4. BATTLE OF MONMOUTH.
During the winter of 1777-8, the British army had occupied Philadelphia; the winter-quarters of the American army were at Valley Forge. On the opening of the spring, in consequence of the alliance of France and America, orders were issued to the British general to evacuate Philadelphia, and concentrate the royal force in the city and harbor of New York. In pursuance of this resolution, the royal army, now under command of Sir Henry Clinton—General Howe having returned to England—left Philadelphia, and on the 18th of June, passed the Delaware into New Jersey.
Washington immediately quitted his camp, and hung upon the British army, watching a favorable opportunity to offer battle. On the 27th, the British army encamped on some high grounds in the neighborhood of Freehold court-house, in the county of Monmouth.
On the morning of the 28th, General Lee was ordered to take command of five thousand men, and commence the attack.
At first, he declined the honor; but judging, on reflection, that such a procedure would redound to his discredit, he now sought the command at the hands of Lafayette, to whom, on his declining it, it had been tendered.
Lee immediately put his troops in motion for the plain of Monmouth, some four or five miles distant. On approaching it, the British were already in motion. The army was in advance of the baggage-train, which covered miles in extent. The morning was clear, and the sun poured down his heat so fervidly, as seemingly to cause all nature to faint. Before noon, the mercury of the thermometer reached ninety-six. Man and beast panted for breath. The sand-plain became parched as an oven, and water was needed at almost every step. The sufferings of men and horses early became nearly insupportable.
Moreover, it was the Sabbath—that day when the hum of life is ordinarily hushed, and when men are commonly with their families in the house of God. We may pause, we trust, to say, that that Sabbath, and the God of that Sabbath, would have been more honored—nor do we believe that the patriot cause would have suffered in the sequel—had Washington, instead of sending out a hostile corps—had he and his troops spent it in paying divine honors to the God of our fathers. It had been still better, could hostile armies have that day grounded their arms, and of that plain made a sanctuary, and there, in the exercise of that friendship and love which the gospel enjoins, worshiped together at a common altar, and before a common Father. But the latter was not to be expected—perhaps, not the former. Other thoughts were occupying those bosoms, and a far different spectacle was that day to be witnessed. Let us not judge severely. We will hope that the honor of God did animate those sons of the Pilgrims. We know that they were true patriots, and that they were fighting for their altars and their firesides. Nor is it to be doubted that they would have preferred the calm and delightful worship of God, with their families, in the sanctuaries of their own quiet villages. But they were summoned to the field of battle, and here, now, we find them soon employed amid scenes of carnage and death.
Wayne was that day in command under Lee. On seeing the British train—horses and waggons, miles in extent—following the army in advance, the former, with his detachment, hastened rapidly forward, with the intent to cut off and capture the train. Meanwhile, Lee, with the rest of his division, took a more circuitous route, designing to attack the corps which had the train in charge. Most unexpectedly, however, just as he was ready to commence the charge, intelligence was received that the entire British army—which was on the retreat, but which had had intimation of Lee's advance—had wheeled about, and were in full march to protect its rear.
Lee had reluctantly taken the command; he was in ill-humor, and, moreover, was probably now appalled at the prospect before him. At all adventures, greatly to his discredit, for as yet he had not commenced action, he ordered a retreat. This movement fell upon Wayne like a thunderbolt, who was himself compelled, by reason of it, to fall back, at the hazard of his entire command.
Washington was still at a distance with the remainder of the army; but was rapidly approaching the theatre of the contest. The distant cannonade impelled him forward. The troops, partaking of his own enthusiasm, if not of his anxiety, laid aside knapsacks—coats—all that encumbered, and amidst dust and heat pressed on to the encounter. At this moment, a horseman was seen approaching from the immediate battle-field. He pressed his horse, and made announcement to Washington that Lee's division, in utter disorder, was in full retreat. For a moment, the latter seemed petrified with astonishment; and the next moment—for it seems he had for some reason dismounted—vaulting upon his saddle, he sprang forward, and like a winged arrow directed his way to the scene of confusion and flight. The instant he was seen by the troops in retreat, "The brave fellows"—we use the stirring language of Headley—"the brave fellows, who had not been half beaten, sent up a shout that was heard the whole length of the line, and 'Long live Washington!' rent the air. Flinging a hasty inquiry to Osgood, as to the reason, who replied, 'Sir, we are fleeing from a shadow;' he galloped to the rear, and, reining up his horse beside Lee, bent on him a face of fearful expression, and thundered in his ear, as he leaned over his saddle-bow, 'Sir, I desire to know what is the reason, and whence arises this disorder and confusion!' It was not the words, but the smothered tone of passion in which they were uttered, and the manner, which was severe as a blow, that made this rebuke so terrible. Wheeling his steed, he spurred up to Oswald's and Stewart's regiments, saying, 'On you I depend to check this pursuit;' and riding along the ranks, he roused their courage to the highest pitch by his stirring appeals; while that glorious shout of 'Long live Washington!' again shook the field. The sudden gust of passion had swept by; but the storm that ever slumbered in his bosom was now fairly up; and, galloping about on his splendid charger, his tall and commanding form towering above all about him, and his countenance lit up with enthusiasm, he was the impersonation of all that is great and heroic in man. In a moment, the aspect of the field was changed—the retreating mass halted—officers were seen hurrying about in every direction, their shouts and orders ringing above the roar of the enemy's guns. The ranks opened—and, under the galling fire of the British, wheeled, and formed in splendid order. Washington then rode back to Lee, and, pointing to the firm front he had arrayed against the enemy, exclaimed, 'Will you, sir, command in that place?' He replied, 'Yes.'—'Well,' then said he, 'I expect you to check the enemy immediately.' 'Your orders shall be obeyed,' replied the stung commander, 'and I will not be the first to leave the field.' The battle then opened with renewed fury, and Washington hurried back, to bring his own division into the field."
