George Washington's Secret Six

by Brian Kilmeade

  THE PRIZE OF WEST POINT

  General Washington was riding toward West Point on the evening of Sunday, September 24. He had been visiting Hartford, Connecticut, and his schedule had changed slightly from his original plan to arrive on Saturday. Still, he imagined Arnold would be happy to see him, just as he was eager to see what improvements Arnold had put into effect at the fort, now that he had been in command nearly two months.

  Washington intended to arrive late that evening but found himself detained out of politeness with a friend, and decided to lodge at a nearby inn for the night and finish his journey in the morning. Very early the next day, Washington sent Alexander Hamilton ahead with the baggage for the last fifteen miles to announce their arrival to Arnold and suggest that Washington breakfast with him before touring the fort.

  To Washington’s surprise, when he arrived at West Point not long after Hamilton, Arnold was not waiting for him. Instead, as Washington would later recall:

  Soon after he [Hamilton] arrived at Arnold’s headquarters, a letter was delivered to Arnold which threw him into the greatest confusion. He told Colonel Hamilton that something required his immediate attendance at the garrison which was on the opposite side of the river to his quarters; and immediately ordered a horse, to take him to the river; and the barge which he kept to cross, to be ready; and desired Major Franks, his Aid, to inform me when I should arrive that he was gone over the river and would return immediately.

  It was a strange reception for his commander in chief, but Arnold was, admittedly, something of a strange man. Washington decided not to stand on ceremony, but simply went about his day as he would have had Arnold been present as planned. He had breakfast, then rode down to the river to view the fortifications of the garrison and anticipated, not unreasonably, that he would encounter Arnold in the process. When Arnold still failed to materialize, however, Washington began to ask the men standing guard where their commander was; none could tell him. Washington was puzzled. “The impropriety of his conduct when he knew I was to be there, struck me very forcibly, and my mind misgave me; but I had not the least idea of the real cause,” he remembered.

  After about two hours of inspecting the fort and inquiring after its officer in charge, Washington returned to Arnold’s headquarters, where Hamilton was waiting with a parcel that had just arrived. The courier seemed in great concern that General Washington review the contents of the package immediately, as he had been traveling hard many hours to find him, under the strict orders that he should “ride night and day” until he reached the general. Having headed straight for Connecticut using the same route Washington had taken to get there, the unfortunate courier did not realize that Washington had taken a different road back. Thus, the rider had been frantically chasing the general from New York to Connecticut and back again in order to deliver the papers he carried, freshly plucked from the boot of a man going by the name of John Anderson.

  Something was terribly, terribly wrong: First Arnold’s absence and now this? Washington felt his concern grow as he reached for the packet, which explained the whole matter. Alarmed, Washington ordered Hamilton to mount his horse and gallop to a post on the river about eight miles below, hoping he could stop Arnold’s barge. Hamilton pushed his horse to its limit, but he was too late. Benedict Arnold had escaped.

  ARNOLD’S ESCAPE

  When Alexander Hamilton had ridden up to the gates of West Point that morning, Arnold knew that General Washington would be following just an hour or two behind. He had been anticipating this visit for several days, though it is impossible to guess what Arnold’s feelings might have been now that the commander in chief was about to enter through the very gates Arnold planned to swing open to the enemy upon their approach. For all he knew, André had made it safely back to New York and the British had a small fleet of ships sailing up the Hudson and several regiments of soldiers marching through the New York forests even now to storm the fort. If everything had gone according to plan—and Arnold had no reason to think it had not—the entire course of the war might be changed by the end of the day.

  Arnold had little time to mull over his plan, because a lieutenant arrived very shortly after Hamilton, carrying a letter from Lieutenant Colonel Jameson explaining that a gentleman by the name of Anderson who was carrying passes issued by Arnold had been captured and had now been returned to confinement while some odd papers and plans found on him were sent to Washington via an express rider. It was all a wicked plan by the British, Jameson concluded, to besmirch Benedict Arnold’s good name and to cause division in the ranks by undermining the Continental Army’s confidence in him. He just felt Arnold should be made aware of the slanderous efforts being made against him by the enemy.

