by Logan Beirne
André’s execution was held at midday on October 2. Less than two weeks after he had disembarked from the Vulture with Smith that late summer night, he prepared himself for a swift death behind the old church in which he was convicted.49 Dressed in full crimson British uniform, he marched to his death, “the gland of his throat sinking and swelling as though he choked with emotion.”50 The American soldiers lining his path were “astonished at the dignity of his deportment.” As he passed along, “a glow of sympathy pervaded the breasts of the soldiers, and the tears of sensibility were present in every eye.”51 Like Washington, “they deemed him a victim of Arnold’s treachery.”52
When André climbed a small hill and spotted the gallows, he stopped cold. He had held out hope that he would instead be executed in a more honorable fashion: by gunshot. He asked, “What! Must I die in this manner?”53 He quickly regained his composure and, though visibly disgusted by the lowly means of his execution, bowed to the American officers as he stepped up onto his own black coffin.
When the clumsy hangman approached to place the noose around his neck, André vehemently swatted the man’s hands away, took the noose, unpinned his collar, and placed the rope around his own neck. Pacing back and forth on top of his coffin, the young man looked up at the pole and then took in “the whole scenery by which he was surrounded.”54 Through welling eyes, he peered over the heads of the crowd, out to where the leaves on the trees were inching towards the explosion of color that arrived each fall and sparrows busily braced their nests for the coming cold. This was the last sight he would ever see, for he then tied the blindfold over his own eyes and implored the crowd to bear witness to the world that he “died like a brave man!”55 With that, the commanding officer gave the signal and the cart bearing André’s coffin violently jerked out from underneath him. Due to the height of the gallows, André fell, his neck cracked, and he quickly perished. The crowd watched in morbid fascination as his body silently swung in the early autumn breeze.
After cutting his corpse down for burial, an American soldier found a poem in André’s breast pocket that he had written just days before, as he contemplated his own demise:Hail, sovereign love that first began
The scheme to rescue fallen man!
Hail, matchless free, eternal grace
That gave my soul a hiding place.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
A few more rolling suns at most
Will land me on fair Canaan’s coast;
Where I shall sing the song of grace,
And see my glorious Hiding Place.56
After his hanging, Congress demonstrated its approval of the seemingly unauthorized military commission by cheering Washington’s decision and the fact that “insidious designs of the enemy [had been] baffled, and the United States rescued from impending danger.”57 But while Americans were overjoyed that Arnold’s plot had been foiled and justice served upon one of the conspirators, they nevertheless mourned the young man. Hamilton captured the sentiment when he wrote, “never, perhaps, did any man suffer death with more justice or deserve it less.” John André “perished universally esteemed and lamented; indeed, a general sorrow at his fate pervaded all ranks of people through the continent of America.”58
Washington was among those who mourned André, writing, “When youth, adorned with such rare accomplishments, is consigned prematurely to the grave, all our sensibilities are roused, and for a moment human society seems to sustain a deprivation by the melancholy stroke.”59 The British Army’s sense of loss was coupled with rage, as “mingled sensations of horror, grief, sympathy, and revenge” ran throughout the forces.60 A wave of anguish swept from the United States across the Atlantic, where Anna Seward, André’s dear friend and the sister of his long-lost beloved Honora, powerfully captured the spirit:Remorseless Washington! The day shall come
Of deep repentance for this barbarous doom;
When injured André’s mem’ry shall inspire
A kindling army of reistless fire . . . .
Washington’s military commission had spoken. John André was dead. Benedict Arnold’s plot was unraveled. The revolutionary cause had survived to fight another day. And the commander had defined American military justice.61
The Military Academy at West Point exists today as a testament to America’s life-and-death struggle. What is now perhaps one of the safest place on earth was once the place where the future of the nation teetered in the balance. As far as Washington was concerned, the military post at West Point was the most important one in the United States during the Revolutionary War.62 In a tale of treachery and tragedy, the crucial fort was nearly sold out to the enemy, and the traitor escaped, but a military commission dispensed swift justice on a co-conspirator. Washington’s response to the crisis was ad hoc. It was merciless. It was condemned by many. Nevertheless, the patriotic security and serenity that now pervade the campus of the United States Military Academy stem directly from the actions of the gallant man depicted on a horse in front of the dining hall.
V
HIS EXCELLENCY’S LOYAL SUBJECTS
“The immediate objects are the total distruction and
devastation of their settlements and the capture of as many
prisoners of every age and sex as possible. . . . [L]ay waste
all the settlements around [so] that the country may not be
merely overrun but destroyed. I need not urge the necessity
of using every method in your power to gain intelligence
of the enemy’s strength motions and designs.”1
—GEORGE WASHINGTON, 1779
For over two centuries, a majestic bur oak has stood sentinel to a forgotten past. Much like the memories of the ground it marks, this old tree’s vitality has faded with time. The giant hangs on to life amidst the stumps of fallen kin, its gnarly gray bark regally hovering above a green panorama of rolling grass. The old oak’s leaves seem to let out a whisper as a May breeze interrupts the silence of the little park. So quiet and abandoned, this tree is a place where excitement comes to die.
