Origins_Revolution

by Mark Henrikson

  A few moments later, Valnor rode up behind the drummer boy beating out the charge signal. He did not slow the horse one bit as he threw his right leg over the side and launched himself toward the ground. He executed a rolling somersault that popped him right back to his feet with pace enough to snatch the drummer by his shoulders.

  “Sound the retreat,” Valnor yelled. “That is an order. Do it now and start falling back to the main line.”

  Valnor looked to the nearby trees and saw another puff of white smoke precede a swarm of lead hornets buzzing all around him. The closest shot struck the boy’s drum and blasted a fist-sized hole in the side, but left him unharmed. The hit changed the tone of the drum strikes, but not the melody. The retreat order found the men’s ears and they began falling back.

  Halfway back up the hillside, Valnor felt an angry set of hands grab his shoulder and turn him around. “What the hell do you think you’re doing giving that retreat order?”

  Valnor turned to find a hot and lathered Benedict Arnold standing inches from his face breathing fire. Valnor grabbed the offending appendage with his left hand. He ripped the grasp away from his shoulder, carried the arm over his head and brought his right arm into the motion behind Benedict’s elbow. The arm-bar threw his opponent off balance, and the corkscrew motion sent Benedict careening face first in the dirt without an arm available to arrest his fall. Valnor then pressed his knee on the downed man’s elbow to cause a painful hyperextension of the joint.

  “That charge was reckless and lunacy defined,” Valnor instructed before lowering his head next to his opponents to issue a quiet threat. “If you ever touch me again, you arrogant bastard, you’ll join the count of casualties on this field. Is that understood?”

  A demonic growl was the only response from underneath the pin for several seconds. Eventually, the futility of his struggle led Benedict to release one last grunt before admitting defeat. “Understood, sir.”

  Valnor got to his feet, grabbed Benedict Arnold by his shoulders, and yanked him back to his own feet before pointing his head down the hillside. “We killed five hundred of them in their charge without losing a man. Your charge killed possibly another hundred, but got a hundred of our own men killed.”

  “Exchanging even losses is not going to win this war,” Valnor went on. “We have outmaneuvered them into a desperate corner. Time and starvation will win their surrender, not bullets on the battlefield.”

  “Where is the valor in that?” Benedict demanded. “Men follow valor, not maneuvers. You’ll see.”

  “No, I won’t,” Valnor snapped. “As of this moment, I am relieving you of command and placing you under arrest for disobeying orders.”

  “Hah, that’s ironic coming from you. I’ve heard the stories,” Benedict said over his shoulder as two of Valnor’s men led him away under armed escort off the field of battle.

  “My disobedience is always for the greater good, not self-aggrandizement like you,” Valnor said under his breath as he stood alone amid the casualties of the day.

  Chapter 38: Atonement

  It took another two weeks of little water and no food before the British army’s situation grew desperate enough to test the American defenses again. Those were the longest two weeks of Valnor’s existence, made so by the rabblerousing of Benedict Arnold from his confinement. Think what Valnor might about the man, he owned the hearts and minds of his soldiers. There was no doubting that fact.

  Arnold decried Valnor without end as a coward afraid of battle, and the men lapped it up and begged to hear more. After eighteen days of that message, the army was practically frothing at the mouth to assault the British defenses. It was an assault that would get thousands of them killed, and yet they yearned for it at Arnold’s prompting.

  The stupidity of it all was almost mind blowing. Valnor’s patient method of besieging the British would spare the men from bloody carnage, yet they criticized him for it. The situation did, however, provide a valuable lesson in the awesome power of mob mentality that Valnor would not soon forget.

  Tensions inside his camp were nearing the point where Valnor would need to order an attack just to stave off a mutiny. Fortunately, his adversary, Pompiso, spared him the trouble. The British general marched his six thousand men out from their hastily constructed fortifications in an intimidating display of force, but it was only visually impressive. In reality, it was a parade supporting Pompiso’s own vanity.

  During the last two weeks, thousands of militia from around the area had flocked to join the siege. Valnor now commanded a force more than double the troop count from two weeks prior. His men also had time to construct far more impressive and lethal battlements.

  At the same time, the last two weeks served to weaken the British force. They were malnourished, morale was low, and hundreds had deserted their duties and fled into the woods. A prudent commander would have recognized the hopeless situation and surrendered, but not Pompiso. His ego could not fathom the thought of defeat at the hands of a ragtag cluster of misfits. His men would now pay the price for that ego.

  Valnor was methodical in placing his fortifications and directing the lines of artillery fire ahead of time. Assailing those strongholds would obliterate the British army within hours. Pompiso may have been arrogant, but that still did not mean he was a fool when it came to battlefield tactics. He marched his army down the only avenue available to him, and that led them right into Valnor’s trap at Bemis Heights.

  The proud British force marched into a recently harvested wheat field with dense woods on the eastern and western sides. Along the southern edge, Valnor held a fortified line with three thousand men. Little did the British know another four thousand militia hid among the trees. Pompiso was marching into a three-way crossfire that boasted no artillery, but would demolish the British army regardless.