This took time, as the division was still at a distance. Meanwhile, however, the retreat was partially staid. The troops once more rallied. They stood—they fought—fought with unwonted desperation. But the overpowering legions of the enemy pressed hard. Their shouts were deafening—their cannonade appalling and destructive. Lee now attempted to his utmost power to withstand the impetuous shock—but it was entirely beyond the compass of his troops. They were again giving way. A few moments longer, and all would be lost. At this critical juncture, Hamilton appeared, seemingly sent as a messenger from above—crossing the field—his charger covered with foam, and his hair streaming in the wind—Hamilton appeared, and riding up to Lee, said to him: "My dear general, let us die here rather than retreat."
What would have been the effect of this soul-stirring and patriotic address of Hamilton, had no succor been at hand, we pretend not to say. They were words of comfort and assurance; and, if necessary to prevent a dishonorable retreat, there doubtless Hamilton, and perhaps now Lee himself, would have surrendered up life. But succor was at hand. Washington with his division had arrived. No time was lost. He issued his orders, and they were obeyed. Sterling, Knox, Wayne, brought up their several commands, and soon the battle was raging, and the whole plains shook under the clangor of arms and the thunder of artillery. For a time, few such spectacles were seen during the Revolutionary war. The heat of the day, we have already said, was intense. Water was not to be had, or rather there was no time to quench parched lips, had there been any. Their thirst added to the sufferings of the troops immeasurably. The tongues of the soldiers became so inflamed and swollen, as not to be retained in their mouths. Yet they fought, and fought with a desperation increased by the very sufferings they endured. The British suffered from the same causes, and fought with the same desperation. And for a time, it was indeed doubtful whose cause would triumph. But the batteries of Knox and Sterling, like volcanoes, hurled death and destruction on every side; while the impetuous Wayne with his columns, torrent-like, spread confusion and dismay in every step of their progress. There was a concentration of effort—and that effort, doubtless the more earnest and effective, for the reason of the previous unwarranted and pusillanimous retreat.
In turn, the British themselves now retreated, and encamped on the spot which Lee's division had occupied in the morning. They had fought with unwonted zeal. Officers and soldiers were exhausted. They coveted rest. They needed repose. It was so with the Americans. "Even Washington's powerful frame was overcome by the heat and toil he had passed through; and as he stood begrimed with the dust and the smoke of the battle, and wiped his brow, the perspiration fell in streams from his horse, which looked as if it had been dragged through a muddy stream, rather than rode by a living man."
Yet, wearied as he was—wearied and worn down as were his officers and men—Washington could not consent so to terminate the day. A further duty remained ere he slept. That duty was to dislodge the enemy from the position which he had taken. His officers—his army sympathized with him; they were willing to put forth one more effort to secure all that they had promised themselves, and which in the morning had seemed so practicable.
Two brigades were therefore ordered to attack the British at their post—on the right and left. The battle was now renewed, and renewed with all the spirit and determination of an earlier hour. It continued, however, but for a brief period. The sun was fast descending when the second battle began, and had set ere the several corps had really attained their proposed positions. It was fortunate, probably, that the contest was interrupted. Both armies had done enough. Had Washington succeeded in dislodging the enemy, his troops were too much spent to have followed up the victory.
There they now paused. Darkness soon set in. Too much overcome even to administer to the wants of nature, the troops of both armies flung themselves upon the parched ground, and slept. They slept in sight of each other, and they slept strong and deep. With the morning light, Washington had decided to renew the battle. He, therefore, instead of retiring to his marquee, wrapped himself in his cloak, and sunk upon the earth in the midst of his soldiers.
At the dawn of morning, Washington rose, and with his recruited followers was about to follow up the advantages of the preceding day. But the enemy had retired. Aware of the peril of his condition, the British commander had roused his army at midnight, and ordered a retreat. And so silently was that retreat effected, and so soundly had the American army slept, officers and men, that no one of the thousands which composed it, had any suspicion of the retreat, till the light of day revealed it. Washington was indeed disappointed; but the departure of the enemy, if it was not in all respects equal to a victory, gave practical assurance that Washington had suffered no defeat.
There were doubtless other engagements during the Revolutionary struggle more brilliant, and of greater influence, as to the final result, than the battle of Monmouth. But it is doubtful whether there was a single other one in which there was a higher exhibition of firmness, or the practice of greater self-denial, or the endurance of greater suffering.
Never did commander appear more nobly than did Washington. But for his presence at the critical moment—his quick perception of the danger, and the means of averting it—his celerity in issuing his orders—his manly but terrific rebuke of Lee—and perhaps more than all, his undaunted bravery, and his firm stand when all were flying from a pursuing foe—all would indeed have been lost.
For twelve long hours were the respective armies that day engaged. They numbered about twenty thousand men. They were on a plain where little or no water could be obtained, and with a thermometer standing the whole day at nearly one hundred degrees. Not a few died from sun-stroke—and still more from excessive fatigue. The cry for "water! water!" from the wounded and the dying, was sufficient to overcome the stoutest heart.
It is not necessary to dwell longer on the particulars of this remarkable battle. The British troops, as already intimated, left Washington in occupation of the field. On the following day, finding his foe gone, he took up his line of march, and by easy stages moved towards the Hudson.
It does not belong to the plan of our work to pursue the history of the difficulty which that day arose between Washington and Lee, growing out of the retreat of the latter. That retreat was most unexpected, dishonorable, and needless. So Washington evidently deemed it, and this was the occasion of his severe rebuke of that officer in the field. It has been said that Washington was profane. That he was greatly excited, calm as he usually was, admits of no question. That he was profane, is without proof. Weems says, as quoted by Headley, that as he rode up, he exclaimed, "For God's sake! General Lee, what is the cause of this ill-timed prudence?"—to which the latter replied, "No man can boast a larger share of that rascally virtue than your excellency." What reliance, if any, is to be placed upon the above authority, the writer pretends not to say. To an inquiry once made of Lafayette, at La Grange, by Dr. Sparks, what the precise expression of Washington was, he replied, that although near him at the moment, he could not have told an hour subsequently. He thought, however, that it was not so much the expression itself, as the manner in which it was uttered, that stung the retreating general. That manner was terrible. The wrath of Washington was without disguise.
