Hobhouse’s conversation with Washington took a while, as Washington told him about Arnold’s history in the American army as well as the plot to turn over West Point to the British. They had just finished as they heard the clerk calling everyone back to order. Washington told Hobhouse, “I would avoid belittling him. He takes offence easily and it will likely be more effective to get him to admit what he did and let it speak for itself.”
“I might want to belittle him and get him to explode.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I leave it to you, then.”
“Did he describe his meetings with you accurately?”
“What he said about our meetings had the ring of truth because we did meet when he says we did. But I am quite certain I did not mention the King. My effort was and is to defeat the British Army. I have never thought the King was truly our personal enemy.”
“Yet you were leading a war against the King.”
“Yes, of course. He is the sovereign who must be defeated if we are to be free.”
“I want to show that Arnold is a turncoat and not to be trusted. I want the jury to dislike him and disregard what he says, be it true or false.”
“A turncoat and a traitor, most certainly. Indeed, the rumour was that he was planning to turn over not only West Point to the British, but me as well, in some sort of trap.”
When, a short while later, all had reassembled, with the judges back on the bench and Arnold in the witness box, Hobhouse rose and said, “Mr. Arnold, what was your rank in the rebel army, as you have called it?”
He saw Arnold stiffen, presumably because he had addressed him as mister. He felt Washington tap him on the shoulder.
“Concede him his title, Mr. Hobhouse,” he whispered. “He is no longer a general in our army, but he is in theirs. And he was once a great one. Civility will profit us here.”
Hobhouse resumed. “Pardon me, sir. General Washington has instructed me to address you as General.” He could feel the tension drain out of the courtroom. “General Arnold, what was your rank in the rebel army?”
“I was a general.”
“What rank of general?”
“I was a major general.”
“And in the British Army?”
“I am a brigadier general.”
“A demotion?”
“I would not put it that way. The British Army is much larger, so there are more people ahead of me in seniority than there were...previously.”
“Would it be fair to say you switched sides?”
His mouth twitched. “I might put it differently.”
Hobhouse had been taught never to give a witness an opening to talk at length. Only to answer yes or no questions. But he decided to risk it.
“How would you put it, General?”
“I would say I recognized who was the true sovereign of our country and came back to him, with regrets that I had strayed.”
“But before you came back you were, just months ago, waging war against that very king to secure the independence of the colonies, were you not?”
“Yes, but no longer. Now I am waging war to preserve His Majesty’s kingdom against a rebellion.”
“You came back here, crossing an entire ocean, solely to testify against General Washington, did you not?”
“I would not put it that way. I was leading troops in the colonies when I was recalled here. I didn’t know the purpose.”
“But now you do, don’t you?”
There was no answer, and Hobhouse chose to press the question differently.
“While you’ve been here, have you been assigned any task other than testifying in this trial, General?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you been ordered to return to America when this trial is over?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Now let’s talk about something else. How long were you a general in the rebel army?”
“I don’t recall exactly.”
“Would it have been from 1776 to September 1780?”
“That sounds correct. Before I resumed a path of loyalty.”
“Other than the rank of brigadier general, did you receive anything else when you chose what you call the path of loyalty?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Did you receive any money?”
“I received a pension.”
“For how much?”
The Attorney General rose. “My Lord, I object to this line of questioning. It has become wholly irrelevant to what I asked this witness, which was about his meetings with Washington and what Washington said in those meetings.”
“It’s entirely relevant, my Lord,” Hobhouse said. “It goes to this man’s character and his reputation for truthfulness, which this jury is certainly entitled to consider as it weighs his testimony.”
“Your objection is overruled, Mr. Attorney General,” the Chief Justice said.
“I believe the question pending, General Arnold, was the amount of the pension you received for changing sides,” Hobhouse said.
“It wasn’t for changing sides. It was for information.”
“Fine. How much for the information?”
“I was promised an annual income of several hundred pounds and an annual pension of 360 pounds.”
“I noticed you walk with a cane. Is that from a war injury while you were serving on the rebel army side?”
“Yes, I was wounded.”
“At the battle of Saratoga?”
“Yes.”
“Was General Washington involved in that battle?”
“Yes, although he wasn’t personally present.”
“He was the Commander-in-Chief, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you were a general there?”
“Yes.”
“So you collaborated with him on overall plans for that part of the war, even though he wasn’t personally there?”
There was a pause, as Arnold considered the question, clearly wondering if the unusual wording was somehow a trap.
The Attorney General started to rise.
“Please sit down, Mr. Attorney General,” the Chief Justice said.
Hobhouse knew—and assumed that the judge and every other lawyer in the room knew—that if Arnold and Washington were collaborators, Arnold’s testimony would require another witness to corroborate his story in order for it to be used as proof of treason. The Attorney General had presumably planned to find a way, via an objection, to let Arnold know that.
Finally, Arnold said, “Yes. We were.”
Washington whispered something in Hobhouse’s ear. Hobhouse nodded and said, “General Arnold, when you were serving in what you now call the rebel army, was that what you called it?”
“No.”
“What did you call it?”
Arnold paused, not answering.
“I would remind you, General, that you are under oath.”
He heard someone in the audience mutter, “Not that his oath matters much,” followed by laughter. Hobhouse glanced over to see if the jury was laughing. One was. The rest were not.
Finally, Arnold, ignoring the tittering, said, “Sometimes we called it the Army of the Continental States of America. Sometimes we called it the Army of the United States of America.”
“Did you ever just call it the American army?”
“Occasionally, yes.”
“In 1778 did you stand up in public and swear an oath of loyalty to the states, swearing to do everything in your power to protect them from King George III and to support their independence?”
“Yes. But even then I had my doubts about the rebellion, about the way Loyalists were being treated by the so-called Patriots, which was poorly and unfairly.”
“You took the oath with reservations, then?”
“You could say that.”
“Did you take your oath today with any reservations?”
“No, because it was to our king, the true sovereign.”
“One final thing, General. You planned, did you not, to hand over the plans for the defence of West Point to the British Army?”
“Yes.”
“Did you also plan to find a way to hand over General Washington himself to the British?”
“No, I did not.”
“It was only one act of treason you meant to carry out, and not two?”
“I will not answer that.”
“I didn’t think you would. I have no further use for this witness, my Lord.”
The Chief Justice looked down at the Attorney General. “Do you have any questions of the witness?”
“Yes. General Arnold, you mentioned poor treatment of Loyalists. To what did you refer?”
“Loyalists, even if they had done nothing but refuse to sign an oath to the rebellion, were beaten, tarred and feathered, forced from their homes, had their property confiscated and sometimes hanged. Amongst other terrors visited upon them.”
“Thank you. I have no further questions.”
“Nor do I,” Hobhouse said.
“You may be excused, General,” the Chief Justice said.
As Arnold walked past the Attorney General’s table, Hobhouse heard him say, quite distinctly, “I told you this was a poor idea.” Hobhouse looked over to the jury to see if they’d heard it. But if they had, they gave no sign of it.
Actually, Hobhouse thought, it was a truly stupid idea. They must be desperate because no other officer could be found to testify. He began to wonder what it would be like to win.