Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1847], The treason of Arnold: a tale of West Point during the American revolution (James A. Barnes, Jonesville, Mass.) [word count] [eaf211].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
THE
TREASON OF ARNOLD.
A
TALE OF WEST POINT.
DURING THE
AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“Lafitte,” “Burton,” &c. &c.
JONESVILLE, (TEMPLETON) MASS.
PUBLISHED BY JAMES M. BARNES.
1847.
Preliminaries
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Main text
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CHAPTER FIRST.
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The disc of the setting sun just touched the outline of the
forests crowning the heights of Hoboken, on a bright afternoon
in September, 1780, when a single horseman made his appearance
on the river-road leading from Tarrytown to New York, towards
which place, then in the possession of the British troops
under Sir Henry Clinton, he was slowly trotting his horse. His
journey was nearly ended with the day, for the needle-like spire
of Trinity Church had been, for the last half hour, a prominent
object in his eye, and the expanded bay, girt with its majestic islands,
and covered with the fleets of England, assured him that
he was approaching the headquarters of the British armies.
He rode slowly along, with his arms folded across his breast,
and the reins dropped carelessly over the drooping neck of his
large brown horse, who stumbled and floundered over the rough
road as if he had been ridden fast and far. The horseman was
a heavily-framed man, with a dark countenance, rendered still
darker by thick brows and whiskers. His face wore an expression
of dogged resolution and reckless daring. His costume was
partly that of a yeoman, partly military,—a fustian frock buttoned
to the throat, and reaching to the stirup, and a broad flapping
hat that he wore,—belonging to the class of yeomanry, and a
leathern belt stuck with a brace of pistols, and sustaining a serviceable
broadsword, with stout buff, buck-skin breeches, somewhat
soiled and darkened by long service,—appertaining to the
latter profession. He appeared lost in thought, and indifferent to
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surrounding objects; but the alert and wary movements of his
eyes, and, what a little closer scrutiny discovered, one hand of
his folded arms resting on the butt of a pistol, and the other
grasping the hilt of his broadsword, showed that he was on watch
for sudden danger, and prepared to meet it.
He had just gained the brow of a gentle declivity over which
the road wound, from whence there was a view of the town, and
from which the broad banner of England, floating above the
quarters of General Clinton, was full in sight, when the sun dipped
beneath the horizon; at the same instant the report of the
sunset gun fired from the Battery reached his ears—the flags on
fort and shipping descended from their staffs, and over the fortified
town night and watchfulness took the place of day and security.
The horseman now gathered the reins in his huge, brown
fist, settled himself in his saddle, and muttering, in a sort of subdued
growl:
“Come, Bruin, we have loitered full long—stir, stir! a measure
of corn and a cup of sack await us at the inn; so forward!”
He applied, as he spoke, both spur and whip to the sides of
his beast, who, forthwith, throwing back his ears, set off towards
the town at a round pace.
A short ride further through a straggling suburb brought him
in front of a low barrier thrown across the street, with a sentinel
pacing before it, and a guard-house with a group of soldiers a
few yards within, on the left. When he came in sight of this
obstacle, instead of checking, he urged his horse forward, and
rode directly towards it as if he intended to clear it at a flying
leap. The sentinel, on perceiving him, challenged, in a stern
tone. Without replying, he continued to advance at speed till
within ten feet of the gate, when, with a sudden and powerful
jerk, he threw his horse backward on his haunches, and leaped
off to the ground, just as the ball from the sentinel's musket hummed
harmlessly over his head.
“Well aimed for a beef-fed John Bull,” cried the horsemam,
with a loud laugh, springing into his saddle again. The corporal
of the guard, with his command, on hearing the report of the
piece, hastened to the post, and a dozen muskets were instantly
levelled at the rider, who sat immoveably on his steed, gazing
coolly on his adversaries.
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“How, sir! What means this bravado?” demanded the corporal
of the guard; “surrender, or I fire upon you.”
“Softly, good sir corporal! You've wasted powder enough
already. I did but try to see how well you kept the barriers—
and what mettle your men are made of; for the story goes that
a pretty wench or a jug of whiskey can cross your post in broad
noon, and the sentinel's never the wiser. It's “Who goes there?”
“Man with a jug o' whiskey.” “Stand, man! advance jug o'
whiskey and give us a taste.” Or, “Who goes there?” “Husband
and wife.” “Stand, husband! advance wife and give us a
kiss!” Ha, ha, ho! this is your system of tactics down in York,
they say up above. Ho, ha, ha!”
His laugh met no other return than a few round oaths from
the soldiers, while the corporal replied, “You should come then
in a wench's shape to test us, fellow.”
“Wench or whiskey, I must go into the town.”
“Show your passport.”
The man drew from his pocket an iron box, deliberately tapped
the lid, opened it, took therefrom a pinch of snuff, and
handed it over to the soldiers. One of them, only, acknowledged
the compliment by thrusting his arm through the barrier
and helping himself to half the contents.
“So, ho, man, you'd best take a shovel and fill your knapsack.
Here, sergeant, is my passport,” added the horseman, thrusting
his fingers beneath the snuff, and extracting a folded paper, crumpled
and dingy. It was pronounced correct. “Now, pass, sir,”
said the subaltern, “but if you approach the next post after this
fashion, may they send a score of bullets through your jacket.
I should not have borne with you as I have, but my orders led me
to look out for one of your cut and kidney.”
While he was speaking the barrier was thrown open, and the
horseman dashed through with a coarse joke at the expense of
the soldiers, which, in the breasts of those gentlemen, excited
wrath rather than mirth. In a few seconds horse and rider were
lost to their gaze in the increasing darkness and gloom of the
distant streets. After riding a short distance, the stranger turned
from the principal street to the left, and entered a winding
lane, which, by a circuitous route, led him towards the Battery.
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On the corner of this street, (then called Queen,) and Broad
street, he came to an inn, from which proceeded the sounds of
mirth and music. Here he drew rein and dismounted amid a
throng of idlers, gave his horse to a negro hostler with strict injunctions
to take the best care of him, and then, with the cool
impudence of a man confident in great physical powers, passed
through the crowd, jostling, to either side, soldier and townsman,
and entered the house. Proceeding directly to the tap-room,
which was filled with smokers and tipplers, he called loudly:
“Black Sam!”
“Here, sir. What gen'lman wish?”
“A can of ale dashed with brandy.”
Then striding across the room, he flung himself into a chair,
which a little, thin man vacated at his approach, and throwing
his feet over a table on which three or four men with blue coats,
cockades, and strait swords, were resting their mugs, he received
his potation, with the addition, also, of a pipe and tobacco.
Leaving him to discuss these at his leisure, the object of alehouse
curiosity and the centre of sundry ominous glances, we
will change our scene to the quarters of Sir Henry Clinton.
CHAPTER SECOND.
At the period of our story the British army under General Clinton
held quiet possession of New York. Sir George Rodney,
with a fleet, recently arrived from Great Britain, rode at anchor
in the bay. General Washington, with his army, lay at West
Point and along both shores of the Hudson, augmenting his
forces, and making extraordinary preparations,—with the cooperation
of the French fleet and army, under Count de Rochambeau
and the Chevalier de Terney, lying at Rhode Island,—to
attack New York. With this object in view, vast magazines of
military stores, including vessels, batteaux, cannon, and provisions,
had been collected at West Point. Sir Henry Clinton was
informed of this through spies; and it became an object with
him to get possession of this post, not only that he might defeat
the scheme of the Americans, but also open an avenue of
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communication with the army in Canada. But independent of
either of these objects, he saw, indeed, that on the possession of
the Highlands by the British army, rested solely the tenure by
which New York could much longer be held by the crown.
Therefore, he prepared to direct all his energies to the accomplishment
of this design—to concentrate all his strength to this
one object, with the determination to seek no other conquest until
the flag of Great Britain should float above the citadel of
West Point and its dependencies.
The quarters of Sir Henry Clinton were in a mansion called
the `Kennedy-House,' on the southwest corner of Broadway, adjoining
the Battery. About eight o'clock on the evening of our
story, it presented a gay scene. Before the door a military band
were, at intervals, playing popular national airs; officers were
promenading up and down, or lounging about the hall-entrance in
conversation; horses, held by orderlies, champed their bits impatiently,
and pawed the ground; the apartments were brilliant with
lights, and, from the open windows, came the laughter and musical
voices of women; children were playing about the equestrian
statue of George the Second in the Bowling-green, and a little
further off, on the sward, a party of youths and maidens of the
city, taking advantage of a waltz played by the band, were whirling
around in dizzy circles with great spirit. All was life and
gaiety, and no where were visible any signs of the sanguinary
war that filled the land.
Within the mansion, and in a small, plain, but richly furnished
apartment, sat around a table, to which the wine and dessert
had been transferred from the adjoining dining room, a party
consisting altogether of gentlemen. At the time we are introduced
to them, one of the number, a middle aged man, with an
air of command, and habited in a military surtout, which betrayed
no insignia of the wearer's rank, was warmly speaking, while
the others were interested listeners.
“Now, gentlemen, I have shown you the importance of the
secret correspondence I have so long been engaged in through
Major Andre, with this unknown individual. That he is in the
confidence of Washington is certain. His information has never,
in a single instance, proved incorrect. In his last
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communication, he said the time had at length arrived when it had become
expedient, and was for our interests, to bring the affair to
a crisis; saying further, that, if I complied with his terms action
should at once take the place of writing. These terms, and the
means of obtaining an interview with him, he did not mention,
but promises to send us, by a special messenger, a full exposition
of his views, and his real name, for which, hitherto, he has adopted
“Gustavus,” as Andre has that of “John Anderson.”
“Have you any idea, Sir Henry, who your mysterious correspondent
may be?” asked a gentleman in the uniform of a British
Admiral, who was seated opposite to him.
