Ben's Tale

By Arnold Patrick Parker

With a different take on the life of Benedict Arnold, Ben’s Tale reveals an epic story of greed and glory, family and friendship, treason and truthfulness. Told by a history buff who is also a London physician, the drama unfolds as the doctor gets an opportunity to treat—and befriend—the infamous general, and find out for himself whether Arnold’s story is one of slanderous legend or an extraordinary man wrongly accused. The so-called traitor unmasks his tale of woe–of jealous, ambitious founding fathers, doubts about the viability of the new nation and of his relationship with his beautiful wife, Peggy, and her role in facilitating his change of coat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 14, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462812271

Arnold Patrick Parker

Arnold Patrick Parker was brought up in Michigan and spent the better part of his career in the metropolitan areas of New York City and Montreal, Quebec. He moved to Florida in 1980 and has recently retired. Presently, he lives in Naples, Florida. He graduated from the University of Michigan in 1963 with a Doctor of Pharmacy. Writing is something new for Mr. Parker, and this is his first novel. He maintains a summer place in Washington County, New York, where much of the action in Ben’s Tale takes place.

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BEN’S TALE

Arnold Patrick Parker

Copyright © 2008 by Arnold Patrick Parker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Bibliography

Illustrations*

Dedication

To all the Arnolds, wherever they may be

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Benedict Arnold in his Buff and Blue American Uniform

Acknowledgments

I started thinking about this project in early 2001, following an early morning Sunday breakfast with my folks. The topic of conversation—and frequently discussed around the dinner table in those days—was genealogy, specifically on my father’s side. His mother, Estella, was a member of an Arnold clan—and about the only ancestral information my folks could get out of her was that her Arnold grandparents came to settle in Northern Michigan from New York in the 1800s.

Estella Arnold died in 1963, so nothing more is forthcoming. My mother, Adele Parker, thinks her mother-in-law was so closemouthed because of an unproven link to the infamous traitor himself, Benedict Arnold. Challenging me to see if there was such a link, I started by doing a Google ancestry search. Once into it, I was hooked. There was a plethora of Arnolds, but was Estella related to the traitor?

My research led me to believe that she was probably a distant relative. More importantly, it started me thinking about the man himself and why she was so secretive about her Arnold side of the family. I recall snippets from my high school American history class, learning that he was the traitor and John Andre the spy. Andre, poor fellow, was caught and hanged; Arnold, the villain, got away. That’s about it. Arnold is little remembered, and only in a negative way. This is probably how it was when Estella had her history lesson too, and why she might have been ashamed of her name.

But the more I read about Benedict Arnold, the more I wanted to know. There was so much to learn about this extraordinary man. Most past and present historians say he was a bad man, but was there some good in him too? In order to present his story, I decided to create it in the form of a historical novel. I am especially indebted to the writings of the following American historians: James Kirby Martin, Charles Van Doren, James Flexner, Willard Wallace, William Sterne Randall, and the Canadian, Barry K. Wilson. Audrey Wallace’s book was helpful in detailing Arnold’s later years. I have listed their works, as well as numerous others, at the end of the book. I would encourage anyone wishing to learn more to consult these excellent sources for annotated details.

Jill Antonides, PhD, my editor and niece, deserves special credit for her untiring work in making this a readable manuscript. I would also like to thank all the others who encouraged me to continue when the going got rough or when the energy level started to flag.

Naples, Florida, May, 2008

Introduction

Most Americans will recall from high school American history that Benedict Arnold was a money-grubbing traitor. Some will even confuse his time in history and say, Wasn’t he in the Civil War? Perhaps people see Arnold as a more contemporary historical figure because so little is said about him, and until recently so little was written about the Revolutionary War, especially when compared to volumes devoted to the War Between the States.

The American view seems to be that Arnold is an opportunistic blackguard, deserving little mention in the history books. Canadians, according to Barry K. Wilson, also take the American side, even those in New Brunswick, where the Arnolds settled for a time. And their version is equally brief, although the New Brunswickers add that he was a brave American who invaded Canada and then settled in Saint John after the war.

I have always been fascinated by the secretive events at West Point that passed between John Andre, the famous British spy, and Benedict Arnold. At most, a couple of paragraphs are all that was said about Arnold’s intrigues, and then the historical narrative would continue on to something else. I wished for more.

When I took American history, I never realized Arnold was a patriot. He was, though—several times—first at Quebec, almost turning British North America into an American outpost. I’m not sure people here understand how close he came to capturing Canada for the thirteen colonies. In the winter of 1775-76, he was in charge of an assault on Quebec that nearly brought the city to surrender. Had that happened, our history would have taken a different path. He would have been a hero, and today we would be extolling his virtues along with those of General Washington.

Some history books might mention that Arnold fought at the Battle of Saratoga in 1777, but fail to say he was a key player—a hero, even—in the winning of that fight, which led to France coming in on the side of the Americans. Without French help, Americans would have lost the war.

