strange stories. It was asserted in a way that gave it the appearance
of verity that some of the papers, had they come to light, would have
ruptured, if not entirely broken, the relations between Austria and
Germany. Even at that time these two countries were looked upon as the
Siamese twins among the nations of Europe. The Austrian authorities
were seriously alarmed. They could not contemplate a struggle between
their own country and their German ally with equanimity. The question
was what to do under these critical circumstances. One of the first
things was to take charge of all of the possessions of the unfortunate
man. Everything was seized—not only the official papers, but private
letters, tailors’ bills, photographs, and all other articles that were
found in the room. Not only were the papers seized and sequestered, but
his apartments were sealed, thus concluding the first act in the tragic
drama.
But the most serious part of the business was still to come. The papers
were out of the way; there was no documentary evidence in the case, but
the man still remained, and what he might do or say was the unknown
quantity in the problem. The strangest part of the queer affair was
that in spite of all of these charges and counter charges against
the fascinating colonel he was still looked upon as a most patriotic
person. It was assumed—and probably with correctness—that while he had
been indiscreet and possibly blameworthy, he never really intended
to betray his own country. Anyhow the cold facts remained. It was a
condition and not a theory which confronted those in authority. The
court-martial had been ordered. It was fixed for a certain day. If it
took place according to schedule it might strike the spark which would
cause a terrific explosion in Europe. If it were postponed, how could
the postponement be explained? And even if it were, there would still
remain the man who had been indiscreet and who might be again.
It was at this stage of events that Colonel Riddle, who was kept in
strict confinement, received a call from two of his fellow officers.
They smoked and chatted, and even had a glass of wine together. All of
the facts were placed before him in an orderly manner. He was shown
that he could not escape under any circumstances and that if he should
live, the life of the empire might be threatened. It was the existence
of one or the other. He was told, as he knew very well, that any
attempt to defend himself would place Austria in the position of having
attempted to steal the military secrets of Russia, and further, of
being faithless to Germany. Finally, about midnight, they parted, and
as the officers left the room one of them with a significant gesture
handed Colonel Riddle a loaded pistol.
The next morning when the guard made his regular rounds his eyes met a
shocking sight. Colonel Riddle lay prostrate on the floor with a bullet
wound in his forehead. The pistol with which the deed was committed lay
by his side.
There was much regret, of course. The highest officials of the Austrian
Court were heard to express sorrow at the untimely taking off of the
popular young officer. His high standing, his unusual ability and his
bright prospects for the future only made the tragedy the sadder.
A five line cablegram told the story to America. It is doubtful if one
person in a thousand either read it or paid any attention to it. It was
simply reported as the suicide of a soldier who was about to be placed
on trial for treason. What could be more natural than that a man in
the face of impending disgrace—especially when he had been a trusted
officer—should take his life? Such things had happened before. Why
should it excite any comment?
In the early part of the following month there were whispers concerning
the real facts that lay behind the curious story of Colonel Riddle’s
suicide. These facts came to light little by little, and finally were
woven into a coherent and connected story. Many friends of the dead
soldier, who knew that he had fought bravely for his country and had
acted as a spy in her interests, also knew that he had become a martyr
for the Fatherland.
One of the results of the tragic affair was a reorganization of the
entire spy system of the Austrian army. Secrets which had hitherto
been known to a score of men were now confined to a comparative few.
Every man was placed under suspicion, and even spies whose fidelity had
never been questioned before were subjected to the closest scrutiny of
other spies whose existence was unknown to them. At the same time the
German secret service was reorganized and put in position where the
likelihood of a betrayal of state secrets was exceedingly improbable.
Even those who were unwilling to believe that Colonel Riddle had been
guilty of treason admitted that the looseness of the spy system placed
it within the power of many men to betray those for whom they were
supposed to be working.
“The Government,” said one officer, alluding to the tragedy that had
just occurred, “found it imperatively necessary to close the mouth of
one of its own sons. I hope the necessity for such a thing will never
occur again.”
