September, 1780.
Since my return from Hartford, my dear Laurens, my mind has been too
little at ease to permit me to write to you sooner. It has been wholly
occupied by the affecting and tragic consequences of Arnold’s treason.
My feelings were never put to so severe a trial. You will no doubt
have heard the principal facts before this reaches you. But there are
particulars, to which my situation gave me access, that cannot have
come to your knowledge from public report, which I am persuaded you
will find interesting.
From several circumstances, the project seems to have originated
with Arnold himself, and to have been long premeditated. The first
overture is traced back to some time in June last. It was conveyed in
a letter to Colonel Robinson; the substance of which was, that the
ingratitude he had experienced from his country, concurring with other
causes, had entirely changed his principles; that he now only sought
to restore himself to the favor of his king, by some signal proof of
his repentance; and would be happy to open a correspondence with Sir
Henry Clinton for that purpose. About this period he made a journey to
Connecticut: on his return from which to Philadelphia, he solicited
the command of West Point; alleging that the effects of his wounds had
disqualified him for the active duties of the field. The sacrifice of
this important post was the atonement he intended to make. General
Washington hesitated the less to gratify an officer who had rendered
such eminent services, as he was convinced the post might be safely
intrusted to one who had given so many distinguished specimens of his
bravery. In the beginning of August he joined the army and renewed his
application. The enemy, at this juncture, had embarked the greatest
part of their forces on an expedition to Rhode Island; and our army was
in motion to compel them to relinquish the enterprise, or to attack
New-York in its weakened state. The General offered Arnold the left
wing of the army, which he declined, on the pretext already mentioned,
but not without visible embarrassment. He certainly might have executed
the duties of such a temporary command; and it was expected from his
enterprising temper, that he would gladly have embraced so splendid an
opportunity. But he did not choose to be diverted a moment from his
favorite object; probably from an apprehension that some different
disposition might have taken place, which would have excluded him. The
extreme solicitude he discovered to get possession of the post, would
have led to a suspicion of treachery, had it been possible, from his
past conduct, to have supposed him capable of it.
The correspondence thus begun, was carried on between Arnold and Major
André, Adjutant-General to the British army, in behalf of Sir Henry
Clinton, under feigned signatures, and in a mercantile disguise. In
an intercepted letter of Arnold’s, which lately fell into our hands,
he proposes an interview, “to settle the risks and profits of the
copartnership;” and, in the same style of metaphor, intimates an
expected augmentation of the garrison; and speaks of it as the means
of extending their traffic. It appears, by another letter, that André
was to have met him on the lines, under the sanction of a flag, in the
character of Mr. John Anderson. But some cause or other, not known,
prevented this interview.
The twentieth of last month, Robinson and André went up the river
in the Vulture sloop-of-war. Robinson sent a flag to Arnold with
two letters; one to General Putnam, inclosed in another to himself;
proposing an interview with Putnam, or, in his absence, with Arnold, to
adjust some private concerns. The one to General Putnam, was evidently
meant as a cover to the other, in case, by accident, the letters should
have fallen under the inspection of a third person.
General Washington crossed the river, on his way to Hartford, the day
these dispatches arrived. Arnold, conceiving he must have heard of the
flag, thought it necessary, for the sake of appearances, to submit the
letters to him, and ask his opinion of the propriety of complying with
the request. The General, with his usual caution, though without the
least surmise of the design, dissuaded him from it, and advised him
to reply to Robinson, that whatever related to his private affairs,
must be of a civil nature, and could only properly be addressed to the
civil authority. This reference fortunately deranged the plan; and was
the first link in the chain of events that led to the detection. The
interview could no longer take place in the form of a flag, but was
obliged to be managed in a secret manner.
Arnold employed one Smith to go on board the Vulture the night of
the twenty-second, to bring André on shore, with a pass for Mr. John
Anderson. André came ashore accordingly; and was conducted within a
picket of ours to the house of Smith, where Arnold and he remained
together in close conference all that night and the day following.
