The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  When the army had gathered to confront Burgoyne, Arnold had seen another opportunity, only to be swept aside by the abysmal Horatio Gates. Gates had done nothing to secure the victory at Saratoga, and every officer on the field knew that without Arnold, and men like Morgan and Lincoln, Gates would likely have ended up in a British prison. Instead he was the savior, the great hero, and made an obscene parade of himself to the congress, while Arnold nursed a leg wound so serious he could not walk for several months.

  Arnold finally received his promotion to major general only because Washington sliced through the blather in congress, convincing them to reward the man who had earned the rank. When the British abandoned Philadelphia, a crippled Arnold was assigned to command the city. But for long months, Arnold’s bitterness toward the congress festered, a growing hatred of the generals who seemed to have such talent for putting their names into the public eye. His passion for the cause began to fade, and Philadelphia became an opportunity of a different type. It was a place where the enterprising and the ingenious could profit, and Arnold took advantage. The grand social scene there had brought him alive again, and despite the hostility and the accusations of corruption, Arnold had found a comfortable home. But the congress was too close, and he began to feel the wrath of jealous men, men who envied the stature of the senior commander. He was charged with serious offenses of corruption, and congress ordered him to stand for court-martial. But the evidence was scant, the man too skilled at covering his tracks. In the end, he could only be convicted on charges so minor that a relieved Washington could eliminate the issue with a mild reprimand.

  Despite his notoriety, Arnold still attended the grand ballrooms, and he was astounded to attract the eye of the most sought-after beauty in Philadelphia. Peggy Shippen seemed to adhere herself to him, and the gossip that swirled around him only increased. She was half his age, but he fell in love, and when they were married, the gossip turned more toward her than her husband. He was completely dazzled by her, jealous of the attention that even her marriage had not discouraged. He knew she was spoiled, and he enjoyed it, allowed her every indulgence he could provide. When his own resources did not satisfy, he was amazed at her own resourcefulness, her ongoing relationships with those now in New York, the Tory civilians who had gone with the British, as well as the British officers themselves. Her needs continued to grow, and he continued to accommodate her. Their private hours were the most passionate he had ever known, and he would have done anything to keep her close to him. When she began to show sadness for the loss of British elegance, whispering to him in those soft moments, yearning for the grandeur she missed, he began to see a new path, a new means to take her out of the despair of this never-ending war. The more they spoke of it, the more bitterness he had for the cause of her unhappiness. There could be no peace in Philadelphia, no peace serving in an army that abused and punished its best commanders, while elevating men like Horatio Gates to such a lofty perch. His time in Philadelphia had given him a feel for business, a flair for delicate finance. As he began to explore a new world for her, new possibilities, he was grateful that she agreed, and within a short time, it was her discreet contacts, her means of reaching her acquaintances in New York that opened the door.

  He did not wrestle with a moral dilemma, did not hesitate to offer himself as currency. Peggy swept away any last doubts by observing that there could be no treason to a country that never truly existed. He anticipated that Henry Clinton would find him to be a valuable asset, worthy of significant reward by his service alone. But Clinton had disappointed him, seemed more interested in what Arnold could bring with him as a prize. It was suggested that Arnold lead a body of troops in some unwise mission, allowing himself to be cut off, forced to surrender. But there were no troops for him to lead, no looming fight that would offer him either the command or the opportunity. Instead, there would have to be a place, an outpost, a garrison, someplace Arnold could weaken with such discretion that his officers would not detect it. He could supply the plans, the details of weakness, of troop placement, all the tools the British could use for an easy conquest, a prize that Clinton would receive with grateful rewards. When Clinton agreed to his terms, it was a night of grand private celebration. Not only would she have the luxuries of New York, or perhaps even London, but he would have the means to pay for it all. As his wounds healed, and his plans hardened in his mind, he needed only to secure command of the most appropriate garrison. Washington had obliged him. All that was left was to furnish the British the advantages they would need to capture West Point.

