XI.—THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD.
At last the day of the Reprimand came—Father of Mercy what a scene!
That man Arnold, brave and proud as Lucifer, standing among the generals,
beside whom he had fought and bled—standing the centre of all
eyes, in the place of the Criminal, with the eye of Washington fixed upon
him in reproof—with a throng of the meaner things of the Revolution,
whom the British King might have bought, had he thought them worth the
buying, grouped about him; these petty men—who had been warming
themselves at comfortable fires, while the hands of Arnold were freezing on
the ramparts of Quebec—exulting at his disgrace, glorying in his shame,
chuckling at his fall—
It was too much for Arnold. That moment the iron entered his soul,
and festered there.
From that moment he stood resolved in his work of treason. From that
moment his country lost a soldier, history one of her brightest names,
Washington his right-hand man, the Revolution its bravest Knight. In one
word, from that moment John Andre lost his life, Benedict Arnold his
honor; Sir Henry Clinton gained a—Traitor.
He could have borne reproof from the lips of Washington, but to be rebuked
while the dwarf-patriots were standing by, while the little `great
men' were lookers on!—It was indeed, too much for Arnold.
It is true, that the reprimand of Washington was the softest thing that
might bear the name—“I reprimand you for having forgotten, that in
proportion as you have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you
should have shown moderation towards our citizens. Exhibit again
those splendid qualities, which have placed you in the rank of our most
distinguished generals”—
These were the words of Washington, worthy of his hero-heart, but
from that moment, Arnold the Patriot was dead.
At that instant from the terrible chaos of dark thoughts, wounded pride,
lacerated honor, sprung into birth a hideous phantom, known by history as
—Arnold the Traitor.
Had he but taken the advice of Washington, had he but looked derision
upon his foes! Raising himself in all his proud height, his eye blazing
with that stern fire which lighted up his bronzed face on the ramparts of
Quebec, his voice deep, hollow, ringing with the accents of scorn, he should
have spoken to his enemies words like these:
“Look! Pitiful creatures of an hour, how your poisoned arrows fall
harmless from this bosom, like water from the rock! Things of an hour,
creatures of falsehood, who `trafficked to be bought,' while I served my
country in hunger and blood and cold, I hurl my defiance to your very
hearts! I will yet live down your persecution. In the name of Washington
and the Revolution, I swear it! I will yet write my name there—on
the zenith of my country's fame,—there, where the vulture beak of slander
the hyena fang of malice, cannot taint nor touch it!”
But he failed to do this. Unlike Jackson, who covered with the glory of New
Orleans, rested patiently for thirty years, under the odium of an unjust fine,
Arnold did not possess the power—to live down persecution. He was
lost.
In order to understand the scene of his reprimand in all its details, we
must wander back through the shadows of seventy years.
That fine old mansion of Morristown rises before us, in the calm light of
a winter's day. There is snow upon the ground, but it is frozen, until it
resembles an immense mirror, which flashes back to the sky the light of
the sun. Yonder we behold the mansion, standing on a gentle eminence.
Those poplars before the door, or rather beside the fence at the foot of the
elevation, are stripped of their foliage. The elm yonder, bared of its green
leaves, shines with a thousand limbs of ice and snow. All is cold, serene,
desolate.
We enter this mansion. Without pausing to survey its massive front, or
steep roof or projecting eves, we ascend the range of steps, give the word
to the sentinels, and pass beneath these pillars which guard the hall door.
Step gently along this hall— nter with uncovered brow, into this large
room, where the light of a cheerful hickory fire glowing upon the hearth,
mingles with the winter-sunshine, softened as it is by the thick curtains
along yonder windows.
Gaze with reverence, for great men are gathered here. Do not let your
eye wander to those antique chairs, fashioned of walnut, and carved into
various fantastic forms, nor to the heavy mouldings of the mantle-piece, nor
to the oval mirror encircled by a wreath of gold flowers.
