Origins_Revolution

by Mark Henrikson

  “And we are,” Paul jumped in. “The army slipped away in the middle of the night.”

  Valnor affixed Paul with a look of condolence for his lack of understanding. “In an attempt to corral this army, the British have spread their forces out into smaller pockets. Last night is a perfect example. The Hessian camp only had two or three thousand men. We were able to attack with even numbers with the element of surprise on our side. What lies to the north?”

  “Princeton, and a relatively small garrison,” Paul answered with growing enlightenment. “The army is not just running, General Washington means to attack again.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” Valnor commended. “We’re outnumbered in total, and that fact makes the British overconfident. They think we can’t be on the offensive. In reality, we’re able to strike smaller pockets and have superior numbers in the individual engagements.”

  “This was all your idea wasn’t it?” Paul asked with some admiration, but mostly disapproval framing his question.

  “You mean this gambit that will win our army yet another victory against long odds? Yes, it was my idea. Why do you sound so disappointed?” Valnor asked.

  “All of this deception, misdirection, and sniping from the darkness. It’s not how I pictured warfare to be. I thought there would be more honor to it,” Paul said into his chest. “It may be a romanticized notion, but the armies in Europe move en mass and face off on open fields. Even when General Washington led us in the frontier, we faced our enemy on the field like men. It was honorable combat, not lies and deception.”

  “Washington was forced to surrender back in the frontier, remember?” Valnor recalled.

  “No, you surrendered for him and forced the two of us to desert our sworn duty,” Paul challenged with a lingering resentment for the blemish on his honor.

  “You know darn well that I saved hundreds of lives by doing that. The individual act may not have been overly noble, but there is no doubt that the end result was honorable. Honor is in the outcome, not the method,” Valnor concluded.

  “General Washington says it is how we conduct ourselves in war that preserves or tarnishes honor,” Paul volleyed back while stoking another campfire.

  “And yet the general employs my tactics repeatedly,” Valnor pointed out. “Now consider this point while trying to weigh my honor against General Washington’s. He leads the attack in Princeton while I am back here tending the deceptive fires. He will claim all of the glory for my plan, not me. I believe there is profound honor in that level of self-sacrifice.”

  “You told me that you volunteered to remain behind, he didn’t order you to stay. He’s not trying to hoard all of the glory for himself. Why did you volunteer to stay behind?” Paul asked.

  That question caused Valnor to put down the wheelbarrow once more and turn around. The education continues… “Our Patriot cause needs the general to receive all of the credit. The men need to believe in their commander’s infallibility to encourage reenlistment at year-end. Also, the French have shown interest in joining the fight on our side. The last thing we need for them to see is a power struggle at the top of our army.”

  That addressed the political side of Valnor’s reasoning. He stepped forward and placed a consoling hand on Paul’s shoulder to deliver his other reason. “I also wanted to keep you clear of the fighting tonight. Last night you ended a man’s life, several in fact.”

  “I’m a soldier, that’s what I’m supposed to do. It was them or me, fortunately it was them this time,” Paul answered and straightened his back and shoulders trying to present an air of confidence.

  “That logic works when you stand across a field from the enemy in a firing line. There is no telling if your shot killed someone, but your mind knows it is a possibility,” Valnor said before continuing with a softer, sadder voice. “Last night was up close and personal. You know with certainty that your hands killed another man. That is a lot to handle.”

  Paul tried his best to hold his composure, but Valnor’s penetrating stare extracted the tears. “Oh god it was so horrible: the sound, the look in his eyes, the blood oozing down his cheeks. It was such a cowardly way to kill a man. I’ll never get that image out of my mind. I may never sleep again without nightmares, and it is all because of you. That sneak attack was all your doing,” Paul accused.

  In that instant, this unexpected outburst of disapproval from Paul made sense to Valnor. Killing men in their sleep was more than the youth could mentally handle and he assigned blame to try to cope. He lashed out at him, but at the same time Paul also placed his head on Valnor’s shoulder and let out three heaving sobs.

  “What sort of man or soldier can I be if doing my job makes me bawl like a little child,” Paul asked.

  “It makes you the best kind of soldier,” Valnor replied. “One who is compassionate and human.”

  “How do you do it, how do you deal with it so calmly?”

  “I try not to think about the life I took, but rather the people or cause I defended by taking that life,” Valnor instructed before adding with a hint of flippancy to lighten the mood. “Plus, last night wasn’t my first time. It does get easier, which may or may not be a good thing for our sense of humanity, but nonetheless is true.”

  With that, Valnor turned to retrieve his wheelbarrow. Before he moved out of earshot, Paul called out to him, “Will I sleep tonight?”

  Valnor paused for a moment before answering without turning around. “Probably not, but you will again soon enough. In the meantime, continue tending the fires. We’ll leave just before sunup.”

  In the morning, Valnor, Paul and the others rowed away from the fake camp heading north toward the sounds of war that their fellow soldiers of the Continental Army rained down upon the British garrison stationed at Princeton before their morning tea.