At daylight in the morning, the commanding officer at King’s Ferry,
without the privity of Arnold, moved a couple of pieces of cannon to
a point opposite to where the Vulture lay, and obliged her to take a
more remote station. This event, or some lurking distrust, made the
boatmen refuse to convey the two passengers back, and disconcerted
Arnold so much, that by one of those strokes of infatuation which
often confound the schemes of men conscious of guilt, he insisted on
André’s exchanging his uniform for a disguise, and returning in a mode
different from that in which he came. André, who had been undesignedly
brought within our posts in the first instance, remonstrated warmly
against this new and dangerous expedient. But Arnold persisting in
declaring it impossible for him to return as he came, he at length
reluctantly yielded to his direction, and consented to change his
dress, and take the route he recommended. Smith furnished the disguise,
and in the evening passed King’s Ferry with him, and proceeded to
Crompond, where they stopped the remainder of the night, at the
instance of a militia officer, to avoid being suspected by him. The
next morning they resumed their journey, Smith accompanying André
a little beyond Pine’s Bridge, where he left him. He had reached
Tarrytown, when he was taken up by three militia men, who rushed out of
the woods and seized his horse.
At this critical moment, his presence of mind forsook him. Instead
of producing his pass, which would have extricated him from our
parties, and could have done him no harm with his own, he asked the
militia men, if they were of the _upper_ or _lower_ party; distinctive
appellations known among the enemy’s refugee corps. The militia men
replied, they were of the lower party; upon which he told them he
was a British officer, and pressed them not to detain him, as he was
upon urgent business. This confession removed all doubts; and it was
in vain he afterwards produced his pass. He was instantly forced off
to a place of greater security, where, after a careful search, there
were found, concealed in the feet of his stockings, several papers
of importance, delivered to him by Arnold! Among these, were a plan
of the fortifications of West Point; a memorial from the engineer
on the attack and defence of the place; returns of the garrison,
cannon, and stores; copy of the minutes of a council of war held by
General Washington a few weeks before. The prisoner, at first, was
inadvertently ordered to Arnold; but on recollection, while still on
the way, he was countermanded, and sent to Old Salem. The papers were
inclosed in a letter to General Washington, which, having taken a
route different from that by which he returned, made a circuit that
afforded leisure for another letter, through an ill-judged delicacy,
written to Arnold with information of Anderson’s capture, to get to him
an hour before General Washington arrived at his quarters; time enough
to elude the fate that awaited him. He went down the river in his barge
to the Vulture with such precipitate confusion, that he did not take
with him a single paper useful to the enemy. On the first notice of the
affair, he was pursued, but much too late to be overtaken.
There was some color for imagining it was a part of the plan to betray
the General into the hands of the enemy. Arnold was very anxious to
ascertain from him the precise day of his return; and the enemy’s
movements seem to have corresponded to this point. But if it was really
the case, it was very injudicious. The success must have depended
on surprise; and as the officers at the advanced posts were not in
the secret, their measures might have given the alarm; and General
Washington, taking the command of the post, might have rendered the
whole scheme abortive. Arnold, it is true, had so dispersed the
garrison, as to have made a defence difficult, but not impracticable;
and the acquisition of West Point was of such magnitude to the enemy,
that it would have been unwise to connect it with any other object,
however great, which might make the obtaining of it precarious.
Arnold, a moment before the setting out, went into Mrs. Arnold’s
apartment, and informed her that some transactions had just come to
light, which must for ever banish him from his country. She fell
into a swoon at this declaration: and he left her in it, to consult
his own safety, till the servants, alarmed by her cries, came to her
relief. She remained frantic all day; accusing every one who approached
her, with an intention to murder her child (an infant in her arms);
and exhibiting every other mark of the most genuine and agonizing
distress. Exhausted by the fatigue and tumult of her spirits, her
phrensy subsided towards evening, and she sank into all the sadness
of affliction. It was impossible not to have been touched with her
situation. Every thing affecting in female tears, or in the misfortunes
of beauty; every thing pathetic in the wounded tenderness of a wife,
or in the apprehensive fondness of a mother; and, till I have reason
to change the opinion, I will add, every thing amiable in suffering
innocence; conspired to make her an object of sympathy to all who
were present. She experienced the most delicate attentions, and every
friendly office, till her departure for Philadelphia.
André was, without loss of time, conducted to the head quarters of
the army, where he was immediately brought before a Board of General
Officers, to prevent all possibility of misrepresentation, or cavil
on the part of the enemy. The Board reported, that he ought to be
considered as a spy, and, according to the laws of nations, to suffer
death; which was executed two days after.
