Technically, Valnor was a deserter, but since the regiment disbanded a few days later, there was no pursuit or prosecution of the case. Still, there was no doubt that Washington would harbor ill feelings toward him. That made implementation of Valnor’s backup plan an extremely delicate matter; hence his hesitation with entering the establishment.
Valnor finally forced one foot in front of the other. He opened the front door and stepped into a scene unlike any other. The greatest minds of a generation gathered in a small room hoisting mugs of beer in the air and reciting lewd songs without inhibition.
“Another round on me,” General Washington proclaimed and earned a round of cheers from the room. He placed a stack of coins on the bar that more than covered the offer, and the bartender set about filling the order by placing filled mug after mug on the bar top.
Valnor saw this as the best opening he might find all evening, so he took it. “General, may I buy you a drink for a change? I figure I owe you at least that much.”
Washington saw to the bartender accepting his coins before turning around and facing Valnor with a surprisingly passive expression given their history. “Mr. Hamilton, it has been a long time. You do owe me a drink…and far more.”
“Shall I start with an explanation?” Valnor offered.
“Yes, let’s try that and see where it takes us,” Washington answered before turning to the bartender. “My good man, I’ll have a bottle of your best brandy, and Mr. Hamilton here will see to the bill.”
“I have a bottle of 1724 Cognac in the back, will that do?”
“Is it expensive,” Washington asked with a mischievous grin angling toward Valnor.
“Quite I’m afraid,” the bartender responded with apologetic eyes landing on Valnor.
“Good, we’ll take two then,” Valnor ordered and drew a welcome laugh from Washington. “Can you bring them to the table in the corner over there? After you, General.”
Washington raised a skeptical eyebrow before complying. “Given our history, I hope you will not be offended if I insist on seeing the bottles paid for upfront. You’ve been known to disappear on me when it comes time to settle accounts.”
It was Valnor’s turn to let out a soft laugh weighed down by the awkward tension between them. “No offense taken, I’ve earned that. Fortunately, my law practice has prospered quite nicely over the years. This should cover the bill.” Valnor said as he deposited his own tall stack of coins on the bar top. “Shall we?”
“So the practice of law, that’s where you’ve been hiding yourself for the last twenty years?” Washington asked on the way to the corner table.
“I thought it wise considering the potential legal issues I faced if you tracked me down,” Valnor answered.
“Oh I’ve known you were up in Boston for quite some time now. Lucky for you, the statute of limitations on your offense lapsed before I located you,” the general declared as the bartender arrived with two bottles and poured the first round into awaiting sifters.
Valnor watched the amber liquid flow into the glasses and could almost hear a cha-ching sound coming from the cash register up front with each ounce poured. Cheap bottles of brandy were more of a brown hue owing to the caramel used in coloring them to imitate the aging process. True aged brandy came out golden, which was appropriate considering this vintage sold for about as much per ounce as pure gold. Still, with an alcohol content pushing past sixty percent, it was a wise investment to loosen the long corroded hinges of the door barring their potential future relations.
“Do you mind if I offer a toast?” Valnor asked.
“By all means. Your bottle, your toast.”
Valnor wasted no time in raising his glass and declared, “To the revolution; a cause we both now serve.”
The rehearsed words seemed to strike a chord with the general. He took a long, contemplative drink from the glass and savored the flavor in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. He kept the sifter held high to admire it in the light overhead. “Oh, that is wonderful. Aging can do wonderful things can’t it?”
“Yes sir, it can. Time has a way of allowing ingredients that once fought one another to blend and bring out the best from each for a result greater than the sum of their parts. That’s what I find at least, what about you?”
Washington smiled at the clever yet slightly obvious, analogy to their situation. “You were right back then, and I’m a big enough man to admit that fact. My dedication to the British uniform I wore didn’t let me see it at the time, but this revolution is what we need. Without your actions, we would not be here about to declare independence from our British oppressors.”
“I simply created a spark that landed on a dried and cured kindling ready to burn,” Valnor demurred.
“Oh you’ve done far more than that I suspect,” Washington said into his glass before taking another drink. “I find it no coincidence that Boston, your chosen place of residence, is the epicenter of this revolution: the Sons of Liberty, the Tea Party, the resulting Intolerable Acts, the Minutemen, the Battles of Lexington and Concord, and now the siege of Boston. You’ve been busy.”
“As have you these past twenty years,” Valnor observed to deflect the focus of their conversation away from him. “From what I gather, you’ve gone from a house-poor landowner forced into military service to relieve his debts to one of, if not the richest men in the colonies.”
“I think you overstate things a bit, but yes the years have been kind. My beloved Martha deserves much of that credit; I married up,” Washington stated with a glimmer of pride in his eyes. It was not for himself, but for his spouse.
“I may overstate things, but not by much,” Valnor countered as he poured each of them a second glass. Half way through their fifth glasses, Valnor felt their conversation had opened enough to press his agenda. “Tell me, General, as wealthy as you are now, why did you volunteer to command the Continental Army?”
“Uh oh, did I step on someone’s toes a bit there?” Washington asked with the beginnings of a drunken slur attached.
