Sophia's War (27 page)

Once we had crossed the river, they set their canoe among trees where I supposed it would not be readily seen.

Mr. Baydon said, “This way.” With him in the lead, and the younger soldier behind me—I think they were guarding me—we started walking along a wide path that went through the forest.

58

IT WAS A
long march, but not difficult, the path being fairly even and the trees by which we walked thick enough that it shielded us from the sun. We barely talked. I did ask them where they came from. “Jersey,” said Mr. Baydon. When Mr. Groogins said, “Connecticut,” I had a mind to ask if he knew a Mr. Tallmadge—the man to whom Mr. Townsend reported information—but thought better of it.

Once I asked, “Under whom does your commander, this Colonel Livingston, serve?”

“General Arnold.”

Dear God! Was coming here the worst thing to have done?
But there was no turning away.

On we went until Mr. Baydon said, “Almost there.”

Within moments, we stepped out of the forest into a clearing where there were many tree stumps. We proceeded up a small hill. At the hill's crown was a wall of upright logs. Behind that were higher mounds of earth. Perhaps thirty soldiers were standing atop these mounds, muskets in hand. All watched us draw close.

“Fort Lafayette,” said Mr. Groogins.

Off to the left I could see the broad expanse of Hudson's River. We had been walking parallel to it all along.

Mr. Baydon lifted his musket over his head and called something. In moments a wide gate in the log wall swung out and we walked into Fort Lafayette.

The fort consisted of an open parade ground enclosed by walls of logs and earth, upon which a few cannons were mounted. All pointed toward the river. Close by, shot was stacked.

In the center of the fort area was a small log house. My escorts led me straight to it and rapped on the door. I looked back. The fort gates had been shut. I would not be able to leave.

“Enter!” called a voice.

We stepped inside the cabin, which was no more than a rayless, musty room with a dirt floor and an unmade cot against one wall. In the center was a table, upon which lay maps, torn and curled at their edges. Seated behind the table was a soldier. As we came forward, he looked up.

A lean, unshaven face with tired, red-rimmed eyes looked upon me with puzzlement. His uniform was dirty, sweat stained. A shock of gray hair suggested he might have been grandfather to the soldiers who had brought me. Though I supposed this man was Colonel Livingston, the fort's commander, I saw nothing officer-like about him. Of course, I had not seen an American officer for three years. This man appeared ordinary, without the military authority or bearing of the British officers I had come to know.

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.”