The Glorious Cause (59 page)

Lafayette completed the translation, then said, “It is not true, General.”

Washington motioned him to silence again, then looked at Rochambeau, saw puzzlement, thought, He does not understand. How can I expect that, when I do not understand myself? He put his hands flat on the table, leaned forward, said, “General Rochambeau, what must we do to gain your cooperation?”

“I am here only to obey, General. But we have been inconvenienced by our enemy. It is the nature of war. We must allow ourselves patience.”

Patience. The word bit him. He thought of Greene, imagined him at this table, that word so likely to inspire an explosion. Rochambeau seemed to read him, said, “General, the British are not going to leave their base in New York very soon. We must seek opportunity. You spoke of faith. Perhaps this is the example. I have already made a study of this war, of your adversaries. General Clinton is a man of lofty planning and poor execution. Allow him the time to open the door. My troops will remain a formidable presence in Newport. We will not abandon you, General.”

The meeting was concluded, and Washington was saluted again with the inflated tokens of affection.

He began the journey back to his headquarters in a somber silence. He scolded himself for having such high expectations, for believing that Rochambeau could be a savior. He felt drained of hope, absorbed the rhythm of the horse, staring blankly ahead. His thoughts settled into dull blackness, and he fought and grappled with his own despair. The struggle was too familiar, and he knew that tomorrow would cleanse much of it away. Once he was back at his headquarters, the business of the army would occupy him, consume him, push the despair into some dark hole in his mind.

He rode now through a cascade of falling leaves, a warm breeze that pulled them from the tall trees. He looked up, the roadway darkened above him by soft blankets of red and gold. It would not be so long before the trees were stripped bare yet again, another winter for his army to suffer. He focused ahead, thought of West Point. He had sent word of his arrival, had thought a pleasant night there might ease his mood. It had been a long while since he had enjoyed a comfortable meal with a couple as pleasantly sociable as Benedict Arnold and his charming young wife.

45. ARNOLD

N
EAR
W
EST
P
OINT,
N
EW
Y
ORK,
S
EPTEMBER 1780

He waited in the back room of the house, stared out to thick woods. He focused on the shadows, longer now, nearly gone, the sunlight high on the trees. He had eaten nothing, his stomach a hard cold knot, the smell of the food reaching him through the closed door, sickening him. He heard the sharp clink of the utensils, the spoon stirring something in a pot, each bit of noise burrowing into his brain. Their voices were unavoidable, loud and crude, and he was filled with the disgust, could imagine food slopped on plates, the men eating with their hands. They were laughing now, some obscene joke no doubt, and he shivered, strange, uncontrollable, tried to focus his mind only on the fading light beyond the window.

The three men did not share Arnold’s nervousness. Two of them were merely laborers, ordered by his authority to row a boat out into the Hudson, to make their way to a British warship, the
Vulture
, anchored downstream. If they were nervous at all, it was for the darkness, a river watched by guns of both sides. But Arnold had assured them by providing documents, allowing passage through any official blockade, permission to carry the third man, Joshua Smith, to an important meeting on board the British ship.

The house belonged to Smith’s brother, William, a Tory who was now a refugee in New York. But Joshua Smith was a patriot, offering the use of his brother’s house as a wayfaring stop on the road from New Jersey to Arnold’s headquarters opposite West Point. Smith had accepted Arnold’s invitation with nervous glee, the opportunity to perform some important task for the Continental Army, a rare opportunity to throw a slap in the direction of his brother. Smith’s mission was to carry a letter from Arnold to the
Vulture
, a letter to confirm Smith’s identity as Arnold’s trustworthy agent. If all went according to Arnold’s plan, a passenger would accompany Smith back across the river. Smith knew that the man was very important to General Arnold, had been told only that the man’s name was John Anderson. Smith would have his men row his passenger back to a quiet place near Smith’s house, where Arnold would join Anderson for a private meeting.

Arnold had given Smith the broadest hints, had planted the notion of great secrecy, a meeting of certain value to the army. Arnold had told him that the man called Anderson could be of great help to Arnold, could in fact open a passageway into New York for all manner of valuable intelligence. Smith had learned his part of the mission with complete enthusiasm, accepted his responsibility as a patriot. All they needed was darkness.

