Upon Secrecy

Forward

“The necessity of procuring good Intelligence is apparent & need not be further urged -- All that remains for me to add is, that you keep the whole matter as secret as possible. For upon Secrecy, Success depends...”

- George Washington

   

George Washington needed spies.
Information about the enemy was vital.
Learning British military plans was his only chance to level the advantage the redcoats held.
His army had become something to reckon with. They’d gone from fighting for survival to spotting fear in their enemy’s eyes.
Still, the British army was larger.
Better equipped.
Virtually impossible to outfight.
Washington knew that wit, not weapons, held the key to ultimate victory.
Washington’s problem wasn’t finding information. Captured British soldiers spilled secrets. Redcoats appeared on their own, prepared to turn traitor against their king. Even civilians offered to spy for a fee. But could Washington trust them?
A favorite tactic of Washington’s was to slip false intelligence into enemy hands. The same could be done to him.
One mistake could mean defeat.
Washington knew also that his spies needed to live in or near New York – British headquarters. And they needed a good reason to be there.
The British were keen on protecting their territory, and New York was their biggest prize. People who didn’t belong there were noticed.
In August, 1778,Washington turned to Major Benjamin Tallmadge to organize what came to be called the Culper Spy Ring. A native of Setauket, Long Island, Tallmadge had the connections Washington needed and recruited long-time friends.
The heart of the ring lay with Robert Townsend, a New Yorker who wrote for a loyalist newspaper. Townsend was perfect for the job. British soldiers actually brought him information, to see their names in print!
And Townsend was a Quaker.
Opposed to war.
Above suspicion.
For nearly two years the Culpers risked their lives smuggling letters.
Washington was impressed with Townsend’s reports. But pleased as he was by their content, he grew irritated by the long time it took to get them. Bluntly, he wrote to Tallmadge that the information was useless when it reached him.
Vexed, Washington disbanded the ring in May 1780.
But it didn’t take long for Washington to miss Townsend’s reliable messages. In July, a French fleet of over 5,000 troops was due to land in Newport ,Rhode Island. Without this help, the Americans might well be doomed.
Washington worried.
Did the British know the French were coming?
He feared the worst.
The redcoats had the manpower to crush the French, especially if they struck before the fleet organized.
Washington needed information – from a source he could depend on.
There was only one.
Could the Culpers act fast enough?
He had to take the chance.

“As we may every moment expect the arrival of the French fleet a revival of the correspondence with the Culpers will be of very great importance...”

- George Washington to Benjamin Tallmadge, July 11, 1780

July 20, 1780 / New York

God, forgive me.
The words flashed through Robert Townsend’s mind like musket blasts against a dark sky.
They were there, always.
When he squirmed in his chair at the offices of Rivington’s Royal Gazette, when he sifted through inventory in his dry-goods store, when he shifted on his creaking bed in the black dreamless night.
Over and over, the words blazed through his head.
Uninvited.
Relentless.
Most especially now, in times like this. Sitting across from two British officers in his publisher’s coffeehouse, taking notes on their exploits. That was the purpose of this place – to gather every drop of gossip feasible, and put it into print.
These soldiers thought they were sharing information with a journalist loyal to the crown. They craved recognition, even fame.
They had no idea who they were revealing themselves to.
Forgive me, I beg of you.
He dared not pray that these words cease fire. Forsaking his Quaker faith to help the American cause, he’d known there would be suffering.
If there would be forgiveness, he did not know.
The soldier on the left droned on, competing with conversation and laughter at the surrounding tables. The work day had ended and the coffeehouse was packed. Cloudy tobacco mixed with the scent of coffee. Chairs scraped across floor planks. Boots stomped, sweeping through scattered sawdust.
Robert stared at candle wax drip, drip, dripping; clotting onto the wood table. He didn’t wish to look the men in their eyes. Almost on its own, his hand dipped quill into ink, then shifted back to the paper in front of him, scrawling notes of British military plans.
The plans.
They were what he was after.
One plan, specifically.
For four days he’d headed around town, seeking the information. Did the British know about the French fleet landing in Newport?
He’d seen the British ships being prepared to embark.
But to where?
Robert mustered a smile, forced his gaze at the officer on the right. Casually, he asked if either of them might know where the British fleet intended to sail. Posing such a question held risk, but time was paramount.
To these soldiers, he was Robert Townsend, reporter and merchant.
To General George Washington, he was known by code name only.
Samuel Culper Junior.
Spy.

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