"WHO IS SHE THAT LOOKETH FORTH AS THE MORNING, FAIR AS THE MOON, CLEAR
AS THE SUN, AND TERRIBLE AS AN ARMY WITH BANNERS?"
The American army had been sold by Arnold. The noble ideal it had
cherished, the blood it had given, the bitter hardships it had
suffered--torture in the wilderness, famine in the Highlands, long
marches of half naked men in mid-winter, massacres at Wyoming and
Cherry Valley--all this had been bartered away, like a shipload of
turnips, to satisfy the greed of one man. Again thirty pieces of
silver! Was a nation to walk the bitter way to its Calvary? Major
Andr? the Adjutant-General of Sir Henry Clinton's large force in New
York, was with the traitor when he rowed from the ship to the west
shore of the Hudson and went into the bush under the observation of
Solomon with his spy-glass. Arnold was to receive a command and large
pay in the British army. The consideration had been the delivery of
maps showing the positions of Washington's men and the plans of his
forts and other defenses, especially those of Forts Putnam and Clinton
and Battery Knox. Much other information was put in the hands of the
British officer, including the prospective movements of the
Commander-in-Chief. He was to be taken in the house of the man he had
befriended. Andr?had only to reach New York with his treasure and
Arnold to hold the confidence of his chief for a few days and, before
the leaves had fallen, the war would end. The American army and its
master mind would be at the mercy of Sir Henry Clinton.
Those September days the greatest love-story this world had known was
feeling its way in a cloud of mystery. The thrilling tale of Man and
Liberty, which had filled the dreams of sage and poet, had been nearing
its golden hours. Of a surety, at last, it would seem the lovers were
to be wed. What time, in the flying ages, they had greeted each other
with hearts full of the hope of peace and happiness, some tyrant king
and his armies had come between them. Then what a carnival of lust,
rapine and bloody murder! Man was broken on the wheel of power and
thwarted Hope sat brooding in his little house. History had been a
long siege, like that of Troy, to deliver a fairer Helen from the
established power of Kings. Now, beyond three thousand miles of sea,
supported by the strength of the hills and hearts informed and sworn to
bitter duty, Man, at last, had found his chance. Again Liberty, in
robes white as snow and sweet as the morning, beckoned to her lover.
Another king was come with his armies to keep them apart. The armies
being baffled, Satan had come also and spread his hidden snares. Could
Satan prevail? Was the story nearing another failure--a tragedy dismal
and complete as that of Thermopylae?
This day we shall know. This day holds the moment which is to round
out the fulness of time. It is the twenty-third of September, 1780,
and the sky is clear. Now as the clock ticks its hours away, we may
watch the phrases of the capable Author of the great story as they come
from His pen. His most useful characters are remote and unavailable.
It would seem that the villain was likely to have his way. The Author
must defeat him, if possible, with some stroke of ingenuity. For this
He was not unprepared.
Before the day begins it will be well to review, briefly, the hours
that preceded it.
Andr?would have reached New York that night if _The Vulture_ had not
changed her position on account of a shot from the battery below Stony
Point. For that, credit must be given to the good scout Solomon
Binkus. The ship was not in sight when the two men came out in their
boat from the west shore of the river while the night was falling.
Arnold had heard the shot and now that the ship had left her anchorage
a fear must have come to him that his treachery was suspected.
"I may want to get away in that boat myself," he suggested to Andr?
"She will not return until she gets orders from you or me," the
Britisher assured him.
"I wonder what has become of her," said Arnold.
"She has probably dropped down the river for some reason," Andr?br/>answered. "What am I to do?"
"I'll take you to the house of a man I know who lives near the river
and send you to New York by horse with passports in the morning. You
can reach the British lines to-morrow."
"I would like that," Andr?exclaimed. "It would afford me a welcome
survey of the terrain."
"Smith will give you a suit of clothes that will fit you well enough,"
said the traitor. "You and he are about of a size. It will be better
for you to be in citizen's dress."
So it happened that in the darkness of the September evening Smith and
Andr? the latter riding the blazed-face mare, set out for King's
Ferry, where they were taken across the river. They rode a few miles
south of the landing to the shore of Crom Pond and spent the night with
a friend of Smith. In the morning the latter went on with Andr?until
they had passed Pine's Bridge on the Croton River. Then he turned back.
