“Mr. Townsend—”
“Anything you believe is significant you shall convey to me. No more. No less.”
“Won’t they discover me?”
“The world being what it is, Miss Calderwood, your being a girl shall mask your true occupation.”
Nothing he said could have excited me more. “Can you really place me in the position?”
“I’m on good terms with someone in the household. Not that they know me—as you do. So, yes.”
No sooner confronted with reality than I felt queasy. I turned my back on him and thought of ways to wiggle free. “One problem, sir. My parents depend upon my wages.”
“Whatever you earn here, Miss Calderwood, you will receive the same amount. I will answer for it.”
He would say no more but waited. As for me, I could think of no other rational objections to Mr. Townsend’s offer, save fright, which I was not prepared to admit.
“When would I begin?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Our need for information is urgent. We don’t wish to lose any opportunity.”
“Mr. Townsend,” I abruptly asked. “How did you come to this employment?”
“Did you ever hear of Nathan Hale?”
Startled, I could only stare.
“When Hale died, General Washington established a scheme of spies. Mr. Paine’s words recruited me.” Leaving me to assume the rest, Mr. Townsend asked, “Are you still willing?”
I said, “How secret shall this be?”
“Only you, Miss Calderwood, and I shall know.”
“But Mr. Gaine—”
He brushed the question aside with a wave of his hand. “Now, then,” he hurried on, “tomorrow morning at eight o’clock you shall meet me outside the Archibald Kennedy house—number one Broadway.”
Feeling rushed, I found another excuse. “But if I do discover something, how can I inform you?”
“You shall leave notes for me—under the name Culper—at the Kings Crown. That’s why I wished you to see it. Have you other questions?”
I could think of none.
“Then we agree?”
I think I nodded. Oh, fateful nod!
It was then he added, “I must give one warning. This is a dangerous thing I—and now you—will be doing. To be found out could be fatal. It’s best to be skittish. From time to time, I might even find it best to withdraw. That means there may be times you will be without me.”
“And if I am?”
“You will need to make decisions on your own. Can you do that?”
What could I say other than “I think so”?
“Then, till tomorrow.” That said, Mr. Townsend left me.
At home that night my talk was so small that Mother wanted to know if I was ill. I assured her I was fine.
Indeed, out of a sense of obligation—I might be taken and held without their knowing—I finally blurted out what I was about to do. As I expected, my parents were appalled. Urged me not to. Spoke of it as folly. Of danger. As my parents, they ordered me not to.
Their opposition became my strength. To every argument, fear, and threat, my only answer was “I’m doing it for William. His comrades.” I would not be turned.
Not as strong as I, they eventually gave up.
Oh, you who would prefer weak parents. Think again!
I spent a tossing night, wondering about all that might happen. How would I comport myself? Was I capable of deception? Would I know what information was of value? What way would I convey that information to Mr. Townsend? Why use a false name—Culper—for messages? He hinted he might have to withdraw for a while. Would I—if necessary—be able to deal alone? Would Mr. Townsend really give the information I provided to General Washington? How would he do so?
I had no answers to such questions.
Moreover, it came to me that the oft-used symbol for Great Britain was a lion, and that on the morrow, I was going to place myself in the beast’s great, sharp-toothed jaws.
38
I AWOKE BEFORE I needed to. I breakfasted and hurried to market for Mother. Happily, I had no papers to deliver for Father. Without further words to my stony-faced parents, I walked to number one Broadway.
The city knew no grander building than the one known as the Archibald Kennedy house. A large two-story—plus attic—brick building, it was almost sixty feet wide at the street. On each of the two main floors were four big windows, all with shutters. The entryway was a massive white door reached by four stone steps, the door bracketed with stately wooden and fluted columns. The closer I came to this commanding structure, the more my resolution shrank. Did I really wish to commit myself to such an outrageous act—to be a spy?
When I stood before the building and saw two tall British guards–one on each side of the front door, standing at fierce attention, bayoneted muskets in hand—I struggled to maintain my resolve. Even as I observed it all, other soldiers—they appeared to be officers—were entering and leaving the house.
“Miss Calderwood.”
Startled, I looked around. It was Mr. Townsend.
“We need to go round the back,” he said quietly.
Led by him, I went down an alley on the north side of the building. At the rear was a low door—the servants’ entrance, but guarded as out front, by two soldiers.
Mr. Townsend approached them. One of the soldiers seemed to recognize him. “We’re here to see Mrs. Benjamin.”
“Very good, Mr. Townsend.” The soldier saluted Mr. Townsend but took no notice of me. It made me recall Mr. Townsend’s remark that “Your being a girl shall mask your true occupation.” Now “folly,” not “occupation,” seemed a better word.
The other solider opened the door for us.
We stepped down into a spacious kitchen with an immense hearth and stone floor, as well as tables, cabinets, and large basins. On one wall, bright copper pots were shelved in orderly fashion. Others hung from the ceiling. Barrels stood about, containing I knew not what. On the massive central table, mounds of vegetables, a large fish, a side of beef, plus loaves of bread. Considering the city’s shortage of food, it was astonishing to see such abundance. It filled me with resentment and stiffened my resolve.
