On the 20th of September I was desired by my colonel to conduct two
companies from Newark, where we lay, through the gap at Ramapo, New
York, to the main army, which at this date was camped, as I have said,
about Tappan. Being stout and well, I was glad to move, and glad of a
chance to see the great river Hudson. We were assigned camp-ground back
from the river, on a hill slope, in a long-settled country, where since
early in the seventeenth century the Dutch had possessed the land.
Having no tents, on arriving we set to work at the old business of
hut-building, so that it was not until the 26th of September that I had
an idle hour in which to look up Jack, who lay somewhere between Tappan
and the river.
It was, as usual, a joyous meeting, and we never did less lack for talk.
Jack told me that he was ordered on an unpleasant bit of business, and
asked if I could not get leave to go with him. Orders were come from
West Point to seize and destroy all periaguas, canoes, and boats in the
possession of the few and often doubtfully loyal people between us
and King’s Ferry. He had for this duty two sail-rigged dories with
slide-keels, and would take two soldiers in each.
Upon his representing my skill as a sailor, and the need for two
officers, I was allowed to turn over my command to the junior captain
and to join Jack.
We set off on the 27th of September with provender and two small tents,
and went away up the river with a fine wind. The water was a dull gray,
and the heavens clouded. The far shore of Dobb’s Ferry and Tarrytown was
already gaily tinted with the hues of the autumn, and to south the bleak
gray lines of the Palisades below Sneedon’s Landing lay sombre and stern
under a sunless sky. One of my men was a good sailor, and I was thus
enabled to spend most of the day in Jack’s boat.
I mention all these details because of a curious coincidence. I said
to Jack--I was steering--that I had had since dawn a feeling that some
calamity was about to happen. Now this was, as I recall it, a notion
quite new to me, and far more like Jack himself. He laughed and said it
was the east wind. Then after a pause he added: “I was trying to recall
something I once heard, and now I have it. This waiting for an idea is
like fishing in the deep waters of the mind: sometimes one gets only a
nibble, and sometimes a bite; but I have my fish. It was Dr. Bush who
told me that the liver was the mother of ghosts and presentiments. When
I told him I was afflicted with these latter, he put on his glasses,
looked at me, and said I was of a presentimental temperament.”
“And he was right,” said I, laughing. Then Jack declared the weather
was sorry enough to account for my notion. I made answer, as I remember,
that I was not subject to the rule of the weather-cock, like some
fellows I knew, nor to thinking I was going to be shot. This shut up
Jack for a while, and we got off on to our own wise plans for capturing
Sir Henry and all his host.
At last we ran ashore at a settled point called Nyack, and thence we
went to and fro wherever we saw the smoke of men’s homes. We broke up
or burned many boats and dugouts, amid the lamentations of their owners,
because with the aid of these they were enabled to take fish, and were
ill off for other diet. We had an ugly task, and could only regret the
sad but inexorable necessities of war.
We camped ten miles above Tappan, and next day, near to dusk, got as far
as King’s Landing, having pretty thoroughly attended to our ungracious
task.
As the tall promontory of Stony Point rose before us, dim in the evening
light, we talked of Wayne’s gallant storming of this formidable
fort, and of his affection for the bayonet, which, he said, was to be
preferred to the musket because it was always loaded.
“We of our State had most of that glory,” said Jack; “and all our best
generals, save the great chief, are men of the North,” which was true
and strange.
We had at this place a strong force of horse and foot, and here we meant
to pass the night with some of our officers, friends of Jack’s.
It was quite dark, when, running in with a free sheet, we came close to
a large barge rowed by six men. As we approached I heard a stern order
to keep off, and recognised in the boat, where were also armed men,
Major Tallmadge, whom I knew. I called to him, but as he only repeated
his order, I answered, “Very well, sir;” and we drew in to the shore
some hundred feet away.
Jack said it was queer; what could it mean? We walked toward the small
blockhouse in time to see Tallmadge and several soldiers conduct a
cloaked prisoner into the fort. A little later the major came out, and
at once asked me to excuse his abruptness, saying that he had in charge
Sir Henry Clinton’s adjutant-general, who had been caught acting as a
spy, and was now about to be taken to Tappan. I exclaimed, “Not Major
Andre!”
“Yes,” he returned; “Andre. A bad business.” And I was hastily told the
miserable story of Arnold’s treason and flight. I turned to Jack. “There
it is,” said I. “What of my presentiment?” He was silent. “You know,” I
added, “that to this man I owed my life at the Mischianza ball; here he
is in the same trap from which his refusal to aid my cousin saved me.” I
was terribly distressed, and at my urgent desire, in place of remaining
at the fort, we set out after supper, and pulled down the river against
the flood-tide, while my unfortunate friend Andre was hurried away to
Tappan, guarded by a strong escort of light horse.
