“Yes, indeed, sir.”
“The sloop Vulture is to take on board an officer from Sir Henry Clinton’s staff, Major André, Sir Henry’s adjutant-general. You will probably have heard of him.”
“I have met him, sir.”
“Of course you will have done. He is much in New York society and extremely popular. He is also much in Sir Henry’s confidence. His orders, I understand, are to go up the Hudson at night and make contact with this rebel officer, bringing him back to the sloop and so down river to Sir Henry’s headquarters. There are some French troops on the rebel side and it might become necessary to interrogate French prisoners. That is why you are to be there. I think myself that, all being well, there should be no contact with the enemy at all, but it will in any event be a useful experience for you. Go on board the Vulture tomorrow forenoon and report for duty to Captain Sutherland, who will be expecting you.”
“Am I allowed to discuss this matter with Colonel Travell, sir? I should assume that the whole story is known to him.”
“Yes, he is in the secret. Not a word, however, to anyone else.”
Going at once to the colonel’s cabin, Delancey found him a new man, his recent depression a thing of the past.
“Action at last, Delancey! In years to come people will look back on this as the turning-point of the war. If he will accept my friend’s advice, General Clinton can win the war by next year. He’s a good man in many ways but he must learn to concentrate his forces and plan to achieve a decisive result in a single field. Since we have come to know each other and since I am well assured of your discretion, I shall tell you the name of this man who is about to desert the rebel cause. He is Colonel Benedict Arnold, entrusted by Washington with the defence of West Point, the principal enemy fortress on the Hudson. He is beyond question the outstanding soldier on the rebel side. Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga was essentially brought about by Arnold. But for him the king’s forces would have defeated the rebels years ago. Washington must be given the credit for keeping his army together but he has none of Arnold’s brilliance as a tactician. I see the war as nearing its end.”
“What I fail to understand, sir, is why a senior officer is needed for this mission.”
“Because there is some kind of bargain to be struck. Arnold is sure to ask a price for changing sides. He has a weakness, you see, for money. He was deeply in debt when I knew him and lived in extravagant style among people of wealth. Yes, he will ask a price and will need to be assured of his rank in the king’s army. He will expect to be brigadier-general, at least. Sir Henry’s representative must have authority to conclude the terms of Arnold’s appointment.”
“I wonder, sir, in that event, that you were not the officer chosen.”
“The matter was discussed but the view was put forward that I must not be taken prisoner. This might be regarded as a hazardous mission, alone behind the enemy lines. Apart from that, I am not on Sir Henry’s staff. Arnold cannot doubt, however, that André speaks with the general’s authority. He was probably the right man to choose for this rather difficult task.”
When he reported next day to Captain Sutherland, Delancey was told nothing more about the operation planned for that evening. Major André came aboard that afternoon and was just as Delancey had remembered him, a good-looking and attractive young man, friendly towards junior officers—midshipmen included—and yet obviously energetic and able. Sir Henry Clinton thought very highly of him and Delancey could see why.
André went out of his way to greet all the sloop’s officers and even remembered Delancey’s name a year and more after the brief occasion of their only meeting. André, wearing uniform, was attended by a single servant and accompanied as far as the sloop by Colonel Beverly Robinson. They could not have been more cheerful had they been planning a picnic. Towards sunset the anchor was broken out and sail made, the sloop heading up river. As night fell careful arrangements were made to prevent any light showing on board. It was evidently the intention to pass the enemy outposts without being seen, the more possible in that the night was moonless and overcast. To navigate in these conditions was far from easy but Captain Sutherland had wisely taken a local river pilot who had known these waters since childhood. There were lights ashore in the scattered homesteads and Delancey watched them pass and drop slowly astern as the voyage went on. Silence had been ordered and no one spoke in more than a whisper. An hour or so before midnight there was a shortening of sail and then the sloop hove to as a boat loomed out of the darkness and came alongside. The contact had been made at the time agreed and some hours of darkness remained in which the boat could land, as arranged, at the home of Mr Joshua Hett Smith, two miles below Stoney Point. The boat moved away into the darkness but now with André on board. He might be expected to return with Arnold some time next day. There was now nothing to do but wait.
