by Ron Carter
“Gentlemen, could I know your names?”
The huge man, stooping beneath the ceiling of the canvas tent, answered.
“John Paulding.” He gestured to the men on either side of him. “This is David Williams and Isaac Van Wart. We was on picket duty when this man come down the road. These other men came later and joined us to bring in this man. Says his name is Anderson. He had some papers.”
Jameson turned to André. “Is that your name, sir?”
“Yes. John Anderson.”
“I understand you were carrying papers?”
“Yes. They have them.”
Paulding handed the pass and the three documents to Jameson, who eased back in his chair, intent on reading the pass, then examining the three documents. For a time the tent was silent while the men waited on Jameson. He finally stood with the papers in his hand.
“Gentlemen, there are some matters I will have to handle for a few minutes. I trust you will remain here until I return.”
He walked out of the tent to his own quarters to sort out what the combination of documents told him. He realized the handwriting on the pass was identical to that on the maps and the chart. If Arnold had written the pass, he had also created the other three documents. He remembered that General Arnold had notified him that should a John Anderson appear from the British lines, he was to be sent on to Arnold’s command post at Fort West Point immediately. That was not the problem. The problem was that this man claiming to be John Anderson had been arrested moving the wrong direction. Further, the information on the maps and the chart would be helpful to one side only, and that was the British, not the Americans.
For the first time in the mind of any responsible American officer, the monstrous thought took root that General Benedict Arnold might be a traitor.
Jameson paced the floor for a few moments, then walked back to the tent where the others waited.
“Mr. Anderson, I am going to enter an order that you are to be returned to General Arnold.”
André exulted inside, but from all appearances passed it off casually, as though there were no other choice. Jameson sat down at the table and carefully drafted his letter to Benedict Arnold.
“I have sent Lieutenant Allen with a certain John Anderson taken going into New York. He had a passport signed in your name. He had a parcel of papers taken from under his stockings, which I think to be of a very dangerous tendency. The papers I have sent to General Washington.”
He finished the brief letter, signed it, and handed it to Lieutenant Solomon Allen.
“You will take this letter to General Benedict Arnold at once. The prisoner is to be delivered to South Salem where it is safer than here, and held pending further orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
With soldiers on all sides of André, Lieutenant Allen mounted his horse and led his squad northward toward South Salem, further inland from the river, where André was to be held prisoner under Lieutenant Joshua King. Then Allen took an enlisted man with him and rode on to Benedict Arnold’s headquarters on the bluff overlooking the Hudson River to deliver Colonel Jameson’s letter.
Colonel Jameson waited until the men were safely out of sight before he drafted a second letter, addressed to General Washington.
“ . . . and enclosed herewith are three documents discovered in the stocking of the man claiming to be John Anderson. I forward them to you only to be certain you are apprised of the facts so as to make an informed judgment on the question of whether or not General Benedict Arnold might be implicated in . . .”
Five minutes later a messenger was galloping north to find General Washington, who was at that moment on the Danbury road, traveling from Hartford to the Hudson.
The question quickly became, which letter would be delivered first? The one to Benedict Arnold, or the one to General Washington?
As the two messengers galloped in divergent directions, Benedict Arnold was taking his place at the breakfast table in his headquarters building on the east bank of the Hudson. With him were two officers, Major Samuel Shaw and Major James McHenry, who had just arrived bearing greetings and a message from General Washington. The General sent his compliments and wished to inform Arnold and his lady that General Washington and his party would arrive shortly. Peggy was as yet upstairs, preparing for the visit from their commander.
Arnold stood.
“You will excuse me for a moment. I must see to it breakfast is ready for the General when he arrives. I will be but a moment.”
He walked from the table through the kitchen into the buttery, and was startled when an exhausted and dusty Lieutenant Allen, together with an equally road-weary enlisted man, were shown in. They came to attention.
“Sir,” Allen exclaimed, “we were ordered to deliver this letter from Colonel Jameson to you with all haste.”
