by Stephen Case
In his theater work, André was known as a better backdrop painter than actor. His performance here did not move the militiamen. The three young men searched him, taking what little cash he had borrowed from Smith, as well as his gold watch and a silver one, too. In the stocking of one of his boots, they found the papers. Paulding was the only one of the three who could read, and he quickly realized that the information was of vital importance.
There are two versions of what happened next. If André is to be believed, he offered the militiamen at least five hundred pounds (more than eighty-five thousand dollars in today’s currency) for his freedom, and suggested that one of them could take a letter from André to the nearest British outpost and come back with the ransom. André said the three men considered the offer but decided that if the British got such a letter, they would return in force, rescue André, and take them prisoner. If the militiamen are to be believed, they were determined to do their duty. “No by God!” Paulding said he told André. “If you would give me ten thousand guineas, you should not stir a step!”394 In either case, André remained a prisoner.
The captors—Paulding, David Williams, and Isaac Van Wart—would later be held up as heroes of the revolution, honored at a dinner with General Washington, awarded farmland by the state of New York, and given a congressional award of two hundred dollars apiece every year for the rest of their lives. As time passed, however, some historians questioned whether the three were merely Skinners, rebel-leaning highwaymen in search of victims and loot. According to rebel spy chief Benjamin Tallmadge, who came to admire André, the three captors’ “object was to rob him.” But, in fact, they may well have saved their country.
As they led André on horseback to the headquarters of dragoons at North Castle, Williams struck up a conversation with the officer. Williams said André told him: “I would to God you had blown my brains out when you stopped me.”
All was not lost just yet for André, however.395 To his captors, he was a suspicious traveler named John Anderson. None yet knew he was one of the most important British officers in America. The men delivered him to a lieutenant colonel named John Jameson, an officer under Arnold’s command who was a bit confounded with how to react to the facts at his disposal. He knew Arnold had ordered that if a man named John Anderson came through the lines he was to be sent to the general’s headquarters at Robinson House. But this man was going through the lines in the other direction—toward New York City. And those papers found in his stocking had highly sensitive information. And the handwriting on the papers was the same as on Arnold’s pass.
It seems obvious today that Jameson should have turned over everything to Washington, but that would have been insubordination against Arnold and could have meant serious trouble for Jameson. So he hedged his bets: He sent the papers to Washington, but he dispatched André under guard to Arnold’s headquarters along with a letter of explanation. “I have sent Lieutenant Allen with a certain John Anderson taken going into New York,” Jameson wrote Arnold. “He had a pass signed with your name. He had a parcel of papers taken from under his stockings, which I think of a very dangerous tendency. The papers I have sent to General Washington.”396
If André could get to Robinson House, he and the Arnolds might be able to escape to the British lines. This seemed to be André’s only chance. But about an hour after André left for Robinson House, Tallmadge arrived at North Castle and discovered what Jameson had done. Instantly suspicious of Arnold, the rebel spymaster persuaded Jameson to countermand his order and prevent the prisoner’s delivery to Arnold’s headquarters. Jameson sent soldiers to catch up with André and his captors. “By some circumstances I have just heard,” Jameson wrote, “I have reason to fear that a party of the enemy are above; and as I would not have Anderson retaken or get away, I desire that you would proceed to lower Salem with him and deliver him to Captain Hoogland.”397 But for some reason—perhaps an attempt to stay in Arnold’s good graces—Jameson hedged his bets again: “You may proceed on to West Point and deliver the letter to General Arnold,” he wrote to Lieutenant Allen. “You may also show him this, that he may know the reason why the prisoner is not sent on.”
Thus a most consequential prisoner was sent to South Salem while documents “of a very dangerous tendency” were sent to Washington. Yet the general associated with all this perilous conduct was to get fair warning anyway.
By the time André arrived in South Salem on Sunday morning, September 24, he was described by the duty officer as a “reduced gentleman.” Still identified as a civilian named Anderson, he decided that his only remaining chance at deliverance—and a long one at that—was to own up to his scheme and argue for its legitimacy under the rules of war. André asked for a pen and paper, and composed a letter to Washington. It was an exceptional piece of writing for André because, like his initial statements to the three militiamen who met him on the road to White Plains, it was wildly disorganized and inconsistent. Writing what may have been the most important letter of his life, André was incapable of settling on a tone and maintaining it.