Now Andr?fared along down the road alone on the back of the mare
Nancy. He came to an outpost of the Highland army and presented his
pass. It was examined and endorsed and he went on his way. He met
transport wagons, a squad of cavalry and, later, a regiment of militia
coming up from western Connecticut, but no one stopped him. In the
faded hat and coat and trousers of Reuben Smith, this man, who called
himself John Anderson, was not much unlike the farmer folk who were
riding hither and thither in the neutral territory, on their petit
errands. His face was different. It was the well kept face of an
English aristocrat with handsome dark eyes and hair beginning to turn
gray. Still, shadowed by the brim of the old hat, his face was not
likely to attract much attention from the casual observer. The
handsome mare he rode was a help in this matter. She took and held the
eyes of those who passed him. He went on unchallenged. A little past
the hour of the high sun he stopped to drink at a wayside spring and to
give his horse some oats out of one of the saddle-bags. It was then
that a patriot soldier came along riding northward. He was one of
Solomon's scouts. The latter stopped to let his horse drink. As his
keen eyes surveyed the south-bound traveler, John Anderson felt his
danger. At that moment the scout was within reach of immortal fame had
he only known it. He was not so well informed as Solomon. He asked a
few questions and called for the pass of the stranger. That was
unquestionable. The scout resumed his journey.
Andr?resolved not to stop again. He put the bit in the mare's mouth,
mounted her and rode on with his treasure. The most difficult part of
his journey was behind him. Within twelve hours he should be at
Clinton's headquarters.
Suddenly he came to a fork in the road and held up his horse, uncertain
which way to go. Now the great moment was come. Shall he turn to the
right or the left? On his decision rests the fate of the New World and
one of the most vital issues in all history, it would seem. The
left-hand road would have taken him safely to New York, it is fair to
assume. He hesitates. The day is waning. It is a lonely piece of
road. There is no one to tell him. The mare shows a preference for
the turn to the right. Why? Because it leads to Tarrytown, her former
home, and a good master. Andr?lets her have her way. She hurries on,
for she knows where there is food and drink and gentle hands. So a leg
of the mighty hazard has been safely won by the mare Nancy. The
officer rode on, and what now was in his way? A wonder and a mystery
greater even than that of Nancy and the fork in the road. A little out
of Tarrytown on the highway the horseman traveled, a group of three men
were hidden in the bush--ragged, profane, abominable cattle thieves
waiting for cows to come down out of the wild land to be milked. They
were "skinners" in the patriot militia, some have said; some that they
were farmers' sons not in the army. However that may have been, they
were undoubtedly rough, hard-fisted fellows full of the lawless spirit
bred by five years of desperate warfare. They were looking for Tories
as well as for cattle. Tories were their richest prey, for the latter
would give high rewards to be excused from the oath of allegiance.
They came out upon Andr?and challenged him. The latter knew that he
had passed the American outposts and thought that he was near the
British lines. He was not familiar with the geography of the upper
east shore. He knew that the so-called neutral territory was overrun
by two parties--the British being called the "Lower" and the Yankees
the "Upper."
"What party do you belong to?" Andr?demanded.
"The Lower," said one of the Yankees.
It was, no doubt, a deliberate lie calculated to inspire frankness in a
possible Tory. That was the moment for Andr?to have produced his
passports, which would have opened the road for him. Instead he
committed a fatal error, the like of which it would be hard to find in
all the records of human action.
"I am a British officer," he declared. "Please take me to your post."
They were keen-minded men who quickly surrounded him. A British
officer! Why was he in the dress of a Yankee farmer? The pass could
not save him now from these rough, strong handed fellows. The die was
cast. They demanded the right of search. He saw his error and changed
his plea.
"I am only a citizen of New York returning from family business in the
country," he said.
He drew his gold watch from his pocket--that unfailing sign of the
gentleman of fortune--and looked at its dial.
"You can see I am no common fellow," he added. "Let me go on about my
business."
They firmly insisted on their right to search him. He began to be
frightened. He offered them his watch and a purse full of gold and any
amount of British goods to be allowed to go on his way.
Now here is the wonder and the mystery in this remarkable proceeding.
These men were seeking plunder and here was a handsome prospect. Why
did they not make the most of it and be content? The "skinners" were
plunderers, but first of all and above all they were patriots. The
spirit brooding over the Highlands of the Hudson and the hills of New
England had entered their hearts. The man who called himself John
Anderson was compelled to dismount and empty his pockets and take off
his boots, in one of which was the damning evidence of Arnold's
perfidy. A fortune was then within the reach of these three
hard-working men of the hills, but straightway they took their prisoner
and the papers, found in his boot, to the outpost commanded by Colonel
Jameson.
This negotiation for the sale of the United States had met with
unexpected difficulties. The "skinners" had been as hard to buy as the
learned diplomat.