by Hans Holzer
The first room we visited was Jefferson’s bedroom. Almost in awe herself, Ingrid touched the bedspread of what was once Jefferson’s bed, then his desk, and the books he had handled. “I feel his presence her,” she said, “and I think he did a lot of his work in this room, a lot of planning and working things out, till the wee hours of the night.” I don’t think Ingrid knew that Jefferson was in the habit of doing just that, in this particular room.
I motioned Ingrid to sit down in one of Jefferson’s chairs and try to capture whatever she might receive from the past. “I can see an awful lot of hard work, sleepless nights, and turmoil. Other than that, nothing.”
We went into the library next to the study. “I don’t think he spent much time here really, just for reference.” On we went to the dining room to the right of the central room. “I think this was his favorite room, and he loved to meet people here socially.” Then she added, “I get the words ‘plum pudding’ and ‘hot liquor.”‘
“Well,” Burr commented, “he loved the lighter things of life. He brought ice cream to America, and he squirted milk directly from the cow into a goblet to make it froth. He had a French palate. He liked what we used to call floating island, a very elaborate dessert.”
“I see a lot of people. It is a friendly gathering with glittering glasses and candlelight.” Ingrid said. “They are elegant but don’t have on overcoats. I see their white silken shirts. I see them laughing and passing things around. Jefferson is at the table with white hair pulled back, leaning over and laughing.”
The sun was setting, since it was getting toward half past six now, and we started to walk out the French glass doors onto the terrace. From there an open walk led around a sharp corner to a small building, perhaps twenty or twenty-five yards in the distance. Built in the same classical American style as Monticello itself, the building contained two fair-sized roooms, on two stories. The walk led to the entrance to the upper story, barricaded by an iron grillwork to keep tourists out. It allowed us to enter the room only partially, but sufficiently for Ingrid to get her bearings. Outside, the temperature sank rapidly as the evening approached. A wind had risen, and so it was pleasant to be inside the protective walls of the little house.
“Horace, where are we now?” I asked.
“We are in the honeymoon cottage where Thomas Jefferson brought his bride and lived at the time when his men were building Monticello. Jefferson and his family lived here at the very beginning, so you might say that whatever impressions there are here would be of the pre-Revolutionary part of Jefferson’s life.”
I turned to Ingrid and asked for her impressions. “I feel everything is very personal here and light, and I don’t feel the tremendous starin in the planning of things I felt in the Monticello building. As I close my eyes, I get a funny feeling about a bouquet of flowers, some very strong and peculiar exotic flowers. They are either pink or light red and have a funny name, and I have a feeling that a woman involved in this impression is particularly fond of a specific kind of flower. He goes out of his way to get them for her, and I also get the feeling of a liking for a certain kind of china porcelain. Someone is a collector and wants to buy certain things, being a connoisseur, and wants to have little knick-knacks all over the place. I don’t know if any of this makes any sense, but this is how I see it.”
“It makes sense indeed,” Horace Burr replied. “Jefferson did more to import rare trees and rare flowering shrubs than anyone else around here. In fact, he sent shipments back from France while he stayed there and indicated that they were so rare that if you planted them in one place they might not succeed. So he planted only a third at Monticello, a third at Verdant Lawn, which is an old estate belonging to a friend of his, and a third somewhere else in Virginia. It was his idea to plant them in three places to see if they would thrive in his Virginia.”
“The name Rousseau comes to mind. Did he know anyone by that name?” Ingrid asked.
“Of course, he was much influenced by Rousseau.”
“I also get the feeling of a flickering flame, a habit of staying up to all hours of the morning. Oh, and is there any historical record of an argument concerning this habit of his, between his wife and himself and some kind of peacemaking gesture on someone else’s part?”
“I am sure there was an argument,” Horace said, “but I doubt that there ever was a peacemaking gesture. You see, their marriage was not a blissful one; she was very wealthy and he spent her entire estate, just as he spent Dabney Carr’s entire estate and George Short’s entire estate. He went through estate after estate, including his own. Dabney Carr was his cousin, and he married Jefferson’s sister, Martha. He was very wealthy, but Jefferson gathered up his sister and the children and brought them here after Carr’s death. He then took over all the plantations and effects of Mr. Carr.
“Jefferson was a collector of things. He wrote three catalogues of his own collection, and when he died it was the largest collection in America. You are right about the porcelain, because it was terribly sophisticated at that time to be up on porcelain. The clipper trade was bringing in these rarities, and he liked to collect them.”
Since Ingrid had scored so nicely up to now, I asked her whether she felt any particular emotional event connected with this little house.
“Well, I think the wife was not living on her level, her standard, and she was unhappy. It wasn’t what she was used to. It wasn’t grand enough. I think she had doubts about him and his plans.”
“In what sense?”
“I think she was dubious about what would happen. She was worried that he was getting too involved, and she didn’t like his political affiliations too well.”
