Prelude to Glory, Vol. 6

by Ron Carter

The message was delivered, and Stansbury returned with a cautious, tentative answer from a suspicious André. Other messages with offers and counter-offers followed, Arnold demanding a firm commitment for payment of large sums of money for critical information, André refusing, and demanding the information in advance, with payment to be in an amount determined by the British to be adequate.

  The two collaborators had collided—reached their first critical impasse. The entire scheme came to a grinding halt with the Arnolds waiting for André to soften his demands by agreeing to a firm price for Arnold’s perfidy. Days became weeks with nothing from Stansbury. It seemed André had disappeared from the face of the earth, until the servant delivered the coded message from Benedict to Peggy. The unnamed crockery dealer was Joseph Stansbury. Benedict had heard from him. Something crucial had happened.

  He wanted Peggy in the library within the hour.

  At five minutes before the hour Peggy hurried from her suite on the second floor, down the hall to the great, curving mahogany staircase to the first floor, across the cavernous parlor, into the broad hallway to the library. Ahead of her she watched her husband laboring on his crutches, wincing despite the two-inch lift in his left shoe. She called to him, he turned and waited, and they walked on to the large door together. Benedict paused to work with his key, entered, and held it for her to pass through and take a velvet, overstuffed chair next to a small oaken table with a delicate lamp imported from the Orient. With his teeth set against the chronic ache in his left leg and hip, he took the chair opposite her and laid his crutches on the floor. She folded her hands in her lap and turned to him, tense, waiting, battling a rising sense of foreboding.

  He was unable to mask his bitterness as he spoke.

  “A message came from André. His superiors will not commit to a guaranteed payment of the money.”

  Peggy closed her eyes and her shoulders sagged. They had lost! They had taken the deadly risk, and it had come to nothing. Anger flared, and she tossed her head defiantly. “Then they shall not have the information they need.”

  Arnold continued. “André said there would be no money at all until I have delivered what he calls a ‘real advantage,’ or at least made ‘a generous effort.’”

  Peggy snapped, “Meaning what?”

  Arnold rubbed weary eyes before he answered. “He said that rather than limiting my efforts to general information, I should send an accurate plan of Fort West Point. With it should be specific information of the number and type of boats guarding the Hudson River, and the order of battle for the American army.”

  “West Point?”

  “Fort West Point, on the Hudson River above New York.”

  “Is Fort West Point important to them?”

  Arnold nodded, eyes downcast for a moment. He raised them, and in them Peggy saw the keenest combat mind in the American army. “If the British were able to occupy Fort West Point, they could cut the United States in two. It would fragment the states, weaken the entire American effort. The British could defeat them, one half at a time, and the revolution would fail completely. It would be over. We would have our reward, and the world could return to sanity.”

  Peggy remained silent for a time, working with her thoughts. “What do you plan—”

  Arnold raised a hand to stop her. “That’s not all. André said that if I would assume a command and arrange a meeting with him under a flag of truce, he was convinced that we could strike an agreement in a short time.”

  Peggy’s heart leaped. “Assume a command? What did he mean? You’re in command of this entire city.”

  “I think he was suggesting command of Fort West Point. Within a month I will be able to move about with this leg, and I could command such a fort if I were appointed by Washington. If I had command there, I could surrender the fort to the British without a shot being fired.”

  “Would General Washington likely be disposed to make such an appointment?”

  “I don’t know. André had one other proposal. British General William Phillips was captured at Saratoga and is in a prison camp in Virginia. André proposes Phillips be paroled to New York, then on to my headquarters here, where we can strike a bargain. But there’s danger. We would violate the flag of truce if we used it to arrange giving information on Fort West Point to the British. And if Phillips comes here to discuss the same thing, he would be in violation of the oath he must take to get a parole. Either way, none of us would be protected. If the Americans found out, I could be hanged.”

  Peggy heaved a great sigh. “Then what’s to be done?”

  For a long time Arnold sat in silence, pondering, weighing, before he answered.