But by the hearty glow of the hearthside flame, gaze I beseech, upon
this company of heroes, who dressed in blue and buff stand side by side,
leaving an open space before the fire.
A large table is there, on whose green cloth, are laid various papers,
burdened with seals, and traced with celebrated signatures. In the midst,
you behold a sword resting in its sheath, its handle carved in the shape of
an eagle's beak. That sword has seen brave days in the Wilderness and
at Quebec.
Three figures arrest your attention.
Neither the knightly visage of Wayne, nor the open countenance of the
Boy-General, La Fayette, nor the bluff hearty good-humor of Knox, command
your gaze. They are all there. There too, Cadwallader the bosom
friend of Washington, and Greene so calmly sagacious, and all the heroes
of that time of trial. Yet it is not upon these you gaze, though their faces
are all darkened by an expression of sincere sorrow.
It is upon those three figures near the fire that you look, and hush each
whisper as you gaze.
The first standing with his face to the light, his form rising above the
others, superior to them all in calm majesty of look and bearing. The
sunshine streaming through the closed curtains reveals that face, which a
crown could not adorn, nor the title of King ennoble. It is the face of
Washington, revealing in every calm, fixed outline, a heart too high for the
empty bauble of a crown, a soul too pure for the anointed disgrace of Royal
Power. He is very calm, but still you can trace upon his countenance a
look of deep, aye, poignant regret.
His eye is fixed upon the figure opposite.
Standing with his back to the window, a man of some thirty-nine years,
vigorous in each muscular limb, majestic in his breadth of chest, and in the
erect bearing of his neck and head, rests one hand upon the table and gazes
upon Washington with a settled look. His brow is bathed in the light of
the hearth. Do you see the red glare that flashes over each rigid feature?
Does it not impart to that bold brow and firm lips and massive chin, an expression
almost—supernatural?
As he stands there, you see him move one foot uneasily. The limb
broken once at Quebec, shattered once at Saratoga pains him. That of
course, is Arnold.
You hear the words of the Reprimand pass from the lips of Washington.
You listen with painful intensity. Not a whisper in this thronged room,
scarcely a breath! You hear the flame crackle, and the crumbling wood
fall in hot coals along the hearth.
Arnold hears it, all—every word of that solemn Reprimand.
Does his cheek blench? His eye change its fixed glance? His lip
quiver? No! As those words fall from the lips of Washington, he merely
suffers his head to droop slowly downward, until his eyes seem glaring
upward, from compressrd brows. But the light of those eyes is strange,
yes,—vivid, deadly.
—Meanwhile, looking between Washington and Arnold, do you see that
figure, resting one arm upon the mantel-piece, while his face is turned away,
and his eyes seem earnestly perusing the hot coals of the fire? That is a
very singular face, with parchment skin, and cold stony eyes, and thin,
pinched lips. The form—by no means commanding, or peculiar, either for
height or dignity—is attired in the glorious blue and buff uniform. Who
is this person?
Behold that glance of Arnold, shooting its scorn from the woven eye-brows,
and answer the question, every heart for itself. That glance surveys
the figure near the fire, and pours a volume of derision in a single look.
Who is this gentlemen? Ask the Secret records of the Revolution, and
ask quickly, for the day comes, when they will be secret no longer.
At last this scene—which saddens you, without your knowing why—is
over. The reprimand is spoken. Arnold raises his head, surveys the whole
company, first, Washington, with a look of deep respect, then the warrior
faces of his brothers in arms, and last of all, that figure by the fireside.
O, the withering scorn of that momentary gaze!
The flame light falls upon Arnold's brow, and reveals him, very calm,
somewhat pale, but utterly Resolved.
—So, do I imagine the scene of the Reprimand. So, taking for
granted, that his enemies, who had hunted him for thirteen months, were
present at the scene of his disgrace—do I, in my own mind, delineate this
picture of the Past.—
