“As the party making the request, sir, may I have your permission to give to you a letter from my commanding officer?”
Washington nodded, saying nothing.
Still rigid at attention, Allen took the final three steps to Washington’s desk, reached into his uniform breast pocket, and drew out the heavy envelope, sealed with wax and bound with waxed cord. Washington, using what looked like a paring knife, cut the cords, broke the seal, and opened the letter.
His eyes darted down the page, taking not more than half a minute. With a sigh he put the letter down, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
“As I already had sent to your general, the only consideration I will offer will be the exchange of Arnold for your Major Andre. That was refused, which was why I initially declined to even meet with you, Major van Dorn. If anything, this meeting now is a courtesy more to you than to your commander who…”
He hesitated but then continued.
“… refuses to hand over an outright traitor, for a man, who by all accounts, even from those who sat at his trial, is an honorable officer, a gallant man of noble spirit.”
“Sir, he is,” Allen blurted out. “He has been my closest friend in the army for three years, and it gladdens me to hear that even those who sit in judgment of him see that nobility of character.”
He regretted this breech of protocol even as he spoke, but his emotions had taken hold.
He caught a glimpse of his old friend Peter looking at him, standing slightly behind Washington, and subtly shaking his head.
“Yet, nevertheless, no matter how honorable his character, he was caught behind our lines, in civilian garb, and attempted to bribe his way past our pickets when stopped.”
Allen knew it was not his place to present the argument that Andre had, indeed, gone to meet Arnold, right in the middle of his own encampment, by necessity forced to disguise himself in civilian clothing. It was an action at which he had expressed doubt, but was ordered to do so by Clinton in order to consummate Arnold’s betrayal. He had, indeed, tried to bluff his way past the pickets manned by troops most likely similar to the ones who had surprised Allen on the ride in. Andre had at first mistaken them for a Loyalist unit, then, realizing his mistake, had fallen back on the subterfuge that he was just a civilian visiting a friend behind the lines, and offered a bribe to be allowed to pass. One of the guards, searching him, had found the secret plans to coordinate the betrayal and offensive strike by Clinton to take West Point and to capture General Washington as well.
Now his noble friend stood condemned.
“There is no offer here in this letter for a fair and proper exchange, as I knew there would not be,” Washington finally said, voice weary.
Allen wanted to express his contempt for Arnold, a man who had left Andre to his fate, who had even left his wife behind when he realized the plot had been unmasked. Now residing in New York, even though he had come over to the Loyalist side, his manner of betrayal made him a social pariah. He was useful to their cause, but never to be accepted into polite society—if a man would betray once, he would, without doubt, betray again. At least those Loyalists who had stayed with the Crown, such as himself, had done so openly, at the start of the conflict rather than switch horses in midstream.
Allen was, as an officer bearing a message, not graced with the latitude of discussion, debate, or appeal that would perhaps have occurred if Washington had been at a meeting of equal rank with Clinton.
“I have received the letter you bear, Major van Dorn. You have fulfilled your mission. There is no need to send a reply to your general, since there has not been an indication on his behalf of the slightest change other than an appeal to my sense of humanity.”
He sighed, looking up at the ceiling and then back to Allen.
“Do you think I relish this task?” Washington asked coldly. “I want you to know that every officer you saw out in the corridor, even General Lafayette here, was impressed by Major Andre’s nobility and seeing he was simply caught in the machinations of another, have appealed for some form of leniency.”
Allen knew better than to offer a reply.
“Regardless of my personal feelings in this case, I am in command of all armies in the field fighting for our independence from your Crown. Personal feelings must not hold sway, must never hold sway. Such personal sentiments must never overrule what must, however regretfully, be my duty.
“By the rules of war, a spy may be exchanged for an enemy of equal value, and that equal value is Arnold. If not, then he is to be hanged.”
Allen could sense Lafayette stiffening slightly, drawing in his breath. Washington shot the young French general an angry glance, and Lafayette went rigid.
