Defiant Brides (12 page)

Once the soldiers were camped at Jockey Hollow, Washington set Thursday, December 20 (or, by some records, the twenty-third), for the court-martial at nearby Norris Tavern. Earlier that week, Peggy, her belly swollen with pregnancy, had embraced her husband, wished him good luck, and watched his carriage lumber down icy Market Street in the direction of Morristown.

At 10 a.m. on December 23, Arnold appeared before a twelve-man jury that sat at long wooden tables near a roaring fire in the barroom, the tavern’s largest space. As Arnold predicted, he was to be tried by his fellow soldiers. Among them were General Robert Howe, who served as the presiding judge, and Arnold’s friend Henry Knox as vice chairman. Four of the witnesses sat nearby: Timothy and William Matlack, David Franks, and Alexander Hamilton. The fifth, John Mitchell, quartermaster of the Philadelphia militia, was not yet present.

Serving as his own counsel, Arnold pleaded not guilty. As he leaned on his cane, the famous warrior deftly foiled one accusation after another. As one officer confided to a friend, “It is expected he will be acquitted with honors.”
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On December 30, the court temporarily adjourned just before a double blizzard blanketed Morristown. “On the 3rd . . . we experienced one of the most tremendous snowstorms ever remembered; no man could endure its violence many minutes without danger to his life,” Dr. James Thacher recalled. “The snow is from four to six feet deep, obscuring the very traces of the roads.”
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That month, as two other blizzards swept over the region, burying Philadelphia and New York in five feet of snow, both Peggy and Lucy remained in suspense: Peggy, in luxurious surroundings at the Masters-Penn mansion, and Lucy, at Knox’s simpler quarters in Morristown. Had the two women met, they would have discovered much in common that chilly January. Born to privilege and linked to the Revolution through their husbands, both women were pregnant and both hoped for Arnold’s acquittal.

From Morristown, Arnold wrote to Peggy, complaining the trial was stalled because quartermaster Mitchell had failed to appear. Infuriated, the former belle sent a servant to Mitchell’s office, begging him to travel to Norris’s Tavern. “I never wanted to see you half so much,” she also wrote to Arnold on a blustery January 4. “You mentioned Sunday for your return [but] I will not flatter myself I shall see you even then, if you wait for Colonel Mitchell.”
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Finally, on January 19, Mitchell arrived at Norris’s Tavern. However, his testimony was so evasive that the jury discounted it.

Two days later, Arnold presented his closing statement. “My time, my fortune, and my person have been devoted to my country in this war. And if the sentiments of those who are supreme in the United States in civil and military matters are allowed to have weight, then my time, my fortune, and my person have not been devoted in vain.” In a plea for sympathy, he explained his resentment of the “uncommon attention . . . employed in propagating suspicions, invectives, and slanders to the prejudice of my character. The presses of Philadelphia have groaned under the libels against me; charges have been published, and officially transmitted to the different states, and to many parts of Europe.”
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Those accusations, Arnold insisted, were “calculated to raise a prejudice against me, not only among the people at large, but in the minds of those who were to be my judges.” After a heart-rendering account of his courageous deeds on the battlefields, the crippled general concluded, “I have looked forward with pleasing anxiety to the present day when, by the judgment of my fellow soldiers, I shall . . . stand honorably acquitted of all the charges brought against me and again share with them the glories and dangers of this just war.”
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His presentation had its intended effect. On Wednesday, January 26, the jury acquitted Arnold of all charges but his grant of an illegal pass to
The Charming Nancy.
Described as “imprudent and improper . . . the court in consequence of their determinations respecting the first and last charges exhibited against Major General Arnold, do sentence him to receive a reprimand from his Excellency, the Commander-in-Chief.”
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Arnold was stunned. He had anticipated a full acquittal. Washington’s reprimand would be humiliating—and unwarranted. “For what? Not for doing wrong but because I might have done wrong; or rather, because evil might follow the good that I did,” Arnold complained to the sympathetic Silas Deane.
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Seething, Arnold stormed out of Morristown, returned to Philadelphia, and to Peggy’s waiting arms.