First he admitted lying about who he was. “I am too little accustomed to duplicity to have succeeded,” he wrote.398 Then he insisted he was not trying to save his skin but only to rescue his honor, to “vindicate my fame” by demonstrating that he had not adopted “a mean character for treacherous purposes or self-interest.” Finally, he delivered the big news: “The person in your possession is Major John André, adjutant general to the British army.”
Suddenly turning lawyerly, he explained that he had meant to stay on neutral ground but was misled by Arnold into entering rebel territory. At that point, he said, he considered himself a prisoner who was justified in shedding his uniform and adopting a disguise so he could escape. “I was involuntarily an impostor,” he asserted. He did not explicitly ask Washington for his freedom, but only pleaded to be “branded with nothing dishonorable”—to avoid the label of spy. But after throwing himself on Washington’s mercy, he then threw down a clumsy threat. Citing the thousands of Continental troops captured at Charleston, André wrote: “Though their situation is not similar, they are objects who may be set in exchange for me, or are persons whom the treatment I receive might affect.”
André’s suggestion—that the Charleston captives might be harmed if he were—was unlikely to play well with Washington. The American commander had survived backbiting and threats from people who were supposedly on his own side. He was unlikely to flinch at such a cheap attempt at intimidation from an enemy, especially one who was in his army’s custody. The only noble aspect of André’s letter was its careful avoidance of any reference either to Peggy or to Smith, a position that would remain firm in the days André had left.
The courier who was sent to deliver the suspicious papers to the traveling Washington missed him on the road. He brought the papers to South Salem, where André’s letter was added to the packet and then set off anew for Robinson House, where the commander in chief was headed.
On Sunday, Peggy and her husband made preparations for Washington’s arrival the next morning. Were they planning to help the British seize Washington at Robinson House, or did they simply intend to play host to the commander in chief and then usher him out of the area to make way for a British attack?
Franks had returned, and Varick was being attentively nursed by Peggy. As Varick later recalled, “That amiable lady . . . spent an hour at my bedside while I lay in a high fever, made tea for me, and paid me the utmost attention to my illness.”399 Such kindnesses, whether calculated or instinctive, would pay tremendous dividends in the hours to come, when the friendships Peggy had made were crucial to her fate.
The Arnolds retired Sunday night, unaware that two couriers were headed separately toward them in a race that neither knew about. Lieutenant Allen carried the letters to Arnold about John Anderson’s capture; the other courier intended to give Washington the incriminating papers written in Arno
ld’s hand, plus the confession penned by André.
A cool and fair Monday dawned in the Hudson Highlands.400 Arnold visited his office, which doubled as Varick’s bedroom. His aide was still sick in bed. Arnold asked him whether he had answered routine correspondence from Jameson and Tallmadge. When Varick said he had not and could not, Arnold said he would write to Tallmadge himself.
Washington meanwhile began his day fifteen miles northeast of Robinson House, where he was expected by breakfast. Washington took his time inspecting defensive positions along the Hudson. Washington’s young French aide, the Marquis de Lafayette, was apparently far more eager to inspect Peggy. According to early-nineteenth-century histories, the general said: “Ah, Marquis, you young men are all in love with Mrs. Arnold. I see you are eager to be with her as soon as possible. Go and breakfast with her, and tell her not to wait for me.”401 Lafayette, perhaps embarrassed by Washington’s teasing, remained in the general’s traveling party. Two other Washington aides went ahead to Robinson House instead, and breakfasted with Arnold while Peggy remained upstairs.
During this meal the first of the two competing couriers arrived. Lieutenant Allen, who had started out with André nearly two full days earlier before giving him up in South Salem, now delivered the explosive correspondence to Arnold. The general read Jameson’s words, and instructed the courier not to talk about the capture of John Anderson with anyone else. Then he went upstairs to see his wife.