It was not always this way. Quite to the contrary, the oak guards a secret history of incredible depravity and raging vengeance. Called the “Torture Tree,” this old giant marks the location where Native Americans brutalized American soldiers and Washington retaliated with “total destruction and devastation.”2
The Torture Tree’s history illustrates Washington’s ardent defense of his countrymen’s rights, even if it meant wreaking devastation on his enemies. The following chapters present the gory details.
26
Total Ruin
Washington demanded annihilation. Finally living up to his old Native American name, “Devourer of Villages,” he ordered the “total ruin” of the Native American settlements in northwest New York. This was not Washington’s first time dealing with the Seneca tribe that dominated the region. Ironically, these were the people of the late Half King Tanacharison—the ax-happy warrior who had ensnared Washington in the Jumonville debacle so many years earlier. The commander certainly displayed no affection for his former ally’s tribe. To the contrary, he ordered that their entire nation “not be merely overrun but destroyed.”1
Known as the Onöndowága’ or “great hill people,” the Seneca lived off their fields’ grain and forests’ game. As the primary keepers of the homes and farms, women played a prominent role in their society: they chose the tribe’s (male) chief. While the women looked after the home front, the men hunted, developed new settlements, traded, and made war. Unfortunately for these women, the Seneca men decided to make war against Washington.
Along with their Loyalist allies, the Seneca and five allied tribes launched attacks on American patriots throughout the region. The British, of course, were behind this plot. King George III promised the Native Americans their old lands in exchange for support against the American rebels. Eager to seize this opportunity, the six tribes ended their neutrality and began slaughtering patriots, taking their lives
tock, and burning their homes.
On a hot July day in 1778, the Native Americans and Loyalists moved south into a gorgeous valley in eastern Pennsylvania. Between two mountain ranges, the Wyoming Valley was kept lush by the Susquehanna River. Here, the American settlers, along with their cattle and farmlands, flourished on the river’s fresh waters. Isolated from the horrible war to the east, these patriots enjoyed bountiful harvests and nature’s tranquility. But their visitors would put a swift end to their happy existence.
When the Americans learned that their “paradise of beauty and fertility” had been invaded, they were quick to defend their homes: “the whole population flew to arms. Grandfathers and their aged sons, boys, and even women, seized such weapons as were at hand, and joined the soldiery.”2 This untrained mob advanced towards the trespassers, intent on repelling them. But the invaders had devised a deadly plan.
As the Native Americans lay unseen amid the riverbank’s tall marsh grasses, the Loyalists coaxed the Americans into a frontal assault. Seeing their traitorous countrymen before them, the irate patriots took the bait and charged. But suddenly, the Native Americans “sprang forward like wounded tigers” from the grass.3 With their darker skin, flowing black hair, and foreign clothing that displayed limbs toned and tanned by a lifetime of hunting, they appeared almost otherworldly to the terrified patriots. Providing “no quarter,” the tribes mowed down the patriots in close, gruesome combat.4 The bloody forty-five-minute clash was described in the following poem:Scarce had he utter’d—when Heaven’s virge extreme
Reverberates the bomb’s descending star,
And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,—and scream,—
To freeze the blood in once discordant jar
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail’d;
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;
While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevail’d:—
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail’d.5
By nightfall on that horrible day, the fighting had ceased and the patriots were utterly defeated. But while “[d]arkness put an end to the conflict,” it only “increased the horrors”: according to patriot sources, the American prisoners “were tortured and murdered. At midnight sixteen of them were arranged around a rock, and strongly held by the savages, when a half-breed woman, called Queen Esther, using a tomahawk and club alternately, murdered the whole band.”6
The victorious Native Americans and Loyalists then “spread over the plains, and with torch, tomahawk, and scalping-knife made it an absolute desolation. Scarcely a dwelling or an outbuilding was left unconsumed; not a field of corn was left standing; not a life was spared that the weapons of the savages could reach.”7 Tales of torture, barbarity, and even cannibalism quickly spread throughout the region.8 The area’s remaining patriots deserted their homes in a panic. One eyewitness wrote, “I never in my life saw such scenes of distress. The river and the roads leading down it were covered with men, women and children, flying for their lives . . . .”9 The Loyalists and Native Americans spread terror and murder, turning the whole region into a “dark and bloody ground.”10
This atrocity would not go unanswered. Washington saw the defense of his countrymen’s lives and liberty as so crucial that he diverted a quarter of his sorely needed troops to this frontier mission. And to lead this operation, he turned to his quarrelsome underling, Major General John Sullivan.
A vain and ambitious lawyer, Sullivan was not a popular man. The hardworking son of Irish immigrants, he had set up the only law practice in the rural town of Durham, New Hampshire, at the tender age of twenty-four. This did not make him friends, however. He soon became the town pariah on account of his penchant for suing his neighbors.11
The brash young man became embroiled in multiple foreclosure disputes, making a small fortune at the expense of the townsfolk. Needless to say, he was rather detested around this agrarian community. Fed up with this obnoxious attorney, his neighbors eventually sued him for “Oppressive Extortive Behavior.” But the crafty Sullivan defeated their lawsuits and even dared to countersue for libel. Despite suffering multiple mob attacks, he pressed on and won over thirty-five legal actions. And in doing so, he attained financial success while still in his twenties.12 But this was not enough. Beneath a black mane and a high brow, his dark eyes were fixated on personal advancement.