As far back as 1775, arnold’s service in the field had been extraordinary, the capture of Fort Ticonderoga, then the first mission to Canada. During the futile assault on Quebec, he had been wounded, but maintained control of an impossible nightmare, men trapped by a hard winter in a hostile land, their mission a complete disaster. The fault had been in the plan itself, not in those who carried it out, and Arnold had brought back the survivors to an army that was suffering far greater disasters from its defeats in New York. Neither the congress nor the commanding general had time to give Benedict Arnold his due.

As the war seemed to expand beyond his reach, Arnold had sought opportunities to serve, flashes of duty in quick fights, but never the key role, never the position that would bring the attention he deserved. Washington had finally recognized him, the commanding general including Arnold in the promotion lists. But many in congress believed that Connecticut had given the army too many generals, and he was passed over. It was a hard slap at his ambition, and to Arnold, the congress seemed far too impressed by men who were prominent in defeat.

When the army had gathered to confront Burgoyne, Arnold had seen another opportunity, only to be swept aside by the abysmal Horatio Gates. Gates had done nothing to secure the victory at Saratoga, and every officer on the field knew that without Arnold, and men like Morgan and Lincoln, Gates would likely have ended up in a British prison. Instead he was the savior, the great hero, and made an obscene parade of himself to the congress, while Arnold nursed a leg wound so serious he could not walk for several months.

Arnold finally received his promotion to major general only because Washington sliced through the blather in congress, convincing them to reward the man who had earned the rank. When the British abandoned Philadelphia, a crippled Arnold was assigned to command the city. But for long months, Arnold’s bitterness toward the congress festered, a growing hatred of the generals who seemed to have such talent for putting their names into the public eye. His passion for the cause began to fade, and Philadelphia became an opportunity of a different type. It was a place where the enterprising and the ingenious could profit, and Arnold took advantage. The grand social scene there had brought him alive again, and despite the hostility and the accusations of corruption, Arnold had found a comfortable home. But the congress was too close, and he began to feel the wrath of jealous men, men who envied the stature of the senior commander. He was charged with serious offenses of corruption, and congress ordered him to stand for court-martial. But the evidence was scant, the man too skilled at covering his tracks. In the end, he could only be convicted on charges so minor that a relieved Washington could eliminate the issue with a mild reprimand.

Despite his notoriety, Arnold still attended the grand ballrooms, and he was astounded to attract the eye of the most sought-after beauty in Philadelphia. Peggy Shippen seemed to adhere herself to him, and the gossip that swirled around him only increased. She was half his age, but he fell in love, and when they were married, the gossip turned more toward her than her husband. He was completely dazzled by her, jealous of the attention that even her marriage had not discouraged. He knew she was spoiled, and he enjoyed it, allowed her every indulgence he could provide. When his own resources did not satisfy, he was amazed at her own resourcefulness, her ongoing relationships with those now in New York, the Tory civilians who had gone with the British, as well as the British officers themselves. Her needs continued to grow, and he continued to accommodate her. Their private hours were the most passionate he had ever known, and he would have done anything to keep her close to him. When she began to show sadness for the loss of British elegance, whispering to him in those soft moments, yearning for the grandeur she missed, he began to see a new path, a new means to take her out of the despair of this never-ending war. The more they spoke of it, the more bitterness he had for the cause of her unhappiness. There could be no peace in Philadelphia, no peace serving in an army that abused and punished its best commanders, while elevating men like Horatio Gates to such a lofty perch. His time in Philadelphia had given him a feel for business, a flair for delicate finance. As he began to explore a new world for her, new possibilities, he was grateful that she agreed, and within a short time, it was her discreet contacts, her means of reaching her acquaintances in New York that opened the door.

