“Sir, I can attest that every officer of your court-martial appealed for it…” Peter hesitated, “the other way, but rules of war, as you know.”
“Of course, of course,” Andre said and for the first time Allen could sense a bit of a falling away of the facade.
Then, strangely, Andre chuckled.
“Perhaps a last-minute reprieve as in the dramas. Courier gallops up crying, stop the hanging, shoot him instead! That would be rather droll don’t you think?”
“One can hope,” Allen whispered looking over at Peter who remained silent, just staring at the fire.
“Could stand for a bit of music right now,” Andre quickly said, changing the subject as if he had allowed his wish to venture too far outside his outwardly calm demeanor.
“Wish we had Franklin’s glass harmonica right now,” Allen replied. “Such a fascinating instrument. What fun we had while living in his house.”
“Glass harmonica?” Peter asked, obviously trying to make conversation to help shift the topic to other things.
John went into a lengthy description of the instrument, the other two laughing as he tried to imitate the strange ethereal sound. Allen and he together hummed the Mozart piece written for the instrument.
They were interrupted by Jenkins, Major Andre’s manservant, who had been allowed to come through the lines to attend to him, bearing another bottle of wine, this one a port with the compliments of General Greene. Uncorking the bottle Jenkins refilled their glasses, even though John’s was only half empty, stood there woodenly for a moment, and then actually broke down into a sob.
John stood, went over to Jenkins, and put his hands on the man’s shoulders.
“Now none of that, Jenkins.”
“But, sir, you all seem so jovial. Sir, ’tis a great wrong, this, what they are doing, I can hardly bear it.”
John patted him on the shoulder.
“A gentleman does not lament his fate in public, Jenkins, he faces it as a gentleman. For after all, all our candles are but brief flickers of light in eternity. Especially for a soldier. Remember our old barracks toast?”
He held up his glass.
“Gentlemen, to a long war, or a bloody plague and rapid promotion.”
This time he at least drained half the glass. Allen, slightly bleary-eyed, but fearful of his own emotions, drained his entire glass, and motioned to Jenkins for another, while Peter just took a polite sip, obviously aware of his duty tonight to stay sober and attentive.
Jenkins did as requested, and then just stood there, tears coursing down his cheeks.
“Now Jenkins, cast not a dim pall over this night. It is my last upon this earth, and I want to fill it with life, the companionship of comrades, and not with tears. You are excused, Jenkins, and please compose yourself before you leave this room.”
His servant left, wiping the tears from his eyes with a damp sleeve.
So the long hours of night, the last night Major John Andre would know on this earth, passed in song, the telling of soldiers’ tales, sips of wine, and a midnight repast of cheese and bread sent from an anonymous benefactor. Several times Allen or John had to nudge Peter awake in his chair, joking that he was duty bound to stay awake so that no secrets might pass.
Peter just sat quietly as if lost in thought, letting the two friends talk through the night, until finally a couple of hours before dawn, John stood up, went to the window to look out at the early autumn morning sky.
“Orion is up high,” he whispered. “Strange to think, tomorrow night it will rise, and I will not be here to see it.”
“At least from here,” Peter replied.
John said nothing, just gazing out the window, morning mists beginning to rise off the Hudson.
“All of this, the river flowing by with all its majesty, Orion rising, the first birdsongs of dawn, and I will not be here. I’ve had just over thirty years and how swiftly it flowed, just like that river, but now I am at an end.”
Hands behind his back, Allen could see they were clasped, clenching and unclenching, as if he could only let the inner tension and fear show when not directly facing others. Andre lowered his head for a moment, as if in prayer, then turned, features fixed in a smile.
“I pray you do not think me rude, but think I should sleep for a while. I do want to look fresh and proper for my stroll through the valley of death.”
Neither Allen nor Peter spoke as John stretched out on a narrow cot tucked up in the far corner of the room. As he settled down he looked over at Peter.
“I am certain our friends out in the corridor can guide you to a place to rest.”
“Not at all,” Peter replied. “I am not sleepy.”
