XX.—ANDRE THE SPY.
We have now traversed the career of the ill-fated Andre in all its changes
of scene, in its varied phases of absorbing interest.
Pity that young man if you will, plant flowers over his grave, sing hymns
to his memory, but remember, he was a SPY.
That dishonored thing, which no true warrior can look upon, save with
loathing—not merely a Conspirator, nor a Traitor, but the lacquey of Treason—A
SPY.
Remember, that the wife of Benedict Arnold, on terms of intimate friendship
with Andre, while the British held Philadelphia, corresponded with
him long after her marriage, and then call to mind a single fact: her correspondence
was the channel of communication between Arnold and the
British General. Can we, with any show of reason, suppose this wife
innocent of participation in the treason of her husband? Is it at all plausible,
or probable, that she was ignorant of the contents of Arnold's letters?
Remember that Andre was a partner in this conspiracy, from the first
moment of its dawn, until by his manly letter to Washington, he avowed
himself a British officer, captured in disguise, on American ground. He
was elevated to a Majority, dignified with the post of Adjutant General, in
order that he might more effectually carry out the plan, originated between
himself and Arnold. He was to enter West Point, not as an open foe,
ready to combat with his enemies on the ramparts of the fortress, but as a
Conspirator; he was to conquer the stronghold, laid defenceless by the removal
of the Continental force, by a juggle, and wreathe his brows with the
parchments of a purchased victory.
For this, his promised reward was the commission of a Brigadier General.
For aiding an American General in his midnight campaign of craft and
treachery, he was to receive the honors that are awarded to a Conqueror
who fights in broad day; for taking a deserted fort, his brows were to be
wreathed with laurel, which is given to the leader of a forlorn hope, who
dares the sternest front of battle without a fear.
With all his talent—displayed as an Artist, a Poet, and a Soldier—with
all the genius which made him an admirable companion, with all the chivalry
which won praise and tears from his enemies, with all the rich cluster
of his gifts, and the dim memories that gather round his name, we must
confess, that he was one of the originator's of Arnold's Treason, that he
descended to a course of intrigue, beneath the honor of a warrior, that he
was justly condemned and hung as a Spy.
There is one dark thought that crowds upon us as we survey this history.
We may endeavor to banish it, but it will come back with overwhelming
force. It starts from the history, and moves along every page, a brooding
and fearful shadow.—John Andre and the Wife of Arnold, first planned
the Treason, and then—while his heart was lacerated by a sense of his
wrongs—lured him into the plot.
That is a startling thought.
There is no point of Washington's career more thoroughly worthy of our
veneration, than his course in relation to Andre. He did not know—he
could not guess the extent or ramifications of the Treason. A base plan
had been laid to capture a Fortress and crush his army. This plan aided
by an honorable gentleman in the guise of a Spy. It was necessary to
make an example, the time had come for the British General to learn the
bitter truth, that the American leader was no less ready to meet his foes,
sword in hand in battle, than to hang them on the gibbet's timbers as Spies.
At once he stood resolved in his course. Andre must die. No persuasions
could change his firm purpose. He pitied the victim, but condemned
him to death. He wept for his untimely fate, but hung him on a gibbet.
His heart bled as he signed the death-warrant, but still he consigned Andre
to a felon's grave.
There have been many tears shed over Andre, but while I pity him, I
must confess that my tears are reserved for the thousand victims of British
wrong, murdered during the war. Then the thought of Benedict Arnold,
hurled from the Patriot and the Hero, into the Bandit and Traitor, as much
by the persecutions of his enemies, as by his own faults, as much from the
influence of Andre and his own wife,[4]
as from inclination, has for me an interest
that altogether surpasses the fate of the Spy.
The historical pictures which I have placed before you, show the mystery
in every light. I have endeavored to embody in these pictures the
manners, the costume, the contending opinions, the very spirit of the Revolution.
Let me now present to you another illustration, in order to show,
that the British in a case similar to that of Andre, never indulged one throb
of pity.
Behold the Mercy of King George!
