Being George Washington (14 page)

And that plan was far bigger than Judge Shippen, or, for that matter, his admirer George Washington, could have ever imagined.

May 10, 1779

Kip’s Mansion

Kip’s Bay

New York, New York

“Why, Stansbury! It’s grand to see you again! How have you been? What news do you bring from Philadelphia?”

Major John André, General Henry Clinton’s cultured and finely featured young adjutant, stood in the foyer of the mansion. Good old—or, rather,
young
—André, everybody loved him. He was jovial, witty, educated, and charming. Yes, everyone loved John André—and that included Peggy Shippen Arnold.

That love, in fact, is why Peggy had dispatched Joseph Stansbury, a Philadelphia china merchant who catered to that city’s elite, north to New York to meet with André. She had a very important message to convey to André, and Stansbury—a steadfast, intelligent Loyalist—was the best man to deliver it.

Stansbury responded with a laugh. “I haven’t seen you since you were living in Benjamin Franklin’s manse!” he said, referring to the days when André had been part of the British occupation—and busied himself looting Franklin’s belongings.

“And when I used to dance the minuet with Peggy Shippen!” André slyly countered. He thought it best to leave out the part about any missing furnishings or paintings.

“Funny, you should mention her,” said Stansbury, his face suddenly serious, his gaze lowered, his London-bred voice now barely above a whisper.

“What is it, Stansbury? Is she well?”

“Yes, very well. In fact, it was actually Peggy who sent me to you, Major André. She has a message for you from her husband.

“He has a proposition for you. I think you will find it most interesting.”

July 31, 1780

Hudson River

Near Stony Point, New York

George Washington, under a sun high in the midsummer sky, pensively stood watching his troop of escorts—160 men strong—being ferried across the lower Hudson River’s broad tidal expanse. Soon, he hoped, these men would be joined by French troops in marching against General Henry Clinton in New York City.

A march like that, Washington thought, might finally end this war—and, none too soon. His underpaid, undersupplied, underfed troops had mutinied in January. Charleston, South Carolina, had fallen to General Henry Clinton in May. And recruiting had flowed to a trickle.

The steam seemed to be running out of the revolution.

Mounted alongside the discouraged Washington was General Benedict Arnold.

“Your leg is better. Look at you, on that horse!” Washington said to Arnold. “And all that unpleasantness regarding you and the Congress should be over. So, now that we are alone, I have some news for you that I think might gladden your heart.”

Arnold was surprised that Washington had more news for him—the military appointment he had given him in Philadelphia had already been more than he’d ever expected.

“There’s no denying that you’re one of the best combat generals on either side of the Atlantic,” Washington continued. “So, as of this day, you are restored to active duty. You will command the left wing of my main army. I look forward to our moving forward together against the enemy! Congratulations, General—there is no one I would rather fight beside in our righteous pursuit than you.”

Arnold’s face reddened. Usually glib, he remained speechless, staring
blankly across the Hudson, northward, toward the American garrison at West Point. His strange reaction alarmed Washington. It had to be the July heat, he thought.

“Let’s get under that elm tree, General Arnold, then we can talk further.”

The men guided their horses to the nearby tree, whose broad leaves cast a large shadow on the riverbank. “I can’t do it, General, I just can’t,” Arnold pled as soon as they’d reached the base of the tree. He was now nearly frantic. Was this really the hero of Saratoga? Washington pondered. Perhaps he’d overestimated the man’s determination.

“You must accept,” Washington countered. “Even with your wound, you’re twice the general of anyone else I have. You must do it—your country demands it!”

“I cannot,” the stocky Arnold almost shouted at Washington, his deep-set blue eyes shifting wildly about.

“I … I … I cannot physically stand the strain … I … cannot move about. I attempt to show myself fit on the outside, but this leg is causing me tremendous agony. My days of battle, I fear, are long since gone. I appreciate your gesture more than you know, but I need a far more stationary command. Yes, I need to command a garrison …

“Perhaps”—Arnold turned from Washington and again looked northward—“say, at West Point.”

