Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER TEN


Like most nights, Washington could not sleep. In the early days of the rebellion, Martha and the farm at Mount Vernon were top-of-mind concerns that haunted his early-morning hours. Once the union declared an open rebellion against the Crown, Washington had reasoned out their diplomatic and operational responses with an almost uncanny success rate. Not that Admiral Lord Howe, and his brother General Lord Howe, were predictable in their occupation of the Colonies, but Washington reckoned correctly that the British would simply try to squeeze a rebellion against the limited resources of the frontier until they broke and came crawling back for mercy. The British admiralty, regardless of the Crown’s meddling in colonial affairs, believed that the colonial settlers would simply acquiesce to being ruled from afar like so many thousands had for millennia before them. The Howe brothers tried both to rule the public by fear, circulating rolls of obedience to the Crown for colonials to sign, and by an iron fist against any who would attack a soldier of the Crown in the performance of their duties. A declaration that any attacker would be considered an assassin and put to death on the spot had recently filtered down through Washington’s intelligence network. The Howe brothers believed they were safe for the winter in New York with their garrisons securing the tenuous frontier.

Washington knew otherwise.

Laying in the early morning’s near darkness, he could see the candlelight flickering in his outer sanctuary where Mister Lee and the other staff officers worked through the night gathering intelligence dispatches. He’d lain down at three o’clock with the knowledge that General Ewing’s planned harassment of the Hessian positions at Trenton had gone exceedingly well. Reports converged from several credible sources that Colonel Rall placed two-thirds of his troops on guard through the night for the third consecutive evening. The Hessians were tired and edgy, which played directly into his hands. But, there was more.

Reports filtered through his staff that organized militia to the south of Mount Holly were riling the Hessian’s ire as well to the point that Colonel Von Donop had organized his regiments for a morning march to the south from Bordentown to dispel the rebel militia. With the nearest support to Rall at Princeton, eight miles to the north, a move south by Von Donop would open a unique situation. Trenton would be held by a force of nearly equal strength to his own army. Rall would be open between his main reinforcements, provided his own forces could attack the captured town.

Perhaps a window has opened?

The thought struck him enough that he opened his eyes and blinked in the near darkness. His army stood in ragged shoes with bloody feet. Their supplies from Philadelphia were unorganized and ill-aligned to the army’s needs no matter how much he pleaded with the recently recessed Congress. There was hardly a reason to attack now. With the British army in garrison from Princeton to New York and the British fleet making preparations to send several blockading vessels home for the holiday season, now appeared to be the time for pause. Yet, his own army would find their enlistments completed at the end of the year and because of the inadequate support from the Congress, most would walk away without some kind of momentum to drive them forward.

But what if we attacked Trenton? And what if it was successful?

His mind whirled around the consequences of a successful attack. The Hessians represented the scourge of everything the Rebellions fought against. A deft strike at them, removing their most critical position along the banks of the Delaware River, would send a message to the British army. A counterattack would be imminent, within a day or two at best. The army could be ready for that. He envisioned the British coming upon vacated campsites and burning fires while his army retreated north for the winter. Closer to supplies and farther across a treacherous river, it would be a fine place to loiter and plan the spring’s march. A successful attack would persuade many of his soldiers to stay—believing the momentum would carry them forward another year or so.

Would a simple attack be enough?

Washington took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes. Sleep would not come no matter how hard he tried. His mind played out the course of his decisions. The tactician would not succumb to the need for sleep until the problem had been wrung out and solved from every possible end. He opened his eyes and stared into the rafters for a long moment.

The brothers Howe would do one of three things. The first possibility, the one Washington considered the least serious, was that the Howes would do nothing at all. With the Hessians paid handsomely from His Majesty’s coffers, any loss the mercenaries suffered could disappear like water off a duck’s back. Their reputations and deeds preceding them, Washington wondered if the loss of a few thousand Hessians would be a blessing to the British army.

He snorted in the darkness. No, Howe would not let New Jersey fall. The Delaware River posed a perfect boundary, especially for those thousands of miles away. Howe would ensure, whatever happened, that New Jersey would remain under his command. He would counterattack with a large enough force to leave behind a stronger garrison in place of whatever the Hessians lost. This was certainly the most likely situation to develop were the Continental Army to risk a crossing of the Delaware River and attack at Trenton.

More problematic was the river itself. If the river froze, as it was apt to do, there was nothing stopping Howe from marching the entirety of the British army out of their warm barracks in New York and across the Delaware. Nothing would stop them short of Philadelphia. That, he decided, was unacceptable. His army in rags, with their enlistments rapidly ending, Washington needed a bold stroke to bolster recruiting, if not his own spirits. He thought of Martha waiting at Mount Vernon and immediately tried to blink the vision away. He would only return to the sanguine plantation life if independence was successful. If his army faltered, he and the members of the Continental Congress would be paraded through the streets and shot for treason against the king.

