“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.”