Their brief conversation must have been whispered, and desperate. There was no doubt that their plot was about to be exposed to all, and that Washington would act quickly when he saw the documents. Arnold must have wondered whether Washington had seen them already, though his advance party hadn’t let on over breakfast.
About two minutes after Arnold went upstairs, Washington’s servant rode up to Robinson House. Quite likely the servant was a slave named Billy Lee, who was described by Washington as “my mulatto man” and who was so close to the general that he was included in paintings of him.402 The servant informed David Franks that the commander in chief would soon arrive. “I went immediately upstairs and informed Arnold of it,” Franks recalled. “He came down in great confusion, and, ordering a horse to be saddled, mounted him and told me to inform his Excellency that he was gone over to West Point, and would return in about an hour.”403 Arnold, of course, was not going to West Point, and he would not return to Robinson House in an hour—or ever. Another aide said Arnold displayed “an embarrassment and agitation so unusual that I knew not to what to attribute it.”404 He rode his horse to the riverside, unsaddled the bay, and hauled his saddle and two holstered pistols onto his barge.
His crew of nine were surprised when Arnold ordered them to row downriver rather than the two miles up to West Point. He told them he had a quick errand at Stony Point and then would hurry back to meet General Washington. If they rowed quickly, Arnold said, they would earn two gallons of rum.
But when they got to Stony Point, Arnold had a different destination. He explained that he was on a mission at Washington’s behest to visit the British sloop Vulture, and the rowers pushed the boat forward. As they approached the ship, Arnold stuck a white handkerchief onto the end of his sword. The crew of the Vulture took Arnold aboard—a scene in which, as Thomas Paine later put it, “one vulture was receiving another.”405 Beverley Robinson was on deck to meet the new defector, and the first question he asked was about André. The news, of course, was bad.
Arnold then announced to his bargemen that he was shifting his allegiance to the enemy and would raise a Loyalist brigade. He urged them to change sides with him, and he promised a special position for the coxswain, the man who directed the crew and steered the barge. All nine declined. “One coat is enough for me to wear at a time,” said the coxswain.406 Arnold arranged for them to be taken prisoner instead. Nine captives instead of three thousand—an ignominious result for Arnold.
And an excruciating predicament for his wife back at Robinson House. For Peggy, it would be a torture, and a test.
CHAPTER 14
The Mad Scene
The worst morning of Peggy’s life, the morning of irretrievable disaster, was spent with her six-month-old son in a quiet bedroom upstairs as bizarre events unfolded outside.407 She had just sent members of the staff to fetch some peaches for her when Arnold came upstairs to share the disturbing news: Their plot had been discovered.408 They discussed their future in a desperate two minutes before he fled, leaving her to wonder whether she would ever see him again.
Washington, arriving at Robinson House soon after, was told that Arnold had gone to West Point and that Peggy would remain upstairs for a time. The commander in chief was familiar with the house, having dined there as Beverley Robinson’s guest in the past and having used the home as a temporary headquarters. He and his staff enjoyed an unhurried breakfast, oblivious to the treachery around them but likely disappointed by the lack of Peggy’s company.
The much-admired hostess was in no condition to entertain gentlemen with small talk. She remained quietly upstairs with her baby boy, keeping her anguish to herself and biding her time while her husband made his escape.
After eating, Washington and his staff set off to visit Arnold at West Point. It was customary for the commander of the army to receive a cannon salute when he visited a fort. But at West Point there was no such greeting. There also was no Arnold. Nor were there completed earthworks. Nor improved barracks. Nor careful deployment of the troops, as would be expected if an enemy attack seemed possible at any time. In fact, the soldiers at West Point seemed surprised to see Washington, and the condition of the forts was a travesty. Washington’s two-hour tour began with surprise, descended into alarm, and ended in outrage. “The impropriety of his conduct, when he knew I was to be there, struck me very forcibly,” Washington recalled. “But I had not the least idea of the real cause.”409
Peggy Shippen, traitorous American and trusted mother. This drawing is based on a painting by Thomas Lawrence circa 1783. The child is Peggy’s firstborn, Edward, whom she clutched as she raved madly after the conspiracy unraveled. National Archives 111-SC-092575
Across the Hudson, anxiety was spiking as well. Arnold’s sudden departure from Robinson House—and his instructions to the courier not to discuss what he had brought—fanned a flurry of rumors. David Franks soon heard whispers about a spy named John Anderson being captured, and he roused Varick from bed to share the news. Franks was convinced that Arnold was involved in espionage, and they speculated on whether he had fled to the enemy or gone off to kill himself. But then they decided they had reached a rash and unfair conclusion, that they did not have enough evidence to besmirch the honor of a war hero. They resolved to withhold judgment.
