Sophia's War (30 page)

AT MR. SMITH'S HOUSE
, General Arnold told André that, as commander of West Point, he needed to go to his upriver headquarters so as not to arouse suspicion. He told the major that he was welcome to wait and see if the
Vulture
reappeared. “But,” he advised, “you might have to travel by land.”

André struggled not to show distress. “Won't that be dangerous?”

“Not in the least,” Arnold assured him.

“How would I go?”

“The closest British lines will be north of White Plains. I promise you, Mr. Smith knows the land and the people hereabouts perfectly. He'll guide you with safety. Even better, I've drawn up a letter—a pass—signed by me that permits John Anderson to go through the lines. You may be sure: my authority is absolute. No possibility of difficulties. Even if you are stopped, my note will get you through.” He held out his hand. “I trust to see you soon.”

For hours André paced behind the upper windows of Smith's house, watching for the
Vulture
. From time to
time he studied the maps and notes about West Point that Arnold had given him. The attack could not fail. If it could begin. But the time passed slowly, and the
Vulture
did not come back.

All that day I walked along the wide, well-trod path. I went through woods, although now and again there were open areas. Off to my right I caught glimpses of Hudson's River, never far. As for the few homes and barns I observed, all were in pitiable condition. The war had indeed swept the area and reduced much to a sad state. Whether it was by the hands of British or American forces, I could not tell. It was only what Mr. Baydon had told me. Since he also cautioned me not to trust anyone, I remained alert for any danger.

It must have been in the afternoon, when I, thirsty and hungry, saw an old house set back from the path. Its roof, missing shingles, sagged like the back of an old horse. Two front windows were covered with something, not glass. The front door leaned out, as if broken. A skinny wisp of smoke rose from its brick chimney.

Wanting to be sure I was going in the right direction, I decided it would be worthwhile to knock. Perhaps I might also get something to eat.

I drew close to the door—not too close—and called a greeting. When no answer came, I repeated myself, louder. I was about to go away when someone, bent and broken, emerged from inside. It took me a moment to realize it was a man.

“Good day, sir,” I called.

“Who are you?”

“Please, sir. I need to get to Tarrytown. Is this the way?”

“You British? American?”

“American.”

“Someone stole my cow,” he let me know, voice heavy with injury.

“Not I, sir. I'm truly sorry for your loss. Is this the way to Tarrytown?” I asked again.

“Seven miles,” said the old man with a feeble gesture of his thin hand as he went back into the house.

I didn't ask for food. But at least I was going the right way and it was not far.

Joshua Smith approached André. “Sir, I doubt that ship is going to come back. In any case, even if it does, I have no means of reaching it.”

“What do you propose, sir?”

“General Arnold has left a horse for you. And he told me he issued you a pass with his name. That's as good as gold. I assure you, no one among the upper party will challenge it. The east side of the river will be best. I'll take you as far as the Croton River, Pines Bridge. Once there, you'll have no trouble getting south in safety.”

André, who must have wondered if Smith knew who he was, only said, “I suppose that's best.”

“But you'll have to get out of that uniform, sir,” said Smith. “We'll be in American-controlled territory. Civilian clothing will be better. General Arnold asked me to provide some. I'll get them right now. And, sir,”
said Smith, “if we're to use the ferry at Kings, we'll need to hurry.”

In private, André changed out of his uniform. The civilian clothes Smith gave him fit him reasonably well, but he kept his own military boots. As for the maps and papers Arnold had provided—about West Point fortifications—André slipped them in his left sock, pulled the sock on, and stepped into the boot. All was out of sight and secure.

Once dressed, with a wide-brimmed hat firmly on his head, André joined Mr. Smith. He was ready to go.

André mounted a brown horse with a white star on its forehead. On the left shoulder, letters had been branded. They read “USA.”

I began to see more houses and farms. These were in better condition than the sad house I had seen previously. It gave me some expectation that I was approaching Tarrytown. The thought revived my strength.

Farther on, I saw Hudson's River on my right. The town must be on its shore. Then I passed an old stone church in good repair. I crossed over a creek, walked on, and saw a school, a blacksmith shop, a few private houses, as well as some people going about their business. I choose an old dame to speak to, who, when I came near her, observed me with such distaste that I needed no mirror to know my deplorable state.

“Good evening, mistress. Can you help me?”

“With what?” she said, backing up a step. I suspect she thought me a beggar.

“Is this Tarrytown?”

“What else would it be?”

“I'm looking for Mr. John Paulding.”

“What need do you have of him?” she demanded.

“He's a family friend. I must find him.”

She gazed upon me with much severity. “I have no idea where he is,” said the woman.

Heart sinking, I took a step away.

“But if he's anywhere near,” she called after me, “I suppose it will be at Van Tassel's tavern.”

I waited for her to say more.

“Right along there,” she said, pointing. Though feeling she was sending me away, I nonetheless went as she directed. As I walked I tried not to think what would happen if I could not find Mr. Paulding.

The tavern, a two-story wooden building, was close. Over the wide door, a swinging sign bore the painted words “Van Tassel.” Next to its door was a bench. Sitting there was a portly, bewhiskered man, smoking a clay pipe. A sleeping dog lay at his feet.

