When I was a kid I read about Benedict Arnold's heroics on Lake Champlain in 1776. By stalling the British with audacious tactics, Arnold prevented an invasion from Canada that could have ended the Revolution. I thought his hastily constructed navy looked like rowboats with masts; it was thrilling to think about the chutzpah required to command such a tiny fleet against the mighty British.

My youthful admiration horrified my mother who loved New London and grew up in a building that replaced a church burned during Arnold's attack. In the 1950s the whole sorry episode was still a topic of discussion between Mother and my grandmother (both history nuts), and Arnold's name was mud.

As an adult I learned more about Arnold: his raid on Fort Ticonderoga, the march to Quebec, his daring at Saratoga, and of course the New London debacle. But it wasn't until recently that I read about attacks on two other Connecticut towns where Arnold also played a role.

In 1777 Danbury was a small village, but it held a store of munitions, hospital bedding, tents and clothing. It was a tempting target for the British who expected to march inland from Compo Beach at Cedar Point in Westport, grab the goods and get back to their ships without encountering much, if any, resistance. Unlike the New London affair, this raid wasn't punitive; they thought they could secure badly needed supplies while making a political statement about lackluster rebel opposition.

When the alarm was raised, riders were dispatched to warn Danbury, and the colonial militia under generals Silliman, Wooster and Arnold began pursuing the invaders through a cold April rain. Although they were too late to prevent the burning of parts of Danbury, their presence at nearby Bethel led the British to destroy the munitions (rather than attempt to carry them away) and return to Westport, but along a different route in order to "avoid Mr. Arnold."

The colonists, attempting to contest their retreat, formulated this strategy: one division would harass the British from the rear, while the other would race ahead and intercept them at Ridgefield. The rear-guard action proved fatal to General Wooster but bought enough time for Arnold to beat the British to Ridgefield, where his men erected a wall of logs and stones across the road.

The impromptu barricade didn't hold, and in the battle that followed Arnold's horse was shot out from under him. As he lay temporarily pinned beneath the animal, a British soldier rushed at him, demanding his surrender. Reportedly Arnold replied, "Not yet," before shooting and killing the soldier.

Outgunned, the Americans retreated to the coast and took up position at a bridge over the Saugatuck River. The British forded the river below the bridge, and, after a skirmish on Compo Hill, reached their ships.

The English never again ventured that far into Connecticut's interior, and Arnold, whose bravery earned him a promotion, went on to fight at Saratoga. That victory, which the British grudgingly credited to Arnold's valor, convinced France to become America's ally.

Remembrances of Arnold reflect the duality of his legacy. His gunboat, the Spitfire, found in 1997 at the bottom of Lake Champlain, has been designated an American Treasure. There's a plaque in Ridgefield at the site of his barricade, and a marker at the corner of Arnold Place in Norwich where the Arnold family home once stood. This year Norwich hosted several Arnold-themed events including a thought provoking exhibition at Slater Memorial Museum and the production of a musical. Understandably, New London takes a less nuanced view; an annual festival, mounted by Flock Theatre, culminates in burning Arnold in effigy.

Arnold wasn't alone in changing his mind about the viability of the Revolution, but he ruthlessly betrayed his neighbors, making us both his victims and his beneficiaries, and complicating our assessment of his contributions.

Carol Sommer of Waterford is a self-proclaimed history nut. She writes a monthly history column inspired by local street signs.