by Ron Carter
In the second week of February, Doctor Talmadge spent half an hour behind closed doors with Doctor Thacher. Then both men entered Arnold’s room, and Doctor Talmadge spoke.
“We will remove the cage, and you may leave the hospital, but only on the following conditions. The leg will remain splinted at all times. You will absolutely not place weight on it. You will use crutches at all times until advised otherwise by doctors, and you will not spend more than four hours per day on your good foot and the crutches. Do you understand?”
Arnold was ecstatic. “I understand. I’m going to visit my children and regain my health. Then, as soon as I can, I’m going to Valley Forge. I must see General Washington.”
Thacher nodded. “With an escort under orders to see that you follow what Doctor Talmadge just told you. Is that clear?”
“I’ll leave in the morning!”
For more than two months Arnold remained with his children in Middleton, taking comfort from them as his leg slowly healed. It became obvious the crippled limb was going to be noticeably shorter than the other. Grimly Arnold accepted it and lived for the day he could see General Washington and begin the tortuous process of trying to right the wrongs that Congress and the politicians had done him.
The raw winds and thaws of March turned New England into a quagmire, followed by the subtle warming of April, and the reawakening of May. Arnold wrote a request for audience with General Washington. The reply came from John Laurens, Washington’s aide. He would be most cordially welcomed the last week of May. With hope surging in his soul, Arnold ordered a team and buggy and an escort for the trip to Valley Forge. The response came immediately. Captain Noel Milner would lead the twelve-man escort, with a coach and team of four horses driven by Sergeant Abraham Claiborne.
It rained in the night of May twenty-fifth, a soft, warm, steady pelting, and then the heavens cleared. The rising sun burned off the wispy fog and raised steam from the puddles. By nine o’clock the roads were beginning to firm. At half past ten o’clock, Abe sawed back and forth on the reins of his four-up team to slow the rocking coach. He leaned to his left and turned his head to call down from the driver’s seat into the body of the swaying buggy.
“Gen’l Arnold, we’re comin’ into the encampment. We’re on the Gulph Road, comin’ to the Schuylkill, not far from Gen’l Washington’s quarters.”
General Benedict Arnold shifted his weight, teeth gritted at the gnawing ache in his left leg. It had been seven months and nineteen days since the British musketball smashed the thighbone in the do-or-die charge at the Breymann redoubt. Riding in the swaying, jostling coach was to endure a constant, deep ache, and occasional stabs of white-hot pain.
Arnold thrust his head out the window of the coach to call, “Valley Forge?”
“Yes, sir. It’s hills, not a valley, but it’s Valley Forge.”
Arnold caught the windowsill with his left hand and pulled himself over to peer out, studying the men and the camp as the coach rolled on.
Captain Noel Milner brought his horse alongside. “Sir, any particular place you want to see? Any special regiment?”
Arnold shook his head. “No time. General Washington’s waiting.”
“Yes, sir.” Milner touched spur and his mount cantered forward to the head of the twelve-man escort.
The rows of small huts, sixteen feet by fourteen feet, passed by in the bright sunlight. Bearded, barefooted men in tattered shirts and pants slowed to watch the big, highly polished coach rumble past, then point and exclaim as they recognized General Benedict Arnold. The carriage came angling northwest toward the Schuylkill, then turned west, parallel to the big river, and on to the place where Valley Creek, running high and muddy with spring runoff, merged. On the east side of Valley Creek, near the Schuylkill, stood an austere, two-story stone house in which General George Washington had established his headquarters.
Sergeant Claiborne pulled the horses to a stop in the dooryard and climbed down from the driver’s seat. Captain Milner dismounted his sorrel mare, lowered the step-down, and held the door while Sergeant Claiborne took the weight of General Arnold’s arm around his shoulder and carefully helped him set his good right foot on the ground. Milner reached inside the coach for the crutches and handed them to Arnold.
“Can we help you inside, sir?”
Arnold tucked the crutches under his arms and shook his head. “I’ll make it. Wait here. I’ll be out directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carefully Arnold made his way to the front door of the building and rapped. The door was opened by an aide Arnold had never seen before. Three minutes later Arnold stopped before a door in a bare hallway. The aide knocked, waited for the familiar, “Come,” and swung the door open.
“Sir, General Benedict Arnold is here for his appointment.”
General George Washington, seven inches taller than Arnold, rose from behind his desk. “Show him in.”
The aide stepped aside, Arnold stepped into the doorway, and General Washington started to come around his desk. Arnold raised a hand to stop him.
“I’ll manage, sir. Forgive me that I did not uncover, but it is a near impossibility to carry my hat and walk on these crutches at the same time.”
“No matter. Come in and be seated.”
Washington watched with interest as Arnold moved forward, maneuvered in front of the plain, hard-backed chair opposite his own, and lowered himself onto it, holding his left leg rigid. Arnold looked for a place to conveniently lay his crutches, and Washington pointed.
“Lean them against the desk.”
“With your permission, sir.”