Arnold’s escapades as a warrior did not end after he turned his coat and fled from the Americans on board the Vulture. He was equally as zealous a fighter for the British. Even though writers of American high school history books write only of treason and infamy, and a passing mention of Saratoga and Quebec, Arnold’s life continued—with some success and with some difficulty—until his death in 1801. Thus, my high school wish to know more about Arnold’s fate was fulfilled years later in the course of writing this book.

So Arnold was much more than a traitor. He was a hero too. But he was also a trader and merchant. He was a product of his time—he lived in a time of revolution and intrigue, upheaval and uncertainty. At one time, he was at home with the patriots: Washington, Schuyler, Jefferson, Franklin, and Hamilton. He knew the American adversaries: George III, Carleton, Andre, and Clinton.

In many ways, he was an ordinary man—father, husband, and businessman, all wrapped into one. Like any proud father, he bragged about his children. He loved his wife dearly and worked hard to provide a good life for his family, under adverse circumstances.

If everything seemed so good for Arnold, why in the world would he turn his coat? Therein lies the makings for a good story, and the reasons cannot be summed up in a few sentences or paragraphs. Indeed, the very complex nature of making such a monumental decision makes it easy to come up with the subplot for his story, since it is a tale based upon history.

I wanted to present Arnold’s life in the form of a historical novel, with an emphasis on his complete life: before, during, and after the revolution. I have tried to fill the gap between what is written and what is known. I have attempted to fashion an interesting story around historical events and to make it an adventurous read about one of North America’s most controversial figures. It is written for a general audience with a passion for early Americana.

CHAPTER 1

THE MEETING

London, 1806

Your book’s a Lazarus, Wilbrey, said Ward Claxtonbury, general manager of Grampton’s Press, a London publishing house of considerable repute. He was telling me in a term of the trade that my story about the notorious traitor, Benedict Arnold, was of a subject not only dead, but stinking.

It won’t sell. The war’s lost, and the British people don’t want to be reminded of anything related to it. Shameful war too, when you think about it. Imagine, fighting against men of our own blood, those American colonists.

Claxtonbury was referring to my manuscript, Ben’s Tale, on which I had labored for more than four years from my small office off Black Friars Lane in this city of London.

Stories about Benedict Arnold have all been told, and your efforts will not hold the attention of the public. Come back when you have a different perspective, Wilbrey, and then we’ll talk.

Claxtonbury said there was an overabundance of one-sided stories in the American press, exclaiming that they say this man’s act of treason will be forever linked with the worst kind of misdeed—that of turning against your countrymen. Sales-minded London papers were calling him a traitor too, and any articles only amplified the horrible nature of his evil-doing. The publisher from Grampton’s Press wanted to question if there might be another side to Benedict Arnold.

See if there is more to this so-called turncoat’s story than meets the eye, Wilbrey.

I would write—only to rewrite—until I felt I had Arnold’s point of view properly presented. I got to know Arnold and his family well—and we became good friends—in the process of making sure all my facts were correct. I would record the truth as I saw it. I cared not one whit if my report might adversely affect my status as a respected physician. General Arnold deserved to be heard.

It might seem odd that a London physician was tasked to write about a period of history some years ago. History, especially pertaining to the American War of 1775-83, is beyond my expertise. But I wrote this as a story about a friend. It was a memoir of interesting events, relying on firsthand accounts, which are substantiated by military experts or library books. However, I penned this tale not merely to give a list of facts and dates, but to fulfill a greater need. Let me explain.

My name is Dr. Theodophilus T. Wilbrey. I am a general physician; my medical practice encompasses part of the Marylebone section in the West End of London—a merchant-class area populated by many Americans. They are the loyalists from that sad land who have sought refuge from the effects of the war in the United Provinces.

To the neediest, I would waive my customary fee, often in exchange for an interesting anecdote from colonial life. In an attempt to remedy their unfortunate situation, a large number denied their New World heritage—and why not? Most saw themselves as Englishmen returned to the fold. To call them Americans was akin to character defamation.

I learned much about the revolution from my patients, the bulk of whom were displaced from their colonial homes or businesses because of their views opposing independence from Great Britain. Most were middle-aged merchants, plus a few preachers, bankers, and members of the professions, such as medicine or law. This throng came to England in about 1774-75. Armed conflict had begun, and colonists were choosing sides. If colonists were not for the revolution, they were against it. Often, fence sitters, those who could not make up their minds quickly or wanted to take more time to resolve their differences more peacefully, were grouped as British sympathizers. No matter—these individuals were called Tories because of their real or perceived anti-revolutionary proclivities. Viewed as the enemy by Americans, these loyalists, or Tories, were forced from their homes and businesses—often at gunpoint—to nearby British enclaves. It was not uncommon for rebels to confiscate abandoned Tory property without compensation. These Tories were the lucky ones: as the confrontation heated, those who hadn’t escaped were brutally tarred and feathered—some even killed. Mob rule and vigilantism became the norm.

