By Walker Joyce
The man who saved the American Revolution twice almost gave away the victory. Such was the resume of Benedict Arnold, the greatest paradox of the 18th Century.
The best battlefield commander in the Continental Army, he was the Patton to George Washington’s Eisenhower. His victory at Saratoga, under great duress, convinced the French to join the war on our side, which was the crucial development that led to our win.
A year earlier, in 1776, he improvised a naval battle on Lake Champlain that prevented the British advance from Canada. He built a few ships from the shoreline forest, then fought the superior English fleet to a draw near Valcour Island. The winter soon came on, freezing the lake solid, and preventing the Redcoat forces from linking up in New York. This delay bought the patriots another year of a divided enemy.
If either win had not occurred, the Revolution might have been doomed.
Arnold had other achievements, including nearly annexing Canada in 1775. President Trump has suggested that the country become our 51ststate, but absent an ill-timed blizzard and his first severe wound, Arnold might have made it the 14th colony!
Like Patton, Arnold was all about fighting, with no talent as a diplomat. He made enemies in Congress and among the ranks of other officers. He was shabbily treated, watching lesser men promoted before him and never reimbursed for the money he advanced to his own troops.
Thus, by 1779, Arnold was plotting his treason.
The year before, Washington appointed him the military governor of Philadelphia, enabling him time to heal his thrice-shot left leg, which a horse had also crushed. He’d refused amputation, leaving him a cripple with the limb two inches shorter.
While running the then-capital city, he fell in love with a beautiful Tory (a loyalist) named Peggy Shippen. They married, and soon her pillow talk—and her social contacts with British Intelligence—fed his bitterness.
Peggy had lavish tastes, and Benedict indulged them. He bought a mansion and threw extravagant parties. This led to some profiteering, a practice winked at in military circles, yet it gave his opponents the weapon they needed.
Joseph Reed, a politician and another member of Washington’s inner circle, detested Arnold. He aired the latter’s profit-skimming to shame him, leading Arnold to demand a court-martial to clear his name.
It convened during Washington’s second winter encampment in Morristown. That season in 1779 was the most severe of the war and the century. The proceedings were just a nuisance compared to the multiple storms, the starvation of the troops, and even a mutiny, yet Arnold was insistent.
Dickenson Tavern, just below the famous Green, was used as a courtroom, opening on December 23rd. In typical Jersey fashion, only a rusty plaque marks the spot today.
Arnold defended himself, dressed in his best uniform and adorned with a sash the Commander-in-Chief had gifted him. He deliberately removed the lift he used to even his gait, wielding a cane instead to emphasize his infirmity.
The trial lasted just shy of a month, and Arnold’s summation was said to be eloquent and masterful. The jury deliberated four days, and the General was acquitted of all but one minor charge and sentenced to a mere reprimand.
But Arnold’s pride wouldn’t accept this moral victory, only a complete exoneration. Washington was sympathetic and delayed writing a gentle rebuke, but by then the die was cast:
Arnold would turn his coat.
