Eight o’clock call
In a mountain pass, a man traveled alone. A hint of dusk hovered in the sky. Slanting yellow sun rays gave a curious texture to the quiet, arid landscape. He glanced at his watch and gave one last look at the peaks above him before turning back on his path toward the low hills and the trailhead. A shadow, a shape at the periphery of his vision drew a second look before he dismissed it. Another glance over the shoulder confirmed the mistake and he was soon lost in the solitude and the questions that drove him to this hike. Fine rocks crunched beneath his feet creating sounds that seemed too big in this expanse of wilderness. He looked again toward the low hills, gauged the distance, and estimated that he would be back at the trailhead shortly before sunset.
His thoughts then returned to tomorrow’s obligations. He would need to be in the office a little early for a telephone call at 8:00am. The man knew this conversation would not be pleasant so he contemplated the various directions the call might take. As he planned his responses to each, he thought his position was strong. He expected to prevail again as he had so often. Feeling confident in his abilities, he glanced at the sky, then his watch. There was still a considerable walk ahead so he picked up the pace, hearing again the crunch underfoot radiating out to the empty space around him.
Strange, he thought, that there were no other hikers out today. Usually, he saw others on this particular trail. Once again, lost in thought, he considered his life and the success that he enjoyed. Life had smiled on his efforts and he enjoyed the rewards. Surely, more good things were in store for him. As that thought coursed through his mind, he had a vague awareness of movement off to his left. He stopped dead still. In the silence of the empty space, he listened intently. No breeze stirred. He peered into the low bushes where he thought he saw the movement. What was it? A trick of optics in the fading light? Without thinking, he said, “who’s there?” and then felt foolish…..did he really expect an answer? He laughed inwardly at himself as he scanned the terrain. He continued to stand stock still a few more seconds before taking halting steps while watching the creosote, manzanita, and greasewood that grew in these hills. Nothing moved. He muttered something to himself and moved off again trying to focus again on tomorrow’s challenges. The sun was low in the sky, nearing the horizon. He considered jogging a while but then just picked up the pace again. Now breathing more deeply even on the gradual descent, he glanced at his watch and questioned whether the rustle he heard was his clothing or was it in the bush? Now he did start to jog. Realizing his error instantly, he understood the inevitability of his situation. Now time slowed even though he sped to a full sprint. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the same tan shape he suspected earlier. Panic engulfed him as he realized running was futile. There was no time to think about defense or the way this attack would unfold. There was just time for one more look. He saw the yellow eyes eight feet away framed above white canine teeth. The mountain lion was already airborne having launched himself from 15 feet away. He was following instincts coded into his DNA over tens of thousands of years and there was no hesitation, no concept of failure, no thought at all. The impact from the 150 pound cat was ferocious in itself. The powerful front legs wrapped up the right arm and claws pinned the right hand to the abdomen. The paw was large enough that claws penetrated both the hand and the abdominal wall of the thinly built man. The left paw got nothing but belly and the claws went right into the small intestine. The canines went for the neck and found the interstitial space between the cervical vertebrae. The powerful bite severed the spinal cord instantly. The man, going down anyway from the impact and the weight of the cat, was now paralyzed and could not even put out his left arm to break the fall. He dropped as if shot in the head. He skidded through the fine rocks and sand on the trail. The cat’s momentum carried him past his prey and he rolled on his side before regaining his feet and starting back for the man he expected to flee….only he didn’t. The cat, still in pursuit mode, didn’t understand why his prey was motionless and was almost cautious in his approach.
The man felt the excruciating bite, the penetration of the right canine between the third and fourth cervical vertebra, and the instantaneous loss of control and sensation as he fell. He tried to extend his arm to break the fall but he was on a trajectory determined by velocity and gravity. There was no changing it. He came to rest face down on a sandy portion of the trail. His head was turned slightly so that he could see a little to his left. Confusion and panic took over. He couldn’t figure out what had happened and why nothing was working. He could not move! “Not move,” he tried to say between labored breaths. He had been sprinting and now was in oxygen deficit. He could not get enough air and though very little blood was drawn, he thought he might pass out. Try as he might, he could not make his arms or legs move. He tried to scream – involuntarily but all that came out was a low, hoarse cough. The sound startled the cat who jumped sideways and into view. He growled, narrowing the yellow eyes and exposing the canines that had done the damage to the man’s spinal cord. He could not figure out why this animal was just lying on the trail.
