The steam-boat James Kent, in which we were embarked, had been prepared for this trip with the greatest care by the committee appointed by the city of New York to accompany general Lafayette; but as it had not been foreseen that so many ladies designed to be of the party, it happened that the greater part of the men were obliged to sleep upon deck, although the steam-boat contained more than eighty beds. For ourselves we in vain sought repose in a very pretty state-room, which we occupied in common with general Lewis and colonel Fish. The sound of cannon which every few minutes announced our passage by some village, and the noise of our crew, who were endeavouring to push the boat off an oyster bank, upon which she had grounded during the darkness, prevented us from sleeping; at the first dawn of day, we went upon deck to enjoy the view of the majestic banks of the Hudson. In fact, nothing can be more imposing than the aspect of these high mountains, which, covered with wood, or displaying their naked rocks, border the river almost throughout its length. On entering, for the first time, into the pass of the highlands, one feels almost disposed to share the superstitious terror of the Indians, and one understands how that phantoms and their sinister sighings have for a long time exercised their empire, even upon the first Europeans who inhabited these situations, where nature only shows herself under strange forms, and in sombre colours. To the man who delights in the recollection of the robberies of the middle ages, and loves to contemplate the ruins of old Donjon’s ancient refuges of fierce feudalities, nothing without doubt is comparable to the banks of the Rhine; but for one who prefers nature still virgin and wild, there is nothing so beautiful as the banks of the Hudson. This river has its source in the highest country between lakes Ontario and Champlain, and divides the state of New York from north to south for the length of 250 miles: it is navigable for sloops of 24 tons, as far as Albany, 160 miles from its mouth, and larger vessels can ascend as far as the village of Hudson, at the distance of 132 miles from New York. It would be difficult, I believe, to enumerate the boats of all sorts and sizes which carry on the trade between Albany and New York; the river is continually covered with them, and you can rarely sail for a quarter of an hour without meeting with a long succession of them. The tide rises a few miles above Albany, where it is twelve hours later than at New York. The water is salt for fifty miles above Albany, where the rise of the tide is commonly one foot. At Pellpel’s islands, north of the highlands, it is about four feet, and at Kinderhook, situated twenty-two miles south of Albany, three feet.
Notwithstanding the current, and contrary movement of the tide, we advanced ten miles an hour. A group of old revolutionary soldiers gathered around Lafayette on the deck, and were pleased to repeat the details of events, which were awakened in their minds by every point on the banks. We had passed Tarrytown, and at the view of this modest village, the old soldier-citizens pronounced with respect the names of the three militia men, John Paulding, David Williams, and Isaac Van Wert, who have immortalized themselves as much by their noble disinterestedness, as for the service they rendered to their country and liberty in arresting Major André. Stony Point and fort Lafayette, where Washington, by the judicious choice of a good position, had broken the communications of the English army, were far behind us, and our captain informed us we should soon see West Point, when I remarked that the regards of our travelling companions were sadly turned towards a house which stood alone, not far from the bank, to which the foot of the mountain was gently inclined. I soon heard the word traitor coupled with the name of Arnold; and this house, which excited so much indignation, was actually the one in which the infamous Arnold trafficked for the blood of his companions in arms, and for the subjugation of his country. The history of Arnold teaches a great lesson; it proves once more, the importance, in a well organized government, of not trusting offices to any but men of acknowledged morality. In a captain as in a magistrate, courage or talent without probity are dangerous qualities, which cannot be employed without exposure to great risks.
Arnold was born in Connecticut, but nature appears to have denied him the virtues which so strongly characterize the inhabitants of that state; however, from the commencement he embraced the sacred cause of his country with ardour. His military talent, courage in battle, resignation and patience under fatigues and privations, and especially his brilliant services during the Canadian expedition, had gained him great reputation in the army, and the confidence of Congress, which did not think it too high a recompence to raise him to the rank of a major general. He was wounded before Quebec, and was not yet entirely recovered from his wounds, when the city of Philadelphia was entrusted to him, after it was evacuated by the British in 1778.
