by Ron Carter
His last conscious thought was, Must ask Arnold about those names, and then his eyes closed, and Talmadge slept, sitting, with his blanket drawn high and tight.
The days were chill, the nights cold as Abe continued to rein and cluck the horses over the rough forest road. Doctor Talmadge was never more than ten feet from Arnold, watching, listening, forcing him to drink beef broth and eat hard bread whenever he could. Three times Arnold lapsed again into a hot fever, muttering incoherently with his eyes wide open, seeing things and times and places known only to him.
They arrived at the Albany settlement on the frosty banks of the Hudson River midmorning of the fifth day, and Abe and five men from the armed escort carefully moved Arnold from the coach to inside the square, log walls of the hospital, to a small room at the back of the building, next to the apothecary and the doctor’s station. Doctor Talmadge set up a cot nearby and watched and waited.
The following morning, stark, bare branches of the forest trees made crooked lines across the face of the rising sun as Captain Milner, average size, round, unremarkable face, reddish beard stubble, strode steadily to the square, plain log building with a board above the door into which was burned the single word, HOSPITAL. Heavy frost turned the sun’s rays into countless jewels of red, yellow, blue, and green, and drenched his boots. He lifted the wooden latch and stepped inside, holding his breath against the rank odor of putrid flesh. A plump nurse with tired eyes tried to tuck stray strands of hair as she spoke to him.
“Who do you wish to see?”
“Doctor James Thacher, or Doctor Harold Talmadge.”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “You have an interest in General Arnold.” It was not a question.
Milner spoke with a sense of urgency. “I led the escort that brought him here. A rider just came in from Saratoga. There are things General Arnold needs to hear.”
“Oh. One moment.” The woman walked down a narrow aisle between cots jammed together end to end and disappeared through a rough plank door. For half a minute Milner studied the room. Wounded, maimed, and dying men were everyplace a cot or blankets could be laid, jammed together, with the worst cases on blankets beneath the cots set up against the walls. The stench was stifling. The sounds of unending human pain tore his heart. For a moment he loathed it. War, hate, hunger, cold, ordering men to their death, killing, writing letters to widows and fatherless—it all rose to choke him, and he turned away from it, to face the door.
Half a minute later the nurse returned, followed by Doctor Talmadge, who came to a stop, his thin, weary, lined face filled with apprehension.
“Yes, Captain?”
“How are you, sir?”
“Tired. Very tired. You have news?”
“From Saratoga. Is General Arnold in condition to listen?”
Talmadge pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “Back there in a room asleep. We ought not wake him.”
“Can I wait?”
“If you want. Don’t know how long it will be.” Talmadge cleared his throat. “What’s happened at Saratoga?”
There was eagerness in Milner’s voice. “Burgoyne surrendered. Two days ago. His entire army.”
Talmadge’s mouth dropped open, and he snapped it shut. “John Burgoyne? Surrendered?”
“October seventeenth, at Fish Creek. Burgoyne and his whole army—prisoners of war.”
For a moment Talmadge stared in disbelief, then turned at the sound of the door opening behind him. Doctor James Thacher, balding, bulbous nose, chief surgeon at the Albany military hospital, softly closed it and walked to join Talmadge and Milner.
“I’m Doctor Thacher. You wanted to see me?”
Milner nodded and thrust out his hand. “Captain Noel Milner. Doctor Talmadge and I brought General Arnold in.”
“I know.” Thacher shook Milner’s hand perfunctorily, then locked eyes with him, clearly in charge, clearly waiting for him to state his business.
Milner scratched at his beard. “I got news from Saratoga a while ago. John Burgoyne surrendered two days ago. Him and his whole army—prisoners of war.”
Thacher’s bushy eyebrows raised over slate-gray eyes. “Oh? Didn’t expect that.”
“I thought General Arnold should hear about it.”
Thacher nodded. “In good time. He’s sleeping.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself.”