The man now began to grasp the situation and to understand what was probably going to happen. He felt no pain and told himself this must be wrong, it had to be wrong. People don’t die this way in the 21st century. He couldn’t….this wasn’t really happening. Two minutes ago, his body, his life was normal, he had a meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning. How could this be possible?
The cat also was breathing hard but now understood that the chase was over. The smell of the mountain lion filled the man’s nostrils when he felt the tongue, rasp-like, lick the back of his neck. One paw was visible right in front of the man’s face and the other one, probably with claws extended, was on his back. He guessed this because his face was being rocked on the sandy trail and his view was moving. He became very aware now of the silence of the dry hill country punctuated by the sniffing of the mountain lion who now did a complete investigation of this animal he had caught.
The man, whose name was Darren, could see that dusk was settling in. He realized that no hikers would be passing this evening and that his fate was sealed. He began to softly sob. How could everything be taken from someone like this? No human should be subjected to a lion attack! He had to wake up.
As the light faded, Darren could sense his body rocking. He could see an indigo sky with just a few pink streaks. The smell of sagebrush and some little blue wild flowers was very acute now. He could hear sounds of course and once or twice, tugs on his body were strong enough to drag him a few feet across the sand. Darren was surprised it was taking so long and was grateful for the paralysis. Evening settled into night now and the last of the pink left the sky.
Into the Fire
“Small projects need much more help than great.” – Dante Alighieri
Sam Ward sat on a bench at a tire dealership on a fine spring day with a book in his lap. An old Taurus pulled into the parking lot right in front of him. Later, Sam and the driver exchanged smiles as she joined him on the bench. She was about 18.
“Looks like you’re due,” he pointed to the steel showing through the treads.
“Yeah, that car was a graduation gift. If I knew how much it would cost me, I might have turned it down,” she laughed.
“I know what you’re talking about….one of those gifts that keeps on taking,” he mused.
She nodded in agreement, “The plan was to use this to get to some college classes in the fall but the tuition money is all going to be in the car!”
The light breeze ruffled Sam’s hair and felt like an actual caress on his face….an unseen hand.
“What will be your major,” he asked.
“I’d like to say English literature but that’s not very practical and money is tight so probably computer science….I’ve done a little coding,” she replied. She nodded toward his book, “what are you reading?”
“’The Divine Comedy’ – I just retired and I’m trying to get through a list of classics”
“Sounds hellish,” she quipped.
Sam smiled. “It’s not exactly light reading.
“I haven’t read it but two people in my class gave presentations on it,” she said. “So I know a little. Nine circles and all that.” She paused and looked at the clouds drifting across a vivid blue sky. “Some know first-hand”
Sam wasn’t sure how to respond….she was only a kid; what was her life like?
He nodded in agreement. “Life is hard,” was all he could come up with.
“Compared to what,” she said, turning to him.
Good question. He thought of the changes he had faced and the confusion that surfaces after a lifetime of work. Part of the reason for his reading list was an attempt to put it all in perspective, to understand how life passes so quickly and to figure out his purpose now.
“All I can tell you is you have to work hard and work smart and there’s still no guarantee.”
She looked him dead in the eye, “yeah, I think I’ve got that part down pat.” She paused and then continued, “my Dad lost his job and my Mom found out she has breast cancer. Not a good year.”
Sam was speechless. She was looking at an uphill climb at the beginning of her life and he was coasting aimlessly at the far end.
Before he could respond, the door opened and the guy motioned him inside. He stood and said, “that is a tough road you’ve got……don’t give up.”
“Yeah, right” was her reply.
Sam felt powerless as he waited to pay. He looked at the title of his book and remembered a quote of Dante’s as he instructed the manager to put the girl’s tires on his bill. It was a small project.
