by Glenn Beck
I have no favor to ask for myself; I have too often experienced the ingratitude of my country to attempt it; but from the known humanity of your excellency, I am induced to ask your protection for Mrs. Arnold, from every insult and injury that the mistaken vengeance of my country may expose her to. It ought to fall only on me: she is as good and as innocent as an angel, and is incapable of doing wrong. I beg she may be permitted to return to her friends in Philadelphia, or to come to me, as she may choose; from your excellency I have no fears on her account, but she may suffer from the mistaken fury of the country.
I have to request that the enclosed letter may be delivered to Mrs. Arnold, and she permitted to write to me.
I have also to ask that my clothes and baggage, which are of little consequence, may be sent to me. If required, their value shall be paid in money.
I have the honor to be, with great regard and esteem,
Your Excellency’s most obedient, humble servant.
B. ARNOLD.
The truth could no longer be found within Benedict Arnold—but an immense amount of sheer nerve had certainly remained.
September 28, 1780
Road to Washington’s headquarters at Tappan, New York
John André thought he could talk his way out of it.
André rode toward Tappan, New York, alongside his newest captor, George Washington’s chief of intelligence, Colonel Benjamin Tallmadge. Surrounding him on every side was a troop of cavalry, ready to kill André without hesitation if he attempted to flee.
It hadn’t taken long for the handsome Tallmadge to take a distinct liking to André. Then again, everyone had always taken a liking to Major André, so that was nothing new. As their carriage jostled along the rutted country road, André argued to Tallmadge that he had not actually landed behind enemy lines, he had landed on neutral ground. It was Arnold who had transported him to within the American lines. It wasn’t his idea at all! He had not originally been out of uniform. It wasn’t his idea that he don civilian garb! His original visit, André argued, had even been authorized by an American authority! Yes, of course, that man was Arnold, and he was a traitor, but still …
Tallmadge liked André, but André got nowhere. So he shifted his tactics. No longer pestering Tallmadge with his excuses, he now posed a question: what did Tallmadge think would be André’s fate? Tallmadge hemmed. He hawed. But André nervously kept after him. He had played a dangerous game and lost, and now he desperately needed to be assured that he wasn’t about to lose everything.
After it became apparent that André was not about to give up on this line of questioning, Colonel Tallmadge finally answered. “I had a much-loved classmate in Yale College by the name of Nathan Hale,” he said, selecting each word with precision. “Immediately after the battle of Long Island, General Washington wanted information respecting the strength, position, and probable movements of the enemy. Captain Hale tendered 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 end of this story?”
“Yes,” André answered, his spirit sinking with each foot he advanced toward his judgment. “He was hanged as a spy. But surely you do not consider his case and mine alike.”
“Yes, precisely similar, in fact,” Colonel Tallmadge responded as bluntly and as truthfully as he could. “And similar will be your fate.”
And it was. Just four days later, the handsome, dignified, twenty-nine-year-old André met his demise at the end of a hangman’s rope. In the end, Benedict Arnold had lied his way out of the gallows. Nathan Hale and John André—died like men.
October 13, 1780
With the Continental Army
Passaic Falls, New Jersey
George Washington walked along the banks of rushing Passaic Falls, but the power and magnificence of its mighty waters failed to stir him. Disconsolately, he kicked at a pebble and absentmindedly watched it tumble down its banks.
Three weeks had passed since he’d first learned of Arnold’s treachery, but it still felt to him like it had all happened yesterday. He was not sleeping well, not eating well, not able to focus on his duties the way he once had. His trust had been broken in the most visible and humiliating way possible—and he did not know how to recover from it.
The Marquis de Lafayette, seeing Washington’s entire demeanor change for the worse, attempted to brighten his commander’s spirits. He knew Washington wasn’t thinking of waterfalls. “Sir, Benedict Arnold may have been a traitor, but his treachery has illuminated something far more important to our cause.”
Lafayette had expected his provocative statement to prompt Washington into asking him what positive could possibly be taken from something so terrible. But, as it turned out, Washington did not need his aide’s prompting; he was, in fact, already thinking along the exact same lines.
“Yes, Marquis, you are right,” Washington replied, pulling his great blue cloak tightly round him to shield him from autumn wind. “In no instance since the commencement of the war has Providence appeared more conspicuous than in the rescue of West Point from Arnold’s villainous perfidy.”
Lafayette smiled. Washington had reached the same conclusion and now the word could be spread far and wide among the rebels: A turncoat may have been in their midst, but so was God.
March 3, 1781
Parade Ground
Winter Encampment of the Continental Army
Vails Gate, New York
George Washington’s horse whinnied.
The animal seemed impatient, as if it had waited here too long, but its master seemed in no hurry to move along.
He was enjoying the view.