September 18, 1780

Aboard Benedict Arnold’s Barge

Hudson River

Between Stony Point and Verplanck’s Point, New York

Eight oarsmen, their powerful arms straining with each stroke, rowed ever more forcefully toward the King’s Ferry, on the Hudson’s eastern shore. They needed to display particular efficiency this afternoon. George Washington was among the passengers on Major General Benedict Arnold’s official barge.

“I am humbled by your visit and am so happy to see you again, general,” said Arnold, the cool autumn breeze blowing into his face, the Hudson Highlands on either side of the river already assuming autumn’s
yellow and crimson hues. But Arnold’s voice failed to display the gladness of his words. What was Washington really doing here? And why now? Arnold thought. What damnable timing! What trap has this man set for me?

Arnold had good reason to panic. The plan that had been merely a seed not long ago was beginning to flourish. West Point was under his command, and it was now for sale to the British for twenty thousand pounds sterling; money that would help line the pockets of General and Mrs. Benedict Arnold—a woman who very clearly knew how to spend it.

“How could I not visit you on my way to Hartford to see the French?” Washington answered. “It’s a shame my schedule is so tight. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with West Point. But I guess I will have to. Yes, I will definitely visit on my return.”

Great, Arnold thought. That’s all I need. Then he can witness for himself the miserable shape I’ve purposefully reduced West Point into! Perhaps Sir Henry and I can wrap everything up before he returns—surrender the fort sooner rather than later; maybe even capture Washington himself!

Hamilton and Billy Lee assisted Washington in stepping down onto the Hudson’s eastern shore from Arnold’s barge and the Marquis de Lafayette was particularly solicitous in assisting Arnold. The aristocrat’s courtesy, however, merely annoyed Arnold all the more. He hated the French.

Arnold’s persistently peculiar manner continued to puzzle Washington. He prided himself on being a good judge of character—and now something seemed off. Arnold was distracted and on edge, distant, and yet too oddly friendly, all at once. Was it his physical pain that caused him to act so strangely?

Washington requested Billy Lee to produce the great brass spyglass that he always carried with him. Washington saw nothing of note up ahead, but to the south he began to discern a billowing of great, white sails—and, yes, the fluttering of the Union Jack! That the enemy had dared to sail so far upriver, so near to West Point, struck Washington as ominous. He asked Arnold what he knew of it.

“It’s British all right—been there a while—a sloop,” Arnold answered nonchalantly, “with eighteen guns.”

“Its name?”

“It’s called … it’s called …,” answered Benedict Arnold, trying to avoid seeming
too
familiar with the craft.

“… the
Vulture
.”

September 22–23, 1780

Hudson River

Teller’s Point

Two oarsmen beached Major John André’s craft upon the rocky Hudson River beach and hauled it farther up on the shore—completing their brief voyage from the
Vulture
. A shout—“Halloo!”—pierced the night’s shadows. A shadowy figure, barely visible from the candlelight emanating from the swaying tin lantern he held in his hand, lurched toward them.

Benedict Arnold had business to conduct—but only with André. Tersely, he commanded André’s oarsmen to keep their distance from the little knot of fir trees where he and André would hold their mysterious meeting.

Arnold began to rapidly relay information to André, forcing him to commit much of it to memory—countless details of weaknesses to exploit and strengths to avoid when he and Clinton would eventually storm West Point. Beyond that, Arnold provided André with maps and documents to aid the British in their assault—and nervously advised him to secret these documents inside his boot.

As if the meeting were not long enough already, André, bone-weary from lack of sleep, also had to endure listening to Arnold’s continuing financial demands. The traitor not only wanted to be guaranteed his twenty thousand pounds sterling of blood money—his modern-day equivalent of Judas’s thirty pieces of silver—on completion of his mission, but also that he would also soon wear the gold-fringed epaulets of a royal British brigadier general, receive a proper command—and, above all, receive proper respect. After months of sending and receiving conspiratorial encrypted messages, this was, after all, Benedict Arnold’s first actual meeting with his new masters, and his delicate ego demanded assurance that he would never be slighted again.

