Chapter Three: The Unlikely Replacement
~October 2, 1780~
When he assumed the position as head of British Intelligence, John Andre was well aware of the risk, chief among them was the possibility of facing a dishonorable death. Therefore, as he did with all things, he has long ago taken certain preventative measures. Fingers shaking slightly, he unscrewed the lid on his vial of poison-laced brandy. He had concocted it himself, mixing the two perfectly, enough to induce a death-like sleep but not enough to be fatal. Of course, it was not an exact science, such things never were.
Andre raised the vial to his lips, knowing that therein lie death or his one chance at life. Fear washed over him, making his breath come in quick little gasps, the fear of going to sleep without knowing where you are going to awake, assuming you do.
"God forgive me," he whispered, tipping back the vial and swallowing the contents.
~Fort Carolina, Southern Campaign, 1780~
Capt. Bordon opened his eyes and wondered why the sun was shining. It seemed unfitting that the morning should dawn so clear and bright, as though nothing had changed. The dragoon captain would have much preferred some weather more suited to the state of depression he had sunken into. The sound of a musket being fired hit Bordon like a sharp blow to the head. He reached underneath his cot and groped for the half-empty bottle of gin.
"Damn," Bordon cursed, hold up the bottle and realizing that it was more fully empty than half-empty. Disappointed, he tossed it over his shoulder.
There was the soft clink of the glass hitting something.
Gen. O'Hara stepped inside Bordon's gloomy tent, rubbing a bump on his forehead with one hand and holding the empty bottle in the other. Bordon shaded his eyes from the morning sunlight now pouring in through the open tent flap.
"Gen. O'Hara, shir," he slurred with an attempt at a salute.
O'Hara frowned and set the bottle down on a small table. The drunk, unshaven man lying on the cot was not the Bordon O'Hara knew. The captain had been quickly revived following his fainting spell in Lord Cornwallis' office with the aid of a quickly fetched glass of cold water. That had been a week ago.
"And how are you this morning, Capt. Bordon?" O'Hara inquired, putting on a cheerful face despite Bordon's pitiable state.
"What kinda queshtion ish that?" Bordon inquired.
Afterwards, the young officer had slipped into such a depressed state that it deemed the best possible course of action to give him some time himself, much to the annoyance of Col. Tavington, who had promptly declared that he had a certain "ghost" to hunt down and not even the death of the king himself was going to stand in the way. However, Tavington was obliged to do as Banastre Tarleton commanded, and Tarleton in turn was expected to obey the orders of Gen. O'Hara, though the Legion was given some degree of autonomy.
"It's a question of common courtesy, Capt. Bordon," O'Hara replied, a bit disappointed at the captain's continued state of depression, which only seemed to have grown darker. "I was hoping to find you a bit less drunk this morning."
Bordon snorted. He hated drinking; he hated himself for being drunk. Yet, it was the only way to forget.
"Perhaps your feelings for Major Andre run deeper than I suspected."
O'Hara took a deep breath, unsure of whether he wanted to continue or to allow Bordon some more time in reflective solitude. Cornwallis had given him direct orders to inform Bordon of his reassignment several days previous. He concluded that the lord general had been kept waiting long enough, and that perhaps this was the only thing that could produce any change in Bordon's mood.
"I spoke at length with Col. Tarleton Monday eve," the general continued. "He was the one who gave me a bit of insight. I had no idea that you were connected to the Tarleton family. I take it that Col. Tavington remains ignorant of this? I should think he would not take kindly to finding out."
Bordon blinked several times, his eyes finally adjusting to the brightness, his head still throbbing. He felt very much like telling Gen. O'Hara to refrain from prying into his personal affairs, but being a practical man, concluded that he had been rude enough for one morning.
"No," Bordon cleared his throat. "No, he doesn't know. I thought it best that he didn't, even if it is only that my father was one of James Tarleton's bookkeepers."
"Tarleton also tells me that," his voice and expression grew solemn, "Major Andre was the only true friend you ever had."
Bordon turned away, his childhood shyness resurfacing and prickling about the sides of his face. He disliked discussing such things with his superior officers, or anyone else for that matter. "I-I was his secretary in Philadelphia," Bordon stammered.
"And he was the one to recognize your potential," O'Hara explained for Bordon. "He saw that you were well-suited to intelligence work. So well- suited, in fact, that he sent you south as Lord Cornwallis' intelligence officer, a post you were denied due to that pointless feud between Lord Cornwallis and Sir Henry Clinton."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"With all due respect, sir," Bordon ventured, "did you come here only to give voice to my woes?"