“I have my suspicions, Rodney; but until the arrival of the
letters to destroy or confirm them, I will not injure the fair fame,
even of a foe, by whispering them.”
At this instant a slave in a livery of silver and green, entered
the room with coffee, when, through the half-open door, a noise
came from the street of voices in uproarious altercation.
“What's the disturbance without there, Nero?” demanded Sir
Henry Clinton, half rising from the table.
“Ony de press-gang, massa! Dey cotch big rebel at black
Sam's—he no want to go `board ship, mas' Rodney—so um yell
little bit—dat's all, massa Knyphors'um.”
“I was afraid, General Knyphausen,” said Clinton, resuming
his seat, and addressing a stout, corpulent officer, with stiff, white
hair, highly powdered, wearing the uniform of a foreigner of
high military rank. “I was afraid your thick-sculled Germans
and my English guards were at loggerheads again. Hark! what
is that?”
“To the main-guard with him! Drag him to the Sugar-House!
Give him a birth in the Old Jersey!” mingled with the
clashing of weapons, came loudly from the street.
“It is time for me to interfere,” said Clinton, rising and advancing
through the hall, followed by the others. “They have
a harder case than common to deal with; and, I fear, notwithstanding
my strict orders, blood will be shed in their anxiety to
secure him.”
When they reached the door they saw, by the light of the
lamps, a gigantic fellow with his back planted against the iron
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railing enclosing the equestrian statue of the King, defending
himself with a huge broadsword from the assault of half a dozen
men in blue coats and cockades, who were thrusting at him with
swords, but unable, from the circling sweep of his powerful weapon,
with which he kept clear a wide space around him, to get
near enough to use them with effect.
“Hold, men!” cried General Clinton, as the leader of the assailants
drew a pistol, and was levelling it at the man's breast,
swearing he would put an end to the contest. “Put up your
pistol, captain of the gang—and you, fellow, give your weapon to
the captain of the guard.”
“If he will have it let him take it,” said the man menacingly.
“I am protected by a fair passport, and was quietly on my way
from the inn where I put up, to these quarters, when these skulking
chaps followed and set upon me here; and by — if they
hav'nt had a taste of my quality by this time, perhaps they'd like
to trouble me again.”
“Advance corporal of the guard and secure him,” said General
Clinton sternly.
“Charge bayonets! Forward-march!” cried the subaltern,
who, on the first alarm, had turned out his command. The press-gang
opened to either side and left our quondam horseman exposed
to the bristling row of bayonets that advanced upon and enclosed
him.
“Surrender!” cried the sergeant of the guard.
“I am an American citizen—the bearer of a message to General
Clinton, and am protected by his passport. Lay a finger on
me at your peril.” As he spoke he drew a pistol from his belt
and cocked and levelled it at the head of the corporal.
“Ha! says he?” exclaimed Sir Henry Clinton, hearing his
words, and turning to Sir George Rodney; “our man by haliden.
Stand back corporal. Fellow, I am General Clinton. If you
are the bearer of papers to me, come forward and deliver them.
First resign your weapons.”
The man advanced, gave up his pistols aud sword, and, taking
his passport, gave it to the General, who, after glancing at it said:
“It is as I thought. Follow me.”
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Accompanied by the other gentlemen, and followed by the
messenger, Sir Henry Clinton led the way to the apartment he
had left; when closing the doors, and satisfying himself that he
was secure from interruption, he turned to the man and demanded
the letters of which he was the bearer. Unbuckling his belt
he touched a concealed spring in the empty scabbard, when the
steel dropped to the ground. Taking it up he drew from it three
rolls of thin Indian paper addressed to Sir Henry Clinton, and
gave them to him.
After rapidly glancing over the contents, the British General
energetically struck the table. “Gentlemen, it turns out as I anticipated.
My secret correspondent is —. You may leave
the room “trusty Jack Smithson,” as I see it is on the back of
the letters. Ho! without there. Markham, take Mr. Smithson
under your care till I want him again, and see that he neither
leaves the house nor has communication with any one.”
The captain of the guard received his charge and retired.
“It is as I thought,” continued Sir Henry Clinton, “General
Arnold is my correspondent.”
“Arnold!” exclaimed the others simultaneously.
“Arnold, and none other—and on this supposition have I so
long kept up the correspondence. We will now examine these
letters. Here is one endorsed “important and strictly private.”
Breaking the seal, he rapidly run his eyes over it; his features as
he read lighting up with animation. Suddenly rising, he said
with energy, “This affair has got to assume a magnitude and
importance I had not anticipated. This morning General Arnold
took the command at West Point.”
“At West Point,” repeated Rodney, with surprise.
“Then it is ours,” said General Knyphausen, shivering his
glass on the board in the animation of the moment.
“Listen to his proposal. He makes me a direct offer to surrender
himself, West Point, and its dependencies, with all the
military stores and provisions, cannon, vessels, and flotillas, in
such a manner as to contribute every advantage to His Majesty's
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arms, and the safety of our men. Now, gentlemen, are we in a
way to pluck the fruit so long ripening.”
“There is, indeed, an opening for a successful operation that
claims our most assiduous care,” said Sir George Rodney. “West
Point appears to me an object of such vast importance that no
hazard or expense ought to be weighed against it. It will give
us control of the Hudson from the sea to its source, facilitate our
intercourse with the Northern army, and be a barrier to the intercourse
between New England and the States of Jersey, New
York, and Pennsylvania.”
“And alsho, vat is of equal importanshe,” said General Knyphausen;
“it vill terange the plan of te kombined armies ant
vleet of te Fransh ant te Americans in teir contemplate attack on
dis city of Neuve York.”
“West Point must be ours, gentleman,” said General Clinton
decidedly. “From its peculiar position and strength, it is the
Gibraltar of this rebel country, and must be taken before we can
get a permanent foot-hold in America. Its possession offers to us
all the advantages you have named. But on the ground alone of
defeating the projected attack on New York, it becomes us to
pursue any plan that will place it in our hands. Not only will
its capture serve to defeat the project of a combined attack, but,
by cutting off their supplies, produce disaffection, and ultimately
desertion in the ranks of the rebels, and excite discontent among
their French allies. It will be of incalculable advantage to the
service, and crown the campaign with triumphant success. Let
us now see what further this traitor-General has to say. He is no
stickler, but comes out with a clean breast. Ho! here is the
whole gist of the matter. Hear, gentleman!” continued he, reading
from the paper in his hand. `I wish you to send some one
in your confidence, (I should prefer Major Andre, and, indeed do
not desire to negotiate with any one else, as I deem him the most
befitting person) fully authorised by your house to confer with
me, that the risk and profits of the co-partnership may be fully
and clearly understood. A speculation might at this time be made
to some advantage with ready money.' “Bah! this then is the
way the wind blows.”
“Sent to him, Generale, von pag of monies to py Vest Poin.”
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“So Arnold has a mercenary, as well as a revengeful motive in
this treason,” said Rodney with some surprise.
“I am told his extravagant style of living has involved him in
irretrievable pecuniary embarrassments, that he has resorted to
shifts, as trustee of public funds, that have laid him open to suspicion
and lost him the confidence of Congress; the first intimation
of the displeasure of which, was conveyed to him by the promotion
of five Major-generals over his head. A brave officer he
certainly is; but no excess of physical courage can atone for the
want of moral principle, of which he seems entirely destitute.
He is proud, vain, and hasty of speech, with many private vices
which he has vainly hoped to gloss over by the brilliancy of his
military career. In this he has been unsuccessful, and his elevated
rank only makes more conspicuous the man's private actions.
Smarting under mortification, disgust, and the stings of wounded
self-love, he has determined to avenge his real or fancied wrongs
on his country, and has resolved to offer her up as a sacrifice to
his injured pride. He accordingly wrote to me, under the signature
of `Gustavus,' assuming, as you have just seen in the paragraph
I read to you, the character of a merchant. This was
eighteen months ago. The correspondence had continued for a
twelvemonth, before I could arrive at any probability as to who
he might be. At length, being confident, from the accuracy and
importance of his information, that he must be of high rank, and
a member of Washington's councils of war, I began to make myself
acquainted with the characters of the American Generals,
and investigate their histories, to discover what sufficient causes
of dissatisfaction existed, to induce any one of them to turn traitor
to his country. My suspicions, from obvious reasons, rested
on General Arnold, and we now see that they are confirmed. It
is gold the gentleman wants, and it must not be withheld, for it
is plain he will not stir a step without being paid for it. I must
send Andre to close the `bargain' with him, forthwith.”
“But” said Admiral Rodney, “how shall we be able to take
advantage of this man's treason? We cannot place an expedition
to take possession of West Point in secret, and Washington
will be prompt to defeat any scheme for which we make open
preparations.”
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“Every body knows, Sir George, that we have long contemplated,
with the aid of your fleet, an expedition to the Chesapeake
This will be a good mask to cover our real designs. Under this
feint we must prepare for a sudden movement up the Hudson.”
“Admiral. I second it with all my heart,” exclaimed Rodney.
“'Tish ver' exshellant. Ve vill take te repel vort now, Sir
Shorge ant Sir Henree.”
A little more conversation followed, in which the steps to be taken
for bringing the important affair to a crisis, were settled; the
messenger was called in and dismissed with letters to Arnold,
when the two gentlemen took their departure, to make preparations
for the contemplated movement against West Point, and
promptly second the treachery of its commander.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
About three o'clock the following afternoon, a sloop of war got
under weigh in the harbor of New York, and spreading sail after
sail, stood boldly up the Hudson. As night approached she entered
the Highlands, and came to an anchor off Verplanck's point,
and within range of an American battery thrown up on the head-land.
Her progress up the river had been watched by spectators on
shore, with apprehension not unmingled with curiosity. But as
she stood standing on her course without manifesting any hostile
purpose, she was supposed to bear a flag for the purpose of opening
a treaty with Washington, and was suffered to pass the several
batteries that lined the shore, without being fired into.