  The jig was up. Arnold’s worst fears had all been realized: The Americans were aware (or soon would be) of the depth of his treachery, but the British had yet to do anything to capture the fort and, without the plans, likely never would be able to do so. Thus, he was a traitor to one group, but hardly the hero he had anticipated becoming to the other. Now he would be nothing more than a failed turncoat—if he was even able to escape with his life, that is.

  Making hasty apologies to Hamilton and to his own aide, who were both waiting for Washington’s arrival and the tour to begin, Arnold dashed off toward the water full of empty promises to return promptly, just as soon as he sorted out some urgent matter across the river. He called for his bargemen to row him as swiftly as possible downstream toward where HMS Vulture had recently retreated, explaining to the confused men at the oars that they would receive two gallons of rum apiece if they did their job quickly, as he would need to turn around very shortly to meet General Washington for his much anticipated visit. They exerted themselves admirably. The barge reached the Vulture under a flag of truce, which kept them from being fired upon and allowed Arnold to board in safety. His loyal crew was also taken aboard, where Arnold promptly informed them that they were now prisoners of the British army.

  Peggy and baby Edward, meanwhile, were left behind at West Point—entrusted to what Arnold knew would be the merciful and benevolent judgment of General Washington.

  ANDRÉ’S FATE

  After being intercepted on his way to West Point, John André (whose true identity was not yet known by his captors) was taken to Salem, Connecticut, where Colonel Elisha Sheldon, commanding officer of Tallmadge’s own Second Light Dragoons, was headquartered. André seemed to have given Jameson little trouble, but upon being transferred to Sheldon’s supervision at Salem on September 24, Tallmadge noted that “it was manifest that his agitation and anxiety increased.”

  Later that afternoon, André made a simple request of his guards: “May I be furnished with pen, ink, and paper?”

  The request was approved, and André seated himself at a table to compose an honest, forthright, and gentlemanly note to General Washington that confirmed Tallmadge’s suspicions and greatest fears. “In this letter,” Tallmadge recalled, “he disclosed his Character to be Major John André, Adjutant Genl. to the British Army. When I had perused the letter, which he handed to me to read, my agitation was extreme, and my emotions wholly indescribable.”

  Though he had no reason to imagine that Arnold would ever turn traitor, Tallmadge had never counted himself among his fans, either. “With Arnold’s character I became acquainted while I was a member of Yale College and he residing in New Haven, and I well remember that I was impressed with the belief that he was not a man of integrity,” he would later pen. “The revolutionary war was coming on soon after I left college, and Arnold engaged in it with so much zeal . . . we all seemed, as if by common consent, to forget his knavish tricks.”

  Arnold’s backhanded, cowardly character contrasted sharply with that of his coconspirator, André, who comported himself with dignity by all accounts, and treated his captors with respect and even friendliness. Tallmadge could not have helped seeing something of himself reflected back in the person
of André. They were both young men—twenty-six and thirty, respectively—entrusted with similar roles of secrecy and responsibility by their countries. Both men had risen to their ranks through hard work, keen intelligence, and personal affability rather than simply through purchasing a commission, as was often the case. They were popular, likable young officers with promising careers ahead of them, and both had gallant manners and a sense of honor that would otherwise seem incongruous with the low opinion of spies in their day.

  But this was wartime, and there must be winners and losers. André had been caught and captured at the same game that Tallmadge was playing; they both knew the rules, the rewards, the risks—and they both knew the penalties.

  On October 25, Washington wrote to Jameson regarding the treatment of the high-profile prisoner, noting, “I would not wish Mr. André to be treated with insult; but he . . . is to be most closely and narrowly watched.” Then, following his sign-off, Washington added one line as if he were unsure that the seriousness of his message had truly been understood and he wished to underscore this imperative: “André must not escape.” Two days later he wrote to Major General Nathanael Greene a similar caution, stating, “I would wish the room for Mr. André to be a decent one, and that he may be treated with civility; but that he may be so guarded as to preclude a possibility of his escaping, which he will certainly attempt to effect, if it shall seem practicable in the most distant degree.”

