London Calling.
London Walks connecting.
This is London. This is London Walks. Streets Ahead.
Story time. History time.
And here it comes. Here’s your daily London fix for this fine day in June. June 14th.
Special day.
June 14th.
The anniversary of the death of an American patriot.
That’s what the plaque says.
American patriot.
Which comes as something of a surprise.
Because the man we’re talking about is Benedict Arnold.
Yes.
That Benedict Arnold.
The Benedict Arnold.
The name that, in America, became synonymous with treason.
The name parents don’t give their children.
The name that entered the language as an insult.
Call somebody a Benedict Arnold and you’re not paying them a compliment.
So what’s going on?
How does the most famous traitor in American history end up commemorated in London as an American patriot?
Well, as is so often the case, the answer is that history is complicated.
One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.
One nation’s hero is another nation’s villain.
And Benedict Arnold?
For a while, he was both.
Let’s begin in London.
Gloucester Place.
Just north of Oxford Street.
A handsome street in Marylebone.
It was there, on June 14th, 1801, that Benedict Arnold died.
Not in Boston.
Not in Philadelphia.
Not at West Point.
Not even in America.
London.
The capital of the country he had once fought against.
And if that sounds strange, wait until you hear the rest of the story.
Because before Benedict Arnold became America’s greatest traitor, he was one of America’s greatest heroes.
Indeed, had he died in 1777, Americans might well rank him alongside George Washington himself.
That’s not an exaggeration.
Military historians still argue that Arnold’s contribution to the American cause was vital.
He helped seize Fort Ticonderoga.
He led an astonishing expedition through the Maine wilderness towards Quebec.
More than 500 miles through some of the harshest country in North America.
His men arrived exhausted.
Starving.
In rags.
A third of them had been lost along the way.
Later, on Lake Champlain, he built and commanded a small fleet that delayed a British advance from Canada.
Again, technically a defeat. But one that bought precious time for the American cause.
And then came Saratoga.
One of the decisive campaigns of the war.
A battle that helped persuade France to support the American Revolution.
A battle many historians believe Arnold played a crucial role in winning.
He fought with characteristic ferocity.
And paid for it.
His horse fell on him.
His left leg was shattered.
He carried the injury for the rest of his life.
Think about that for a moment.
The man Americans remember for betraying the Revolution shed blood for it.
A lot of blood.
Again and again.
Which is what makes the story so fascinating.
The problem was never Benedict Arnold’s courage.
The problem was Benedict Arnold.
He was brave.
Daring.
Inspirational.
And almost impossibly prickly.
He quarrelled with colleagues.
Made enemies.
Nursed grievances.
Felt under-appreciated.
And gradually became convinced that the cause he had served so faithfully wasn’t serving him in return.
Then came Philadelphia.
Money troubles.
Political disputes.
Social ambitions.
A glamorous young wife named Peggy Shippen from a family with loyalist sympathies.
And eventually the fatal decision.
In 1779 he secretly opened communications with the British.
The following year he obtained command of West Point.
West Point.
The key American fortress on the Hudson.
His plan was breathtaking.
And appalling.
He would hand it over to the British.
For money.
Twenty thousand pounds if the scheme succeeded.
A fortune.
The plot unravelled.
His British contact, Major John André, was captured carrying incriminating papers.
Arnold escaped.
And André went to the gallows.
The name Benedict Arnold would never recover.
Nor, in truth, would the man himself.
The British welcomed him.
But they never fully trusted him.
After all, if he had betrayed one side, why not another?
The Americans loathed him.
The British regarded him with caution.
The Loyalists often kept their distance.
It’s hard to think of a lonelier position.
He spent the next two decades chasing business ventures, compensation claims and opportunities.
Most ended badly.
There were lawsuits.
Financial reverses.
A duel.
More disappointment.
The great hero of Saratoga became a restless exile.
And eventually a Londoner.
His final years were not happy ones.
His health deteriorated.
Asthma.
Gout.
Dropsy.
Money worries.
A ruined reputation.
When he died in Gloucester Place he was sixty.
Not old by modern standards.
But worn out.
Broken down.
Defeated in a way that had nothing to do with battlefields.
And yet.
And yet.
The plaque isn’t entirely wrong.
American patriot.
Because before he became a traitor he really had been one. Had been a patriot.
A very effective one.
A very brave one.
A man who had risked everything for the revolutionary cause.
Had he died at Saratoga, his statue might stand beside Washington’s. Imagine a Benedict Arnold memorial in Washington D.C.
Schoolchildren might learn his name with admiration.
History would have judged him very differently.
But he didn’t die at Saratoga.
He lived.
And because he lived, he made choices.
Choices that changed everything.
History is often untidy.
Heroes become villains.
Villains become heroes.
And sometimes one person manages to be both.
Which is why that plaque in London is so intriguing.
American patriot.
Two words.
Two simple words.
And an entire argument about history hidden inside them.
Benedict Arnold.
Hero.
Traitor.
Londoner.
One of history’s most complicated men.
And he died here.
In London.
On this day. June 14th.
See you tomorrow.