O'Hara reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a letter, neatly folded and sealed with wax. He offered it to Bordon. "Of course not, this is for you. I thought it best that I deliver it in person. I am also to inform you that you are being sent north, to Sir Henry Clinton, as Major Andre's replacement."
"Replacement?" Bordon questioned incredulously, taking the letter.
"Yes, Capt. Bordon."
"But, I am not a suitable replacement!" the dragoon cried, feeling a great burden descend upon his shoulders and the instinctive urge to escape it.
"Perhaps," O'Hara smiled, "but it seems Major Andre thought otherwise. He hand-picked you himself."
The unlikely replacement said nothing.
"Good day to you, Capt. Bordon," O'Hara bowed, and was gone.
It was several minutes before Bordon realized that he was holding a letter that he had been given by Gen. O'Hara. It was addressed in the elegant, even handwriting that was unique to the pen Major Andre, the sort of writing that would make a typesetter jealous. Bordon had waded through stacks of papers covered in that beautiful writing during his days in Philadelphia. He would recognize it anywhere.
The seal was plain, but this was made up for by the dramatic well- flourished:
Bordon
Green Dragoons
Middelton Place, South Carolina
Sucking in a deep breath, Bordon slipped his finger under the seal. It gave way easily. He unfolded the paper gently to reveal a note written in the same graceful script.
To: Robert Bordon, Captain, Green Dragoons, South Carolina
Aboard the Vulture, September 20th, 1780
Sir,
If this letter has come into your possession then I have "made a fool of myself" for the final time. Though I cannot reveal the exact details for fear that this message might somehow be intercepted, know that against instinct and common sense I have agreed to meet with certain parties to discuss a matter which may bring a swift end to this vile conflict. However, this meeting involves a great degree of personal risk, and though I remain confident I feel compelled to make certain provision and notify certain persons should this venture be unsuccessful.
In the event of my capture or death, it is my hope that you will fill the vacant position as head of Intelligence. I can think of no man more trustworthy or more thoroughly qualified.
I beg of you Capt. Bordon, do not let any sorrow that you may harbor concerning my death prevent you from assuming your new position. I will not have you sitting about useless, nor will I have you trying to personally avenge my death. Victory over these colonial rebels is the only defense my honor requires.
I have the honor to be, etc.
John Andre, Adj. Gen.
Bordon was unaware of the tear that had managed to escape from his right eye until it hit the paper as though it were a raindrop released from some kind of mysterious indoor rain cloud.
Bordon stood, letting the letter fall to the floor. He reached for his jacket, practicality once again resurfacing.
"Ah, good show, Bordon!" O'Hara exclaimed, reentering the tent. He looked about quickly to be certain that his head was no in danger of coming into contact with another projectile. "So, you will be going north then?"
"I do as I am commanded, sir."
~British Occupied Philadelphia, 1777~
"Burn it all, Bordon," Andre snapped.
The secretary clutched the stack of papers as though they were thin sheets of hammered gold.
"Are you quite sure about this, sir?" Bordon inquired. He ruffled through the papers, reading snippets, and recalling the exact days he had filed them for future reference. Somehow, he had not expected that future reference would involve a fireplace.
"Of course I'm sure, Bordon," Andre replied, slightly exasperated. "I am abandoning this office in the morning and nothing can be left behind. You've been standing there for nearly five minutes. Get on with the bloody thing!"
"Sir," Bordon protested, "this is an entire winter's work."
"I know that, Bordon."
Major Andre's office was a small room on the upper floor of a small house on Leed's Street that had been vacated when the rebel owners had fled. It was an out of the way, gloomy sort of place, perfectly suited to intelligence work. All of various reports that had poured in from the network of agents Andre had stationed throughout the city were neatly stacked in corners, on bookshelves, and in the drawers of the room's three desks.
Andre himself was seated at the main desk, separating the important documents from those that had to be done away with. Among them were several pages covered in sketches of the locals. The head of intelligence sighed, unfortunately such things were unnecessary. He set the pages of sketches neatly atop the pile of papers waiting to be burnt.
"Have you developed some sort of emotional attachment to my correspondence, Bordon?" Andre demanded.
"No, sir."
Bordon crumpled the first page, some notes from Finnegan regarding some conversations he had overheard at the docks, into a ball and tossed it into the fire.
