University of Virginia Library

14. XIV.—THE FALL OF LUCIFER.

How often in the lower world, does the tragedy of life, walk side by side
with the Common-place!

A dark cavern, where no light shines, save the taper flashing from the
eyes of hollow skull—a lonely waste where rude granite rocks tossed in
fantastic forms, deepen the midnight horror of the hour—the crash of battle,
where ten thousand living men in one moment, are crushed into clay—such
are the scenes which the Romancer chooses for the illustration of his Tragedy,
the Historian for his storied page, every line full of breathing interest
and life.

But that the development of a horrible tragedy, should be enacted amid
the familiar scenes of Home? What is more common, what appears more
natural?

That the awful tragedy of Arnold's treason, should find its development
at a—Breakfast-table!—Does it not make you laugh?

Treason comes to us in history, hooded in a cowl, dagger in hand, the
dim light of a taper trembling over its pallid skull. But Treason calmly
sitting down to a quiet breakfast, the pleasant smile upon his face, hiding
the canker of his heart, the coffee—that fragrant intensifier of the brain—
smoking like sweet incense, as it imparts its magnetism from the lip to the
soul—Treason with a wife on one side, a baby laughing on his knee!
Does it not seem to mingle the ridiculous with the sublime, or worse, the
dull Common-place with the Demoniac?

And yet, there is nothing under Heaven more terribly true! Search

history, and you will find a thousand instances, where the most terrible
events—things that your blood congeals but to read—were mingled with
the dullest facts of every-day life.

—While the head of Mary Queen of Scots, falls bleeding on the sawdust
of the scaffold, every vein of that white neck, which Kings had deemed it
Paradise to touch, pouring forth its separate stream of blood, in yonder
chamber Queen Elizabeth, the sweet Jezebel of the English throne, is
adding another tint to the red paint on her cheek, and breaking her looking
glass, because it cannot make her beautiful!

Napoleon, flying from the field of Waterloo, where he had lost a World,
pauses in his flight to drink some miserable soup, made by a peasant, in the
hollow of a battered helmet!

General Nash, riding to the bloody surprise of Germantown, from which
he was to come back a mangled corse, turns to Washington, and gravely
apologizes for the absence of powder from his hair, cambric ruffles from
his wrists!

We might multiply our illustrations of the fact, by a thousand other
instances.

Yet among them all, that Development of Arnold's Treason, which took
place at a Breakfast-table, has ever seemed to us most terrible.

Yonder in Robinson's House, which you behold among the trees, on the
sublime heights of the Hudson, opposite the cliffs of West Point, the Breakfast-party
are assembled.

The blessed sunshine of an autumnal morning, which turns the Hudson's
waves to molten gold, and lights the rugged rocks of West Point with a
smile of glory, also shines through these windows, and reveals the equip-age
of the breakfast-table, the faces of the guests.

Why need I tell you of the antique furniture of that comfortable room, or
describe the white cloth, the cups of transparent porcelain, or the cumbrously
carved coffee urn, fashioned of solid silver? These things are very common-place,
and yet even the coffee urn becomes somewhat interesting, when
we remember that its polished silver reflects the bronzed features of a
Traitor?

That traitor sits near the head of the table, his imposing form attired in a
blue coat, glittering with buttons and epaulettes of gold, a buff vest, ruffles,
and neckcloth of cambric. That face whose massive features have glowed
with demoniac passions, is now calm as marble. The hand which has
grasped the Sword of Quebec and Saratoga, now lifts a porcelain cup. And
yet looking very closely you may see the hand tremble, the features
shadowed by a gloom, not the less impressive, because it is almost imperceptible.

Near the General are seated two young officers, his aids-de-camp, whose

slender form do not conceal a coward thought. Their eyes wander from
the form of the General, to the figure by his side.

That figure, the most beautiful thing out of Paradise—a young wife, with
a baby nestling on her bosom!

At the head of the table she is seen; her form now ripened into its perfect
bloom, negligently attired in a loose robe, whose careless folds cannot
hide the whiteness of her neck, or the faultless contour of that half-bared arm.