On a bleak November day in 1797, I acquired my most controversial Yankee patient of them all—Benedict Arnold—and from this meeting sprang my quest to answer Claxtonbury’s burning question: Who is this man, and why is he so controversial? Find out all you can about Arnold. What you have given me so far is a good starting point, Wilbrey. But I need more from you in order to make your story an interesting read for the public.

Claxtonbury wanted me to retell Arnold’s infamous tale—from when I first met him in 1797 to his ignoble death in June 1801. He didn’t care if my perspective was colored by the fact that I was his friend and physician and, I might add, his distant kinsman. He wanted a good story that would sell.

I appreciated the publisher’s comments, agreeing wholeheartedly that there was more to Arnold’s story. I failed to see him the same way as some New York newspapers did, calling him a devil dwelling in Satan’s hellish abode, and linking his name with darkness and the ringing popular cry Treason! Treason! Treason! Black as Hell.

And why wouldn’t a story like this sell? The driving forces of courage, valor, and high principles, as well as deceit, treachery, and venality were replete in this dramatic story of duality. This tale of Benedict Arnold—patriot and traitor, my patient, my friend, and, yes, my distant cousin—is about a man I remember more for his courage and visionary resourcefulness than for his duplicity.

I began by telling about our common ancestor from Somerset, explaining that my distant kinsman stayed while two of his brothers came to North America in 1625. I added that the ancient surname—Arnold—goes back to the time of the Norsemen. In the old Scandinavian tongue, it means eagle, and it symbolizes strength and bravery. And the name clearly befits Benedict Arnold. Dubbed Dark Eagle by the tribes of the Iroquois Nation, his widespread reputation as a brave warrior extended from the northern reaches of the Saint Lawrence River south to the vast forests blanketing Pennsylvania’s Susquehanna Valley.

Ambitious, brave, resourceful . . . Arnold was, in this respect, similar to famous patriots who come to mind—Washington, Franklin, Schuyler, and Hamilton, to name a few. Fiercely revolutionary, they all espoused a new world order. Only Arnold went one step further—in an act of unprecedented bravado, he came over to our side. Now that was some act of courage! He would now be on his own—old friends suddenly becoming avowed enemies, any family remaining in America subject to the threats of an angry public, and his own fate uncertain in an England, whose populace was finding the Revolutionary War increasingly unpopular.

I. The Greatest Scoundrel in History?

London, January 1802

I started to write this account of Benedict Arnold some six months after his sad and agonizing death. Yes, I say sad because of the ungratefulness, loneliness, and perhaps even remorse that attended his demise, especially during the last few months of his life. Let it be known that Arnold never apologized to his former countrymen for turning his coat. He would explain that he had nothing to be sorry for. He believed he was not betraying his fellow patriots but doing the right thing according to his conscience. But on his deathbed, he expressed a sorrow to his family for all he had dragged them through.

With his health broken, his will to live was also crushed. Pain from his illnesses and the impossibility of seeing his sister, his older sons from his first marriage, and their new farms in Canada dashed his hopes. His older boys from his second marriage were away too, serving their king at one post or another. There was no chance of seeing any of them again.

With his remaining days so hopeless and hurtful, Arnold died as much from chronic frustration at being unable to fulfill his dream of being respected by his peers as from his physical infirmities. His reputation meant almost as much to him as life itself.

Only his devoted wife, Peggy, was there to console him. His close friend, Lord Charles Cornwallis, came to see her a few months after his death. A few loyalist friends living in London also offered their condolences. I would like to think that I too helped Peggy get through this difficult time, especially after reading an article in the London Post. They heartlessly reported his death: Poor General Arnold has departed this world without notice, a sorry reflection for this . . . and other turncoats.

As his physician, I can report that he had serious, distressing illnesses that certainly contributed to his demise. Arnold suffered from chronic gout and a failing heart. Complications from a persistent cough led to difficulty in breathing and an inability to swallow food or water properly. Just before he died, his face became wrinkled as his body shriveled, until his acquaintances could hardly recognize him except for his intense icy-blue eyes. Individually his afflictions could be managed, but the combination of his medical condition and state of mind proved lethal.

It is now twenty years since Arnold defected, and his name still suffers inordinate defamation. Last year I treated an American Presbyterian minister. When the name Arnold came up in our conversation, he only exclaimed righteously, Not since Judas has a human being left a mark so wicked on the pages of history.

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A scowling Arnold, depicted in an American school book, 1820

In all honesty, I must confess that I found the famous American fighting general quite the opposite. I knew him for a number of years and found him to be a loving and devoted husband and father, caring and thoughtful to his friends, and dedicated to his ideals and beliefs—and courageous in carrying them out. To me, Arnold’s story is one of political intrigue and human tragedy that unfortunately exploded to slanderous legend. But one has to view Arnold the person—and I think that he was not so much an evil individual as he was a troubled man.