Milner shifted on his feet, then turned to Talmadge. “Did you ever find out about all those names and places Arnold talked about? When he was fevered?”
“Most of them. Took most of a day after his fever broke. Seemed like he needed to talk.”
“Did it make sense? When you got it all together?”
“Most of it. He was born in January 1741—the fourteenth of January I think he said—to a father who had inherited wealth and a thriving merchant’s business in Norwich, which he mismanaged. It failed. Lost everything. Ships, money, his retail store—all of it. His father couldn’t take the loss. Turned to drink. Became the town derelict. When the family fell to poverty, the boy Benedict was shunned by his cousins. They made fun of his clothes and his family’s condition. He spent his winters in Canterbury, in a school run by the Reverend James Cogswell, a close relative of Benedict’s mother. His mother was widowed once before she married Benedict’s father. Had seven children and lost all but two—Benedict and his sister, Hannah.”
Talmadge paused, trying to remember. “Poverty made Benedict defiant. Once he rode the waterwheel of the local flour mill two complete revolutions, just to impress the neighborhood boys. Another time he climbed the roof of a burning house and walked the roofline with the whole town watching. Terrified them. Tried to join the militia before he was fifteen, but his parents brought him back. In ’57, when he was sixteen, they did let him go with the militia to fight the French and Indians at Fort William Henry, but the battle was over before his regiment got there. Came home without firing a shot. The boy was furious. Defiant. Wanted to fight.”
Thacher interrupted, face clouded. “I practiced medicine in New Haven for a while. Didn’t know Arnold personally, but I knew his reputation when he lived there. He’s never gotten over being defiant. Defies anything he takes a notion. Defiance will defeat him if he doesn’t control it.” Thacher raised a hand to point. “Come on back to my desk. We can sit while we wait.”
They worked their way through the cots to a battered desk next to a small room with APOTHECARY on the door, and sat down, Talmadge and Milner facing Thacher.
Talmadge went on. “Two of the town’s leading physicians—brothers, Daniel and Joshua Lathrop—relatives of Benedict’s mother—decided on an experiment. Planted huge gardens of all kinds of medicinal herbs and took on Benedict as their apprentice. He worked hard and eventually built an apothecary business that thrived. Became the biggest medicine supplier to southern England. One shipment was worth eight thousand pounds sterling.”
Milner shifted in his chair, eyes narrowed in deep interest.
Talmadge continued. “His mother tried to drill into the boy a fear of God’s will—whatever you do, be ready when he calls you home. Be ready. Benedict showed some rebellion even against that. His mother died in 1759, his father in 1761. Everything he owned was sold to pay toward his debts.”
Talmadge paused to collect his thoughts. “By that time Benedict was so valuable to the Lathrop apothecary trade they didn’t want to let him go, but he was too restless to stay. Chaffed at being controlled by someone else. Wanted his freedom. Independence. His own business. The Lathrops gave him five hundred pounds sterling and some letters of high recommendation, and he left Norwich for New Haven to establish himself. Bought ships, and sailed for London with the Lathrop recommendations that got him credit, and he was in business. His flagship was a sloop he named the Sally.”
A sound from behind brought all three men around to look. The nurse closed the door into Arnold’s room and shook her head. They settled back onto their chairs, relaxed.
Thacher picked it up. “I remember he married Margaret Mansfield in 1767. Called her Peggy. They had three sons—Benedict, Richard, and Henry. He plunged into business too headlong—too much too quick. Got into money trouble within months. Never did understand how to handle money, or for that matter, people. When a suitor came to visit his sister, Hannah, Benedict called him out to a duel. Had a duel or two with some of his creditors as well. It appears his solution to solving problems with those who opposed him was very simple. Break heads, or shoot them.”
Thacher paused, then grunted words from his ample belly. “If that man has any compassion for anyone else, I have yet to see it. Hasn’t changed much since New Haven. I stood watch over him several nights. He was peevish and impatient the whole time. Demanded my attention all night.”