A few minutes later the strange atmosphere grew even more peculiar as an event that became known as the Mad Scene unfolded at Robinson House. In an era when men used the term “hysteria” to marginalize women and when women displayed various forms of “hysteria” in desperate bids for empowerment, Peggy reacted to amazing events in an astonishing way. She suddenly, inexplicably, and loudly behaved as if she had lost her mind.
Many of the details of Peggy’s behavior that day come from a letter that Varick wrote to his sister Jane soon afterward. At the top of the letter Varick advised, “Read this to yourself,” indicating that the contents were not suitable for polite company. At one point he wrote, “I must stop this detail until I see you,” suggesting that there was even stranger behavior that he chose not to commit to paper, and that history will never know.
Peggy’s hysteria began while Washington was at West Point and Varick was still in his sickbed. Peggy asked the housekeeper to see how Varick was feeling, and “no sooner had the housekeeper turned her back” than Peggy ran after her, shouting in a bizarre fashion.410 Varick heard shrieks and got up from his bed. He said he found Peggy in great distress, “with her hair disheveled and flowing around
her neck; her morning gown with few other clothes remained on her, too few to be seen even by a gentleman of the family, much less by many strangers.”
With Varick’s high fever, the scene must have seemed like a hallucination to him. He described no more about her attire, or the lack thereof, leaving questions about whether this beautiful woman was baring herself to twist the minds of the men in her company.
She took his hand, gave him a “wild look,” and asked, “Colonel Varick, have you ordered my child to be killed?” Falling to her knees and praying at his feet, she begged him to spare the child. He tried to get her to stand up, but she refused. David Franks ran in with West Point’s physician, Dr. William Eustis. Together they carried her to her bed “raving mad” and in “utter frenzy,” as Varick put it.
Varick stayed with her and tried to calm her down. She told him she had no friends left at Robinson House. He assured her that he and Franks were her friends, and that Arnold would soon be back from West Point with Washington. “No, General Arnold will never return. He is gone,” she replied, pointing to the ceiling. “He is gone forever—there, there, there, the spirits have carried him up there. They have put hot irons in his head.” She told him that the hot irons were bedeviling her too, and that only General Washington could take them away.
Varick and Franks must have felt as if they had hot irons in their own heads as well. Even before Peggy’s hysterics, they had been afraid that Arnold was involved in some evil conspiracy. Now they could hardly think otherwise. They had to alert Washington that something terrible was happening with Arnold. But what?
As it turned out, there was no need. When Washington returned to Robinson House, he finally received the incriminating documents—the top-secret information about West Point in Arnold’s handwriting and the confession from André. Washington dispatched Alexander Hamilton and another aide on horseback in a futile attempt to catch Arnold, who had a headstart of a few hours. Then he ushered Lafayette into a private room. “Arnold has betrayed us,” Washington said quietly. “Whom can we trust now?”411 Showing the papers to Lafayette, he surrendered to “an ungovernable burst of feeling, fell on his friend’s neck and sobbed aloud,” according to an account by politician and writer Robert Dale Owen after interviewing Lafayette many years later.412 Lafayette recalled: “I believe this was the only occasion throughout that long and sometimes hopeless struggle that Washington ever gave way, even for a moment, under a reverse of fortune; and perhaps I was the only human being who ever witnessed in him an exhibition of feeling so foreign to his temperament.” Washington soon recaptured control of his emotions. When he returned to his staff, Lafayette recalled, “not a trace remained on his countenance either of grief or despondency.”