One event raised Arnold’s spirits a month later. On March 19, 1780, Peggy delivered a sturdy baby boy named Edward Shippen Arnold.

During the court-martial, conditions at Jockey Hollow grew increasingly grim. “We have had the most terrible winter here that I ever know,” Nathanael Greene wrote his kinsman Governor William Greene of Rhode Island. “Almost all the wild beasts of the fields, and the birds of the air, have perished with the cold. All the bays, rivers and creeks are froze up.”
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Each storm was followed by sub-zero temperatures that delayed food deliveries to the army camp. “The troops, both officers and men, have born their distress with a patience scarcely to be conceived.” Washington advised Samuel Huntington in Congress. “Many of the latter have been four or five days without meat entirely and short of bread.”
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The soldiers became desperate. “We were absolutely, literally starved,” noted Private Joseph Martin in his diary. After four days without food, he gnawed a piece of black birch bark off a stick. Then, “I saw several of the men roast their old shoes and eat them . . . some of the officers killed and ate a favorite little dog.”
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On January 7, other soldiers slogged through five-foot drifts to nearby private homes and plundered them for food.

Horrified, Washington ordered Nathanael Greene to apologize to county judges for the behavior of his men. “The present situation of the army with respect to provisions is the most distressing of any we have experienced since the beginning of the war. For a fortnight past, the troops, both officers and men, have been almost perishing,” Greene’s notice warned.
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Should the residents of New Jersey refuse to donate food, Washington would be forced to resort to martial law. Soon afterwards, donations of grain and herds of cattle arrived at camp. Still the storms continued—twenty-six of them by winter’s end.

To dispel the gloom, Washington and his officers pooled funds to hold dances in one of Morristown’s empty warehouses. The first of those “dancing assemblies,” on February 23, coincided with another storm that prevented most of the female guests from attendance. Although six months pregnant, Lucy managed to appear, however. “Last Wednesday commenced the great Military Assembly at Morristown,” an attending officer wrote General William Irvine. “His Excellency opened the ball with Mrs. Knox. As the weather was cool, there were but sixteen ladies and from fifty to sixty gentlemen present.”
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For Lucy, the effort of plodding through the snow to the ball was worth it. Not only did it provide amusement from that long, dreary winter, but it also reconfirmed her role as the social leader for subsequent military galas.

The following May, Lucy delivered a healthy baby boy, named Henry Jackson after the Knoxes’ friend and head of the Massachusetts militia. Unlike the Knoxes’ daughter Julia, who died in infancy, the Knoxes’ first-born son would survive to adulthood.

The “hard winter” of 1779–1780 turned into a hard spring for Arnold. No longer serving as Philadelphia’s commandant, Arnold also faced declining income from other factors—failed trading schemes, sketchy lenders, unrecompensed military expenditures, and an expensive lifestyle. To reduce expenses, Arnold leased out the Masters-Penn mansion and moved his family into one of Judge Shippen’s smaller rental properties. Whatever disappointment Peggy may have felt, she, like “the General,” as she referred to him, blamed his misfortunes on the misguided American cause.

By April, Arnold even asked for a loan from the new French minister Anne-Cesar, the Chevalier de la Luzerne. “I have shed my blood for my country and she is ungrateful. The disorder which the war has occasioned in my private affairs, may force me into retirement . . . if I cannot borrow a sum equal to the amount of my debts,” he explained.
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A diplomat, Luzerne agreed to meet Arnold, but afterwards coolly replied in a letter, “You desire a service from me which would be easy to perform, but which would degrade us both. When the minister of a foreign power gives, or if you will, lends money, it is usually for the purpose of corrupting those who receive it.” To avoid that, Luzerne proposed a loan under one condition: that Arnold make that loan public knowledge. If not, the Frenchman sneered, “your friends will be eager to secure you as soon as you adopt a system of order and economy.”
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More public was Washington’s April 6, 1780, reprimand of Arnold. Necessarily stern in tone, the sympathetic Virginian attempted to soften the rebuke by initially alluding to Arnold’s distinguished military record.

