Sophia's War: A Tale of the Revolution

by Avi

  Nonetheless, Mr. Baydon saluted, then told Livingston what I had told them when we met by the side of the river—about the Vulture bringing a spy. As the soldier talked, the colonel turned his eyes on me, his expression one of grave suspicion.

  “Thank you,” he said when Mr. Baydon had done. “Leave us,”

  My protectors—as I thought them—saluted and left.

  Once they had gone, Colonel Livingston sat back in his chair and studied me in silence, as if trying to connect what Mr. Baydon told him with my person. I could hardly doubt him: me, a wild-looking girl, stepping out of the wilderness proclaiming that someone was about to spy.

  For myself, although I had arrived at that part of my plan that required me to tell someone what I knew, I was filled with deep misgivings. Would this man believe me? Those soldiers had treated me as daft. How could this man not do the same? I almost thought so myself.

  Moreover, this officer served under Arnold. Was he likely to believe my full tale, that his superior, the great hero, General Benedict Arnold, was about to commit the treason of giving West Point to the British!

  In haste, I decided that I would tell him only what was credible and easy to confirm.

  “Now, then,” he said, “in your own words, tell me what this is about.”

  “My name is Molly Saville, sir,” I said. “I have been working in New York City. At the Kennedy house. General Clinton’s headquarters.”

  When his eyes widened slightly, I supposed I made some impression. He said, “How did you get here?”

  “An old couple—a fisherman and his wife—took me partway up the river in their boat. The rest I walked.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “At British headquarters, sir, I overheard that the British were going to send a ship up Hudson’s River. That there would be someone on board who intended to spy upon West Point.”

  “Do you know the name of the ship?”

  “The Vulture.”

  “There is such a ship,” Colonel Livingston acknowledged. “She patrols the river, watching us.”

  I waited.

  “And you are sure this spy has been sent here from British headquarters in New York City. Where you worked.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who did you hear talk about this?”

  “A major. Major John André.”

  He grimaced in such a way that I felt I had gained some more believability. “I know the name,” he acknowledged. “Chief of staff under General Clinton. What made you come?”

  “Sir, I know the enemy well. I . . . lost my brother. A soldier. To the prison ships. He was taken at Fort Washington.”

  Livingston nodded, as if that was an acceptable explanation. But then he fussed about his maps, as if uncertain what to do. At length he faced me. “You say you heard all this where you worked. Why were you there?”

  “I must live.”

  “Did my soldiers, the one who just brought you, see the ship?”

  “I begged them to look, sir, but they chose not to. Sir, I believe that the spy is going ashore. Or maybe he already has gone. He must be prevented. It’s a terrible thing—”

  Colonel Livingston cut me off with a wave of his hand. Then he made a show of studying his maps, even drumming his fingers on one of them. As if coming to a decision, he stood up, revealing himself a larger man than I had thought. “You’ll need to wait here,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  “But—”

  “Answer my question, girl!” he barked.

  I winced. “Yes, sir,” I whispered.

  “I’ll send some food. Someone will be at the door. No one will bother you. Don’t try to leave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The colonel left me.

  Standing alone in that little room, I was all too aware that I had, only to a small degree, achieved what I had wanted; to tell someone enough to prevent the treason. Nonetheless, I had to acknowledge that perhaps I had revealed too little, too late. Perhaps the treason had already happened.

  I looked at the maps that lay before me. They were much like the ones in André’s office. The same world, different eyes. When I examined them, I was able to determine where I was, a place where the river narrowed. Farther north, on the opposite shore, was a place called Kings Ferry. West Point lay some ten miles farther. On the eastern side, northward, was a village marked as Peekskill. To the south, the closest town was Tarrytown. I knew nothing of these places, save, after a fashion, Tarrytown. Wasn’t that where John Paulding resided?

  But what did geography matter? I was locked in a room that was all but a prison. Exhausted and frustrated, I sat down on the edge of the bed and almost burst into tears. In haste, I dried my eyes. I must, I told myself, show strength, or they would never believe me.

  A soldier brought bread, water, and a piece of dried meat, which, though hard to chew, I ate greedily. I wanted to lay upon the cot, but thought it improper. Instead, I sat back against the wall and waited, wondering how much time we had—if any—to save America. Was that absurd? So be it. I was sure it was true.

  Aboard the Vulture, André paced the deck restlessly, waiting for the man who would bring him to Arnold.

  By the time Colonel Livingston reappeared, I was sitting in complete darkness. Lit lantern in hand, he stood by the open door and studied me as if still perplexed. I stood up and waited for him to speak. “I have sent out some men,” he finally said, “to see what the Vulture is doing.”

  “Sir,” I replied, “I told you what she’s doing.”

  “You have walked here, miss, out of the wilderness to present me with extraordinary claims.”

  It was exactly as I feared he would think.

  He went on. “I can’t act just because you say so. I have to determine for myself. If necessary, I can take action on my own. My commander, General Arnold—”

  “Sir!”

  “Rest assured, miss, if something were seriously amiss, I would of course inform him.”

  Not daring to say that Arnold was the one person who should not be informed, I said, “When might you do something?”

