Benedict Arnold, George Washington and the American Cause

It was a crisp, fall morning in late September near Tarrytown, 30 miles north of New York City, and three Patriot militiamen sat around a campfire playing cards and cooking their breakfast underneath a large canopy of trees a portion of which were already aglow with the gorgeous reds, oranges and yellows of a New England autumn. The coffee grinds the soldiers had first roasted and then ground up with the butts of their rifles were bubbling away in the kettle atop the flames, the aroma of the beans competing with the smells wafting from a smaller pot on the fire, filled with a simple cornmeal mush. Suddenly the trio heard hoofprints and looked up to see a handsome young man clad in civilian clothes heading their way.