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
THOUGH I WISHED it otherwise, in the following days Mr. Townsend did not appear.
I took it upon myself—when I had the opportunity—to study the maps in André’s office and search out West Point. Father had said it lay upon the western shore of Hudson’s River, some fifty miles north of the city. That enabled me to locate it on a map.
The map fascinated me, as if by just looking at it I might discover who held the command. I studied it too, trying to perceive why the place was so vital. Still, I could learn nothing more, save that the fort was far away and situated where the river was narrow. I concluded that the narrowness of the river meant West Point could command all river passage north and south. No wonder it was so vital.
I also searched out the location of Oyster Bay, thinking I might go there in search of Mr. Townsend. I found it some thirty miles out upon the northern coast of Long Island. Yes, closer than West Point. But if something had happened to Mr. Townsend, he might not be there. I kept telling myself—desperately wanting, I should say—that I would see Mr. Townsend soon. Else, what was I to do with what I knew?
At the same time, I began to ponder how to act if he failed to come. What if, as might be truly the case, he’d been arrested? Perhaps he was being held on a prison ship in Wallabout Bay. Or even hung?
All too ghastly to believe.
I told myself I must be patient, but in truth, my anxiety was constantly mounting. What if, in this waiting time, “Mr. Moore” found a way to give West Point to the British? The war would be lost.
Like Indian corn in August, the “what ifs” in my life were growing fast. Too fast.
48
THEN, DURING THE third week of July, I found another letter from “Mr. Moore” on André’s desk. In sum, “Mr. Moore” insisted upon a meeting with Mr. Anderson. I now had two mysteries: Who was Mr. Moore? Who was Mr. Anderson?
A few days later, I found a new memorandum on André’s desk. Written in his hand, it was marked, “For Moore. To be coded by Odell.” There! That was Odell’s role—a coder. In part, André had written:
Tho West Point derives its importance from the nature of the operations of our enemy yet should we thro your means possesses ourselves of 3,000 men and its artillery and stores with the magazine of provisions for the army which may probably be there the sum of 20,000 pounds should be paid you.
It was signed, “Anderson.”
Anderson is André! A huge discovery! Moreover, André was offering a vast sum of money—a sum far greater than I had seen mentioned before—if the British gained possession of West Point from “Mr. Moore.”
Thus it was, the most critical question of all still remained: Who was “Mr. Moore”?
I felt the information I already had—unless revealed to someone—would explode inside of me. Even so, I still heard nothing from Mr. Townsend. Ever more desperate, I left another message for “Culper” at the Kings Crown to the effect that I must see him.
No response came.
During one night in the second half of August, I came home tired from work and extremely dejected with the inactivity in this desperate matter. As it happened, Father was still up, reading. We exchanged a few words, but he must have sensed my mood, for he took pains to cheer me.
“Your mother’s friend,” he said, “Mistress Lorenz, was here this afternoon. She brought her whole budget of gossip. Some of it was news that should cheer you.”
“What was it?”
“You were asking about that place, West Point. Remember, I was telling you how important it was.”
I looked up. “What news could she have?”
“West Point will be safe.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You’ll be pleased to know that—according to her—your hero has taken command of it.”
“My hero? What hero is that?”
“General Arnold.”
Astonished, I managed to say, “Are you sure she said his name? That it’s Arnold who . . . is in charge of West Point?”
He smiled. “Your mother will confirm it.”
“But is it fact?”
He laughed. “That woman seems to know things. I trust her more than those Tory newspapers for which I work.”
What I felt was nothing less than utter confusion.
Arnold in command of West Point.
I should have felt that West Point was now safe, because Benedict Arnold, our very best general, the patriot hero of Montreal, Fort Ticonderoga, Lake Champlain, and Saratoga was in command. My hero!
I should have been overjoyed that it was not“Mr. Moore” who was in command.
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Nevertheless, I had told myself that to uncover who “Mr. Moore” actually was, I needed only to discover who was in command of West Point.
By all logic, “Mr. Moore” was America’s most successful general, Benedict Arnold. And he was selling West Point to the British.