After she had swung round to her anchor, and her sails were
furled and a double watch set, two gentlemen came on deck, and
took an elevated position on the quarter deck from which, with
night-glasses they began carefully to reconnoitre the land. One
of them was in the uniform of an English Naval Captain, and
was the commander of the vessel. The other was a handsome
young man, with noble features, a manly and elegant person, refined
by an air of grace and high breeding. He was dressed as
a British Army officer, and his bearing was marked by the frankness
of the soldier, tempered with the courtesy of an
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accomplished gentleman. While his companion constantly kept the glass to
his eye, in the direction of the western shore, he paced the deck
with an impatient step. At length he paused for an instant to
glance landward, and exclaimed in a disappointed tone:
“No boat yet Captain? The night is advancing!”
“Nothing in sight but a brace of rebel barges, that are lying
off, and on, to prevent us communicating with the shore. They
suspect us strongly of being here on mischief, and the good
dames inland, doubtless tremble for their poultry and dairies.”
“A boat!” cried the young officer, who, while the Captain was
speaking, had placed the glass to his eye. “It is putting towards
the ship. Ah! By Heaven! all is lost! The guard-boat has
challenged and detained it! No, they are permitted to pass, and
are rapidly approaching. It must be him we seek! I will receive
him in your state room, Sutherland. I have some papers to
prepare beforehand, and will leave to you the honor of ushering
the gentleman below.”
The officer had left the deck but a few minutes, when the watch
on the forecastle suddenly sung out in a rough stern voice, “Boat
ahoy!”
“Holloa!” was the distant reply, in a voice equally hoarse.
“What boat is that?”
“Ferry-boat!”
“Is this the way you come athwart His Majesty's hawser?”
growled the officer of the watch.
“Order that boat alongside!” said the Captain, advancing to
the gangway.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The boat was pulled alertly alongside, and a man stepped from
her and ascended the side.
“Which is Mr. John Anderson,” he asked in a bold, swaggering
manner.
“If you have business with any one on board the Vulture, you
bear some token from him you came from?” said the Captain
half interrogating.
“West Point,” said the man in a subdued tone.
“'Tis right. Follow me below.”
“Where is Gen—the principal?” exclaimed the young officer,
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on seeing a rough, gigantic fellow, enter the cabin behind his
friend.
“On shore,” said Smithson, gruffly, “and bade me give you
this letter if you be Mr. John Anderson.”
“Give it me!” he said, taking it from his hesitating hold and
tearing it open. `This will be delivered to you,' he read, `by
Smithson, who will take you to a retired place on shore, where
with perfect saftey to yourself, we can confer togather on the matters
touching your mission to the Highlands. Gustavus.'
“Leave the ship! By—no, Andre,” said the Captain: “I allow
no soul on board the Vulture to put foot on rebel soil. If this
General wants to see you, he must come here.”
“That he was to meet me on board, I certainly understood from
his letters to Sir Henry,” said Major Andre; “but if he fears to
trust his person with us, I see no alternative but to do as he desires.”
“Not if Harry Sutherland can help it shall you have any thing
to do with his proposition. If you are caught on shore, they'll
hang you as sure as the devil. No, no. `Twill never do, my dear
boy. Never! If he wants to see you let him come and see you
here.”
“My dear Sutherland, the advantages in this matter are not his,
but ours, and we must not calculate risks in securing them, so
vast and important as they are to His Majesty's arms. My own
life is nothing weighed against the value of West Point. But
there is no need of sacrificing life. There is no danger under
cover of night, of going on shore and meeting this man; an hour's
time will suffice for the interview, and I shall be on board again,
by two hours before daybreak.
“Major Andre, I'll be — if you do.”
“Not a word, Sutherland,” said the officer playfully, “this
project must not be given up at a time when it is about to be crowned
with success—the hour has arrived when the fruits of our long
pending negotiation may be gathered—when the hopes of General
Clinton may be realised—when the reward for which we have so
long toiled, may be reaped. Fanciful apprehensions ought to
have no weight with me now; nothing, life itself would not make
me waver. Every thing depends on me this night. I will go on
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shore and meet Arnold. I see no great risk in it, and what there
is, I cheerfully encounter for the sake of the object I have in view.”
“Well, do as you will, Andre. I have no power to control your
movements, my orders being to afford you every means of achieving
successfully your object. If you must go,—go, and God bless
you! but I fear evil will come of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTH.
Shortly afterwards, enveloped in a blue greatcoat, which entirely
hid his uniform, Andre went over the side into the boat accompanied
by Smithson, and in a few moments they were lost to
the eyes of those on deck in the shadows of the shore. In the
boat was a negro, who, with Smithson, pulled actively towards
the land, and in a quarter of an hour after leaving the ship, the
little skiff shot into a narrow inlet, shrouded by the beetling cliffs,
in impenetrable gloom. Andre instinctively laid his hand on his
pistols and assumed an attitude of caution and defence. The
oars were laid aside as they entered the creek, and the men drew
the boat some distance inland under the branches of the overhanging
trees. At length they ceased their exertions.
“We must be near the spot now, Sambo. Open the whites of
your eyes and look sharp about you.”
“'Tis so goramity dark, massa Jack, nigger no see one debbil
bit. Dis look wery like de place, nebberdeless. Chow! hear
dat bull-frog close here, mass Jack? I hearn him here when we
lef? Ki! 'tis jis de place for sartain sure.”
“Boat, there!” said a low voice from a short distance off.
“Boat it is!” answered Smithson.
“Have you been successful!”
“He is here.”
An exclamation of satisfaction was uttered; a heavy footstep
hastily approached, and the indistinct figure of a man appeared
on the bank. The next instant a dark lantern was sprung by him,
and a bright light shone into the boat, exposing the occupants,
while the individual behind it remained invisible.
“You are welcome, sir,” said the stranger, after a moment's
survey of the party. “Smithson you will remain in charge of
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the boat, and take it round to where I have directed you to meet
us.”
The British officer now landed. The greeting between the
two persons was marked, by haughtiness on one part, and fawning
courtesy on the other. The words of the Englishman, in exchanging
salutations, were few and brief. The other, who was a
stout gentlemanly looking man, with a decided military air, without
noticing his manner, passed his arm through his, and led him
by the light of the lantern a few yards from the boat to a forest
path, in which stood two saddled horses, tied to a tree.
“You will mount one of these horses, if you please, sir,” said
the stranger, who, it is perhaps unnecessary to say, was General
Arnold.
“How mean you, General Arnold?” demanded Andre, in surprise:
“is not our interview to take place here?”
“So far as conversation goes it might, sir. But I have a portion
of correspondence, several important documents, plans of
correspondence, and other papers necessary to our purpose, to exhibit
to you. For these we must have lights and the privacy of
a room.”
“Well.”
“A short distance from this place is a retired house, tenanted
by Smithson. He is away, and there we shall be private. I have
brought these horses that we may ride thither.”
After hesitating an instant, the young Englishman, as if determined
to risk every thing to effect the object of his mission, said
abruptly, “mount, sir, I attend you.”
For a few moments they threaded the forest path, and then
emerged into a highroad, where their way, from the absence of
trees, became lighter. They rode forward in silence, for neither
(the one, probably from contempt, the other from shame at the
degrading part he was playing) felt disposed to converse, except
on the topic that had brought two such opposite spirits in contact,
and this had been mutually deferred till their arrival at the place
of their destination. Suddenly the dark meditations of Arnold,
and the pleasing recollections of England, with which the light-hearted
Andre was beguiling the way, were interrupted by the
stern challenge of a sentinel, a few yards in advance. Andre
looked up and saw that they were just entering a small village.
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“Friends!” replied Arnold.
“Advance and give the countersign.”
“Congress.”
“Pass, friends.”
All this passed like a dream to Andre's senses. In an instant,
however, he realized the full extent of his danger, reined in his
horse and half turned to fly. Arnold's hand was instantly laid
on his bridle. “This is no time to waver. Ride on with me.
There is no danger to a cool head and resolute spirit.”
The words were spoken in a low or hurried tone close to Andre's
ear. A moment's reflection convinced him that it was vain
to think of retreating, and that his only alternative now, was to
meet the emergencies of his situation with coolness and presence
of mind. He therefore rode on, simply saying, in a tone of calm,
and dignified reproof, “You did not tell me, sir, that you were
about to conduct me within the American lines, else I should have
insisted on coming to terms with you where we landed, and not so
imprudently risked my liberty, and perhaps my life.”
“I presumed you placed that confidence in my honor, Major
Andre, which would have rendered such an intimation gratuitous.
With a passport signed by me, you are aware, that you can return
whenever you please.”
Andre said nothing, but the curl of his lip at the mention of
“honor,” would have conveyed more to his companion, had it
been light enough for him to have seen the expression of his features,
than a volume of verbal replies.
In a few moments afterward they arrived at a low farm house,
with a paling running along the front. As they dismounted they
were startled by a heavy cannonading from the river, but some
distance below.
“We are detected,” exclaimed Arnold, “that firing is at the
Vulture.”
The two gentlemen hastily ascended the steps of the portico,
and looked southward. A league below (for that distance had
Arnold led Andre from his ship) they saw the Vulture apparently
wrapped in flames, from the blaze of incessant discharges of
artillery, both from the shore and her own deck. From the batteries
on Verplanck's point, they beheld a long line of guns
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belching forth fire, the glare of which illuminated land and water far
and wide, while by the light of her own guns they distinguished
every spar and rope of the sloop of war as distinctly as at noon-day.
“Good God! all is discovered—all is lost!” cried Arnold.—
“To horse!”
“Hold!” said Andre, laying his hand on his arm, “you need
fear nothing. The Americans think the sloop lies too near the
shore for their good, and are firing to compel her to change her position.
