God Save Benedict Arnold, page 11
While they waited for the storm to calm, Arnold invited his officers onto shore for what was described as a “most Genteel feast”—a pig roast and marksmanship contest enhanced by generous rounds of wine, punch, and cider. The men toasted their general, who had guided them through the maelstrom.
The water calmed, the fleet continued under a fair wind. When they reached the Canadian border, Arnold ordered them to continue on into the Richelieu River toward St. Johns, only to fall back the next day. His bluff convinced some of his own crew that their mission would include a new attack on Canada. Rumors of an invasion reached the British, who were startled by the patriots’ boldness. Their own thoughts turned to defense—General Carleton ordered gun emplacements to be mounted at the mouth of the river.
Arnold was content to wait in the northern reaches of Lake Champlain. Every day that went by without an enemy attack was another day to build more boats and further reinforce Ticonderoga. But the duty in the north was stressful for both officers and men. The gondolas had only canvas canopies to fend off storms, which became more frequent as autumn approached. Constantly wet, the men had no bunks or hammocks in which to sleep. When off duty, they simply slumped onto the damp deck. Because each fifty-foot boat held a crew of more than forty men, space was limited.
Arnold gave the sailors little time to contemplate their bleak and dangerous situation. He urged the captains to train the men in the basics of seamanship. He sent them on patrols. He told them to observe the terrain, to take soundings, study wind patterns, and learn how to use the maze of islands, coves, and bays to their advantage.
On one occasion, work parties went ashore to gather wood. Suddenly, they were “attacked by a Party of Savages, who pursued them into the Water.” A British officer called for them to surrender. Several blasts from the boat’s swivel guns gave the men cover to escape, but three had already been killed. The danger of going on land increasingly confined the men to the cramped boats.
Although no British warships appeared on the lake, Native Americans were able to penetrate patriot lines in canoes. Arnold redoubled his patrols and sent armed escorts to accompany supply boats coming up from Ticonderoga. He ordered half of the men from each crew to remain on guard day and night.
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INTELLIGENCE GATHERING WAS one of Arnold’s obsessions. As soon as he reached the north end of the lake, he dispatched scouts and spies to investigate British activity at St. Johns. One four-man group was under the command of Lieutenant Benjamin Whitcomb, an experienced woodsman. On a scouting mission to Canada in July, Whitcomb had fired on a British general from hiding, killing him. The act was condemned by officers on both sides as murder rather than the type of warfare suited to a gentleman, a sentiment quickly becoming outdated.
Whitcomb returned to tell Arnold that at St. Johns “there is a ship on the stocks … designed to mount twenty guns, nine and twelve-pounders.” It was the type of large warship that Arnold himself had earlier pushed his own side to build. The scout confirmed that “there was talk of crossing the lake soon.”
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WHILE ARNOLD AND his men floated on the wilderness lake, a drama was unfolding at the southern end of the water corridor that ran through the heart of the colonies. By March, the young artillery colonel Henry Knox had managed to transport a selection of the Ticonderoga guns overland to Boston, dragging them through the snow on sleds. The weapons, mounted on Dorchester Heights, forced the British to abandon the city—the patriots chalked up their first major victory.
In April, Washington moved the bulk of the Continental Army to New York City, where he expected an enemy attack. At the end of June, the Americans watched forty-five British warships and transports sail into New York Harbor. Then more ships. And more. The enemy landed tens of thousands of soldiers on Staten Island without opposition. By August, more than thirty-two thousand English and German troops under General William Howe were facing the twenty thousand men that Washington had been able to muster.
So slow and uncertain was the flow of information to Arnold’s waiting fleet that he could never be certain what was happening in the populous region below. On September 9, word arrived of a significant battle fought on Long Island. Apparently there had been much loss of life on both sides. Only later did Arnold learn that Washington’s army had suffered an epic defeat at the end of August, with almost a quarter of their numbers casualties. On September 15, the enemy forced him out of New York City altogether and took possession of the second largest city in America.
Arnold, whose mind ranged toward the broad strategic picture, yearned for “particulars of the affair at New York.” If the British in Canada were to hear that General Howe had captured New York City, “they will doubtless attempt a junction with him.” Washington’s series of disasters in New York and New Jersey that autumn would place the responsibility for seeing that such a junction should not take place entirely on Arnold’s shoulders.
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HIS MEANS WERE meager. The high command was able to recruit enough capable captains and mates to serve as officers for Arnold’s fleet, but “a greater part of those shipped for Seamen,” Arnold complained, “know very little of the matter.” The men were a “wretched motley crew … the refuse of every regiment.”
They would have to do. Training helped, but the men could hardly be expected to gain the skill of British sailors, who had followed the sea since they were children. Arnold continued to demand “seamen (no land lubbers).” But he would have to shape his strategy to the capabilities of the crews he had.
In addition to men, Arnold lacked supplies. Having sailed north in August, his men had only summer clothes. He needed more gunpowder, for practice as well as for battle. He also asked for caulking irons, spare anchors, blankets, twine, sail needles, tar, and rope. “When you ask for a frigate,” Arnold wrote, “they give you a raft. Ask for sailors, they give you tavern waiters. And if you want breeches, they give you a vest.”