At half past eight, there was a knock at the door, quiet as if testing his restfulness. For a moment, he considered saying nothing but his insecurity about the decision worked his mouth open before he could stop it. “Yes?”

A crack of light appeared, silhouetting the familiar head of Mister Lee. “General? You asleep?”

“Not anymore, Mister Lee.” He smiled. His staff, once again, had seen to it that he rest. The days of warm beds and late-morning dozing were few and far between. “What is it?”

“A rider, sir. Message from Colonel Reed for you.” His tone was urgent, but not panicked in any way. “You want to see it, sir?”

Reed. Colonel Joseph Reed served in the tenuous position of Washington’s adjutant. Rarely did the two men seem to get along, but Washington knew that Reed’s perennial stubbornness in the matters of the army was second only to his ability to gather and analyze intelligence. Reed had taken up a winter position to the south in Bristol, Pennsylvania, on the Delaware. His frequent reports on the Hunterdon uprising and General Ewing’s raids brought key intelligence to Washington’s headquarters after every successful raid. The agitated state of the Hessian command was well known through Reed’s reports, and yet his position to the west of Burlington, New Jersey, provided Washington with more insight into the activities of Griffin’s militia and the prospective march of Von Donop’s regiment.

Washington sat up and pushed the rough blankets down. Lee stepped into the room with a lantern and the general’s spectacles. “Tea?”

“Brewing some now, sir. The good ones and not that swill Lieutenant Jenkins tried to poison you with.” Lee smiled.

Washington chuckled. “Thank you, Mister Lee.”

The older man handed Washington his glasses and the wax-sealed note and shuffled from the room as Washington turned the letter in his hands. Reed might be a thorn in his side for the operation of the army, but he knew his job and his network of personal contacts on the New Jersey side of the river impressed even the most scornful of Washington’s generals. Washington broke the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the simple letter.

As he read, Washington’s mind worked. The militia in southern New Jersey were giving the Hessians fits. Colonel Griffin had advanced his six hundred militia toward Mount Holly and clearly had the Hessians’ attention. Colonel Von Donop, the Hessian commander, at this very hour was marching toward Mount Holly to defend their positions against the ragtag militiamen. In Trenton, Rall’s men were exhausted to the point of illness, and tempers flared. Reed urged Washington to consider either supporting the militia efforts with a reinforcing attack or to attempt a diversionary attack—or more—at Trenton. The passion of Reed’s words took Washington’s breath away.

He’s right, Washington realized with a start. The door is open and we must kick it down .

Lee returned with a steaming cup of tea. “Good news, General?”

Washington looked up and smiled with one side of his mouth. “Indeed, old friend. Put the word out to my commanders.”

“What word is that, sir?” Lee lowered his chin. “Are we going to fight?”

“Summon a council of war at one o’clock today.” Washington waved the folded letter. “We have an opportunity. One not to be missed.”

* * *

At noon, Mason gathered the cadets and all of their gear for the journey to their entrance site. The open woodlands were quiet and without a breath of wind in the air, almost warm. Two hundred meters out from the abandoned farmhouse, Mason called a halt and brought them into a small perimeter. All of them were hot in their thermal wear and proceeded to shed at least one inner layer. Mason stepped over to Murphy, who had the duty of compass man.

“You’ve got an azimuth?”

Murphy reached into his pocket. “Made a waypoint on my phone and—”

“GPS won’t work for more than two hundred years, Murphy.”

Murphy shook his head. “I have a map, Mason. It shows key terrain like creeks. I can get us back there—or pretty close. It would be easier if we went back to Mister Daniels’ house. From there it was almost straight west. I’m guessing southwest for us. Azimuth of two hundred twenty-five for five hundred more meters.”

“Put the phone away, Murphy. I don’t want you distracted and us getting off course.” Mason frowned even as he said it. Murphy snorted.

“I didn’t get you lost on that lane, Mason.”

“I didn’t say you did.” Mason shook it off. “Just get us back to the site, okay?”

“Yeah.” Murphy turned his head and eyes out to the southeast and said nothing more.

Higgs gave him a silent thumbs-up, which Stratton echoed. They were ready to move. Mason gave a gentle whistle and the squad stood and moved out to the southeast in a single-file line with Koch in the lead.

Two hundred meters later, climbing a small knoll filled with dormant thickets, Koch raised a gloved fist—the signal to freeze. As quickly as he gave it, he dropped to his knees and then into the prone position, frantically waving all of them to do the same. Mason went to the ground staring at Koch. For several heartbeats, the big sophomore did nothing except strain to look over the low summit of the hill. Whatever Koch had seen, the thickets and higher terrain appeared to have obscured him and the rest of the squad. Koch turned his head back to the squad and raised his hand to touch the front of his ballistic helmet—the silent signal for the platoon leader.