Three women were hard at work preparing food. Two were young, and the third was a large, elder woman, who turned to greet us.
“Ah, Mr. Townsend. Good day.”
“Mrs. Benjamin, this is the girl I spoke to you about.”
I curtsyed as the woman eyed me up and down.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “We can try her. Miss, if you would sit there, I’ll send for Mrs. Ticknor. She’s chief housekeeper. She’ll inform you of your duties. Mr. Townsend,” she said, “much obliged.”
To her he said, “I’ll send that cloth you requested to your home.” To me he said nothing but gave me his customary brief bow and departed.
I took the chair where I’d been directed, and waited. One of the younger women left the room, presumably to fetch that Mrs. Ticknor. Since Mrs. Benjamin and the other young woman paid no further notice of me, I sat there trying to take in as much as I could, while pondering the notion that in exchange for a bolt of cloth, I had been engaged as a spy.
I was still sitting there waiting when into the room stepped John André.
39
MY HEART LURCHED. My throat tightened. I could hardly breathe. All I did was gawk at him.
As for John André, he went right to Mrs. Benjamin and spoke about some special guests to be at that night’s dinner with General Clinton. A discussion of the menu ensued. At one point he casually glanced round the room and rested his eyes on me.
Did he recognize me? I saw not so much as a glimmer of notice in his eyes. No, he knew me not, no more than had John Paulding. Once a girl, now a woman. What better disguise! Next instant he turned away, finished talking, then left. The kitchen resumed what it had been doing before.
“Mrs. Benjamin,” I said when I could carr
y on with normal breathing, “that officer who was just here, who is he?”
“Major André? He’s General Henry Clinton’s chief of staff. Just back from Charleston. Next to His Excellency, the general, he’s the most powerful man here.”
“Is he a major, then?”
“And soon to be promoted higher, they say.”
“What are his duties?”
“Lord. What doesn’t he do? Schedules the general’s appointments and sees everyone who comes. Receives and answers the general’s letters. Approves sick leave. Writes reports for the general. In all of General Clinton decisions, he has a part. And, so it’s said, he’s scoutmaster.”
“Scoutmaster?”
“You know: the word they use for the one in charge of intelligence. Spies and the like. I daresay our army has a host of them. And the rebels, I suppose, have theirs. Major André is not only in charge of our spies, he’s supposed to catch the rebel ones.”
40
JUST BEFORE, MY heart had been beating wildly. Now I truly believed it had stopped altogether.
“Very well, then,” Mrs. Benjamin went on without noticing my reaction. “What name do you wish to be called?”
Who thinks about one’s choice of name? But somehow I managed to find tongue enough to give my mother’s name. “Molly,” I managed to say. “Molly Saville.”
Mrs. Ticknor arrived in the kitchen. She was a small, plump, red-faced middle-aged woman, bursting with much forcibility. Despite her size, the woman attended to her duties like a barn swallow, forever swooping here, there, and everywhere. In her charge were nine housemaids, first and second floor, of which I was the newest.
“Never forget,” she prattled rapidly as she gave me a tour, “this house is the most important in the city and, I daresay, in the country. His Excellency General Henry Clinton insists that things be done to perfection.”
From floor to ceiling, wealth and fashion gilded every inch of the headquarters. The outsized rooms all had fireplaces with marble mantels, stylish chairs with tapestry backings and cushions, as well as graceful tables on thick rugs. Crystal chandeliers—loaded with bayberry candles—dangled from ceilings. Upon the walls hung portraits of bewigged and bemetaled military men who gazed condescendingly down from their perches.
The top floor housed General Clinton’s living quarters. I was instructed that I was a “first-floor girl, and not to go where I was not asked.” During my time there, I generally did not know the general was about unless I heard him playing his violin in his private quarters.
The first-floor up-front rooms were the dining room and parlor. The parlor served as a waiting room for those who came to call upon the general. Indeed, there were crowds of such visitors—officers, government men, and merchants—morning, noon, and night. Dinners were as elaborate as they were late.
My tasks, as Mrs. Ticknor unfolded them, appeared endless: polishing windows, floors, and door locks. Dusting picture frames, mantels, desks, and chairs. I was to serve food, take dishes away, and when called upon, wash linen, napkins, and the like. In short, I must do whatever I was told. Further, I was to be in the house no later than six in the morning and would be released only in the evenings, until I was no longer needed.
On that first floor, in the back, was the commander in chief’s office. Directly across the hallway, with special access, was John André’s place of work. Mrs. Ticknor stopped before the door and announced, “I need to show you Major André’s office. Cleaning it will be a key part of your duties.”
Alarm enveloped me. What if he is there? What if this time he recognizes me?
All the same, I wished to see it, the more so when Mrs. Ticknor, hand on the doorknob, spoke with reverence. “You must pay attention to the major. He’s risen swiftly, and will go far. Everyone acknowledges he’s that rarity, a favorite of General Clinton. The two confer about everything. Indeed, they say nothing happens in this house to which the major is not a party.” She lowered her voice: “The power behind the throne.