Storytime for the Insane
Once upon a time…..or really at a time when there was no time, in the exact place you are now…..actually this time we speak of was a time BEFORE the last time there was time….in fact, it was many times before. You see, there may not be time when there is nothing and there has been nothing many times in the past because all you see in the night sky may have been remade many times over…..in fact, countless times. Do you understand “countless?” It means that we can not count something. Can Not Count….as in in-fi-nite. Infinite is hard to imagine, isn’t it? We really can’t, yet we use that word all the time without really grasping the significance of it.
If I say the universe has been created and destroyed a million x a billion x a quadrillion x a quintillion x a septillion times…….that’s a lot. Or I could just say a millinillion times.
But in either case, that number of creations and destructions is a teensy, weensy fraction of in-fi-nite. In fact you can’t even measure it against infinite. And so you want to try to make it larger and you multiply it by some large number and you do that over and over and over and it still doesn’t begin to begin to approach infinite. So anyway – you get my drift.
Created and destroyed over and over many times.
And each time, how long did it – the universe, that is – last from the beginning of creation to the death throes? 100 trillion years? Earth years that is – how else could we conceive of time? Maybe a lot more than 100 trillion? Who knows.
Anyway, once upon a time in the place where you are now….the exact place, to be exact. Well, it (that place) actually may have never existed long because as we all know – space is expanding. So that place you were when you started reading this….it, uh, probably doesn’t exist any longer because how can you locate a position in space that is expanding faster than light can travel. So, I mean, think about it, let’s say it took you 100 seconds to read a lunatic’s journal entry, the place you were when you started, is, in the Cartesian Coordinate sense, uh, 18.6 million miles away now and has expanded at least three dimensionally…..so I don’t know that we can say it still exists in the way humans understand “exists.”
So, once upon a time in the place….the exact place you were some time ago, there lived a hermit….an anchorite to be exact, who lived in a small cell attached to a great stone cathedral. He passed his days eating a little crust of stale bread, drinking tepid water, and sitting on a worn wooden bucket to get rid of the waste produced by the metabolism of dry bread and tepid water. The bread and water were passed through a small opening in his stone cell as was the bucket but the opening was not big enough for the hermit to get out. He was committed. To the cell. Forever.
Candles also passed through the opening so the anchorite could read his sacred text. You see, the opening faced south and so for a few hours each day, depending on the season, he could read by sunlight (or whatever they called it – in that time and that place). But the rest of the day, he had to light a candle to read. Sometimes he didn’t have fire to light his candle so he would sit or kneel or lay prostrate in the small cell and pray to God (or whatever they called their Deity then and there) for the souls of the people of his village. He lay in the dark, imagining the spirits of departed friends and family hovering above his body, wishing him well and smiling down upon him.
This is a work-in-progress….do you understand progress? It means the slow pace at which a lazy writer adds to his oeuvre. Come back later. How much later? Let me explain a little about time………
Christmas in Revolt
Sarah Van Den Berg was almost five years old and she had anticipated the arrival of Christmas for days. Sarah’s mother, Rachel, was working on little individual sweet-potato pies; she wanted her sons and her daughter to have a special treat to mark the festive holy day.
When Sarah heard stomping feet outside the cabin, she looked to her mother whose eyes widened as she whispered “Sinter Klaus” to the eager child. The door swung open on its leather hinges and a gust of cold and snow flakes accompanied Sarah’s father as he entered.
“It’s not Sinter Klaus” said the disappointed child as her father, Gerrit laughed at the dejected pout. “Nor Saint Nicholas,” he exclaimed! Gerrit and his wife were both descendants of Dutch and German stock and held on to some of the old-world traditions that were not observed by many in their adopted country.
Gerrit was a farmer, a woodworker and a part-time ferryman: he owned the land he tilled with a team of oxen. He and Rachel had set up housekeeping on the banks of the Delaware River in the colony of New Jersey near the village of Trenton.
The year was 1776 and the Van Den Bergs prospered even in the midst of the fledgling war that had now come to their doorstep. Two foraging/scouting parties of Hessians had come to the cabin in the past weeks but both times, the combination of finding German-speakers and shared memories of Hesse-Kassel, Saxony and Liepzig had saved the Van Den Bergs. Both were born in the colonies but had interminable stories memorized from winter nights at the knees of their elders.