  “Fire!” Valnor ordered when the lobster backs came within a hundred yards of his line. The hail of bullets did its damage, but the coup de grace came when the woods on both sides also erupted with fire.

  A good, decisive general would have immediately recognized the trap and at that point ordered a full charge or a hasty retreat. Pompiso did neither and chose the brilliant strategy of ordering his men to a full stop, out in the open, amid a three-way crossfire. The next blast from Valnor’s men sent the British running back to their fortifications without orders and in disarray.

  Valnor was tempted to give chase, but could also see that his men would not catch them before the British reached the safety of their battlements, which were robust. Two earthen forts in the shape of a pentagon stood tall with sharpened wooden spikes jutting out from the walls to make climbing them a difficult undertaking. What’s more, the fortifications were close enough for one to support the other with artillery fire during attacks.

  The Americans had enough force to take the forts and finish off the British army once and for all, but the cost would be high - too high in Valnor’s estimation. He was about to give the order to stand down when the battle was joined by an unexpected force. Benedict Arnold rode into the field atop a horse and led a ferocious charge with the reserve forces.

  Valnor was tempted to draw his long rifle and shoot the man off his horse, but he was quite certain he would find a bullet in his own back soon after if he did. Instead, he followed the man’s lead. “Charge! Don’t stop until we have those redoubts.”

  About three hundred men defended the outermost fort. Arnold led the chase toward that redoubt. Though small in number, those men held strong as if by ten times their number as the retreat rushed past them. A more determined perseverance had rarely been shown on any battlefield.

  Valnor recognized the challenge and opted to amass the men under his direct command to assail the second fortification. Arnold must have reached the same conclusion and opted for the insane maneuver of moving his force between the two fortifications to join Valnor’s assault.

  Arnold wanted the glory, he craved it. As a result, his men paid the price for it
with a reckless charge down an alley of death lined by blazing cannons on either side. The man was no coward though. He rode at the head of his charge, and by some miracle came out the other side unscathed. Fortune favored the bold it seemed.

  The same could not be said for his men, but the move did succeed in exposing the naked rear of the British barricades. His men stormed into the interior of the redoubt and unleashed a furious battle for survival.

  Valnor rounded the corner with his force in time to see the British get off one last volley. That allowed him to witness the moment Benedict Arnold’s good fortune came up short. Several balls struck his horse in its side, one striking Benedict’s leg in the process. The mighty beast reared back on its hind legs and screeched in pain.

  Benedict struggled to stay in his saddle grabbing hold of the animal’s neck. He held tight as his horse toppled over sideways and crashed to the ground, pinning the man’s leg underneath. His men finished off the fight as Valnor’s rear guard funneled in to secure the victory.

  Valnor stepped past the fallen Arnold without a second glance, moved to the middle of the fort where Valnor’s men had General Burgoyne, aka Pompiso, and his honor guard surrounded. “It’s over, general. Tell your men to lay down their arms and we will take them into custody and give them all the food and civilized comforts they can handle as prisoners of war.”

  “What of the wives and children of my officers?” Pompiso demanded, as if he were in a position to dictate terms.

  “They will be escorted back to Quebec. You have my word that no harm or discomfort will come to them on their journey home,” Valnor answered. “Do we have an accord?”

  General Burgoyne reflected inwardly for a moment before drawing his saber and rotating it around twice in a flashy show before offering it to Valnor with a lowered head. “I accept your terms of surrender then.”

  Valnor left the formalities of enforcing the surrender to his officer’s corps while he turned his attention to his other foe inside these walls. Ten men lifted the horse’s body with all their might while another two pulled Benedict out from under the massive animal.

  Their efforts revealed a horrifying sight. Benedict Arnold’s leg was broken at a hard angle with pieces of bone protruding from his skin and clothing. The sight of it caused several of the men to turn and vomit while it pushed Benedict into the realm of unconsciousness.

  “There’s no way he keeps that leg,” one of the soldiers observed.

  “Rush him to the medical tent,” Valnor ordered while nodding his head in agreement. The leg was a goner for sure. Perhaps the loss would finally teach the man some humility. It would certainly squash his sense of invincibility.

  Two days later, Valnor stepped into the medical tent carrying a letter from the Continental Congress for his least favorite patient. To his surprise, Benedict Arnold still had both his legs, though the right rested in a sling with splints on either side. It would never be the same again.

  “How are you feeling?” Valnor asked.

  “Vindicated!” Arnold answered. “My charge carried the day and won us a great victory.”

  “Yes it did,” Valnor acknowledged before dropping the corners of his mouth to rain on the man’s parade. “I would argue that the British would have surrendered anyway in a few days. We would have secured the same victory without so many losses.”

  “You still don’t get it do you? In the men’s eyes, a victory won on the battlefield is worth ten secured at the negotiating table. They needed this victory, the rebellion needed this victory.”

  “It seems the Continental Congress agrees with you,” Valnor said while handing Benedict the letter. “Not only have they reinstated your commission, they have granted you a promotion to Major General.”

  Valnor watched the man’s eyes widen in surprise and excitement at the prospect before they turned cold and dispassionate again when he read further. “They are putting me in command of the garrison at West Point; away from the battlefields.”