  The three men had disappeared into the darkness, had been gone for better than three hours. He paced outside the house, tried to see his watch, had gone through the same routine every few minutes. The agony of time had finally passed, and he caught the reflection from the house, the low light of a lantern. It was nearly midnight. It was time.

  He climbed the horse, moved into the road. There was no moon, the black sky pierced with stars. He pushed the horse slowly, the hoofbeats drumming in his ears, muffled only by the thunder from his own heart.

  He rode for several minutes, could see the gap in the trees, the designated spot. He stopped the horse, listened for a long moment. The woods around him were a cascade of noise, the roar of so many small creatures filling his ears. His breathing came in hard short gasps, and he put a hand on the icy stone in his chest. He moved the horse carefully, the trees opening into a narrow patch of grass, and ahead, the wide patch of stars broken by the tall points of fir trees. He continued on, stopped, heard different sounds, a voice perhaps. He waited, heard it again, thought, Yes! A voice, surely. Now he heard a horse, muffled sound, coming toward him, and he waited, heard a low, hard whisper.

  “General?”

  “Here. Right here.”

  He could not see Smith’s face, the man only a dark shape, moving up close beside him, and Smith said in a low voice, “Done as you said, sir. He’s right back there, the edge of the tall firs. My men and me will wait out on the road. You come get us when you’re ready for him to go back.”

  Arnold was shivering, the sweat in his clothes chilling him. He nodded, tried to make a sound, his voice choked away by the nervousness, whispered, “Yes . . . yes, good.”

  Smith began to move away, and Arnold searched the darkness in front of him, the tops of the trees. Behind him, Smith said, “I hope he can give us some help. This country could use some good fortune.”

  Arnold stared ahead, said, “Indeed.”

  He walked the horse to the edge of the trees, stopped, dismounted. He waited a moment, took a step, said in a low voice, “Mr. Anderson?”

  He heard the steps, the man moving toward him. He saw the dark shape, a small man, shrouded in a long coat. The man moved close to him, said in a low voice, “I don’t believe we are detected, General. Hardly the time for disguises, eh? Allow me to offer my introduction, sir. I am Major John André.”

  They talked for four hours, negotiations and terms, details and tactics. When the talking stopped, Smith was summoned, but now there was a problem. It was after 4:00 a.m., and there was not sufficient time for the darkness to shroud André’s journey back to the Vulture. They rode instead to Smith’s house, to wait through a long day for the darkness to return. Arnold had gone out close to the river, could see the British ship in the distance, the safe haven for André. As the sun rose high, the air was suddenly streaked by bits of fire. The Vulture was a tempting target, and he realized that along the edge of that part of the river, there was at least one battery that could find the range. As he stared in desperate agony, the Vulture began to take damage. In barely an hour, the ship had moved to safety, disappearing far down the river, beyond the range of the guns that Arnold himself commanded. Now there was a new urgency. With the darkness would come a different task for the accommodating Mr. Smith. The man that Smith knew only as Anderson would have to reach the protection of British patrols overland, crossing a dangerous no-man’s-land patrolled only by bandi
ts, men Arnold knew as irregulars. André accepted his fate, rode out with Smith carrying a pass Arnold had provided him. He also carried documents from Arnold that were meant for the eyes of Henry Clinton. As Arnold rode back to his own headquarters, he fought through his fear, eased his mind by thoughts of Peggy, pictured her waiting for him at his headquarters. André would certainly make the journey, and he swept his fears away with a marvelous daydream. Yes, very soon, she will be on my arm, strolling through the galleries of the city. They will stand aside as we parade past them, admiring the beautiful Mrs. Arnold, holding proudly to the uniform of her husband, the celebrated British general . . .

  46. WASHINGTON

  SEPTEMBER 25, 1780

  He had not reached Arnold’s headquarters in time for the evening meal, had sent his sincere regrets, advising Arnold instead that he would arrive for breakfast. Along the way, Knox had joined him, the artillery commander on his own mission to inspect the batteries that spread along the Hudson. The fortifications had not been tended to in a long while, and Washington had considered the pleasant social evening at West Point to be a lower priority than accompanying Knox to examine his guns.

