With Ethan Allen at Ticonderoga

The Committee of Safety in Massachusetts, on the other hand, had decided to act against Old Ti. Benedict Arnold, after stirring up the people to fever pitch in his own colony, Connecticut, went post-haste to Cambridge and demanded a commission and authority to raise and lead the troops against the Champlain forts. This first move of this much-hated man in the Revolution savored of intrigue and self-seeking–as did most of his other public acts. He desired the honor of commanding this expedition, and he was personally courageous enough to march up to the mouths of Old Ti’s guns if need be; but he had no personal following and could not hope to recruit men himself for the expedition. Nevertheless, he proposed to have the backing of a regular commission from the Massachusetts committee and thus supersede Colonel Easton. This desire on his part might have become a fact had it not been for one person whom Benedict Arnold did not take into consideration.

The Massachusetts and Connecticut forces were guided to the camp of the Green Mountain Boys while the leaders held a conference at the Catamount Inn in Bennington. Colonel Easton was a truly brave man, and as such was not disturbed by petty jealousy. It was left to fate to decide who should command the expedition, and Ethan Allen having the largest personal following, was acclaimed commander. Greatly to Captain–now Major–Warner’s disappointment his own men did not number as many as the Massachusetts troops; but he gracefully yielded second place to Easton and accepted third himself. Plans for the march through the wilderness were then carefully discussed and the leaders rode to Castleton and reviewed the raw recruits whose valor was, at a later day, to be so noised abroad.

The Green Mountain Boys, after four years of training, presented much the better appearance. And every man was practically a sharpshooter. What their rifles and muskets could do against the thick, if crumbling, walls of Ticonderoga, might with good judgment be asked; but they lacked neither courage nor faith in their leader. They would have followed Ethan Allen through a wall of fire if need be to the line of the British fortifications. In their eyes he was invincible.

On the morning of the start from Castleton the army was paraded–a few hundred meagrely armed men to march against a fortress, to capture which had cost the British two expensive campaigns and the loss of some three thousand men. Their leaders harangued them, and Ethan Allen’s promises of glory and honor inspired quite as much enthusiasm as the commander of any expedition could have wished. There had gathered to observe the departure many gentlemen of the countryside, and not a few of those individuals who, at a time like this, always occupy a prominent position “on the fence”–that is, they having not yet decided which cause to espouse, waited to see whether the King’s troops or the earnest patriots would win.

Among these spectators was a well set up man of military bearing, indeed garbed in a military coat, with a cockade in his hat and his hair carefully dressed. He was quite a dandy, or a “macoroni” as the exquisites of that day were called both in London and in the Colonies. His dark visage and hawk-like eye commanded more than a passing glance from all and when, just before the troops started, he was observed to walk across the parade and calmly approach the group of officers standing at one side, all eyes became fixed upon him.

“Who is that haughty looking man yonder?” asked one spectator of his neighbor who happened to be better informed than his friend, “and what does he here?”

“What he does here I know not,” declared the individual thus addressed, “but his name I can tell you, having seen him in Hartford on several occasions. It is Benedict Arnold, a name quite well known–and not altogether honorably–in that part of Connecticut.”

CHAPTER XX

THE RIVAL COMMANDERS

At this time Benedict Arnold was thirty-five years of age, a restless, ambitious man who had sought frequently for an opportunity to distinguish himself in life, but who had never been willing to pay the world’s price for real success. He looked for a short-cut to power and fortune, and because of his impatience of restraint and the small chances of promotion, he had once deserted from the British army. When the Revolution broke out he was living in Hartford, Connecticut, where his business was that of druggist, and where his reputation was not of the most savory among the more respectable merchants of the town. His character, however, contained those elements of recklessness and personal daring which stand for bravery with many people, and he was something of a hero in the eyes of his thoughtless associates.

It seemed a peculiar fatality that both Arnold and Allen, coming from the same colony, should go to Bennington and be thrown together at just this time. It was a great moment in Ethan Allen’s life; the time was likewise pregnant with the elements which so influenced the after existence of Benedict Arnold. Ethan Allen’s mind was filled with a desire to help the Grants, and despite the military glory he craved, he entered into the scheme for the capture of Ticonderoga with a real hope of assisting the patriot cause. He was, indeed, a patriot from the bottom, ready to sacrifice his own interests as well as his life for the general good. Arnold saw in this rising of his fellow-Americans the long sought chance to distinguish himself and gain that power and influence which his nature craved. He saw in the proposed expedition to Ticonderoga a quick road to prominence. For him to see this chance was to grasp it.