Gates did his best to provide for the fleet, but he tired of Arnold’s continual demands. He was providing what was available, he wrote. “Where it is not to be had you, & the Princes of the Earth must go unfurnish’d.”
By far the most important items that Arnold lacked were the row galleys still under construction in Skenesborough. These maneuverable vessels were to be the main armament of the fleet. October was approaching. Where were they?
“I am greatly at a loss,” Arnold wrote to Gates, “what could have retarded the galleys so long.”
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ISOLATED IN THE far north, enduring hardships, Arnold was vexed by the stinginess of Congress. Why did American patriots not recognize the important contribution he and his crews were making in the north? “I am surprised by their strange economy or infatuation below,” he complained. “Saving and negligence, I am afraid, will ruin us at last.”
Isolated beneath the vast northern starscape, he had time to contemplate. He could not understand why others did not share his devotion to the cause. He had been willing to leave behind his business and his family. He was resigned to give his life if needed. Yet his fellow citizens could only stint and chase after their own gain. The yeast of discontent was beginning to work in his soul.
He was particularly incensed by the attacks on his reputation. He fumed in a letter to Gates, “I cannot but think it extremely cruel when I have sacrifised my Ease, Health and great part of my private property in the Cause of my Country to be Caluminated as a Robber and thief, at a Time too when I have it not in my Power to be heard in my own Defence.”
Kind words from home were a welcome balm. His sister, Hannah, sent him four waistcoats and three pair of stockings. She wrote, “Little Hal sends a kiss to Pa and says, ‘Auntie, tell my Papa he must come home, I want to kiss him.’” Earlier, she had written that Harry wanted Papa to buy him “a little horse and a pair of pistols.” The boy was, “as far as courage goes,” very like his father.
But not all the news was heartwarming. Hannah reported that his business had practically collapsed. She had been forced to sell most of his assets to pay debts. “If you ever live to return, you will find yourself a broken merchant.”
She reverted to the Puritan stoicism they had both learned as children. “To the great Disposer of all events we must commit the issue,” she wrote. “We all want to see you, but whether that happiness is again to be repeated to us, God only knows.”
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BY SEPTEMBER 23, Arnold and his officers were beginning to imagine that the enemy might not challenge them on the lake that season after all. Continually adjusting his strategy to the conditions, Arnold decided to move the fleet another twenty miles south to the bay behind Valcour Island. The rocky, two-mile-long fragment of land lay barely a mile from the New York shore. It would provide shelter in case of severe storms as well as concealment from the enemy. The move brought him closer to the forts in case he had to retreat farther.
He told Gates that the island had “an exceeding fine, secure harbor … the fleet will be secure and we can discover the enemy if they attempt to pass us.” He later explained that in the bay, “few vessels can attack us at the same time & those will be exposed to the fire of the whole fleet.” Gates, who was content to allow Arnold flexibility, approved the new position and wrote that he was sure “zeal for the public Service will not suffer You to return One Moment sooner than in prudence & Good Conduct you Ought to.”
On the last day of September, the men were gratified to see the first of the row galleys coming to join them. The Trumbull was certainly welcome, but Arnold complained to Gates that she was “not half finished or rigged; her cannon are much too small.”
After another week of cold rain and angry skies, two more galleys arrived. The Washington carried David Waterbury, an experienced Connecticut ship’s captain who was to serve as Arnold’s second-in-command. Her sister galley, the Congress, was equipped with two 18-pounders, the most powerful cannon of all those on the vessels, and was more maneuverable than the Royal Savage. Arnold made her his flagship.
The galleys brought at least some of the supplies needed, including warmer clothes for the crews and a welcome keg of rum for each of the boats. Time continued to tick away.
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WHEN ARNOLD WAS thirteen and still studying Latin with a Yale scholar, his tutor wrote to his mother describing a boy “full of pranks and plays.” He noted an incident in which a local barn had caught fire. Onlookers were horrified to see a boy emerge from the smoke and walk the length of the burning structure’s roof beam. It was young Benedict, out for a thrill and eager to impress.
More than impress. There was something about the precarious gap between life and death that attracted him. It was on that knife-edge that he felt most fully alive. No wonder he excelled at war. A battle was for him a kind of homecoming, a place where he found himself poised on the roof beam of existence.
On the morning of October 11, an American crewman wrote, “We had alarm that the Regular fleet was Coming on us.” Men on the scout boats that Arnold always kept out hurried into Valcour Bay to report sails on the northern horizon. A fleet was approaching. It included a full-blown frigate, a three-masted, square-rigged warship named Inflexible. A single broadside from that ship’s line of 12-pounder cannon would nearly match the firepower of the entire American fleet. Beside her sailed a huge artillery barge, capable of fighting ships on the water or bombarding forts on land. Two schooners of war flanked these ships. They were followed by more than twenty gunboats, some with substantial 24-pounder cannon. Then smaller warships, armed longboats, and a swarm of canoes paddled by Indian allies.
