Northvale, NJ

Of the many legendary stories to have emerged from the American War of Independence, few are as poignant as that of John André. Born in London in 1750, he joined the British Army in 1770 and achieved the rank of Lieutenant at the age of 24 and Major at age 28. In 1779, he was appointed head of the British Intelligence Service and went to America to broker a deal with American General Benedict Arnold over the surrender of the key fort at West Point.

On the night of September 20, 1780, André met with the traitorous Arnold on the banks of the Hudson. Arnold provided André with a US passport and civilian clothes that allowed him to pass through American lines unprotected. His luck ran out just three days later, however, when he came upon three armed men and made the fatal mistake of assuming they were British sympathisers. They weren't, and André was promptly marched to the nearby American HQ like a schoolboy who knew he'd overstepped the mark once too many. His fate was already sealed.

André was held at the Old '76 House in Tappan (which was, and still is, a restaurant) while a hastily-arranged tribunal, headed by George Washington himself, investigated the matter. On September 29, André was convicted of spying and sentenced to death by hanging. On the morning of October 2, he was marched up what is now known as André Hill, slipped the noose around his own neck, said "I pray you to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man", and then met his fate like a brave man. He lay buried on that very spot until 1821, when the British government successfully petitioned to have his body exhumed and returned to England, where it now lies in esteemed company at Westminster Abbey.

André was a popular and much loved figure, renowned for his wit, artistic talent and good nature, and his death was greeted with sadness from all sides. Washington wrote that he was "an accomplished man and gallant officer" and claimed that he was "more unfortunate than criminal". Alexander Hamilton wrote that "never perhaps did any man suffer death with more justice, or deserve it less". American army doctor James Thatcher, was who was present at the execution and called it "a tragical scene", claimed that during his time in captivity André "exhibited those proud and elevated sensibilities which designate greatness and dignity of mind".

I tell this story not because it is one of the few historical examples of an Englishman conducting himself with any honour and dignity, but because his grave is less than 30 yards from where I'm staying in the unassuming suburb of Northvale, New Jersey.

Clearly a great number of people have been moved by André's plight, and I can't help but feel the same way too. I find myself wishing I'd been there on that fateful day of his capture, yelling "don't do it John, it's a trap!", but alas. It is the Fourth of July, I suppose, a day on which patriotic sentiments on all sides are magnified tenfold. I'm standing at André's memorial now, a circular lawn about five metres across, at the centre of which stands an impressive obelisk lined with flowers. The inscription reads:

Here died, October 2, 1780, MAJOR JOHN ANDRÉ of the British Army, who entering the American lines on a secret mission to Benedict Arnold for the surrender of West Point was taken prisoner, tried and condemned to death as a spy.

His death, though according to the stern code of war moved even his enemies to pity and both armies mourned the fate of one so young and brave. This stone was placed above the spot where he lay by a citizen of the states against which he fought, not to perpetuate the record of strife but in token of those better feelings which have since united two nations one in race, in language and religion with the earnest hope that this friendly union will never be broken.

You'll have to forgive me for finding this all rather profound. Suddenly it seems unsurprising to me that Americans go so over the top in celebration on their national day. After all, they have a lot to celebrate. As New Zealanders we are incredulous of their seemingly over-the-top fanfare and dismiss it as cringeworthy jingoism, which to a degree it is. But it is also a celebration of America's rich and fascinating history, upon which our friend André left a small but enduring legacy. It is no slight on New Zealand to say we don't have nearly as much history to celebrate, because we simply don't.

So what do New Zealanders do to celebrate their national day? Bugger all. Unless you happen to be in London, in which case you team up with your Aussie and Saffer mates and stagger blind drunk through the streets singing "Slice of Heaven" loudly and out of key. The fact that 12,000 inebriated backpackers urinating on the Houses of Parliament is the most spirited display of nationalism that we can muster speaks volumes about our impoverished history. When it comes down to it, we don't have all that much to get excited about. Not compared to the Yanks, anyway.

After a staunchly home-cooked American dinner of barbecued steaks and sausages, we sit out on the balcony and watch the neighbouring town's fireworks show. It's still raining though and our view is obscured by a tree, so we head inside and watch the Boston fireworks show on Wayne's high definition TV with surround sound instead. I'm sure that's what Washington, Jefferson, Hancock et al would have done if they were here. John André would be there too, sipping Pimms and rolling his eyes at America's enduring penchant for excess.

The fireworks show, with musical accompaniment from the Boston Pops Orchestra, goes on for over half an hour. Finally it comes to a head and dies down and the camera cuts to the host, looking wet, bedraggled and worringly post-orgasmic. He's surrounded by delirious revellers bearing the same telltale signs that some deviant sexual act has just taken place off screen.

"Well I don't know about you folks, but I think I just went to the bathroom a little!", says the host, implying a fetish that the folks at home really didn't need to know about. "The city of Boston spared no expense this year... but you're worth it America!". The channel then immediately cuts to the late night news. "And tonight, we've got all the highlights of tonight's Fourth of July fireworks show!".

And so we spend the next ten minutes watching the televised highlights of the show we just watched on television because it was too much effort to watch it outside. It's not until after the first ad break that we get the real news of the day: this year's Nathan's Fourth of July hot dog-eating competition was won, which was won for the second year running by that skinny white guy. This year he was forced into a playoff by that skinny Japanese guy after both men consumed 68 hot dogs during the allotted fifteen minutes of regulation time, with the skinny white guy (real name Joey Chestnut) prevailing in a sudden-death eat-off.

My mind still buzzing over John André's story, I ask Wayne sceptically if many Americans outside of the neighbourhood know anything about him.
"Oh yeah", he says, "we get people driving up the street all the time to have a look at his memorial. The 225th anniversary of his death in 2005 was a really big event. They did a full historical re-enactment and everything".
Well, why not eh? Everyone loves a dress-up party.

"We had some friends round for brunch", Wayne continues. "Then we went down into town to watch the whole re-enactment. It was great. They had real actors playing André, Washington, and the rest. Authentic 1770s garments, real muskets and everything. And they followed the whole story according to historical detail. Right up to the hanging and burial, anyways". A bit anti-climactic, but there you go.

"Yeah, it was a hell of a show. A few of the mock British soldiers stood around in the driveway before the hanging and had a chat. Real muskets and everything. Then when it was all over, everyone came back inside and we had lunch".

What a country.