Being George Washington (17 page)

All of the slights, and perceived slights, inconsequential or not, finally came to a boil. By 1779, Arnold had decided to change sides and opened secret negotiations with the British. “Having made every sacrifice of fortune and blood and become a cripple in the service of my country,” he later wrote to Washington, “I little expected to see the ungrateful returns I have received from my countrymen.”

It’s kind of ironic to look at the language that Arnold used and compare it to Washington. Arnold says that he “became a cripple” in the service of his country while years later, at Newburgh, Washington tells his troops he has “grown gray and almost blind” in the service of his. Similar sentiments, obviously—but Arnold used his as an excuse.
You owe me! Look at all I’ve done for you!
Washington’s utterance, meanwhile, was nothing of the sort. He was humbled and embarrassed at needing to put on glasses.

Two men, two choices, two destinies, and one invaluable lesson for today: always be on guard. It’s easy to let seemingly mundane annoyances pile up until they boil over. It’s easy to make the right decision ninety-nine straight times before greed finally gets the best of you. It’s easy to let selfishness cloud your judgment or to surround yourself with people who have ulterior motives. Always be on guard. George Washington was; Benedict Arnold was not. One is now a national hero; one is now a national disgrace.

Washington believed, for very good reason, that God—the Invisible Hand, as he often called Him—oversaw their mission, and that uncovering Arnold’s plot was nothing less than providential. In a message to his troops after Arnold’s treachery became known, Washington declared “the treason has been timely discovered to prevent the fatal misfortune. The providential train of circumstances which led to it affords the most convincing proof that the liberties of America are the object of divine protection.”

Think about that sentiment: Here was a man who had just been personally and professionally embarrassed. A man whom he’d vouched for and supported had nearly helped the enemy to capture West Point. But instead of making excuses or trying to downplay the event, Washington instead turned it into a positive. Sure, this was terrible, he told his troops, but think about what it means: It means that God is with us! It’s proof that He is on our side!

God may have saved the United States from the “villainous perfidy” of Arnold—it’s difficult to see it any other way, actually—and the English might have saved Arnold from the American gallows, but John André did not fare as well.

André’s fate caused Washington great heartache and put him in an unpopular position among his own countrymen. That was a pretty rare occurrence, but Washington never shied away from doing what he thought was best for his nation.

The question that caused such controversy was this: Should a “gentleman” like André be treated any differently than others? After all, André was a young and handsome officer who had conducted himself with great dignity throughout his captivity. Many thought he should be spared the usual fate met by spies. But Washington insisted that people were responsible for their own actions, no matter how “gentlemanly” they were, and that didn’t sit well with a lot of people.

Most of the officer class did not believe that André’s execution was moral or necessary. Some believed that Washington was being needlessly rigid and that he was perhaps attempting to exact personal revenge
against Arnold, a man he could not catch, by executing André, a man he had.

Critics, including Alexander Hamilton, argued that André hadn’t functioned as a true spy; he was just a messenger. Hanging him would be a needless act of aggression against the enemy. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. Not to mention, they said, that being hanged was no way for a gentleman like André to meet his end. A much more honorable way was to be executed by a firing squad—a death that André would have far preferred to hanging.

Officers and gentlemen weren’t hanged, after all. A noose was for blackguards and highwaymen, not military officers. A soldier should die in proper fashion.

Washington was in serious peril of losing the trust of his team at the very moment that he and America needed loyalty most of all. But failing to follow through and instead give André a pass would mean ignoring the dictate of both a court of law and of his own words and precedent. Allowing mercy at that moment could easily have been seen as a sign of weakness when strength was most needed.

André appealed directly to Washington:

Sir
:

Buoyed above the terror of death by the consciousness of a life devoted to honorable pursuits, and stained with no action that can give me remorse, I trust that the request I make to your Excellency at this serious period, and which is to soften my last moments, will not be rejected.

Let me hope, sir, that if aught in my character impresses you with esteem towards me… I shall experience the operation of these feelings in your breast by being informed that I am not to die on a gibbet.

In other words, he wanted to substitute the gibbet (gallows) for a death by firing squad.

Washington, who so often allowed his trusted officers to help guide his decisions, was having none of it. Why not? Because spies were hanged. A message had to be sent. The decisions made by courts of law
were to be honored. Discipline was essential. Besides, the British had hanged the American spy Nathan Hale, thereby setting a precedent that had to be followed. (Incidentally, the hangings of André and Hale also illustrate the difference between Washington and other leaders. Captain Hale was treated poorly by his captors, not even being allowed to read a Bible before his execution. And, in a story that would likely appall Washington, a letter that Hale had written to his mother was torn up right in front of him.)

But Washington did have feelings. He extended to André the only real mercy he could: he kept him in the dark about his ultimate fate.