  **********

  Henry Clinton greeted the morning with eager anticipation. He expected to spend the winter planning his next move, but the rebel general was kind enough to do the job for him. The colonial ‘army’ gained a shallow victory with a surprise attack by crossing the Delaware River, but they would now lose the war. He would smash them, and then ram that wadded up note down their commander’s throat.

  Their boats were busy transporting prisoners and captured supplies to the far banks. This left them unprepared for the arrival of Henry and the bulk of his army. Their fast march from New York pinned the rebels against the riverbanks with nowhere to go. All reports showed the colonials spent the night digging in, but all that effort would be for naught. It would cost many lives, but this rebellion was at an end.

  “General, the rebel army is gone,” an aide reported upon entering the tent with great urgency.

  “Gone? Where?” Henry exclaimed on his way out of the tent to have a look for himself. Sure enough, the only things left of the rebel’s position across the field were smoking remnants of dying campfires.

  An army did not just vanish into thin air. Henry took a quiet moment to compose himself and address the situation with a level head. In that moment, his ears picked up the faint sound of musket fire to the north. That brought with it a dark sense of foreboding from deep down in his stomach.

  Henry raced to the command tent where General Howe was in the process of reading an action report handed to him by a rider. “What news?”

  “The rebels apparently stole a night’s march on us to fall upon our Princeton garrison just before sunrise. The battle still continues, but surrender of that position is imminent,” Howe reported with anger brewing beneath the surface. “And my men found another note addressed to you.”

  Henry snatched the folded page as he dashed over to a stack of maps laid out across the table. He brushed aside the detailed renderings of Trenton in favor of a wider map of the region. Princeton was in a low, tough to defend area. This made his eye drift farther north to a location that commanded the high ground and sat on the opposite side of the Delaware River. “I fear we are also about to lose the garrison at Mo
rristown. Damn these slippery rebels!”

  “There is plenty of supplies and housing in Morristown. If we let them remain, it will be a far more comfortable winter for them than if it were spent in tents. Desertion will not be as high as we hoped,” General Howe pointed out.

  “I am well aware of that fact,” Henry barked before bringing his anger back into check. “Unfortunately, knowing it and being in a position to do something about it are two entirely different things.”

  Henry paused in his rant long enough to open the letter addressed to him. He knew whatever he found written would make his blood boil, but he read it nonetheless. He considered it a punishment for being so thoroughly outplayed.

  We kept the fires burning for you, Henry. Enjoy the warmth, we certainly will in Morristown…

  “In my haste to end this rebellion quickly, I gave the enemy a chance to outmaneuver me. That is a mistake I will not repeat,” Henry declared to no one in particular.

  “What do we do now?” General Howe asked.

  “Now we march back to New York and make plans to combat an enemy who has earned a new level of respect from me,” General Clinton admitted.

  Chapter 37: Vanity is a Deadly Sin

  “he’s here,” Paul informed Valnor upon entering the command tent. Ever since General Washington sent Valnor to upstate New York with a detachment of men to deal with a British force moving down from the Canadian territories, he had been both looking forward to and dreading this meeting.

  Valnor drew a deep, cleansing breath before letting it out slowly as he stood up from his chair. “Send him in.”

  Paul returned a minute later with a well-built man of average height in tow. “Benedict Arnold to see you, sir.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to announce me, young man. We’re already quite familiar, aren’t we?” Benedict interrupted.

  “We are indeed,” Valnor answered before dismissing Paul from the uncomfortable encounter. “Thank you, that will be all for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said before turning on his heels to exit the tent.

  Benedict watched Paul leave the tent with great amusement in his eyes and accompanying grin. “Oh to be young and still trusting in the infallibility of one’s superior officers again.”

  “He has good reason to trust his commanders,” Valnor pointed out, recognizing that this discussion would begin with a manhood measuring contest. “We took Boston, and won resounding victories at Trenton, Princeton, and Morristown. Now, just yesterday, I accepted the surrender of seven hundred British regulars attempting to secure provisions outside Bennington. I’d say we are doing rather well considering we’re attempting to stand against the world’s most powerful military machine.”

  “You handed New York City over to the enemy,” Benedict challenged. “Also, those cannons you forced me to give you from Ticonderoga to win Boston left our backside exposed to this current invasion from the north. I told you that fort was the Gibraltar of the Americas, and the British overran it in a single day because the guns were gone. Just as I told you would happen.”

  “Resolving the siege of Boston was more important than that pile of sticks in the woods,” Valnor countered with a little more resentment in his voice than he intended before continuing in a more accommodating tone, “As for the forces invading from the north, I view that more as an opportunity than a failing.”

  Valnor let the unanswered question of ‘how’ linger in the air between them before going on, “…but enough about me, let’s talk about you. I hear your men successfully relieved the British siege at Fort Stanwix.”

  “Yes I did while being undermanned, and I did so without a shot fired I might add,” Benedict boasted, all too happy to retell his glorious story. “It was a simple matter really. I captured one of their native scouts and bribed him to report back to the British commander that my force was much larger and closer than we actually were. The lobster backs couldn’t scurry away quick enough after that.”

