The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [281]
THE THREE MEN HAD DISAPPEARED INTO THE DARKNESS, HAD BEEN gone for better than three hours. He paced outside the house, tried to see his watch, had gone through the same routine every few minutes. The agony of time had finally passed, and he caught the reflection from the house, the low light of a lantern. It was nearly midnight. It was time.
He climbed the horse, moved into the road. There was no moon, the black sky pierced with stars. He pushed the horse slowly, the hoofbeats drumming in his ears, muffled only by the thunder from his own heart.
He rode for several minutes, could see the gap in the trees, the designated spot. He stopped the horse, listened for a long moment. The woods around him were a cascade of noise, the roar of so many small creatures filling his ears. His breathing came in hard short gasps, and he put a hand on the icy stone in his chest. He moved the horse carefully, the trees opening into a narrow patch of grass, and ahead, the wide patch of stars broken by the tall points of fir trees. He continued on, stopped, heard different sounds, a voice perhaps. He waited, heard it again, thought, Yes! A voice, surely. Now he heard a horse, muffled sound, coming toward him, and he waited, heard a low, hard whisper.
“General?”
“Here. Right here.”
He could not see Smith’s face, the man only a dark shape, moving up close beside him, and Smith said in a low voice, “Done as you said, sir. He’s right back there, the edge of the tall firs. My men and me will wait out on the road. You come get us when you’re ready for him to go back.”
Arnold was shivering, the sweat in his clothes chilling him. He nodded, tried to make a sound, his voice choked away by the nervousness, whispered, “Yes . . . yes, good.”
Smith began to move away, and Arnold searched the darkness in front of him, the tops of the trees. Behind him, Smith said, “I hope he can give us some help. This country could use some good fortune.”
Arnold stared ahead, said, “Indeed.”
He walked the horse to the edge of the trees, stopped, dismounted. He waited a moment, took a step, said in a low voice, “Mr. Anderson?”
He heard the steps, the man moving toward him. He saw the dark shape, a small man, shrouded in a long coat. The man moved close to him, said in a low voice, “I don’t believe we are detected, General. Hardly the time for disguises, eh? Allow me to offer my introduction, sir. I am Major John André.”
THEY TALKED FOR FOUR HOURS, NEGOTIATIONS AND TERMS, DETAILS and tactics. When the talking stopped, Smith was summoned, but now there was a problem. It was after 4:00 a.m., and there was not sufficient time for the darkness to shroud André’s journey back to the Vulture. They rode instead to Smith’s house, to wait through a long day for the darkness to return. Arnold had gone out close to the river, could see the British ship in the distance, the safe haven for André. As the sun rose high, the air was suddenly streaked by bits of fire. The Vulture was a tempting target, and he realized that along the edge of that part of the river, there was at least one battery that could find the range. As he stared in desperate agony, the Vulture began to take damage. In barely an hour, the ship had moved to safety, disappearing far down the river, beyond the range of the guns that Arnold himself commanded. Now there was a new urgency. With the darkness would come a different task for the accommodating Mr. Smith. The man that Smith knew only as Anderson would have to reach the protection of British patrols overland, crossing a dangerous