Arnold accepted the document and broke the seal while he studied the two messengers, surprised and chagrined at their unexpected appearance and their insistence that they see him instantly, at all cost.
Then he read the letter, and every fiber of his being went numb. For long moments he stood unable to move, to think. He raised his head and stammered, “Wait here. Go nowhere. I must write an answer.”
The astonished Allen watched Arnold dart from the room, and he heard his rapid steps down the hall, out into the yard.
Arnold called to the first servant he saw, “Get to the barn this second. Have my horse saddled and ready to go at once!”
The servant turned and bolted for the barn while Arnold, wild-eyed, voice rising, seized a second servant by the arm.
“Go this instant down to the dock and tell the crew to have my barge ready to leave immediately.”
The servant saw the hysteria in the blue eyes and sprinted for the steep trail down to the river.
Arnold spun and as fast as he could move on his crippled left leg, ran back into the house to clamber up the stairs.
Peggy was still in her bed, waiting for two young officers who had gallantly volunteered to fetch fresh peaches for her from the orchard. She heard the pounding feet in the hall and was just rising when Arnold burst through the door and slammed it shut. Peggy’s hands flew to her breast at the sight of him, white-faced, trembling, hair awry.
“All is lost,” he exclaimed. “Washington knows everything!”
A small cry escaped Peggy just as a loud pounding came at the door. Arnold turned and stepped back, certain that armed soldiers were about to smash their way into the room under orders to take him. In the next second the voice of David Franks came through the door.
“General, I thought you would want to know. His Excellency, General Washington, is approaching with his party.”
Peggy gasped and fainted back on her bed. Arnold tore the door open, barged past Franks, and shouted over his shoulder, “I’m going to cross the river to prepare a reception for General Washington at Fort West Point.”
Arnold thundered down the stairs, out the back door, and ran as hard as his disabled leg would allow to the barn. Without a word he leaped onto his saddled horse, spun the animal, and kicked it in the ribs with all his strength. He reined the running animal around the corner of the barn and instantly hauled it to a sliding stop to avoid plowing into four of General Washington’s dragoons. Arnold was reaching for his two saddle pistols when the shocked officers halted and the leader spoke.
“The Commander is just behind us. He sent us ahead to prepare for his arrival.”
“Stable your mounts in the barn,” Arnold exclaimed, and once again dug his spurs into his horse to race across the barnyard, break to the left, and put the plunging animal down a long, steep precipice to the river. He brought the horse to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust, leaped to the ground, and for reasons known to no one, stopped to strip his saddle from the frightened, rearing horse. He threw it into the barge, leaped in behind it, and shouted orders.
“Launch! Get away from this dock! Steer for Stony Point.”
Once in the curre
nt, he again shouted orders. “To the Vulture. I have business on board the Vulture.”
Behind Arnold, up the steep bluff in his headquarters, Peggy stirred, then opened her eyes, and a heart-wrenching moan came from deep within as the remembrance of her terrified husband flooded her brain. From the floor beneath she heard the mix of men in conversation, prominent among them the calm, firm voice of General Washington. She flung herself prostrate on the bed and buried her face in the pillows to silence her sobbing. She could not allow the General to sense something was tragically wrong until her husband had time to escape.
The men below finished their breakfast, and left the house with General Washington. They descended to the dock and boarded a boat for the crossing of the Hudson, with Washington wondering if Arnold would welcome his arrival with a formal cannonade from the fort, but the big guns remained silent. They tied to the pier on the west side of the river and were climbing from the boat to the heavy oak planking when Colonel Lamb came down the trail from the fort at a run, puffing, to stop before the General.
“Excellency,” he panted, “had I known of your arrival, I would have prepared an appropriate reception.”
Washington’s blue-gray eyes narrowed in question. “Is General Arnold on the post?”
Lamb caught something in Washington’s stolid face, and his eyes widened. “No, Excellency. I have not seen him this morning.”