He never answered André’s letter—not out of anger or neglect, but because he hoped to provide André with some sense of peace.

Washington, it turned out, guessed right because André guessed wrong. The British major surmised incorrectly that he would not be hanged. It was only through that belief that his last twenty-four hours on earth contained some semblance of tranquility.

André only learned the truth when he walked out of the small stone house in which he was imprisoned and was led toward the gallows. The sight unnerved him. He jumped backward. Words caught in his throat. But he soon recovered his composure. “I pray you,” he said from the gallows, “to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man.”

Though it would have been far easier for Washington to avoid the entire mess, John André was hanged on October 2, 1780.

Since Arnold’s plot at West Point had failed, he received no special reward from the British. He did, however, become a brigadier general and spearheaded an attack on Virginia that led to the capture of Richmond.

That didn’t surprise anyone. No one had ever doubted Arnold’s prowess as a soldier, after all; they had only doubted his prowess as a man of character. And soon enough, Arnold proved them right again. After
invading Fort Trumbull, which guarded the harbor of New London, Connecticut, and slaughtering the colonel who commanded it, Arnold ordered that all 105 American troops present be killed. According to a story in George Canning Hill’s biography of Arnold, the “blood in the fort flowed in streams … the dead, dying and wounded Americans were picked up and piled together indiscriminately in a wagon, which was set going from the top of the hill, and rushed on with all speed to the bottom. It struck a tree just before it reached the foot, throwing out some of the dying ones with the shock, and extorting deep groans and piercing shrieks of anguish from lips that even then were almost mute in death. So cruel and barbarous a mode of torture to the persons of helpless captives, was never before recorded among the practices of a civilized nation.”

After that, Arnold set fire to New London, a town very close to where he was born.

When the English surrender finally came, Arnold was forced to leave for England, where he advocated for restarting the war with the United States. He failed and was not at all embraced by his countrymen, many of whom saw him as a simple traitor—no matter which side he had spied for.

Soon he would sail back to North America—to Canada, where he would set up a number of businesses and speculate on land. By the time his stay in Canada was over, Arnold had been sued (a number of times) and been burned in effigy by the locals.

He seemed to be running out of places to run, so Arnold returned to England again, this time finding some honor fighting against the French. He died in 1801 at the age of sixty.

Author Clifton Johnson wrote that Arnold had always kept the Continental Army uniform he wore at the time of his treason. As his last days neared, Arnold asked for his old coat to be draped on his shoulders, saying, “Let me die in this old uniform in which I fought my battles. May God forgive me for wearing any other.”

God may well have forgiven Arnold, but most of his former patriots never would. After all, as Franklin said, he had sold out his entire country for his own gain.

Perhaps no two men in our country’s history better illustrate the consequences of our choices than Benedict Arnold and George Washington. Arnold valued material possessions; Washington valued eternal ones. Arnold allowed his resentment to consume him toward selfishness; Washington used it to fuel him toward greatness.

June 1781

Four miles southwest of Boston

The oxcart moved slowly, the large animals walking steadily but never swiftly. The road was narrow and dry, and their wide hooves kicked up little trails of dust behind each step. Traffic in and out of Boston was at a wartime pace: occasional horsemen heading toward the city at a gallop, small units of soldiers moving in formation, occasional supplies heading south, toward New Jersey.

The oxen faced the setting sun and the road grew dark, the enormous tree branches soaking up the last of the evening’s light. A man walked beside the cart, followed by a single horseman with a fine leather bag resting across his saddle. Their clothes were old and salt-crusted, their worn boots made of the finest quality that could be found anywhere in the colonies.

Though the horseman couldn’t see around a bend in the road, he knew there were two more horsemen up ahead. They stayed well in front of the ox-driven cart, never stopping to wait for it but closely matching its pace. All of the men were army officers, though none of them wore a uniform. And though they were heavily armed, they were careful not to show it. No reason to draw any attention to themselves. But they were ready to use their weapons if they had to. They’d lived through years of war and were not afraid to take a life if that’s what was called for.

But, on this day, the soldiers were hoping that secrecy would prove to
be a more useful tool than their weapons. Their cargo being as precious as it was, a fight was the last thing they wanted.

Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens drove the oxen. His close-cropped hair and youthful features belied the fact that he was the man in charge. He was also the man who had arranged for what was being transported inside the cart.

Laurens used a walnut stick to drive the oxen. The horseman rode beside him, measuring their pace. “It’ll take a weary bit to get to Philadelphia,” the horseman muttered, hoping that Laurens would remember that it was time for a break. But the colonel didn’t answer. Dropping his walking stick along the back of the nearest ox, he prompted it along. Ten long minutes passed in silence.