A Spoil of War

Like a lot of other looted art work, it starts with a war...in this case, the Revolutionary War.  

Shortly after signing the Declaration of Independence, Benjamin Franklin was sent to Paris as a diplomat for the fledgling republic.  Having just returned from almost a decade in London, where he had been unsuccessful in securing better colonial conditions from the crown, Franklin had hardly unpacked before being sent back to Europe, where he would remain until 1785.

Franklin missed the fighting in the states, but while in France, he had secured the crucial alliance of France in 1778 and had negotiated the Treaty of Paris in 1783 that ended the war.  His house, unfortunately, was not quite so lucky, and was an early casualty of the war.

In September 1777, the British Army marched into Philadelphia, more than welcomed by the majority of the remaining citizens.  As the Redcoats neared the city, the American Army had  requisitioned all military supplies and fled, accompanied by any prominent citizens who had supported independence.  (If you are wondering about the difference between looting and requisitioning—looting is done by the enemy.  In either case, the former owner is unlikely to receive compensation.)

British General Howe and his men marched into Philadelphia and converted the city’s churches into hospitals and barracks while the British officers occupied the best homes—including Benjamin Franklin’s.  Many of the city’s remaining residents were Quakers, who were shocked at the revelry and gambling enjoyed by the British Army.  General Howe was soon replaced by General Clinton, and neither man was in a hurry to leave the comfort of the city during the winter months when armies rarely fought.

By spring, General Clinton learned of Franklin’s success in securing the French alliance, and in fear of French warships blockading the Delaware River and cutting off his supply lines, decided to pull out of Philadelphia and move into New York.  Though the remaining Tories in the city, fearing reprisals after the British left, offered to raise 3,000 volunteers if General Clinton would agree to leave 2,000 soldiers in Philadelphia, Clinton ordered his army to prepare to leave.

‘Prepare to leave’ was military-speak for the army to once again take everything that wasn’t nailed down tightly.  When Du Simitiere, a Swiss-born citizen of Philadelphia, went by Benjamin Franklin’s house, he observed that British Major John André was packing up all the valuables of the home, including scientific apparatus, books, works of art, and musical instruments.  One of the works of art was a portrait of Franklin by the British artist Benjamin Wilson, painted in 1759.

Du Simitiere was surprised at the looting of Franklin’s home, as André was generally respected as a gentleman.  When pressed for an explanation, André remained mute.  It is likely that André was following the orders of his superior, Major General Charles Grey, who also had quarters in the house.  One thing is certain, however:  none of Franklin’s former possessions ended up  returning to England with Major André.  We can be sure of this, because it took more than four decades for the major to return, and when he did, he was in a box.  

When Benedict Arnold traitorously offered to change sides and turn over West Point to the British—in exchange for wealth and rank in the British Army—it was André who acted as a messenger between Arnold and Gray.  To escape notice, André dressed as a civilian and carried a false passport.  Despite his disguise, he was searched by militiamen who discovered the plans for the military fort hidden in his stocking.  

Since André was not in uniform, he was ruled a spy and sentenced to be hanged.  Despite personally appealing to General George Washington to be executed by firing squad—a more dignified and acceptable execution for a soldier—André was hanged on October 2, 1780, his body buried at the foot of the gallows. According to witnesses, the condemned man really was a gentleman, he put the noose around his own neck to spare the hangman the task.  In 1821, his body was shipped home and now he has a large memorial in Westminster Abbey.

Born the third son of Sir Henry Grey, Baronet of Howick, Grey did not expect to inherit either his father’s title or his estates, so he did what was expected of a younger son: he purchased a Lieutenancy in the British Army and set out to make a military career.  Grey was a respectable officer, serving in the Seven Years War (which lasted nine years just to make it hard on future history students) and at one time was the aide-de-camp to King George III.  

Early in the Revolutionary War, Grey earned the nickname of “No Flints Grey” after ordering his men to remove the flints from their muskets, thus forcing them to use only their bayonets during a successful night attack.  For his service, Grey was eventually promoted to Commander-In-Chief of all British troops in America, but before the promotion could take effect, Cornwallis had surrendered at Yorktown and the war was over.

After the American Revolution, following the death of his two brothers, Grey inherited his family wealth and title of Baronet; then, for his service in the French Revolutionary War, he was raised to the peerage as Baron Grey.  A few years later, he was created Earl Grey and Viscount Howick.  

Since I know what you’re thinking, I’ll go ahead and answer your question.  No, Earl Grey tea is not named after him.  It’s named after his son, the second Early Grey, who was the Prime Minister of England responsible for ending slavery in Great Britain.  (There is no definitive history of exactly how the tea was named after him, but it has something to do with his ending the tea monopoly of the British East India Company.  Every tea company in England has a different version of the story.)

Franklin’s portrait was certainly stolen by Major André, as there were several witnesses.  There still exists a letter dated July 14, 1778 from Richard Bache to Benjamin Franklin in Paris concerning the theft and describing the Wilson portrait.  And early in the nineteenth century, the painting is listed in the Grey Howick House inventories as hanging over the mantel in the family library, where it remained for over a century.

In 1896, while the American ambassador to England, Edward Choate was having dinner with Edward Henry, the 4th Earl Grey, when the Earl casually mentioned owning the portrait of Franklin.  Choate had an interest in paintings (he was one of the founders of the Metropolitan Museum of Art) and asked for more details, which he passed on to a reporter, who wrote an account of the painting in the January 1897 issue of McClure’s Magazine.

A few years later, Ambassador Choate suggested to the Earl, recently appointed Governor General of Canada, that it might be nice if the family were to return the painting to America.  The Earl, conscious of his new responsibilities as the Canadian governor, wrote President Theodore Roosevelt offering the painting, which he referred to as a “spoil of war”, back to the United States, suggesting that it might be appropriate for the portrait to hang in the White House.  A cynic might think that the Earl was more interested in securing the good will of Roosevelt than returning looted property.  

Shortly afterward, the American Ambassador brought the painting from England to President Roosevelt, just in time to be part of the bicentennial celebration of Benjamin Franklin’s birth.  Artwork at the White House is moved around regularly, frequently being swapped out with items from a secret storage location, but the last time the portrait was visible in a photograph, it was in the White House library, on the first floor.

There is only one point left to be settled.  Why hasn’t the painting been returned to the rightful owners, the descendants of the Franklin family?