  Valnor did not agree with the promotion, but at least they listened to his advice to place this reckless man away from the front lines where he could do no harm. “The promotion is in recognition for your valor, and the appointment will give you time to recover from your injury.”

  “It’s a slap in the face,” General Arnold exclaimed while tossing the letter aside in frustration. “I raised my own army, paid for all of their weapons and provisions from my own accounts. Did you know that? We won countless victories for the cause and now congress takes that command away from me?”

  “They have given you an even greater command,” Valnor offered.

  “In title only,” General Arnold insisted. “Now I’m penniless with no loyal men standing behind me.”

  “With a general’s wage now.”

  “Bah, when was the last time you received a single coin for your services? Those promissory notes we keep acquiring are only good if our little rebellion succeeds,” General Arnold added with regret in his voice. “Do you realize that the British offered me a similar commission as general when fighting first broke out? Three times the monthly wage as congress now promises to pay, with an enlistment bonus worth ten years salary. I’d be living like a king right now.”

  “You would be on the wrong side,” Valnor cautioned. “Like you said, only the winning side will get paid. We are winning this fight now, you chose the right side.”

  “Seems that way,” General Arnold said with a voice trailing off in thought.

  “I’m glad to see you are on the mend, and congratulations on your promotion, General. As for me, I have been summoned back to the Continental Army and leave in the morning. I bid you good fortune at West Point,” Valnor said before exiting the tent with a sinking feeling in his stomach about General Arnold’s future prospects. He would bear watching.

  Chapter 39: Turning Point

  Henry found it a profoundly odd sensation standing on the deck of a powerful warship as the vessel made its stealthy approach up the Hudson River under cover of night. The HMS Vulture was by no means a ship of the line, but its single gun deck did boast fourteen cannons capable of blasting anything the colonial rebels had afloat to splinters.

  Owing to that generous complement of cannons, one of the ship’s greatest values in war was its ability to disrupt enemy activity without even firing a shot. The bad guys saw the floating fortress coming and they had no choice but to run for the nearest hillside to get out of range. No vessel: military, merchant or otherwise, would dare approach the ship once in position. The mere sight of the Vulture could cause entire supply lines to be shut down. Not this time though, the fewer people who knew the ship was here the better.

  “We have reached the rendezvous point, general,” the ship’s captain announced in a hushed voice.

  “Lower the anchor and maintain silent running. Our guests should be along shortly,” Henry replied with a matching volume.

  This meeting was a year in the making and could not come at a better time. With the colonial army managing a few minor victories around New York City, plus the defeat and capture of General Burgoyne’s army up north, morale had degraded to an all-time low. Some even started whispering that the colonials might be able to win this war. Henry needed to prove that sentiment wrong in emphatic fashion, and he would.

  It was a pity that this would be accomplished away from the field of battle, however. Henry considered these covert dealings to be beneath him or any self-respecting officer. It was a dirty business better left to spies and their ilk, yet his opponent employed underhanded tactics at almost every turn. Not only that, his sinister adversary rubbed Henry’s nose in it with taunting letters left behind. If his enemy would not conduct himself like a gentleman, then neither would he.

  Henry held that thought as the faint sound of rowing oars became audible from the darkness. The rhythmic splashes drew closer until the outline of a skiff carrying two passengers took shape. The first man to climb aboard the Vulture from that tiny craft was Major André
wearing the plainclothes of a civilian. The British spymaster planted the seed of this conspiracy from almost nothing and nurtured it all the way to this climactic moment. It was only fitting that he be present to see this through to its successful end.

  The next man to come aboard wore a colonial uniform and his hat bore the insignia of a Major General. Henry was the first to offer a welcoming handshake. “General Benedict Arnold, it is a distinct pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in person. Welcome aboard.”

  “It’s about time, I’ve been requesting this face-to-face meeting for months,” Arnold grumbled as he accepted the handshake. “I’ve risked everything passing intelligences to your agents on troop movements, supply stash locations, and even the whereabouts of Washington himself on two occasions. I have proven my worth to you for half a year and all I have gotten in return from you are promises of compensation.”

  “We needed to be sure your protestations of loyalty to the crown were genuine,” Major André offered to spare Henry the need to explain anything.

  The truth was they waited to facilitate this meeting with Arnold until his financial situation grew sufficiently desperate. The man began this war quite wealthy from his real estate dealings. Years spent feeding and supplying his own army without compensation from the colonial government had pushed him into hard times. Major André concocted a plan to hasten his financial crisis by facilitating an arranged marriage for him to Peggy Shippen. She was daughter to the wealthiest man in Philadelphia and accustomed to an obnoxiously opulent lifestyle that made a tremendous sucking sound as it drained Arnold’s remaining fortune following their nuptials. The man was now in debt up to his eyeballs and ready to be reasonable.

  “I was willing to trust your word on future rewards while passing intelligence, but hand delivering West Point over to you will require something in writing. When that fort falls to your men, my career in the colonies is over. I will have assurances from you, or this whole enterprise dies right here on the deck of this ship,” Arnold insisted.