A taint of suspicion began in Washington’s heart, but he covered it. “Very well. Let us proceed to the fort.”
Across the river, in the Arnold household, in the brightness of a sun on the early fall glory of the Hudson River Valley in autumn, Colonel Richard Varick remained in his bedroom, light-headed with a fever, not wishing to mingle with others in the household. He was startled by the opening of the window above his bed from the outside, and the appearance of Franks’s head in the frame. He stared as Franks exclaimed, “John Anderson has been arrested as a spy! Benedict Arnold is a traitor! A villainous traitor!”
At that instant, Peggy Arnold in her bedroom could restrain herself no longer. Her moans and shrieks startled Varick, who leaped from his bed and ran down the hall to throw open her bedroom door and dash across the room to her bedside. She jerked upright and seized his hand in both of hers and cried, “Colonel Varick, have you ordered my child to be killed?”
Varick stared in shock for several seconds, unable to grasp what was happening, and Peggy slipped from the bed onto her knees before him, clinging desperately to his hand, face tipped upward, tears running, voice high, hysterical.
“I beg of you, plead with you, do not kill my baby!”
Varick reached to help her to her feet, but she shrank from him. Behind him, Franks and Dr. William Eustis burst into the room, and the three men lifted Peggy back to her bed and covered her.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Varick said soothingly. “Your husband will be home soon. All will be well with you.”
It was then Peggy shrieked, “No! No! The General will never be home again. He will never return. He is gone forever, there, there, there!” She was pointing at the ceiling, toward the heavens. “The spirits have carried him up there. They have put hot irons on his head!”
Varick stared. He could make no sense of the ravings, nor could he divine a reason that General Benedict Arnold would never return. His face fell as the thought pierced him, She’s raving mad! A lunatic!
He pulled a chair to her bedside and sat down, ready to do what he could to protect her from herself until her husband arrived to take charge of his wife.
It was early afternoon when General Washington and those with him returned to the Arnold household, where most of the staff had remained. When Washington entered the parlor, he knew something was desperately wrong. Alexander Hamilton strode across the huge room with a small packet of papers and thrust them to the General as his staff, Lafayette among them, separated to their assigned bedrooms to prepare for their midday meal.
Lafayette had just begun to lay out a change of clothes when Hamilton threw open the bedroom door and stood wide-eyed, exclaiming, “General Lafayette, I implore you, attend his Excellency!”
Never had Lafayette seen such an expression on the face of the unflappable Hamilton. He sprinted down the hall and pounded down the stairs to find General Washington standing with his feet apart, face in utter torment. The huge, ornately carved clock on the fireplace mantel gave the time as a few minutes past four o’clock, September 25, 1780.
“Arnold!” Washington cried. “He has betrayed us! Whom can we trust now?”
Three minutes later, Hamilton and McHenry kicked their horses to a stampede gait, riding hard for King’s Ferry in the desperate attempt to catch the traitor before he completed his escape, but there was no hope. He had reached the Vulture, and was gone.
At the home, in Peggy’s bedroom, Varick and Franks straightened, and Franks hurried downstairs.
“Your Excellency, Mrs. Arnold is upstairs. I think she needs badly to see you, sir. It is possible her mind is unhinged.”
Quickly the men went to her room, and Varick took Washington to her bedside.
“Madam,” he said quietly, “I have brought General Washington. You must confide in him.”
Peggy stared Washington full in the face, then shook her head violently. “No! That is not General Washington. That is the man who is going to assist Colonel Varick in killing my child!”
Washington looked at Varick, then back at Peggy.
“Has anyone threatened her child?”
“On my life, no, sir.”
“See to her.”
Downstairs once again, Washington stood near large French windows, head bowed in deep thought. By force of the iron discipline that had carried his infant nation for five years, he sorted out his thoughts and made his decision.