But the results of the day served to meliorate the feelings of Washington towards Lee, whatever opinion he might have continued to entertain of his unworthy conduct. It is said that he rëinstated him in his old command; and had Lee reciprocated the feelings and kindness of Washington, the unpleasant occurrence might have passed, and have been forgotten. But Lee was hot-tempered; and, under the smart of rebuke, addressed a most ill-judged and "saucy" letter to Washington, in which he demanded a trial by court-martial. Washington, in his reply, accused Lee of a breach of orders, in not attacking the enemy; and a breach of good behavior, unbecoming an officer of his rank, in so hasty and cowardly a retreat. Lee rejoined, and in a manner entirely in accordance with his previous communication. "You cannot," he wrote, "afford me greater pleasure, sir, than in giving me an opportunity of showing to America the efficiency of her respective servants. I trust that the temporary power of office, and the trivial dignity attending it, will not be able, by all the mists they can raise, to effusate the bright rays of truth. In the mean time, your excellency can have no objection to my retiring from the army."
In whatever light Lee's previous conduct deserved to be regarded, no doubt could exist as to the intended insult of Washington conveyed in the above letter. Suffice it to say, that he was put under immediate arrest; and in August was tried before a court-martial on three separate charges, viz: "for disobeying orders, in not attacking the enemy;" "for making an unnecessary and disorderly retreat;" and "for disrespect to the commander-in-chief, in two letters."
Of these charges, with a slight modification of one of them, he was found guilty, and suspended from the army for twelve months. The decision was most unexpected and distasteful, as might be supposed, to a man of Lee's ardent and self-complacential feelings. Washington he never forgave. Stung by the decision of the court-martial, against that body—against congress itself—he launched his bitter invectives. At the expiration of his suspension, and while congress was contemplating his restoration, he addressed an insulting letter to that body, which hastened his dismission. We add, only, that he retired to Virginia, where on a farm he passed the residue of his days.
[XII. TREACHERY OF ARNOLD.]
The Vulture in the Hudson—Midnight Adventure—Benedict Arnold—Repairs to Cambridge—Expedition to Canada—Created a Brigadier-general—Grounds of Complaint—Honorable Conduct in Connecticut—Appointed to the command at Philadelphia—Charges preferred against him—Reprimanded by Washington—Plots against his Country—Correspondence with Sir H. Clinton—Appointed to the command of West Point—Interview with Andre—Capture of Andre—Arrival of Washington—Escape of Arnold—Developments of Arnold's traitorous intentions—Trial and Condemnation of Andre—Subsequent incidents in the life of Arnold.
The Vulture.
On the night of the 21st of September, 1780, there was lying at anchor on the Hudson, a few miles below West Point, a British sloop-of-war, called the Vulture. A little before midnight, a boat, with muffled oars, and rowed by two men, put off from the American shore, and proceeded with great caution towards the sloop. In the stern of the boat sat a third man, of more consequence than the oarsmen, and the leader of the secret expedition. It was a tranquil night; the stars peered out with unwonted lustre, and the waters moved slowly down the channel. What object was proposed by this cautious midnight adventure? Was intelligence sought from the enemy, or was it to be imparted to them? Was it a patriotic or a traitorous expedition?—The sequel will tell.
Among the brave and chivalrous men who early engaged in the defence of American rights, was Benedict Arnold. On the occurrence of the battle of Lexington, he was residing at New Haven, and was commandant of a company of militia, called the Governor's Guards.
On the arrival of the news of the above battle at New Haven, citizens and soldiers, as if moved by a common impulse, assembled on the green. Fired with indignation, as were others, Arnold proposed to head such as would volunteer under him, and lead them to the more immediate scene of action.
Such was the dispatch of preparation, that the following day, at the head of sixty volunteers, he was ready to march.
After reaching Cambridge, for a time Arnold was employed in an expedition against Ticonderoga. About the time of his return, congress was contemplating a still more important and hazardous movement against Canada, under General Schuyler. Believing that essential aid might be rendered by the way of the Kennebec river, a detachment of troops was made at Cambridge, the command of which was tendered to Arnold.
The troops detached for this service amounted to eleven hundred men—ten companies of musket-men from New England, and three companies of rifle-men from Virginia and Pennsylvania. The field officers were Colonel Arnold, Lieutenant-colonels Greene and Enos, and Majors Bigelow and Meigs. The afterwards-celebrated Daniel Morgan commanded the riflemen. On the 18th of September, the troops sailed from Newburyport, and rendezvoused at Fort Western, on the Kennebec, opposite the present town of Augusta.
From this point they started, and their hardships and trials began. No body of troops during the Revolutionary war, if indeed in the annals of warfare, encountered greater obstacles, or endured more suffering, than this. The distance traversed was about two hundred miles, and nearly the whole of it was a howling wilderness.
Arnold's Expedition through the Wilderness.
On the night of the 14th, Arnold with his men crossed the St. Lawrence; and, ascending the same abrupt precipice which Wolfe had climbed before him, formed his small corps on the heights, near the memorable Plains of Abraham. But he soon discovered that neither the number nor condition of his men would justify him in hazarding an action. Having spent a few days on the heights, and summoned the town to surrender, without even a response, he retired twenty miles above Quebec, to wait the arrival of the troops which were to proceed by the western route, which were now led by General Montgomery, who had succeeded General Schuyler, in consequence of the illness of the latter.