The scouts left with only token contributions to their cause. Gerrit knew from conversations with neighboring farmers that others had not fared so well. He was grateful for the favoritism but resentment was building in him over the tales of unwanted quartering, stolen livestock and the liberties taken by the professional soldiers. Rachel was still an attractive woman after four children and Gerrit watched the eyes of the scouting party when she came out of the cabin with hoe cakes and eggs. The officers were harsh disciplinarians and generally kept the men in line but rumors of a broader conflict could mean that civilians too would be at risk.
Gerrit slumped into a chair of his own making before the fire and motioned Sarah to sit in his lap. He extracted a small clay pipe from his hat band and filled it with tobacco taken from an inner pocket of his coat. Rachel saw this and used small tongs hanging from the mantle to retrieve a tiny coal from the fire to light the pipe. A few draws and the aroma of the tobacco wafted through the cabin.
Sarah nestled into her father’s wool greatcoat that smelled of oxen and manure. Gerrit cleared his throat, “I’ve just spoken to Elijah Heatherston and he says Washington may cross the river and attack soon. I hate to say it but I think we would do well to pack and head up-river, away from Trenton, we can stay with Andries for a few days and see if either of them makes a move. The rumor is that most of the continentals will go home soon if this drags on into the new year.”
Andries, Gerrit’s brother, lived on the river about 4 miles upstream and worked as a ferryman at the Johnson ferry or for McConkey most of the year. Gerrit also worked the ferries some when he was not tending his crops. He knew that Andries had room for them on the floor of his cabin and the boys could sleep in the barn.
Rachel would not favor this plan, he knew but he had seen a little of war as a boy and he wanted to be certain that his wife and children would not be caught in the crossfire if there was any chance of the fight coming their way.
“I do not wish to leave and I don’t like the idea of being in a house with Polly for days,” Rachel said “but neither did I like the men that came looking for food.”
The Hessian soldiers had been relatively polite but they were battle-hardened men who surely had done things that neither Rachel nor Gerrit wanted to consider. Would they be as cordial after getting into a store of rum or whisky?
Rachel folded the dough over the sweet potato filling to complete the little pies she was preparing for Christmas and thought of all she would need to do to prepare for a stay of several days. “You’ll need to dig some turnips, cabbage, and carrots if we go….we can’t expect them to feed us for that long.” They kept vegetables stored in a mound of flax straw and dried grass that they covered with loose dirt. When they needed the food, they would dig up what was needed and cover the mound again.
“I’ll take care of that….and I’ll get the ham from the smoke house. We can slice off enough for a Christmas dinner,” Gerrit replied. He puffed on his pipe. “It’s settled then, we’ll leave at first light.” He looked down into the eyes of his only daughter and asked, “what do you think liefje?” Gerrit often called her “little dear.” “Do you want to spend Christmas with your cousins?”
She nodded yes. Sarah loved spending time with her two older cousins; it was the only time she got to be with girls close to her age….plus she knew they both had rag dolls that she loved to play with. But there was one problem: “what about the tree and Sinter Klaus. How will he know where I am?”
Gerrit smiled at the child’s logic. “Andries will have a tree too….and old Saint Nicholas will know you are there for Christmas. With this, he put the child down and began to think about all he would need to pack on the sledge for the trip.
George Washington surveyed the sky trying to discern the weather for the next few days. It was December 24, 1776. He stood outside the house on River Road and shifted his gaze to the south southeast where he knew the Hessians led by Col. Rall were wintering in the comfort of Trenton, New Jersey. His own men were camped out in the weather, were ill-equipped, sick, and hungry. Additionally, the enlistment of many expired in just days on December 31.
Washington knew his back was against a wall. If he didn’t make a decisive move soon, it was possible that the entire revolution would grind to a halt. He and his officers had considered many options but the best seemed to be a surprise attack on Trenton on the morning after Christmas. Several things favored this bold strategy….first, his spies informed him that a large body of Brits had followed a relatively small diversionary Continental unit to Mount Holly, New Jersey in hopes of capturing a supposed larger number of rebels. Second, Col. Rall was so confident in his men and in the weakness of Washington’s that he had not prepared any fortifications around Trenton, and lastly, the Hessians traditionally celebrated Christmas like most Germanic people and sentries might be a little relaxed the next morning. Rall was certainly settled for the winter according to Washington’s informants so it was likely that he assumed that the Continentals also would be in winter quarters.