  The headquarters house was across the river from the fort itself and slightly downstream. It had been the home of Beverley Robinson, a prominent Tory who had escaped the wrath of his neighbors by fleeing to New York. Washington had not questioned the location, knew the house was well guarded by thick woods and tall, close hills. The house was a suitable mansion for such an important command, could accommodate a large staff as well as room for visitors.

  As he rode into Arnold’s yard, he knew they were late yet again, Lafayette and Hamilton chiding him gently to speed up the inspections. The young men were clearly looking forward to the breakfast as much as he was. Washington was surprised by the lack of activity, the yard empty. He had expected a grand reception from the man who had been so very grateful for this influential command. But there was no concern, his mind occupied by the view of the wide river, the long sweeping vista that reminded him so much of Mount Vernon.

  Hamilton had dismounted, and Washington still expected Arnold to emerge from the house. As Hamilton moved toward the entrance, Washington saw an officer appear, a small thin man, his hat in his hand. Hamilton spoke to the man, then both men moved across the yard toward him.

  “Sir, this is Major David Franks, aide to General Arnold. The general was called away. Some business across the river.”

  Franks moved closer now, seemed embarrassed.

  “My apologies, General. General Arnold received a note, and left immediately. He said he would be at the fort, and requested you be rowed across. I am truly sorry, sir.”

  Washington glanced toward the river, said, “No matter, Major. I should enjoy inspecting West Point as well.”

  He left the officers behind, sat in the stern of the wide boat. The fort was a looming hulk of stone, gripping the stark rocky face like some huge claw. He examined the gray walls, the gun ports that lined the rocks, felt a pride, the sense of power. They will never strike here, he thought. Not even Clinton would be so arrogant to think he can sweep through this place.

  The boat was pulled ashore, and Washington was surprised that no one was waiting for him. He saw the same surprise on the face of the sergeant, the man who commanded the oarsman.

  “My apologies, sir. They don’t seem to have been expecting you. I’ll fetch a guard.”

  The sergeant scrambled up the hill, and Washington heard shouts, a flurry of activity above him. He stepped out of the boat, climbed up over small round rocks, could see the guards, surprised men sliding quickly down the trail. He saw an officer now, recognized the man, John Lamb.

  “Sir! My deepest apologies, sir! We were not informed of your arrival.”

  He was growing weary of that word.

  “Apology not necessary. Colonel Lamb, did not General Arnold inform you I would be joining him here?”

  Lamb seemed confused by the question.

  “Um, no sir. I have not yet seen General Arnold, sir.”

  “He is not here?”

  “No, sir. I assure you, sir, I would be aware.”

  Now Washington was confused. He looked back across the quiet river, said, “Well, Colonel, since I am here, perhaps you will allow me to inspect your command.”

  “By all means, sir. I would be honored.”

  “Perhaps, in time, we will find what has become of General Arnold.”

  He had returned to the mansion to find Arnold still absent, his aide reporting only that the general’s boat had not returned. He expected nonetheless to pass the time by the pleasant company of the young Mrs. Arnold, but she had yet to emerge from her bedroom. Arnold’s aides could only offer the familiar apologies.

  He was shown to a small bedroom, a polite accommodation offered by Major Franks. As the aide escorted him into the room, Washington could not help a glance above him, seeking some telltale sign that Peggy Arnold was stirring in the upstairs bedroom. Franks caught the look, said, “General, my deepest regrets. Mrs. Arnold was not well this morning. I had hoped she would make her appearance by now, but I have learned that it is best not to disturb a woman in such a state.”

  “Quite so, Major. Think nothing of it. Once General Arnold returns, I’m sure we shall have a fine gathering.”