~October 2, 1780~
When he assumed the position as head of British Intelligence, John Andre was well aware of the risk, chief among them was the possibility of facing a dishonorable death. Therefore, as he did with all things, he has long ago taken certain preventative measures. Fingers shaking slightly, he unscrewed the lid on his vial of poison-laced brandy. He had concocted it himself, mixing the two perfectly, enough to induce a death-like sleep but not enough to be fatal. Of course, it was not an exact science, such things never were.
Andre raised the vial to his lips, knowing that therein lie death or his one chance at life. Fear washed over him, making his breath come in quick little gasps, the fear of going to sleep without knowing where you are going to awake, assuming you do.
"God forgive me," he whispered, tipping back the vial and swallowing the contents.
~Fort Carolina, Southern Campaign, 1780~
Capt. Bordon opened his eyes and wondered why the sun was shining. It seemed unfitting that the morning should dawn so clear and bright, as though nothing had changed. The dragoon captain would have much preferred some weather more suited to the state of depression he had sunken into. The sound of a musket being fired hit Bordon like a sharp blow to the head. He reached underneath his cot and groped for the half-empty bottle of gin.
"Damn," Bordon cursed, hold up the bottle and realizing that it was more fully empty than half-empty. Disappointed, he tossed it over his shoulder.
There was the soft clink of the glass hitting something.
Gen. O'Hara stepped inside Bordon's gloomy tent, rubbing a bump on his forehead with one hand and holding the empty bottle in the other. Bordon shaded his eyes from the morning sunlight now pouring in through the open tent flap.
"Gen. O'Hara, shir," he slurred with an attempt at a salute.
O'Hara frowned and set the bottle down on a small table. The drunk, unshaven man lying on the cot was not the Bordon O'Hara knew. The captain had been quickly revived following his fainting spell in Lord Cornwallis' office with the aid of a quickly fetched glass of cold water. That had been a week ago.
"And how are you this morning, Capt. Bordon?" O'Hara inquired, putting on a cheerful face despite Bordon's pitiable state.
"What kinda queshtion ish that?" Bordon inquired.
Afterwards, the young officer had slipped into such a depressed state that it deemed the best possible course of action to give him some time himself, much to the annoyance of Col. Tavington, who had promptly declared that he had a certain "ghost" to hunt down and not even the death of the king himself was going to stand in the way. However, Tavington was obliged to do as Banastre Tarleton commanded, and Tarleton in turn was expected to obey the orders of Gen. O'Hara, though the Legion was given some degree of autonomy.
"It's a question of common courtesy, Capt. Bordon," O'Hara replied, a bit disappointed at the captain's continued state of depression, which only seemed to have grown darker. "I was hoping to find you a bit less drunk this morning."
Bordon snorted. He hated drinking; he hated himself for being drunk. Yet, it was the only way to forget.
"Perhaps your feelings for Major Andre run deeper than I suspected."
O'Hara took a deep breath, unsure of whether he wanted to continue or to allow Bordon some more time in reflective solitude. Cornwallis had given him direct orders to inform Bordon of his reassignment several days previous. He concluded that the lord general had been kept waiting long enough, and that perhaps this was the only thing that could produce any change in Bordon's mood.
"I spoke at length with Col. Tarleton Monday eve," the general continued. "He was the one who gave me a bit of insight. I had no idea that you were connected to the Tarleton family. I take it that Col. Tavington remains ignorant of this? I should think he would not take kindly to finding out."
Bordon blinked several times, his eyes finally adjusting to the brightness, his head still throbbing. He felt very much like telling Gen. O'Hara to refrain from prying into his personal affairs, but being a practical man, concluded that he had been rude enough for one morning.
"No," Bordon cleared his throat. "No, he doesn't know. I thought it best that he didn't, even if it is only that my father was one of James Tarleton's bookkeepers."
"Tarleton also tells me that," his voice and expression grew solemn, "Major Andre was the only true friend you ever had."
Bordon turned away, his childhood shyness resurfacing and prickling about the sides of his face. He disliked discussing such things with his superior officers, or anyone else for that matter. "I-I was his secretary in Philadelphia," Bordon stammered.
"And he was the one to recognize your potential," O'Hara explained for Bordon. "He saw that you were well-suited to intelligence work. So well- suited, in fact, that he sent you south as Lord Cornwallis' intelligence officer, a post you were denied due to that pointless feud between Lord Cornwallis and Sir Henry Clinton."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"With all due respect, sir," Bordon ventured, "did you come here only to give voice to my woes?"