But many British lower-level aristocrats and bureaucratic nabobs in military circles frankly saw Arnold as bellicose and untrustworthy—as they freely reported in newspapers and other published accounts of his treason. In the House of Commons, the increasingly popular Edmund Burke, who had been advocating reconciliation with America for ten years, led the opposition against warmongering Tories, represented by Benedict Arnold. Burke publicly denounced Arnold, hoping the infamous American would not be given any high army post because it would afflict the sentiments of true honor which British officers hold dearer than life. Burke finally got his way, and the Arnolds were suddenly rebuffed on all fronts. Even Londoners on the street would express their dislike. They would hiss at the couple as they attended the theater or went out to dine, for example.

My personal view: not only did he advocate the unpopular view of renewed war in America, but he was far too outspoken on military matters for the conservative ears of the army and navy hierarchies; his carping got him few military assignments. Interestingly, Arnold was commissioned a brigadier general in the regular army but was never called into active duty.

I am not a military man, but I would imagine that he was also shunned because of his unorthodox methods of warfare. Arnold adapted for the first time the use of stealthy mobile fighting units from ships or boats—termed marine assault forces—when he successfully fought against us in Quebec and New York. British leaders had never experienced a means of attack like that; our leaders were expecting massive, exacting rows of soldiers neatly ordered and lined up and attacking with disciplined precision.

In spite of Arnold’s successful results as a military man against the British, and then against the Americans after he turned his coat, British officers still considered Arnold merely provincial and naive about the latest European tactics and methods of warfare. Of course, the general didn’t help matters by not being timid about letting British military leaders know how they mishandled their war efforts in America.

During the twenty years or so of living in England, Arnold remained the butt of relentless jokes and continued to be insulted by my fellow Englishmen—actually until his dying day. You’d think my fellow countrymen would accept General Arnold as one of their own by now. There was an occasion that occurred shortly after the American peace in 1783, when Arnold was presented at court. While the King was conversing with the general, Lord Balcarras, a stately elderly nobleman who had fought under Burgoyne and was defeated at Saratoga by General Arnold, was presented.

The King introduced the two military men, and the haughty old earl croaked, What, sire—he drew himself up his lofty form—the traitor Arnold!

Balcarras refused to shake Arnold’s hand. Arnold was shocked, and furious.

The consequence, as would be anticipated, was a challenge from Arnold—a duel. The two old opponents met and prearranged that the aggrieved parties fire simultaneously. At the signal, Arnold fired his pistol and missed; but Lord Balcarras refused to return the fire, throwing down his weapon instead. The old nobleman just turned on his heel and walked away.

Arnold said, Why don’t you shoot, m’lord?

Sir, said the decrepit squire while looking over his shoulder, I leave you to the executioner!

II. Chance Encounter

London, September-November, 1797

Benedict Arnold became my patient through a series of lucky circumstances. I was speaking at a Medical Society of London seminar on treating gout with hot water brews from various types of willow bark. It was natural that I speak on this subject, because so many of my patients suffer from gout and other diseases of the limbs and joints.

A colleague, Dr. Phineas Effington, was in the audience and came up after my presentation to discuss a patient of his who suffered from occasional bouts of gouty inflammation that were challenging to manage. Treating specific symptoms with concoctions prepared from plant materials is an area of medicine that intrigues me, so I took an immediate interest as Dr. Effington described his patient’s history of chronic gout.

Effington knew of my interest in the American Revolution, and after Effington told me his patient was Benedict Arnold, I told the doctor that I would be pleased to offer my services to the infamous general. I leapt at the chance to consult with such a well-known patient as Arnold and told Effington that I would be available to see his patient at any time.

I had several reasons for wanting to be Arnold’s consulting physician. From a strictly medical point of view, his painful malady was a disorder I could treat using my concoctions.

At the same time, perhaps selfishly, I could learn more about the American Revolution from an active participant. As I am a student of American history in general and the Revolutionary War in particular, I was hoping to meet with Arnold and, on follow-up visits, to learn more from him.

Why did he defect from such a noble cause? Did he think the Americans would fail now that they were out from under the protective umbrella of Great Britain? I had many questions for America’s most fighting general.

Additionally, I wanted to reestablish our familial relationship. I’d learned of our common ancestry shortly before I started administering his treatments. I was hoping an unspoken bond of friendship might develop. Perhaps the general would reveal something to me that he would not to someone else outside his family.

To be honest, as his story unfolded, my kinship with Arnold was less important than I thought it would be at the outset. My friendship with the Arnolds blossomed on its own. Toward the end of his tale, as I learned more about this extraordinary individual, I became more concerned with restoring the Arnold name to some semblance of its former reputation than with any special advantage for prying out secret information.

My opportunity to see Arnold occurred in November 1797. Effington met me at my office early one afternoon. The general’s valet wanted Effington to come over to look at his master’s leg and foot, which were causing the poor man much distress. Dr. Effington asked that I join him, knowing full well that I would agree.