Arnold called for the captains of all his boats to gather in the cramped cabin of the Congress. Two possibilities: stay and fight or retreat toward the forts. If they stayed, the enemy’s superior firepower might destroy the fleet. If they ran, the faster British ships might chase them down. If they stayed, they might hold off the enemy and eke out more days of delay. If they ran, they might make it to Ticonderoga where they could support the fort from the water.
David Waterbury, an experienced seaman eighteen years older than Arnold, argued that they should retreat. The restricted bay was a death trap—the shoal-clogged north end blocked movement in that direction. The wind could easily swing around from the south and favor the British. “I gave it as my opinion,” Waterbury later said, “that the fleet ought immediately to come to sail and fight them on a retreat.”
No. Arnold knew that his inexperienced crews would be no match for Royal Navy men in a battle of maneuver on the open water. Only by fighting from a fixed position would they have a chance. Retreat engendered fear. Fear was contagious. If it touched the green troops at Ticonderoga, it could spread like a fever. They had to make a stand. They would make it at Valcour Island.
As in the council of war during the worst of the march to Quebec, Arnold showed complete confidence. He praised his captains’ abilities and assured them they could prevail. The enemy were far from invincible. “Carleton the Haughty,” as Arnold called him, had not even sent out scout boats. The arrogance of the enemy would be their downfall.
Staring into each man’s eyes, putting assurance into each word, he snuffed out doubt and hesitation. He induced the men to share his optimism. If they were to die, they would die. But that day they would fight for a cause. And they would win.
The British fleet hurried south along the lake, paced by a brisk north wind. Arnold had counted on that. He could practically read General Carleton’s mind. The British commander would assume that the Americans, no longer visible on the northern lake, had already retreated toward the forts. He would not waste time searching every cove and inlet.
From intelligence reports, Arnold knew that Carleton had been waiting to complete a ship large enough to give him assurance of victory. His men had spent an extra month finishing Inflexible. Now the mighty frigate passed Valcour Island and rushed southward. Suddenly, Carleton and his naval officers were startled by the boom of a cannon. Heads swiveled—the sound had come from behind them.
“Come about!” British sailors flew into action. Lines were heaved, spars creaked, sails flapped. The ships slowed, skidded sideways as their rudders tried to push them into the wind. But the laborious task of tacking required space—even the best sailors in the world could not maneuver large ships into a small bay against the wind.
The American schooner Royal Savage, which had ventured out to fire at the enemy, had the same problem as the enemy ships. As she tried to tack, a gust swept her onto a rock ledge off the southwest corner of the island. British gunboats fired, her captain ordered his men to swim to shore. One of the most effective of the American warships was lost in the opening minutes of the battle.
The British gunboats, rowboats similar to the American gondolas, were the only enemy vessels that could easily maneuver into the narrow bay. There they encountered an arc of American warships bristling with cannon and stretching from the western shore to the island. The British boats, each with a single large gun in its bow, formed a line about three-quarters of a mile south of the Americans. Both sides began to pound each other with cannon fire. The frustrated officers of the larger British ships could not get near enough to be effective—they were forced to remain spectators outside the bay’s mouth.
The patriot crews, after nearly six weeks of increasingly tense waiting, finally plunged into the death-drenched struggle of combat. The firing of a single cannon blasted a sound that was felt as much as heard, that echoed from mountains. The guns’ thunder numbed senses and left ears ringing. The crashes came not as single notes but in monstrous chords, giant arpeggios of explosions, a concussive roar that suffocated thought. The sharp crack of musket fire punched at the men from shore—Indians and British infantrymen had occupied both the mainland and the island. Shouts, curses, warnings, screams of pain added to the din. Iron balls flew past at supersonic speeds, each tearing the air with a breathtaking banshee whine.
“During the affair,” remembered Captain Georg Pausch, a German artillery expert on one of the enemy gunboats, “it could have been a bit after one o’clock, the naval battle became very serious.” It was a veteran soldier’s way of saying that the Valcour channel had turned into a scene of intense violence.
During the age of sail, war on water was chaotic, dynamic, and extraordinarily brutal. Cannonballs could penetrate oak planks. Crew members had nowhere to hide or take cover and could not run away. A seventeen-year-old Connecticut marine had his face splattered with a comrade’s “flesh and brains” when a cannonball took the man’s head off.
The Puritan sect, in which Benedict Arnold had been raised, put the contemplation of death at the center of human spiritual existence. “A prudent man,” the clergyman Cotton Mather wrote, “will die daily.”
While Arnold showed few signs of deep religious conviction, he saved the letters his mother had sent him when he was a boy. Her admonitions that “we have a very uncertain stay in this world” and that he should always be ready to “step off the banks of time” struck a chord that reverberated into adulthood.
The crux of war is the ability to act effectively in the face of death. The cannonballs that flew around Arnold’s head, that arbitrarily killed crewmen beside him, were the concrete reminders of mortality. Arnold’s ability to face the possibility of extinction without flinching and to navigate danger with cool equanimity were qualities that made him an indispensable leader in battle.
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TO ARNOLD’S AMAZEMENT, and because of his inspiring example, the motley crews, the men he had scorned as the “refuse of every regiment,” held their own. They did their duty.