  “Nothing. At least for now. I refuse to deal with them without a firm commitment that I will receive the compensation I demand. To give up what I have for a reward that is unnamed is to give up a certainty for an uncertainty, and that I will not do. I have my duty to you. To give up what I have without knowing that I will gain by it is out of the question.”

  Peggy stared at her hands for a time. “I agree. I will draft a coded letter to André to conclude the entire matter. All we have dreamed of can still be ours if we are careful in how we handle your present opportunities with the Americans. I still believe General Washington will see us through the political nonsense, and one day this country will realize the debt it owes you.”

  She stood. “And on that day, your name will take its rightful place in history, and all you have given for the American cause will be justly rewarded.”

  She walked to the door and turned. “I will draft the answer to John André tonight.”

  She closed the door, and he sat in the silence, pondering his options. One thought rose in his mind, above all others.

  If I had command of Fort West Point, would the British meet my demands? Money. Wealth. My rightful place in history as the man who justly and fairly brought peace between the Mother Country and her erring children? Would they commit to it?

  He sat for a long time before he reached for his crutches.

  Notes

  The decision of Benedict Arnold and his wife Peggy to commit treason by selling out to the British for money became a reality when they made their plan, and then selected Joseph Stansbury, a socialite crockery merchant, to carry their coded letter to John André, who was an aide to British Major General Clinton. André was soon promoted to the position of adjutant general and advanced to the rank of major, by General Clinton. The coded letters were exchanged, with the British refusing Arnold’s high demands. The British suggested that if Arnold would arrange to surrender Fort West Point, on the Hudson River about eighty miles north of New York, negotiations could continue. At that time Arnold was still military governor of Philadelphia, but he did shortly open the question with General Washington of his appointment as commander of Fort West Point (Flexner, The Traitor and the Spy, pp. 275–301; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 554–62).

  Danbury, Connecticut

  October 1779

  CHAPTER XIII

  * * *

  Awright, you lovelies, gather ’round. Mail’s in.”

  Sergeant Alvin Turlock’s nasal twang reached through the camp of Second Company, Massachusetts Regiment, camped within sight of the village of Danbury, Connecticut. They had been camped for weeks, waiting impatiently for General Henry Clinton to venture out of his stronghold fifty-five miles south in New York before the snows of winter forced both armies into winter quarters. The first frosts of fall had turned the fields and forests of New England into a blaze of colors, and, with the sun down, a chill was settling in the beautiful rolling hills.

  Soldiers may fail in their duties for many reasons, but none miss a mail call if they can walk, or even crawl. The cleanup crew left the pots and utensils from evening mess unfinished and wiped their hands on their pant legs as they walked to Turlock. Men at the woodyard drove ax blades into chopping blocks and trotted to the big fire where Turlock stood waiting. His ragged beard moved as he read the names, and m
en pushed through the ring to clutch the letters and turn away, eyes glowing as they studied the names on the sealed messages.

  Twice the thin, hawk-faced little man had to extend the letter a full arm’s length in an attempt to decipher the writing, then shook his head. “Can’t make ’er out.” Anxious men read the names for him, and other men raised a hand to answer, “Here!”

  Turlock was close to the end of the bundle when he squinted, then called, “Weems!”

  “Here!” Men opened to let Billy through, and he took the letter and turned back, concentrating on the carefully formed writing.

  Mother! Eagerly he broke the seal and unfolded the document. He stood in the gathering twilight and held the letter toward the firelight to read.

  The second day of October, 1779.

  Boston, Massachusetts.

  My Dear Son Billy:

  I take pen in hand hoping this post will reach you in time. Yesterday I learned from Margaret Dunson that Matthew will be home sometime this month, with furlough to stay for some time. In his letter to Margaret he requested that if possible you could be home during that time, as he wants to see you. He is in good health, and eager to be home again. He mentioned home would seem incomplete without you. It would be a good thing if you could get a military furlough and be here for a little time. I urge you to try to do so.