See, she is already making sail.”
For a quarter of an hour longer they anxiously watched the
movements of the vessel, which, after returning the fire of the
Americans by a few broadsides, got under weigh, and still visible
by the blaze from the guns on shore, slowly dropped down the
river, and came to anchor some distance below, and beyond the
reach of the batteries. Satisfied that his conjectures as to the cause
of the firing were correct, he turned to Arnold and said, “It will
only be a longer pull back for that black bearded esquire of yours,
General Arnold, with a little unwelcome day-light to help him, too,
I fear, unless we can briefly despatch our business.”
CHAPTER SIXTH.
Without replying, General Arnold led the way up stairs, by the
light of his dark-lantern, and ushered Andre into a small room,
the door of which he carefully closed and secured; then cautiously
examining the apartment to see that there was no intruder on
their privacy, he placed the light on a small table, and motioning
to his guest to take one of two chairs placed by it, he seated himself
in the other, and proceeded to lay on the table several papers
which he drew from a concealed pocket in the breast of his surtout.
While thus engaged, Andre sat silently surveying his features.
They were cast in a noble mould. But the lofty forehead
was contracted, and scowling with the dark and uneasy thoughts
of the mind within; the well-formed mouth was compressed with
gloomy determination, and his fine eyes, in which nature had secreted
the power that controls and commands men, were restless,
and shunned the calm gaze of his companion's.
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“I am now ready, Major Andre,” said General Arnold after
arranging his papers on the table, “to listen to Sir Henry Clinton's
proposition.”
Andre continued to survey him for an instant longer, and then
replied, with a look in which scorn and pity were equally mingled.
“These shall be laid before you when you have detailed the mode
by which you can favor His Majesty's arms.”
“I can read the meaning of your glance, Major Andre,” said
Arnold, slightly coloring, “and appreciate your estimation of me
in relation to the part I am about to act. But I have weighed all
this well. I am prepared to meet the scorn and contempt of gentlemen,
so that the personal feelings that I have in this matter are
gratified. Major Andre, I am an injured man! I have repeatedly
fought for, and five times shed my blood in defence of my
country, and she has rewarded me, not only with contumely and
neglect, but with open insult. It is useless for me to unfold to
you the tissue of causes by which I have been goaded on to this
step. It is enough, that I have calmly resolved on it, and for
nearly two years have been slowly but surely laying the foundation
for its completion. I have now reached the point when deliberation
or repentance are alike vain. When I resolved to repay
my country for the wrongs she had loaded me with, it only
remained to decide the best means of doing it, so that I could
bring about advantage to myself as well as injury to the cause I
was about to desert. My reward from the crown, I was aware,
would be measured by the injury I inflicted on its enemies. It
occurred to me that I could accomplish my object through West
Point. So soon as this idea occurred to me, I directed all my
efforts to get appointed commander at this important post. I have
succeeded. It is now in my hands and shall be transferred to
those of General Clinton, provided that—” here the arch-traitor
hesitated and looked down, but the next instant continued with
assumed indifference, “provided that the price I name for my
services shall be agreed to.”
“Name it, sir.”
“One hundred thousand pounds sterling, in five quarterly payments,
one quarter in hand, and the rank of Major General in
the British Army.”
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“Your services should be great to merit this, sir.”
“Let us weigh one against the other, and see which will kick
the beam,” he said, with a faint attempt to laugh and appear at
his ease.
Unrolling a small chart, he spread it on the table with the self-satisfied
air of a man who expects to give surprise; “Here,” he
said, displaying the map which was covered with lines of fortifications,
“here is a plan of the works at West Point. You will
perceive, on inspecting it, that besides the principal fort, there
are three lines of fortifications between the river and the summit
of the innermost range of highlands, composed of upwards of
forty redoubts. But this map will serve only to give you a general
outline of the works. Here is a paper which will show the
number of men stationed at each, with the amount of military
stores and provisions. Here is a third, showing the easiest paths
and means of access. On examination it will sufficiently explain
itself. Here is a fourth, containing the Artillery Orders which
have just been published at West Point, showing how each corps
shall dispose of itself in case of alarm. This you will find of
vast importance, as it will enable you to know the precise condition
of every part of the garrison when you attack. Here is a
fifth document, in which you will find an estimate of the forces
at the different posts. This, marked F. No. VI., will show how
many men it will take to man the works. In this, numbered G.
VII., you will find a return of the ordnance in the different forts,
redoubts, and batteries; also remarks on the works, describing
the construction of each, and its strong and weak points. Lastly,
here is a report of the last council of war held at head-quarters
and it contains hints written with pencil in the margin, respecting
the probable operations of the campaign. I yesterday
received it from General Washington himself.”
As he finished speaking he laid the remaining paper of the
pacquet on the table and looked up with an air of triumph. As
he anticipated, the expression of the young soldier's countenance
was that of undisguised astonishment and gratification.
“Place those papers in my possession and carry out in your
own person the spirit of them to the letter, and the reward you
have named shall be yours,” said Andre with animation.
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Arnold coldly smiled, and said, “It shall be mine to see that
the post at West Point is weakened by such a disposition of the
troops as shall leave but a small force for its defence. At those
points most inaccessible, I have ordered scaling ladders, (ostensibly
for a very different purpose) to be constructed in the forest,
where, at the place marked X on the plan, you will find them
piled up ready for use. What think you, Major Andre—is it
well planned.”
“It is most skilfully planned, sir,” said the young man, lost in
wonder at this perfection of treason.
“It is, sir. But it remains to be ably seconded on the part of
Sir Henry Clinton. The only obstacle to its success will be the
difficulty of openly embarking troops on the Hudson without its
object being suspected. The vigilance of Washington never
sleeps!” As he spoke these last words, his voice fell, and he
looked hurriedly about as if he felt or feared his presence.
“This difficulty is easily settled,” said Andre, slightly smiling
at the sudden change in his manner. “Under the pretext of an
expedition to the Chesapeake, of which, doubtless, you have heard
some rumors, troops are now embarking in Rodney's fleet. By
to-morrow morning there will be eight thousand on ship-board,
ready to ascend the river at a moment's warning,”
“Then is success certain. As soon as it shall be known that
your ships are approaching, I shall dispatch parties from the garrison
to the gorges in the hills and other remote passes, under the
pretence of stopping the advance of the enemy in those quarters.
There I intend they shall remain until your troops have landed
and marched to the garrison through other passes, where there
will be left no troops to oppose them.”
“I cannot refrain from complimenting you, sir, on the masterly
manner in which you have laid your plans, it is the perfection
of —” Andre hesitated, when Arnold completed the sentence,
“of treason. So be it, sir. If I bring about my ends I
care not what name men give it.”
The terms of his treachery having been agreed on, Arnold now
carefully divided the papers in two equal parcels, white Andre
filled out a carte blanche previously signed and delivered to him
by Sir Henry Clinton for this purpose, in which the terms of
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General Arnold were acceded to, on the fulfilment of the conditions
implied therein. He gave this, covering a cheque for twenty
thousand pounds sterling, to Arnold, and received from him in
return the papers in two parcels, which, at the urgent desire of
Arnold, who manifested the greatest anxiety for their security, he
placed separately between his stockings and feet, drawing his boots
on over all.
General Arnold now pleaded the necessity of returning forthwith
to his quarters at the Beverly House opposite West Point;
and delaying only long enough to fill out a passport for the protection
of Major Andre on his way to his boat, he a few moments
afterward took leave of him before the house and galloped rapidly
northward.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
“So the Gen'ral's off without never a thankee,” said a
in not the best humored tones in the world. Andre turned round
and beheld Smithson.
“Ha! boatswain,” said he quickly, you are in good time.—
Loose not a moment in conveying me on board the Vulture.”
“There are two parties to that bargain,” said the man in an indifferent
manner, proceeding to place his oars in bickets on the
portico.
“What, fellow.”
“Fellow not me, said the boatswain doggedly; “I am at no
man's beck and bidding. I have my reasons for serving the General,
but am not every man's servant you may depend. If you
want to get back to your ship you have arms, and can pull an
oar I reckon, as well's another body.”
Annoyed and irritated at the unexpected position assumed by
his guide, Andre paced the ground a few seconds, reflecting upon
his situation and deliberating on the course he should pursue;
then turning to the man who was removing his thick over coat
with great deliberation, he said in a tone of mild entreaty:
“Smithson, my good fellow, take this gold and conduct me to
your boat.”
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“Mr. John Anderson, what Jack Smithson wont do for favor
he wont do for gold. Besides I have been up all night and I want
sleep. The Vulture lays full two leagues below, and it would be
broad day before I could reach her. No, no, nothing less than
the General's orders will make me put oar in row-lock this night.”
“Fatal negligence on the part of Arnold not to leave instructions
to this effect,” said Andre bitterly. Turning full upon the
man he suddenly drew a pistol and leveled it at his breast—saying
in a stern voice, “swear to guide me to your boat or you are
a dead man.”
“Is this your game, ha!” said Smithson with a laugh, quickly
seizing the muzzle of the pistol in his gigantic grasp and turning
it upward—“now Mr. Anderson if you are wise you'd best put
up that play-thing, for I am not a going to be frightened at such
things as them. Good night.” Thus speaking, he released his
hold of the pistol and entered the dwelling.
Mortified at his want of success, indignant at the supposed
carelessness of Arnold, and not a little alarmed at the danger of
being discovered within the American lines, the young man stood
still for a moment with indecision. Then approaching a light
Smithson had placed in a window, he unfolded Arnold's passport,
which he had not yet examined, to see to what extent it could
protect him. To his surprise and infinite relief, he saw that there
were two passports, one authorizing him to return to New York
by land, the other by water, with duplicates for Smithson, who
was directed to see Mr. John Anderson safe beyond the American
lines.