We reached Sneedon’s Landing about 5 A.M., and I went up with Jack to
his hut. Here I got a bit of uneasy sleep, and thence set off to find
Hamilton; for the whole staff, with his Excellency, had made haste to
reach the camp at Tappan so soon as the general felt reassured as to the
safety of West Point.
I walked a half-mile up a gentle rise of ground to the main road, about
which were set, close to the old Dutch church, a few modest, one-story
stone houses, with far and near the cantonments of the armies. At the
bridge over a noisy brook I was stopped by sentries set around a low
brick building then used as headquarters. It stood amid scattered
apple-trees on a slight rise of ground, and was, as I recall it, built
of red and black brick. Behind the house was the little camp of the
mounted guard, and on all sides were stationed sentinels, who kept
the immediate grounds clear from intrusion. For this there was need;
soldiers and officers were continually coming hither in hopes to gather
fresh news of the great treason, or curious as to this strange capture
of Sir Henry Clinton’s adjutant. General officers came and went with
grave faces; aides mounted and rode away in haste; all was excitement
and anxious interest, every one asking questions, and none much the
wiser. With difficulty I succeeded in sending in a note to Hamilton
along with Jack’s report. This was nigh to nine in the morning, but it
was after midday before I got a chance to see my friend.
Meanwhile I walked up and down in a state of such agitation and distress
as never before nor since have I known. When I had seen Major Tallmadge,
he knew but little of those details of Arnold’s treason which
later became the property of all men; but he did tell me that the
correspondence had been carried on for Sir Henry by Andre in the name of
Anderson, and this brought to my mind the letter which the Quaker farmer
declined to surrender to me at the time I was serving as Arnold’s aide.
I went back at last to Jack’s hut in the valley near the river and
waited. I leave Jack to say how I felt and acted that day and evening,
as I lay and thought of Andre and of poor Margaret Shippen, Arnold’s
wife:
“Never have I seen my dear Hugh in such trouble. Here was a
broken-hearted woman, the companion of his childhood; and Andre, who,
at a moment which must have called upon his every instinct as a soldier,
held back and saved my friend from a fate but too likely to be his own.
Hugh all that evening lay in our hut, and now and then would break out
declaring he must do something; but what he knew not, nor did I. He
was even so mad as to think he might plan some way to assist Andre to
escape. I listened, but said nothing, being assured from long knowledge
that his judgment would correct the influence of the emotion which did
at first seem to disturb it.
“Now all this miserable business is over, I ask myself if our chief
would have tried to buy an English general, or if so, would I or Hugh
have gone on such an errand as Andres. To be a spy is but a simple duty,
and no shame in it; but as to the shape this other matter took, I do not
feel able to decide.”
Still later he adds:
“Nor is my mind more fully settled as to it to-day; some think one way,
some another. I had rather Andre had not gone on this errand with the
promise of a great reward. Yet I think he did believe he was only doing
his duty.”
Alter an hour or more of fruitless thinking, not hearing from Mr.
Hamilton, I walked back to headquarters. Neither in the joy and pride
of glad news, nor when disaster on disaster fell on us, have I ever seen
anything like the intensity of expectation and of anxiety which at this
time reigned in our camps. The capture of the adjutant-general was grave
enough; his fate hung in no doubtful balance; but the feeling aroused
by the fall of a great soldier, the dishonour of one greatly esteemed
in the ranks, the fear of what else might come, all served to foster
uneasiness and to feed suspicion. As the great chief had said, whom now
could he trust, or could we? The men talked in half-whispers about the
camp-fires; an hundred wild rumours were afloat; and now and again eager
eyes looked toward the low brick church where twelve general officers
were holding the court-martial which was to decide the fate of my
friend.
It was evening before the decision of the court-martial became generally
known. I wandered about all that day in the utmost depression of mind.
About two in the afternoon of this 29th of September I met Hamilton near
the creek. He said he had been busy all day, and was free for an hour;
would I come and dine at his quarters? What was the matter with me? I
was glad of a chance to speak freely. We had a long and a sad talk, and
he then learned why this miserable affair affected me so deeply. He had
no belief that the court could do other than condemn Mr. Andre to die.
I asked anxiously if the chief were certain to approve the sentence. He
replied gloomily, “As surely as there is a God in heaven.”
I could only wait. A hundred schemes were in my mind, each as useless as
the others. In fact, I knew not what to do.
On the 30th his Excellency signed the death-warrant, and, all hope
being at an end, I determined to make an effort to see the man to whom
I believe I owed my life. When I represented the matter to Mr. Hamilton
and to the Marquis de Lafayette, I put my request on the ground that
Mr. Andre had here no one who could be called a friend, excepting only
myself, and that to refuse me an interview were needlessly cruel.