Before him, row after row of recruits marched forward on the muddy ground of late winter. Winters were never easy for the Continental Army—Valley Forge and Morristown had proven that—but this winter had somehow seemed easier than most. Perhaps it was because the shortages that had haunted Valley Forge were largely absent this year. Or perhaps it was because temperatures never approached those that had frozen Morristown solid.
Or, perhaps, it was something else entirely.
Recruitments had increased in the last few months. And the new men who arrived—along with those soldiers who had stayed—were tougher and more determined than any previous rebel force.
Yet there was another factor, too: In the fall the nation had shared George Washington’s grim shock. Arnold a traitor? If heroes like Arnold could desert, who was next? Was the revolution lost? But shock soon turned to anger, anger to resolve, and resolve to belief—that the hand of Providence itself protected their Revolution.
Before, these men had marched against Parliament and George III. But now they also marched to teach Benedict Arnold a lesson in real patriotism.
George Washington turned to Henry Knox. “Do you remember last September at a certain house when I asked you and the marquis a question?”
To a stranger, Washington’s question would have seemed oddly worded. “At a certain house?” But Henry Knox knew that his commander had vowed to never utter the name of Benedict Arnold again. And when Washington made a vow, he kept it.
Knox nodded. How could he ever erase the memory of Washington opening that package and seeing betrayal laid out so clearly before him? He had never seen the general so distressed.
“I know the answer to that question now,” Washington continued, admiring the steady stream of new soldiers continuing to pass before him.
“Whom can we trust now?” Washington quietly repeated the question he had almost screamed only a few months earlier. Even now, the memory of that moment clearly caused him pain. His voice caught a little.
But then he looked once more at his troops.
“The Invisible Hand, General Knox …” He answered his own question. “We can always trust in the Invisible Hand.”
7
A Tale of Two Founders
Judas sold only one man, Arnold three millions.
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN<
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To me, the story of Benedict Arnold is about more than just betrayal. It’s about choices. It’s about how great challenges can test the character and strength of even the bravest of men. Some men pass, others don’t.
Benedict Arnold turned his back on the revolution to enrich himself. George Washington embraced the revolution, and all of the sacrifice it required, without regard to his own circumstances.
Before Arnold’s name became synonymous with traitor, he and Washington were two of the revolutionary era’s greatest heroes. Both men respected and relied on each other. Both were admired throughout the colonies. Both had made immeasurable sacrifices for their cause.
Like Washington, Arnold’s path to glory had not been easy. He had faced a great deal of challenges when he was younger: his brother passed away; his once very successful father descended into alcoholism; and his mother died. Instead of going to Yale, which he was scheduled to attend, he instead became a druggist’s apprentice.
Arnold was a natural military leader, indeed in some ways perhaps an even more capable soldier than Washington. Leading one bold military adventure after the next, the fearless Arnold led by example—marching right into the heat of battle. He, like Washington, had numerous horses shot out from under him during combat.
In 1775, Arnold famously teamed up with Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys to launch a surprise attack on Fort Ticonderoga, capturing a number of the enemy’s cannons, which were then transported back to Boston and used to drive out the British. He was so ferocious on the battlefield that he earned the nickname “America’s Hannibal.” Arnold had also taken up Washington’s challenge and led a thousand starving men on a treacherous journey inland from the Maine coast in a frigid winter, attacking Quebec in a desperate battle during a snowstorm. He was shot in the leg in the process.
Arnold later turned back a British armada on his own initiative in Lake Champlain and put up a fierce fight against the British at both Brandywine and Germantown. He beat them decisively in Saratoga—getting shot in the same leg for the second time. Doctors wanted to amputate the leg, but Arnold refused and instead lived with the pain for the rest of his life.
It was a pain that would serve as a constant reminder that he’d once been a patriot, that he’d fought valiantly for the rebel’s cause. And it was a pain that, later in life, would also serve as a constant reminder of something else: that the country he sacrificed so much for had, at least in his own mind, turned its back on him.
Alternate History
According to one account, Arnold wished aloud that he’d been killed rather than wounded in Saratoga. Imagine if that had happened? The name Benedict Arnold would very likely now be associated with selfless heroism.
A FORK IN THE ROAD
Why is it that some people choose good while others choose evil? God and Satan; Jesus and Judas; Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.
As I said early, it’s all about choices. Benedict Arnold proved that some men fold under the pressure of history, while others use it as motivation to reach their highest potential.
After the Battle of Saratoga, Arnold lay wounded in a hospital while Major General Horatio Gates took credit for the victory. As if that weren’t enough of an insult, Congress had promoted five officers—all Arnold’s juniors and most far less talented—over him. Even back then politics was part of the equation as Congress ignored Washington’s consistent backing and praise for Arnold, whom he admired as a fierce soldier. Washington, ever loyal to Arnold, wrote to Congress that “surely a more active, a more spirited and sensible officer fills no department in your army.” He went on to criticize Congress’s action, saying “It is not to be presumed … that he will continue in service under such a slight.”
