Sophia's War (21 page)

“But, Mr. Townsend—”

He had already stepped away.

I watched him go. Insofar as he had given me
no
means of contacting
him—
save his fleeting, forgettable mention of this Tallmadge, I felt quite alone. Of course, telling me
not
to remember caused me to do the opposite.
Tallmadge.
I would remember that name.

45

SOME DAYS LATER
, in the morning, I was cleaning the vestibule at the Kennedy house when Major André and two other officers passed by me. Talking loudly, they said they'd been given leave to cross the river to Brooklyn, where, that day, horse races were being held. André was in high spirits. It reminded me of the day I walked out with him—full of joy, which utterly evaporated when I saw William as prisoner. My determination to revenge him was recalled. Perhaps that is why I did what I did.

Going to the races: no doubt it was because General Clinton had gone north to Beekman Mansion, where he sometimes stayed. Things were more relaxed at headquarters when the general was at Beekman. In short, we cleaning girls would be left more alone than usual.

As it happened, during the morning, when another girl and I were in Major André's office, there came a knock on the door. Since my companion was closest to the door—I was mopping a corner of the room—she went and opened it. Standing there, letter in hand, was the Reverend Odell.

He held up a sealed letter. “It is of considerable consequence that this letter reach Major André. Would you be so good as to place it on his desk?”

“Of course, sir.” My companion took the letter, and when Mr. Odell retired, she shut the door, brought it to the desk, put it down, and resumed her work.

My curiosity was much sparked. As soon as I had an opportunity, I drew close to the desk and glanced at the letter. It was addressed to a “Mr. Anderson.”

I gazed at it:
If it is for Major André, who then is Mr. Anderson?

As I worked about the room, I could not get the letter out of my mind. Wanting much to read it, and certain that André was gone for the day—as was General Clinton—I devised a crude stratagem.

When our cleaning was done, and just as we were stepping out of the room, the door half closed, I said, “I forgot my mop.”

I slipped back into the room and picked up the mop where I had deliberately left it near the desk. In almost the same movement, I snatched up the Odell letter and placed it in my apron pocket. Only then did I leave the room.

My companion took no notice.

It was one thing to have the letter. Quite another to read it. Moreover, now that I possessed it, I was aware of the extreme danger in which I had placed myself. Every time someone took any note of me, it was, I was sure, discovery.

What if Major André appeared and asked for it?

What if General Clinton asked?

What if Mr. Odell did as much?

I trembled.

As the day wore on, and I could find no way to read the letter in private, the gross stupidity of what I'd done grew upon me. I had a mind to destroy it. Burn it. But there proved no opportunity. Over time, no letter in a pocket ever weighed more.

Hours passed and I had yet to read or destroy the letter. As more time went by, I grew convinced I must lay it back on the desk. But though people talk of the difficulty of
stealing
something, it is perhaps even harder to
restore
a thing with equal success.

During the afternoon, Mrs. Ticknor told me, along with two other housemaids, to clean the central stairway. Seeing my chance, I took the lead, going up the steps ahead of the others.

Crouched down, back to my companions, I plucked the letter from my pocket, only to realize that my day's movements had broken the wax seal. Fumbling, I opened the letter.

The first thing I noted was the signature at the end, which was “Moore.” It other words, it was a letter
from
Mr. Moore.

There was an opening address, and then it read:

I addressed a letter to you expressing my sentiments and expectations, viz, that the following preliminaries be settled previous to cooperating. First, that S Henry secure to me my property, valued at ten thousand
pounds sterling, to be paid to me or my heirs in case of loss; and as soon as that shall happen, hundred pounds per annum to be secured to me for life, in lieu of the pay and emoluments I give up, for my services as they shall deserve if I point out a plan of cooperation by which SH shall possess himself of West Point—

I had to read that phrase again and again.

by which SH shall possess himself of West Point—

I suddenly understood: this was a plan to give over West Point to Sir Henry.

Even as I was reading, I heard a sound behind. I glanced around and saw Sir Henry himself, back from his journey north, coming up the steps.