  Matthew said Tom Sievers lost his life in a sea battle. I was much saddened to learn Tom is gone, however, I am certain he is now with his wife and son, and supremely happy after all these years.

  Trudy is well and growing into a fine young lady. She is a great help to me, and a good companion. I do not know what I would do if she were not here. I do not think I would be able to live alone, although it is probable that I shall have that experience before the Almighty calls me home. We made our candles and are selling them right along, and we have several people who want the rugs we make from scraps. We have enough income to sustain us.

  I trust this letter finds you well. I am brief because I must post this letter today in the hope it reaches you timely. You are in the work of the Almighty, and he will sustain you if you are faithful. I am proud that you are my son.

  Your loving mother,

  Dorothy Weems.

  Matthew! Safe! Coming home! It surged through him in waves. Safe—coming home—safe—coming home. The mail call was finished, and the men were milling about, quiet, reading, sharing letters, when Billy pushed through them to find Turlock. He was walking back to his tent when Billy called, and he turned, waiting.

  “That letter. It was from my mother. Matthew Dunson—I’ve told you about him—he’s coming home on furlough. Been on ships. Should be in Boston in the next few days. I’ve got to see him. He and I . . . I’ve got to see him. Can I get a furlough?”

  Turlocked cocked one eye. “You sure this isn’t about that girl?”

  “Sure. Can I get the furlough?”

  “How long since you was home?”

  “Three years. A little over.”

  Turlock’s eyebrows arched. “No question you’ve earned a visit home. Only other question is are we headed into some battle or somethin’ that we need you here? I doubt that. I think we’re goin’ to be here until snow puts us in winter quarters, and we sure don’t need you here for that. I’ll ask soon as we’re finished with mess in the morning.”

  The evening star found Billy sitting cross-legged near the fire by his tent, reading the letter again. Memories long neglected arose, and he let them come, warm, welcome. He was startled by the tattoo drum and slipped the letter inside his shirt before he sought his blankets.

  Reveille cracked out, rattling in the trees, and the camp stirred to life. Billy stood in line for the morning cooks to shake oatmeal mush smoking from a wooden spoon into his wooden bowl, then sat beside the morning fire near his tent with a wooden cup of steaming drink from boiled wheat while he dipped the mush with a battered spoon. He stripped off his coat to split his cord of firewood and was stacking it for the noon cooks when Turlock came striding through camp with a paper clutched in his right hand. Billy was putting on his shirt as he walked to him.

  “Here’s your furlough, signed and ready to go. Major Eubanks says you’re to be back in six weeks. That enough time?”

  Billy grinned. “It’ll do. Got about a hundred twenty miles to walk, both ways. Figure that’ll take around twelve or fourteen days through the hills. That leaves about four weeks at home. It’ll do.”

  “Tried to get you a horse, but they don’t have none to spare. You need any money? I got some of that paper money Congress’s been printing, but it’s near worthless. You can have it if it’ll help.”

  Billy shook his head. “No, thanks. Most people won’t take it. I’ll be all right.”

  “You can go any time. If I was you I’d pack up and get gone. Can’t tell when weather might slow you down. I told ’em at the commissary to expect you. Get some dried meat and hardtack and potatoes. They got some turnips, and wheat.”

  “I’ll be gone in an hour. I thank you for your help.”

  Turlock waved it off. “Didn’t do nothin’.” He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “You sure that girl don’t figger somewhere in this?”

  Billy smiled. “Want to read the letter?”

  Turlock ignored it. “Well, you be careful. Keep your musket handy and watch for redcoats out in the woods. An’ don’t be late gettin’ back here.”

  Billy bobbed his head and trotted away with Turlock watching him until he disappeared. For a time Turlock stood without moving, pondering in his mind. If I had a furlough, where would I go? What would I do? No family. No home. Where would I go? He wiped at his beard, wondering how many men with a home to go to, and a family waiting, understood what they had. Why was it that all too often the treasures of life were known only by their absence?