Germany has never expressed itself officially in this matter, but those
who know a thing or two about military methods may be sure that the
important officers in that country fully approved of the manner in
which this unfortunate incident was handled. Experience has proved that
there is no way to keep military secrets, that there is no protection
against the weakness or cupidity of your own spies. Only one man can
be trusted with a mobilization plan, and that man is the chief of the
general staff. If he fails it is madness to put him on trial. The only
reasonable thing to do under the circumstances is to have him efface
himself from the earth. Exile is impossible. Death is the only remedy.
Such were the arguments that were used a little over two years ago
in order to justify the Riddle case. Since that time dispatches
have been coming from Germany, Austria, Italy and various other
countries reporting vaguely that documents have been sequestered at
the postoffices in these places and that those responsible for their
existence have been subjected to drastic military discipline. That,
it may be safe to say, means that those who know too much have had to
answer with their lives for their indiscretion.
In a short while after the death of Colonel Riddle the incident was
forgotten, and so far as people are concerned was relegated to the
lumber room of unsolved mysteries—and to that hazy and uncertain
section of history which is filled with stories that everybody believes
and no one is willing to affirm. But it seems curious indeed that two
years after a life had been sacrificed in order to avert war, the
nations of Europe should be engaged in a death grapple.
War, like politics, makes strange bedfellows. The fate of nations
often rests on the tossing of a coin. Human lives are but the pawns
with which the kings and emperors play the game. This was pathetically
illustrated in the case of Colonel Albert Riddle. By snuffing out his
own life he prevented war between two great empires. And yet, as if by
the decree of Nemesis, the Goddess of Justice, these same countries
were soon clutching at the throat of one another.
V
THE ROMANTIC SIDE OF MAJOR ANDRÉ’S UNSUCCESSFUL EXPLOIT
All the world loves a lover, and the fact that the unfortunate Major
John André was engaged to be married to a charming English girl at the
time of his execution helped to place him in something like a romantic
light before the world. He had another advantage. The blackness of the
treason of Benedict Arnold made André shine by comparison, so that
while the American was regarded with horror and contempt everywhere,
the unhappy fate of the young Englishman excited universal sympathy.
It was in 1769 that André met Miss Honora Sneyd in Litchfield, England.
It was a case of love at first sight, ardent and impetuous on both
sides. But, alas, as is usual, the course of true love did not run
smoothly. The match was disapproved by Miss Sneyd’s father, and the
young man was told to keep away from the house of his adored one. To
make assurance doubly sure he was sent to his father’s counting house
in London. He tried hard to accustom himself to office drudgery, but in
spite of his best intentions the face of Honora kept popping up from
amidst the rows of figures, and upsetting his calculations.
His was an adventurous spirit, and in 1771 he tossed aside his ledgers
and day books to accept a commission in a regiment bound for America.
There was an affecting scene when he parted from Miss Sneyd and she
gave him her portrait as a souvenir. He plighted his troth anew
and promised that the picture should never part from him under any
circumstances—a promise that was kept with pathetic fidelity.
Before he had been in America long André, by reason of his courage
and intelligence, rose to the position of aide-de-camp to Sir Henry
Clinton, commander-in-chief of the British forces. It was at this
juncture that Benedict Arnold, smarting under supposed wrongs, made a
proposition to the British to betray to them the post at West Point,
of which he was in command. It was regarded as the key to the American
position and General Clinton designated Major André as the man to
conduct the negotiations with the traitor Arnold. The importance of
this position was equaled by its danger.