Unfortunately, Arnold, along with the bravery he had shown before the enemy, had nothing of that firmness of principle, and rectitude of judgment, which alone could have enabled him to resist the numerous seductions which necessarily surrounded him in the brilliant situation he now held. Urged on by pride and a ridiculous vanity, and forgetting his want of the resources of a large personal fortune, he launched into all the unnecessary expenses of a sumptuous table and luxurious train. He soon contracted debts beyond his revenue; in the hope of liquidating which he entered into speculations which his official duties forbade, and which had most disastrous results. Pushed by the demands of his creditors, he sought relief by embezzlement of public money; but the investigation of a committee of Congress discovered a considerable deficit in his accounts, many citizens of Philadelphia complained of his numerous exactions, and the government of Pennsylvania accused him of still more grievous offences. Finally, in the month of June 1778, Congress arrested and tried him by a court martial, which found him guilty, and condemned him to be reprimanded by the commander in chief. This sentence was approved by Congress, and carried into effect in the beginning of 1779. Furious at being thus struck at the same time by the law and public opinion, Arnold made bitter complaints against what he called the ingratitude of his fellow-citizens, and swore to be revenged.
Great importance was at that time attached to the fortress of West Point, for the preservation of which the American army had manœuvred a long time, and frequently fought. This position was regarded as the key of communication between the eastern and southern states. In fact, its situation upon the brow of one of the highest mountains on the right bank of the Hudson, and its double row of batteries and redoubts, planned by the most skilful engineers, made an excellent defensive post, the occupation of which gave great influence over the state of New York. Arnold was not ignorant of this, and cast his eyes upon this important point to wreak his vengeance. By force of intrigue and importunities, he obtained the command of West Point, at the moment he wrote to the English colonel, Robinson, that he abjured his revolutionary principles, and sincerely desired to regain the esteem of the king, by a striking proof of his penitence. This letter opened between him and sir Henry Clinton an active correspondence conducted with great secrecy. The principal object of this correspondence was to decide upon the means of throwing the fortress of West Point as speedily as possible into the hands of the English. To conduct this intrigue with greater certainty, the English general selected one of his aids, major André, a young man equally distinguished by his amiable qualities and military talents, who had already acquired an excellent reputation among his companions in arms. A sloop of war named the Vulture, carried up the Hudson as far as the King’s ferry, twelve miles below West Point: from this place his communications with Arnold became more frequent and easy, but for a fuller understanding, it was indispensable that they should have an interview, which Arnold insisted upon: André at first refused, either because he felt a repugnance at finding himself in contact with a traitor, or because he deemed it unworthy of a loyal officer to penetrate an enemy’s lines under a name and dress not his own. However, urged by a desire of answering the confidence of his general, he finally accepted the rendezvous, which had been proposed for the night at the house of one Joshua Smith, who was reputed to belong secretly to the English party. Smith himself came in search of major André during the night of the 21st of September, and brought him on shore in a boat rowed by his own servants. André was received by Arnold on the bank, and conducted to the house of Smith, where he remained concealed until the next night. The conference being terminated, and the plans definitively settled, André wished to profit by the darkness of the night to retire; but on coming to the shore, he found that the Vulture had been obliged to haul off, to avoid the fire of a battery with which she was threatened; the boatmen who had brought him on shore, refused to carry him to the sloop of war, and he was obliged to decide upon returning to New York by land. To hasten his march, Smith furnished him with a horse, and to render it secure, Arnold gave him a passport, under the name of John Anderson, charged with public service. This passport served him to get successfully through the American lines, and arrive at Crompond, where Smith, who had accompanied him, took leave, after giving him directions for continuing his journey. He was approaching the English lines near Tarrytown, when suddenly a militia man, who was patrolling between the two armies with two others, his comrades, rushed from behind a bush, and seized his horse by the bridle. This sudden arrest deprived André of his wonted presence of mind, and instead of presenting his