He looked over at Allen who simply shook his head, and then stood up to place an extra log on the fire, as Andre would have preferred it.
To Allen’s amazement, John actually fell asleep, and within minutes was snoring lightly. He stood up to fetch the bottle of wine, offering to fill Peter’s glass, and this time Peter accepted and drained half of it. Allen topped off his glass.
“My God, that man has nerve,” Peter whispered.
“He is my friend, and yes, he does have nerve. To fall asleep like that with only a few hours left.”
“This is worse than waiting for a battle to start,” Peter sighed, sitting back down to stare at the fire.
“Suppose he was your comrade or friend, what would you think then?”
Peter, leaning forward, drained the rest of his wine.
“As we carried your brother—my friend—back from Trenton, I knew he was dying.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Allen replied sharply. “Remember, I was there and he was my brother.”
Peter held up his hand, as if to ask for silence and to forestall an argument.
“Sorry, just remembering.”
“Death watch for a friend, who deserves a better fate,” Allen whispered. “Damn it, in your heart, is this fair?”
“You know I can’t answer that,” Peter replied. “If all was reversed and your Clinton was going to hang one of my comrades, do you think any appeals by Washington or me would change it?”
“Andre is different.”
“Andre was caught as a spy.”
“Andre is different,” Allen retorted, voice choked with emotion.
“Gentlemen, please.” It was John, half rolled over, looking toward them. “If you wish to argue my fate please go elsewhere and let me rest in peace.”
The two friends from long ago, now divided, looked at each other.
“Rest in peace,” John whispered, as if dwelling on the irony of the request. He rolled back over to face the wall.
Peter lowered his head. Allen, silent, just stared at the fire, occasionally putting in another log, while outside the first birds of dawn were chirping, the eastern sky shifting from darkness to indigo, then to golden red, and finally the light of approaching dawn.
A knock on the door caused the two to stand up, startled.
“Surely, not already?” Allen gasped, as he went to the door and opened it. It had aroused John as well, who sat up on the cot, looking about a bit hazily, like any man roused from deep and peaceful slumber. Allen wondered if the full reality of what he was awaking to this morning had dawned on him, or if John was still half lost in some final pleasant dream.
He opened the door and to his surprise and relief it was not the guard detail, but Jenkins, bearing a silver tray, covered with a dish.
“Excuse me gentlemen,” Jenkins whispered. “It’s breakfast for the major, sent with the compliments of General Washington himself.”
“And nothing else?” Allen whispered hopefully.
Jenkins could only shake his head as Peter opened the door wide, the corridor outside empty except for two sentries who were leaning against the far wall, barely awake.
John was already standing up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, yawning, running his hands through his hair. Jenkins set the tray down and uncovered it. It was a meal of fried ham, potatoes, scrambled eggs, and of all things, a steaming pot of coffee.
John smiled as he went over to the table and sat down.
“Would you gentlemen care to join me? The general in his largesse has sent more than I can possibly consume.”
The two shook their heads. Though hungry, how any man could eat at a time like this was beyond Allen. He feared if he took a single bite he’d vomit it back up. It was just the same as he always felt in the final moments before battle was joined.
Jenkins stood silent, drawing a napkin around John’s neck.
“Not too tight, now,” John said, trying to joke, and again Jenkins begin to fill up with tears.
“Jenkins, none of that. I know your tears come straight from the heart, but do not unman me with them.”
Jenkins nodded, unable to speak.
“Would you be so good as to fetch some hot water? I wish to be freshly shaved for the occasion, brush down my uniform, and I’m not sure of the protocol here: Should I wear my wig or not?”
He actually looked over at Peter as he spoke.
Peter, remembering previous hangings, swallowed hard.
“May I suggest, sir, no wig.”
He did not add that often the wig came flying off, or shifted to an unsightly angle, especially if the victim’s neck was not broken and he began to instinctively kick and struggle in his death agonies, as he slowly strangled at the end of the rope.
“Fine then, forget powdering the wig, Jenkins. Now please be quick with the hot water and razor.”
