The Governor read the letter, and then walked around and around in the little room.
“It is from my son John,” said he. “He has been arrested in London, and is in prison.” The Governor continued to walk in the room.
John Trumbull had gone abroad in 1780, to study painting under the great master, Benjamin West. The British Secretary for American Affairs had assured him that he would be protected as an artist if he did not interfere in political affairs.
Colonel Trumbull once thus related the story of his arrest in a vivid way:
“A thunderbolt falling at my feet would not have been more astounding; for, conscious of having done nothing politically wrong, I had become as confident of safety in London as I should have been in Lebanon. For a few moments I was perfectly disconcerted, and must have looked very like a guilty man. I saw, in all its force, the folly and the audacity of having placed myself at ease in the lion’s den; but by degrees I recovered my self-possession, and conversed with Mr. Bond, who waited for the return of Mr. Tyler until past one o’clock. He then asked for my papers, put them carefully under cover, which he sealed, and desired me also to seal; having done this, he conducted me to a lock-up house, the Brown Bear in Drury Lane, opposite to the (then) police office. Here I was locked into a room, in which was a bed, and a strong, well-armed officer, for the companion of my night’s meditations or rest. The windows, as well as the door, were strongly secured by iron bars and bolts, and seeing no possible means of making my retreat, I yielded to my fate, threw myself upon the bed, and endeavored to rest.
“At eleven o’clock the next morning I was guarded across the street, through a crowd of curious idlers, to the office, and placed in the presence of the three police magistrates—Sir Sampson Wright, Mr. Addington, and another. The examination began, and was at first conducted in a style so offensive to my feelings that it soon roused me from my momentary weakness, and I suddenly exclaimed: ‘You appear to have been much more habituated to the society of highwaymen and pickpockets than to that of gentlemen. I will put an end to all this insolent folly by telling you frankly who and what I am. I am an American—my name is Trumbull; I am a son of him whom you call the rebel Governor of Connecticut; I have served in the rebel American army; I have had the honor of being an aide-de-camp to him whom you call the rebel General Washington.’”
He had said too much; he slept that night “in a bed with a highwayman.”
“This is not your accustomed good news, my boy,” said the Governor.
“Another ship with letters is soon expected in the fort,” said Peter. “That may bring good news.”