Washington penned a second, private letter to the crippled general. “Our profession is the purest of all. Even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the luster of our finest achievements,” he reminded Arnold. Given that understanding, he hoped the former military hero would “exhibit anew those noble qualities, which have placed you on the list of our most valued commanders.” Once Arnold did so, Washington promised to “furnish you, as far as it may be in my power, with opportunities for regaining the esteem of your country.”
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But it was too late: Clinton’s promise of a lucrative financial award now obsessed Arnold. To achieve it, he had to win a strategic military command, preferably the one at West Point. Situated on a rocky ledge at a sharp turn in the Hudson forty miles north of New York City, the granite fort was dubbed by the British the “Gibraltar of America.” To Washington it was the “key to America” because of its commanding position on the Hudson, which linked New England and upstate New York with patriotic territories to the south. The conquest of West Point would mean disaster for the American cause, severing New England from the lands to the south, disrupting communications and supply streams, and, ultimately, disabling the Continental army. In view of this, in 1778, Washington consequently ordered the installation of the “Great Chain,” an 1,097-foot-long chain of iron links that ran just below the Hudson’s water line, stretching from West Point to Constitution Island on the opposite shore—and blocking all enemy traffic.

One way to win command of West Point, Arnold schemed, was through support from friends like General Philip Schuyler. In April 1780, the unsuspecting New Yorker had consequently proposed the idea of such a promotion to Washington after Schuyler arrived in Philadelphia to attend Congress. No sooner did Schuyler propose Arnold’s appointment than Washington discounted the idea. “I am so well persuaded of the safety of West Point,” he replied, “that I have dismissed all the militia . . . for the defense of the posts on the North [Hudson] River.”
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Meanwhile, Arnold continued his relentless negotiating with the British. In mid-May he insisted that his risks as an informant required a guarantee of £10,000, “half in indemnification for the loss of his personal American assets, the other half for the still-unrecompensed military funds” that he once advanced to his soldiers.
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At that moment, neither André nor Clinton replied, for both were then sailing north after their May 12 triumph in Charleston.

Arnold left Peggy and their newborn son in Philadelphia that June and rode to Connecticut to sell his New Haven properties. Along the way he stopped at West Point and asked an unwitting General Howe for a tour of the garrison. West Point was poorly defended and even more poorly manned, Arnold subsequently reported to the British, adding that he did not think the chain would be an impediment to their victory. “I am convinced the boom or chain thrown across the river to stop shipping cannot be depended upon,” Arnold opined. “A single ship, large and heavy-loaded with a strong wind and tide would break the chain.”
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In Connecticut, though, Arnold’s hopes for achieving a financial windfall faltered. Not only did the state legislature deny him the funds Arnold had claimed in lieu of those Congress had failed to pay, but he was also unable to sell his New Haven home. Disgusted, he lowered the price of the house, handed it over to an agent, rode through Westchester County, and recrossed the Hudson.

Meanwhile, in a glittering Philadelphia drawing room, Peggy flirted in a low-cut gown with Robert R. Livingston, the thirty-four-year-old chancellor of the State of New York, suggesting that he ask Washington to replace the West Point commander, General Howe, with Arnold. Livingston agreed to do so. In fact, as he confided to the lovely former belle, Washington welcomed the idea but thought Arnold would be insulted with such a dull post. Not at all, Peggy fanned and fluttered to the charmed Livingston.

Arnold, meanwhile, continued to press the British for a firm commitment to his request for funding. With bravado based on nothing but hopes, he announced to André on July 12 that he would “take the command of W.P. immediately on the fleet’s arrival or at any rate in the course of this month.” As an additional lure, Arnold wrote that he possessed “a drawing of the works on both sides of the river done by the French engineer . . . [also] a plan of communication whereby you should be informed of everything projected at headquarters.”
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