  In the tense days that followed, a prisoner exchange was proposed, as was often the case when high-ranking officers were captured. Washington was agreeable only if the prisoner surrendered was Arnold; Clinton would not agree to these terms, so Washington proceeded as he would with any common spy (though, admittedly, perhaps with a little more ceremony given the particular nature of this case). There is every indication that he regretted what came next, but he also knew that it was necessary to demonstrate to the British that his military was to be taken seriously and was operating within its rights as an independent entity not subject to the wishes of the king or his subordinates.

  Washington granted André a trial, in which several of the top officers among the Continental Army and its allies were speedily assembled to hear arguments. André maintained that because he had been trapped behind enemy lines and was captured there, he was technically not a spy scouting the territory in the uniform of his service but was, instead, a prisoner of war. All such prisoners, he reasoned, can be expected to at least consider making an escape dressed in civilian clothes. The plea failed to persuade the tribunal, but no one (including André, presumably) had expected it would. He was sentenced to death by hanging on September 29.

  That same day, André penned a letter to General Clinton, absolving his commander of any guilt he might feel for the mission on which he had sent André. The circumstances had simply been unfortunate and had not gone according to their carefully laid-out plan:

  Under these Circumstances I have obtained General Washington’s permission to send you this Letter, the object of which is to remove from your Breast any Suspicion that I could imagine that I was bound by your Excellencys Orders to expose myself to what has happened. The Events of coming within an Enemys posts and of Changing my dress which led me to my present Situation were contrary to my own Intentions as they were to your Orders; and the circuitous route which I took to return was imposed (perhaps unavoidably) without alternative upon me.

  I am perfectly and tranquil in mind and prepared for any Fate to which an honest Zeal for my Kings Service may have devoted me.

  In addressing myself to your Excellency on this Occasion, the force of all my Obligations to you and of the Attachment and Gratitude I bear you, recurrs to me. With all the Warmth of my heart I give you thanks for your Excellencys profuse kindness to me, and I send you the most earnest Wishes for your Welfare which a faithfull affectionate and respectfull Attendant can frame.

  I have a Mother and Three Sisters. . . . It is needless to be more explicit on this Subject; I am persuaded of your Excellencys Goodness. I receive the greatest Attention from his Excellency General Washington and from every person under whose charge I happened to be placed. I have the honor to be with the most respectfull Attachment,

  Your Excellencys Most obedient

  and most humble Servant,

  John André Adj Gen

  The sentence was to be carried out on October 2, just over a week after André’s capture. By all accounts, he comported himself with dignity and propriety, stoically recognizing his sad fate as simply one of the unfortunate perils of war. On only one count did he offer up any resistance: manner of execution. André requested to die by firing squad, as the English considered this the proper form by which to carry out execution orders for a high-ranking officer. His request—perhaps in remembrance of Nathan Hale’s own unceremonious death—was denied. André was hanged on the appointed day in Tappan, New York, and his body buried under the gallows, where it remained for more than forty years, until it was disinterred and returned to England to be buried with military honors at Westminster Abbey.

  BACK IN MANHATTAN

  News of Arnold’s betrayal, as well as André’s capture and execution, sent shock waves through all of the colonies, but nowhere was the impact more keenly felt than in New York City. Even Robert Townsend found himself deeply moved by the death of one of the very men on whom he had spied. “I never felt more sensibly for the death of a person whom I knew only by sight, and had heard converse, than I did for Major André,” Townsend wrote to Tallmadge about two weeks after the event. “He was a most amiable character. General Clinton was inconsolable for some days; and the army in general and inhabitants were much exasperated, and think that George Washington must have been destitute of feeling, or he would have saved him. I believe General Washington felt sincerely for him, and would have saved him if it could have been done with propriety.” Even Washington himself later reflected that André was “more unfortunate than criminal.”

