by Glenn Beck
CRIME, PUNISHMENT—AND MERCY
Washington believed, for very good reason, that God—the Invisible Hand, as he often called Him—oversaw their mission, and that uncovering Arnold’s plot was nothing less than providential. In a message to his troops after Arnold’s treachery became known, Washington declared “the treason has been timely discovered to prevent the fatal misfortune. The providential train of circumstances which led to it affords the most convincing proof that the liberties of America are the object of divine protection.”
Think about that sentiment: Here was a man who had just been personally and professionally embarrassed. A man whom he’d vouched for and supported had nearly helped the enemy to capture West Point. But instead of making excuses or trying to downplay the event, Washington instead turned it into a positive. Sure, this was terrible, he told his troops, but think about what it means: It means that God is with us! It’s proof that He is on our side!
God may have saved the United States from the “villainous perfidy” of Arnold—it’s difficult to see it any other way, actually—and the English might have saved Arnold from the American gallows, but John André did not fare as well.
André’s fate caused Washington great heartache and put him in an unpopular position among his own countrymen. That was a pretty rare occurrence, but Washington never shied away from doing what he thought was best for his nation.
The question that caused such controversy was this: Should a “gentleman” like André be treated any differently than others? After all, André was a young and handsome officer who had conducted himself with great dignity throughout his captivity. Many thought he should be spared the usual fate met by spies. But Washington insisted that people were responsible for their own actions, no matter how “gentlemanly” they were, and that didn’t sit well with a lot of people.
Most of the officer class did not believe that André’s execution was moral or necessary. Some believed that Washington was being needlessly rigid and that he was perhaps attempting to exact personal revenge against Arnold, a man he could not catch, by executing André, a man he had.
Critics, including Alexander Hamilton, argued that André hadn’t functioned as a true spy; he was just a messenger. Hanging him would be a needless act of aggression against the enemy. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. Not to mention, they said, that being hanged was no way for a gentleman like André to meet his end. A much more honorable way was to be executed by a firing squad—a death that André would have far preferred to hanging.
Officers and gentlemen weren’t hanged, after all. A noose was for blackguards and highwaymen, not military officers. A soldier should die in proper fashion.
Washington was in serious peril of losing the trust of his team at the very moment that he and America needed loyalty most of all. But failing to follow through and instead give André a pass would mean ignoring the dictate of both a court of law and of his own words and precedent. Allowing mercy at that moment could easily have been seen as a sign of weakness when strength was most needed.
André appealed directly to Washington:
Sir:
Buoyed above the terror of death by the consciousness of a life devoted to honorable pursuits, and stained with no action that can give me remorse, I trust that the request I make to your Excellency at this serious period, and which is to soften my last moments, will not be rejected.
Let me hope, sir, that if aught in my character impresses you with esteem towards me… I shall experience the operation of these feelings in your breast by being informed that I am not to die on a gibbet.
In other words, he wanted to substitute the gibbet (gallows) for a death by firing squad.
Washington, who so often allowed his trusted officers to help guide his decisions, was having none of it. Why not? Because spies were hanged. A message had to be sent. The decisions made by courts of law were to be honored. Discipline was essential. Besides, the British had hanged the American spy Nathan Hale, thereby setting a precedent that had to be followed. (Incidentally, the hangings of André and Hale also illustrate the difference between Washington and other leaders. Captain Hale was treated poorly by his captors, not even being allowed to read a Bible before his execution. And, in a story that would likely appall Washington, a letter that Hale had written to his mother was torn up right in front of him.)
But Washington did have feelings. He extended to André the only real mercy he could: he kept him in the dark about his ultimate fate.
He never answered André’s letter—not out of anger or neglect, but because he hoped to provide André with some sense of peace.
Washington, it turned out, guessed right because André guessed wrong. The British major surmised incorrectly that he would not be hanged. It was only through that belief that his last twenty-four hours on earth contained some semblance of tranquility.
André only learned the truth when he walked out of the small stone house in which he was imprisoned and was led toward the gallows. The sight unnerved him. He jumped backward. Words caught in his throat. But he soon recovered his composure. “I pray you,” he said from the gallows, “to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man.”
Though it would have been far easier for Washington to avoid the entire mess, John André was hanged on October 2, 1780.
Even in War, Honor
Washington did not take the issues of life and death lightly. From the beginning of his military career, he conducted his life honorably, contemplating every move and avoiding rash emotional decisions.
Revenge—especially when it involved the death of another—was not his style.
When Washington was first fighting in the French and Indian War, Half King, the Seneca chief, had called on the young lieutenant colonel to lead the attack against entrenched French troops on the frontier—calling him “Caunotaucarius” (Devourer of Villages). Washington and about forty of his men met Half King and other allied Indians. They had known for two days that a French scouting party of about fifty was nearby, ready to pounce on them.