Washington sat down and for a moment studied Arnold. With an eye trained to gauge the vitality of a man, he saw the weariness in Arnold’s eyes, the paleness, the lines in his face. He sensed the inner fires that drove the man, but slowly understood they were somehow diminished. Diminished, or perhaps directed differently than Washington remembered. He felt a wrenching in his heart.
Washington spoke. “I am much encouraged to see you upright and moving about. I feared at what the doctors were saying. Do you know when you will be fit?”
Arnold shook his head. “Months.”
“I received your letter. The one in response to my inquiry about resuming your command. I see you were right. Active duty is out of the question for now. I trust you’ve had no further problems with Congress since my letter of last January.”
“None, sir.”
Washington glanced downward for a moment. “I regretted very much the delay in notifying you of the action they took. They resolved to restore your rank and privileges on November nineteenth of last year as I recall, which was entirely proper. I received their orders several days later. I can only hope you understand that I was hard-pressed getting the army established here. The delay in my writing to you was solely my responsibility. However, withal, I extend my congratulations.”
Arnold nodded. “Thank you, sir. I did spend a few anxious days waiting for your letter.” He paused and Washington saw him struggle with a thought for a moment. A change of mood stole over him, clouding his face, as though he were struggling with deep, bitter feelings. It reached to touch Washington, startling him.
Arnold continued. “General, you recall that business a year ago, when Congress promoted five generals ahead of me, even though I was senior to all of them?”
Washington nodded and waited.
“I know you spoke on my behalf. You and Henry Laurens. Congress finally granted my rank and a promotion but has never restored my seniority. I can endure the personal embarrassment, but I have trouble understanding the reasoning of those men. It leaves me wondering if they intentionally meant to humiliate me before the entire Continental Army?”
Arnold stopped, and it took Washington a second to understand Arnold was silently asking him for any tidbit of information that would illuminate why Congress had treated him with such crass disrespect. Washington spread his hands on the desktop for a moment, sor
ting out what he could, and could not, tell Arnold.
“Yes, I did speak for you. So did Henry Laurens. He was a representative from South Carolina at the time. He told Congress that he thought their reasoning on that occasion was disgusting. The truth is, nearly all of those five generals who were junior to you were regularly corresponding with as many congressmen as they could. Visiting them, ingratiating themselves with them. Generals Gates, Lee, and sometimes Greene, exchanged correspondence regularly with John Adams. When the time came for advancement, Congress favored them because of the favor they had curried. It had little to do with merit. In my view, to your great credit, you stood on your accomplishments. I told them so. It made no difference.”
Washington paused for a moment, ordering his thoughts. “I am unable to explain why Congress later granted your advancement to Major General without restoring your seniority above those five men, who rightfully should be your junior. I was never privy to the reasoning behind it. In my view it is a travesty. They have badly abused their powers, at your expense.”
He stopped for a moment, and his eyes narrowed with intensity. “I do not pretend Congress is perfect. Far from it. But they must do what this army has had to do. Learn their business. I am committed to keeping government powers away from the military. It must remain with Congress. When the military takes over government, countries do not survive. However imperfectly they use it, the powers of government must remain with Congress. We can only hope time will teach them to better use that power.”
For ten full seconds silence held while Arnold looked deeply into Washington.
The sense of something dark in Arnold once again reached Washington, and he straightened slightly, groping to understand what he was seeing, feeling.
Arnold finally drew a breath and let it out, and the moment was past. He shrugged.
“No matter. The point is, we must move on. I am informed General Howe has resigned. With the French now supporting us, the immediate questions are who will succeed Howe, and what will the British do next.”
The swift change in Arnold’s mood and his plunge into the most critical issues of the day caught Washington by surprise. For a moment his eyes narrowed as he organized his thoughts.
“I think General Clinton has been appointed to succeed General Howe. And, my judgment is that with their empire spread nearly around the world, they face difficulties that could be their undoing. With France just across the channel, and fully capable of invading the British Isles, King and Parliament are put to a choice which will cost them dearly no matter how they resolve it. Protect England at the cost of losing America, or hold America at the risk of suffering an invasion of England.”
Arnold leaned forward, eyes lighted by his internal fire. “Exactly. I conclude the King will sacrifice America before he risks losing England.”
“I agree.” Washington drew a deep breath. “Time will tell, likely sooner than later. It is for us now to continue with our campaign as we planned it, and watch and wait to see how they move.”
“I was in that accursed hospital too long. Lost the continuity of the war. How do we now stand?”
“I expect the British to evacuate Philadelphia. If they do, we’ll follow them wherever they go and wait for an opportunity to strike their flanks. Inflict all the damage we can and fall back. It’s the same tactic we’ve used before. No major engagements. Only battles of our choosing, in which we can inflict significant damage. We can replace our losses, and they cannot replace theirs. Enough losses, and they should recognize they cannot win. General Burgoyne learned it too late at Saratoga, most thanks to yourself.”
Arnold chose not to respond to the high compliment. “General Clinton replaced Howe? Not Cornwallis?”
“Yes.”
Washington diverted his attention to his desktop for a moment, then chose to change direction to lesser matters.