After greeting Effington, we walked into my office, and as I quietly closed the door, Effington said, Dr. Wilbrey, I have Benedict Arnold’s medical history in my notes, and I’d like to go over it quickly with you before we see our patient.

It was quite a history, indeed. He was shot twice in the same leg. His wounded leg never healed well, and as a result, it was several inches shorter than his good leg. The more severe wound he got at the Battle of Saratoga and was serious because the bone was shattered into several pieces. The surgeon wanted to amputate, but Arnold would have none of that.

The Albany Military Hospital, where Arnold was recuperating, did a marvelous job in saving the leg, I might add. Unfortunately, the wound caused him continuous distress, and he was taking excessive amounts of opium tincture for relief.

Added to his war injuries, he suffered from gout. Sometimes he experienced considerable pain and inflammation—only relieved by dietary changes and medications—and at other times, his attacks were mild and required no medical assistance.

Effington also told me that Arnold had a mild case of dropsy, or bloating, perhaps an early sign of heart failure. He also had a chronic cough that seemed to be worsening. Increasingly, he started to be experiencing spells of paroxysmal coughing; he would spit up dark specks of blood as the cough intensified. His hacking spasms were difficult to treat with the usual herbal lung remedies.

Perhaps you can suggest a more potent antitussive, Effington remarked.

We should go over now as he is expecting us within the hour.

As Effington and I were stepping out of my office on our way to the Arnold residence, a courier came running up and gasped, Dr. Effington, Dr. Effington. Please. You must come at once. Mrs. Gracestone is in labor. She’s having her baby!

Effington looked at me and said, Wilbrey, old boy, please go on alone to the Arnolds. Mrs. Gracestone could have a problem with her delivery as she has a small pelvis. I’ll try to get over to see the general later. By the way, here is a note that the Arnolds’ valet gave to me. Please read it when you get the chance.

Yes, of course, Effington. Arnold’s gout treatment should be routine. Please come by later if you can.

I would have to face Arnold alone; the physician he knew and trusted would not be there. I would have to put my best face forward to gain the military man’s acceptance. I was uneasy.

I did not know Arnold personally, although I had heard about him in the same way as any ordinary well-read Briton had. News articles I read from the London Chronicle or Post did not speak highly of the man. I did not know what to expect. Summing up, I would say these accounts treated him critically, describing him as opportunistic and of a pecuniary mind, as well as haughty and having aggressive mannerisms.

From these reports, Arnold sounded like an ogre. But my curiosity about the man drove me onward. I would let fate determine my outcome.

III. At the Arnolds’

Marylebone, London, November 1797

So it was with some trepidation that I met General Arnold for the first time. It was a typical late fall afternoon in London; the day was cold, damp, and with a hint of snow in the air. I could see my breath as I huffed up Blandford Hill and then walked on to Gloucester Street.

As I was about to walk up to Arnold’s fashionable townhouse, I remembered the note that Effington gave to me. It was written by Margaret Arnold, the general’s second wife. She had penned the note and given it to Zacky, their valet, who brought the note to Dr. Effington at his office. She wrote in a distressful way and emphasized how her husband was suffering from a particularly acute attack of gout, probably, and was in great pain. She seemed quite concerned about her husband’s suffering, so I proceeded with haste to be at the patient’s bedside.

A foggy mist was developing as the evening came on, and the lamplighters began their nightly ritual of lighting the oil lanterns along Oxford Street. The damp cobblestones around Portman Square glistened in the dim yellow light as I walked up to the main entrance of the Arnold residence at 4 Gloucester Place. A soft, warm glow from a candle lamp in an upstairs bedroom window emanated through a lacy gauze curtain drawn halfway up. I caught a quick glimpse of a woman looking down at the street, and then her form disappeared, so I assumed she was coming down to greet me at the door.

May I help you?

A beautiful woman stood in front of me, and then she opened the door completely. She had to be Arnold’s wife—she fit Effington’s description perfectly. I answered, trying to put her at ease, Good evening . . . Mrs. Arnold? My name is Dr. Theodophilus Wilbrey. Dr. Effington was to be here with me, but he had to attend to an emergency. One of his patients was having a difficult time delivering her child. But I hope I can be of assistance to your husband, as I have many patients with gout who benefit from my treatments.

Ah yes, . . . I’m pleased to meet you. Dr. Effington mentioned a few weeks ago that he was consulting with you, Dr. Wilbrey. I’m glad you could come. You are so kind to take the time from your busy schedule and see General Arnold on such short notice.

A stunning woman, about forty, she led me into the house and up the stairs to the second-floor bedroom, which I had correctly deduced from the window light as the patient’s room. As I hung my cloak on a hook outside the bedroom door, she introduced herself as Margaret Arnold.

So this is the illustrious Mrs. Arnold, I thought to myself. Dr. Effington had told me she was born in Philadelphia, and at eighteen, she was considered one of the more popular debutantes of the city. The British were occupying Philadelphia at the time, and many of the officers had a crush on the flirtatious and quick-witted Peggy, as she was called. Of course, she met the general shortly thereafter, after the British removed themselves to New York.