Early the next morning, when two Seneca braves discovered the Frenchmen lurking in the woods, Washington and Half King ordered their men to silently surround the enemy camp and, upon Washington’s signal, they attacked. The French soldiers desperately returned fire, but the French commander, Joseph Coulon de Jumonville, was quickly shot and, within minutes, his men had given up the fight.
The French who hadn’t been killed were to be taken as prisoners—or so Washington thought. The young leader had to first prevent his fierce ally, Half King, from killing and scalping their French captives.
What happened next is still a matter of some debate. What’s clear is that Half King wasn’t interested in a “gentleman’s war.” He demanded revenge against the French for allowing their Indian allies to kill, boil, and eat his father. This was Half King’s way of war: cruel, vicious, and ugly. But Washington, even at a young age, believed deeply in honor in war and life. This was no way to conduct battle, he thought, no matter how savage the enemy had been.
Washington, it is believed, eventually prevailed over the furious Indian chief, and the frightened French prisoners remained safe. The lesson? Honor does not waver in the wind; it must, to borrow a phrase from Thomas Jefferson, stand like a rock. It’s something that must be practiced in good times and bad, in peace and in war.
A SAD END TO A SAD LIFE
Since Arnold’s plot at West Point had failed, he received no special reward from the British. He did, however, become a brigadier general and spearheaded an attack on Virginia that led to the capture of Richmond.
That didn’t surprise anyone. No one had ever doubted Arnold’s prowess as a soldier, after all; they had only doubted his prowess as a man of character. And soon enough, Arnold proved them right again. After invading Fort Trumbull, which guarded the harbor of New London, Connecticut, and slaughtering the colonel who commanded it, Arnold ordered that all 105 American troops present be killed. According to a story
in George Canning Hill’s biography of Arnold, the “blood in the fort flowed in streams … the dead, dying and wounded Americans were picked up and piled together indiscriminately in a wagon, which was set going from the top of the hill, and rushed on with all speed to the bottom. It struck a tree just before it reached the foot, throwing out some of the dying ones with the shock, and extorting deep groans and piercing shrieks of anguish from lips that even then were almost mute in death. So cruel and barbarous a mode of torture to the persons of helpless captives, was never before recorded among the practices of a civilized nation.”
After that, Arnold set fire to New London, a town very close to where he was born.
When the English surrender finally came, Arnold was forced to leave for England, where he advocated for restarting the war with the United States. He failed and was not at all embraced by his countrymen, many of whom saw him as a simple traitor—no matter which side he had spied for.
Soon he would sail back to North America—to Canada, where he would set up a number of businesses and speculate on land. By the time his stay in Canada was over, Arnold had been sued (a number of times) and been burned in effigy by the locals.
He seemed to be running out of places to run, so Arnold returned to England again, this time finding some honor fighting against the French. He died in 1801 at the age of sixty.
Author Clifton Johnson wrote that Arnold had always kept the Continental Army uniform he wore at the time of his treason. As his last days neared, Arnold asked for his old coat to be draped on his shoulders, saying, “Let me die in this old uniform in which I fought my battles. May God forgive me for wearing any other.”
God may well have forgiven Arnold, but most of his former patriots never would. After all, as Franklin said, he had sold out his entire country for his own gain.
Perhaps no two men in our country’s history better illustrate the consequences of our choices than Benedict Arnold and George Washington. Arnold valued material possessions; Washington valued eternal ones. Arnold allowed his resentment to consume him toward selfishness; Washington used it to fuel him toward greatness.
8
The War Turns at Yorktown
June 1781
Four miles southwest of Boston
The oxcart moved slowly, the large animals walking steadily but never swiftly. The road was narrow and dry, and their wide hooves kicked up little trails of dust behind each step. Traffic in and out of Boston was at a wartime pace: occasional horsemen heading toward the city at a gallop, small units of soldiers moving in formation, occasional supplies heading south, toward New Jersey.
The oxen faced the setting sun and the road grew dark, the enormous tree branches soaking up the last of the evening’s light. A man walked beside the cart, followed by a single horseman with a fine leather bag resting across his saddle. Their clothes were old and salt-crusted, their worn boots made of the finest quality that could be found anywhere in the colonies.
Though the horseman couldn’t see around a bend in the road, he knew there were two more horsemen up ahead. They stayed well in front of the ox-driven cart, never stopping to wait for it but closely matching its pace. All of the men were army officers, though none of them wore a uniform. And though they were heavily armed, they were careful not to show it. No reason to draw any attention to themselves. But they were ready to use their weapons if they had to. They’d lived through years of war and were not afraid to take a life if that’s what was called for.
But, on this day, the soldiers were hoping that secrecy would prove to be a more useful tool than their weapons. Their cargo being as precious as it was, a fight was the last thing they wanted.
Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens drove the oxen. His close-cropped hair and youthful features belied the fact that he was the man in charge. He was also the man who had arranged for what was being transported inside the cart.