“I understand you have lately visited your family.”
Arnold leaned back, aware the discussion of the war was closed. “Yes. I spent two months in Middleton with my children.”
“They’re well?”
“Fine.”
“Your business affairs?”
Instantly a look came into Arnold’s face that startled Washington. Color replaced the pale cast of his skin. His eyes came alive. His words tumbled out, energetic, emotionally charged.
“Improved. Much improved. I bought an interest in a ship. The General McDougal. A privateer. Ten guns. My partners and I plan to go into the mercantile and apothecary business, all up and down the coast. Should be profitable. Very profitable.”
For the first time, Washington recognized something he had never seen before. This man demonstrates more enthusiasm for his business ventures than for his military affairs! Is he obsessed with profits? Money? Benedict Arnold? Could it be?
Washington pushed his thoughts aside and came to his last point.
“May I acquaint you with a proposal I have in mind? It is clear you are prevented from assuming leadership of a fighting command. Your heroic wounds simply will not allow it. If I am right about Philadelphia—by that I mean if the British evacuate—I have it in mind to give you command of that city. Administer its affairs as a military governor. Would you have thoughts about that?”
Arnold brightened. “Yes, sir. I would be most gratified.”
Washington nodded. “Excellent.” He raised a hand in gesture and let it fall to the desktop. “Would you give thought to who you want as aides, should that come to pass?”
“I shall.”
“Good. Well, then. Unless you have something else that needs our attention, I can only thank you for coming here today. It means much to me to have you available once again. Should you need anything . . . anything at all . . . you have but to ask.”
Arnold reached for his crutches and struggled to his feet. “Sir, I cannot tell you the rise in spirit I experience during such visits. If my humble service is of any value, it is worth whatever the price.”
“Let me help you with the door.”
Washington came around his desk to open and hold the door for an inferior officer—a gesture of high respect not lost on Benedict Arnold. Washington stood in the doorway to watch his crippled comrade in arms make his way awkwardly down the hall on the crutches, then went back to his desk. He took a deep breath, steeled himself for the chore before him, and reached for a fresh pile of paperwork that needed to be handled. He was midway through reading a personal memo from Henry Laurens of the Continental Congress when he laid the document down and for a time stared at the far wall.
When Arnold spoke of how Congress had abused him, was there something deeper than disappointment? Did I sense bitterness? Bordering on hatred?
His forehead furrowed as he pondered.
When he spoke of that ten-gun schooner, the General McDougal, making large profits—did he have more than business in his mind? Very profitable he said. Money. Does he lust after money? Probably the most heroic field commander in the Continental Army—a profiteer? Is there rancor in him?
Washington reached to thoughtfully run his thumb down his jaw-line.
I think not. He’s been through too much. A man of action too long confined in a hospital, too long limited by a serious wound. I have to be mistaken. Still . . .
Washington reached for the Laurens memo. He had no time for pointless conjecture.
Notes
The spectacularly heroic participation of General Benedict Arnold in the pivotal battle at Saratoga, near the Hudson River, on October 7, 1777, as described is accurate. Ketchum, Saratoga, 390–407.
The birth, early childhood, and the experiences that shaped Benedict Arnold are accurate, including riding the village waterwheel for two revolutions to impress his peers and walking the roofline of a burning house for the same reason. His physical description, that is: stout, hawk-nosed, dark complexioned, is correct. His development into an impetuous man, quick to action, hot-tempered, plunging into business after business, is as described
. He was almost totally insensitive to politics and politicians. At the New Haven town meeting wherein the city fathers had voted neutrality in the fight against the British, Arnold did interrupt the meeting, curse them all, and declare they would fight or he would break down the doors to the powder magazine and take charge himself. His purchase of part interest in the two commercial ships, Charming Nancy and General McDougal, were but two of his attempts to acquire wealth, which efforts usually failed.
The terrible wound to General Arnold’s left leg in the Saratoga matter prompted the doctors involved to plead with him to let them remove the limb, which he refused. They finally set the leg as best they could, knowing it would be two inches shorter than his right leg. He was transported from Saratoga to Albany where better medical help was available, and there was under the care of Dr. James Thacher, who stated that General Arnold was a difficult patient—demanding, garrulous, argumentative. At Albany, the doctors had a carpenter build a wooden “fracture cage,” which was a device strapped to his hip that extended down his leg in the shape of a frame that immobilized his entire side when the straps were closed. For him, the fracture cage was worse than a prison. While convalescing in Albany, Arnold received word his rank as Major General had been restored; however, his seniority among his peers had been neglected.
After months of convalescing, General Arnold was allowed to leave Albany to visit his children in Middleton, then on to report to General Washington at Valley Forge. It was in this meeting that General Washington proposed that General Arnold accept the position of military governor of Philadelphia, since his leg prevented him from leading a fighting command. General Arnold accepted.
The names of almost all characters in this chapter are correct, except for Captain Noel Milner, Abraham Claiborne, and Harold Talmadge, who are fictional (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 3–19; 123–4; 217–20; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 203–15).