The conspiracy between Arnold and André had been carried on by means of
correspondence for quite a while. They wrote under fictitious names,
and naturally the greatest secrecy was observed. But finally the time
came when it was necessary to hold a personal meeting in order to bring
the treason to a head. Major André at that time held the position
of adjutant general in the British army, and it was at Arnold’s
request that he was detailed to meet the traitorous general for the
purpose of settling all the details. On the 20th of September, 1780,
André went on board the British sloop of war _Vulture_ with Colonel
Beverly Robinson, and proceeded up the Hudson with a view of holding
an interview with Arnold. There is a strong feeling, or at least
circumstantial evidence, which indicates that Robinson was partially
responsible for bringing Arnold to the state of mind where he was
willing to sacrifice his country in order to satisfy his own wounded
vanity. At all events, they made the trip together and on the night of
the 21st a boat was sent by Arnold to the _Vulture_ which brought André
to the shore about six miles below Stony Point.
In a secluded spot and after midnight the conspirators met and prepared
the plans by which the American cause was to be betrayed. Daylight
appeared and still the conference went on. It was suggested that it
would be desirable to have breakfast, and at Arnold’s invitation André
consented to accompany him to the house of Joshua Smith, which was
about two miles below the meeting place. They sat there for a long
time and presently the booming of cannon was heard and they saw that
the _Vulture_ had weighed anchor and was proceeding down the river.
This was due to the fact that Colonel Livingston of the American
army thought that she was too near the American outposts, and with
characteristic promptness he brought cannon to bear on the vessel and
compelled her to descend the river.
This interfered seriously with the scheme that had been agreed upon
between the Englishman and the American. Plans of the American works,
their armament, the number of troops they contained and other
important details were handed by Arnold to André. To make sure that
he should not lose the precious papers Major André took off his boots
and placed the documents between his stockings and his feet. As it was
evident that André would not be able to reach the _Vulture_ Arnold
furnished him with a horse and gave him a pass which directed the
guards to permit him to go where he pleased on the ground that he was
engaged in public business. A similar pass was given to Joshua Smith
who had acted as host to the spy and the traitor. Major André passed
the entire day at Smith’s house in the hope and expectation of being
able to get aboard the _Vulture_ at night, but when evening arrived
Smith became frightened and declined to row out to the _Vulture_. He
proposed instead to cross the river with André and then see that he was
put on the road by which he might return to New York. The Englishman
was greatly disappointed, but was finally induced to throw Smith’s
overcoat over his uniform, and shortly before dusk they started to go
across at Kings Ferry. They succeeded in making about eight miles on
the other side when they were stopped by an American sentinel. Arnold’s
pass satisfied the officer in command but he warned them against
proceeding any farther at night.
[Illustration: THE MEETING BETWEEN BENEDICT ARNOLD AND MAJOR ANDRÉ]
They remained at a farmhouse until morning and by that time had now
approached a portion of the country some thirty miles in extent which
lay between the lines of the opposing armies and was considered neutral
ground. After proceeding three miles farther toward New York André and
his host breakfasted at a farmhouse and then parted. Smith returned
home and André continued on his way to New York, confident that he
was past all danger and that it was only a question of time when the
treason of Arnold would be completed.
He was going through a wooded glen when he was suddenly confronted
by three men, the first of whom was clothed in a manner which might
suggest his connection with the British army.
“Good morning,” exclaimed André, imprudently. “Gentlemen, I hope you
belong to our party.”
“What party?” asked the leader of the trio.
“The lower party,” said André, indicating the camp of the British army.
“We do,” said the leader, but with a significant look at his companions.
The young Englishman was now entirely off his guard and declared
himself to be a British officer. He said that he had been up the
country on most important business and must not be detained on any
account. He drew out his gold watch as evidence of his statement, but
to his surprise, the foremost of the young men clutched him by the
shoulder and exclaimed:
“You are our prisoner!”
It afterwards became known that the three men were farmers of the
neighborhood, their names being John Paulding, Isaac Van Wort and
David Williams. Paulding happened by chance to be wearing an overcoat
that had been left on his place by a British soldier, and it was this
uniform that had misled André.
The English major was very much exercised by this time and now
remembered his pass. He exhibited the paper that had been given to him
by General Arnold, saying:
“You see that I am all right. This pass permits me to go through the
lines.”
