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 fluff y 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 selfassured,
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.