Having no following of his own he planned to seize the troops gathered at Castleton and thus have his name go before the Continental Congress as the leader of the expedition. If it was successful the honor would be his; if it failed, his name would be quite as prominent and the affair might gain him advancement which he could hope for in no other way. He had no thought nor care for the men who, after weeks of toilsome effort, had gathered the little army together. Their feelings in the matter, or their standing with their followers, did not enter into his calculations.

That, indeed, was the secret of Benedict Arnold’s life. He never thought of others. He was ever for self. As a boy we read that he was cruel to those smaller and weaker than himself, being the “bully” of the school and of the town in which he lived. He was ever utterly reckless of his reputation and his greatest pleasure seemed to be found in some form of malicious mischief. Personally, however, he did not lack boldness and physical courage. It is told of him that, being dared by other boys, he once seized the arms of a waterwheel and followed its revolutions half a dozen times, being completely submerged in the millrace at every turn. The danger to a handful of illy-armed troops attacking a fortress like Ticonderoga appealed strongly to the man’s reckless daring.

Although Allen and Warner came from the same colony as the newcomer, neither knew nor recognized Arnold as he approached the group of officers at this important moment. But Arnold was not a man who could be for long ignored. His military bearing, his dress, and the hauteur of his countenance attracted the attention of the three leaders. “Sir,” said Allen, courteously, “you evidently have some communication to make to us?”

“I have, sir,” replied Arnold, calmly. “But not having the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with you – ”

“I am Colonel Allen, commander of this expedition,” interrupted the other, brusquely. “This is Colonel Easton; this Major Warner. What is your desire?”

“I am Colonel Benedict Arnold,” said the newly arrived officer, “and bear a commission from the Massachusetts Committee of Safety with authority to take command of the troops here gathered, or which shall be gathered, and proceed against Forts Ticonderoga and Crown Point,” and he drew the commission from his pocket and presented it to the company.

Allen’s ruddy face paled for an instant and his eyes flashed. “Do I understand you aright?” he exclaimed, and his voice was sharp enough to be heard by many of the troops near by. “You have come to take command of these men?” and his gesture took in the lines of waiting patriots.

“I have, sir. There is my commission.”

Allen’s wrath got the better of his politeness and he struck the offending paper from Arnold’s hand. Warner stooped hastily and secured it. He and Easton examined the document with angry scrutiny. Both had given way with cheerfulness to Ethan Allen’s superiority in the matter; but this affront was personal to them as well as to their beloved leader. Allen, with his arms akimbo and fire flashing from his eyes faced the suave and cold intruder. “Sir!” he exclaimed, “I do not care to see your commission, nor do I acknowledge your authority. I bear a commission from a higher court and recognize an authority higher still.”

“What do you mean, Colonel Allen?” demanded Arnold, for the moment fearing that the Green Mountain leader had indeed received some appointment from the Continental Congress, perhaps, which would invalidate his own.

“I mean, sir, that my authority is based upon some slight precedence in this matter–a prior claim which dates back some years now, Colonel Arnold. I have led some of these men in defending their homes on more than one occasion and by their free act of will they have made me their leader now.”

“Your commission, sir? Where is it?” inquired Arnold, cool again, upon finding that his antagonist’s rights were based upon a matter of sentiment.

“It is there, sir!” cried Allen, furiously, turning and pointing to the lines of waiting men. “It is there, sir,–writ on the hearts of those Green Mountain Boys. And a higher commission than any Committee of Safety can seal.”

The words were heard by the files of waiting troops and already they had begun to murmur. That their beloved leader should be displaced by any person–no matter how high his office–was more than distasteful to them. At once they were in revolt.

“Ethan Allen forever!” arose the cry. “We’ll not march without he commands us!” and more than one threw down his arms. Arnold found himself facing the possibility of marching upon Ticonderoga alone, for the mutiny seemed general.