With a face, from which all traces of anxiety had disappeared,
he entered the room and placed the passports in Smithson's
hands. The man read them twice over with the most annoying
deliberation, and without speaking placed his own passport in
his pocket, and returned the others, resumed his dreadnaught
and flapped hat, walked out of the house, and gazed steadily at
the eastern skies for a few seconds, when he spoke:
“Mr. Anderson, it will be day-break in twenty minutes. It is
no use trying to get back to the Vulture, for it's flood tide and
blowing a dead head wind. The best oarsman on the Hudson,
could'nt pull to her before ten o'clock, and during that time,
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there's no knowing what might happen to us. I would'nt like to
trust myself in a boat, for there are boat rowers along shore that
little care for passports. We must ride to King's ferry just above
here, and cross to Verplanck's Point, and so go down on the
west side if you want to get to New York.”
After putting a few questions to him, Andre was satisfied that
the danger by land was less than by the river, and that there remained
no alternative but to take the land route.
Hitherto he had worn his uniform concealed, even from Smithson,
beneath his great coat; but he saw the danger of travelling
in this manner, and the necessity of appearing simply as a plain
citizen. To effect this change, it became necessary to make a
confident, in some sort, of his guide.
“Smithson,” he said, as the other was busily saddling a second
horse, “if you have a worn coat I should like to exchange
mine for it, as I fear the one I wear may subject me to suspicions.”
As he spoke he approached the light in the window, and
threw open his surtout.
The eyes of the man opened with surprise as they fell on the
dazzling uniform of a British officer of high rank.
“By the twelve apostles!” he said advancing, “this is a discovery.
A British officer in the —”
“Hush, my dear fellow,” said Andre, affecting the voice and
manner of an exquisite—“a—a—you see a—Mr. Smithson—that
we young fellows, a—that is you know—we like to dress gaily—”
“Well.”
“Why—a—foolish vanity, a—that is all—nothing more I assure
you—I thought I might fall in with some of the pretty rustics—
Ha, ha, ha! you understand me Smithson, my good fellow,
ha?—and so I borrowed this coat of an old acquaintance. You
take, ha?”
“D—n your gibberish,” muttered Smithson, and then added,
in a tone of supreme contempt; “Yes, I understand.” From
that moment, Mr. Smithson set down Mr. Anderson as one of the
genus between the ourang outang and human. Whether the
young man succeeded in blinding him altogether, was doubtful;
but he made no further remark, and went into the house with the
gorgeous uniform in his hands, and returned with a
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claret-colored coat, and nankeen waistcoat, which Andre put on, covering
his head with a round hat, and wrapping himself again in his
blue overcoat. In a few minutes the horses were ready, and
mounting, they moved away from the house at a fast trot in the
direction of King's ferry.
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
About nine o'clock the morning following these events, on a
broad hill-side that swept from a ridge half a mile from the Hudson
to its shores, and within sight of the village of Tarry-town,
a foraging party consisting of three yeomen were seated on the
ground beneath a tree, playing cards. The tree stood a little retired
from a public road, which coming from the village below,
wound across the face of the hill and disappeared over the ridge-towards
the interior. Each of them had a powder horn and shot
pouch slung over his shoulder, while a musket lay across the
knees of one, and a rifle and long ducking-gun stood against a
tree where apparently they had been placed by the others to leave
them more at liberty to pursue their pastime.
Although intent on their game, every few seconds they lifted
their heads and took a keen survey of the road.
“Trumps!” exclaimed one slapping the card down upon his
brawney thigh.
“Its your trick, John, by the livin' Jerusalem!” cried he with
the musket.
“Luck's agin me this mornin', boys,” said the third, a stout
built jolly faced farmer, with a twinkle in his eye and a globular
nose, on which was scored in carmine many a deep potation;
“I'll into the road and see if I can't find some better luck with
game of another sort.”
“If you can light on one of them ere tory cow-boys, Ike, we
are on the look out for, driving our yankee cattle to make beef
for John Bull's carcase down in York, I'll give up every copper
I've won on ye,” said the first speaker, a thin cadaverous looking
man with long legs and long hair.
“Then fork out Davy, for here comes a prize as good, or may
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I never take aim again at the sun with the butt-end of a quartpot.”
The men sprung to their feet, seized their guns and joined
their comrade in the wood. “Whose cut and deal is this?” said
the last speaker pointing up the road, along which a single horseman
was advancing at the best speed he could get out of a jaded
horse.
At the period of which we write, there was a tract of country
along the East bank of the Hudson between the American and
British lines, called the Neutral ground, thirty miles wide. By
a law of the State of New York any person was authorised to
seize and convert to his own use, all horses, and cattle or beef
that should be driven across it southward towards the British
lines if it was taken within ten miles of these lines. The consequence
was that the whole of the neutral ground was closely
watched by the inhabitants, who sallied from their homes in small
parties and waylaid the highroads; so that it was difficult for the
cow-boys, whose occupation was stealing cows for the `lower
camp,' to get with their booty safely across the debateable land.
Stragglers, and all suspicious persons, were also stopped and made
to give an account of themselves, and not unfrequently peaceful
travellers were civilly invited to pay toll of a few dollars to some
of these guardians of the roads, who were not over nice in their
distinctions between those who drove horses and those who rode
upon them. With this explanation the character of the party in
question will be readily seen.
“He's a gentlemen-like looking chap,” said he of the carmine
nose who had been called Ike; “broadcloth and boots, and a
heavy purse I'll warrant me.”
“You're always thinking o' the purses, Ike,” said he of the
long limbs; “I would'nt wonder if natur' had'nt gen ye a spice
o' the foot-pad in your liver. Come, John, suppose you step out
and speak to him,” he said, addressing the winner at cards, a
substantial, respectable-looking young farmer, “if Ike does it,
it will be like your regular banditty, one o' your touch and go.
We must stand by the honor o' the country at all odds.”
The one addressed stepped in advance of his comrades towards
the horseman, who was looking as he rode, earnestly towards a
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vessel of war some miles off on the river, and did not see the man
until he came within twenty paces of him, when he suddenly checked
his horse; the next instant he spurred him on as if he would
pass him at full speed, reined him up before the glittering bayonet
levelled at his chest, and then, making a demi-volte across the
road buried his spurs deep and would have dashed past, but the
cool yeoman caught the animal firmly by the nostrils and checked
him so suddenly as to throw him backward nearly upon his
haunches.
“It was well done, sir,” said the yeoman, “no doubt you are
in a hurry, but then we want to become a little acquainted with
you before you travel further. The times are out of joint and we
know not true men from bad.”
The stranger was enveloped in a blue great coat buttoned to
the neck, with nankeen breeches and military boots and an ordinary
black hat; and had that indescribable air and manner that
betrays under the meanest disguises the gentleman and soldier.
“Gentlemen,” he said, in a collected manner as the rest of the
party came up, “I hope you belong to our party.”
“Which party?” asked the first.
“The lower party.”
“Aye, aye, that we do, don't we Davy?” said the knight of
the carmine.
“To be sure! what else does the gentleman think?” replied
he of the long hair, winking at his fellow.
“I am glad to learn it,” replied Major Audre, whom the reader
has already recognized. From Smithson's house he had crossed
King's ferry and ridden southward along the eastern side under
the guidance of Smithson, and only dismissed him a few
miles back when he entered the neutral ground, where he considered
himself comparatively secure. From the top of the ridge
above alluded to, he descried the Vulture a few miles above where
she had anchored beyond the fire of the American batteries. It
occurred to him that he might get some one to take him on board
from the village, whereby he should be saved the fatigue and danger
of a long ride of ten miles to the British lines. His spirits
hitherto depressed by the loneliness of the road and extreme peril
of his situation, became elevated at the prospect, and urging
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his horse forward he found himself all at once in the midst of an
ambuscade. “Gentlemen,” he continued. “I am gratified to
know that you are friends, for I am a British officer absent from
New York on particular business, and I beg you will not detain
me, suspecting me to be other than I say I am.” As he spoke
he drew from his pocket a richly chased gold watch and anxiously
consulted it.
“Aye, aye, Paulding, he's a Britisher by his yeller gim-cranks,”
said carmine; “we Yankees are too pesky poor to have sich
gear—General Washington himself only fobs a silver turnip.”
“You must dismount, sir,” said the sturdy yeoman sternly.
“My God! I must do any thing to get along my good fellows!
Here is General Arnold's pass, that, perhaps, you may respect if
you do not a British officer.”
“Dismount, sir, and we will read it,” said Paulding, who still
held the horse by his nostrils. “We have no idea of letting you
escape till we know your business.”
“Hold on like grim death to a dead nigger, John,” said Ike
of the nose, as the horse grew restive under the gripe; “gold
watches don't grow in every body's corn-patch.”
“Gentlemen, you had best let me go or you will get yourselves
into trouble. Examine this pass. Be brief! for I have been too
long detained already.”
“I cannot read it till you dismount,” said Paulding, holding
the closed paper in one hand.
Andre sprung lightly from the saddle to the ground, when the
yeoman released his gripe on the horse, passed the bridle beneath
his arm, and opened and read the passport. “I hope you'll not
be offended, sir,” he said, with the air of respect, which he had
hitherto preserved, notwithstanding his resolute manner, “but
there are spies and other dangerous people abroad, and I only
want to know if you are a true man. If you are proved to be,
why there is no harm done, if you ain't why—.”
“Then we'll have have his watch on shares, and pull straws
for the chain,” said Isaac.
“The name in the pass is Anderson, is it yours, sir!”
“It is. Let me go and I will give you my watch, horse, saddle
and bridle.”
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“Your anxiety and your offer leads me to suspect you. Here
is General Arnold's signature—that is all right enough, and we
would let you pass with it, if you had not just now called yourself
a British officer.”