After meeting Mrs. Arnold this first time, I could understand how she could charm and captivate almost anyone. Yes, I could even see how she could convince an infatuated suitor to do her bidding.

In all my subsequent dealings with the Arnolds, I wanted to please her as much as the general because she had such a positive, comforting, and even inspirational effect over me. She was beautifully delicate, almost childlike. I sensed a magnetic personality behind that doll-like face. In essence, I would describe her as epitomizing what almost every man wants in a woman.

I can’t say more.

Following our exchange of pleasantries, her hand instinctively went to her flaxen hair as she adjusted a fallen curl. She introduced me to her husband, who did not, at the moment, seem to be in great pain. His wife’s explanation of Effington’s absence did not seem to affect him one way or another.

The patient was sitting in a chair with his right leg resting on an ottoman. His chair faced the fireplace, and a small fire crackled as he turned and extended his hand to greet me. A big fluffy black-and-white cat jumped off the arm of his chair and proceeded to curl up on a velvet pillow in a basket near the fireplace. Arnold smiled, turned to look directly at me, and spoke in a deep, crisp voice.

"Don’t mind Tobias. He was a stray that decided to stay because of Peggy’s good cooking. She makes a mélange of chopped gristle, kidneys, carrots, and green beans that the cat can’t resist.

By the way, I’m Brigadier General Benedict Arnold. I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Dr. Wilbrey. Let me start by saying I am most grateful you were able to see me on such short notice on this gray and rather depressing day. I guess it must be pretty obvious what my problem is. You aren’t going to bleed me, are you?

No, General Arnold, the technique of phlebotomy would not be helpful for relieving gout. It only weakens the patient. Frankly, I’ve never considered it as a routine means of therapy in my practice. I prefer to use herbal remedies and resort to the use of leeches on those few occasions when I deem bleeding necessary.

I looked down at my patient, seated so comfortably in his brown leather chair, with his right leg extended and his foot exposed. Although he was wounded in the left leg and suffered incapacitating pain from time to time, his attack of gout was in his good (right) foot.

Here was a man in his late fifties who upon first impression appeared quite athletic—absolutely no paunch, unlike so many of his middle- to upper-class contemporaries. He had sharp, quick pale blue eyes, a somewhat swarthy complexion, and a full head of blondish, partially graying hair. His voice was strong and self-assured, and he spoke with a definite American accent. His visage was handsome and distinguished, with a prominent Romanesque nose that perfectly matched his broad-shouldered frame.

From his speaking voice and gestures, I could sense an inner intelligence with a disposition to superciliousness and perfection. I hoped his attention to detail and tendency toward questioning would cement our physician-patient relationship, as this could provide an opportunity for me to engage the general in conversation outside of his immediate medical problem. I addressed my patient in a factual manner as if I was in a military situation.

Yes, I observe your great toe is reddened and inflamed. The tarsal joint is displaced by the swelling and is probably the cause of your pain. What brought it on?

I was still a little tense in his presence.

Arnold looked up again and grinned slightly, putting my mind at ease, and said with tongue in cheek, Peggy’s steak and kidney pie. She’s become quite the specialist in English cuisine. Toby and I have a penchant for her special recipe, to which I think she also adds her leftovers. Mind you, Peggy doesn’t do the actual cooking. She has a wonderful cook, Callista, who does all the food preparation. She is from Jamaica and spices her food up just the way I like it.

The general thought for a moment, and then said, Oh, here’s a thought. My attack could have been brought on by overindulging in cyder—I had an extra tankard with my meal the other day. Once or twice in New York, during one of my many campaigns in the Lake Champlain region, I suffered from a similar incident after quaffing too much of the locally made brew.

I surmised that the attack was brought on by consuming too much rich food, a common malady of the aristocracy and upper classes.

You should know better, General. When Dr. Effington referred you to me, he said that in an earlier life, you were an apothecary in New Haven, in Connecticut.

Arnold chuckled and said, That was so long ago, and I’ve had so many different careers since. I can’t say I’ve forgotten all I ever learned. I just do not always do what’s best for my health, even alone in my own home, away from all those bigwigs in Parliament or in the ministry. I had for many years given up drinking cyder, but having had very little of the gout for the past four to five years, I had flattered myself that it would never return. This attack will, however, make me cautious for the future.

Do you take any medications at the present time, General? I asked as I started to jot down the information in my record.

"I take tincture of opium and have been taking it off and on for the past twenty years. It’s for the ache in my wounded leg. At times, this pain can be excruciating. But taking the opiate narcotic often dulls my senses, so I limit my intake.