  “Brilliant,” Valnor commended, which drew a welcome look of surprise and appreciation from Benedict. “You do have a knack for the art of war.”

  “Which is why you should have listened to me about Fort Ticonderoga,” Benedict insisted. “Now we have a force of 8,000 British regulars coming down from the north with who knows how many squeezing us from the south in General Howe’s army. We’re trapped.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about the southern forces. General Washington will keep them occupied while trying to cover his movements with the Continental Army around New York. That leaves us to deal with the northern force.”

  “Yes, the great ‘opportunity’ you mentioned,” Benedict taunted. “How in gods’ name is an invading army at our rear an opportunity.”

  Valnor raised a mischievous eyebrow before correcting the count. “It is only 7,300 now that we captured their detachment sent looking for supplies. The opportunity comes in the form of their commanding officer, General John Burgoyne. Have your heard of him?”

  “Gentleman Johnny I’m told he likes to call himself. I hear everyone else refers to him as Pompiso,” Benedict answered, with his eyes beginning to see the light.

  “Oh good, I don’t have to spend time describing the man’s legendary vanity to you then,” Valnor exclaimed. “Our intelligence tells us he even allowed his officers to bring their wives and children along for the ‘adventure.’ Their baggage train is beyond ridiculous, Pompiso alone accounts for thirty carts filled with delicate furnishings and even a mattress I’m told.”

  “The man does travel in style,” Benedict added with a laugh.

  “Their march into the Hudson River Valley is taking them over some very difficult terrain with that lavish style in tow. It has taken them a month to manage twenty-five miles. Would you care to take a guess now as to the opportunity I see for us?” Valnor asked.

  “They’ll run out of supplies quickly.”

  “They already have,” Valnor added. “We captured a large group of them trying to resupply near Bennington, remember?”

  Benedict gave Valnor an approving nod, but that soon morphed into a condescending sneer. “You plan to starve them then. Kind of a coward’s way to fight a war, don’t you think? No glory of battle.”

  “When they get desperate, there will be plenty of shooting still,” Valnor said without reacting to the personal barb. “I need you and your men here with us when that happens.”

  “Happy to do my part,” Benedict answered in good cheer, but with his eyes betraying the sentiment.

  Two weeks went by before the British grew desperate enough to test the Colonial defenses pinning them in place. Valnor had the good sense to position his men on the high ground behind a waist-high wooden fence to absorb the charge.

  “Here they come,” Paul announced upon seeing two thousand British regulars step into the clearing at the base of the hill, some three-hundred yards away.

  “Sharp shooters, take aim,” Valnor yelled. He then grabbed his own long rifle, raised it to his shoulder, and took aim down the five-foot long barrel. “Fire.”

  A smooth bore musket had no prayer of hitting a target from this distance, but the long rifle was a different weapon entirely. Manufactured in Philadelphia, it had served as the weapon of choice for hunters and trappers out in the frontier territories for many years. It was more expensive to manufacture than a musket owing to the spiral barrel design, but the result was worth the added price ten times over, as the British were about to learn.

  Valnor fired his shot and looked on with a smile when the target of his aim, a frilly hat-wearing captain, dropped to the ground dead. While he worked to load a second shot he observed that the other twenty riflemen also did well targeting British officers. His next shot found the shoulder of a lieutenant, which dropped him to the ground and caused two soldiers to stop and assist their commanding officer off the field of battle.

  By the time the British reached the American line, there was scarcely an officer left among their ranks. Despite th
e lack of leadership, they still managed to establish a firing line and got off one volley that did next to nothing. Valnor’s men were far more effective.

  A blast of cannons loaded with canister shot, and a volley from the line of muskets protected by a wooden fence sent the British running back down the hillside. The retreat was in such disorder, owing to the lack of officers, that Valnor was tempted to order his men after them.

  The primal warrior in him wanted to see a decisive victory on the field of battle, but rational thought held him back. There were still four thousand additional British soldiers in the area. Following a retreat into their lines would only get his men killed when all they needed to do was wait for starvation and desperation to bring the British back out or offer terms of surrender.

  Valnor held that thought and was about to issue orders to gather the wounded when he saw the entire left side of his line rush forward in a charge. His heart knew who gave the order long before his eyes confirmed that Benedict Arnold was leading the charge.

  “Damn that man!” Valnor shouted to the wind before rushing behind his line to mount a vacant horse. His eyes found Paul with his arms up attempting to stop him. “Whatever happens out there, hold the men here. Do not follow that charge.”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said to the tail of Valnor’s mount as he barreled down the hillside after Benedict Arnold’s men.

  He caught up to the overweight men bringing up the rear. “Stop and fall back,” Valnor yelled, but had his words drowned out by musket blasts erupting all across the hillside. Charging after the British retreat was getting results, but that all changed when Benedict Arnold’s men neared the tree line.

  Even before the redcoats could reach the woods, a blast of white smoke a thousand strong, erupted from the trees. The lead balls did not care if they hit friend or foe, they tore through all men with equal devastation. Valnor lay as low as he could across the horse’s back and managed to escape the volley unhurt.