49
I SAT THERE, refusing to believe what I had just heard: Arnold was Mr. Moore. Inconceivable! Monstrous! Confounding! Too terrifying as to its import.
Besides, if it was the truth—which I had to doubt—what could I do with such appalling intelligence? That Mr. Townsend had vanished at such a time only added to my dread.
Then I thought, even if I could tell him my news, I was not sure he would believe me. Why should he when I myself could hardly give it the color of truth!
I fairly moaned with exasperation.
I recalled Mr. Townsend telling me he provided information for General Washington. I imagined myself seeking out the general and telling him directly what I had learned. That too was absurd. I did not know where he was. Had no idea how to reach him. Besides, would he actually listen to a girl?
Then I remembered Mr. Townsend saying he gave his information to a Connecticut man, someone named Tallmadge. Alas, I knew no more know about this Tallmadge than the man in the moon.
In short, there was nothing for me to do but keep my horrific discoveries within me and wait upon Mr. Townsend. When he did come—I kept telling myself—he probably would assure me my worries were for naught.
People know of the danger of spying. Yes, it is hard to discover a truth. But it is much harder to be unable to do anything about it. It’s as if you know for certain a building will collapse and not one soul—not even those within—will listen to your warning. Hearing truth makes many deaf.
During this same period, some noteworthy things did happen. The first was that the Kennedy house became abuzz with the news that John André had been promoted to Major General. There was much speculation among the cleaning maids and kitchen staff as to why this had happened. Some said it was because he was a special favorite of General Clinton. Others insisted it was because he had distinguished himself at the Siege of Charleston. Some claimed he had wheedled the rise with his famous charm. Then there was the suggestion that most interested me: that the new Major General was engaged upon a secret endeavor to end the war swiftly. As to what that enterprise exactly was, no one knew.
Alas, I was certain I did know, knew it too well.
Just to think that John André was in the center of this almost drove me to distraction. Why must it be him?
The other event of weight that occurred was the Battle of Camden, in South Carolina. It proved a disaster for the Americans under General Gates. The Americans’ biggest defeat yet, or so it was bragged at British headquarters. The talk became ever more insistent that the war must, with certainty, be over soon. Would William and countless others have died for nothing?
Typically, one of my work companions gossiped, “One more stroke and it shall be done.” She even added, “And I’m sure it’ll be Major André who brings it off.”
How ghastly to hear that. And yet, I confess it—that horror was touched with high regard. Why should it not be him?
Then on the last day of August, I came upon a new letter on André’s desk. Addressed to “Mr. John Anderson, Merchant,” it was written in a hand I did not recognize. One part that caught my absolute attention:
. . . in a few days . . . to procure you an interview with Mr. Moore when you will be able to settle your commercial plan I hope agreeable to all parties, Mr. Moore assures me that he is still of opinion that his first proposal is by no means unreasonable and makes no doubt when he has a conference with you that you will close with it. He expects when you meet that you will be fully authorized from your house: that the risks and profit of the co-partnership may be full and clearly understood.
It closed by saying:
Mr. Moore flatters himself that in the course of ten days he will have the pleasure of seeing you.
To the best of my abilities, based on everything I had learned, Arnold (“Moore”) was to meet André (“Anderson”) and deliver West Point to him. This meeting was crucial for the betrayal, for at this meeting, Arnold wished to negotiate the price of his treason.
In ten days!
I was absolutely distracted. I must do something but knew not how to even begin. The best I could do was watch André, observe what he did closely, which I did. And pray Mr. Townsend would appear.
It was then—no coincidence, I was convinced—that a squadron of ten British war ships arrived and anchored in the lower bay. Troops went on board. House gossip claimed they were heading south. I believed they were going the other way, northward, to West Point.
Oh, where was Mr. Townsend! Why would he vanish at such a time? I was so angry with him. I began to think my only choice was to walk to Oyster Bay.
Then, to my complete frustration, Mrs. Ticknor informed me that since Sir Henry Clinton was going to Beekman Mansion to escape the heat, I, along with other house staff, must go with him. Upon the instant, what went through my head was the memory that Beekman Mansion was where General Howe had condemned Nathan Hale to death.