“Considerable suspicious!” said he of the hair.
“He's a regular circumstance—and no mistake,” said carmine,
fumbling about his waistband for a fob that the sagacious tailor
had prophetically constructed therein. “Let's search him!”
“Aye, that'll show what's trumps!” said the knight with the
legs.
“There is no alternative,” said Paulding; “you must excuse
us, but it must be done, sir.”
Leading him into the wood they proceeded to examine his hat,
coat, and waistcoat, without making any discovery. At length
they compelled him to resign every article of his apparel to their
scrutiny. He of the long locks pulled off his boots, while Ike
opened his watch and examined the case. Their search was
vain, and he was directed to resume his apparel, when Paulding
thought he heard a rattling like paper as Andre drew on his boot.
His fine thread stockings alone had not been taken off, the captors
satisfying themselves with passing the hand along the outside
of the calf and ancle.
“Mr. Anderson, you will oblige me by removing your stockings,”
said the vigilant yeoman.
“I had thought this foolish search was ended,” said the young
man, his heart sinking.
“Your stockings must come off, sir.”
“Take them off,” said Andre, placing his palm on his brow,
and turning away his face, wrung with an expression of the keenest
anguish.
In the feet were discovered the fatal pacquets given him by
General Arnold. A glance at the contents of one or two of the
papers at once gave them an idea of their importance and dangerous
nature. After they had consulted together for a few minutes
as to the disposal of their prisoner, he who was called Ike
approached Andre, aud said:
“Now what'll you give us to let you go free?”
“Any amount of money you may ask,” was the eager reply
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“Will you give me your watch and chain, and these gentlemen
your horse, saddle, bridle, and a hundred guineas told?”
“Cheerfully. And the money shall be directed to this very
spot if you say so, so that you shall be sure to get it.”
“Is that all you will give?” coolly asked Paulding.
“I will give you whatever you demand, goods or money to the
amount of a thousand pounds.”
“Now, mister,” said he of the nose, in a patriotic tone, and
with a look of inconceivable magnanimity. “if you'd give us ten
thousand guineas, and your watch to boot, yes, your gold watch
and chain, to boot, we would not let you stir a step. Hey, boys?”
“If he's an enemy, poor as we be, I'd rather be without the
money than he should escape to do mischief,” responded Davy.
“Would you escape if you could,” asked Paulding.
“Most assuredly.”
“I don't intend you shall,” was the quiet reply of the American.
In a few minutes afterward they directed their prisoner to
remount his horse, and with Paulding leading the animal by the
bridle, and the two others marching one a few paces in advance,
and the other in the rear, they reentered the road, and moved at
a smart pace northwardly towards North Castle, the nearest military
post of the Americans.
CHAPTER NINTH.
On the eastern bank of the Hudson, two miles southwesterly
from West Point, there stands, at the present day, a time-worn
dwelling. It is a long, rambling structure, two stories high, and
erected apparently at different periods—a low gallery, in some
places sunken, runs around it, with vines creeping about its slender
columns, and grass growing in its crevices; shrubs have got
roothold on its moss-covered roof and hang over the eaves in
graceful festoons. It is in the centre of a lawn, from the bosom
of which, numerous fine old trees of a century's growth, send up
their trunks to a great height, and form a broad canopy of foliage
above the venerable roof. Every thing about it—its wormeaten
fences; its thick soft grass, like piled-velvet, which age on
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ly can give; its long range of noble old barns, once red, but now
browned and blackened with the storms of eighty winters; its
gigantic shrubbery; an avenue of box trees that look as if planted
under a woman's eye ere the Revolution, all give it an air of
old family dignity and antiquity that is seldom found in this young
western world. A forest shuts out the prospect of the river from
the south gallery, but a range of mountains, Dunderbeg and his
satellites, fill the eye instead, while Antony's Nose, clothed with
trees to its top, rises abruptly from the lawn, which is blended
with its base to the height of a thousand feet. On the west and
north, Fort Putuam, now nearly hid by the trees that have been
suffered to grow up immediately around it, and old Crow Nest,
are striking objects in the prospect. From the bouse a
winding carriage road leads through a romantic wood to a small
cove in the Hudson, near the outlet of a brawling brook which
intersects the grounds, where is a landing place for small boats.
This is called Beverly Cove, and the dwelling above described
Beverly House. Here Arnold held his head quarters during his
command at West Point.
In a large, square room of the mansion, its low ceiling intersected
by transverse beams, carefully white-washed, the capacious
fire-place flanked by panel-work and little closets, with but a single
door (besides that opening into the hall) leading into a small
room lighted by a single window looking to the north, there sat,
the morning after Andre's arrest, a party at breakfast. It consisted
of General Arnold, who was in an unusually gay and social
vein, his youthful and lovely wife, whose maiden charms had won
the admiration of Andre, [1] and Colonels Hamilton, and McHenry,
aids-de-camp of General Washington and La Fayette.
In the midst of their meal, and an animated conversation on
the subject of the contemplated attack on New York, a horseman
rode up to the door, and a moment afterward an orderly entered
the room with a note, which he gave to General Arnold. Putting
down an egg he was about to break into a little china cup
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before him, he opened the letter and read with a palpitating heart
and a sensation of suffocation:
“Sir:—I send forward, under charge of Lieutenant Allen
and a guard, which will arrive at Beverly House by noon, a certain
John Anderson, who had been taken while going towards New
York. He had a passport signed in your name, which doubtless,
is forged, and a parcel of papers, taken from his stockings, which
are of a very dangerous tendency. I send him to you as commanding
officer, feeling that it is a case presenting too many difficulties,
and involving too much for me to decide upon.
Jamieson, Colonel, &c. &c.
Till this moment Arnold believed that his treason was successful.
From the hour of his arrival at Beverly House, after taking
leave of Andre, he had been singularly active and alert in all his
duties, and with the officers about his person was on more than
usual terms of confidence and intimacy. That morning Colonels
Hamilton and McHenry had rode forward to his house from
Fishskill to announce the approach of Washington and La Fayette
to dine with him. Such was the confidence this great man
reposed in him—alas, how repaid! The friendship (which he
had) of such a man as Washington; the moral atmosphere he
diffused around him, should have saved him from so great a fall!
With an effort of self-command almost supernatural, he read
the information of the capture of Andre and the defeat of his
plans, so long forming. He folded the letter, suppressing his
emotions the while, so effectually as to prevent the least suspicion
of the occurrence of any extraordinary event, and taking up the
egg he laid down, deliberately broke it into the cup, and for a few
seconds longer continued to eat his breakfast, and addressed with
ease a few common-place words to Colonel Hamilton. At length
he said:
“Gentlemen, I beg you will not let my departure interrupt
your meal. I have just received a note requiring my immediate
presence at West Point. George, have my horse immedlately
saddled and brought to the door. Then rising from the table he
hastened up stairs to his private room, situated at the northeast
corner of the house, and despatched a servant to the breakfast
room to say to Mrs. Arnold that he desired to speak with her.
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“Mary,” he said, in a voice of the deepest agitation, closing
the door, and taking her in his arms, “we have been united but
eighteen months, but we must now part forever. I have been,
unknown to you, engaged in a treasonable correspondence with
Sir Henry Clinton. The note I have just received tells me of the
arrest of his messenger to me, with papers on his person, either
of which would become my death warrant. Nothing remains for
me but instant flight to the enemy. My barge is at the landing.
I can reach the Vulture by noon. Escape now will be easy. No
one here is yet aware of my criminality. An hour hence it will
be too late. Though Jamieson is too dull to suspect me, Tallmadge
or others may ere this have seen the papers and be on
their way to arrest me. Instantly burn all my papers. Now,
farewell, dearest. God bless you. The heaviest blow this inflicts
will reach me through you. Now, God bless you—bless you!”
Hastily embracing her he fled from the apartment, and though
a shriek, prolonged and wild, and a heavy fall reached his ears as
he descended the stairs he lingered not, but flung himself on Col.
Hamilton's horse, his own not being yet at the door. Giving the
animal the rein, he took a by-path around the stables, galloped
along a hedge, and descended a wooded hill through a dry rocky
ravine, almost impracticable to horse, but down which he recklessly
urged the noble animal, which, by plunging, leaping, and
sllding on his belly, the spurs of the rider cutting into the rocks
as he bore upon them with his heels, reached the bottom, and
leaped the brook clear into the carriage road. Riding forward
like wind through the wooded bottom, Arnold gained the cove,
where, beside a small pier, his barge, with six men, was in waiting
to convey him as usual, at that hour, across to West Point.
He threw himself from his horse and sprung into the boat.
“Push off, Cuyler!” he said to the coxswain, with anxious
impatience. “Lively, men, lively! Clear from the shore! Set
your oar to that sunken rock, and help her! There, she's off.
Thank God! Now let her fall and give way. Starboard, Cuyler!
Hard a starboard!”
The boatman stared. “Are we not going to West Point, sir?”
“No, below! Urgent affairs require my presence on board the
Vulture. Pull out into the middle of the river and take the full
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force of the tide. Lay to your sweeps well, men. You shall
have a guinea a piece when you run your boat under the counter
of the Vulture.
The men gave utterance to a kind of cheer, and bent to their
oars with a good will. Cuyler sat in the stern sheets, steering
her with a steadiness and skill that added almost the force of a
seventh oar to her speed. For awhile the barge stood steadily
down the river, passing on either hand scenery of savage grandeur,
every commanding eminence of which was frowning with a
redoubt.
In about an hour they emerged from the Highlands into a broader
part of the river, and approached the fortress at Verplanck's
Point, commanded by Colonel Livingston. Arnold, who hitherto
had sat in the stern of the boat, with his arms folded, only rousing
himself from a gloomy reverie by cheering the boatmen to renewed
exertions, on nearing the post placed in the stern a white handkerchief
fixed to his sword, which had the effect intended, for
Col. Livingston regarding it as a flag-boat, permitted it to pass
without ordering it to be stopped and examined. This was a trying
moment to the traitor, and he scarcely breathed till the barge
was beyond gun-shot. The Vulture was now in sight a league
below, and in another hour he was on board of her.