He did not wrestle with a moral dilemma, did not hesitate to offer himself as currency. Peggy swept away any last doubts by observing that there could be no treason to a country that never truly existed. He anticipated that Henry Clinton would find him to be a valuable asset, worthy of significant reward by his service alone. But Clinton had disappointed him, seemed more interested in what Arnold could bring with him as a prize. It was suggested that Arnold lead a body of troops in some unwise mission, allowing himself to be cut off, forced to surrender. But there were no troops for him to lead, no looming fight that would offer him either the command or the opportunity. Instead, there would have to be a place, an outpost, a garrison, someplace Arnold could weaken with such discretion that his officers would not detect it. He could supply the plans, the details of weakness, of troop placement, all the tools the British could use for an easy conquest, a prize that Clinton would receive with grateful rewards. When Clinton agreed to his terms, it was a night of grand private celebration. Not only would she have the luxuries of New York, or perhaps even London, but he would have the means to pay for it all. As his wounds healed, and his plans hardened in his mind, he needed only to secure command of the most appropriate garrison. Washington had obliged him. All that was left was to furnish the British the advantages they would need to capture West Point.

The three men had disappeared into the darkness, had been gone for better than three hours. He paced outside the house, tried to see his watch, had gone through the same routine every few minutes. The agony of time had finally passed, and he caught the reflection from the house, the low light of a lantern. It was nearly midnight. It was time.

He climbed the horse, moved into the road. There was no moon, the black sky pierced with stars. He pushed the horse slowly, the hoofbeats drumming in his ears, muffled only by the thunder from his own heart.

He rode for several minutes, could see the gap in the trees, the designated spot. He stopped the horse, listened for a long moment. The woods around him were a cascade of noise, the roar of so many small creatures filling his ears. His breathing came in hard short gasps, and he put a hand on the icy stone in his chest. He moved the horse carefully, the trees opening into a narrow patch of grass, and ahead, the wide patch of stars broken by the tall points of fir trees. He continued on, stopped, heard different sounds, a voice perhaps. He waited, heard it again, thought, Yes! A voice, surely. Now he heard a horse, muffled sound, coming toward him, and he waited, heard a low, hard whisper.

“General?”

“Here. Right here.”

He could not see Smith’s face, the man only a dark shape, moving up close beside him, and Smith said in a low voice, “Done as you said, sir. He’s right back there, the edge of the tall firs. My men and me will wait out on the road. You come get us when you’re ready for him to go back.”

Arnold was shivering, the sweat in his clothes chilling him. He nodded, tried to make a sound, his voice choked away by the nervousness, whispered, “Yes . . . yes, good.”

Smith began to move away, and Arnold searched the darkness in front of him, the tops of the trees. Behind him, Smith said, “I hope he can give us some help. This country could use some good fortune.”

Arnold stared ahead, said, “Indeed.”

He walked the horse to the edge of the trees, stopped, dismounted. He waited a moment, took a step, said in a low voice, “Mr. Anderson?”

He heard the steps, the man moving toward him. He saw the dark shape, a small man, shrouded in a long coat. The man moved close to him, said in a low voice, “I don’t believe we are detected, General. Hardly the time for disguises, eh? Allow me to offer my introduction, sir. I am Major John André.”

They talked for four hours, negotiations and terms, details and tactics. When the talking stopped, Smith was summoned, but now there was a problem. It was after 4:00 a.m., and there was not sufficient time for the darkness to shroud André’s journey back to the
Vulture
. They rode instead to Smith’s house, to wait through a long day for the darkness to return. Arnold had gone out close to the river, could see the British ship in the distance, the safe haven for André. As the sun rose high, the air was suddenly streaked by bits of fire. The
Vulture
was a tempting target, and he realized that along the edge of that part of the river, there was at least one battery that could find the range. As he stared in desperate agony, the
Vulture
began to take damage. In barely an hour, the ship had moved to safety, disappearing far down the river, beyond the range of the guns that Arnold himself commanded. Now there was a new urgency. With the darkness would come a different task for the accommodating Mr. Smith. The man that Smith knew only as Anderson would have to reach the protection of British patrols overland, crossing a dangerous no-man’s-land patrolled only by bandits, men Arnold knew as
irregulars
. André accepted his fate, rode out with Smith carrying a pass Arnold had provided him. He also carried documents from Arnold that were meant for the eyes of Henry Clinton. As Arnold rode back to his own headquarters, he fought through his fear, eased his mind by thoughts of Peggy, pictured her waiting for him at his headquarters. André would certainly make the journey, and he swept his fears away with a marvelous daydream. Yes, very soon, she will be on my arm, strolling through the galleries of the city. They will stand aside as we parade past them, admiring the beautiful Mrs. Arnold, holding proudly to the uniform of her husband, the celebrated British general . . .