And the child that sleeps upon her full bosom, its tiny hands wound
among the tresses of her golden hair, is very beautiful. The Darkness of
its Father's Crime, has not yet shadowed its cherub face.

Arnold is silent. Ever and again from the shadows of his deep drawn
brows, he gazes upon her, his wife! Upon the burden of her breast, that
smiling child.

How much has he risked for them!

Her eye of deep melting blue, first trembles over the face of the infant,
and then surveys her husband's visage. O, the fearful anxiety of that momentary
gaze! Does she fear for the future of her babe? Shall he be the
heir of Arnold the Earl? Does she the child of wealth and luxury, lapped from
her birth in soft attire, for a moment fancy that Arnold himself, was once a
friendless babe, pressed to the agonized bosom of a poor and pious woman?
—Ere we listen to the conversation of the Breakfast-table, let us approach
these windows, and behold the scene without.

Not upon the beautiful river, nor the far extending mountains, will we
gaze. No! There are certain sights which at once strike our eye.

A warrior's horse stands saddled by the door.

Yonder far down the river, the British Flag streams from the British
Ship, Vulture. To the north-west, we behold the rocks and cliffs of West
Point.

Let us traverse this northern road, until having passed many a quiet nook
we stand upon the point, where a narrow path descends to the river.

From the green trees, a brilliant cavalcade bursts into view. Yonder
rock arises from the red earth of the road, overshadowed by a clump of
chesnut trees. A General and his retinue mounted on gallant steeds come
swiftly on, their uniforms glittering, their plumes waving in the light.

It is Washington, attended by La Fayette and Knox, with the other
heroes of his band. In this gallant company, need you ask which is the
form of the American Chief?

He rides at the head of his Generals, his chivalric face glowing with the
freshness of the morning air. By his side a slender youth with a high forehead
and red hair—La Fayette! Then a bluff General, with somewhat
corpulent form and round good-humored face—General Knox. And on the
right hand of Washington, mounted on a splendid black horse, whose dark
sides are whitened by snowy flakes of foam, rides a young man, not remarkable
for heighth or majesty of figure, but his bold high forehead awes,

his deep-set eyes, flashing with genius, win and enchain you. It is young
Alexander Hamilton.

As we look at this gallant cavalcade, so gloriously bursting into view
from the shadows of these green trees, let us listen to La Fayette, who
gently lays his hand on the arm of Washington.

—“General, you are taking the wrong way,” he says, in his broken accent
—“That path leads us to the river. This is the road to Robinson's
House. You know we are engaged to breakfast at General Arnold's head-quarters?”

A cheerful smile overspread Washington's face—

“Ah, I see how it is!” he said, alternately surveying La Fayette and
Hamilton—“You young men, ha, ha! are all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and
wish to get where she is, as soon as possible. You may go and take
breakfast with her, and tell her not to wait for me. I must ride down and
examine the redoubts on this side of the river, and will be there in a short
time!”

The officers however, refuse to take advantage of their General's kind
permission. Two aids-de-camp are sent forward to announce Washington's
return from Hartford, where he had been absent for some days, on a visit
to Count De Rochambeau.—In the meantime, the Chief and his retinue
disappear in the shadows of the narrow path leading to the river.

The aids de-camp arrive, announce the return of Washington, and take
their seats beside Mrs. Arnold, at the breakfast-table.

“The General is well?” asked that beautiful woman, with a smile that
revealed the ivory whiteness of her teeth.

“Never in better spirits in his life. Our visit to Hartford, was a remarkably
pleasant one—By the bye, General,”—turning abruptly to Arnold
—“What think you of the rumor now afloat, in reference to West Point?”

The porcelain cup, about to touch Arnold's lip, was suddenly stopped in
its progress. As the sunlight pours in uncertain gleams over his forehead,
you can see a strange gloom overshadow his face.

“Rumor? West Point?” he echoed in his deep voice.

