold household, where most of the staff had remained. When Washington entered the parlor, he knew something was desperately wrong. Alexander Hamilton strode across the huge room with a small packet of papers and thrust them to the General as his staff, Lafayette among them, separated to their assigned bedrooms to prepare for their midday meal.

Lafayette had just begun to lay out a change of clothes when Hamilton threw open the bedroom door and stood wide-eyed, exclaiming, “General Lafayette, I implore you, attend his Excellency!”

Never had Lafayette seen such an expression on the face of the unflappable Hamilton. He sprinted down the hall and pounded down the stairs to find General Washington standing with his feet apart, face in utter torment. The huge, ornately carved clock on the fireplace mantel gave the time as a few minutes past four o’clock, September 25, 1780.

“Arnold!” Washington cried. “He has betrayed us! Whom can we trust now?”

Three minutes later, Hamilton and McHenry kicked their horses to a stampede gait, riding hard for King’s Ferry in the desperate attempt to catch the traitor before he completed his escape, but there was no hope. He had reached the Vulture, and was gone.

At the home, in Peggy’s bedroom, Varick and Franks straightened, and Franks hurried downstairs.

“Your Excellency, Mrs. Arnold is upstairs. I think she needs badly to see you, sir. It is possible her mind is unhinged.”

Quickly the men went to her room, and Varick took Washington to her bedside.

“Madam,” he said quietly, “I have brought General Washington. You must confide in him.”

Peggy stared Washington full in the face, then shook her head violently. “No! That is not General Washington. That is the man who is going to assist Colonel Varick in killing my child!”

Washington looked at Varick, then back at Peggy.

“Has anyone threatened her child?”

“On my life, no, sir.”

“See to her.”

Downstairs once again, Washington stood near large French windows, head bowed in deep thought. By force of the iron discipline that had carried his infant nation for five years, he sorted out his thoughts and made his decision.

He turned to the others. “General Arnold is gone, and his wife is sick. We must take our meal without them.”

Never had Lafayette shared a more morose, somber, sad meal. He did not take his eyes off General Washington as they ate in stony silence. He saw the General battling to hold a calm, controlled expression, but the young Frenchman knew his beloved leader all too well. He saw the pain, and he knew the terrible wound in the heart of the man, and in other circumstances he would have wept for him.

They all started at the sound of pounding horse’s hooves in the courtyard, and were moving to the great doors when Hamilton burst in, dusty, sweated, weary.

“He is gone.”

General Washington nodded, and they accepted it with a stoic silence.

Hamilton asked, “Mrs. Arnold? Is she well?”

Lafayette pointed. “She’s upstairs. She is not in her right mind.”

With no reason to think otherwise, they had concluded that until the terrible deed was thrust upon her earlier that day, Peggy was innocent of any knowledge of Arnold’s betrayal. They felt a towering sympathy for her, soothed her, placated her.

And by good fortune or design, Peggy had sensed that if she could maintain her hysteria, or the appearance of it, she might avoid them ever learning that she was a vital, perhaps the critical player in the entire scheme of selling her country to the British. She ranted, raved, and moaned, and begged for the life of her child, and they continued to heap their kindness upon her.

It was seven o’clock when Washington turned to Hamilton and gave his first orders.

“Relieve Colonel James Livingston at once. He may be involved in the conspiracy. Call in all available troops within twenty miles. Notify the ranking officer at Fort West Point to prepare for a possible attack.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the days that followed, the tense strangeness of slowly accepting the enormity of what had happened slowly took shape and form. Letters were exchanged, some of them between Washington and Benedict Arnold, who declared the innocence of Peggy and pleaded for her life and welfare and that of his children. Washington passed Arnold’s letter to his wife on to her, unopened, and gave orders to see to her well-being and safety.

Washington ordered the single conspirator now in his custody, John André, to be transported under heaviest guard from South Salem to Tappan, to be held pending a decision on his fate.

Inside his cell, with armed, angry guards swarming, André sat quietly and faced the truth. He had been taken in the garb of an ordinary civilian: common coat, broad-brimmed felt hat, wearing nothing that would identify him as a British Major, the Adjutant General of General Clinton’s command in America. They had found written documents in his stocking that undeniably convicted him of being a spy of the first order.

He had no chance.