There was much more: in a stroke, my ability to watch John André was erased just when the treacherous meeting with Arnold was to take place. In a matter of days.
Did my despair matter? Not a jot. On the night before we departed for Beekman Mansion I went home along Broadway, wishing only that Mr. Townsend would appear. He did not.
Though I knew for a certainty that a frightful event was about to take place, I had been rendered utterly useless.
Do you wonder that as I lay down to sleep I wept? All, all was for naught.
50
BEEKMAN MANSION WAS a large, graceful building a few miles north of the city. When the British occupied New York it was taken first by General Howe and then by General Clinton. I knew hardly anything of its past, save that it was where Nathan Hale had his so-called trial.
Though General Clinton and his officers went along on horseback, we six female servants went by jolting wagon. I was certain I had lost all contact with André and Arnold’s plot. Indeed, I have must have appeared so forlorn, one of my companions asked me if had been jilted by a suitor.
In a sense, I had.
Once at the mansion, I was told that another girl and I would serve table. During that first night, when I brought in the soup, I found that seated at the table was Major John André.
Can you imagine my astonishment?
Dressed as smartly as ever, he wore a red jacket with gold facings and green trim. His wig was powdered snow white. If he recognized me from the Kennedy house, he gave no sign. Of course, he would hardly have bothered to notice the likes of me. I cannot say which I felt most—resentment or joy.
That first dinner was a relaxed affair, with talk of refined matters: a play performed in the city’s Theatre Royal, the latest gossip from London, an officers’ ball planned in the city. Major André even recited a poem he had written that mocked American soldiers, a poem being published in Mr. Gaine’s Mercury. It was the only mention of the war and it brought much laughter.
Once the formal dinner was over and the women withdrew from the table, General Clinton, Major André, and a certain Colonel Beverly Robinson remained.
I had seen Colonel Robinson at headquarters. American born, he had joined the British ranks months ago. He did more, leading a regiment called the Loyal Americans—loyal, that is, to King George.
The talk among these men shifted to military matters. In fact, when I brought in the silver coffeepot, I heard them speaking about the coming meeting between Major André and General Arnold. Among the three, Arnold’s name was bandied about openly. Though shocking, I found it satisfying that I had previously discovered most of it on my own.
What were they saying?
A meeting of Arnold and André was to happen at a place called Dobbs Ferry, a community up Hudson’s River.
Recalling the maps I had studied at the Kennedy house, I knew this was in the general direction of West Point.
André mentioned that Arnold wished him not to wear his uniform at the meeting, but come disguised as a merchant named John Anderson. Anderson, of course, was the name André used to communicate with Arnold.
“I don’t care what name you use,” General Clinton scolded, “but under no circumstance, Major, shall you remove your uniform. The danger is too great.”
“You know how it is,” Robinson agreed. “Be captured in your uniform, and you will be treated as an officer. Without a uniform, you’ll be considered a spy.”
A smiling André promised to follow the order. Then, quite casually, he announced that General Arnold had suggested that there was a good chance that when they took West Point they would be able to capture General Washington.
Though André spoke offhandedly, there was a potent pause after this remark. General Washington captured! Even I stopped my serving.
“If we do that,” said Clinton, “it will absolutely end the war.”
“God grant it,” said Colonel Robinson.
“For all of this to work,” General Clinton instructed André, “surprise is crucial. Once you confer with Arnold, you must retreat to the city as fast as possible. Troops are already waiting to begin the attack upon the fort.”
How hard for me to keep my self-control and still serve.
Though I dawdled, I learned no more. When I brought more coffee to the room, they had moved on to other matters.
That night, in the stifling attic of the house, in the narrow bed I shared with another girl, I all but boiled with frustration. I was much like the person who labors forever at planning a voyage, draws detailed maps, packs trunks—yet goes nowhere. I was failing my brother and my country. Of course, I slept but poorly.
In the morning, I learned that André and Robinson had gone off, presumably to that Dobbs Ferry.
But among the many desperate emotions that churned within me, the strongest was rage, rage at myself. Never mind what I had discovered. What had I done? Nothing.