I turned to Horace for comments. To my surprise, Horace asked me to turn off my tape recorder since the information was of a highly confidential nature. However, he pointed out that the material could be found in American Heritage, and that I was free to tell the story in my own words.
Apparently, there had always been a problem between Jefferson and his wife concerning other women. His associations were many and varied. Perhaps the most lasting was with a beautiful young black woman, about the same age as his wife. She was the illegitimate natural child of W. Skelton, a local gentleman, and served as a personal maid to Mrs. Jefferson. Eventually, Jefferson had a number of children by this woman. He even took her to Paris. He would send for her. This went on for a number of years and eventually contributed to the disillusionment of this woman. She died in a little room upstairs, and they took the coffin up there some way, but when they put it together and got her into the coffin, it wouldn’t come downstairs. They had to take all the windows out and lower her on a rope. And what was she doing up there in the first place? All this did not contribute to Mrs. Jefferson’s happiness. The tragedy is that, after Jefferson’s death, two of his mulatto children were sent to New Orleans and sold as prostitutes to pay his debts. There are said to be some descendants of that liaison alive today, but you won’t find any of this in American textbooks.
Gossip and legend intermingle in small towns and in the countryside. This is especially true when important historical figures are involved. So it is said that Jefferson did not die a natural death. Allegedly, he committed suicide by cutting his own throat. Toward the end of Jefferson’s life, there was a bitter feud between himself and the Lewis family. Accusations and counteraccusations are said to have gone back and forth. Jefferson is said to have had Merri-weather Lewis murdered and, prior to that, to have accused Mr. Lewis of a number of strange things that were not true. But none of these legends and rumors can be proved in terms of judicial procedure; when it comes to patriotic heroes of the American Revolution, the line between truth and fiction is always rather indistinct.
* 15
Major André and the Question of Loyalty
“MAJOR JOHN ANDRÉ’S fateful excursion from General Sir Henry Clinton’s headquarters at Number I Broadway to the gallows on the hill at Tappan took less than a week of the eighteenth cent
ury, exactly one hundred seventy years ago at this writing. It seems incredible that this journey should make memorable the roads he followed, the houses he entered, the roadside wells where he stopped to quench his thirst, the words he spoke. But it did.” This eloquent statement by Harry Hansen goes a long way in describing the relative importance of so temporary a matter as the fate and capture of a British agent during the Revolutionary War.
In the Tarrytowns, up in Westchester County, places associated with André are considered prime tourist attractions. More research effort has been expended on the exploration of even the most minute detail of the ill-fated André’s last voyage than on some far worthier (but less romantic) historical projects elsewhere. A number of good books have been written about the incident, every schoolboy knows about it, and John André has gone into history as a gentlemanly but losing hero of the American Revolutionary War. But in presenting history to schoolchildren as well as to the average adult, most American texts ignore the basic situation as it then existed.
To begin with, the American Revolutionary War was more of a civil war than a war between two nations. Independence was by no means desired by all Americans; in fact, the Declaration of Independence had difficulty passing the Continental Congress and did so only after much negotiating behind the scenes and the elimination of a number of passages, such as those relating to the issue of slavery, considered unacceptable by Southerners. When the Declaration of Independence did become the law of the land—at least as far as its advocates were concerned—there were still those who had not supported it originally and who felt themselves put in the peculiar position of being disloyal to their new country or becoming disloyal to the country they felt they ought to be loyal to. Those who preferred continued ties with Great Britain were called Tories, and numbered among them generally were the more influential and wealthier elements in the colonies. There were exceptions, of course, but on the whole the conservatives did not support the cause of the Revolution by any means. Any notion that the country arose as one to fight the terrible British is pure political make-believe. The issues were deep and manifold, but they might have been resolved eventually through negotiations. There is no telling what might have happened if both England and the United Colonies had continued to negotiate for a better relationship. The recent civil war in Spain was far more a war between two distinct groups than was the American Revolutionary War. In the latter, friends and enemies lived side by side in many areas, the lines were indistinctly drawn, and members of the same family might support one side or the other. The issue was not between Britain, the invading enemy, and America, the attacked; on the contrary, it was between the renunciation of all ties with the motherland and continued adherence to some form of relationship. Thus, it had become a political issue far more than a purely patriotic or national issue. After all, there were people of the same national background on both sides, and nearly everyone had relatives in England.
Under the circumstances, the question of what constituted loyalty was a tricky one. To the British, the colonies were in rebellion and thus disloyal to the king. To the Americans, anyone supporting the British government after the Declaration of Independence was considered disloyal. But the percentage of those who could not support independence was very large all through the war, far more than a few scattered individuals. While some of these Tories continued to support Britain for personal or commercial reasons, others did so out of honest political conviction. To them, helping a British soldier did not constitute high treason but, to the contrary, was their normal duty. Added to this dilemma was the fact that there were numerous cases of individuals crossing the lines on both sides, for local business reasons, to remove women and children caught behind the lines, or to parley about military matters, such as the surrender of small detachments incapable of rejoining their regiments, or the obtaining of help for wounded soldiers. The Revolutionary War was not savagely fought; it was, after all, a war between gentlemen. There were no atrocities, no concentration camps, and no slaughter of the innocent.