On the 1st of December, Montgomery joined Arnold; and on the morning of the 31st occurred the memorable assault upon Quebec, in which the gallant and lamented Montgomery fell. Arnold, not less bold and intrepid, had his leg-bone severely fractured, and was obliged to be carried from the ground. The issue was disastrous to the Americans, as is well known; about sixty being killed, and between three and four hundred taken prisoners. Notwithstanding his wound and the serious diminution of his force, Arnold maintained a blockade of the city during a long and severe Canadian winter.
As a reward for his persevering efforts in conducting his troops through the wilderness, and for his gallant conduct in the assault of Quebec, congress promoted Arnold to the rank of brigadier-general.
General Lincoln.
In February, 1777, congress appointed five additional major-generals. According to the usual practice in reference to promotions, Arnold would have been entitled to this honor; but those thus promoted were all his juniors, and one of them, General Lincoln, was taken from the militia. To a man like Arnold, ambitious of military glory, such a neglect could not be otherwise than deeply wounding. In anticipation of his mortified feelings, Washington addressed a kind and soothing letter to him, virtually expressing his disapproval of the course of procedure, and advising Arnold to demean himself with the magnanimity of a soldier, in the hope that justice would still be done him, and others, who were similarly neglected.
Meanwhile, Washington addressed to friends in congress a letter of inquiry on the subject. To this it was replied, that as each state claimed a number of general officers, proportioned to the troops it furnished, and as Connecticut already had two, there existed no vacancy for another. There was at least plausibility in the reason, but it seems not to have satisfied Washington; much less could it be expected to satisfy so sensitive and ambitious a man as Arnold. This disappointment was probably among the causes which soured the mind of the latter, and laid the foundation of those corrodings of the heart, which in after-times led to the utter ruin of his reputation, and came near effecting the ruin of his country.
But this was by no means the only ground of Arnold's complaint. Construing the neglect of congress as an implied censure of his military conduct in past times—and perhaps the inference was not entirely without foundation—Arnold resolved to demand of congress an examination into his conduct. With this object in view, he proceeded to head-quarters, to solicit of Washington permission to proceed to Philadelphia.
Just at the time he was passing through Connecticut, a British force, consisting of two thousand troops, under the infamous General Tryon, had landed at Compo, between Fairfield and Norwalk, for the purpose of penetrating to Danbury, to destroy some public stores, which the Americans had lodged there.
Arnold heard of this invasion; and, for the time, honorably foregoing the object of his journey, and roused by that high military spirit which in no small degree characterized him, he immediately turned his course northward, for the purpose of aiding in repelling the foe.
A militia force of five hundred had been hastily collected by Generals Wooster and Silliman. These, together with about one hundred continental troops, Arnold overtook near Reading, on their march towards Danbury. At Bethel, information was obtained that the town had been fired, and the public stores destroyed. The next morning, the generals divided their forces—General Wooster, with two hundred men, falling in the rear of the enemy, while Arnold and Silliman, with five hundred (their original force having been augmented), by a rapid movement, took post in their front at Ridgefield.
Death of General Wooster.
About eleven o'clock, General Wooster overtook the enemy, and attacked them with great gallantry. Riding to the front of his troops, with a design of inspiring them with appropriate courage, he cried: "Come on, my boys! never mind such random shot." But scarcely had he uttered the words, when a fatal ball pierced his side, and this gallant general fell.
Meanwhile, Arnold having reached the north part of the long street at Ridgefield, barricaded the road with carts, logs, hay, and earth, presenting a formidable obstruction to the approaching enemy, and no mean protection to the resisting force.
Arnold and the British Soldier.
"At three o'clock the enemy appeared, marching in a solid column, and they commenced a heavy fire as they advanced towards the breastwork: it was briskly returned. For nearly a quarter of an hour, the action was warm, and the Americans maintained their ground, by the aid of their barricade, against four times their number, until the British column began to extend itself, and to stretch around their flanks. This was a signal for retreat. Arnold was the last man that remained behind. While alone in this situation, a platoon of British troops, who had clambered up the rocks on the left flank, discharged their muskets at him. His horse dropped lifeless; and when it was perceived that the rider did not fall, one of the soldiers rushed forward with a fixed bayonet, intending to run him through. Arnold sat unmoved on his struggling horse, watched the soldier's approach till he was near enough to make sure his aim, then drew a pistol from his holsters, and shot him dead. Seizing this critical opportunity, he sprang upon his feet, and escaped unharmed. So remarkable an exhibition of cool and steady courage, in a moment of extreme danger, has rarely been witnessed.
"He rallied his men, and continued to annoy the enemy in their progress. Being rëinforced the next day, he hung upon their flanks and rear throughout the whole march to their ships, attacking them at every assailable point. In a skirmish near Compo, just before the British embarked, the horse which he rode was shot through the neck, and on all occasions he exposed himself with his accustomed intrepidity."
General Arnold.
The heroic conduct of Arnold—periling life as a volunteer, and while smarting under a sense of wrong—was duly appreciated wherever the exploit was told. Congress, sensible of the merit of the achievement, immediately promoted him to the rank of major-general; but instead of ante-dating his commission, that he might take rank with those who had been raised above him, they left him still subordinate to them. This was unfortunate, and even inconsistent. Arnold felt the neglect with still deeper sensibility, and saw in it, as he imagined, an undeniable proof that the charge of ingratitude which he had brought against his country was well founded.
At length, his complaints were referred to the Board of War, and the charges of his accusers were examined. The board reported that they were satisfied with the character and conduct of General Arnold. This report congress confirmed. Indeed, they went further, and presented him with a horse properly caparisoned, in token of their approbation of his gallant conduct in resisting the troops under General Tryon. Had they added to this an equality of rank with the generals who had been raised over him, Arnold would have been satisfied; but neglecting this—and the cause was doubtless to be ascribed to the personal influence of bitter enemies, who could not forget his arrogance and presumption—he was chagrined, rather than flattered, by the tokens of approbation he had received—and soured rather than pacified.