  He shook his head. Well, figgerin’ out such answers don’t run Second Company. Food and firewood and drill does.

  “Awright, you lovelies, rank and file, just like I taught you. We got two hours of drill before noon mess.”

  The days were cool, the nights chill, as Billy moved steadily east and north. Home. Home. Home. There was a lift and a spring in his step, and a lightness in his heart as he wound through the low, rolling hills on dirt roads and across fields. He paused to drink sweet water from clear streams, or from his scarred wooden canteen, and ate from his pack and what he could glean from fields and orchard, and continued on. He walked with an awe akin to reverence, marveling at the great forests, fully blanketed now in splashes of color that enclosed him on all sides, beautiful beyond anything that could be made by the hand of man. He looked and was humbled and refreshed, and moved on.

  The salt scent of the sea reached him one day out of Boston, and he knew only then how he had missed it. He saw the town in his mind long before he reached the narrow neck of land that connected the peninsula to the mainland. In golden afternoon sunlight he reached the outskirts of the bustling city and could not believe the feelings that arose at the sight of ordinary buildings and fences and tiny businesses and the tops of ship masts lining the docks in the harbor.

  Reaching the section of town where he lived, he turned into the narrow cobblestone street toward his home and for a moment slowed at the sight of the white fence enclosing the small cottage. As he pushed through the gate, he saw the curtain in the window near the door move. He reached for the doorhandle and heard Trudy’s voice inside, shouting.

  “Mama! He’s home! Come quick!”

  He pushed through the door as his mother, stout, plain round face, rushed across the tiny parlor to throw her arms about him and bury her face in his shoulder, eyes clenched, murmuring “You’re home. You’re home.” Billy folded her inside his arms and the two stood in his homecoming embrace for a time, saying nothing as their inner souls reached to give and receive that which makes life bearable.

  Trudy stood beside them, knowing something beyond her grasp was happening, wanting to be part of it, not kno
wing how, and Billy reached to pull her into it, and she threw her arms about both of them.

  Dorothy sighed and relaxed, and Billy took her by the shoulders to push her back. “It’s good to be home. You look fine.”

  Trudy moved, and Billy turned, eyes wide. “Is this Trudy? This isn’t Trudy! Why, this is a grown-up, young lady from someplace else! Whose daughter is this?”

  The girl ducked her head to grin and blush, pleasured by her brother’s feigned surprise. “Oh, Billy, I’m Trudy. You know that.” She did not know what else to say and stood there, grinning and glowing and embarrassed, feeling like a child and an adult all in the same confused instant. Then she blurted, “You’ve got a beard!”

  Billy reached to scratch the thick, rusty-red growth, his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Did I forget to shave my beard?”

  Trudy laughed and Billy smiled.

  Because Dorothy’s life had granted her few moments of pure joy, but had rather been filled with the heartache of a lost husband and the hard, relentless, grinding necessity of work or starve, she had long since taken refuge in what to her were the dependable realities of living. Food. Raiment. A roof. A bed. All else was transient.

  “You’re hungry. I’ll have supper on soon.”

  Billy unslung his musket, shrugged his bedroll from his back, took them in hand and turned to Trudy. “Help me find my room. I forgot.”

  The two of them pushed through the door into his small room, and he stopped for a moment, unprepared for the instant rush of memories. He stood his musket by the door, tossed his bedroll on the floor by the wall, and stood still for a moment, noticing little things he had forgotten. He sobered as he stared at the bed, where he had lain for so long more than three years before, with a gaping hole in his side where a huge British musketball had torn through his side, and a British bayonet had driven through on that day in April 1775, that changed the history of the world forever. The day Matthew and John Dunson and Tom Sievers dragged him through British musketballs and cannon shot to the home of Jonas Parker in the small village of Lexington, more dead than alive. The day John Dunson was killed. The day he had been certain he was going to die. The day Matthew refused to leave him. They finally loaded him in a wagon to bring him home, and Matthew would not leave his side until they knew he would live.