  His only reply was “You may use that cot to sleep.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Good night, miss. Don’t try to leave. You will be stopped.”

  With that, he left me.

  I felt defeated, but relieved I had not informed him about General Arnold’s treason. That, I am sure, would have made things worse. As if things could be worse than they were.

  59

  ON THE MORNING of September the twenty-second, I awoke wondering what, if anything, had transpired during the night. There was nothing to do but wait and worry.

  Do not think I failed to note the date: four years to the same day when I had witnessed Captain Hale’s death. That mournful recollection in turn flooded me with painful memories of William’s death with all its attending horrors. How many had suffered in this war! And I was doing nothing but sitting in a grimy hut, helpless to do anything. War makes prisoners of everyone.

  At length the door opened and a soldier brought in bread and a pitcher of milk. It was a comfort to have it.

  Shortly thereafter Colonel Livingston came in. He stood at the door, hand upon the doorjamb, as though reluctant to come near. “I’m sending a troop of soldiers to Tellers Point to watch the Vulture,” he said. “Regardless of what you say, I don’t like her anchored there.”

  “Has she ever done so before?”

  He shook his head. But clearly he was not going to act because a girl urged him to. No, he must have his own reason to act. As for me, more than anything I wanted to know if John André was still on that ship. After so much had happened, I had the right to learn how things stood.

  I said, “Please, sir. I must go with them.”

  Distrust filled his face. “Why?”

  “I want to see if I was right.”

  “You are a singular young lady. How old are you?”

  I lifted my chin. “Fifteen.”

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p; “Do you have parents?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they know what you have done?”

  “No, sir. Do you have children?”

  “A daughter your age.”

  “Would you not trust her?” I said, trying to keep my gaze level.

  He sighed. “It’s a lengthy way to Tellers Point.”

  “No further than I’ve already come.”

  “You’ll be under guard.”

  I said, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  He shifted uneasily on his feet, then said, “These are fragile times, miss. You must know how unusual your tale is. It’s hard to know what to make of you.”

  “Do you think me mad?” I said.

  He gave no answer.

  I said, “Please, I need to go.”

  He waited a few moments, made a dumb show of reluctance, but then said, “Very well.” Madness has its rewards: I think he wished to be rid of me.

  I stepped out onto the parade ground. Some seven soldiers were standing about two cannons mounted on large wheels. As I would learn, one was what they called a six-pounder, which meant it could fire a six-pound weight. The other was a howitzer.

  There was also a wagon, in which cannonballs, bags of powder, and shovels were placed. Three horses were to pull all this weight.

  Colonel Livingston conferred with Mr. Baydon, who kept glancing at me doubtfully as they talked.

  Mr. Baydon broke away and shouted out an order. The small troop of soldiers, horses, cannons, and wagon began to move out along the same path by which I had come. Without waiting for an invitation, I walked behind them, like some camp follower.

  Not only were the soldiers quite young, they did not appear to know what to make of my presence. Occasionally there were stolen glances, but none would talk to me.

  At one point, I went up to Mr. Baydon. “If the ship is still there,” I said, “what will you do?”

  “Watch her.”

  “Nothing more?”

  He shrugged. “We shall see.”

  “Then why have you brought cannons?”

  “I have my orders, miss.”

  It was perfectly obvious that I was being ordered to ask no more questions.

  On board the Vulture, André and Robinson remained in their cabin. They must have talked about the war, about the future beyond the war. Repeatedly they speculated why Arnold had not appeared. They played cards. They tried to sleep. At one point, Captain Sutherland urged they sail back downriver. André, wishing to wait, informed the captain that he did not feel well and would prefer to remain motionless. The captain agreed.

  At Joshua Smith’s house, Mr. Smith had brought two of his tenants, the Cahoon brothers, to General Arnold. The general tried to persuade them to row Smith to the Vulture that night. The brothers raised objections. Why were they going to a British ship? Why at night? It would be hard work. The only boat they had was large and heavy. It all made them uneasy.

  At first Arnold tried to reason with them. Then he offered to pay them a high fee. When they refused, he ordered them to do so as a general. When they still declined, he threatened arrest if they did not do as he required.

  The brothers finally agreed. They would pick up Smith at the river’s edge at about ten that night, take him to the waiting ship, and bring this Mr. Anderson to shore for a meeting. Afterward, they would get him to the ship.

  “One other thing,” said Arnold as the brothers started to go.

  They paused.

  “You will muffle your oars.”

  As they went off, one of the brothers muttered to the other, “I don’t like this business.”

  It took much time for us to reach Tellers Point. The cannons were heavy, and the pathway, which had been easy to walk, was rough for our transport. Though the horses labored, there were places where the soldiers had to get behind the cannons and push. They even let me help. It was the same for the wagon that carried the cannonballs and shot. In the event, we did not reach Tellers Point until late afternoon. Dusk was with us.

  Tellers Point proved to be exactly that, a fat finger of land—a forested peninsula—that extended almost halfway across Hudson’s River. Not far from the actual point rose a small hill.