Laurens used a walnut stick to drive the oxen. The horseman rode beside him, measuring their pace. “It’ll take a weary bit to get to Philadelphia,” the horseman muttered, hoping that Laurens would remember that it was time for a break. But the colonel didn’t answer. Dropping his walking stick along the back of the nearest ox, he prompted it along. Ten long minutes passed in silence.
With the last of the twilight dripping through the heavy trees, Laurens looked up the road and narrowed his eyes. The two vanguards had fallen back now, moving closer to the cart. Once full darkness had set in, they would ride beside them, keeping a close watch for any potential saboteurs.
“Long and dusty road to Congress,” the rider said. “Don’t think we’ll be able to make it all the way without stopping at least once to get a drink.” He hoped that this time the single-minded colonel would get the hint.
“We walk tonight,” John Laurens answered quickly. “I want to get some distance between us and the bloody Tories. They infect the ports of Boston like rats crawling from a ship too long at sea.”
The rider nudged his horse toward the covered cart. “Six million is a sizable sum of money to protect,” he said.
“It is,” was all his leader replied.
“The French were fair on to be generous.”
“Very generous, I would say.”
“But is it enough to make a difference? That is the question I would put you, sir.”
“Enough to save our necks would be my answer. Enough to feed our army through the summer. Enough to supply more than a few forts and buy balls for our cannons. Damn the Congress for their lack of honor, but God bless our friends, the French.”
The colonel paused, suppressing a smile. “Course, it probably didn’t hurt to point out to them that if we fall to the British, we’d be forced to reinforce the redcoat armies. Our dear French friends realized it’s easier to help us now than to fight us later—that would be my guess.”
The rider thought of all the money underneath the tightly wrapped cotton tarp. The equivalent of six million French livres. An impossible sum! He was an educated man, but he couldn’t fathom what even a single million meant. It was a word, not a figure. But he did know that the money completely filled the cart. He knew it was going to save his army, or at least buy them a little time. And he knew it was a miracle that they had it—one they owed to John Laurens, the officer (and son of Henry Laurens) who had been tasked by Congress to go and plead for the loan from King Louis XVI. It was a mission he had accomplished, like every other war task he’d ever been assigned.
Having recently arrived on board a ship in Boston, they were now on their way to deliver the money to the Congress, which, as one of the forward riders had noted, would surely waste it.
“You are a man of wonder,” the horseman said as he stared at the load.
“No, sir, not so,” Laurens was quick to answer.
“We would be lost without you.”
Laurens nearly scoffed. “We can suffer the loss of any man but one, and that man is surely not me! I am not responsible for this money, George Washington is. If we had sent Washington’s dog to the king then that dog would have had the money tied around his neck and sent on his way. The French generals call him one of the greatest captains of our age. The French king happens to agree with them. That is why we have this money, sir: General Washington and his honor. This had not but anything to do with me!”
The two men fell into silence once again. The horse shortened her steps to match the trudging of the cart. The moon rose over the heavy trees, casting a pale light. The road was clear before them, a trail of gray-white dirt against the darkness of the forest.
A short time later, John Laurens looked up. “We’ll move all night,” he said. “Much less likely to meet one of any concern while traveling at night. And Congress waits for us. So we’ll walk, then make camp in the morning, taking our rest where we may.”
The rider shook his head. He wanted to rest now. “Morning will come slowly.”
“As does the patience of a soldier waiting to be paid. The patience of a soldier waiting for a s
hirt or a meal. The patience of a wife who needs a bit of penny to make up for the lost wages of her man. All good things come slowly. Victory comes slowly! Yet we have waited long enough!
“The general grows inpatient. He is ready for a final battle, a final strike to see this through. The storm winds gather for the last pitch. It is coming, I am sure. What we have in this cart may allow him to accelerate his actions. So gird yourselves and keep on walking, for tonight we do not rest.”
July 1781
White Plains, New York
Twenty miles north of New York City
It was late at night. The smell of pine hung heavy in the still-humid air. A few coyotes yelped at each other from the hills along the river, but they were the only sound that could be heard—astounding when one considered that thousands of men slept nearby.
The stars were shining brightly, though occasional clouds passed by, temporarily blocking any light from the heavens. Two wax candles had been placed on the portable camp table, but both of them were burning low and would soon go out. In the dim light, General Washington stared in frustration at his map. It was roughly drawn, and not to scale, but still useful as he considered the next step in his military campaign.
The next step … the next step.
His chest tightened in frustration. It was becoming a familiar feeling.
He placed his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. He kept his eyes on the map, though it was getting difficult to see. In truth, he didn’t really need the map anyway. He could have drawn it from memory, and, as a former surveyor, probably with greater accuracy. He had walked, ridden, marched, or sailed from the wilderness in the west to the busy ports of Boston; from his beloved Mount Vernon to points much farther south. He knew every river, town, and valley of any consequence.