  No one had any such praise for Arnold. In his same letter to Tallmadge, Townsend expressed his opinion of the turncoat, probably based on reports of the man’s character provided by Agent 355: “I was not much surprised at his [Arnold’s] conduct, for it was no more than I expected of him.”

  Now safely tucked away on a ship in New York, Benedict Arnold was enjoying the luxuries of high living, including the knowledge that his wife and infant son were safe from retribution. He had written to Washington asking if he would guarantee their secure passage to him, and Washington had agreed, not believing it proper to visit the sins of the father upon the head of the child. With Arnold’s true loyalties now exposed and his body, mind, and energies openly aligned with the British, he could pose no further threat to American forts or forces under his command.

  But Arnold was not finished sowing chaos for the Culper Ring. As Tallmadge had feared, his capture spelled danger for the secret six.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Ring in Peril

  Although Arnold was exposed, the plot to surrender West Point was shattered, and André was dead, the danger to the Culper Ring was still very much alive. “I am happy to think that Arnold does not know my name. However, no person has been taken up on his information,” Townsend noted in a letter to Tallmadge. Clearly, Townsend was anticipating what all of the covert operatives must have been dreading—that Arnold would disclose the identities of any spies known to him in order to keep himself in the good graces of the British.

  This fear was not paranoia; something similar was certainly happening on the American side, where many of Arnold’s comrades and confidants, including the shady Joshua Hett Smith, were being arrested and interrogated to learn who may have been in cahoots with the general and who had merely been manipulated unwittingly. The links of the Culper chain and every independent spy in New York—perhaps in the whole of the colonies—were all on edge, well aware that they would be the target of Arnold’s wrath if he had any indication of thei
r identities, and that he was likely to seek revenge on anyone he—or the British—suspected might have had knowledge of any part of the failed plot.

  Tallmadge was keenly aware of their concern, and wrote to Washington on October 11:

  The conduct of Arnold, since his arrival at N.Y. has been such, that though he knows not a single link in the chain of my correspondence, still those who have assisted us in this way, are at present too apprehensive of Danger to give their immediate usual intelligence. I hope as the tumult subsides matters will go on in their old channels.

  Culper, Junr. has requested an interview with me on Long Island on the 13th inst[ant], but in the present situation of affairs I believe it would be rather imprudent.

  Washington understood the perilous state of all the members of the Culper Ring, and judged Tallmadge’s avoidance of a covert visit to Long Island at this particular point in time as quite wise. “I think you were right in declining an interview at this time, as the enemy would act with more than common rigor just now should an officer be taken under circumstances the least suspicious,” he wrote back, though he added, “I should be exceedingly glad to hear from C. Junior.”

  On October 15, Washington wrote to the president of the Continental Congress (at that time, Samuel Huntington of Connecticut), informing him of several matters and noting with regard to Culper Junior: “Unluckily, the person in whom I have the greatest confidence is afraid to take any measures for communicating with me just at this time, as he is apprehensive that Arnold may possibly have some knowledge of the connection, and may have him watched. But as he is assured, that Arnold has not the most distant hint of him, I expect soon to hear from him as usual.”

  Townsend’s return to spying was not as swift as Washington seems to have hoped, however. Woodhull sent a letter dated October 26, in which he explained: “I have this day returned from New York, and am sorry to informe you that the present commotions and watchfullness of the Enemy at New York hath resolved C. Jur. for the present time to quit writing and retire into the country for a time.—Most certainly the enemy are very severe, and the spirits of our friends very low.” In an interesting show of steeling his nerves, despite his earlier anxieties—perhaps because he recognized how much safer he was in comparison to the spies who had worked closely with the British officers in New York—Woodhull volunteered his services while Townsend was on hiatus. A few weeks later, he wrote again, “Depend my endeavours shall continue, as I hope never to lose sight of our cause, truly sensible our all is at stake.”