“Sir, sir!” exclaimed Warner, in anxiety, addressing Arnold. “You see the feeling of these true-hearted men. No person can come here and take command of them in this way. We are not regular troops. We are banded together for the good of all, but we do not yet acknowledge the authority of a sister colony. We desire to be a commonwealth of our own here in the Grants and have already been disturbed enough by usurpers from outside. Reconsider this, I beg of you. For if you persevere the expedition must fail and that which might result in great good to our struggling brethren, will end in harm because of this folly.”

Arnold, if ambitious and unfeeling, already saw that he was beaten. He was not obstinate enough to do that which would be sure to redound to his own hurt and discredit. He had not expected such opposition, for he did not know the veneration in which the Green Mountain Boys held Ethan Allen. Now, seeing himself undone, he did that which for the time endeared him to all. His countenance cleared; a frank emotion played upon his features and advancing a step toward Ethan Allen he said in a clarion voice, heard by all:

“Colonel Allen, you have precedence here after all. I was mistaken in my premises. Give me a musket and let me march in the ranks. I shall be proud to be led by so gallant a commander.”

Instantly a volley of cheers broke out among the soldiery, and Allen who, above all men, could appreciate such generosity, offered his hand cordially. “Egad, sir!” he cried, “you are a man after my own heart. When there are so many jealous cattle running about the woods, it is a pleasure to meet with a man. Give me your hand, Colonel Arnold! There is glory enough in this campaign for all, and you shall share the command with me, if you will.”

He turned then to his followers. “Men of the Green Mountains!” he cried, “we are to march at once. Fall in! And with your courage and the help of Jehovah we shall succeed in our undertaking. To your places, gentlemen,” to the minor officers, “and Colonel Arnold and I will lead you.”

Amid cheers the column moved forward into the forest and took up its line of march toward the shore of Lake Champlain. Never had the Green Mountain wilderness echoed to the tread of such a body of men. And they were worth more than a passing glance for they represented the spirit which made the American Revolution one of the greatest struggles of the ages. Like the campaigns of Joshua of old, the battles of the American yeoman with the trained military of King George proved that, when guided by the God of Battles, the weak can overcome the strong. These men, fighting for their homes and firesides, were inspired with a confidence that overcame even impossibilities. They possessed a faith in their cause and in their leader like that which threw down the walls of Jericho and defeated the allied armies of Canaan.

Even had De la Place and his garrison been informed of their approach, and of their numbers, he would doubtless have laughed at the possibility of their successfully attacking his fortress. And one there was among the Green Mountain Boys who feared that news of the expedition had already gone to the British commander. Upon his return from the Otter, Enoch Harding had sought and obtained an audience with Colonel Allen, and to him had related his adventure with the Yorker whom he believed to be his deadly enemy, and told his suspicions regarding the man’s business in the region. But Ethan Allen was not to be shaken in his confidence, or in his intentions.

“I have an honest man at Ticonderoga now, Master Harding,” he said. “If spies were through the country we should hear of them from other sources. But you did right to come to me with this, and if Simon Halpen falls into our hands I will hang him for his past offenses, if not for this attempt on your life.”

The appearance of the American troops was welcomed along the route with acclamation. Many settlers, knowing the course the army would take, had waited to join it as it passed their own doors. Shopkeepers and mechanics left their work and fell into the ranks; the farmer left his plow in the furrow, seized his rifle, and joined his neighbors; a woodsman who was “letting sunlight” into the gloom of the virgin forest, hid his axe under a fallen log and with a deadlier weapon on his shoulder followed in the train; the hunter on the trail of the frightened buck saw the column coming through the forest road and allowed his prey to escape while he turned his attention to matters of graver moment. Thus the army of Americans was swelled from hour to hour by new recruits.

To camp at night was a small matter to these hardy pioneers. The scouts sent out upon either flank acted as hunters and fresh meat was abundant. Besides, every man was fairly supplied with provisions brought from Castleton. Inspired by the energy of Ethan Allen the column rapidly approached the shore of the lake. While some miles away, however, the group of officers riding ahead of the main body, suddenly descried a tall woodsman striding through the forest toward them. “Who is this chap, Major?” demanded Allen of his friend Warner. “Had I not sent ’Siah Bolderwood to watch Old Ti like a cat at a rathole, I’d declare this to be he.”