“I did expect to command the army,” Valnor admitted and offered a quick disarming follow up, “not that I’m at all disappointed to see the responsibility handed to you instead.”
“Of course not,” Washington responded as a questioning challenge rather than a statement.
“Truly, uniting the disparate forces under one command was my only ambition. I ask why you volunteered to lead that united army because the road ahead will be a dark and potentially rutted one. You volunteering to eat field rations in cold tents rather than fine meals in your warm and sprawling home begs the question. Why?”
“Duty and honor,” Washington replied with no hesitation or shame in employing the tired line.
Valnor’s face must have betrayed his skepticism of the answer, which prompted the General to elaborate. “Do you have any idea the level of boredom that comes with so much wealth? Everything is done for me, handed to me. There is no challenge in it, and the challenge is what makes life worth living. The struggle and uncertainty brings a desperately needed excitement.”
“That’s it, you’re bored?” Valnor contested.
“No!” General Washington snapped and tapped his glass on the table for added emphasis. “It is about the cause. It is about the men in this room and the concept of democracy and freedom their great minds will bring to the world at large. It is about them, not me. I volunteer to serve because I believe in them. The fact that it also brings a level of excitement and challenge back into my life is a welcome bonus.”
“Well said,” Valnor agreed with a raise of his glass in salute. “How can I help you in that service?”
“Hah,” Washington exclaimed. “You can’t, no matter how many expensive drinks you put in my hand.”
“Why not?” Valnor asked with an urgency propelling his words.
“I may not hate or want you dead any longer, but I do not trust you any farther than I could throw this entire bar,” Washington answ
ered. “You tricked me into signing that surrender document with the French. It admitted fault. You sullied my honor and name with that deception.”
“It was for the cause you now support,” Valnor attempted but the general interrupted him.
“I trust your dedication to the cause. I said you couldn’t help me because I don’t trust you. You have your own agenda, and are willing to disobey orders to further it. Men like you have no place in my army,” Washington concluded.
Valnor absorbed the harsh critique as he took a long drink that finished his glass. “What if I could help you without being a part of your command?”
“Oh this should be good.”
“What is your plan to prevail with the siege in Boston?” Valnor asked.
“Hold the encirclement, wait for their supplies to run out, and then accept their surrender.”
“That would be a fine plan if the militias had the city surrounded on all four sides. The only problem is that it’s a peninsula, and the British command the sea. They will have no difficulty delivering supplies, and eventually they will send an army up your rear to force you scurrying back into the woods. All gains will be lost, and any belief that this revolution stands a chance will melt back into the woods along with your army,” Valnor declared.
Washington took the words to heart, which prompted him to ask, “What would you do then with the command? You said yourself that you intended to lead the army.”
“I intended to force the British from the city.”
“You’d assail their barricades head on? You’d take to firing lines in the streets among the civilians? It’s a damned good thing the command came to me then.”
Valnor shook his head slowly as he filled their glasses yet again from the second bottle of brandy. “Of course not, give me some tactical credit. I would take the surrounding hilltops and place my cannons on them to fire on both the city and naval ships in the harbor. It would effectively seal off the fourth side.”
“And what mystical cannons would you use to accomplish this masterful stroke of cunning on your part? The big cannons were found and rendered unusable by the British before they retreated from Concord.”
The question brought a broad grin across Valnor’s lips. It took an entire bottle and a future hangover from hell, but he got the general to ask the question. He would have ownership in the plan and be far more likely to support it now. “I would use the guns from Fort Ticonderoga that the New York militias captured.”
“Great idea, but there is one little problem, however, well three actually. Those guns are three-hundred miles away from Boston, they are extremely heavy and difficult to transport under the best conditions, and it is now winter. It can’t be done.”
“Let me worry about the logistics,” Valnor offered. “If I could get those guns to you in Boston, would you use them as I suggest to take the city?”
“Of course I would, but your plan will never work. You may as well try to harness the power of electricity along with Mr. Franklin over there,” Washington challenged with a gesture toward the portly man wearing circle-framed glasses standing near the bar.
“Give me command of this expedition, General? You have nothing to lose and everything to gain from it.” Valnor concluded.
Washington mulled over the notion for a few minutes as he swirled his brandy around in the glass he held. Washington seemed to make up his mind as he finished off the contents, smacked the empty glass on the table, and got to his feet. “Agreed on the condition that you take my trusted engineer, Mr. Henry Knox, with you.”
“The more the merrier,” Valnor answered with a cheeky grin as he stood to accept Washington’s awaiting handshake, sealing the arrangement. Now he just needed to figure out how to make this little miracle of his happen. That was a problem for another day though; plan B was under way.
Chapter 30: Harsh Realities
Valnor thought convincing General Washington to put him in charge of transporting the cannons from Fort Ticonderoga to Boston would be his most difficult sales pitch. Standing now before the New York militia commander holding those guns, Valnor realized he could not have been more wrong had he come out of the regeneration chamber with his butt facing backwards.
This commander was a different sort of man. Washington was dedicated to the cause of freedom and honorable above all else in that pursuit. Colonel Benedict Arnold was not. The man was selfish in the extreme and only interested in what benefited him. He was rather like Tomal in that regard, and Valnor was all too familiar with how difficult his fellow Lazarus crewmate could be to handle at times.
