New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [176]
Then there had been the behavior of the British themselves. Every Patriot newspaper in the colonies had been voicing outrage at the cruel treatment of American prisoners, and Washington tirelessly took the British commanders to task. But perhaps, despite all this, James himself had not quite wanted to believe that the people among whom he had lived, and that he thought he knew, would actually be guilty of such atrocities. It was the letter he’d received from his father that had finally told him everything. The letter itself had been brief. It informed him that Sam Flower had died of disease on a prison ship, that there was no grave for his family to visit, and had ended with these words: “More than this, my dear son, I cannot say, and would not wish to say.” James knew his father. What those words said, and what they did not say, told him the worst. A tide of rage and disgust had arisen within him and had set, over the long months, into a hardened, bitter hatred.
The last winter had been terrible. Washington’s camp at Morristown had been well constructed and perfectly laid out. Their log cabins had been sealed with clay, and Washington himself had occupied a sturdy house nearby. But no one could have predicted the weather. Twenty-eight snowstorms buried them almost up to the roofs of the cabins. Sometimes they ate nothing for days at a time. Washington had been an inspiration—he’d even held an officers’ dance in a local tavern, though they’d needed sledges to get there. But by the end of winter, the Continental army was exhausted.
Spring and summer had only brought news of awful defeats in the South. Two and a half thousand Continentals taken prisoner at Charleston, not counting local militias as well. Yet still the Patriots held on, and hoped for better things—partly because men like James Master were quite determined that, having gone so far against an enemy they had come to hate, they would never turn back.
It was a grim-faced, iron man, therefore, who now strode into the stone house where poor Major André was awaiting execution.
Above, the sun was shining down on the general’s camp at Tappan. The northern end of Manhattan was only ten miles away down the Hudson River. Ten miles, however, that the luckless prisoner had not managed to negotiate. Certainly André had been unlucky, but also foolish, after parting from the traitor Arnold, to have taken off his uniform to get away in disguise. Having done that, he’d made himself a spy. Washington had insisted that he be given a proper, formal trial, and he’d been able to argue his case. But the verdict could hardly be otherwise, and tomorrow he was due to hang.
André was sitting quietly in the room where he was housed. He had been writing letters. On a sideboard were the remains of a meal he’d been sent from Washington’s table. James had seen him at a distance several times in recent days, but not spoken to him yet. At his entry the young Swiss courteously arose, and James informed him of his purpose in being there.
“I am instructed by the general to ensure that you have everything you need. Any letters you wish to send, any other services I can arrange for you …”
“I have everything I require, I think,” André answered with a faint smile. “You said your name was Captain Master?”
“At your service, sir.”
“How strange. Then I believe I had the pleasure of dining with your father and your sister, just recently.” And seeing James’s look of surprise, he remarked: “I did not guess then that I should have the honor of seeing you also. Perhaps you would like to hear how they are.”
Fully ten minutes passed while André gave him an account of his father and sister. They were both in perfect