It was now almost daylight. André’s two oarsmen refused to row him back against a strong Hudson River tide to the safety of the
Vulture
so André instead rode back to a private home—the same home that had recently sheltered George Washington on his voyage to Hartford, Connecticut.

From its second-floor windows, André saw
Vulture
still anchored at low tide. Suddenly explosions roared from across the Hudson at Teller’s Point.
BOOM!! BOOM!!
Two small American four-pounders belched smoke and shot at the enemy ship.
BOOM!! BOOM!!
Six shots in all hit
Vulture
, smashing into its hull and sails and rigging.

With no wind to fill her sails, the
Vulture
could not set sail. She was dead in the water.

Vulture
‘s captain ordered its longboats lowered into the water. Sailors manned the oars; others strained at long, heavy ropes to slowly haul their mother ship beyond the reach of the roaring guns on Teller’s Point.

Slowly, the wounded
Vulture
, John André’s ticket home, passed beyond his heartsick sight. For no matter where the
Vulture
now anchored, and no matter how many American cannonballs had torn through its timbers and its masts, John André sorely wished he was aboard it, as far away as possible from the deadly dangers of being a spy behind enemy lines.

September 23, 1780

Tarrytown, New York

A rather scruffy man, barely twenty-two years old, jumped out from behind a clump of trees. He held a musket and looked like he knew how to use it.

His excited shouts roused two of his friends. They had been playing cards nearby, but suddenly they appeared at the ready—as did
their
two muskets.

Which meant that three muskets were now squarely pointed, with triggers nervously cocked, directly at Major John André.

That André found himself in this predicament was not entirely surprising, though he’d done all he could to prevent it. After the
Vulture
was attacked, André had set off on horseback south, toward New York City.
He had donned a suit of civilian clothes, a red coat with gold lace buttonholes, yellow breeches and vest, and a round hat. Such a wardrobe, it seemed, would be far less noticeable and dangerous to wear behind American lines—where he had ended up that evening—than the British military uniform he typically wore.

The first musket pointed at André belonged to a tall and muscular young farmer named John Paulding. Four days earlier, Paulding had escaped from New York’s Sugar House prison. After jumping from his prison window and finding the fall air to be chilly, he searched for a coat, eventually appropriating a Hessian uniform jacket. That bright green, though quite threadbare, coat caused André to jump to an immediate conclusion: Paulding fought for the British.

“Gentlemen, I see you belong to our party,” he asked quite breezily and with real relief.

“What party?”

“The lower party,” André answered, meaning the British.

The bumpkins at the other end of the muskets smiled. They were not as dumb as their manners and appearance made them out to be. “We do,” Paulding solemnly responded.

That answer relieved the nervous André. True, he was a spymaster—but he was hardly a master spy. In fact, the last twenty-four hours had been his first actual day as a spy. He was painfully new at this game—and it showed.

“Ah, my good men,” André continued, grinning broadly, “then you can be of assistance to me—and to your king. I am an officer of the Crown on a mission, a very special mission, and it is imperative I return as quickly as possible to General Clinton’s headquarters in New York.” André ostentatiously displayed his gold pocket watch to impress upon these rustics that he was, indeed, a man of some prominence.

“Do tell, your lordship!” Paulding answered. He paused a beat to allow André to properly absorb his sarcasm. “Well, we own no gold watches, but we know that the time is up for redcoats like you. We’re patriot men—not Loyalist dogs.” With that, the three scruffy rebels spread out to surround André, their muskets still pointed squarely at his head.

But if the rebels thought André would simply admit defeat, they were sorely mistaken. “But I was only pretending to be a damnable redcoat
because I thought you were redcoats!” André stammered nervously. “You can understand that? Can’t you?”

“… Can’t you?!”

André nervously produced his Arnold-signed safe-conduct pass. But it was too late. Paulding and his friends stripped him and found Arnold’s other papers—the incriminating maps and battle plans—stuffed into his boot. “A spy!” Paulding exclaimed.