46

PANIC-STRUCK
, I shoved the letter into my pocket and, head bowed, applied myself desperately to my cleaning task. Next moment the general passed me, going up to his private rooms. He paid no mind to me. Probably he did not even notice me—a girl at her menial work.

Though I wished urgently to reread what I had read—as well as to consider the rest—I was too unsettled.

Rather, I concentrated on my cleaning with but one thought: I
must
replace the letter. Yet there was another thing to do first. Searching out a lit candle, I held the broken seal to the heat and fused it mostly as it was. Then, at the first opportunity, I crept back to Major André's office, forced myself to dart in, and flung the letter on the desk. I escaped even faster, heart pounding like a baby bird's. I spent the remainder of the day in clutching tension that I would be undone.
I must leave this place
, I thought.

But simultaneously I went, so to speak, in an opposite direction; that is, I went over and over what I'd read. For I was perfectly convinced that Mr. Moore—whoever he was—was planning to find a way to have
General Henry Clinton take
possession
of West Point. From what I knew—my father's words seconded by Mr. Townsend—such an event would be an utter catastrophe for the patriot cause.

Nevertheless, there remained that vital unanswered question:
Who
was Mr. Moore? No patriot, of that I could be certain. Further, Mr. Townsend had suggested “Moore” was not a real name, that “Moore” was a fabrication, even as I called myself “Molly Saville.”

Was Mr. Odell Mr. Moore? That could hardly be the case. He and André met at headquarters. No need for letters. Odell, I sensed, was merely the
deliverer
of Mr. Moore's letters.

But since West Point was in the hands of Americans, it implied that some
American
was conspiring to deliver the fort to the British. A horrible thought to be sure, and one that made the unmasking of “Moore” desperately urgent.

As I thought about what I
did
know, I supposed the best way of finding out the identity of “Moore” would be to learn who was in command of West Point. But how was I—in British New York—to gain such information? I could hardly ask André. I was sure none of the cleaning girls would know. I was not on speaking terms with any other officer. Just to ask such a question might raise suspicions of me.

But I must tell Mr. Townsend of my discovery. He, however, was gone.

I spent an agitated night trying to decide what to do. During my sleepless hours, I culled the idea that Mr.
Gaine and Mr. Rivington—both of whom, I was convinced, knew what Mr. Townsend was secretly doing
and
were aware of my connection—could help me get a message to him. I decided to go to their printing shops in the morning.

That is what I did.

Mr. Rivington's shop was closest, and I so much wanted him to be there. Indeed he was, dressed fine and bewigged, as was his fashion.

He greeted me, however, guardedly.

“Yes, Miss Calderwood, are you asking for work for your father?”

“I'm trying to locate Mr. Townsend.”

“I beg your pardon. I've no knowledge where that gentleman resides.”

“He said Oyster Bay.”

“Then you know far more than I. Forgive me, Miss Calderwood, I've work to do.” In haste, he turned away as if to avoid any other queries—or so I concluded.

I thought of telling Mr. Rivington that I was aware of his business association with Mr. Townsend, but considered it imprudent.

The thought came: Had something happened to Mr. Townsend that compelled Mr. Rivington to avoid any dealings with him?

I was increasingly troubled.

I hastened on to Mr. Gaine. He too was at work. I asked him if
he
knew how to reach Mr. Townsend. He frowned, and though no one else was in his shop, he took me into a corner. In a low voice he said, “I believe
Mr. Townsend is, of necessity, concealed. Many are these days. The British are actively searching. But, Miss Calderwood, I beg you not to think
I
have any notion where he is.” He spoke the word “beg” as if pleading.

Clearly, the message was I must be equally cautious.

There I was, merely a girl, but one who had uncovered a huge secret. One of the greatest importance. But my excitement over my discovery was turning into terror. How could I be expected to know what to do? I had to tell someone who could act. Frustrated, scared, I went off to the Kennedy house. I was, moreover, increasingly angry with Mr. Townsend for having abandoned me. He might be safely hidden, but I was trapped in the lion's den with a great secret in my hands.

And though I had discovered much, there was one more vital fact I did not know: Who was Mr. Moore?

47