Milner’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Talmadge broke in, “Arnold was with Ethan Allen back in ’75 when they took Fort Ticonderoga from the British, but couldn’t stay out of controversy. He came at odds with Allen and his Green Mountain Boys who were with him, and came close to blows. Or worse, a duel. He was later with the expedition north to take Quebec, with Montgomery. They came within yards of conquering Canada before their campaign fell to pieces. Montgomery was killed at the walls of the city. Arnold was shot in the leg. The left leg. The same one that is now giving him so much grief. In the middle of all this he was ordered to go to Cambridge to settle accounts. The Massachusetts legislature claimed he owed them because he had charged expenses to Massachusetts without authority while he led that Canadian expedition. When his leg healed, he didn’t go to Cambridge. He went home, instead, and there learned that his wife had died.”
Milner glanced at Thacher, who sat impassively, staring at his desk, unmoved. Talmadge went on.
“When Arnold finally met with his superiors to settle his accounts for the Ticonderoga and Quebec expedition, he claimed they owed him more money than he owed them. Money he had spent from his own pocket on military needs. They demanded proof, but he had none. Hadn’t kept records. They finally settled by giving him half what he claimed and made him pay the balance they claimed against him. The United States Congress was so embarrassed for the small amount Massachusetts allowed him, they voted him another one hundred forty-five pounds from their own coffers.”
Thacher pursed his mouth. “The man is absolutely numb to politics. No sense of it at all. Keep records of his financial dealings? Never. He loathes paperwork of any kind. Accountability?” He shook his head. “Accountable only to himself. Politics? Politicians? He understands but one thing. Crush them.”
Milner turned to Talmadge. “What did he say about someone named Wooster?”
“Wooster?” Talmadge reached into his memory. “Arnold was elected captain of a company of Governor’s Foot Guard in New Haven. When the shooting started at Lexington and Concord, the New Haven Town Meeting Committee voted to stay neutral. Arnold stormed into the meeting and declared his company ready to fight. Wooster—Colonel David Wooster of the Connecticut militia—told Arnold the Committee had already legally voted neutrality, and they held the keys to the New Haven powder magazine. Arnold condemned the meeting on the spot and threatened to smash down the door to the magazine if they didn’t give him the keys. They started to protest, but Arnold yelled, ‘None but Almighty God shall prevent my marching!’ He got the keys, and he marched. He was thirty-three years old.”
Thacher raised a hand and let it drop. “And he found a release for all his pent-up anger and defiance. War.”
The sound of the front door opening brought all three men around, and sunlight flooded into the twilight room as a small, round-shouldered, wiry man wearing a threadbare coat over a carpenter’s apron entered. He carried a cage nearly five feet in length, made of oak sticks. Ten leather straps hung loose. He stopped inside the door to let his eyes adjust, when Doctor Thacher called to him.
“Is it finished?”
The little man’s eyes shone with pride. “Yes, sir, just like you ordered. It’ll sure do.”
“Bring it.” He gestured to Talmadge and Milner, and the four men made their way between the cots to Arnold’s room. Thacher pointed and spoke to the little man.
“Leave it there, by the door.”
His four-day beard moved as the carpenter replied, “Yes, sir. If she needs any fixin’ or she don’t fit just right, I can fix ’er quick. Just let me know.”
Thacher nodded, and the man hesitated for a moment as though waiting for a ‘thank-you’ or at least some further acknowledgment of his handiwork. Thacher gave him a nod of approval, and the man rubbed his hands on the sides of his coat, bobbed his head, turned, and walked out.
Milner studied the structure for a moment. “What is it?”
Talmadge pointed. “A fracture cage. Fits around Arnold’s hip and leg, and when those straps are tightened the leg is locked in place. Keeps him flat on his back.”
From inside the room came the muffled sounds of a voice calling. Thacher grimaced. “Sounds like he’s awake. I’ll have to go.”