Soon after daybreak there came the sound of cannon, a single sighting shot. It was immediately followed by five other reports at irregular intervals, all echoing again from the sides of the river valley. “A six-gun battery,” said Vulture’s junior lieutenant. “But we know of no enemy position within miles!” No damage was done but as many cannon fired again, this time more accurately. There was a hole through the fore-topsail and a lower shroud parted on the mizen. Captain Sutherland was in a difficult position, as Delancey had to admit. He would not wish to abandon his mission, leaving André to escape as well as he could, but neither could he very well sacrifice his ship. With all this thunder of artillery the secrecy of the affair had gone. Distant bugles would be sounding the alarm, troops would be assembling and patrols would be going out in all directions. It was a question now whether André’s mission was even possible. Sutherland postponed making a decision until his ship was hit for the fourth time, a cannon ball smashing the port quarter galley while another demolished the cat-head on the same side. He then raised the anchor, made sail and attempted to engage the shore battery with his port broadside. Failing to silence it, he found that the current was taking him downstream and out of range. The wind had died away and the current was taking him back to New York. In the end he went about and gained enough steerage way to gain a position well below his original anchorage at Spuyten Devil, being fired at by other rebel batteries on the way; mostly, however, at a longer range. Dropping anchor again, Captain Sutherland sent in his report. It was, essentially, a tale of disaster.
Having breakfast in the gunroom, Delancey heard different theories about what had gone wrong. “That battery was not there last month—we had no reason to expect any trouble from that headland.”—“The mischief was that our anchor had dragged—we were half a mile from our intended position.”—“That was not a battery position at all. We were fired upon by field guns which had parked there for the night.”—“In my opinion our security was bad. The enemy had warning of what we were trying to do.”
Whatever the facts, Delancey was not fated to know them. He was on board merely as a supernumerary and was presently sent back to his own ship. In the meanwhile, however, reports were coming in from the outposts and from intelligence sources. It soon became perfectly clear that Major André had been captured on his way down the river from King’s Ferry, that he had been in civilian clothes by then and that he had been carrying secret documents in his boot which revealed the nature of his mission.
“My God,” exclaimed Captain Sutherland, “he’ll be tried as a spy, condemned and hanged!”
“What will happen then,” the surgeon asked, “to the officer who was about to change sides?”
“He’ll be under arrest by now,” concluded the first lieutenant, “and will be hanged for treason in a matter of weeks.”
Delancey returned to the Falcon and reported to Captain Mottram, explaining the failure in so far as he understood it. His report made, he went on to tell his story to Colonel Travell, who heard him out in silence, making the final comment “So that is that.” Delancey hastened to add that the fate of Benedict Arnold was still
unknown. Major André would never give him away and any captured documents would reveal only his code-name. He would most probably remain the commandant at West Point, nothing having happened to betray him.
“That is most unlikely,” said Travell. “Too many people will know by now of André’s mission and all the evidence leads to West Point and to a very senior officer. Sir Henry would not have sent his adjutant-general to make contact with anyone of less than colonel’s rank, and who else of that rank would be at West Point? No, we must assume that Arnold’s treachery—as the Americans will see it—has now been revealed. Washington may have guessed it long ago. Others will have been able by this time to put two and two together—his debts, his extravagances, his marriage, his discontent over his treatment—many such circumstances point to him as to no one else. He will be under arrest by now. With him goes my sole chance of active employment. But that is a small matter as compared with Arnold’s fate. I can say little of his character in many respects. He is vain and petulant, greedy and self-centred, frivolous in some ways, callous in others. Place him on a battlefield, however, and he is a genius. He goes to the root of a problem in an instant. He takes in the whole situation while other people are still fumbling with a spyglass and a map. He knows what move to make, what troops to use, what leaders to appoint, what orders to issue and at what precise time to set his forces in motion. In the field I have seen no one like him, no one with a fraction of his leadership, ingenuity and grasp, no one who could rival him as a commander. He could have won the war for King George and advised ministers on how to make peace and leave us all friends again. I see no hope of victory now nor of ending this miserable conflict. I am sorry too for Arnold’s wife, Peggy Arnold, the most admired lady in Philadelphia—more than that, the loveliest woman I ever saw. In real values my own Ruth is far her superior but for sheer beauty Mrs Arnold has no rival in Pennsylvania. All Washington’s young officers are in love with her, and he himself is far from blind. I could wish for her a happier future than lies ahead of her. Somehow I cannot even imagine her being pitied by others—she who was always the centre of attention, the envy of all her sex. She probably never knew how much pleasure she gave others merely by being herself.”
