Sophia's War (20 page)

IN THE DAYS
that followed, I had much access to John André's desk, but discovered nothing. Then, on the eighth day of June, a Reverend Jonathan Odell called upon the major.

I learned Mr. Odell's name because the girl with whom I was working enjoyed telling me—in regular hearsay fashion—that Mr. Odell had been a British officer before going into the Church of England. “He's been a steady visitor of late,” she confided. “Meeting with Major André.”

Since John André had once taken pains to tell me he had no special interest in matters of religion, I found this curious. “Does Reverend Odell,” I asked, “come on church or military matters?”

“I can't say,” she confided. “Just seems an important friend. Whenever he comes, the major puts all business aside, brings Mr. Odell within his office, and locks the door.”

“What do you think their dealings are about?”

“I'm sure I don't know. Maybe the major is going into the church.” Her giggle assured me it was not likely.
But though my curiosity heightened, I was perplexed as to how I might learn more.

However, two days after Mr. Odell had called at the Kennedy house, I was again cleaning Major André's desk when I glimpsed a paper with the heading “Mr. Moore's Memoranda.” What followed was a list:

French fleet is on way

Attack on Quebec

West Point is under strength

Hudson's River chain easily smashed

Rocky Hill redoubt weak

Requests £10,000

Of course, the word “attack” caught my attention, with a sense that this
must
be military in nature. So at last—
something
of interest. And the handwriting was definitely André's.

I studied the list, trying to make sense of what I saw. Though I knew Quebec was a city in Canada, I was ignorant about where or what was West Point. The same for Rocky Hill. Nor did I know what a “redoubt” was. As for “Mr. Moore,” the name meant nothing to me.

Believing, however, that the memoranda would be of some interest to Mr. Townsend, I committed as much of the page to my memory as I could.

I also stole a moment to gaze upon the maps that were set upon the wall. They were many, large, and complex. In my brief study, I could not locate a West Point.

That night, when I came home, I wrote down all I
could recall of that memorandum. The following morning I rose early and took a sealed note—inscribed to “Culper”—and went to the Kings Crown. As I expected, it was too early for anyone to be there, but I slipped the paper under the door.

As I walked away, I allowed myself to think,
I am learning John André
'
s secrets.

It gave me pleasure.

44

THE NEXT DAY'S
work at the Kennedy house passed without incident. I did some cleaning in Major André's room but discovered only that the memoranda I'd previously seen was gone. Perhaps, I told myself, with disappointment, it meant nothing.

By the time I was told I might go home, it was evening. Like most July nights, it was warm and humid, and I was looking forward to a cooling rest. As I passed up Broadway, however, Mr. Townsend had silently fallen into step by my side.

He offered no greeting, but, speaking in a low voice, said, “Was there any more to that memorandum than you gave me?”

“No, sir. Was it special?”

“Do you have any idea who Mr. Moore is?”

“None. What is West Point?”

“A vital American fort. But it's urgent that you find out who is Mr. Moore.”

I said, “Do you know a Mr. Jonathan Odell?”

“An obnoxious Tory churchman. What of him?”

“He visits Major André.”

Mr. Townsend merely muttered, “Hmmm.”

I said, “Do you wish me—” But when I turned to complete the question, Mr. Townsend was already walking away from me.

I thought, if
he
was so cautious, what should that tell me to do about
my
spying?

A few days later, I was again in André's office, where on his desk I found yet another note in his own hand, which was headed “Mr. Moore.” I immediately read it.

French not going to Quebec. Rhode Island. Expects to get command of West Point. Americans sick of war. Wish to be on former footing.

The words, in themselves, made little sense to me.
Who is expected to command West Point? Who wishes to be on former footing?
And indeed,
What footing is that?
Beyond all else,
Who is Mr. Moore?

As before, I committed the words to memory. When I finally reached home that night, I wrote them out that I might pass the information to “Culper.”

I also asked Father if he knew where West Point was.

“I believe it's up along Hudson's River, perhaps some fifty miles beyond Manhattan. On the western shore.”

“Who controls it?”

“I believe we do.” By
we
, he meant Americans.

“Is it vital?”

“I'm no military strategist, but I would think that if we lost it, New England would be lost. With so much of
the South occupied by the British, to lose New England is as much to say
all
might be lost.”

“What is a ‘redoubt'?”

“A small, detached fortification,” he said. “Is all this part of your new, shall I say, occupation?”

I said nothing.

“I suppose you can't tell me more,” he said.

To which I said, “Have you ever heard of a Mr. Moore?”

“Never.”

Early next morning, I left a note for “Culper” at the Kings Crown. It contained what I had newly learned. For the first time I took pains to look about to make sure I was not being observed.

Later that day, a curious incident. My companion and I were dusting John André's office, including his mantel, and thus the flute. I could not refrain from looking at it, or refrain from thinking how the lieutenant once played for me.