We will here dispose of the traitor in a few words. Although
his plan had failed, he was made a Major-General in the British
army, and was otherwise rewarded for his intentions and previous
services as Clinton's correspondent. But honorable men of the
British army refused to associate with him, and officers to serve
under him. After living twenty years in merited contempt and
infamy, he died, miserably, at his residence, in Grosvenor square,
London; not only unpitied and unhonored, but leaving behind
him a name which has become a by-word for treason among both
the British and American people.
eaf211.n1[1] It is a singular fact that Andre was an admirer of Miss Shippen, afterwards
Mrs. Arnold, who was a daughter of Chief Justice Shippen, of
Philadelphia, where he first saw her during its occupancy by the British
army.
CHAPTER TENTH.
Two hours after the flight of Arnold, General Washington,
accompanied by Knox and La Fayette, on their return from a
visit to Count Rochambeau at Hartford, arrived at Beverly House,
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as previously arranged, to repose themselves and dine. Here
learning from his aids that General Arnold had been suddenly
called over to West Point on urgent business, he remained only
long enough to take a late and hasty breakfast, and hastened to
the garrison to ascertain if anything important had transpired.
Accompanied by all his suite except Colonel Hamilton, who was
detained in writing letters, he rode to the cove by the usual carriage
road. This is a firm gravelled avenue, running northwardly
with an easy descent, through a line of old trees for a hundred
yards, to the bottom of a dell, through which the brook before
mentioned runs brawling over stones. Here, at a gate, the road
makes a sharp angle to the left, and follows the course of the rivulet.
A roof of densest foliage shields it from the noon-day sun,
and seats placed at intervals along its borders, invite the rambler
to repose; while the ceaseless gurgle of the flowing water, the
singing of countless birds, the silence of the forest trees, save
when their tops are moved whisperingly by the winds, tempt him
to linger in its delightful seclusion. Such was the pleasant woodland
path through which the party rode, such, save that time has
made it lovelier, is it now. Just before they arrived at the cove
they discovered the horse deserted by Arnold grazing by the path,
his bridle beneath his feet, and his saddle and coat bearing traces
of the red soil in which he had taken that equine luxury, a roll.
A passing remark was made by Knox on General Arnold's
carelessness; the animal was led back to the house by a servant;
and in a few seconds afterward the gentlemen dismounted on the
little pier. Here a small penant hoisted by an attendant sent in
advance, was fluttering from a staff placed on a projecting point
of rock, in answer to which a barge of eight oars was putting out
from the fort of Buttermilk Falls, then a military station. In a
few minutes the party embarked, and the boat moved swiftly
through the water. The harmony of motion and action in a well
manned barge, produces, like all harmony, silence and musing.
The simultaneous sway of the bodies of the oarsmen—the regular
rattle in the rowlocks—the liquid dip of the falling sweeps—
the answering leaps of the boat, all are harmonious, soothing, and
conducive to meditation. After the first hundred yards conversation
ceased, and each gentleman seemed to be occupied with his
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own thoughts. The scenery through which they moved, added
also, its influence. On the right, stretched the eastern shore
rising a rocky precipice from the water, and crowned with woods.
On the left, the Buttermilk Falls came tumbling and foaming in
snowy sheets from the top of a cliff, and further on the shores
were walled with lofty rural precipices. As they proceeded, the
Highlands of Crow Nest and Bull Hill frowned down upon them,
and from a promontory the fortress of West Point bristled with
its iron battery. As they approached the landing, now disused,
south of Kosciusco's garden, Washington observed with enthusiasm:
“Well gentlemen, it is fortunate for us that General Arnold
has gone over to the garrison in advance of us, for we shall now
have a salute, and the roaring of the cannon will have a fine
effect among these mountains.”
The barge continued to approach the shore without any notice
from the fortress, when, surprised at the silence, and absence of
all preparations to receive them, he exclaimed,—
“What! do they not intend to salute us?”
An officer now made his appearance descending the ravine, and
reached the shore just as the boat touched it.
“How is this, sir?” said Washington, with some severity.
“Pardon me, General,” said the officer in confusion, “I did not
anticipate the honor of such a visit, or I should have been prepared
to receive you in a proper manner.”
“What! is not General Arnold here?” demanded the chief
with surprise.
“No your excellency. He has not been here for these two
days, nor have I heard from him, within that time.”
“This is extraordinary, indeed,” said Washington, “we were
told he had crossed the river and that we should find him here.”
He, nevertheless, remained and inspected the garrison and
works, and then, reentered the barge with his suite, and was pulled
back to Beverly House.
As he approached the mansion Colonel Hamilton met him with
a troubled countenance and whispered in his ear;
“Alight, sir! I have a matter of the most vital importance to
acquaint you with.”
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
Washington accompanied him into the sitting-room and when
the door was closed, Hamilton placed in his hands several papers,
saying, “as the messenger who arrived with these shortly after
you left, said they were of the utmost importance, I opened them.”
Washington read the letters which contained from an authentic
source, the account of the capture of Andre and a copy of
the papers in Arnold's hand-writing with the passport in the same
hand, found on his person. The guilt of Arnold was made clear
as light, and the cause of his absence from West Point accounted
for. It was plain that he had escaped to the enemy.
“He has descended the river, ride Hamilton for your life,”
said Washington, “it may be possible to intercept him at Verplanck's
Point.”
Colonel Hamilton left the room and spurred away on what
proved to be a fruitless errand. Washington now sent for Generals
LaFayette and Knox to whom he communicated Arnold's
treason, and placed in their hands the papers which confirmed it.
His manner was composed and dignified. “Whom can we trust
now!” he said calmly, after they had finished the perusal of the
letters.
“Mon dien! is it possible?” exclaimed LaFayette, crumbling
the paper in his clenched hand as he swiftly paced the apartment.
“I always knew him to be a disaffected man, but by — I
did not expect the devil to turn out so black from hoof to horn!”
said Knox, violently striking his fist on the table.
“It is useless to show feeling about it now, gentlemen,” said
Washington, without betraying emotion or anxiety of any kind,
“it remains for us to repair what injury he has done us, and prevent
him from doing more.”
The American General now directed all his energies to counteract
the plans laid by the traitor. Orders were forwarded to
all the posts, the position of the garrison changed and the whole
order of things as laid down by Arnold reversed. Sir Henry
Clinton however, through the capture of Andre, was kept in ignorance
and uncertainty until the arrival of the Vulture in New
York with Arnold on board, the morning after his flight. The
project therefore, was abandoned and the troops disembarked.
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CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
It was not until noon on the following day that Andre arrived
at Beverly House under escort of Major Tallmadge. This officer
on inspecting the captured papers which were shown to him
after Col. Jamieson had sent the prisoner forward, saw what this
officer was strangely blind to, Arnold's guilt. Expressing in
warm terms of censure his opinion of the course pursued by
Jamieson of sending the accomplice to the accomplice, he requested
and received the command of the escort, and after some
delay reached head-quarters with his prisoner. Washington refused
to see him lest he should forget what was due to justice in
sympathy for its victim, and ordered him to be placed under
guard in the small room, opening from the dining-room, a sentinel
to be posted on the outside of the door, and other precautions
taken for his security until he could be conveyed to West Point
and thence to Tappan for trial.
It was late in the afternoon when Andre stood by his little
window watching the setting sun as it hung low in the skies
above the summit of Crow Nest, and gilding with its slanting
beams the walls of the fortress at West Point. His thoughts
were turned on the hopelessness of his situation. He knew that
he must die. To be cut off in the prime of his youth, his earthly
hopes crushed, the ties of love, paternal and filial, forever broken,
all that bound him to his fellow-beings severed and destroyed!
He turned away from the window and paced to and fro his
narrow prison under the pressure of intense mental agony. Terrible
was the conflict between his manhood and his human nature!
At length reason asserted her power, and philosophy and
religion came to his aid and he grew calmer. He resolved to
bear his fate like a man and like a British soldier. After a few
seconds he called to the sentinel and requested writing materials
to be brought to him. They were cheerfully granted by Major
Tallmadge, who had taken a deep and feeling interest in the fate
of the noble youth. Seating himself at a table, Andre penned
the following letter to General Washington:
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
24th September, 1780.
“Sir:—What I have said concerning myself to my captors
was in the justifiable attempt to be extricated; I am too little accustomed
to duplicity to have succeeded.
I beg your excellency will be persuaded, that no alteration in
the temper of my mind or apprehension for my safety, induces
me to take the step of addressing you; but that it is to rescue
myself from an imputation of having assumed a mean character
for treacherous purposes or self-interest; a conduct incompatible
with the principles that actuate me, as well as with my condition
in life.
It is to vindicate my fame that I speak, and not to solicit security.
The person in your possession is Major John Andre, Adjutant
General to the British army.
The influence of one commander in the army of his adversary
is an advantage taken in war. A correspondence for this purpose
I held; as confidential (in the present instance) with Sir Henry
Clinton.
To favor it I agreed to meet upon ground not within the posts
of either army, a person who was to give me intelligence; I came
up in the Vulture man-of-war for this effect, and was fetched by
a boat from the ship to the beach. Being there, I was told that
the approach of day would prevent my return, and that I must be
concealed until the next night. I was in my regimentals, and
had fairly risked my person.
Against my stipulation, my intention, and without my knowledge
beforehand, I was conducted within one of your posts.—
Your excellency may conceive my sensation on this occasion, and
will imagine how much more I must have been affected by a refusal
to reconduct me back the next night as I had been brought.