Mason shook his head. The proper signal would have been for Koch to touch his sleeve, because squad leaders were NCOs and still wore their rank on their dress-uniform sleeves. Officers wore their rank on the front of their helmet. For a split second, a sad, empty feeling filled Mason. If they couldn’t get back, he’d never see officer rank on his head. If they couldn’t get back, he’d be a young black man in a time where people owned slaves and would fight viciously for that privilege in less than a hundred years.

I’m as good as anybody else. There would be time for dealing with that later. He got to his knees silently and crept forward in a low crouch. Higgs caught his eyes, fear evident in her face. Mason kept moving, saying nothing and staying as low as he could with the weight of his rucksack. At Koch’s feet, Mason went to his hands and knees and crawled up alongside the big sophomore. He saw Koch’s hands shaking.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

Koch licked his lips but did not meet Mason’s eyes. “A road and—”

There was a burst of laughter and several voices speaking a harsh-sounding language. There were people nearby. Mason strained to look over the hill through a bottom of a thicket but could not make out anything. “What did you see?”

“Four, maybe five. All dressed like . . . the ones we killed yesterday. The ones that got Kennedy.”

“Hessians.”

Koch nodded. “What do we do?”

“Sit tight. If they’re patrolling that road, they’ll move along. After they—”

Another voice barked at the group and the happy bantering stopped. Mason fought a smile—the voice of an NCO hadn’t changed in more than two hundred years independent of the language. They heard a rustle of gear being collected and a voice calling a soft cadence. The sound faded quickly. Mason edged up to the crest of the hill and saw the Hessians moving away from them, toward the Delaware River. He turned and made eye contact with Higgs and Stratton. With his left hand, he made an imaginary gun, turned it upside down, and pointed in the direction the Hessians moved. Higgs and Stratton relayed the signal to their teams. Enemy nearby.

Mason watched the squad silently pass the signal. He added a closed fist for emphasis and mouthed back “Nobody move.”

Lying still, the cold seeped through his thin combat uniform and worked at his inner layers. Moving had been warm and easy. Lying still was not. Against the brown forest floor and the occasional patches of old snowfall, the squad stood out like sore thumbs in their modern uniforms. Mason tugged at the sleeve of his thermal undershirt and pulled it down closer to his gloves. The cadre called it “snivel gear” and, at first, Mason hated their derision as false bravado. None of them wore it and they gleefully chastised the cadets who did. Later, in the second semester of his freshman year, he’d seen their battalion executive officer, Major Guest, carefully concealing this own snivel gear under his uniform. At that point, Mason understood that it was a matter of show, but also a measure of self-care.

No longer hearing the Hessians, Mason edged forward in the high-crawl, elbows and knees propelling him forward to the top of the hill and an open spot in the thickets. The road below was no more than a muddy smear, barely two meters wide. Mason waited two full minutes before crawling back to Koch and turning to the expectant faces of his squad. He waved them to their feet and gave the signal for a Ranger file again, his hand like a knife blade raised between his eyes.

Without a word, the squad moved into a single-file line. Mason blinked at the recognition of following one of Rogers’ Rangers rules. Moving single file would make it difficult for an interested party to track them and minimize the footprints on the muddy road. Crossing the road would be faster that way, but the woodland on the other side was much more open and exposing.

Higgs was the first cadet to reach him. “What is it?”

“Danger area—small road crossing. Double-time across and keep a five-meter interval. Don’t stop running until we reach the far hill and can take cover.”

“How far is it?”

Mason shrugged. “A couple of hundred meters.”

“Then we’ll be at our site on the edge of the fields, right? The thickets where Kennedy was killed?”

Mason nodded. “Yeah. Follow me.”

* * *

The field just west of the Daniels home was empty and cold. In the forest, Mason and his squad found their entrance spot because of the snow remaining on the ground being thicker than anywhere else, but it was melting. Already lost was the bloody snow where Kennedy fell. The rest would be gone in a matter of days. As Mason was about to whistle the group to stop, Koch raised an open hand and took a knee. He’d realized where they were, too.

Mason called softly to the group. “If you’ve got a radio, turn it on.”

Booker and Martinez dug into their rucksacks and fumbled for the switches on the ancient AN-PRC 77 radios. Mason watched them hold the receivers to their ears.

“Nothing,” Booker said.

Martinez keyed his radio. “Pittsburgh cadre, this is 2nd Squad.”

There was no response as Booker also attempted. “Any station, any station, this is 2nd Squad, University of Pittsburgh. Over.”

