An Excerpt: July 10, 1778 – Bartram’s Gardens, Philadelphia
I ordered the carriage stopped, and we moved toward an open section of grass near the river. Peggy had brought a lovely picnic with china, silver, and rare delicacies. With the chaperone out of earshot preparing our lunch, her countenance changed. Gone was the young woman poetically commenting on beauty and war; instead, I was met with searching eyes with probing intelligence. “I want to know everything about you. I have lived a sheltered life, but you have seen and done so much. Tell me about where you grew up, tell me about your parents, tell me about your sons, tell me about life at sea, tell me about you.”
Well, that was unexpected. Again, more than meets the eye. Either she is either genuinely interested, or I am being vetted. Either way, I can’t begin by lying to this remarkable woman. I need to tell her the truth.
I gestured to a well-placed bench, and we sat down to my relief. “I am afraid my lineage is not much to speak about. I am the fifth of my name, but in many ways, I am the first. My ancestors rose to prominence in Rhode Island and Connecticut, but by the time of my father—I regret to say he had lost his way.” I continued without meeting her eye. “He squandered positions in the community and lost his fortune.” I cannot tell you, my sweet, the full depth of his depravity.
Taking a deep breath and finally meeting her gaze, I said with a ten- tative grin, “My sons are strong and healthy. My sister Hannah is a great help in both my businesses and with raising my sons. But we cannot claim an august family name like the Shippens. The fortune I have made has been my own doing.” I spoke with growing confidence, “I believe there is more to come.”
“My dear General. I find you all the more noble. My father is a very fine man, but he stands on the shoulders of all the Shippens. He could not climb much higher and did not risk falling. He is wise, and I love and respect him, but he is tame. You, General . . . you are a phoenix. You rise from the ashes. You are not limited in how high you will fly. You make your own destiny: an apothecary, a merchant, a sea captain, a pirate, a shipowner, a smuggler, a duelist, a war hero, and now a great general.”
She has done research. I blushed and said, “Well, you are too kind, but I should tell you, it is not all true.”
She laughed, not with the chortle of a salon or a polite giggle, but with an open-mouthed, joyous laugh suited for the company of good friends. “Very well, then; I retract the pirate comment. How about that?”
I roared with a joy I had not felt in years. It was as if she had pulled away a dark veil that was preventing me from being truly happy. I gave an exaggerated seated bow. “As you say, milady.” She is like no woman I have ever met. I am always working , thinking ahead of the other women. She is so bright. She is ahead of me.
Still in control of our conversation, she bombarded me with ques- tions: “So, what makes you happy? What makes you sad? What do you read? What is your greatest accomplishment? What are your goals in life?”
This is unusual. She asks nothing about the war.
I answered her as best I could, and asked her questions in return. I learned of the Shippen mansion’s extensive library, which had allowed Peggy to absorb not only the classics, but also the latest newspapers from London and America. My Peggy received the finest possible edu- cation available to a young woman of her station. I learned she was not one to waste time on the frivolous issues of vacuous women. Instead, she devoted herself to her father’s business and political efforts in sup- porting her family. Her father, recognizing her exceptionalism—as I immediately had—relied far more heavily on her for counsel and sup- port than he did her older brother Edward. In turn, he provided her with beautiful gowns and accoutrements at a level which strained even his considerable resources.
My first wife had been a bundle of twigs held together by sinew and dry skin, animated only by cold disapproval. In contrast, Peggy pro- jected warmth and was well-rounded and soft in the way a good woman should be. But it was her smile, and her radiant flash of adoration, that was the greatest distinction from my straight-mouthed and unloving first wife.
In my entire life, I had never met someone so interested in me—not General Arnold, Captain Arnold, or Dr. Arnold, but me. I was utterly amazed and overjoyed that such an exquisite person was interested not merely in what I was, but in who I was.
We had planned a relatively short visit to the gardens, but after three hours had flown by, our impatient chaperone could finally be delayed no longer. When I showed my disappointment at having to leave, Peggy grasped my hand and said, “This is only the beginning, Benny, not the end.”
Somewhere in the course of that magical afternoon, I had become her “Benny”—a name no one had ever used. But even more so, my heart almost burst with joy because she was “my Peggy.”
When we returned to the city, I resolved that I wanted to win this remarkable woman’s love. I needed to stop hobbling around on crutches. Thus, I hired the best cobbler I could find to build a special high-heeled left shoe that allowed me to walk with a gentleman’s cane. I was finally able to stroll the streets with a limp, tapping my gold-headed cane on the cobblestone.