He asked for, and received, quill and ink and paper, and carefully drafted a lengthy statement addressed to General Washington. Therein, he laid out the entire scheme, start to finish, not excusing himself, nor failing to call out Arnold’s boldness in contacting him and demanding great reward for betraying America. He did not implicate Peggy Arnold in the document.

On September 29, 1780, a military board was convened, and the trial commenced. He was convicted and the sentence pronounced: he was to be executed. General Washington reviewed the conduct of the trial and confirmed the sentence and entered his order: The spy, John André, was to be executed the following day at five o’clock p.m. A copy of the order was delivered to André, who requested quill and paper. In his cell, he calmly drafted a request to General Washington.

Since it is my lot to die, there remains the choice of the mode. It would make a material difference to myself, and be a source of happiness to me, if I were to be allowed a professional death. I would be much gratified if allowed to die as an officer and a gentleman before a firing squad, rather than hanged like a peasant and a spy.

Your ob’d’t’ servant,

Major John André.

Adjutant General of the British Army.

The message was delivered to General Washington. He felt the stab in his heart as he read it. It had been made known abundantly to him that between the time of André’s capture and the end of his trial, those assigned to guard the man had come to see him as he was—an officer and a gentleman—a brave, courageous man who admonished them again and again to be of good cheer. He had served King and Country with his whole heart, risked all and lost, and would leave this life to stand upright before the Almighty, head high, conscience clean. It grieved him, he told them, to see the pain and concern in their eyes as he faced his fate. “Do not grieve. Do your duty. Serve your country. My heart is at peace.”

No living man had greater respect for a brave soldier who had placed the ultimate gift on the altar for his country, than Washington. He searched the depths of his soul for the answer to André’s request. In his mind he saw Americans who had been serving their country in the secrecy of the spy network, and had been hanged for their efforts. Among them was the twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher, Nathan Hale, caught sketching British gun emplacements on the mainland north of Long Island. By order of General William Howe, he had gone to the gallows with head high, declaring his regret that he had but one life to give for his country and the cause of liberty.

Finally, as had been his unwavering principle from the beginning, General Washington rose above the pain in his heart and asked the ultimate question. What was the universal punishment for convicted spies? He entered his order: John André would be hanged at five o’clock p.m. the following day, October 2, 1780.

A large crowd had gathered around the gallows. Two men led André to the gallows, and the wagon in which he was to stand rumbled to a stop. The tailgate was dropped, and André seized it to climb unassisted up into the bed of the wagon and stand erect.

A hush settled over the crowd, followed by a moan and a murmur.

For a moment André shrank, but instantly straightened, and his head came up high. He placed his hands on his hips and stepped back slightly to view the beam to which the hangman’s noose would be anchored overhead.

Colonel Alexander Scammel looked André in the face, and for a moment battled approaching tears. He unrolled a scroll, and in a breaking voice read the death sentence. He then turned to André.

“Major André, if you have anything to say, you can speak, for you have but a short time to live.”

André took a deep breath. “I have nothing more to say, gentlemen, but this: you all bear me witness that I meet my fate as a brave man.”

The murmuring in the crowd rose to a crescendo. Women wept. Strong men looked away.

The hangman, face blackened by grease and soot, climbed into the wagon and reached for the noose, coiled to one side. André seized it from him, loosened his shirt collar, and placed the rope over his head to tighten it about his neck with the knot beneath his right ear. He drew a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and tied it around his eyes with steady hands, then placed his hands on his hips, waiting.

Scammel croaked, “His hands must be tied.”

Instantly André removed the handkerchief from his eyes and drew a second, larger kerchief from his pocket and handed it to the executioner. He again tied the smaller one over his eyes and stood quietly as the executioner tied his hands behind his back.

The prologue was finished. The executioner seized the loose end of the rope, climbed to the overhead beam, looped it over, drew it snug, and tied it. He climbed back down to the wagon bed, and plucked the whip from its socket. The sounds in the crowd reached hysteria. André stood motionless.

The hangman drew the whip back, then forward. It struck the horse on the flanks, the animal lunged into the collar, and the wagon lurched forward.

Notes

The reader is requested to review the notes for the preceding chapter, particularly the advice that the defection and treason of Benedict Arnold is necessarily being presented herein in an abridged format.

Thus, again, the names, dates, and occurrences set forth in this chapter are true and correct, and many of the conversations are quoted verbatim from the best records available. The essence of the heartrending affair is preserved (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 346–93; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 576–81).