“I will say this, and you may convey it to your General Clinton: Every member of the trial board spoke to me of some form of leniency, or if execution was, indeed, necessary as required by the rules of war, and that same board voted for unanimously, urged that your Major Andre face execution by firing squad rather than hanging.”
Washington fell silent for a moment, shook his head, and then lowered it.
“This is not revenge, Major van Dorn, but no such choice was offered to Nathan Hale, or many another man captured behind your lines in this conflict. In some cases our people have been strung up within minutes of being captured.”
He sighed.
“This is not revenge. These are the rules of war. I am honor bound to uphold them and it must be so.”
Allen stood silent, and General Washington finally looked up at him and nodded.
“Go and tell General Clinton my reply.”
Allen swallowed hard, and was about to remove his hat again, bow, and withdraw, but then nerve took hold.
“Then a personal request, sir, an indulgence I beg of you.”
Washington looked at him with flash of annoyance.
“Go on then, Major.”
“Sir. Major Andre was my closest friend in this conflict. It was he who taught me so much about the code of honor of a soldier. May I remain with him in his last hours as a comfort.”
Washington said nothing.
“Sir. It would enable me to report back to my general, as well, that though he was hanged, all proper military honors were observed by you and your men, which I am certain will transpire, and perhaps in some way might make this easier for both sides.”
Washington’s gaze drifted from Allen to Lafayette, and Allen, not daring to look, sensed that Lafayette was nodding an assent. Washington’s gaze fixed on him, and again there was that look of infinite weariness. Allen sensed that the betrayal of Arnold was an emotional shock from which he had yet to recover. He knew this man was educated in the classics and wondered if in his heart he was saying over and over, “et tu, Brute?”
There was finally the slightest of nods.
“You may spend the night with your friend. I regret to go through this formality, but do I have your word of honor that if there are any secrets Major Andre has kept concealed, that you will not allow him to speak of them?”
“Yes, sir,” Allen replied.
Washington looked over his shoulder at Peter.
“I am not questioning your adherence to honor, Major van Dorn, but you will be accompanied by Major Wellsley here throughout. You may remain with your friend until,” he paused, “until it is finished.”
Allen fought to hold back his emotions. This man was his enemy. On a field of battle if ever given the chance to bring him down, he would do so without hesitation. He was the heart and soul of their Revolution. Yet he could sense as well the inner conflict that Washington must be suffering at this moment, on the one hand compassion, wishing that these decisions did not confront him, and on the other, his sense of gravitas, of duty that demanded the response, ameliorated by this small act of compassion.
Again removing his hat, he bowed low. Washington, half standing, returned the salute.
Two
NEAR TAPPAN, NEW YORK
OCTOBER 1, 1780
As the door opened, Andre, who was sitting in a corner of what was actually a rather comfortable room, staring into a crackling fire, turned, looked back, and for once the formalities of a military life fell away entirely.
“Allen!”
The chair fell backward as he leaped up, came up to his old friend, and eagerly embraced him, patting him on the back.
There was wetness in the eyes of both men as they hugged—a most unusual act for the normally reserved Andre—until he, as if remembering himself, broke the embrace, stepped back, nervously clearing his throat, wiping his eyes, and then mumbling that he must have gotten a cinder in his eye.
He looked past Allen and saw Peter standing tensely in the doorway.
“John,” Allen announced formally, “this is a friend of mine from before the war. Major Peter Wellsley, may I introduce Major John Andre.”
The two exchanged polite bows.
“A friend of Allen is, of course, a friend of mine,” John offered, and pointed to a couple of straight-back chairs positioned by the fireplace, which was the only illumination in the room, as he lifted his own chair from the floor, motioning for them to sit.
“General Stirling was so kind as to send over a delightful bottle of claret. May I offer you some?”
“Of course, John,” Allen replied, again struggling to control his emotion, recalling so many evenings of John, ever the gracious host, offering to share whatever he had, even if huddled in a miserable tent while icy rain fell outside. Peter nodded in assent, but said nothing.