Delancey urged Travell to restrain his grief until he actually knew the worst but he doubted at the time whether Travell was even listening. There was nothing to do but withdraw and leave the poor man to his misery. For the rest of the day he went about his own duties and studies but with half his mind on Travell’s sense of frustration and grief. Towards evening, however, there came a welcome break in the daily routine. A boat from the dockyard came alongside with the ship’s mail and there was the usual excitement over it. Some hoped to hear from their sweethearts and wives, some feared to hear from their creditors, a few expected nothing. Delancey heard from his mother at rather rare intervals and seldom from anyone else. On this occasion there was just the one letter for him and he recognised her writing at once. It was good to hear from Guernsey and to be reminded of such roots as he had. It was addressed to H.M. Ship Falcon, which was proof that his last letter to her had been received. He found himself wondering when he would see Guernsey again. He could be there before the end of the year if he were sent home as the admiral seemed to intend. But there was a new admiral now—Rodney himself—and his former misdeeds might be forgotten. He might be here, he supposed, for as long as the war continued. He might be at sea, in fact, for years.
Delancey’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a shot. The officer of the watch was attempting to trace the noise, the master-at-arms was active and the marine sergeant was checking to see whether any musket had been fired. With a sense of foreboding, Delancey went at once to Colonel Travell’s cabin. Knocking twice and having no answer, he entered, smelling the powder, and saw the colonel prone on the deck. There was a bullet hole through the heart and there could be no doubt that his friend was dead, the pistol lying near his hand. On the desk lay an opened letter which had presumably come with the other mail. Delancey took it up, seeing that it was dated from Philadelphia:
Dear Colonel Travell
I write to thank you for your letter but I hardly know how to answer it. You will have had good reason, no doubt, to act as you have done but you showed scant consideration for me and for your other friends. How am I to justify your actions? How am I to explain to others what I cannot myself understand?…
Delancey read on hastily and saw how the letter finished:
… I see no object in our meeting again and I should not welcome any further letter from you. I wish you well, nevertheless, and hope that you will find pleasure in your new rank and in the company of your new friends.
With regrets,
Goodbye—Ruth
Delancey replaced the letter on the desk and went to make his report.
“Mr Bancroft, sir, that shot was fired by Colonel Travell. He appears to have taken his own life.”
The sequel to this tragedy came within the next few days. News came that Benedict Arnold had not been arrested following André’s capture nor had he remained at West Point. He had promptly made his escape and reached the British lines. More than that, he was already in New York and in British uniform as a brigadier-general. Had Travell shown a little more patience he would have been Benedict Arnold’s chief of staff with some prospect, no doubt, of further promotion. Ruth he had certainly lost but New York, as Delancey knew, was full of other girls and most of them from Tory families. Or would it be fair to conclude that Travell had always been too easily depressed, too ready to admit defeat? He had, if that were true, no great future in any case. For success in war, or in love, perhaps, a part of the secret lies in a swift recovery from disaster—so much Delancey had come to realise—and a rapid return to the battlefield. Travell had probably lacked the stamina which war demands. He had perhaps ended his misery in what was for him the only way.