He turned to the others. “General Arnold is gone, and his wife is sick. We must take our meal without them.”
Never had Lafayette shared a more morose, somber, sad meal. He did not take his eyes off General Washington as they ate in stony silence. He saw the General battling to hold a calm, controlled expression, but the young Frenchman knew his beloved leader all too well. He saw the pain, and he knew the terrible wound in the heart of the man, and in other circumstances he would have wept for him.
They all started at the sound of pounding horse’s hooves in the courtyard, and were moving to the great doors when Hamilton burst in, dusty, sweated, weary.
“He is gone.”
General Washington nodded, and they accepted it with a stoic silence.
Hamilton asked, “Mrs. Arnold? Is she well?”
Lafayette pointed. “She’s upstairs. She is not in her right mind.”
With no reason to think otherwise, they had concluded that until the terrible deed was thrust upon her earlier that day, Peggy was innocent of any knowledge of Arnold’s betrayal. They felt a towering sympathy for her, soothed her, placated her.
And by good fortune or design, Peggy had sensed that if she could maintain her hysteria, or the appearance of it, she might avoid them ever learning that she was a vital, perhaps the critical player in the entire scheme of selling her country to the British. She ranted, raved, and moaned, and begged for the life of her child, and they continued to heap their kindness upon her.
It was seven o’clock when Washington turned to Hamilton and gave his first orders.
“Relieve Colonel James Livingston at once. He may be involved in the conspiracy. Call in all available troops within twenty miles. Notify the ranking officer at Fort West Point to prepare for a possible attack.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the days that followed, the tense strangeness of slowly accepting the enormity of what had happened slowly took shape and form. Letters were exchanged, some of them between Washington and Benedict Arnold, who declared the innocence of Peggy and pleaded for her life and welfare and that of his children. Washington passed Arnold’s letter to his wife on to her, unopened, and gave orders to see to her
well-being and safety.
Washington ordered the single conspirator now in his custody, John André, to be transported under heaviest guard from South Salem to Tappan, to be held pending a decision on his fate.
Inside his cell, with armed, angry guards swarming, André sat quietly and faced the truth. He had been taken in the garb of an ordinary civilian: common coat, broad-brimmed felt hat, wearing nothing that would identify him as a British Major, the Adjutant General of General Clinton’s command in America. They had found written documents in his stocking that undeniably convicted him of being a spy of the first order.
He had no chance.
He asked for, and received, quill and ink and paper, and carefully drafted a lengthy statement addressed to General Washington. Therein, he laid out the entire scheme, start to finish, not excusing himself, nor failing to call out Arnold’s boldness in contacting him and demanding great reward for betraying America. He did not implicate Peggy Arnold in the document.
On September 29, 1780, a military board was convened, and the trial commenced. He was convicted and the sentence pronounced: he was to be executed. General Washington reviewed the conduct of the trial and confirmed the sentence and entered his order: The spy, John André, was to be executed the following day at five o’clock p.m. A copy of the order was delivered to André, who requested quill and paper. In his cell, he calmly drafted a request to General Washington.
Since it is my lot to die, there remains the choice of the mode. It would make a material difference to myself, and be a source of happiness to me, if I were to be allowed a professional death. I would be much gratified if allowed to die as an officer and a gentleman before a firing squad, rather than hanged like a peasant and a spy.
Your ob’d’t’ servant,
Major John André.
Adjutant General of the British Army.
The message was delivered to General Washington. He felt the stab in his heart as he read it. It had been made known abundantly to him that between the time of André’s capture and the end of his trial, those assigned to guard the man had come to see him as he was—an officer and a gentleman—a brave, courageous man who admonished them again and again to be of good cheer. He had served King and Country with his whole heart, risked all and lost, and would leave this life to stand upright before the Almighty, head high, conscience clean. It grieved him, he told them, to see the pain and concern in their eyes as he faced his fate. “Do not grieve. Do your duty. Serve your country. My heart is at peace.”
