Of Wildflowers and Gunpowder

Chapter 8

     Boisterous yelling and laughing resounded outside the tent, the light of a fire flickering shadows across the canvas. It must be the dead of night, I thought, pulling myself up and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
     I slid out of the bed, my bare feet softly hitting the dirt and my hands instinctively going to my side as though it would ease the pain.
     I crept over to André's desk and began rummaging through the papers with the utmost caution, knowing that Simcoe would probably try to kill me if I was caught. Although I knew it was far-fetched, I searched for any evidence I could find that confirmed Nathan Hale's conviction that Arnold was a traitor.
     Most of them were poems, drawings, or inconsequential letters to women or other soldiers but one caught my eye. It was addressed to Major André and heavily disguised in code. There was no way I could decode this in a timely manner, even if I had the code book right in front of me.
     I pocketed it anyway, hoping for another hint that would make more sense. More poems, more letters from Philadelphia, York City, and England. Nothing from Arnold. Just then, in the dim light, I noticed a small envelope tucked beneath the candle holder on the edge of his desk. Cringing at every small sound I made, I opened it to find another coded letter. But in this envelope, there was another paper in André's own handwriting. A translation, I thought incredulously.

      As Life and fortune are risked by serving His Majesty, it is Necessary that the fortune shall be secured as well as the emoluments I give up, and a compensation for Services agreed on which Sir Henry will not, I believe, think unreasonable.
     I am Sir, your humble Servant.
     July 12, 1780 Mr. John Anderson

P.S. I have great confidence in the Bearer, but beg Sir Henry will threaten him with his resentment in case he abuses the confidence placed in him, which will bring ruin on me

I couldn't breathe. It was true. There was another letter, also translated by André.

"If I point out a plan of cooperation by which Sir Henry shall possess himself of West Point, the Garrison, etc. etc. etc. twenty thousand pounds Sterling I think will be a cheap purchase for an object of so much importance. At the same time I request thousand pounds to be paid my Agent - I expect a full and explicit answer - The 20th I set off for West Point. A personal interview with an officer that you can confide in is absolutely necessary to plan matters. In the mean time I shall communicate to our mutual Friend Stansbury all the intelligence in my power, until I have the pleasure of your answer."

     With shaking hands, I read the words over and over again. If Benjamin were here, I thought, he would have the perfect plan but I had never felt so helpless in my entire life.
     Major André must have been on his way to West Point to talk to Benedict Arnold and work out a deal. Arnold's words were dripping with selfish ambition and bitterness for the revolution he had once risked his life for. All he cared for was his compensation.
     I put the letters back inside the envelope and kept the whole thing hidden inside my gown in my handmade pocket.
     Just then, Captain Simcoe came crashing into the tent, stumbling towards me with a terrifying look in his eyes. He was drunk beyond rationality. I scrambled away from him but he lunged for me, grabbing me by the leg and causing me to fall, perfectly vulnerable to his advances.
     "I know you have the location of Washington," he slurred, putting a clammy hand around my throat and holding me down in the dirt. I reached for the gun at his waist but he grabbed my hand and snapped my arm back, disconnecting my shoulder from its socket. I shrieked in agony but he put a violent hand over my mouth.
My heart raced and I sobbed silently, trying desperately to escape his grasp. I threw my leg up and dug my knee into his stomach, causing him to let go of my throat and double over in pain. I seized the opportunity, jumping up and trying to knock him over.
     Because he was still reeling from the forceful hit, I was able to pin him down, kneeling on his chest and gasping for breath. I had trained with Benjamin on hand-to-hand fighting but nothing prepared me for this.
     With my injured arm, I grabbed his gun and began striking him with it, letting all my anger and fear and frustration escape as I repeatedly hit him. Tears streamed down my face but I clenched my teeth and ignored the pain I felt, knowing that this was my only chance at freedom.
He fought hard against me, punching me repeatedly in the face, but eventually he went still and unconscious, big welts beginning to form on his head. My hands trembled as I stumbled away from him, blood dripping from my mouth and forehead where he had hit me and my injured arm hanging awkwardly by my side.
Adrenaline coursed through my veins, making it almost impossible to function. I took my shoulder tightly in my left hand and forced it back into place, crying out in pain but careful not to let myself be heard over the partying soldiers outside. Now what?
I hurriedly grabbed the black cloak Major André had hanging on the back of his chair and put it on over my gown, hoping to disguise myself if I encountered anyone.
     With the pistol still in my hand, I lifted it to Simcoe's head and thought about pulling the trigger.
If I ever got back home, Benjamin would spin me around and take me to a tavern somewhere in Trenton to celebrate the victory over his enemy.
     But I couldn't do it. I had never killed a man before, and even my fury towards Simcoe couldn't make me risk it. I would surely be caught if the men heard a gunshot.
     With a sigh, I tucked the gun into my petticoat and gently lifted the bottom of the tent up, sliding under and coming out of the tent on the opposite side of the men gathered around the bonfire.
Thankfully for me, most of the soldiers were either asleep or too tired to notice me as I made my way towards the New York Harbor, which was less than half a mile from André's tent.
Just then, I heard loud shouts coming from behind me and someone yelling for me to stop. Instinctively, I began to sprint. Gunshots began to echo behind me and I felt myself panicking. How could I come this close to freedom only to be slaughtered here, a mere hundred feet from relative safety?
I knew nothing of the layout of the land here and, with bare feet, I knew I would quickly be overtaken or killed. The only thing I could do was run and hope to make it to the shore. My whole body screamed for rest as I sprinted hysterically towards the sand. So close.
To my surprise, there was a small rowboat docked a little ways to my right as I reached the water's edge, the shouts of advancing soldiers close behind.
I ran into the freezing water where the dinghy was anchored, my petticoats heavy and uncomfortable as I awkwardly climbed over the side and onto the floor of the boat, shivering uncontrollably. Just as I began rowing frantically away, at least ten soldiers appeared through the trees, their guns pointed at me confidently.
Before I even heard the sound of the shot, I could feel myself being pushed backwards from the force of the bullet. It entered my right arm above my elbow and splintered the wood behind me. I touched it gently, stunned, and my hand came away crimson red. Nothing I had ever done compared to this.
All my instincts told me to stop rowing. Let them take you back and you will be miserable but it will be okay. You can die like you were supposed to, it will be terrible and sad but at least you didn't suffer.
Then I thought about Benjamin, my love, the only man I truly worried about. Before I left for New York City, he kissed my forehead and told me to stay safe; that he couldn't wait to see me again. How could I give up on him? How could I stop running now because I was too scared? How could I be so selfish?
     So I rowed. As fast as I could, tears streaming down my face and my arm barely useful, I kept my head low and put all my adrenaline into the oars. If I was going to die tonight, I would fight until the very end.