passport, he asked the militia men, “to which side do you belong?” “to below,” was the reply; (the English army which occupied New York was thus designated;) “and so do I,” imprudently answered André. Scarcely had he uttered this fatal avowal, when the arrival of the two other militia men revealed to him his error and danger. He thought to remedy the one and escape the other, by offering to his captors a purse full of gold, his very valuable watch, and by promising them, if they would let him go, great wealth, and the protection of the English government. The more brilliant the rewards he promised, the more were the three militia men persuaded that his arrest would be serviceable to the cause of independence, and they rejected his offers with disdain, declaring that though they were very poor, all the gold upon earth would not tempt them to forego their duty, and they immediately commenced a rigorous search of their unfortunate prisoner, to discover if he conveyed any papers capable of explaining his real character. Their suspicions were confirmed by finding in his boots exact plans of the approaches and defences of West Point, and many other details in Arnold’s hand writing, confirmed their suspicions: they conveyed him to lieutenant colonel Jamieson, who commanded the outposts. André, without doubt, intending to let Arnold know that he must take care of his own safety, demanded that Arnold should be immediately informed of the arrest of his officer Anderson, on the way to New York. On the receipt of this news the traitor fled, and sought the recompence of his infamy in the ranks of the British army.
Major André declared himself a British officer as soon as he thought Arnold was in safety. The immediate return of general Washington, hastened the formation of a court martial, of which general Greene was president, and general Lafayette and Baron Steuben, were among the members. André appeared before this tribunal under the terrible accusation of being a spy. His judges treated him with great deference and lenity, and he was informed from the beginning of his trial, that he need not answer any question which could wound his conscience. But the young unfortunate, more jealous of his honour than of his life, freely avowed his projects, and exposed his conduct without concealment, taking no other pains than to exculpate those who had aided his enterprise. His courage deeply affected his judges, who could scarcely conceal their emotion in signing his condemnation. For himself he awaited his fate with resignation. His last moments were worthy of his noble character; the following details of which are given by an eye-witness, Dr. Thacher.[[14]]
Extract from Thacher’s Journal.
“October 2d.—Major André is no more among the living. I have just witnessed his exit. It was a tragical scene of the deepest interest. During his confinement and trial, he exhibited those proud and elevated sensibilities which designate greatness and dignity of mind. Not a murmur nor a sigh ever escaped him, and the civilities and attentions bestowed on him were politely acknowledged. Having left a mother and two sisters in England, he was heard to mention them in terms of the tenderest affection, and in his letter to Sir Henry Clinton, he recommends them to his particular attention.
“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, and the scene was affectingly awful. I was so near during the solemn march to the fatal spot, as to observe every movement, and to participate in every emotion which the melancholy scene was calculated to produce. Major André 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 fears of death, appeared as if conscious of the dignified conduct 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 backwards, 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 prisoner, 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 awkward executioner. Colonel Scammel now informed him that he had an 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 immediately expired; it proved indeed, “but a momentary pang.” He was dressed in his royal regimentals and boots, and his remains in the same dress, were placed in an ordinary coffin, and interred at the foot of the gallows. Thus died in the bloom of life, the accomplished major André, the pride of the royal army, and the valued friend of Sir Henry Clinton.” [Thacher’s Military Journal, 1780, p. 272, &c.]
Some time after Arnold fled from West Point, and when he had already signalized himself by the ferocity with which he tore the bosom of his country by all the horrors of war, an American grenadier was brought into his presence who had been taken prisoner in a skirmish. Arnold recognized him as having served under his orders at West Point, and interrogated him upon the impression his flight had produced upon the garrison. The bold grenadier answered him with frankness, and did not in the least disguise the general indignation. “What would they have done, had they taken me?” “We should have buried your leg wounded before Quebec with honour, and have hung the rest of your body upon the gibbet.”