I wrote my application with care, the marquis, who was most kind
throughout, charging himself with the business of placing it favourably
before our chief. The execution had been ordered for October 1, but,
upon receipt of some communication from Sir Henry Clinton, it was
postponed until noon on October 2.
On the 30th I rode out into the hills back of Tappan, and tried to
compose myself by my usual and effective remedy of a hard ride. It was
useless now. I came back to my friend’s quarters and tried to read,
finding a stray volume of the “Rambler” on his table. It was as vain a
resort.
Never at any time in my memory have I spent two days of such
unhappiness. I could get no rest and no peace of mind. To be thus
terribly in the grip of events over which you have no control is to men
of my temper a maddening affliction. My heart seemed all the time to
say, “Do something,” and my reason to reply, “There is nothing to do.”
It was thus in the jail when my cousin was on my mind; now it was as to
Andre, and as to the great debt I owed him, and how to pay it. People
who despair easily do not fall into the clutches of this intense craving
for some practical means of relief where none can be. It is the hopeful,
the resolute, and such as are educated by success who suffer thus. But
why inflict on others the story of these two days, except to let those
who come after me learn how one of their blood looked upon a noble debt
which, alas! like many debts, must go to be settled in another world,
and in other ways than ours.
Hamilton, who saw my agitation, begged me to prepare for disappointment.
I, however, could see no reason to deny a man access to one doomed, when
no other friend was near. Nor was I wrong. About seven in the evening
of the 1st, the marquis came in haste to find me. He had asked for my
interview with Mr. Andre as a favour to himself. His Excellency had
granted the request in the face of objections from two general officers,
whom the marquis did not name. As I thanked him he gave me this order:
“_To Major Tallmadge:_
“The bearer, Hugh Wynne, Esq., Captain, Second Company, Third Regiment of
Pennsylvania foot, has herewith permission to visit Major Andre.
“GEO(E) WASHINGTON.
“October 1, 1780.”
I went at once--it was now close to eight in the evening--to the small
house of one Maby, where the prisoner was kept. It was but an hundred
yards from his Excellency’s quarters. Six sentries marched to and fro
around it, and within the room two officers remained day and night with
drawn swords. My pass was taken at the door of the house, while I waited
on the road without. In a few minutes an officer came to me with Major
Tallmadge’s compliments, and would I be pleased to enter?
I sometimes think it strange how, even in particulars, the natural
and other scenery of this dark drama remains distinct in my memory,
unaffected by the obliterating influence of the years which have effaced
so much else I had been more glad to keep.
I can see to-day the rising moon, the yellowish road, the long, gray
stone farm-house of one story, with windows set in an irregular frame of
brickwork. The door opens, and I find myself in a short hall, where two
officers salute as I pass. My conductor says, “This way, Captain Wynne,”
and I enter a long, cheerless-looking apartment, the sitting-room of a
Dutch farm-house. Two lieutenants, seated within at the doorway, rose as
I entered, and, saluting me, sat down again. I stood an instant looking
about me. A huge log fire roared on the hearth, so lighting the room
that I saw its glow catch the bayonet tips of the sentinels outside as
they went and came. There were a half-dozen wooden chairs, and on a
pine table four candles burning, a bottle of Hollands, a decanter and
glasses. In a high-backed chair sat a man with his face to the fire. It
was Andre. He was tranquilly sketching, with a quill pen, a likeness of
himself. [Footnote: My acquaintance, Captain Tomlinson, has it.] He
did not turn or leave off drawing until Captain Tomlinson, one of the
officers in charge, seeing me pause, said:
“Your pardon, major. Here is a gentleman come to visit you.”
As he spoke the prisoner turned, and I was at once struck by the extreme
pallor of his face even as seen in the red light of the fire. His
death-like whiteness at this time brought out the regular beauty of his
features as his usual ruddiness of colour never did. I have since seen
strong men near to certain death, but I recall no one who, with a serene
and untroubled visage, was yet as white as was this gentleman.
The captain did not present me, and for a moment I stood with a kind of
choking in the throat, which came, I suppose, of the great shock Andre’s
appearance gave me. He was thus the first to speak;
“Pardon me,” he said, as he rose; “the name escaped me.”
“Mr. Hugh Wynne,” I said, getting myself pulled together--it was much
needed.
“Oh, Wynne!” he cried quite joyously; “I did not know you. How
delightful to see a friend; how good of you to come! Sit down. Our
accommodations are slight. Thanks to his Excellency, here are Madeira
and Hollands; may I offer you a glass?”