“Yes—” hesitated the aid-de-camp—“On our way home, we heard
something of an intended attack on West Point, by Sir Henry Clinton—”

The smile that came over Arnold's face, was remembered for many a
day, by those who saw it.

“Pshaw! What nonsense! These floating rumors are utterly ridiculous!
Sir Henry Clinton meditate an attack on West Point? He may be
weak, or crazy, but not altogether so mad as that!”

The General sipped his coffee, and the conversation took another turn.

The latest fashion of a lady's dress—whether the ponderous head-gear
of that time, would be succeeded by a plainer style—the amusements of

the British in New York, their balls, banquets and gala days—such were
the subjects of conversation.

Never had the wife of Arnold appeared so beautiful. Her eyes beaming
in liquid light, her white hand and arm moving in graceful gesture, her hair
now floating gently over her cheek, now waving back in all its glossy loveliness,
from her stainless neck her bosom heaving softly beneath its beloved
burden, that peerless woman gave utterance to all the treasures of her musical
voice, her bold and vivacious intellect.

Arnold was silent all the while.

Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs—the door flung rudely open—a
soldier appears, covered from head to foot with dust and mud, and holding
a letter in his hand.

“Whence come you?” said Arnold, quietly sipping his coffee, while his
eye assumed a deeper light, and the muscles of his face suddenly contracted,
—“From whom is that letter?”

“I came from North Castle—that letter's from Colonel Jamison.”—The
Messenger sank heavily in a chair, as though tired almost to death.

Arnold took the letter, broke the seal, and calmly read it. Calmly, although
every word was fire, although the truth which it contained, was
like a voice from the grave, denouncing eternal woe upon his head.

You can see the wife centre her anxious gaze upon his face. Still he is
calm. There is one deep respiration heaving his broad chest, beneath his
General's uniform, one dark shadow upon his face.—as terrible as it is
brief—and then, arising with composed dignity, he announces, that sudden
intelligence required his immediate attendance at West Point.

“Tell General Washington when he arrives, that I am unexpectedly
called to West Point, but will return very soon.”

He left the room.

In an instant a servant in livery entered, and whispered in Mrs. Arnold's
ear—“The General desires to see you, in your chamber.”

She rose, with her babe upon her bosom, she slowly passed from the
room. Slowly, for her knees bent beneath her, and the heart within her
breast contracted, as though crushed by a vice. Now on the wide stairway,
she toils towards her chamber, her face glowing no longer with roses, but
pale as death, her fingers convulsively clutching her child.

O, how that simple message thrills her blood! “The General desires
to see you, in your chamber!”

She stands before the door, afraid to enter. She hears her husband pace
the room with heavy strides. At last gathering courage, she enters.

Arnold stands by the window, with the morning light upon his brow.
From a face, darkened by all the passions of a fiend, two burning eyes,
deep set, beneath overhanging brows, glare in her face.

She totters towards him.

For a moment he gazes upon her in silence.

She does not breathe a word, but trembling to him, as though unconscious
of the action, lifts her babe before his eyes.

“Wife—” he exclaimed, in a voice that was torn from his very heart—
“All is lost!”

He flung his manly arms about her form—one pressure of his bosom,
one kiss upon her lips—he seizes the babe, kisses it with wild frenzy, flings
it upon the bed, and rushes from the room.

Then the wife of Arnold spread forth her arms, as though she stood on
the verge of an awful abyss, and with her eyes swimming in wild light, fell
heavily to the floor.

She laid there, motionless as death; the last fierce pulsation which
swelled from her heart, had burst the fastening of her robe, and her white
bosom gleamed like cold marble, in the morning light.

Arnold hurries down the stairs, passes through the drawing room, mounts
the saddled horse at the door, and dashes toward the river.

Awaking from her swoon, after the lapse of many minutes, the wife
arises, seeks her babe again. Still it sleeps! What knows it, the sinless
child, of the fearful Tragedy of that hour? The Mother passes her hand
over her brow, now hot as molten lead; she endeavors to recal the memory
of that scene! All is dim, confused, dark, She approaches the window.
Far down the river, the British Flag floating from the Vulture, waves in
the light.