Paulding, however, was convinced that there was something wrong. He
seized the bridle of André’s horse and compelled him to dismount and
then subjected him to a very close search. They took off his boots
and his stockings and found the concealed papers. Paulding read them
carefully and as he came across the incriminating words exclaimed:
“My God, he is a spy!”
The Englishman used all of his persuasive powers on his captors, but in
vain. He offered them any amount of money if they would release him,
but they refused and conducted their prisoner to Lieutenant Colonel
Jameson, who was in command of the post at New Castle. He in turn
instantly sent the papers found in André’s possession by express to
General Washington, who was then returning from a visit to the French
at Hartford.
By a curious chain of circumstances Washington was returning with
the members of his own military family, including General Lafayette
and General Knox. On the morning of the 25th of September he sent a
messenger to General Arnold saying that the party would breakfast
with him on that day. As they approached Arnold’s headquarters at the
Robinson house Washington turned aside from the direct route in order
to visit the defenses on the east side of the Hudson. Lafayette, with
the proverbial politeness of the French, suggested that Mrs. Arnold
would be waiting breakfast for them.
“Ah,” replied Washington, “you young men are all in love with Mrs.
Arnold. I see that you are eager to be with her as soon as possible.
Go and breakfast with her and tell her not to wait for me. I must ride
down and examine the redoubts on this side of the river. I will be with
you shortly.”
His request was complied with. Lafayette and his friends found Mrs.
Arnold—who was the famous Peggy Shippen—as usual, bright, gay and
fascinating. Arnold himself was strangely grave and thoughtful. In the
very midst of the breakfast a horseman galloped to the door and gave a
letter to Arnold, which stated that André was a prisoner and that the
papers found in his boots had been forwarded to General Washington.
Arnold was compelled to act quickly in this crisis and he gave
remarkable evidence of quickness of mind.
“Gentlemen,” he said to his guests, “I am compelled to leave you for a
time and hope that I may be excused.”
From the breakfast room he hurried to Mrs. Arnold’s apartments, and
when she came to him in response to his summons explained his position,
saying: “I must fly instantly. My life depends on my reaching the
British lines without detection.”
It was perhaps a few hours after this that the letters and papers
which told the story of Arnold’s perfidy were handed to Washington.
Washington read them calmly and, calling Lafayette and Knox, told them
the story, adding sadly:
“Who can we trust now?”
Hot on the heels of this came one from Major André explaining his
position and saying that he had been betrayed into the vile condition
of an enemy in disguise within the American posts. He asked that in
any rigor policy might dictate he should not be branded with anything
dishonorable, as he considered himself a messenger in the service
of the king and not an involuntary impostor. He said that he wrote
to vindicate his fame and not to solicit security. To this letter
Washington made no reply.
On the 26th of September Major Tallmadge, having André in custody,
arrived at the Robinson house. General Washington declined to see the
prisoner but gave orders that he should be treated with every courtesy
and civility consistent with his absolute security.
The charming personality of the prisoner won for him the personal
regard of all with whom he was brought into contact. His immediate
jailor said that it often drew tears from his eyes to find André so
agreeable in conversation on different subjects while he—the American
officer—was reflecting on the future fate of the young Englishman.
While Tallmadge was on the way with André to the American headquarters
their conversation became very frank and their relations friendly.
Presently André asked Tallmadge with what light he would be regarded by
General Washington at a military tribunal. The American hesitated, but
when André repeated the question he said:
“I had a much loved chum in Yale College by the name of Nathan Hale,
who entered the army in 1775. Immediately before the battle of Long
Island General Washington wanted information respecting the strength,
position and probable movements of the enemy. Captain Hale volunteered
his services, went over to Brooklyn and was taken just as he was
passing the outposts of the enemy on his return. Do you remember the
sequel of the story?”
“Yes,” said André, in a low voice that was tremulous with emotion. “He
was hanged as a spy. But you surely do not consider his case and mine
alike.”