I’m in constant pain, which I have adjusted to. On a good day, I’ll only take opium once or twice. Stress turns a dull ache into a burning pain, and sometimes my leg will pulsate almost like it has a heart of its own. Each beat raises the pain level a notch. A sharp, white hotness seems to sear up and down my leg. When I can’t take it anymore, I may take the opium tincture many times during the day, to the point of making myself confused and delirious. It is the only way I can cope. Thank God, my damaged leg is not pulsating with pain now. But my other foot, with the redness and swelling from the gout, is bothering me. That pain is with me constantly, but it is dull and limited to my big toe.

I knew his inflammation would subside in time, but prescribed an herbal tea of splintered willow bark for any recurrent pain and a decoction of ground dried flowers of xanthus for the inflammation.

For immediate relief, if the toe feels hot to the touch, place a cool compress over the end of the foot to include all the toes, I said as Mrs. Arnold walked into the room.

Ah, Mrs. Arnold, perhaps you could dampen a towel with some cold water for a compress.

She agreed and left the room.

Turning to the general, I continued to examine his foot and toes, saying, I will give you some medicines for the gout since your wounded leg seems under control with the opium tincture, or laudanum. These prescriptions I prescribe for gout should not dull your senses because they are not narcotics.

As I finished up with my patient, Mrs. Arnold walked into the room with a cool compress. The dampened linen was almost cold to the touch as she handed it to me.

Just right, I said as I wrapped Arnold’s reddened toes.

There was not much more I could do, so as I stood up, I looked over to the both of them, saying, Do you wish for me to stop by my apothecary to have these prescriptions filled? I would be happy to do that for you. His shop is only a block from here, and he will be closing soon.

Arnold looked first to his wife, then to me. Quickly nodding his head up and down, and with a look of appreciation, he said yes over and over again.

I had an ulterior motive for getting the general’s medicines at the apothecary because, as I’ve said earlier, I wanted an excuse to get to know the Arnolds better. What better way than to come back and talk more about the revolution with a patient freed of pain?

This would all funnel into my need to find out what made this man risk everything by rejecting liberty, which he had so vigorously defended early in the conflict. Then he had a change of heart, threw away his sought-after liberty, and joined the ranks of his oppressors. Why do this and then become so thoroughly vilified as a result? He was a hero one moment and an antihero the next. He seemed to have everything going in his favor, and then he seemingly threw it all away. There had to be more here than met the eye.

I knew my potions would work, and I wanted to be at the general’s side when his symptoms started to subside. Aside from my selfish reason, of course, was the usual, professional distinction that goes with treating successfully a well-known patient. His case was simple to treat, and so many of my patients with the same ailment had taken my herbal treatments with good results. He would be grateful for getting relief from his illness, naturally. His frame of mind, as a result, would be positive; he would be more willing to engage in conversation.

Summing it up, the Arnold name was known throughout the English-speaking world and Continental Europe, reviled by most and admired by few—there is no argument about that. But I needed to see if the general was a man of historic proportion or merely a curiosity. More than ever, I realized I would need to see Arnold again and again to ferret out the truth.

IV. Parkhurst’s Apothecary Shop

London, November 1797

I took leave of my invalid and spoke to Mrs. Arnold as I gently closed the general’s door.

I will go over to Hiram Parkhurst’s apothecary and have the prescriptions filled for your husband. It’ll take a few minutes. Is there anything I can get for you?

No, but you’re so kind to ask. Thank you, she said softly.

I walked over to the pharmacy with a quickened pace. When I arrived, I peered through the window. Thank goodness, Parkhurst was alone. I could be in and out in a few minutes.

I briskly opened the door, and the spring bell on the door pealed with a cheery sound. The chemist glanced my way. Before he could speak, I said, Hiram, how are you? I hope you’re not too busy. Here’re two prescriptions, and I would like to wait while you compound them. Would that be possible?

Parkhurst greeted me, and then looked down at my drug order: Certainly, Benedict Arnold your patient?

Yes, I said hesitatingly, not wanting to spend much time with chit-chat.

"I made a large batch of Salix bark infusion and Xanthus tea earlier today. The demijohns for each are over here, and I can decant off the quantity you desire. As you know, I have quite a few of your patients with gout getting these medications, so I have it made up in stock bottles. Shouldn’t take but a minute or two. The general and Mrs. Arnold come in frequently."

Oh, I said, wanting to probe for more information but not wanting to stay away from my patient too long.

Do the Arnolds have other prescribing physicians, aside from Effington and me?

No no, it’s mostly Peggy, I mean, Margaret, who comes in. She sees Dr. Effington . . . I’ve known her for a long time. She was aloof at first, seemed a bit snobbish, but after a while, I found her to be very kind. She is totally devoted to her husband. She should be in a healing profession—she takes such good care of the general.

The apothecary continued.

"General Arnold is an enigma. Compared to Mrs. Arnold, he doesn’t have much to say. He was in several times for some minor medication and told me he was an apothecary in his youth, somewhere in Connecticut, I think.

"He gets other kinds of gout medication and a liniment he uses for his arthritis. He mentioned once that he has asthma, but I haven’t dispensed any medication to him for that malady. He seems like a good chap—always pleasant—and not at all like some of the things I’ve read in the newspapers.