He actually ate a fair part of the meal, then asked for a moment of privacy to relieve himself. John and Peter stepped outside to do the same. A long column of troops was coming in from the encampment behind the residence, and started to deploy around the gallows on three sides. A group of officers came down the road from the direction of Washington’s headquarters, the judges of the court-martial, required by tradition to witness the carrying out of the sentence imposed. Allen looked toward General Greene hoping that somehow there would be a last moment reprieve. He caught the man’s gaze. Greene looked straight at him and gave a subtle shake of his head.
The two went back into the room. The breakfast tray was set aside, Jenkins already shaving John, his face red from the effect of the razor. How tempting, Allen thought, more than one man had escaped the terror of the hangman’s noose by, at such a moment, just seizing the razor and cutting his own throat. But that would be so out of place for John that there was not even a guard posted directly alongside Jenkins. The two sentries were just standing by the door, curiously looking in, one whispering to the other a comment about Andre’s nerve.
A drumroll could be heard, growing louder, approaching from the encampment.
“I think it is about time, now,” John said, standing up after Jenkins wiped the last of the lather from his face, letting Jenkins help him into his scarlet coat, his uniform jacket, Jenkins brushing it off with a whisk broom, the man obviously having polished the gold buttons to a mirrorlike sheen. He lifted the neck cloth and cravat from the chair where he had placed the uniform. Peter coughed politely, caught Jenkins’s eye, and shook his head. Jenkins stood as if stricken and then folded them up, looked around desperately, and then just tucked them into his pocket.
The drumroll was now just outside their window, and shifted from a march beat to the slow steady beat of a funeral march. A moment later there was a knock at the door.
John, already facing the door, took a deep breath.
“You may enter.”
Four guards were standing in the corridor, led by a young captain who saluted.
“Sir, it is time.”
Just behind them was a minister, who stepped forward, looked at Peter, Allen, and Jenkins without comment, and the three left the room to wait out in the corridor.
Several minutes later the door opened and John stepped out, still forcing a smile.
“Gentlemen, I am at your disposal,” he said, voice cool, even, and not breaking.
Flanked by the four guards, the captain in front, the minister behind, they started for the door, and John held up his hand.
“A momentary indulgence, gentlemen,” he said, coming to a stop and looking back at Allen, beckoning him to his side.
He reached into his breast pocket and drew out several sheets of folded paper.
“My friend, would you be so kind as to see that these are delivered. One to my parents, the other to a young lady,” he paused, and smiled. “Well, her name is atop the note.”
He looked back at Peter.
“If your duty requires you to examine them you have my permission.”
Peter shook his head.
“You are a man of honor, sir. I know the correspondence is private. I will not examine them.”
“Thank you, Major. They are just simple sentiments of farewell.”
Allen took them with shaking hand.
“Good-bye, my friend,” John said, and grasping Allen’s hand he leaned over to embrace him.
For Allen, it was the hardest moment of his life, struggling not to lose control. When he had laid his beloved young brother into the ground on that cold freezing day along the Delaware, that had been different, but at this moment, he did not want to let John see him weep, and perhaps unnerve him, nor would he let any of these Rebels see him lose control. They were about to see how two British officers would face what was to come.
The captain opened the door. The guards stepped out, with John and the minister following, then followed in turn by Allen, Peter, and Jenkins. All awaiting him stood silent, a thousand or more men forming three sides of a square around the gallows, the officers of the court-martial the fourth side. John did slow at the sight of the gallows, as if even at this final moment hoping against hope that he would be granted the honor of a firing squad rather than a too often squalid death at the end of a rope.
Two young officers now stepped to either side of him, each putting a supporting arm around his elbows, ready if need be to help brace him up if he faltered or, as had happened in more than one case Allen had witnessed, the victim began to struggle or try to turn away.
“Why this emotion, sir?” one of the two asked, as John, having slowed, gazed at the gallows.
Peter wondered if there was mockery or insult in the young officer’s voice, and he wanted to step forward and strike the man down.