  Mr. Baydon, in command, left the cannons behind the hill—that they might be hidden from view—and went to the top. Two other soldiers went with him. I did the same. At the summit, we lay down, so as not to be observed. By then nothing I did seemed to shock them anymore.

  Not far from where we were was the actual tip of Tellers Point. Beyond, on the river, the Vulture was anchored.

  “That spot,” said Mr. Baydon, pointing to the very end of Tellers Point, “is what folks call Gallows Point.”

  His words made me cringe. “ Where’s West Point? ” I asked.

  “Ten miles up.”

  “Might the ship go there?”

  “There’s a chain across the river to block any passage. Besides, before you would reach it, they would have to get past Fort Lafayette.” He nodded toward the Vulture. “I suspect she’ll stay right here.”

  “What do you intend to do?” I wanted to know.

  “We’ll watch her. See if, like you claim, they put someone ashore.”

  “It might already have happened.”

  Ignoring me, Mr. Baydon had a telescope, which he put it to his eye.

  “Can you see anything?” I asked.

  He handed me the device and I peered though it. In the twilight gloom, I saw one, then two, men pacing upon her deck. It was queer to think that one of them might be André. I did wish it. Even so, I reminded myself he might have already gone to his meeting.

  As the sky grew dark, a half-moon rose, now and again veiled by clouds. Stars were bright. All was as still as stone. The two men on the Vulture paced the deck.

  I watched and waited.

  At about eleven o’clock, at the foot of Long Clove Mountain, at the southern end of Haverstraw Bay, Joshua Smith came down to the river’s edge. In his pocket was a note that allowed Mr. Anderson to pass through American lines. It was written and signed by Arnold.

  Sam and Joe Cahoon were waiting in their boat, the blades of their oars wrapped in sheepskins. When Smith appeared, the brothers murmured only a sullen greeting. Mr. Smith stepped into the boat and fixed a small white flag to the bow.

  “What’s that for?” demanded one of the brothers.

  “So we’re not shot at.”

  The men swore. “That likely?” one of them asked.

  “No.”

  The brothers pushed off and began to row. “Where to?” said one of the rowers.

  “As you’ve been told. Tellers Point. There’s a ship waiting.”

  Using the tiller, Mr. Smith steered. Their passage was made easier with the tide running south.

  The Vulture lay some miles below.

  60

  I WAS ASLEEP at the bottom of Tellers Point hill when I was awoken by an excited cry. “Mr. Baydon! There’s movement.”

  Mr. Baydon rose instantly and began to run up the hill, following the soldier who had called him. I scrambled along.

  Upon reaching the top of the hill, we looked out. Above, clouds were scudding so that the moon came and went as if playing a hiding game. When brightest, it cast glistening light upon the river. At first I saw nothing. Then I saw it: a small boat moving silently toward the Vulture. She moved like a water bug, in short forward jerks.

  Mr. Baydon put his telescope to his eye. After a while he said, “Three people in the boat. White flag in the bow.”

  I said, “What does the white flag mean?”

  “By the rules of war, they are entitled to safe passage.”

  “Safe passage?” I said.

  “We try to follow the rules, miss.”

  The boat in which Joshua Smith and the Cahoon brothers sat bumped against the hull of the Vulture.

  Captain Sutherland, who had been alerted to its approach, leaned over the gunnels. “Who’s there?” he called down.
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  “Mr. Smith. For Mr. Anderson.”

  “Come aboard,” called Sutherland.

  Mr. Smith plucked up the flag of truce and climbed to the deck. “I have a pass for Mr. Anderson.”

  The captain took the paper, read it, and then went down to where André and Robinson were waiting. “He’s here, sir. He brought a pass, but only for Mr. Anderson.”

  “Fine,” said André. “I’ll go alone.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” said Robinson.

  “It’s as planned. And I wouldn’t want it otherwise,” said André. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Your uniform, sir,” said the captain. “It’s rather visible. May I suggest I get you an overcoat to cover it.”

  “It’s best,” agreed Robinson.

  Impatient to go, André said, “As you wish.”

  When a coat was fetched, André put it on. It reached down to his boots, had a high collar, and was blue. Nothing of his uniform could be seen save his boots. The captain offered him a plain three-cornered hat, too. André gave his wig to Robinson and set the hat low upon his head.

  Robinson saluted and said, “Godspeed.”

  André went on deck and approached Mr. Smith.

  “Mr. Anderson?” said Smith.

  “I’m he,” said André.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Joshua Smith led the way, climbing down the rope ladder into the waiting boat. André followed and settled into the bow seat. He kept his hat pulled down.

  The Cahoon brothers eyed André. One of them nudged the other. “Let’s get home,” he said.

  They pushed away from the Vulture, turned the boat upstream, and began to row. The tide, however, was now against them, making it much harder to row. As for the flag of truce, it had been left behind.

  Mr. Baydon held the telescope to his eye and watched as the small boat moved out from behind the Vulture. “They’re leaving,” he announced.

  I said, “How many in the boat?”

  He took his time. “Four.”

  “You see,” I said, elated. “Someone going ashore. I was right!”