“And so it is, Colonel!” returned the other. “Something of moment must have sent our lengthy friend this way, for he is a man who knows how to obey orders,” and he spurred forward to meet the footman.

“Wall, Captain,” was ’Siah’s greeting, squinting around the horseman at the long column of marching men, “you look like you had a slather of folks yonder. I guess there’ll be something in the wind around Old Ti ’fore long, hey?”

“And how is it you are not there, Bolderwood?” demanded Warner.

“Wall, I got an idee into my noddle an’ leavin’ Smith and Brown to watch Old Ti, for it might run away ’fore ye git there, ye know, I trotted down this way ter see the Colonel. Ev’rything is safe there so fur, but there’s one thing we’ve neglected.”

“What is that, Bolderwood?” cried Allen, riding up and hearing this last sentence.

“Why, Colonel, although I count you as purty near ekal to ’most anything, an’ them fellers behind ye seemed armed to deal with any foe, still I calkerlate you ain’t expectin’ ol’ Champlain ter open for ye to pass over dry shod, hey?”

Allen smote his thigh with his gauntleted hand and the expression on his face changed. “Right, ’Siah! I can’t forgive myself for my thoughtlessness. We must have boats–and plenty of them–to cross to the fort.”

“That’s what struck me last night, Colonel. So I left the others ter watch the fort–an’ a sarpint that wriggled into aour han’s yesterday–and come kitin’ down here for orders.”

“A serpent, ’Siah?” said Warner. “Who is it?”

“One o’ them Yorkers, an’ one that I’ve not had my eyes on–let alone my hands–for a good many months. An’ I see a chap behind you there that’ll be some interested in meeting the rascal, too.”

’Siah had looked past the officers and, in the very front rank, caught sight of his young friend Enoch. The latter waved his hand to the tall woodsman and Bolderwood, knowing that discipline was lax on the march, beckoned Enoch forward. “Come here, youngster, and hear what news I’ve got for ye,” he cried. But Allen caught at the matter instantly, and understood to whom Bolderwood referred by his appellation of “the serpent.”

“You mean to say you’ve got Simon Halpen?” he asked.

“That’s the identical sarpint, Colonel,” declared the ranger. “We caught him tryin’ ter cross to Old Ti and thought it was best, under the sarcumstances, ter keep him close till this leetle business is over. What he was doin’ riskin’ his carcass on this side of the line is more’n I can tell – ”

“The boy was right, Major!” exclaimed Allen, turning to Warner. “Harding met the fellow while he was stirring up our folks in the Otter country last week. He thought he was up to some rascality then, and the fellow did try to take his life.”

“Tried it again, did he?” cried ’Siah, as Enoch approached. “Is that so, Nuck?”

Enoch repeated his adventure with the murderous Halpen. “If I’d knowed this,” the ranger declared, “I’d saved the grub the scoundrel is eating.”

“We’ll make an example of him when we reach the lake, ’Siah,” declared the leader of the Green Mountain Boys. “But now for this other matter. It is most important. Every bateau within reach must be secured.”

“I know where there are three of ’em. And there may be others down the lake furder.”

“You shall have charge of this, Bolderwood!” the commander cried. “I make you our captain of scouts. Take any reasonable number of men with you and hurry ahead. Every moment is precious.”

“Good!” said the ranger. “With Smith and Brown I won’t need but eight or ten more. And I’ll begin by taking young Nuck here. He’s a good oar.”

“Take whom you wish. We depend on you,” replied Allen, and within the hour the ranger and his party, including Enoch Harding, set off on their mission ahead of the more slowly moving army.

CHAPTER XXI

THE ESCAPE OF THE SPY

In sixteen hours ’Siah Bolderwood had traveled from his camp on the shore of Lake Champlain opposite the frowning walls of Fort Ticonderoga; when the long ranger was in a hurry he did not spare himself. Perhaps no other man in the Vermont wilderness could have covered so much ground afoot as he, within the time. But he set off now on his return journey, with nearly a dozen men at his heels, as fresh as though he had rested for a night instead of for an hour. His muscles were seemingly of steel and his limbs of iron. He led at such a pace that Enoch Harding, who came first behind him, could scarcely keep up with his stride and place his feet, Indian fashion, in the prints of his friend’s moccasins.