The never-satisfied Sullivan next sought power. He slowly rehabilitated his reputation in the region and managed to curry favor with the political elite of New Hampshire. On the eve of the Revolution, Sullivan renounced his support for the Crown and emerged as an ardent patriot. Harnessing New Hampshire’s patriotic fervor, he convinced the New Hampshire legislature to appoint him to the Continental Congress. There he sided with the radical Massachusetts representatives’ calls for liberty and made known his eagerness for armed resistance. For his ardent patriotism and militant background, he was awarded an officer’s commission in the new Continental Army. The young lawyer relished the fight.
Washington acknowledged that Sullivan was “active, spirited, and Zealously attach’d to the Cause,” but noted that his performance in leading troops was mixed.13 Sullivan’s dearth of military accomplishment would not temper his ambition, however. Ever the argumentative attorney, he quarreled with Washington and Congress over promotions. Notwithstanding his mediocre performance, he took great umbrage at the fact that he was not granted a higher rank. At one point, Washington became so exasperated with Sullivan’s “unjustifiable Suspicions” of being wronged that he told him, “No other officer of rank in the whole army has so often conceived himself neglected, slighted and ill-treated as you have done, and none I am sure has had less cause than yourself to entertain such ideas.”14 So when it came time for Washington to send one of his officers far out into the wilderness, he sent the pesky Sullivan.
Eager to prove himself and win a promotion, Sullivan led 5,000 men on Washington’s scorched-earth campaign against the tribes. Washington had ordered him, “you will not by any means, listen to any overture of peace before the total ruin of their settlements is effected.”15 Thus, the fighting Irishman began his march, beating back the tribes and destroying their villages throughout the summer of 1779. At first, Sullivan’s mission went swimmingly—he soon boasted to Washington that he had destroyed forty towns and burned their surrounding farmlands.16 But, as usual, Sullivan eventually ran into trouble. More precisely, he got lost.
Sullivan was seeking the Seneca capital, Genesee Castle. Located in a remote region in northwestern New York State, Genesee was a “beautifully situated” village of 128 homes, “mostly large and elegant.” It was “encircled with a clear flat, which extended for a number of miles, where the most extensive fields of corn waving, and every kind of vegetable that can be conceived.”17 Washington wanted this bountiful haven wiped off the map, but Sullivan had to find it first.
Arguing with his guides over Genesee Castle’s location, Sullivan dispatched a scouting party. They eventually found the capital, but it was six miles farther away than Sullivan’s team realized, resulting in a delay that the scouts could not afford. As the sun rose through the clouds on that raw September morning, they found themselves deep in hostile territory without the cover of darkness. Proceeding anxiously back towards Sullivan’s camp, the thirty American scouts were intercepted by a force of four hundred Native Americans and Loyalists. 18 The vastly outnumbered patriots fired valiantly from a grove of trees, but were quickly overwhelmed.
The two leading American scouts were taken prisoner, stripped naked, and tied to a hardy young oak.
In a vengeful rage, the Native Americans inflicted on them gruesome “malice & savage barbarity,” some of it “too shocking to relate.”19 According to multiple patriot accounts (which did tend to demonize the tribes), the captors were careful to keep the men alive “in order to heighten [their] misery & satisfy their revenge,” as they whipped them, tore off the
ir fingernails, stabbed them with spears, cut out their tongues, and plucked out their eyes.20 They then allegedly took special care to skin one man’s genitals, partially detach them, and leave them hanging from his body. After suffering “other tortures which decency will not permit . . . mention,” the captives finally found relief only in their beheadings.21 Sullivan’s troops arrived later that day to find pieces of their fellow patriots scattered around the “Torture Tree.”
Horrified and outraged, they razed Genesee Castle. Although the oak survived, little else did—the Americans burned down the whole village and all the surrounding farms they could find. Then they pressed on with their mission of annihilation, leaving a trail of “devastation, destruction, flames and death.”22 They searched the whole region for Native American settlements, tracing “[e]very creek and river,” to ensure that there was “not a single town left.”23 After his force had destroyed an estimated fifty towns, including 1,200 homes,24 Sullivan reported back to the Continental Army that he had completed Washington’s “extermination of the original lords of this vast empire.”25
Washington had effectively answered the Native American threat. This episode seemingly shows him as a ruthless commander who would do anything to win the war, but that was not the case. To the contrary, he highly valued individuals’ rights—as long as those individuals were American. The “Native American” peoples were not viewed as “American.” (Indeed, the term “Native American” would not be coined until centuries later.) Washington saw these tribes as a “cruel and bloodthirsty enemy” that brutally massacred American settlers and destroyed their property.26 And so Washington annihilated them.