Never, perhaps, did any man suffer death with more justice, or
deserve it less. The first step he took, after his capture, was to
write a letter to General Washington, conceived in terms of dignity
without insolence, and apology without meanness. The scope of it was
to vindicate himself from the imputation of having assumed a mean
character for treacherous or interested purposes; asserting that he
had been involuntarily an impostor; that contrary to his intention,
which was to meet a person for intelligence on neutral ground, he had
been betrayed within our posts, and forced into the vile condition
of an enemy in disguise; soliciting only, that, to whatever rigor
policy might devote him, a decency of treatment might be observed,
due to a person, who, though unfortunate, had been guilty of nothing
dishonorable. His request was granted in its full extent; for, in the
whole progress of the affair, he was treated with the most scrupulous
delicacy. When brought before the Board of Officers, he met with every
mark of indulgence, and was required to answer no interrogatory which
could even embarrass his feelings. On his part, while he carefully
concealed every thing that might involve others, he frankly confessed
all the facts relating to himself; and, upon his confession, without
the trouble of examining a witness, the Board made their Report. The
members of it were not more impressed with the candor and firmness,
mixed with a becoming sensibility, which he displayed, than he was
penetrated with their liberality and politeness. He acknowledged
the generosity of the behavior towards him in every respect, but
particularly in this, in the strongest terms of manly gratitude. In
a conversation with a gentleman who visited him after his trial, he
said he flattered himself he had never been illiberal; but if there
were any remains of prejudice in his mind, his present experience must
obliterate them.
In one of the visits I made to him (and I saw him several times during
his confinement), he begged me to be the bearer of a request to the
General, for permission to send an open letter to Sir Henry Clinton.
“I foresee my fate,” said he, “and though I pretend not to play the
hero, or to be indifferent about life; yet I am reconciled to whatever
may happen, conscious that misfortune, not guilt, has brought it upon
me. There is only one thing that disturbs my tranquillity. Sir Henry
Clinton has been too good to me; he has been lavish of his kindness. I
am bound to him by too many obligations, and love him too well, to bear
the thought, that he should reproach himself, or that others should
reproach him, on the supposition of my having conceived myself obliged,
by his instructions, to run the risk I did. I would not, for the world,
leave a sting in his mind that should imbitter his future days.” He
could scarce finish the sentence, bursting into tears in spite of his
efforts to suppress them; and with difficulty collected himself enough
afterwards to add: “I wish to be permitted to assure him, I did not act
under this impression, but submitted to a necessity imposed upon me,
as contrary to my own inclination as to his orders.” His request was
readily complied with; and he wrote the letter annexed, with which I
dare say you will be as much pleased as I am, both for the diction and
sentiment.
When his sentence was announced to him, he remarked, that since it
was his lot to die, there was still a choice in the mode, which would
make a material difference in his feelings; and he would be happy, if
possible, to be indulged with a professional death. He made a second
application, by letter, in concise but persuasive terms. It was thought
this indulgence, being incompatible with the customs of war, could not
be granted; and it was therefore determined, in both cases, to evade an
answer, to spare him the sensations which a certain knowledge of the
intended mode would inflict.
In going to the place of execution, he bowed familiarly as he
went along, to all those with whom he had been acquainted in his
confinement. A smile of complacency expressed the serene fortitude of
his mind. Arrived at the fatal spot, he asked, with some emotion, “Must
I then die in this manner?” He was told it had been unavoidable. “I am
reconciled to my fate,” said he, “but not to the mode.” Soon, however,
recollecting himself, he added: “It will be but a momentary pang:”
and, springing upon the cart, performed the last offices to himself,
with a composure that excited the admiration, and melted the hearts
of the beholders. Upon being told the final moment was at hand, and
asked if he had any thing to say, he answered, “Nothing but to request
you will witness to the world, that I die like a brave man.” Among the
extraordinary circumstances that attended him, in the midst of his
enemies, he died universally esteemed and universally regretted.
There was something singularly interesting in the character and
fortunes of André. To an excellent understanding, well improved by
education and travel, he united a peculiar elegance of mind and
manners, and the advantage of a pleasing person. ’Tis said he possessed
a pretty taste for the fine arts, and had himself attained some
proficiency in poetry, music, and painting. His knowledge appeared
without ostentation, and embellished by a diffidence that rarely
accompanies so many talents and accomplishments: which left you to
suppose more than appeared. His sentiments were elevated, and inspired
esteem: they had a softness that conciliated affection. His elocution
was handsome: his address easy, polite, and insinuating. By his merit,
he had acquired the unlimited confidence of his General, and was
making a rapid progress in military rank and reputation. But in the
height of his career, flushed with new hopes from the execution of a
project, the most beneficial to his party that could be devised, he was
at once precipitated from the summit of prosperity, and saw all the
expectations of his ambition blasted, and himself ruined.