There is a barge upon the waters, propelled by the steady arms of six
oarsmen. How beautifully it glides along, now in the shadow of the mountains,
now over the sunshiny waves! In the stern stands a figure, holding
a white flag above his head. Yes, as the boat moves toward the British
ship, the white flag defends it from the fire of American cannon, at Verplanck's
point. As you look the barge glides on, it passes the point, it
nears the Vulture, while the ripples break around its prow.

Did the eye of the wife once wander from that erect figure in the stern?

Ah, far over the waters, she gazes on that figure; she cannot distinguish
the features of that distant face, but her heart tells her that it is—Arnold!

—In the history of ages, I know no picture so full of interest, as this—

The Wife of Arnold, gazing from the window of her home, upon the
barge, which bears her Husband to the shelter of the British flag!

It was now ten o'clock, on the morning of the 25th of September, 1780.

Soon Washington approached Robinson's house, and sat down with
Hamilton and La Fayette, to the Breakfast table. He was told that Arnold
had been called suddenly to West Point. After a hurried breakfast, he
resolved to cross the river, and meet his General at the fortress. After
this interview it was his purpose to return to dinner. Leaving Hamilton
at the house, he hastened to the river.

In a few moments the barge rippled gently over the waves. Washington
gazed upon the sublime cliffs all around him, upon the smooth expanse of
water, which rested like a mirror, in its mountain frame, and then gaily
exclaimed:

“I am glad that General Arnold has preceded us. He will receive us
with a salute. The roar of cannon is always delightful, but never so grand
as when it is re-echoed among the gorges of these mountains.”

The boat glided on toward the opposite shore. No sound of cannon
awoke the silence of the hills. Doubtles, Arnold was preparing some pleasant
surprise. Nearer and nearer to the beach glided the barge. Still no
salute.

“What!” exclaimed Washington—“Do they not intend to salute us?”

As the barge grated on the yellow sand, an officer in the Continental
uniform, was seen on the rocks above:

He was not prepared for the reception of such visitors, and hoped that he
would be excused for any apparent neglect, in not having placed the garrison
in proper condition for a military inspection and review.

“What? Is Arnold not here?” exclaimed Washington, as he leaped
upon the beach.

“He has not been here within two days, nor have I heard from him
within that time!” replied the officer.

Washington uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then for a moment
stood wrapped in thought, the sheath of his sword sinking in the sand as he
unconsciously pressed his hand upon the hilt.

Did the possibility of a Treason, so dark in its details, so tremendous in
its general outline, burst upon him, in that moment of thought?

Soon he took his way up the rocks, and followed by his officers, devoted
some three hours to an examination of the works of West Point.

It was near 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when he returned to Robinson's
house.

As the company pursued the path leading from the river to the house,
an officer appeared, his countenance stamped with deep anxiety, his step
quickened into irregular footsteps. There was an unimaginable horror
written on his face.

That officer was Alexander Hamilton.

As Washington paused in the roadside, he approached and whispered a
few words, inaudible to the rest of the party.

Neither La Fayette or Knox heard these words, but they saw that expression
of horror reflected from Hamilton's visage to the face of Washington,
and felt their hearts impressed with a strange awe. As a dim, vague
forboding thrilled from heart to heart, the party approached the house.

Washington beckons La Fayette and Knox to his side:

“These letters and papers, despatched to me two days since, by Colonel
Jamison of North Castle reveal a strange truth, gentlemen.—We journeyed

to Hartford by the lower road, but returned by the upper. Therefore, the
messenger has been chasing us for two days, and the information has not
reached me until this morning.—The truth gentlemen, is plain—General
Arnold is a Traitor. Adjutant General Andre—of the British army—a
—SPY!”

La Fayette sank into a chair, as though the blood had forsaken his heart.
Knox uttered an involuntary oath.

Then the agony which was silently working its way through the soul
of Washington—leaving his face calm as marble—manifested itself in these
words:

“Whom,” he whispered, quietly folding the papers,—“Whom can we
trust now?”