Added to this, Arnold was mortified and exasperated that his accounts were not fully and promptly allowed by a committee appointed to audit them. This they could not justly do without much qualification. They were numerous and large, many debts incurred were without authority, and vouchers were wanting. The consequence was a general suspicion that Arnold intended to enrich himself, or meet his private extravagant expenditures at the public expense.
Passing over several intervening events, especially the signal success of General Gates in resisting the progress of General Burgoyne, during which Arnold acted a part so heroic, as to be honored by Washington with one of the three sets of epaulettes and sword-knots which had been presented to him by a gentleman of France, we reach a signal event in the life of this remarkable man—his appointment by Washington, in consideration of his disabled condition, to the command of Philadelphia, following the evacuation of that city by the British. The station was honorable, and the duties, though delicate, were not severe.
Several circumstances, about this time, served to weaken his affections for the patriotic cause. One was the report of specific charges against him by a committee of congress, for acts oppressive and unworthy his rank and station, on which he was tried, and ordered to be reprimanded by the commander-in-chief.
In performing this duty, Washington exhibited as much mildness as the case permitted. "Our profession," said he, "is the chastest of all. The shadow of a fault tarnishes our most brilliant actions. The least inadvertence may cause us to lose that public favor, which is so hard to be gained. I reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you had rendered your name formidable to our enemies, you should have shown moderation towards our citizens. Exhibit again those splendid qualities which have placed you in the rank of our most distinguished generals. As far as it shall be in my power, I will myself furnish you with opportunities for regaining the esteem which you have formerly enjoyed."
The decision of the court, and the reprimand of Washington, mild and delicate as it was, fell heavy on the excitable spirit of Arnold. A burning revenge rankled in his bosom, and from this time—if his traitorous purposes had not before been formed—he sought opportunities to gratify his malice, and at the same time the sordid passion of avarice, which had long held sway in his bosom.
Another circumstance, besides contributing to his expenses, operated to separate his affections from the patriotic cause. He had married a beautiful and accomplished lady, during his residence in Philadelphia, a daughter of Mr. Edward Shippen, a family of distinguished rank; and which, like others of a similar stamp in that city, was intimate with Sir William Howe, Major Andre, and other British officers, during their occupation of Philadelphia. This alliance brought Arnold, as a matter of course, into associations with persons who were attached to the royal cause, and who were ready to foster his prejudices, and justify his complaints of ingratitude and persecution.
At length, he matured a plan—confined for a time to his own bosom—dark, base, and traitorous—as it were the offspring of the nether world.
To the accomplishment of this plan, it was necessary that he should be appointed to the command of West Point, a fortress on the Hudson. With consummate art, he accomplished his purpose; and, at the hands of Washington, to whom he had been indebted more than to any other, for standing by him as a shelter during his stormy life, he received the appointment; soon after which, he repaired to the Highlands, and established his head-quarters at Robinson's house, two or three miles below West Point, on the opposite, or eastern bank of the river.
Major Andre.
Previous to her marriage, Mrs. Arnold had been acquainted with Major Andre, and had corresponded with him after that event, and after his removal with the British forces to New York. Acquainted with this correspondence, Arnold took the opportunity presented by it to address, unknown to his wife, letters to Sir Henry Clinton, through Andre, under the signature of Gustavus, and Andre replied under the assumed name of John Anderson. This correspondence had been carried on for months before Arnold's appointment to West Point. For a time, Clinton was at a loss to imagine the real character behind the curtain; but, at length, he became convinced that it could be no other than Arnold himself. Hitherto, that general had treated Gustavus with cautious indifference, but no sooner was Arnold promoted to the command of West Point, than Clinton was ready to enter into negotiation with him to surrender that fortress into the hands of the British, and almost at any price which Arnold might choose to name.
The first plan devised for bringing about an interview between Arnold and Andre failed, but a second proved more successful. The Vulture, a sloop-of-war, with Colonel Robinson on board, came up the river about the 16th of September. On their arrival at Teller's Point, Robinson, who was a tory, and whose property had been confiscated by the state of New York, addressed a letter to General Putnam, relating to the recovery of his property, and forwarded it under cover of a letter to Arnold by a flag-boat. Putnam was known not to be in that quarter, but the letter to him served as a pretext to enable Robinson to communicate a plan, by which an interview could be effected.
Arnold, by means of consummate art and duplicity, had engaged a Mr. Smith, a man of respectable standing, to go on board the Vulture, and convey a gentleman there to the American shore, who would impart intelligence to him of the greatest importance to the American cause. Smith had been employed in procuring intelligence from time to time from New York for Arnold's predecessor at West Point, and at length consented to perform the service solicited by Arnold; and, that his family might not be privy to the transaction, they were removed to Fishkill, under pretence of a visit to some friends.
Thus matters were arranged; and on the night of the 21st, Smith, with two oarsmen, bribed to secresy by the promise of fifty pounds each, left the American shore, and proceeded, as related in the commencement of this account, to the Vulture.
Andre was expecting Arnold himself. Not finding him on board, but receiving a letter putting him on his guard, and inviting him to return in the boat, for a time he hesitated. Robinson was still firmer in the opinion that he should not go. But, at length, the adventurous spirit of Andre decided the point; and having cautiously concealed his uniform in a great-coat, he stepped on board the boat, which immediately proceeded towards the American shore. They landed at the foot of a mountain, called Long Clove, about six miles below Stony Point.
Arnold was in the bushes, ready to receive the stranger. Smith had expected to be present at the interview, and was not only disappointed, but exasperated, in being refused. What a spot! what a conference! what a deep and traitorous planning in midnight darkness!