If Delancey expected great things from Arnold’s joining the British side he was to be disappointed. He learned from gossip that Sir Henry Clinton was extremely downcast over André’s capture and predicament. He was to be hanged as a spy, that being the verdict of a court martial. There could be no doubt, however, that Washington would spare André if Clinton would return Arnold. There could be no question of that but André’s fate was a bargaining point of which Washington was to make full use up to the very day of that officer’s execution. This was the background to Arnold’s early service on the king’s side and it did nothing to strengthen his position as an adviser.
Apart from that it was soon apparent, from all Delancey could hear, that Clinton’s strategy was all too fatally controlled from Whitehall. The secretary of state for the colonies was Lord George Germaine, and Clinton, like Burgoyne before him, was known to complain bitterly about the ignorant directions he received. Hearing something of this, Delancey was reminded of his earlier days in New York, when Commodore Harvey used to complain about the instructions he received from the Navy Board. He saw that the basic defect in the system was not the folly of certain individuals, foolish as they may have proved, but the mere distances between the source of authority and the scene of action. It was this distance which made the rebellion inevitable and it was this distance which made its suppression extremely difficult. Arnold knew best how to win the war but he was no match for the long-distance influence of Lord George Germaine, the man who had been cashiered for cowardice after the Battle of Minden. As from that moment Arnold was to take the field on several occasions but his career came in the end to nothing.
Delancey was now made aware that his days in the Falcon were numbered. A vacancy had been found for him in the sloop Avenger (16), which was to sail very shortly for Portsmouth.
“That ship was recently damaged,” said Captain Mottram, “and is being sent home for refit, probably as escort to a small convoy. Captain Singleton has the reputation of a good seaman. It remains for me to thank you for your good service aboard the Falcon. You were not much of a seaman
when you joined this ship and Mr Bancroft doubted whether you would ever become one. He has been proved wrong as he would be the first to admit. I have been happy to write you a letter of recommendation and I look forward to hearing of your further services. If you continue to work at your navigation as you have done during our recent voyage I should expect to see you as a lieutenant when next we meet.”
“Thank you, sir. Have I leave to go ashore after being discharged from this ship?”
Captain Mottram looked doubtful, replying at last:
“My orders were positive, young man.”
“Do they apply, sir, to one who is no longer a member of your ship’s company?”
“I don’t know that they do. I dare say, however, that Captain Singleton will have the same instructions.”
“Which cannot apply, surely, until I come under his orders?”
“I see what you mean. Go ashore then—without my knowledge—wear civilian clothes while on land, keep away from the places in which you could meet your relatives and report on board the Avenger in three days’ time. I think you have earned that much consideration. Good luck to you!”
Delancey was on shore before Captain Mottram could change his mind. Taking a room for two nights, he changed out of uniform and presently ordered the best dinner that the Jamaica Tavern could provide. He had money enough after his long penance aboard the Falcon and saw no reason to economise. He could have sought the company of other midshipmen but he wanted, for the moment, to escape from them. He saw in a newspaper that Charlotte de Lancey was married now to young Mr Bayard, a fact which left him strangely unmoved. He dined that day in silent luxury, thinking of all the spartan meals he had endured and would have to endure again. Next day he might hope to have female company, perhaps, but for the moment—yes, he would have cheese and dessert and a glass of port—no, two glasses of port—to crown the whole. It was luxury again to sleep in a bed and not in a hammock. But this was only a beginning—he had two more days to go and would make the most of them. Like a gentleman of independent means, he would take his ease and enjoy his leisure. What about a visit tomorrow to Brooklyn? Could he strike up an acquaintance first with some girl who was employed in a dress shop or milliner’s? He was too fastidious to make any bargain with a prostitute but surely there might be a girl whose manners would pass muster but whose morals were not too strict? There was nothing hopeless about his quest and he ended with some romantic memories to dwell upon during the monastic weeks which would follow. New York was no bad town in which to spend a few days’ leave. He might never see the place again but he could say, in retrospect, that he had not wasted the opportunity that was given him. Had she been blonde or brunette? Was she Susan or Sally? It is the sad fact that he could never remember.
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