The company of scouts traveled in single file and, having no need to follow the wood-road on which the army was marching, they soon left that out of view. ’Siah found an Indian path which suited him far better than the broader trail, for it would bring them much sooner to the lake, and for hour after hour he strode on with scarce a look behind him to see how his companions kept up. The men he had chosen, save Enoch, were tried and trained woodsmen, with powers of endurance second only to his own. And as for the lad whom he loved, he knew his high spirit and pride. Enoch Harding would not fall behind until the last ounce of his strength had been expended.

Finally the party reached a little stream and here the leader gave the signal to halt. Enoch flung himself down on the short sward and fell asleep almost instantly. ’Siah looked down upon him in some pride. “That’s the stuff we make men of in this country,” he said aloud. “I knew his father as well as I know myself. The lad will be another Jonas Harding.”

“He’ll hold us back if we’ve to keep up this pace, ’Siah,” said one of the others, doubtfully.

“Nay, you’re mistaken there, neighbor. You and I will travel until we feel that it ain’t best for us to go any furder. Enoch’ll keep up till he drops. He won’t hold us back.”

And it was true. Others of the party cried “enough!” before the afternoon was over; but the youth, his lips pale and compressed and the perspiration fairly pouring from his limbs, would have died before he acknowledged that the pace was too great for him. At night ’Siah called another halt and they ate heartily of such provisions as they carried and then lay down to rest. But ’Siah arranged for a guard. They were nearing the lake now and some ill-affected settler (there were several families of Tories near Champlain) might see them and wonder what such a large party of armed men was doing here. If the news of the approach of the main army did not travel ahead, it would be more because of good fortune than good management.

The party broke up into groups of two and three in the morning and went different ways to the shore. It was agreed that, where the settlers who owned boats were known to be staunch Whigs, it would be safe to tell them for what purpose their crafts were needed. But several boats were owned by Tories and royalist sympathizers and these people must be deceived for, although the scouts were doubtless well armed and determined enough to take the boats without saying “by your leave,” such a proceeding might be disastrous to the expedition.

’Siah Bolderwood chose Enoch as his companion and went himself toward the home of a farmer who stoutly upheld the King and his ministers and who had, in fact, held the title of his land from New York through all the years of trouble between his neighbors and the Albany courts. His homestead, however, was in such an out-of-the-way place and so secluded that the Green Mountain Boys had left him unmolested. Now Bolderwood was determined to have the roomy canoe and a large bateau which he was known to possess.

“But if the pesky critter gits an inkling of what we’re up to, he’ll start for Old Ti–that he will!” the ranger said to Enoch. “We gotter get around him somehow. An’ you leave it ter me. Ye better keep aout o’ sight, I reckon, anyway; numbers might make the ol’ codger suspicious.”

So Enoch hid in the wood surrounding the clearing on the lake shore while his tall friend went toward the Tory’s door. The old man, who depended upon his nephew and a slave or two to do his work, was sitting looking out across the lake. He was too far away to distinguish the battlements of Ticonderoga, but he happened to be looking in that direction when Bolderwood presented himself. “Neighbor!” said the latter, in a most friendly tone, “ye look hearty. What’s the news?”

“Humph!” grunted the old man, staring at the Yankee shrewdly, “you’re the feller that’s been clearin’ land above us yander, ain’t ye?”

“That I can’t deny, sir,” responded the ranger. “An’ jest for the sake o’ bein’ neighborly, I’m down here ter arsk a favor.”

“What is it?” grunted the old man, doubtfully.

“Why, my partner an’ me have got a job to do, an’ we’re wantin’ ter borry one or both o’ your boats,” and he pointed down to the water where, at the end of a little dock, the big flatboat and a long canoe were both moored. The old man could not see the boats without rising, but this he did as though to make sure that they were in their places. “What ye want ’em for?” he asked. “An’ howsumever, I can’t lend ye more than one o’ them. We might want the other ourselves.”