The interview was long, and the patience of Smith was exhausted, but more his fears were roused. The night was far spent, and the dawning of the day was at hand. He now made known his apprehensions to the midnight traitors; but as they had not perfected their business, Smith and his oarsmen were allowed to retire.
No sooner were they gone, than Arnold proposed that Andre should proceed with him to Smith's house, and leave the manner of his return to future deliberation. This plan was replete with hazard; but no alternative presenting itself, Andre reluctantly followed. Judge his surprise, when, on approaching the American lines, a sentinel hailed them, and demanded the countersign. Andre shuddered. Arnold gave the sign, and they passed on. Andre was now, contrary to all his determinations, within the American lines, on dangerous ground, where his life and fortunes hung, as it were, upon the cast of a die.
Arnold and Andre reached Smith's about the dawn of day. Soon after, the latter made his appearance. An incident now occurred, which added to the anxiety of Andre. The sound of cannon broke upon them, which, on proceeding to a window overlooking the river, was ascertained to be from the American shore; and from the movements of the Vulture soon after down the stream, it was inferred that the fire was against her. So it proved. Believing her to lie in the river for no good purpose, Colonel Livingston had directed a fire to be opened upon her, which caused the movement observed. Andre now felt the delicacy of his situation still more, and the difficulty of his return to the sloop to be still greater.
But the duties of his mission required attention, and to its completion the plotters betook themselves. It was finally settled. The British, on a given day, were to dispatch a fleet up the river with the requisite troops: and Arnold, in order to render the seizure of the fortress easy, was previously to withdraw the garrison, and station them at different points in the neighborhood, in small detachments. In consideration of the surrender, the traitor was to receive a large amount of "British gold."
Having completed these nefarious negotiations, the manner in which Andre should return, next engrossed their deliberations. This was a question of difficult solution. Andre insisted on being put on board the Vulture; Smith was unwilling to run the hazard. Before the question was decided, Arnold left for West Point, giving to Andre passports accommodated to the manner in which it might finally be decided that he should return.
Andre spent the day in an upper room at Smith's—a long and anxious day. Towards its close, he urged Smith to take him on board the Vulture; but to his surprise and distress, the former peremptorily refused, but offered to accompany him on horseback to some point of safety. No other alternative presenting itself, Andre consented; and, having changed his military coat for a citizen's dress, over which throwing his great-coat, they departed.
Between eight and nine o'clock, they were startled by the hail of a sentinel, who ordered them to stop. "Who commands here?" inquired Smith, dismounting, and approaching the sentinel. The commander, Captain Boyd, being himself within hearing distance, approached, and demanded who the stranger was, and whither bound. Smith, ignorant of the real character of Andre, answered as Arnold had dictated; and, moreover, added that he had a pass from the general. Boyd required a sight of the pass, on perusing which, his curiosity was still more excited, and he now in private questioned Smith with still greater particularity. Smith explained the matter as well as he was able; and, by several adroit fabrications, finally induced Boyd to consent to their continuing their journey; not, however, until morning, for fear, as he pretended, they might be waylaid by the Cow-boys.[50] Andre would have purchased a release from tarrying in the neighborhood that night at any price, had he had the means; but such an overture would have been fraught with danger, and therefore, bending to necessity, they repaired to one Miller's, where they passed the night—a night of dread and fearful anticipation.
At early dawn, in order to escape the further scrutiny of Boyd, they were on their journey. At the distance of about a couple of miles from Pine's bridge, they halted, took breakfast, and separated—Smith setting out on his return, and Andre continuing his journey. Andre had now nearly thirty miles to traverse ere he was on safe ground. He had been recommended to proceed by the way of White Plains; but, on crossing the above bridge, deeming the Tarrytown road more safe, he took that, and for a time passed on without molestation.
Two plundering parties were abroad that morning from the "neutral ground;" one of which, consisting of John Paulding, Daniel Williams, and Isaac Van Wart, had concealed themselves in some bushes near the road which Andre was passing, watching there for some valuable prey.
Andre approached the spot; upon which, Paulding rose, and presenting his firelock to his breast, bid him stand. "Gentlemen," said Andre, "I hope you belong to our party." "I asked him"—we follow the testimony of Paulding on the trial of Smith—"what party? He said, 'The lower party.' Upon that I told him I did. Then he said, 'I am a British officer out of the country on particular business, and I hope you will not detain me a minute;' and to show that he was a British officer, he pulled out his watch. Upon which, I told him to dismount. He then said, 'My God! I must do any thing to get along;' and seemed to make a kind of laugh of it, and pulled out General Arnold's pass, which was to John Anderson, to pass all guards to White Plains and below. Upon that, he dismounted. Said he, 'Gentlemen, you had better let me go, or you will bring yourselves into trouble, for your stopping me will detain the general's business;' and said he was going to Dobb's ferry, to meet a person there, and get intelligence for General Arnold. Upon that, I told him I hoped he would not be offended, that we did not mean to take any thing from him; and I told him there were many bad people who were going along the road, and I did not know but perhaps he might be one."
Williams testified as follows: "We took him into the bushes, and ordered him to pull off his clothes, which he did; but on searching him narrowly, we could not find any sort of writings. We told him to pull off his boots, which he seemed to be indifferent about; but we got one boot off, and searched in that boot, and could find nothing. But we found there were some papers in the bottom of his stocking next to his foot; on which we made him pull his stocking off, and found three papers wrapped up. Mr. Paulding looked at the contents, and said he was a spy. We then made him pull off his other boot, and there we found three more papers at the bottom of his foot within his stocking."
After consultation, it was decided to take the prisoner to North Castle, where Lieutenant-colonel Jameson commanded a detachment of dragoons. Having surrendered him to Jameson, the latter for a time hesitated what disposition to make of him. The papers found upon Andre were important—in the hand-writing of Arnold, and endorsed by him.