“Yes, precisely similar,” said Major Tallmadge, “and your fate will be
a similar one.”
Washington in the meantime had received a number of communications from
General Clinton concerning the case of Major André. Clinton, Arnold and
Robinson conferred together as to the means of obtaining the release of
André. Arnold wrote a letter to Clinton assuming the responsibility for
André’s conduct, declaring that he came to him under the protection of
a flag of truce, and that he gave him passports to go to White Plains
on his return to New York. This impertinent letter from the traitor,
enclosed in one from himself, Clinton forwarded to Washington, claiming
that André should be permitted to return to New York.
As might be expected, these letters had no influence upon the action of
Washington. He referred the case of the prisoner to a board of general
officers, which he ordered to meet on the 29th of September, 1780,
and directed that after a careful examination this board should report
their opinion “of the light in which Major André should be considered
and the punishment that ought to be inflicted.” This board consisted of
six major generals and eight brigadier generals, who went into the case
with unusual care.
When Major André was brought before the board of officers he met with
every indulgence, and was requested to answer no questions which
would even embarrass his feelings. He frankly confessed all the facts
relating to himself. Indeed, the facts were not controverted, and
the board reported that André ought to be considered as a spy, and,
agreeable to the usages of nations, must suffer death. André met the
result with manly firmness.
“I foresaw my fate,” said he, “and though I do not pretend to play the
hero or to be indifferent about life, yet I am reconciled to whatever
may happen, conscious that misfortune and not guilt has brought it upon
me.”
The execution was to have taken place on the 1st of October at five
o’clock in the evening, but Washington received a second letter from
Clinton expressing the opinion that the board had not been rightly
informed of all the circumstances on which a judgment ought to be
formed and adding, “I think it of the highest moment to humanity that
your Excellency should be perfectly appraised of the state of this
matter before you proceed to put that judgment into execution.”
Accordingly he sent three of his staff officers to give Washington,
as he declared, the true state of the facts. These gentlemen came
accompanied by Colonel Beverly Robinson. General Greene on the part of
Washington met the party and after a long conference left to report to
Washington all that had been urged in behalf of André. Later General
Greene sent a note to Colonel Robinson informing him that he had made
as full a report of their conference as his memory would permit, but
that it had made no alteration in the opinion and determination of
Washington.
André died possessing the sympathy of his judges and the friendship
of all the American officers with whom he had been brought into
familiar intercourse. Both Tallmadge and Hamilton expressed for him an
attachment almost passionate. He died in the full uniform of his rank
in the British army. A letter from André to Sir Henry Clinton expressed
gratitude for his kindness and commended to his consideration his
mother and sister and excusing his commander from all responsibility
for his fate, saying among other things, “I have obtained General
Washington’s permission to send you this letter, the object of which
is to remove from your breast any suspicion that I should imagine that
I was bound by your Excellency’s orders to expose myself to what has
happened. The events of coming within an enemy’s lines and of changing
my dress, which led me to my present situation, were contrary to my own
intentions as they were to your orders, and the circuitous route upon
which I took to return was pressed, perhaps unavoidably and without
alternative, upon me. I am perfectly tranquil in mind and prepared
for any fate to which an honest zeal for my king’s service may have
conducted me.”
On the 10th of August, 1821, the remains of André were removed from the
banks of the Hudson to Westminster Abbey and interred there near the
monument which had long been erected to his memory. In the south aisle
near the window and surrounded by many great names is his monument on
which is inscribed:
“Sacred to the memory of Major John André, who rose by
his merits at an early period of life to the rank of
Adjutant-General of the British forces in America; and employed
in an important but hazardous enterprise, fell a sacrifice to
his zeal for his king and country, on the Second of October,
1780. Age 29. Universally beloved and esteemed by the army in
which he served and lamented even by his foes.
“His Grace and Sovereign, King George III, has caused this
monument to be erected.”