O'Hara reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a letter, neatly folded and sealed with wax. He offered it to Bordon. "Of course not, this is for you. I thought it best that I deliver it in person. I am also to inform you that you are being sent north, to Sir Henry Clinton, as Major Andre's replacement."
"Replacement?" Bordon questioned incredulously, taking the letter.
"Yes, Capt. Bordon."
"But, I am not a suitable replacement!" the dragoon cried, feeling a great burden descend upon his shoulders and the instinctive urge to escape it.
"Perhaps," O'Hara smiled, "but it seems Major Andre thought otherwise. He hand-picked you himself."
The unlikely replacement said nothing.
"Good day to you, Capt. Bordon," O'Hara bowed, and was gone.
It was several minutes before Bordon realized that he was holding a letter that he had been given by Gen. O'Hara. It was addressed in the elegant, even handwriting that was unique to the pen Major Andre, the sort of writing that would make a typesetter jealous. Bordon had waded through stacks of papers covered in that beautiful writing during his days in Philadelphia. He would recognize it anywhere.
The seal was plain, but this was made up for by the dramatic well- flourished:
Bordon
Green Dragoons
Middelton Place, South Carolina
Sucking in a deep breath, Bordon slipped his finger under the seal. It gave way easily. He unfolded the paper gently to reveal a note written in the same graceful script.
To: Robert Bordon, Captain, Green Dragoons, South Carolina
Aboard the Vulture, September 20th, 1780
Sir,
If this letter has come into your possession then I have "made a fool of myself" for the final time. Though I cannot reveal the exact details for fear that this message might somehow be intercepted, know that against instinct and common sense I have agreed to meet with certain parties to discuss a matter which may bring a swift end to this vile conflict. However, this meeting involves a great degree of personal risk, and though I remain confident I feel compelled to make certain provision and notify certain persons should this venture be unsuccessful.
In the event of my capture or death, it is my hope that you will fill the vacant position as head of Intelligence. I can think of no man more trustworthy or more thoroughly qualified.
I beg of you Capt. Bordon, do not let any sorrow that you may harbor concerning my death prevent you from assuming your new position. I will not have you sitting about useless, nor will I have you trying to personally avenge my death. Victory over these colonial rebels is the only defense my honor requires.
I have the honor to be, etc.
John Andre, Adj. Gen.
Bordon was unaware of the tear that had managed to escape from his right eye until it hit the paper as though it were a raindrop released from some kind of mysterious indoor rain cloud.
Bordon stood, letting the letter fall to the floor. He reached for his jacket, practicality once again resurfacing.
"Ah, good show, Bordon!" O'Hara exclaimed, reentering the tent. He looked about quickly to be certain that his head was no in danger of coming into contact with another projectile. "So, you will be going north then?"
"I do as I am commanded, sir."
~British Occupied Philadelphia, 1777~
"Burn it all, Bordon," Andre snapped.
The secretary clutched the stack of papers as though they were thin sheets of hammered gold.
"Are you quite sure about this, sir?" Bordon inquired. He ruffled through the papers, reading snippets, and recalling the exact days he had filed them for future reference. Somehow, he had not expected that future reference would involve a fireplace.
"Of course I'm sure, Bordon," Andre replied, slightly exasperated. "I am abandoning this office in the morning and nothing can be left behind. You've been standing there for nearly five minutes. Get on with the bloody thing!"
"Sir," Bordon protested, "this is an entire winter's work."
"I know that, Bordon."
Major Andre's office was a small room on the upper floor of a small house on Leed's Street that had been vacated when the rebel owners had fled. It was an out of the way, gloomy sort of place, perfectly suited to intelligence work. All of various reports that had poured in from the network of agents Andre had stationed throughout the city were neatly stacked in corners, on bookshelves, and in the drawers of the room's three desks.
Andre himself was seated at the main desk, separating the important documents from those that had to be done away with. Among them were several pages covered in sketches of the locals. The head of intelligence sighed, unfortunately such things were unnecessary. He set the pages of sketches neatly atop the pile of papers waiting to be burnt.
"Have you developed some sort of emotional attachment to my correspondence, Bordon?" Andre demanded.
"No, sir."
Bordon crumpled the first page, some notes from Finnegan regarding some conversations he had overheard at the docks, into a ball and tossed it into the fire.