Most men would have suspected treason—nor would Arnold himself have escaped suspicion. Yet Jameson, at length, decided to forward the papers to Washington by express, and the prisoner to Arnold. These measures had been taken, when Major Talmadge, next in command to Jameson, returned from an excursion to White Plains. On learning the incidents of the day, he expressed his surprise, and begged Jameson to dispatch a counter-order, if possible, to bring back the prisoner and the papers.
To the foregoing, Jameson finally consented, but the papers were left to be conveyed to Washington. Andre was overtaken and brought back. Talmadge, being a sagacious observer, marked Andre—his walk—his military air—his dignified bearing—and decided that the prisoner was no ordinary man. Shortly after, under escort of Talmadge, Andre was removed to Lower Salem, to await the developments of time and the orders of Washington.
The morning after their arrival at Salem, Andre requested paper and ink, and soon presented to Talmadge an open letter addressed to Washington, with a request that he would himself read and forward it.
This letter, couched in most respectful language, communicated to Washington his name, and rank in the British army, and his object in coming within the American lines.
It so happened—a wonderful interposition of Divine Providence, who can doubt?—it so happened, that on the very day that Andre wrote his letter, Washington, on his return from Hartford, arrived at Fishkill, eighteen miles from Arnold's head-quarters. Contrary to his previous intentions, he was induced to remain there during the night. In the morning, an express was dispatched early to give notice to General Arnold, that the party would reach his quarters to breakfast.
Washington and his suite followed soon after, and on coming to the road which led off to Robinson's house—Arnold's residence—Washington was proceeding towards the river. Being informed of his mistake, he observed that as he must inspect the redoubts on this side the river, he himself would forego Mrs. Arnold's breakfast, but his suite might pass on, and enjoy it. They would not, however, leave their general; and all, excepting his aids, who were sent forward to make his excuse, proceeded towards the river.
On learning that General Washington would not be there to breakfast, General Arnold and family, with the aids, proceeded to the breakfast-table.
That was the last peaceful meal Arnold was to enjoy in this world—and even the peace of that was invaded, before they were ready to leave the table. A messenger entered with a letter from Jameson—the letter which first announced the capture of Andre.
It fell as a thunderbolt upon the traitor. Yet he so far concealed his agitation before the aids, as to prevent serious suspicion that any thing uncommon had occurred. A sudden emergency called him to West Point, he said, and he begged to be excused. Having ordered a horse, he requested Mrs. Arnold's presence in her chamber, and here in few words informed her of the necessity of his fleeing for his life. He left her fainting on the floor; and, mounting, put spurs to his horse, directing his course to the river, on reaching which, he entered a boat, and fabricating a story to his purpose, ordered the men to proceed to the Vulture. The promise of reward gave impulse to their energies, and Arnold was soon safely on board of the royal sloop.
Interview of Arnold and his Wife.
Washington having completed his inspection of the redoubts, reached Arnold's soon after his departure. Understanding that he had gone to West Point, after a hasty breakfast, Washington and suite followed. But what was his surprise to learn that Arnold had not been there. After a cursory view of the fortress, the party returned to Arnold's. Meanwhile, the messenger from Colonel Jameson, with Andre's papers, had arrived.
Light was now shed upon the mystery. Arnold was a traitor, and had fled to the enemy. Measures were immediately taken to secure the fortress. An express was dispatched to Salem, with orders to have Andre conveyed to Arnold's house.
Let us hasten to the conclusion. On the 29th of September, Washington ordered a Board of Inquiry, consisting of six major and eight brigadier generals. After a full hearing of the facts, the Board reported that Major Andre ought to be considered as a spy, and, according to the laws and usages of nations, to suffer death.
The decision, though just, was painful—painful to Washington—to the Board—to the officers of the American army—but more painful, if possible, to Sir Henry Clinton and the companions of Andre in arms.
Efforts, and such as did honor to Clinton, were made to reverse the doom of Andre. Intimations were given from Washington, that upon one condition—the surrender of Arnold—Andre might be released; but to this, Clinton thought he could not in honor yield—while in the scale of affection, Andre would have outweighed a thousand traitors like Arnold. A deputation from Clinton repaired to Robinson's house under a flag, to urge the release of Andre, but no change could be effected in the mind of Washington.
Sentence of execution issued, and five o'clock, of the 1st day of October, was appointed for carrying it into effect. On the morning of that day, Andre addressed a letter to Washington, requesting that he might be allowed a soldier's death.
"Tappan, 1st October, 1780.
"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.
"Sympathy towards a soldier will surely induce your excellency, and a military tribunal, to adapt the mode of my death to the feelings of a man of honor.
"Let me hope, sir, that if aught in my character impresses you with esteem towards me—if aught in my misfortune marks me as the victim of policy, and not of resentment—I shall experience the operations of those feelings in your breast, by being informed that I am not to die on a gibbet.
"I have the honor to be your excellency's most obedient and most humble servant,
"John Andre."
To this request, Washington could not consistently accede, but to avoid needless pain, he omitted to make a reply.
The execution finally took place October 2d, at twelve o'clock—a delay having been occasioned by pending negotiations, which could not be terminated in season the previous day.
Dr. Thatcher, in his 'Military Journal,' has given the closing particulars of this tragic scene. It follows:
"The principal guard-officer, who was constantly in the room with the prisoner, relates, that when the hour of his execution was announced to him in the morning, he received it without emotion; and while all present were affected with silent gloom, he retained a firm countenance, with calmness and composure of mind. Observing his servant enter the room in tears, he exclaimed, 'Leave me till you can show yourself more manly.' His breakfast being sent to him from the table of General Washington, which had been done every day of his confinement, he partook of it as usual; and having shaved and dressed himself, he placed his hat on the table, and cheerfully said to the guard-officers, 'I am ready at any moment, gentlemen, to wait on you.' The fatal hour having arrived, a large detachment of troops was paraded, and an immense concourse of people assembled; almost all our general and field officers, excepting his excellency and his staff, were present on horseback; melancholy and gloom pervaded all ranks; the scene was affecting and awful.