“No, no,” I said, as we took chairs by the fire, on which he cast a log,
remarking how cold it was. Then he added:
“Well, Wynne, what can I do for you?” And then, smiling, “Pshaw! what
a thing is habit! What can I do for you, or, indeed, my dear Wynne, for
any one? But, Lord! I am as glad as a child.”
It was all so sweet and natural that I was again quite overcome. “My
God!” I cried, “I am so sorry, Mr. Andre! I came down from King’s Ferry
in haste when I heard of this, and have been three days getting leave to
see you. I have never forgotten your great kindness at the Mischianza.
If there be any service I can render you, I am come to offer it.”
He smiled and said: “How strange is fate, Mr. Wynne! Here am I in the
same sad trap in which you might have been. I was thinking this very
evening of your happier escape.” Then he went on to tell me that he had
instantly recognised me at the ball, and also--what in my confusion at
the time I did not hear--that Miss Peniston had cried out as she was
about to faint, “No, no, Mr. Andre!” Afterward he had wondered at what
seemed an appeal to him rather than to my cousin.
At last he said it would be a relief to him if he might speak to me
out of ear-shot of the officers. I said as much to these gentlemen,
and after a moment’s hesitation they retired outside of the still open
doorway of the room, leaving us freer to say what we pleased. He was
quiet and, as always, courteous to a fault; but I did not fail to
observe that at times, as we talked and he spoke a word of his mother,
his eyes filled with tears. In general he was far more composed than I.
He said: “Mr. Wynne, I have writ a letter, which I am allowed to send to
General Washington. Will you see that he has it in person? It asks that
I may die a soldier’s death. All else is done. My mother--but no matter.
I have wound up my earthly affairs. I am assured, through the kindness
of his Excellency, that my letters and effects will reach my friends
and those who are still closer to me. I had hoped to see Mr. Hamilton
to-night, that I might ask him to deliver to your chief the letter I
now give you. But he has not yet returned, and I must trust it to you to
make sure that it does not fail to be considered. That is all, I think.”
I said I would do my best, and was there no more--no errand of
confidence--nothing else?
“No,” he replied thoughtfully; “no, I think not. I shall never forget
your kindness.” Then he smiled and added, “My ‘never’ is a brief day for
me, Wynne, unless God permits us to remember in the world where I shall
be to-morrow.”
I hardly recall what answer I made. I was ready to cry like a child. He
went on to bid me say to the good Attorney-General Chew that he had
not forgotten his pleasant hospitalities, and he sent also some amiable
message to the women of his house and to my aunt and to the Shippens,
speaking with the ease and unrestraint of a man who looks to meet you at
dinner next week, and merely says a brief good-by.
I promised to charge myself with his messages, and said at last that
many officers desired me to express to him their sorrow at his unhappy
situation, and that all men thought it hard that the life of an honest
soldier was to be taken in place of that of a villain and coward who, if
he had an atom of honour, would give himself up.
“May I beg of you, sir,” he returned, “to thank these gentlemen of your
army? ‘Tis all I can do; and as to General Arnold--no, Wynne, he is not
one to do that; I could not expect it.”
Before I rose to go on his errand I said,--and I was a little
embarrassed,--“May I be pardoned, sir, if I put to you a quite personal
question?”
“Assuredly,” he returned. “What is it, and how can a poor devil in my
situation oblige you?”
I said: “I have but of late learned that the exchanges were all settled
when I met my cousin, Arthur Wynne, at Amboy. Could it have been that
the letter I bore had anything to do with this treason of General
Arnold? Within a day or two this thought has come to me.”
Seeing that he hesitated, I added, “Do not answer me unless you see fit;
it is a matter quite personal to myself.”
“No,” he replied; “I see no reason why I should not. Yes, it was the
first of the letters sent to Sir Henry over General Arnold’s signature.
Your cousin suggested you as a messenger whose undoubted position and
name would insure the safe carriage of what meant more to us than its
mere contents seemed to imply. Other messengers had become unsafe; it
was needful at once to find a certain way to reply to us. The letter
you bore was such as an officer might carry, as it dealt seemingly with
nothing beyond questions of exchange of prisoners. For these reasons,
on a hint from Captain Wynne, you were selected as a person beyond
suspicion. I was ill at the time, as I believe Mr. Wynne told you.”
“It is only too plain,” said I. “It must have been well known at our
headquarters in Jersey that this exchange business was long since
settled. Had I been overhauled by any shrewd or suspicious officer, the
letter might well have excited doubt and have led to inquiry.”
“Probably; that was why you were chosen--as a man of known character.
By the way, sir, I had no share in the selection, nor did I know how it
came about, until my recovery. I had no part in it.”