Although Washington concluded that the weather might not favor an attack, he was convinced that he had no choice – he had to make the attempt. He turned to re-enter his headquarters to inform his officers that they would cross the Delaware on Christmas night and march the 10 miles to Trenton to attack before daybreak on the 26th.
Hessian Colonel Johann Rall was a professional soldier. He had been born to the military life; his father was a Captain before him. He had served in the Regiment of Major General Donop since 1740 when he was a cadet. Over the years, Rall had continually impressed his superiors with his leadership ability. He had fought in many battles all over Europe and in December 1776, he found himself in the British colonies where his regiment had been hired by King George to suppress the revolting colonists. He had already fought at Long Island, White Plains, and Fort Washington. He now was comfortably quartered in Trenton New Jersey in the home of a loyalist merchant. Rall was certain that Washington was no threat. The Hessians and British had driven them from New York across the Delaware River to Pennsylvania where they were no doubt short of provisions while caring for the sick and wounded and gradually losing the will to fight. Rall felt that there was no need to press his enemy further. The British and Hessians were garrisoned all along the Delaware River because there was no one town large enough to hold the entire army. The cordon was wide and allowed no escape. When your opponent is working his own destruction, the best advice is to stand aside and let him. Rall was familiar with both Sun Tzu and Machiavelli and had learned the art of war on a very personal level. He was content to sleep in a soft bed while Washington weakened over the cold winter months. No, there would be no attack in the frozen weather. Plus, there were interesting diversions among the Loyalists of Trenton. Rall enjoyed cards and chess and the company of women.
Gerrit emptied his pipe in the fireplace and wrapped a wool scarf around his neck in preparation for heading back out into the wind and the snow flurries. He watched Rachel put her sweet potato pies into a dutch oven and scoop some coals onto the top before hanging it over the fire. These were going to going to be a real treat….they didn’t often have access to wheat flour but Rachel had traded a scarf like Gerrit wore for some flour and raw sugar that she sprinkled over the pies before baking them over the fire.
The cabin was better than many and was fairly air-tight except around the door. It had its own scent from the fireplace, the baking, the tobacco, and wet wool. Gerrit would be sorry to leave the comfort of his own home but it was better to be safe. He turned to the door and winked at Sarah as he went out to find the boys and gather feed for the oxen. He reminded himself to melt down some lead for musket balls that evening; he had been delaying this and now had few of the .69 caliber balls he shot out of his Brown Bess.
Gerrit walked through the wind and swirling snow to the small shed where the Oxen, Pim and Dirk could get out of the weather. Their yoke and the leather harness were stored there as well as some ear corn that was kept in a bin.
Gerrit was anxious about the move he had suggested and was gruff when he found the boys playing in the hay. The tin pail containing the milk they had been sent to fetch was sitting on the ground in danger of spilling. “Hey, no time for play,” he shouted. “Get that milk in the house for your mother.” He paused and then told them of the plan to visit Andries for Christmas. “We’ll just have to let some of the animals fend for themselves,” he said, “but we’ll have to take Fleur so you can keep milking her.”
The boys, Lars, 11 and Bram 8, were excited to visit their cousins for Christmas and so fell to the chores their father gave them in preparation for the trip. It was mid-afternoon on Christmas eve when Gerrit and his sons began to load a few things on the sledge that the oxen would pull across the flat and wet River Road. It would not be an easy or pleasant trip but Gerrit felt that the further he was from Trenton and Rall, the better. He looked at the sky beyond the stark black limbs of beech and Chestnut trees and hoped the weather would not get any worse.
By dusk, all was ready for the departure at daybreak and the Van Den Bergs sat around their small table for a Christmas eve meal of corn bread, potatoes, cabbage and a little jerked venison. Gerrit looked at his children and wife eating in the dim candlelight and hoped he was doing the right thing….he did not support the King or many of his colonial appointees but he wanted to stay out of the fight if possible.