They waited thirty seconds. Mason shook his head. “Spread farther out. We can—”

“No,” Stratton said. “Stay tight here and send out heart-and-box method patrols.”

It was a good idea. “Stratton, your team does a box method along the way we came in. Higgs, two-man heart method toward the field. Stay in the wood line. See if you can find anything. Booker, stay with me.”

The fireteam leaders moved off with their cadets. Stratton would split his team and walk a giant box shape to see if they could find anything. His elements would meet in the middle at the far side of the box and work back through the middle of their route. Higgs and Koch would do a similar method in a heart shape in the opposite direction.

Mason looked at Booker. “Keep trying the radio. Every minute.”

“Yeah,” Booker said. His eyes were soft and far away.

Mason leaned over. “You with me, or not?”

“What do you mean?”

“Right here, right now,” Mason said. “Need you focused on the present. There’s nothing we can do otherwise.”

Booker grunted and looked away. Mason kept his eyes on Stratton’s patrol in case they suddenly disappeared. “Watch Higgs.”

“Doing it,” Booker said. He then whispered into the radio. “Any station, this is 2nd Squad. Come in.”

Mason followed Stratton’s progress intently, even failing to hear Booker call twice more with no response. As Stratton turned back toward Mason with a grin on his face, Booker stood straight up behind him.

Mason whirled around to face him. “What are you doing? Get down!”

“We gotta try—”

Mason stood up and grabbed his friend by the load-bearing vest. He dragged the taller cadet back to a kneeling position. “Sit tight, Booker. We’re trying. Keep trying the radio.”

“Yeah.”

Mason kept watch for Stratton and heard Booker half-heartedly transmit on the radio every minute. Time slowed down to a crawl and Mason wondered if something else had happened as Stratton and his team completed the patrol and returned at a slow jog. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. We’re exposed and we’re not going home.”

Booker stood up again. “Try again.”

Stratton bowed up on Booker. Mason stepped in and pushed Stratton backward. “Knock it off, all of you!” Mason hissed.

“Get your hands off me,” Stratton snarled at Mason. He slapped away Mason’s hands. “We can’t stay out here like this, Mason.”

Stratton was right. Booker stepped forward and pointed at Stratton’s chest. His eyes were wide and blazed with fury. Mason grabbed at his friend’s shoulder to stop him, but Booker had other ideas and went for Stratton.

CRACK!

Mason and Stratton snapped their heads to Higgs standing behind them. A tendril of smoke curled away from the bright red muzzle adapter of her M16.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Stratton growled.

Higgs stepped closer. “Knock it off, Booker. You’re all acting like a bunch of toddlers. Get your shit together before we all get killed. You’re the squad leader, Mason. You’re in charge. Stratton? You’re a team leader. That means you do whatever the fuck Mason says. You got that?”

Neither of them said a word. Higgs turned to Booker.

“And you!” she hissed. “We can’t get home. There’s nothing we can do about it. We tried, just like we said we would and it didn’t fucking work! Standing here and fighting just makes us a—”

A solitary burst of rifle fire echoed through the forest. They froze.

Murphy said, “Not near us, but they had to hear all the noise.”

“Get your rucks on,” Mason demanded. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Where?” Koch asked.

“Our farmhouse,” Mason said. “We need to have a plan.”

There was another rifle shot in the distance, followed by another a few seconds later. These were behind them.

The Danielses.

Stratton whirled at Mason. “We’ve got to go help them! Come on!”

Mason grabbed at Stratton’s vest and made contact. “No! We do this my way!”

Stratton grabbed at his arm. “What if they’re in danger? We have to help them!”

“We don’t know that!” Mason struggled. “You want to end up like Porter?”

Recognition dawned in Stratton’s eyes. “No. We have to move fast, though.”

He was right, whether it was guilt or not that welled up in Mason’s chest.

“Yeah.” Mason let go of Stratton’s vest. He turned to the rest of the squad. “Move out through the wood line—stay out of the field.” Mason pointed slightly west of the Daniels home. “We’ll backtrack into their barn, assess the situation, and do what needs to be done.”

“With what? We don’t have any—”

“We didn’t need them last time. We don’t need them now. We have surprise and synchronicity. Now get your shit together, people!” Mason said. Fire burned in his stomach. Their friends, the only ones who’d taken any type of pity on him and his squad, were in danger.

They started moving, Higgs with her fireteam in the front of the Ranger file. Mason took his position in the center, aware that Stratton was only a few feet away and staring holes in his back. The last thing the squad needed was a power struggle, and unless Mason did something, they’d continue to fight. With no cadre and a harsh world around them, one of them could end up dead. Mason shook off the thoughts and gave the double-time motion to Koch at the front of the column.

“Move, people!”


Back | Next
Framed