Thus become a prisoner, I had to concert my escape. I quitted
my uniform, and was passed another way in the night without the
American posts, to neutral ground, and informed I was beyond
all armed parties, and left to press for New York. I was taken
at Tarry-town by some volunteers.
Thus, as I have had the honor to relate, I was betrayed (being
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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
an Adjutant General of the British army) into the vile condition
of an enemy in disguise within your posts.
Having avowed myself a British officer, I have nothing to reveal
but what relates to myself, which is true on the honor of an
officer and a gentleman.
The request I have to make to your excellency, and I am conscious
I address myself well, is, that any rigor, policy may dictate,
a decency of conduct towards me may mark, that though
unfortunate, I am branded with nothing dishonorable, as no motive
could be mine but the service of my king, and as I was involuntarily
an impostor.
Another request is, that I may be permitted to write an open
letter to Sir Henry Clinton, and another to a friend for clothes
and linen.
I take the liberty to mention the condition of some gentlemen
at Charleston who, being either on parole or under protection,
were engaged in a conspiracy against us. Though their situation
is not similar, they are objects who may be set in exchange
for me, or are persons whom the treatment I receive might affect.
It is no less, sir, in a confidence of the generosity of your
mind, than on account of your superior station, that I have chosen
to importune you with this letter.
I have the honor to be with great respect, sir,
Your Excellency's most obedient,
And most humble servant,
John Andre, Adjutant General.”
When he had finished penning this eloquent appeal, he gave it
to Major Tallmadge who read it with undisguised astonishment.
He had suspected from his carriage and the habit of turning on
his heel in his walk, that he was a military man, but he had no
suspicions that he held so high a rank in the British army, nor
that the plot in which he had been connected with Arnold was
so extensive and dangerous. He carried the letter to General
Washington, who was deeply affected on reading it, but made no
reply to it. After the prisoner had sent the letter, his mind appeared
relieved and his features wore a calm and contented expression.
He turned again to the window, and the calm landscape lighted
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
by the evening sky was not more placid and serene than his
countenance.
“Andre!”
He started and looked around. But there was no one present.
“Andre!” was a second time repeated, as if close to his ear,
in the gentle tones of a woman's voice.
He looked around and up to the ceiling, when his eye caught
a slip of paper fluttering through a crevice in the floor above.
“Andre,” softly repeated the voice a third time, and the paper
fell fluttering at his feet. He lifted it from the ground and read
with a sparkling eye:
“Dear Major Andre:—Though miserable myself I cannot
be altogether so absorbed in my own wretchedness as to forget
the griefs of others. Listen to me. I know your high notions
of honor and the spirit of chivalrous self-sacrifice that fills your
bosom, but oh! for my sake—for your own—for that of your
mother and sisters—for the sake of your country—do what I am
about to ask of you! Accept life while it is in your power!
Do not remain to die like a criminal! Life is now yours—to-morrow
it may be due to justice! Alas! my heart tells me what
will be your reply—but I will not therefore cease my exertions to
save you. Assisted by a faithful slave, I this morning loosened
two of the planks in your room. They afford communication
with the cellar. Descend into it and Peter will meet you with a
disguise, and conduct you, by the western outlet, which opens
among high shrubbery, into the garden, where he will conceal
you till night, and then provide a boat for your escape. Do not,
Andre, neglect this opportunity! Fly now! General Washington
and his staff are busy in the library, and nothing can prevent
the success of the plan but your own obstinacy. Fly, Andre!
Escape! For the sake of all you hold dear on earth losse not a
moment, but fly!
Mary.”
The young man read this appeal with a sparkling eye and
glowing countenance, when he concluded it he glanced upward
and kissed his hand to the invisible author of it, then folded the
paper, placed it next his heart, and paced the room rapidly with
a thoughtful brow and excited manner.
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
“Nay, nay, I will not—I cannot—I may not! I must abide
my destiny.”
He stopped, surveyed the floor through every part, and then
walked towards the side next to the hall and trod lightly on the
two planks nearest the wall. They were loose. He stooped to
lift them and they yielded to his hand and he gazed down into
the dark cellar beneath.
“Come, massa! coas' clear—dis jus' de time!” said a low
husky voice from beneath.
The prisoner paused an instant, then with a sudden impulse
closed the aperture and walked resolutely away. An exclamation
of anguish and disappointment from the apartment above
reached his ear, but with folded arms and a composed manner,
he gazed steadfastly from the window, his face expressive of the
triumph of an honorable mind over an unworthy temptation.
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
The morning of the second of October broke with a clear sky,
and the promise of a bright autumnal day. The sun rose without
a cloud and gladdened hill, forest, and valley, with his cheering
light. Happiness was written on the face of nature as if
written with the finger of Heaven; but among the inhabitants
of men, sorrow and woe had, as ever, an abiding place. There
was one abode into the windows of which this morning's sun
shone, above all others, melancholy in its character, and most
melancholy for the scenes of human sorrow and wretchedness of
which it was the daily witness. It was a prison. In one of its
gloomiest apartments, sat a young man whose days were numbered—
whose star was about to become extinguished ere it reached
the zenith. It was Major Andre. His judges had doomed him
to die as a spy, taken within the American lines. The sympathising
American Chief would gladly have commuted this harsh
sentence, but military justice demanded the victim! In one hour
he was to be led forth to execution! His countenance was
firm. A delightful calm dwelt on his youthful and noble features,
and an air of repose and resignation marked his bearings. About
him stood a group of officers, foes of his country, but whom his
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
virtues had converted into personal friends. Tears were in the
eyes of these stern warriors, and their voices trembled with emotion
as they talked in low tones with each other. He alone was
calm and resigned!
An officer entered and announced, in a subdued tone, that the
hour of execution had arrived. The prisoner rose with dignity
and said:
“Gentlemen, I am ready to wait on you.” Taking the arm of
Major Tallmadge, who had been constantly with him since his
captare, he left his cell with a firm step. In the street he took
the arms of two subaltern officers, and walked between them to
the place of execution. A natural composure pervaded his manner
and his whole deportment was remarkably dignified and self-possessed.
“My emotions are singular,” he said, turning to Major Tallmadge,
who walked near him, “when I reflect that in a very few
minutes I shall be an inhabitant of the world of spirits—so soon
have revealed to me the great secret! But I do not shrink from
it. I am not afraid to die—if I were, wretched, indeed, should
I be at this moment.”
They now came in sight of a gallows surrounded by a large
military force and a great concourse of citizens awaiting the
event—a deep gloom filling all hearts—commiseration visible on
every face.
When the young man saw the degrading instrument of execution
he stopped, and turning to Major Tallmadge said, with an
expression of mingled pain and indignation, “Why is this?”
“Are you ill, sir,” asked the officer, ignorant of the cause of
his emotion.
“Tis nothing, sir,” said the young soldier, recovering his composure;
“I hoped to have met death at least at the hands of soldiers,
and not at those of the common hangman. Move forward,
I am reconciled to death, but I detest the mode.”
In a few minutes afterwards he stood beneath the gallows.
As he looked up at the fatal engine of death, his chest heaved and
there was a choaking in his throat as if he were striving to suppress
feelings struggling to escape. At length the noose was
suspended from the beam and the wagon placed beneath.
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Without assisteace he stepped into it, and then for a moment he appeared
to shrink. The ascendancy of nature was but momentary.
Instantly recovering himself, he looked round upon the sorrowful
faces at the foot of the gallows and said, with a smile:
“It will be but a momentary pang.”
Then, declining the assistance of the provost-marshal, he
bandaged his own eyes with a degree of firmness and resignation
that the eyes of all who gazed were filled with tears, and deep
groans of emotion escaped from the breast of many a stalwart
soldier, that the stern spirit of military laws should demand so
young and noble a victim.
The provost-marshal now loosely pinioned his arms and placed
the noose over the young man's head, who, himself, with perfect
firmness, adjusted it to his neck.
“Major Andre, you have now an opportunity to speak if you
desire it,” said the provost-marshal.
Lifting the handkerchief from his eyes, he looked steadily
around and said, in a firm, clear voice that reached every ear of
the silent multitude:
“I pray you bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave
man.” There was no vain boasting in his voice or manner, but
his words proceeded from that honorable pride which becomes a
soldier, and which sheds a halo even around the brow of death.
When he had said this, he resumed his former position and
calmly awaited his fate.
The signal was given—the wagon rolled from beneath him,
and the victim of military justice had expiated his offence with
his life.
“Such,” says Mr. Sparks in his `Biography of Arnold,' which
able work we have made free use of in this outline, “such was
the death of a man whose rare accomplishments had procured
for him the friendship and confidence of all to whom he was
known, and opened the happiest passages of a future career of
renown and glory. In ten short days his blooming hopes had
been blighted, and his glowing visions dispersed. But it was his
singular fortune to die, not more beloved by his friends than lamented
by his enemies, whose cause he had sought to ruin, and
by whose hands his life was justly taken. Time has consecrated
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the feeling. There are few Americans, and few will there ever
be, who can look back upon the fate of Andre without deep regret.
His name is embalmed in every generous heart; and they
who shall condemn his great error and applaud the sentence of
his judges, will cherish a melancholy remembrance of the unfortunate
victim, and grieve that a life of so much promise, adorned
with so many elevated and estimable qualities, was destined to
an untimely and ignominious end.” The tears and eulogies that
have followed the memory of this noble gentleman, brave soldier,
and honorable man, eminently show how virtue may ennoble even
the gallows, and demonstrate that it is far better to die well,
though on the gallows, than, like Bededict Arnold, to purchase
life with the scorn and contempt of mankind.
“Still lived he on—his victim doomed to die—
Yet in their different fates behold the homily.”
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Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1847], The treason of Arnold: a tale of West Point during the American revolution (James A. Barnes, Jonesville, Mass.) [word count] [eaf211].
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