“But for all his importance,” she went on, “the major is courteous and, while firm, doesn’t seek fault. His friendly and ungrudging ways have made him a favorite of the staff. We all dearly love him. I’m sure you will too.”
Why did that give me a pinch of pain?
She knocked—my heart was knocking too—and upon receiving no answer, opened the door.
I was thankful—or was I disappointed?—the room was deserted. I examined it. There was a large table in the center of his room—a chair behind it, two chairs before. Upon the table were many papers. A few lay spread about, but most were in neat stacks. Writing quills stuck up from a wide mouthed jar next to an inkwell and a box of blotting sand. On one wall, a portrait of someone in an elegant uniform. Mostly, however, the walls bore pinned-up maps, more than I had ever seen. As for what places they represented, I could not say.
Like every other room in the house, it had a large fireplace, but this being summer, no fire was laid. I did note that André’s flute lay upon the mantel. Recalling how he used to play for me, it was impossible not to have emotioned thoughts. I did my first dusting while denying them away.
“He’s been working hard of late,” Mrs. Ticknor went on, her voice ripe with respect. “He arrives in his office before the general and stays much later. It shall be your responsibility to get here in the morning each day, before he does, to tidy.”
Mrs. Ticknor said no more but, putting a dust cloth in my hand, set me to polishing brass fixtures in the dining room.
As I went about my tasks that first day, I tried to speculate what kind of information might be in those papers I had seen on Major André’s desk. If this was “the most important house in the city” and “nothing happens in this house to which the major is not a party,” his office must contain a trunk of useful intelligence. It was my task to unpack those things, not to engage with the major.
41
MY FIRST WEEK of work, though arduous, proved typical. Chores were endless, and of small interest. I arrived early and left late, worn out. That said, my fear of discovery subsided, because the only ones who paid any attention to me were my sister cleaners and Mrs. Ticknor.
Indeed, it was rare for me to labor alone. That said, the women I worked with were quite companionable. While we toiled, there were moments of casual chatter and gossip, which I was interested to hear. Much talk was about various officers being sent off, who was dashing, who disgraced, who praised, and the like. Indeed, among the girls there was some competition as to who could learn—and share—the most. The wages of drudgery is gossip.
The common view about the war was that it could not last long, that American fortunes were much diminished, that of the British Army ascending. But then, most of the women were passionate loyalists. Did they care that the king imposed taxes on us without consent or cut off our trade from the world? Think of dying prisoners? Not a jot! I would have loved to argue reason into them but dared not. Indeed, I found their loyalist chat of use.
Of John André, one of them confided, “With all his open charm, there is much that is closed in him.”
Another passing comment: that Major André, since the capture of Charleston (in the Carolinas), had been focused on something that required lengthy conferences with General Clinton. The gossip was that a grand military action—“some bold stroke”—was under review. As someone said, “Hopefully, it will bring a quick end to the war.”
You may well perceive my keen desire to know what that bold stroke might be.
I saw John André regularly, and absolutely, he did not recognize me. He was courteous and kind to me but took no notice in any way. His smiles were bestowed on everyone. His regard was such that I might as well have been invisible.
On my part, I found him not so different from three years previous. His uniform was more elaborate—as befitted his higher rank—while his olive-hued skin, dark eyes, and black hair set him off to good advantage. His face still gave every suggestion of honest openness. Though I
knew he was a soldier and had seen coarse times, I could have believed the word “charming” had been invented for him. Hardly a wonder that he was a favorite.
But what did I feel about him? Each time I saw him, I asked myself that question. Though I searched my heart for answers, I was convinced I found no affixedness. Instead, I insisted that the flush of sensibility I felt whenever I saw him was merely fear of discovery. I had but to think that he could have saved William, and all the horrors of my brother’s death rose before me. To that dreadfulness what had André said? “I must not let the slightest hint of irregularity brush against my honor as a British officer.”
His honor. My dear William!
So you may be sure, I insisted that John André was the enemy. I must hate him.
And yet I was dimly aware of this contradiction: I wished him to notice me, while aware that if he did, it might well prove fatal.
42
ON MY SECOND day of work I found myself—as would be the case almost every day—in Major André’s office, cleaning with another housemaid. Once there, I seized the opportunity to tidy his desk that I might read anything that lay there.
All too quickly, I realized that while I could read some papers, I had access only to the top-most sheets unless I shifted them, which I was loath to do. Moreover, since my opportunities were but fleeting, it was fortunate that I could read as fast as I could.
Upon that first occasion, I discovered nothing I thought would be of interest to Mr. Townsend. I could only trust there would be other opportunities.
There did prove one perplexing difficulty. There were many papers on the major’s desk. Which ones were written in André’s hand, and which were not, I could not readily determine.
However, that night when I got home, I found a way to solve that problem: the poem John André had written to me. I had it still in a tin box, hidden away along with the blue ribbon. Once the poem was retrieved, I studied it anew.
No matter how young the flower