History has deemed Colonel William Ledyard’s death by sword upon surrender in 1781 at Fort Griswold in Groton as his defining moment.

David Wagner’s dramatic painting of the scene, covering an expansive wall of the Groton Municipal Building lobby and strewn across the internet, has become the iconic image of the Battle of Groton Heights, perhaps since it’s the only image of that historic day.

But Ledyard’s defining moment actually occurred before his death, when he refused two offers to surrender, while facing obvious disaster.

Ledyard looked over the crest of the fort he commanded on the morning of Sept. 6, 1781, to see 800 professional British soldiers aligned in disciplined columns ready to annihilate the 160 farmers, tradesmen and teenage boys inside his fort.

Still, he confidently rebuffed the British, declaring “We will not give up the fort, let the consequences be what they may.”

Remarkably, William Ledyard wasn’t a professional soldier at all when he made those fateful battle decisions. He was a merchant, a West Indies trader, a businessman, more citizen than soldier, a man functioning in a high military capacity with only rudimentary military training.

He had likely been in the militia for 26 years, since he was 16 years old, as required of most males. But militias had a tarnished reputation throughout the colonies as undisciplined and poorly trained. Even George Washington didn’t trust them, complaining to Congress of their failings in action.

Ledyard’s rapid promotions — to Captain in 1776, Major in 1778, and Lieutenant Colonel in 1780 — came only as war threatened, based mainly on social status, political connections, his longtime militia commitment and in recognition of his efforts toward improving local forts.

It’s common knowledge today that the type of decisions he was called upon to make in the Battle of Groton Heights are best made through experience under fire.

Studies such as ‘How Tactical Experience Affects Confidence About Combat Decision Making,’ the Master’s thesis of Army Major Gregory D. Reilly, have shown that tactical combat experience is a critical component of decision making by commanders in battle.

Such conclusions, though after the fact, are intriguingly relevant to Colonel Ledyard, as they were just as true then as they are today. And, Ledyard was a commander who seems to have never experienced armed conflict.

On the other hand, Ledyard’s opponent on Sept. 6, British Lieutenant Colonel Edmund Eyre, who was leading the 54th Regiment of Foot in the attack on Fort Griswold, was a veteran soldier who was commissioned an ensign in 1760, over 20 years before the Battle of Groton Heights.

A newspaper reported that Eyre had “been in plenty of tight spots before,” including the Battle of Sullivan’s Island, the Battle of Long Island in 1776, the Battle of Rhode Island in 1778 and the Battle of Fall River in 1780.

The 54th also played a role in raids on the Connecticut port towns of New Haven, Fairfield and Norwalk.

Unlike Ledyard, Eyre had commanded men in battle before.

And, unlike the 54th Regiment, the townspeople defending Fort Griswold had no such fighting experience.

Washington and other military leaders had self-educated through books, but I’ve found no evidence that Ledyard was a student of war histories or battle strategies. His probate record, filed six months after his death by his wife Anne, lists only one book, that of poetry.

So, on that fateful morning, with Fort Griswold threatened by a sea of redcoats, Ledyard huddled with his officers, the air heavy with doom, making decisions to refuse surrender with no battle experience and no evidence of self-education in military strategy. He was just a patriotic militiaman, a group whose abilities were held suspect by George Washington himself.

In his defense, maybe the good Colonel sincerely believed the reinforcements he summoned would arrive in time.

Maybe the smoke and flames over New London stoked patriotism and anger among the garrison, fueling a devotion to protect their homes and families, the odds be damned.

By late morning, the fight was on, and as any reasonable strategist would predict, the British swarmed into the fort a mere 40 minutes after the commencement of hostilities, the overwhelmed colonists dropping their arms in a desperate plea for mercy.

But, as we know, the British promise of no “quarter” (mercy) was upheld, and a massacre was unleashed with over 80 unarmed American men and boys shot, bayoneted and put to death by the sword, including William Ledyard.

The remarkable thing about Colonel Ledyard is that, like so many other leaders of the American Revolution, he was just an ordinary man responding to the extraordinary events of his time.

His monument inscription describes how this citizen-soldier faced what was likely his very first real combat experience: “He fell in the service of his country, fearless of death and prepared to die.”

His brave response in the face of certain death, the decisions he made in consideration of his civilian background, comprise William Ledyard’s defining moment in history. That is what begs remembrance and commemoration: his selflessness and courageous fearlessness, above any blind glorification of his manner of death.

There are many interesting asides to historical stories, and war is, by its nature, embroiled in emotion. One might wonder whether a father’s rage also played a role in Colonel Ledyard’s refusals to surrender.

On the 100th anniversary of the Battle of Groton Heights in 1881, New London Pastor Edward Woolsey Bacon preached of Colonel Ledyard: “We forget that as he watched the column of assault coming over Packer’s Rocks and forming in the Burying Ground (now Colonel Ledyard Cemetery), and pausing there before the final rush, he knew they were trampling, he saw them trampling down the new grave of his sweet daughter, just 17 years old, whose body he had buried there on July 25th, just six weeks before that very 6th of September.”

There is no loss in life greater than a parent losing a child, and perhaps no greater insult than the wanton desecration of an innocent child’s final resting place by barbarians.

I’ve found evidence that William Ledyard was a “tender, indulgent parent,” a loving father, leading one to wonder whether vengeance may also have driven this ordinary man to defend his precious Sarah’s memory. Though remarkably heroic indeed, he was, after all, only human.

John Steward lives in Waterford. He can be reached at tossinglines@gmail.com