In the fall of 1780 the situation had deteriorated to a standstill of sorts, albeit to the detriment of the American forces. The British were in control of the entire South, and they held New York firmly in their grip. The British sloop Vulture was anchored in the middle of the Hudson River opposite Croton Point. In this position, it was not too far from that formidable bastion of the American defense system, West Point. Only West Point and its multiple fortifications stood in the way of total defeat for the American forces.
Picture, if you will, the situation in and around New York. The British Army was in full control of the city, that is to say, Manhattan, with the British lines going right through Westchester County. The Americans were entrenched on the New Jersey shore and on both sides of the Hudson River from Westchester County upward. On the American side were first of all, the regular Continental Army, commanded by General Washington, and also various units of local militia. Uniforms for the militia men ran the gamut of paramilitary to civilian, and their training and backgrounds were also extremely spotty. It would have been difficult at times to distinguish a soldier of the Revolutionary forces from a civilian.
The British didn’t call on the citizens of the area they occupied for special services, but it lay in the nature of this peculiar war that many volunteered to help either side. The same situation which existed among the civilian population in the occupied areas also prevailed where the Revolution was successful. Tory families kept on giving support to the British, and when they were found out they were charged with high treason. Nevertheless, they continued right on supplying aid. Moreover, the lines between British and American forces were not always clearly drawn. They shifted from day to day, and if anyone wanted to cross from north of Westchester into New Jersey, for instance, he might very well find himself in the wrong part of the country if he didn’t know his way around or if he hadn’t checked the latest information. To make matters even more confusing, Sir Henry Clinton was in charge of the British troops in New York City, while Governor Clinton ruled the state of New York, one of the thirteen colonies, from Albany.
In the spring of 1779 Sir Henry Clinton received letters from an unknown correspondent who signed himself only “Gustavus.” From the content of these letters, the British commander knew instantly that he was dealing with a high-ranking American officer. Someone on the American side wished to make contact in order to serve the British cause. Clinton turned the matter over to his capable adjutant general, Major John André. André, whose specialty was what we call intelligence today, replied to the letters, using the pseudonym John Anderson.
André had originally been active in the business world but purchased a commission as a second lieutenant in the British Army in 1771. He arrived in America in 1774 and served in the Philadelphia area. Eventually he served in a number of campaigns and by 1777 had been promoted to captain. Among the wealthy Tory families he became friendly with during the British occupation of Philadelphia was the Shippen family. One of the daughters of that family later married General Benedict Arnold.
André’s first major intelligence job was to make contact with a secret body of Royalists living near Chesapeake Bay. This group of Royalists had agreed to rise against the Americans if military protection were sent to them. Essentially, André was a staff officer, not too familiar with field work and therefore apt to get into difficulties once faced with the realities of rugged terrain. As the correspondence continued, both Clinton and André suspected that the Loyalist writing the letters was none other than General Benedict Arnold, and eventually Arnold conceded this.
After many false starts, a meeting took place between Major General Benedict Arnold, the commander of West Point, and Major John André on the night of September 21, 1780, at Haverstraw on the Hudson. At the time, Arnold made his headquarters at the house of Colonel Beverley Robinson, which was near West Point.
The trip had been undertaken on André’s insistence, very much against the wishes of his
immediate superior, Sir Henry Clinton. As André was leaving, Clinton reminded him that under no circumstances was he to change his uniform or to take papers with him. It was quite sufficient to exchange views with General Arnold and then to return to the safety of the British lines.
Unfortunately, André disobeyed these commands. General Arnold had with him six papers which he persuaded André to place between his stockings and his feet. The six papers contained vital information about the fortifications at West Point, sufficient to allow the British to capture the strongpoint with Arnold’s help. “The six papers which Arnold persuaded André to place between his stockings and his feet did not contain anything of value that could not have been entrusted to André’s memory or at most contained in a few lines in cipher that would not have been intelligible to anyone else,” states Otto Hufeland in his book Westchester County during the American Revolution. But it is thought that André still distrusted General Arnold and wanted something in the latter’s handwriting that would incriminate him if there was any deception.
It was already morning when the two men parted. General Arnold returned to his headquarters by barge, leaving André with Joshua Smith, who was to see to his safe return. André’s original plan was to get to the sloop Vulture and return to New York by that route. But somehow Joshua Smith convinced him that he should go by land. He also persuaded André to put on a civilian coat, which he supplied. General Arnold had given them passes to get through the lines, so toward sunset André, Smith, and a servant rode down to King’s Ferry, crossing the river from Stony Point to Verplanck’s Point and on into Westchester County.