Washington was almost proven to be right—Arnold nearly did quit the service, but he remained to help quash a British invasion of Congress. Only after that did Congress promote Arnold to major general, but even then it slighted him, refusing to restore his seniority over the five generals they had promoted earlier.
Arnold’s rage grew.
Like most men of the revolutionary era, Benedict Arnold was not perfect—professionally or personally. Despite his many battlefield successes, he was also in debt (partly because he had personally funded much of the effort to attack Quebec—something that shows you just how much he cared for the cause). He also made some poor choices in marriage—his second wife being the daughter of a Loyalist sympathizer who … well, let’s just say she had a wobbly moral compass.
Behind Every Great Man …
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been had I not met my wife, Tania, and had she not been the kind of woman she is. She saw the best in me. She certainly brought out the best in me. And rather than allowing me to slip back into the life I’d had before—one of selfishness and self-destructiveness—she instead built me up.
Peggy Shippen was most certainly not that kind of woman for Benedict Arnold.
Arnold is ultimately responsible for his choices; I’m not disputing that at all, but consider that one of those choices was his spouse. Many historians have wondered over the years just how influential Arnold’s wife was in this whole affair. She, of course, vehemently denied any involvement in the event or even any knowledge about what was happening. But was that the whole truth?
While there is no consensus on the answer, here’s what we do know: Shippen was considered one of the most beautiful women in Philadelphia. She was a demanding young lady and was thought to be quite the catch for the financially strapped Arnold. Her father was a judge and she was born into American aristocracy—or as close as you could get to it. She was well-known to the British and considered many Loyalists among her friends. She was also friendly with John André, the major in charge of British intelligence who secretly communicated with Benedict Arnold.
Arnold found himself in difficult financial circumstances and Peggy’s high style of living demanded much more money than Arnold’s modest officer’s income could provide. Maybe she felt that her husband should have more? Maybe she stoked the fire of her husband’s grievances by arguing for the British cause? Perhaps Arnold began to rationalize that maybe his wife was right?
It is without argument that Shippen acted weirdly—like a mental patient, actually—to distract Washington when the Americans finally caught on to the plot. Peggy is also said to have admitted her deception to Aaron Burr, who was also friendly with the Shippen family. Shippen had supposedly told the (somewhat unreliable) Burr that she was aware of the entire plot from the get-go and that she was the one who had convinced her husband to switch sides.
We will probably never know if that is true, but it seems pretty unlikely that she knew nothing about the plot. Either way, Shippen’s actions tell us a lot about Arnold’s integrity and his propensity for making bad choices.
In the same way, it says a lot about the man who picked a loyal and honorable woman to be his own wife. Not only was Martha Washington uninterested in social climbing and intrigue, but she was a selfless supporter of her husband and the American cause.
Shippen might have been a socialite comfortable cavorting with both sides, but Martha was the type of woman who visited her husband every winter, even in the bitter cold at Valley Forge. That winter she stocked her carriages with as much clothing, medicine, and blankets as she could and joined the men in the camp. She organized other women into groups and led an effort to stitch up torn clothing. She also played doctor, helping to relieve the suffering of soldiers whenever possible.
It may be a cliché to say that behind every great man is a great woman, but I’d like to see someone disprove the theory. And while it may be a pointless exercise, imagine for a moment if the roles had been reversed. What if George Washington had married Peggy Shippen and Benedict Arnold had married Martha Custis? Do you think both men would’ve turned out the same way?
All of the slights, and perceived slights, inconsequential or not, finally came to a boil. By 1779, Arnold had decid
ed to change sides and opened secret negotiations with the British. “Having made every sacrifice of fortune and blood and become a cripple in the service of my country,” he later wrote to Washington, “I little expected to see the ungrateful returns I have received from my countrymen.”
It’s kind of ironic to look at the language that Arnold used and compare it to Washington. Arnold says that he “became a cripple” in the service of his country while years later, at Newburgh, Washington tells his troops he has “grown gray and almost blind” in the service of his. Similar sentiments, obviously—but Arnold used his as an excuse. You owe me! Look at all I’ve done for you! Washington’s utterance, meanwhile, was nothing of the sort. He was humbled and embarrassed at needing to put on glasses.
Two men, two choices, two destinies, and one invaluable lesson for today: always be on guard. It’s easy to let seemingly mundane annoyances pile up until they boil over. It’s easy to make the right decision ninety-nine straight times before greed finally gets the best of you. It’s easy to let selfishness cloud your judgment or to surround yourself with people who have ulterior motives. Always be on guard. George Washington was; Benedict Arnold was not. One is now a national hero; one is now a national disgrace.