Milner stood. “Mind if I talk with him for a minute? Won’t take long.”
Thacher gave a jerk of his head, and the three entered the room where General Benedict Arnold lay flat in his bed, his leg still strapped to the plank. Doctor Thacher sat beside him to touch his forehead, and Arnold pushed his hand away.
“I’m not fevered. Get this board off my leg. It’s cutting circulation. My whole left side is numb. Get it off.”
Thacher started to speak, but Arnold cut him off, eyes narrowed at Milner. “Who is this man? What’s he doing here?”
“Captain Milner. He commanded the escort that brought you from Saratoga.”
Arnold studied Milner for a moment. “I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“I don’t doubt it. You weren’t yourself. I came to tell you about Saratoga.”
Arnold sobered instantly. “What about Saratoga?”
“Two days ago General Burgoyne surrendered what’s left of his army. All of it. At a place called Fish Creek. They’re all prisoners of war, including Burgoyne.”
“Two days? What date was that?”
“October seventeenth.”
The change that came over Arnold stunned all three men. His entire countenance was transformed in an instant. The internal darkness was gone. A light came into his eyes and his face and being, a light that radiated to touch everything in the room, as if something tangible. All three men were compelled into a silence that held while Arnold spoke.
“I saw it coming! I saw it when we took the Breymann redoubt! What has Gates done? Has he made his report to General Washington? Has he asked for me? To restore my rank? My command? No matter. When Washington learns of what happened there will be no question of my rank. My future.”
Milner spoke hesitantly. “I don’t think Gates has made his report yet. I’m sure you’ll know when that happens.”
“He’ll have to tell the truth this time. Too many good men were there at the redoubt. He won’t dare repeat what he did when he reported the battle at Nielsen’s Farm. That was in September, you remember. September nineteenth. He made no mention at all of my name in that report, but he cannot do that when he reports the battle at the wheat field. Impossible. Washington—Congress—the entire Continental Army will know what happened.”
Arnold was ecstatic. All thought of his pain and his crippled leg was gone. Suddenly he raised onto his elbows.
“How long will it take to get a messenger to Philadelphia and back? I want to know the news—what the newspapers are saying. I must know.”
Thacher shook his head. “We’ll send a messenger today, sir. Now we’ve got to get the fracture cage onto that leg.” He gestured. “Doctor Talmadge, help undo the bindings on this board. Captain Milner, get that cage. When we get this plank off, lay it on the bed beside the leg and help us with these straps.”
The fracture cage became a torment that turned Arnold’s recovery into an unending purgatory. Worse than any prison cell,
it forced him to lie day after day in one position—flat on his back. Doctors and nurses tended his every need. Bowels, food, baths, change of nightshirts, shaving, combing his hair. Arnold became peevish, then desperate. With no physical release for his compulsive impetuosity, he began to live in his head. His remembrances became distorted, at times his conversation irrational. He dictated letters to Congress, then General Washington, inquiring why his rank as general, and his powers of command, had not been restored. Certainly no one in Congress, or in the military establishment, could doubt his service, and his sacrifice, in turning the battle at Saratoga. Burgoyne fell because Benedict Arnold had taken the American army, and the battle, on his own shoulders.
His letters became firm, then demanding. Aware that war, and the times, had moved on without him, he became fearful he would be forgotten, forever abandoned to ignominy and forgotten by history.
Fall yielded to the snows of winter, and answers came in to his letters. Congress had authorized restoration of his rank, but not his seniority. General Washington’s letter of commission arrived two months later. Arnold welcomed it, but when he realized he had lost seven months seniority as a ranking general, he became enraged. He would take care of that personally.
The winds and snows of January turned Albany into a frozen wilderness. The doctors hovered over Arnold daily, testily weighing their opinion of the condition of his leg against his shouted demands that he be allowed to visit General Washington. If anyone in America would understand the injustice of robbing him of seniority among the generals of the Continental Army, it would be his friend, George Washington.