Well, it’s close to six, and I’ll be closing, Doctor.

Thank you, Hiram.

I took the medicines in a paper sack, paid him, and returned to the Arnold residence.

As I walked, I pulled my heavy wool cloak around myself to ward off the chill. It was completely dark when I got to the entrance of the elegant townhouse. I placed the paper sack of medicines under my cloak, and as I raised my hand to lift the fancy door knocker and announce my presence, the door abruptly opened.

A valet opened the massive door. It was Zacharias, called Zacky in the household. He greeted me warmly and escorted me in.

Good Evening, Dr. Wilbrey. Mrs. Arnold is with the general. Please wait, and I’ll tell her you’re here.

V. Arnold’s Bedchamber

London, November 1797

Mrs. Arnold asks that you come up to the general’s bedroom, Zacky uttered after I had hung my hat on the entry hall tree.

Margaret Arnold stood next to the open door as I came up to the second-floor bedroom.

I have been applying the compresses as you recommended, and the pain has diminished dramatically. May I have the medicines for the general’s first dose?

I found it amusing that she referred to her husband as the general, even in intimate circumstances.

I gave the little sack of medicines to Margaret, and she went in to administer the first dose.

I forgot to give my cloak to Zacky, so I returned to the first level and took a seat in the parlor to wait for Margaret’s return. I began to read the evening newspaper. After about fifteen minutes, she peeked into the room and murmured, Our patient is doing much better now, Doctor, almost no pain.

I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Arnold. If the general is feeling up to it, may I speak with him for a few minutes? I needed to know more about my new patient, and this seemed like a perfect launching point.

Please, call me Peggy. Just about everybody I know calls me that. It’s what I’ve been called since my girlhood in Philadelphia. Papa first called me Peggy.

I felt I was making progress—gaining a familiarity with Peggy Arnold—in my attempt to know the family better. I will like this woman—she is about my age, engaging in her conversational style, and in a fanciful way, I can imagine her as a close friend. And my professional life as a physician doesn’t allow much leeway in developing personal friendships.

And yes, General Arnold will see you now. Please go in.

Peggy led the way as I followed her to her husband’s room. She walked with a measured gait and perfect posture, and as she opened the door all the way, revealing a full view of her smiling husband, I was aroused by an aromatic hint of gardenia as I glided by. It must have been from her perfume. Although the smell of her perfume was exhilarating, my thoughts quickly turned to my patient because he looked almost totally recovered.

General Arnold, your foot is no longer elevated, and Toby’s on your lap. I see you are more comfortable now.

Arnold stroked the cat’s thick black fur and said, Pull up a chair, Wilbrey. I do feel much better. Perhaps I can now provide you with more information for your medical record.

Here was an opportunity to learn more.

Well, most medical doctors start with the family history, I said conversationally, not wanting to sound too clinical. I just wanted Arnold to talk, and I would listen.

Ah, you want to know what my bloodlines are, eh? Let me start by saying my ancestors first came to America in 1615—

Bye the bye, General, I said, you might be interested to know that we are distantly related. I proceeded to tell him briefly about our common ancestor from Somerset.

But please, sir, continue.

Good man, Wilbrey, we’ll have to discuss our common kinship sometime. Anyway, the Arnolds were among the first immigrants to the Americas, a hundred years before even the ‘distinguished’ Washingtons. I am descended from a family of Puritans. My namesake, Benedict Arnold—the first one in a long line of Benedicts—is the son of William Arnold, who came to Rhode Island. He was a religious refugee and came over with Roger Williams in the early 1600s. In fact, he was the second governor of Rhode Island, succeeding Williams.

Our common ancestor would be the parents of William Arnold, then.

Would seem so, the general replied. Keep in mind that the Arnold bloodline is honorable and distinguished. The four Benedicts who preceded me were either landowners, in government, or in business, or all three. The American Arnolds were known to be enterprising, opportunistic, and successful in most of their endeavors.

General Arnold, I said, do I sense a bit of sarcasm in your earlier reference to the Washingtons?

Not really, Dr. Wilbrey. I have the greatest respect and admiration for George Washington. He was one of the few generals in the Continental Army who stood by me in the early years before I became disaffected with the American cause. He protected Peggy, my second wife, and my family while they were living in America and before they could join me behind the British lines. I was most grateful to him for his graciousness.

Arnold still exhibited a great deal of esteem for his former chief. But his sarcasm had more to do with how his former leader’s ancestors now seemed to be painted with the same broad brush of worldwide fame by the vast majority of former colonists as was accorded Washington himself. In earlier times, the forebears of General Washington were not well known outside Northern Virginia.

They were typical of many smaller slave-holding farmers who owned plantations along the Potomac.

On the other hand, Arnold explained that his ancestors were governors, townsmen, and important businessmen in America long before Washington’s predecessors even emigrated from England. He was proud of the fact that the Arnolds had been well-known people throughout