Even as I had that thought, John André entered the room.

“Good morning,” he said.

My companion and I curtsied.

Looking at me, he smiled and said to me, “Do you know what that instrument is?”

“A flute, sir?”

“Good for you.” Next moment he picked it up and began to play, only to soon stop. As he replaced it on the mantel, he said, “That was from happier days. Well, I must work. Ladies . . . ” He gestured to the door.

My companion and I left. As the door shut behind us, she gave me a nudge. “He likes you.” She giggled.

I made no response to her but only felt anger—
How could he have forgotten me?
But a new thought quickly tumbled forward:
I have fooled him!
That realization gave me something I had never experienced before—a sense of power.

The same evening when I was coming home along Broadway, Mr. Townsend passed me without stopping. As he went by, he said, “You
must
find out about Mr. Moore.”

“Sir!” But he was gone.

July the fourteenth proved an extraordinary day.

In the morning I had been asked as usual, along with another housemaid, to clean André's office. When we arrived, the major was not there. As it happened, while we were still at work, he again walked in.

I, along with my companion, immediately curtsied, bade him a “Good morning, sir,” and took steps to leave.

“No, no,” he called. “I've only this letter to copy. But I must have the office ready for a visitor. Go on with your work.”

That we did, while he sat down at his table, paper before him. Quill in hand, he commenced to write.

He was still writing when an officer opened the side door—which led to General Clinton's office—poked his head in, and said, “Sir, General Clinton wishes to see you directly.”

André put his pen down and went out of the room, shutting the door behind him. The moment he was
gone I recalled Mr. Townsend's words “You must find out about Mr. Moore.”

With rash impulsiveness, I went to André's desk and read what he had written: it was addressed to Mr. Moore. The part I could read said,

HESH is much obliged to you for the useful Intelligence you have transmitted him. It corresponds with other information and gives him full conviction of your desire to assist him. He had hoped to communicate with you in a very satisfactory manner but is disappointed. His Excellency hopes you still keep in view the project of essentially cooperating with him. He thinks having the command of W. Point would afford

That was all André had written before quitting his desk. Even as I reread it, struggling to commit it to my memory, I heard the squeak of the doorknob. I scurried away.

André reappeared. Unaware of what I'd done, he sat down and resumed writing. When he finished, he blotted the paper with sand, gathered up what he had written, and went back out that side door, presumably to meet with Sir Henry again.

As soon as he left the room, my companion burst into giggles. “You read what he was writing, didn't you? What did it say? I suppose you can read.”

Realizing I had acted recklessly—I could feel myself blushing—I nonetheless had wits to say, “He was
refusing to grant someone a leave to visit his intended wife and was explaining why.”

To my relief the girl made a silly laugh but seemed satisfied.

As the day wore on, I kept turning over in my head what I had read so as to keep it fresh in my memory. At the same time, I continued to wonder who “HESH” was. And West Point was mentioned again. The words implied “Mr. Moore” would have
command
of West Point. What was meant by “cooperating”?

Midafternoon, it came to me: “HESH,” meant
H
is
E
xcellency
S
ir
H
enry. And “cooperating” might mean “working with.”

I did recall my father's words that if America lost West Point, New England could be lost, and thereby the whole war. And that day the Reverend Odell visited again with André. Were there connections to all this?

That evening, when I got home, the first thing I did was write down as much as I could recall of André's letter. The following morning, as before, I slipped a message under the door of the Kings Crown, saying that I must speak with “Culper.” I was satisfied then that the next evening, as I was going home, Mr. Townsend fell in with me.

I told him what I had read.

He said, “To whom was that letter written?”

“That
Mr. Moore.
”

“I have searched,” he said with authority. “There is no Moore in the British command. Is the man mentioned at the headquarters?”

“Not that I have heard.”

“I suspect it is a false name,” he suggested. “You must find out who he really is. It's vital.”

We walked farther on, neither of us talking, until he said, “Miss Calderwood, I fear I may have to absent myself for a while.”

I halted. “Why?”

“Keep walking. I am not positive, but I may be suspected. You know I cannot take many risks. Though such suspicion has occurred before and proved an empty threat, it will be necessary for me to withdraw for a while.”

I was taken aback. “What do you mean, withdraw?”

“My father conducts a business at Oyster Bay. I shall remove there for a time.”

“How long?” I said.

“I can't say.”

“Is it far?”

“The north shore of Long Island.”

“What should I do if I learn some information about Mr. Moore?”

“I'll try to find a way for you to communicate with me.”

“Mr. Townsend,” I said, “forgive me. But the information I give to you, you once told me it went to General Washington. Do you give it to him yourself? Could I do that?”

He shook his head. “I send it to Connecticut, to a Major Tallmadge, who—” He cut himself short. “Forgive me. I—I should not speak of him,” he said with a
stammer of embarrassment. “Blot that name from your memory.”