  Franks moved away, and Washington closed the door. He removed his coat, brushed his hand over his shirt, wiping at the dust of the long ride, the grime from the construction of the still-unfinished fort. He sat on the small bed, glanced around the small room. It was typical of so fine a home, a soft narrow bed, one tall window, a spray of sunlight that fell across a small chest of drawers. He noticed a fat china vase, bursting with flowers. It was a touch that Martha would have approved, and he said a silent thank-you for the attention to the small pleasant detail. He looked down at his dusty boots, thought of removing them, heard a small sound above him, a slight squeak from a bed. He listened for footsteps, but there was only silence, and he frowned, disappointed by whatever ailment had kept her upstairs.

  He had known Peggy’s family for many years, knew the girl as a young teen. He had always suspected she would marry well. Even as a youngster her charms were magnified by her lack of shyness. When he learned that Arnold had won her, he was surprised. He attributed her affections to the strange effects of war. He would never mention this, of course, assumed Arnold had endured enough discomforting talk at the hands of the society belles of Philadelphia.

  Peggy had seemed to be comfortable in any setting, especially in those social gatherings where the elite were certain to take notice. Washington found her behavior refreshing, this young confident girl who refused to play the expected role of the shy coquette. He had anticipated visiting with her as much as with Arnold himself, knew the young officers who accompanied him felt the same way. He cast his eyes toward the ceiling again, smiled, thought, Yes, it was always so. The young men are all in love with Peggy.

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and Washington said, “Do come in.”

  Hamilton was there, and Washington saw a bundle in his hand.

  “Sir, these just arrived. The courier has a message from a Lieutenant Colonel Jameson, sir.”

  “Yes, I know Colonel Jameson. He is in command of the outposts along the British frontier down the river.”

  “It seems the colonel was most insistent that these be delivered only to your hand, sir.”

  Washington took the letters, spread them on the bed. He saw a sketch, a crude drawing, held it up, could see now, it was the layout of West Point. He felt a stirring in his brain, looked at the other papers in turn, saw a letter from Jameson himself. He read for a moment, and his hands shook, a burst of cold spreading through him.

  “A man has been apprehended, name of Anderson, bearing these documents on his person. And, bearing this as well, a pass signed by General Arnold. Mr. Hamilton, summon Mr. Lafayette and Mr. Knox. Now.”

  Washington scanned the papers, coul
d see details of troop numbers and placements. There was one other note, written in a different hand, a flourish of lines and swirls, the hand of a man with a talent for writing. It was a lengthy request for leniency, a strange explanation of deeds not detailed. Washington scanned down, more of the same, wordy explanations why the man should not be considered a spy. And then, one line caught his eye:

  The person in your possession is Major John André, Adjutant General of the British Army.

  The hall was filled with motion now, and Washington saw Lafayette buttoning his shirt, looking curiously at the papers on the bed.

  “I was preparing for dinner, sir . . .”

  “Is there still no sign of General Arnold?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then it seems we have been betrayed.” He shouted, “Mr. Hamilton!”

  “Sir!”

  Ride quickly down the river, go to the King’s Ferry outpost. Determine if they have observed the passing of General Arnold’s boat. If not, make every effort to apprehend it.”

  “Apprehend . . . General Arnold, sir?”

  “Now, Mr. Hamilton!”

  His hands were shaking, and he scanned the papers again, saw a page with familiar words, realized they were his own, notes from a meeting with Arnold a few weeks before. He felt a swirling fever of anger, a hard black fist coiling up in his brain. He looked up at Lafayette, said in a low growl, “We must make every determination of the damage this has caused. But first, I should like to see Mrs. Arnold.”

  He knocked, heard nothing, had no time for manners. He pushed the door open, saw her curled up on the bed, holding tightly to her infant child. He had not expected to see the baby, had forgotten entirely that she had given birth. She looked at him with hard, wild eyes, and he said, “Mrs. Arnold . . . Peggy. Do you know where your husband has gone?”

  “He cannot protect me! He is gone!”

  She began to cry, heavy sobs, holding the baby close to her chest, the baby now crying as well. Washington felt suddenly helpless, and behind him, Arnold’s aide was there, said in a soft voice, “Mrs. Arnold, it is General Washington. He will protect you.”