Agitated at the thought that Mr. Paulding would not be there, I approached slowly. When the man by the door paid me no mind, I pulled at the heavy door and stepped inside.

63

IT WAS LATE
afternoon when Joshua Smith and John André, on horses, set off along the three-mile roadway north to Kings Ferry. From that point, they hoped to cross Hudson's to its eastern shore. Smith took the lead. André had his coat collar up, his brimmed hat turned low, his eyes on his horse's neck. He and Smith did not speak. The only sound was the
clop-clop
of the horse hooves and the squeaking of saddles.

Unexpectedly they were joined by an American soldier on horseback.

“Mr. Smith,” said the soldier. “Good afternoon to you!”

“Ah! Sergeant Michael,” said Mr. Smith. “It is good to see you.”

“The same,” said the soldier, coming alongside Smith. “Heading for the ferry?”

“With my friend Mr. Anderson,” said Smith, gesturing. “And you, sir, where are you going?”

“West Point. But it's a pleasant afternoon.”

“It is, sir.”

As the other two men chatted about the weather, André said nothing.

After a few moments the sergeant said, “Forgive me, gentlemen. I need to hurry. Good evening, sir. Mr. Anderson: A pleasure to meet you.” The soldier put his horse to a gallop and was gone.

“There,” said Smith. “Easily done.”

André made no reply.

A short time later Mr. Smith said, “We're nearing the ferry, sir. Be advised, people might be there.”

When I entered Van Tassel's tavern, I stood just within the door and peered into smoke-layered gloom. Lanterns, lit by candles, hung from the ceiling and revealed tables, settles and chairs, and on one wall, a rack of clay pipes, like the man outside had been smoking. A few men were there. Only one of them glanced up at me. It was not Mr. Paulding.

In a far corner of the room was the cagelike enclosure from which drinks were served. Inside of it stood a large barrel of a man. As I stood there looking about, he called, “Who you looking for, girl?”

“Mr. John Paulding, sir.”

The man pointed across the room. I turned. In the dim recess of a corner, I saw William's friend. He was seated in a chair smoking a clay pipe. He must have heard his name spoken, for he considered me quizzically. When he did not appeared to recognize me, I took a step in his direction. That was when I realized he was wearing a green coat. It was the kind worn by German troops.

Hesitating, I wondered, had he turned sides?

“Were you looking for me, miss?” he called.

“Mr. Paulding,” I said, my voice all a waver. “It's me, Sophia Calderwood. William Calderwood's sister.”

He jumped up. “Miss Calderwood? Is that really you?”

“Yes, sir.” I took a moment to strengthen myself, but then faced him and said, “You told me if I ever had a need, I could come to you.”

Mr. Smith and André reached a bluff overlooking the Kings Ferry landing. In the dusky twilight, André saw the river and, beyond, the eastern shore. The river was narrow here, a good place for a ferry to be working. Midstream, a flat boat was approaching with six men, three on either side, wielding oars. Amidships, a man in civilian clothing stood by a horse.

On the western side were four mounted soldiers in the blue-and-buff uniforms of the American army. They appeared to be waiting for the ferry to land. Smith urged his horse down the incline. André followed. The American soldiers, hearing horses, turned and watched them approach.

Mr. Smith called out, “Captain Miller, sir. A good evening to you!”

“To you, too, Mr. Smith, sir,” said the soldier. He touched fingers to his hat.

“Crossing over?” asked Smith.

The soldier nodded toward the incoming ferry. “Waiting for a Frenchman. An engineer to work upon the river chain. And you, sir?”

“Going over. Escorting a commercial friend of General Arnold.” He gestured to André. “Mr. Anderson.”

The soldiers shifted in their saddles. It was Captain Miller who said, “A good evening to you, sir.”

André nodded but did not speak.

The ferry reached the shore. The man who was leading the horse stepped off and was greeted by the American soldiers. After a few remarks, and brief farewell words to Mr. Smith, the five men headed north.

André and Smith, saying nothing, dismounted and led their horses onto the ferry. Smith handed one of the boatmen some paper money. The rowers gathered up their oars. As André and Smith held their horses' bridles, the boat began to cross back over Hudson's.

“That's Verplanck's Point,” said Smith, indicating the far side. “Just beyond is a fort. Fort Lafayette. We'll need to make a courtesy stop.”

“Why?”

“These people all know me,” said Smith, keeping his voice low. “It will appear more natural and ordinary if we stop.”

When they reached the far side, Smith and André led their horses off the ferry and remounted.

“The fort is right over there,” said Smith. “It won't be a problem, sir. Colonel Livingston commands. I assure you, he and I know each other well.”

John Paulding pulled out his chair and begged me to sit, which I was grateful to do. Putting aside his pipe, he
dragged over a bench and straddled it, facing me. “What has happened? Why are you here?”

I was so relieved to be with my friend, I simply sat there, hands in my lap, unable to speak or look at him.

“Are you hungry? Can I get you something to drink?”

When all I could do was nod, he fetched me bread, meat, and something to drink, which I took as if I were famished. In truth, I was. Then he again sat and faced me, but remained quiet. Only when I had eaten enough to calm myself, I said, “Thank you. I'm much better now.”