The character I have given of him, is drawn partly from what I saw
of him myself, and partly from information. I am aware that a man of
real merit is never seen in so favorable a light as through the medium
of adversity: the clouds that surround him, are shades that set off
his good qualities. Misfortune cuts down the little vanities that, in
prosperous times, serve as so many spots in his virtues; and gives a
tone of humility that makes his worth more amiable. His spectators,
who enjoy a happier lot, are less prone to detract from it, through
envy, and are more disposed, by compassion, to give him the credit he
deserves, and perhaps even to magnify it.
I speak not of André’s conduct in this affair as a philosopher, but as
a man of the world. The authorized maxims and practices of war, are
the satires of human nature. They countenance almost every species
of seduction as well as violence; and the General who can make most
traitors in the army of his adversary, is frequently most applauded. On
this scale we acquit André; while we could not but condemn him, if we
were to examine his conduct by the sober rules of philosophy and moral
rectitude. It is, however, a blemish on his fame, that he once intended
to prostitute a flag: about this, a man of nice honor ought to have had
a scruple; but the temptation was great: let his misfortunes cast a
veil over his error.
Several letters from Sir Henry Clinton and others, were received in the
course of the affair, feebly attempting to prove, that André came out
under the protection of a flag, with a passport from a general officer
in actual service; and consequently could not be justly detained.
Clinton sent a deputation, composed of Lieutenant-General Robinson,
Mr. Elliot, and Mr. William Smith, to represent, as he said, the true
state of Major André’s case. General Greene met Robinson, and had a
conversation with him; in which he reiterated the pretence of a flag;
urged André’s release as a personal favor to Sir Henry Clinton; and
offered any friend of ours, in their power, in exchange. Nothing could
have been more frivolous than the plea which was used. The fact was,
that beside the time, manner, object of the interview, change of dress,
and other circumstances, there was not a single formality customary
with flags; and the passport was not to Major André, but to Mr.
Anderson. But had there been, on the contrary, all the formalities, it
would be an abuse of language to say, that the sanction of a flag for
corrupting an officer to betray his trust, ought to be respected. So
unjustifiable a purpose, would not only destroy its validity, but make
it an aggravation.
André, himself, has answered the argument, by ridiculing and exploding
the idea, in his examination before the Board of Officers. It was a
weakness to urge it.
There was, in truth, no way of saving him. Arnold, or he, must have
been the victim: the former was out of our power.
It was by some suspected, Arnold had taken his measures in such a
manner, that if the interview had been discovered in the act, it might
have been in his power to sacrifice André to his own security. This
surmise of double treachery, made them imagine Clinton might be induced
to give up Arnold for André; and a gentleman took occasion to suggest
this expedient to the latter, as a thing that might be proposed by him.
He declined it. The moment he had been capable of so much frailty, I
should have ceased to esteem him.
The infamy of Arnold’s conduct previous to his desertion, is only
equalled by his baseness since. Beside the folly of writing to Sir
Henry Clinton, assuring him that André had acted under a passport from
him, and according to his directions while commanding officer at a
post; and that, therefore, he did not doubt, he would be immediately
sent in; he had the effrontery to write to General Washington in the
same spirit; with the addition of a menace of retaliation, if the
sentence should be carried into execution. He has since acted the farce
of sending in his resignation. This man is, in every sense, despicable.
Added to the scene of knavery and prostitution during his command in
Philadelphia, which the late seizure of his papers has unfolded; the
history of his command at West Point is a history of little, as well
as great, villanies. He practised every dirty art of peculation; and
even stooped to connections with the suttlers of the garrison, to
defraud the public.
To his conduct, that of the captors of André forms a striking contrast.
He tempted them with the offer of his watch, his horse, and any sum
of money they should name. They rejected his offers with indignation:
and the gold that could seduce a man high in the esteem and confidence
of his country, who had the remembrance of past exploits, the motives
of present reputation and future glory, to prop his integrity, had
no charms for three simple peasants, leaning only on their virtue
and an honest sense of their duty. While Arnold is handed down, with
execration, to future times, posterity will repeat, with reverence, the
names of Van Wart, Paulding, and Williams.
I congratulate you, my friend, on our happy escape from the mischiefs
with which this treason was big. It is a new comment on the value of an
honest man, and if it were possible, would endear you to me more than
ever.
Adieu,
A. Hamilton.