Hamilton immediately started, on the fleetest horse, for Verplanck's,
point his intention being to intercept the Traitor. He returned in the course
of an hour, not with the Traitor, but with a letter headed “His Majesty's
Ship, Vulture, Sept. 25, 1780,” directed to Washington, and signed “Benedict
Arnold.”

Meanwhile a strange, aye, we may well say it, a terrible interview took
place at Robinson's house.

The actors—Washington and the wife of Arnold.

The General ascended the stairs leading to her chamber. He was met
at the threshhold by a strange apparition. A beautiful woman, with her
dishevelled hair floating over her bared bosom, her dress flowing round her
form in disordered folds, her white arms convulsively clutching her frightened
babe.

The tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Do not harm my child!” she said, in a voice that brought tears to the
eyes of Washington—“He has done no wrong! The father may be guilty,
but the child is innocent! O, I beseech you, wreak your vengeance on me,
but do not harm my babe!”

“Madam, there is no one that dares lay the finger of harm, on yourself
or your child!” replied Washington.

You can see this lovely woman turn; she places the babe upon the bed;
she confronts Washington with heaving breast and flashing eyes:

“Murderer!” she cried, “Do not advance! You shall not touch the
babe! I know you—know your plot to tear that child from a Mother's
breast, but I defy you!”

Strange words these, but a glance convinced Washington, that the wife
of Arnold stood before him, not calm and collected, but with the light of
madness glaring from her blue eyes.

She stood erect, regarding him with that blazing eye, that defiant look.

“O, shame!” she cried, curling her proud lip in scorn—“A warrior like
you, to harm an innocent babe! Wreak your vengeance on me. I am
ready to bear it all. But the child—what has he ever done?”

Her voice softened as she spoke these last words: she bent forward with
a look of beseeching eloquence.

“On my word, I will protect you and your babe!” said Washington,
and his voice grew tremulous with emotion.

For a moment, she stood before him calm and beautiful, even with her
disordered robes and loosened tresses, but that moment gone, the light of
madness blazed again from her eyes.

“Murderer!” she exclaimed, again, and grasped his arm, with a clutch
like the last effort of the dying; but as she spoke, her face grew paler, her
bosom ceased to beat; she dashed the thickly clustered tresses from her
face, and fell to the floor.

The only signs of life which she exhibited, were a tremulous motion of
the fingers, a slight quivering of the nether lip. Her eyes wide open, glared
in the face of Washington. Then, from those lips, whose beauty had been
sung by poets, celebrated by warriors, pressed by the Traitor, started a
white foam, spotted with drops of blood.

And the babe upon the bed, with its face baptized in the light of the setting
sun, smiled playfully as it clapped its tiny hands and tried to grasp the
fleeting beams.

Washington stood beside the unconscious woman: his face was convulsed
with feeling. The tears started from his eyes.

“May God help you, and protect your babe!” he said, and hurried from
the room.

What mean these strange scenes, occurring on this 25th of Sept., 1780?
What were the contents of the letter which Arnold received at the Breakfast
table? Can you tell what Revelations were those comprised in the letters
and papers which Washington perused, on the afternoon of this interesting
day?

Who was John Andre?

Was the Wife of Arnold a Partner in the work of Treason?

The first question must be answered by another picture, painted on the
shadows of the Past.

Ere we survey this picture, let us glance for a moment, at the last scene
of that fatal day.

While the Wife lay cold and senseless, there, in the chamber of her desolated
home, the State Room of the Vulture presented a scene of some
interest.

The British ship was gliding over the Hudson, its dishonored flag tinted
by the last beam of the setting sun. On the soft cushions of the State
room sofa, was seated a man, with his throat bared, his brow darkened,
every line of his face distorted by passion. His eyes were fixed upon an
object, which rested on the Turkish carpet at his feet.

That man, the Hero of the Wilderness, whose glory had burst upon his

country, with the bewildering splendor of the Aurora, which flushes the
northern sky with dies of matchless beauty—Benedict Arnold.

That object was an unsheathed sword—the sword of Quebec and Saratoga.