“Delightful, then. Wish I had some remnants of dinner, some roasted goose. I was told General Washington personally sent it down from his table, but alas, gentlemen, I did not expect guests and hunger dominated my thoughts.”
He poured some wine into two crystal goblets, handing them to his guests, and poured a third for himself. Allen noted the bottle was now little more than half consumed. If Stirling’s kindness was with the hope that John would consume the bottle in order to calm his nerves, John was maintaining his inner discipline even though at many a party at headquarters he had consumed bottle after bottle, and rarely shown an effect.
John turned his chair to face his friend, smiled, saying nothing, looking expectantly. Allen realized that some sort of hope had sprung in John’s heart at the sight of him.
He drew a deep breath, struggled to control his voice, trying to offer a comforting smile.
“Nothing has changed, John. You will face your fate in the morning.”
There was barely a flicker of emotion, a slight widening of the eyes, a drawing in of breath, nothing more. He looked down at his glass of claret, took a sip, and just stared at the fire with a strange distant smile.
“General Clinton made every effort for your release, but would not agree to the exchange of Arnold as demanded by Washington.”
“Well,” John sighed and actually chuckled, “exchanging a mere major for a general is rarely the form, you know.”
“Gentlemen, may I interject?”
Both turned to look at Peter.
“I have served directly under General Washington ever since Trenton. First as a private in his guard, promoted along the way, and now…” he fell silent.
Allen did not fill in the rest. He knew exactly what Peter’s position was. He served as an intelligence officer for Washington, the same way Allen served Clinton. During the campaigns in Jersey both knew details far beyond anything traditionally serving officers had from overseas or from other states. They shared a grasp of local personages, their loyalty to one side or the other, and thus both had risen quickly. The ever-backward and -forward movement of spies, be they professionals or amateurs, had revealed Peter’s position to him a year ago, and he assumed Peter knew the same about him.
It was, without doubt, why Washington had sent him down to meet him as an escort, why Washington had acquiesced to his appeal for an audience, and, of course, why Peter was sitting here now as their companion for the night. If John should in any way be indiscreet, Peter would pick up on it.
“What I am saying, gentlemen,” Peter continued, “is that General Washington is not a bloodthirsty man nor a vengeful man. Major Andre, in this tragic case of yours, he is constrained by the traditions and rules of war. There is no personal anger in him toward you. In fact, it is quite the opposite. All know that you have borne yourself as a gentleman of honor throughout this ordeal.”
Andre smiled and pointed back to the remains of the roast goose, well plucked over.
“Be certain to thank him for me for this excellent repast, and yes, I do know the positive qualities of his character, and what constrains him now.”
There was another moment of nervous silence.
“Another round, my friends?” he asked, standing and picking up the bottle to refill their glasses, though he poured only a small amount for himself.
He sat back down, picking up a couple of split logs of hickory, and set them into the fire. Within seconds they were crackling and sparking.
“Tending a fire is a most relaxing pastime,” he said, smile never vanishing. “I detest boors who just throw the logs in, sparks and ash flying. It shows no respect for the fire itself. Each log should be carefully set to complement the others already aflame, to catch their heat, ignite properly, and add to the symmetry. A good fire is a work of art in and of itself, and I consider myself something of a Rembrandt with such things.”
“I remember the night after Brandywine,” Allen chuckled. “Pouring rain, and yet you got one going to heat our cold hash.”
Andre nodded, gazing at the flickering flames, holding his glass of claret up to the flame as if to examine the color of the wine before taking another sip.
“’Tis a comfort at least we do not live in medieval times. I will confess there would be a bit of a dread if fire was to be my fate.”
Both looked over at him, shaking their heads, and Allen knew what the hint was.
“John?”
Andre looked sidelong at him.
“It will be by hanging, but you already know that.”
“As a soldier you know what I would have preferred. I had hoped our good Clinton could have influenced that.”