"I was so near during the solemn march to the fatal spot, as to observe every movement, and participate in every emotion which the melancholy scene was calculated to produce. Major Andre walked from the stone house, in which he had been confined, between two of our subaltern officers, arm in arm; the eyes of the immense multitude were fixed on him, who, rising superior to the fear of death, appeared as if conscious of the dignified deportment which he displayed. He betrayed no want of fortitude, but retained a complacent smile on his countenance, and politely bowed to several gentlemen whom he knew, which was respectfully returned. It was his earnest desire to be shot, as being the mode of death most conformable to the feelings of a military man, and he had indulged the hope that his request would be granted. At the moment, therefore, when suddenly he came in view of the gallows, he involuntarily started backward, and made a pause. 'Why this emotion, sir?' said an officer by his side. Instantly recovering his composure, he said, 'I am reconciled to my death, but I detest the mode.'
"While waiting, and standing near the gallows, I observed some degree of trepidation; placing his foot on a stone, and rolling it over, and choking in his throat, as if attempting to swallow. So soon, however, as he perceived that things were in readiness, he stepped quickly into the wagon, and at this moment he appeared to shrink; but instantly elevating his head with firmness, he said, 'It will be but a momentary pang;' and taking from his pocket two white handkerchiefs, the provost-marshal with one loosely pinioned his arms, and with the other, the victim, after taking off his hat and stock, bandaged his own eyes with perfect firmness, which melted the hearts, and moistened the cheeks, not only of his servant, but of the throng of spectators. The rope being appended to the gallows, he slipped the noose over his head, and adjusted it to his neck, without the assistance of the executioner. Colonel Scammell now informed him that he had opportunity to speak, if he desired it. He raised the handkerchief from his eyes, and said: 'I pray you to bear me witness, that I meet my fate like a brave man.' The wagon being now removed from under him, he was suspended, and instantly expired."
Thus was cut off in the morning of life a man full of promise and expectation—one to whose personal attractions were added accomplishments, rich, varied, and brilliant—destined, but for an untimely sacrifice of himself, under the impulse of a forbidden ambition, to have reached the goal of his wishes—honor and renown. His death at the hands of the Americans, according to the usage of war, was just; but to Arnold, the pioneer in the base transaction, the news of his execution must, it would seem, have been as the bitterness of death.
But no:—Arnold had no such feelings. Conscience was seared; the generous sympathies of our nature were extinct; even the honor of a soldier, dearer to him than life itself, had expired. The long-cherished, deep-rooted, sordid passion of his soul—avarice—alone lived; and now, while Andre, who might almost be said to be the victim of that nether spirit, was mouldering in an untimely and dishonored grave, he demanded his pay. What must Clinton—the friend and patron of the high-souled and magnanimous Andre—have felt when he told out to Arnold six thousand three hundred and fifteen pounds, as the reward of his treachery!
In addition to this pecuniary reward, Arnold received the commission of brigadier-general in the British army. But, after his infamous attack on New London, and his inhuman conduct to the brave Ledyard and his garrison in Fort Trumbull, finding himself neglected by the British officers, he obtained permission to retire to England, for which he sailed in 1781 with his family.
The life of Arnold was prolonged twenty years beyond this date. But although the king and a few others in office felt compelled to notice him for a time, yet they, at length, were willing to forget him, while others despised and shunned him. Colonel Gardiner says, that when a petition for a bill authorizing a negotiation of peace was presented to the king, Arnold was standing near the throne. Lauderdale is reported to have declared, on his return to the House of Commons, that, however gracious the language he had heard from the throne, his indignation could not but be highly excited at beholding, as he had done, his majesty supported by a traitor. And on another occasion, Lord Surrey, rising to speak in the House of Commons, and perceiving Arnold in the gallery, immediately sat down, exclaiming: "I will not speak while that man (pointing to him) is in the house."
Not long after the war, Arnold removed to St. John's, in New Brunswick, where he engaged for a time in the West India trade. Subsequently, he returned to England, where he resided to the time of his death, which occurred in London, June 14th, 1804.
[XIII. CONCLUDING SCENES OF THE REVOLUTION.]
Theatre of War changed to the South—Siege of Savannah—Siege of Charleston—Battle of Camden—Battle of Cowpens—Retreat—Subsequent Movements—Battles of Guilford, Kobkirk's hill, Ninety-Six, and Eutaw Springs—Battle of Yorktown—Treaty of Peace—Cessation of Hostilities—Army disbanded—Departure of the British Army—Final Interview between Washington and his Officers—Resigns his Commission—Retires to Mount Vernon.
We must hasten to the closing scenes of the long and sanguinary contest between Great Britain and America.
The capture of Burgoyne, in 1777, was hailed, by a portion of the American people, as indicative of a speedy termination of the war. But, in these anticipations, they were destined to be disappointed. For several years following, although the contest was still continued, but little advance was made towards the termination. Battles were indeed fought, naval engagements occurred, and predatory enterprises were planned, and executed with various success; but neither power could be said at any one period to be decidedly in the ascendant. In 1779, the theatre of war was changed from the northern to the southern section of the confederacy. To this change, the British were invited by the prospect of an easier victory. That portion of the country was rendered weak by its scattered population, by the multitude of slaves, and by the number of tories intermingled with the citizens.
Partial success to the British arms was the consequence. Savannah was taken possession of, which gave the enemy, for a time, the power in Georgia. In like manner, Charleston fell into their hands, and with it, a considerable portion of the state of South Carolina. In the progress of this southern warfare, battles occurred at Camden—at the Cowpens—at Guilford Court-house—and at Eutaw Springs.