“This says a Continental Army has been created,” Benedict Arnold recited with skepticism as he read the orders Valnor handed him. He continued with great amusement in his voice, “and George Washington has been placed in command of that army. Well that’s one way to go, I suppose, if you don’t mind enduring defeat after humiliating defeat.”
As the colonel continued reading the order to himself, Valnor braced for the reaction he knew was coming. Men like Arnold may be selfish and difficult, but those attributes also made them predictable given the proper application of carrots as reward and sticks as consequence.
“And the general wants my guns,” Colonel Arnold exclaimed with a loud laugh close behind. “Let me just recap the situation if I may? I secure the rebellion’s first victory by capturing these two key fortresses. In the meantime, Washington puts on a pretty costume and struts around the Continental Congress like a peacock with his feathers up. That earns him a commission as general and supreme commander of our forces from the congress. With that title in hand, he now demands the spoils from my hard-won triumph?”
“I believe you are omitting the victory our Boston militias won in Lexington and Concord to corral the British forces back into Boston,” Valnor pointed out to begin chipping away at the colonel’s oversized sense of accomplishment and self-importance. “Also, the order to move the guns comes from the Continental Congress, not General Washington. They feel that the cannons from Forts Ticonderoga and Crown Point will be better used in resolving the siege of Boston.”
“That would leave my fortresses defenseless,” Arnold challenged.
“We are in the middle of nowhere,” Valnor countered with open arms pointing to the tree-filled hills all around them. “I don’t think either the raccoons or squirrels skittering around the woods nearby pose much threat, do you?”
“Ticonderoga overlooks Lake Champlain and commands the only waterway between the colonies and the British northern provinces. During the French and Indian War it served as the gateway to the continent, the Gibraltar of America if you will. The British kept the cannons here and garrisoned the forts for a reason. We must hold onto them at all cost,” Colonel Arnold insisted.
Valnor gave a dismissive shake of his head at the argument. “That was twenty years ago when this was the frontier separating two great empires. That frontier is now a thousand miles to the west and our rebellion’s enemy stands three hundred miles east along the coast.”
“I will not give up my hard-fought victory here just because some perfumed politicians back in Philadelphia say so. No offense to you, sir, but even if the great General Washington himself were standing before me now my answer would still be no.”
It was time to blast apart the legend Colonel Arnold was building in his own mind of his accomplishments here. “Garrison? You call nine, oh let’s be generous and call them soldiers even though they were more like old and decrepit invalids nearing retirement, spread between two forts a garrison? Tell me, was it hard overpowering them with your eighty-three youthful soldiers? Did their canes bruise your shins on the way in?”
“That’s right, I didn’t just read your action reports. I interviewed the locals nearby as we purchased oxen and hired workers for the move to get the real details of your victory,” Valnor went on as Benedict Arnold’s cheeks began to glow red. “If you defy this order from your Continental Congress, then I am certain you will find my three h
undred soldiers can deliver a much stiffer challenge than those nine aged individuals, especially considering my men are already inside your walls.”
Valnor allowed that hard wrap on the knuckles from his figurative stick to sink in with Colonel Arnold before offering him a carrot. “Still, securing the abundance of cannons that you have is a great accomplishment. It shows a profound understanding on your part of their strategic importance to the rebellion, and that fact is not lost on anyone. Not in the Continental Congress, not with General Washington, and certainly not with me. I commend you, sir, and it will be my pleasure to communicate to them your continued loyalty to our struggle for freedom by handing over the cannons to serve a greater purpose for the cause.”
The colonel spent several quiet seconds staring at Valnor, evaluating if he was the sort of man who would shed blood for the cannons. Since his threat was no idle bluff, Valnor had little trouble conveying his level of determination without another word spoken.
“Bah, fighting you isn’t worth the trouble,” Colonel Arnold exclaimed with a flippant wave of his hand. “You think you’re just going to drag those heavy guns three hundred miles in the dead of winter? You’ll be back here inside of a week begging me and my men for shelter from the winter. Care to guess what my answer will be to that request?”
The cannons were his. That fact and the snappy reply in his head brought a sly grin to Valnor’s lips before informing the defiant colonel, “A friend of mine once told me that when Cortez reached the new world he burned his ships. As a result, his men were well motivated to achieve the impossible task of conquering the Aztecs. It seems to me that you just burned my ships for me, colonel. I thank you for the motivation.”
“Happy to do my part,” Colonel Benedict Arnold said as he enveloped Valnor’s extended hand and attempted to crush it in his grip while sealing their accord. Valnor let the man have his petty little moment; the greater victory was his.
**********
“You selected fifty-nine cannons, mortars and howitzers,” Mr. Knox said in disbelief. “You do realize when they call a cannon a twenty-four pounder that it refers to the weight of the ball it fires and not the cannon itself? They don’t call them Big Berthas for nothing you know. At eleven feet long and five-thousand pounds each they are a logistical nightmare to handle, and you selected fifty-nine of them.”
Origins: Revolution (Crew Chronicles Book 2) Page 18