SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
MAJOR ANDRE.
(Letter in "A Tour in North America," dated Hudson River.)
My dear B.—On my return to the Neptune all was in readiness to set sail. The wind sprang up, and we were presently wafted into a broad sheet of water, "the Sea of Tappan." The river here suddenly expands, and for the distance of ten miles will average about four miles in breadth; in many places the water is so shallow, that the helmsman, his track being already marked out, steers by the direction of posts, stationed here and there in the river, that he may keep his vessel free from sand-banks. The shore on each side of us presented a level, agreeably interrupted in places by the intervention of minor hills, apparently fertile, and in fine cultivation. The villages of Tappan and Nyack, a few framed houses and huts scattered irregularly on the western side, and about one mile from the river, claim the attention of the traveller. They are situated near the foot of a valley, and overlooked by some stupendous and abrupt ridges, whose frowning and murky heads throw a grand and solemn, but somewhat suitable, aspect upon the landscape of this memorable place. Old Tappan, which consists of only two or three small houses, and lies a short distance up this valley, was the place selected for the execution of the once brave, noble-hearted, patriotic, and accomplished Major André. I was anxious to make a pilgrimage to the grave of my unfortunate countryman; and, as the wind was scarcely sufficient to bear us up against a strong ebb-tide, I easily prevailed on the captain to anchor his charge, and allow the small boat to go on shore.
Major André, you may recollect, was taken prisoner by the Americans during the revolution as a British spy. The house or hut in which he was kept in confinement had only very lately gone into ruins. It was then a tavern, and its landlord, now extremely old, still resides close by, and recites the melancholy tale with much affection and feeling. He witnessed the gentlemanly manners and equanimity of this heroic soldier, while in his house, under the most trying circumstances, and from its threshold to the fatal spot. In his room the prisoner could hear the sound of the axe employed in erecting the scaffold; and on one occasion, in the presence of a friend, when these sounds, terrible to all but himself, were more than usually distinct, he is said to have observed, with great composure, "that every sound he heard from that axe was indeed an important lesson, it taught him how to live and how to die." When conducted to the place of execution, and on coming near to the scaffold, he made a sudden halt, and momentarily shrunk at the sight; because he had, to the last, entertained hopes that his life would have been taken by the musket, and not by the halter. This apparent want of resolution quickly passed away, and the disappointment he felt told more against the uncompromising spirit of the times than against himself. Rejecting assistance, he approached and ascended the platform with a steady pace and lofty demeanour, and submitted to his fate with the pious resignation of a great and good man. A large concourse of spectators, among whom were several well dressed females, had assembled on this sorrowful occasion; and it is reported that scarcely a dry cheek could be found throughout the whole multitude. André was then seen as he always had been, and moved by that which had through life presided over all his actions, resolved beyond presumption, and firm without ostentation.
The person and appearance of Major André were prepossessing; he was well proportioned, and above the common size of men; the lines of his face were regular, well marked, and beautifully symmetrical, which gave him an expression of countenance at once dignified and commanding. His address was graceful and easy; in manners he was truly exemplary, and in conversation affable and instructive. Polite to all ranks and classes of people, he was universally respected; fond of discipline, and always alive to the just claims and feelings of others, he was beloved in the army, and generally appealed to as the common arbitrator and conciliator of the contentions of those around him. In a word, he was a sincere friend, a scholar, and accomplished gentleman, a patriot, a gallant soldier, an able commander, and a Christian.
General Washington, when called upon to sign his death-warrant, which he did not do without hesitation, it is said, dropped a tear upon the paper, and spoke at the same time to the following effect:—"That were it not infringing upon the duty and responsibility of his office, and disregarding the high prerogative of those who would fill that office after him, the tear, which now lay upon that paper, should annihilate the confirmation of an act to which his name would for ever stand as a sanction. He was summoned that day to do a deed at which his heart revolted; but it was required of him by the justice of his country, the desires and expectations of the people: he owed it to the cause in which he was solemnly engaged, to the welfare of an infant confederacy, the safety of a newly organized constitution which he had pledged his honour to protect and defend, and a right given to him that was acknowledged to be just by the ruling voice of all nations."
André, after he had heard his condemnation, addressed a letter to Washington; it contained a feeling appeal to him as a man, a soldier, and a general, on the mode of death he was to die. It was his wish to be shot. This, however, could not be granted: he had been taken and condemned as a spy, and the laws of nations had established the manner of his death. But where were the humanity and feeling of the British on this occasion? Why did they not give up the dastardly Arnold in exchange for the brave André; as it was generously proposed by the United States?[3] This they refused on a paltry plea, and suffered, in consequence, the life of one of their finest officers to be ignominiously lost.
On a green eminence, over which hangs the dark and funereal shade of the willow, is the grave of this unfortunate soldier; it is a short distance south and west of the village. "No urn nor animated bust," only a few rough and unshapely stones, without a word of inscription, and carelessly laid upon a mound of rudely piled earth, are shown to the traveller as the spot where rest the remains of poor André.[4]