After the somewhat frugal meal, Rachel retrieved the long-awaited pies and gave one to each. The pies were a rare treat and the children all thanked their mother for baking them.
Rachel, who was a passable reader, took the family Bible from its shelf and drew the candle closer. She read of the prophecy of a Messiah, and of a journey during which a child was born. She read of shepherds and Kings and angels wanting to insure her children knew the story of Christmas. By the time, she finished, heads were nodding in the faint light, and the fire was burning low.
First light came quickly and Gerrit pulled on his coat and instructed the boys to hurry. They would get started and eat cornbread on the way. He stepped out into a blustery Christmas Day. At least it looked like it might be dry for the trip but regardless, they were leaving. Rachel brought out baskets of provisions and Gerrit carried Sarah out to put her on the sledge. He was distracted but glanced at her perfect little face and the blue eyes that seemed so clear this morning. “Are you ready for a ride,” he asked. He laughed at her childish nodding and put her down in some hay on the sledge where Rachel pulled a wool blanket over the two of them. Gerrit walked beside his oxen with a long stick he used to guide them. The boys came behind leading Fleur.
The trip was tedious as expected but the road was in fair condition. Pim and Dirk pulled the lightly laden sledge pretty easily over the muddy road. The runners were well worn and smooth from use and they slid over the wet ground with little resistance. The road followed the river whose gray waters writhed like a giant snake. The riffles gleaming scales of this serpent that separated the Continentals from the Brits and Hessians…..for now. If either side attacked, the river would be a formidable obstacle. Many boats would be required to get men, horses, and artillery across. Gerrit kept an eye on the currents visible in the river as he recalled a conversation with a trapper who had come downriver a fortnight ago. The man had spoken with Andries who told of being warned by a Hessian scouting party that aiding the Continentals in crossing would be considered treason against the Crown.
About mid-afternoon, the Van Den Bergs finally reached a little pine forest that signaled their arrival at Andries and Polly’s homestead. As they emerged from the little stand of conifers and saw the cabin, Gerrit gave a loud “HALLOO” to announce their presence. “Andries….it’s Gerrit. Don’t shoot,” he added with a laugh.
At this, the door was flung open and Polly came out screaming. “Gerrit, Gerrit, they have taken him. The Hessians took him.” The woman was now wailing and shaking with fear. The girls came out of the house and added to the pandemonium as Rachel tried to comfort them and Gerrit tried to make sense of what he was hearing.
It took a few minutes but finally he pieced together the story. Hessians had come by again just an hour earlier to warn him about aiding the rebels. Everyone up and down the river knew that McConkey’s Ferry was a likely place for a crossing and that Andries was an experienced ferryman.
Andries, who was hot-headed, supported independence from the Crown and had a history of minor altercations with both British authorities and Hessian officers. When Washington had crossed into Pennsylvania on December 2, he had taken all the boats with him to prevent the Brits and Hessians from following. Andries was at the Johnson Ferry just opposite McConkey’s when Col. Rall personally visited the site in mid-December and threatened to execute, on the spot, anyone who aided the Continentals. Andries despised the arrogant Colonel and the threat only stiffened his resolve to be free of the Crown and its hired killers.
So, Polly said, when the Hessian scouts came to the cabin to insure that Andries was still in New Jersey and was not working for Washington, he came out with a musket and told them to leave. They continued to harass him and he leveled his gun on one of the soldiers and pulled the tricker. The weapon failed because of a worn flint and the shot fired from horseback in retaliation missed because Polly’s scream startled the horse.
Once all realized there were no casualties, the Hessians decided to take Andries to their commander who they were to meet at Johnson Ferry before heading back to their quarters for the night. Because of his history of resistance and the attempt to kill a Hessian scout, they discussed the possibility of an execution or lashes.
Gerrit decided to go on upriver to Johnson Ferry to see if there was any chance of freeing his brother. He quickly unhitched the oxen and got everything into the cabin. He told Lars to fetch the malfunctioning musket, get a new flint in it and be prepared to defend the cabin. He took up his own Brown Bess, his powder, the new balls he had cast in his mold just the night before and headed up-river in the remaining light.
The weather was getting worse and Gerrit pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, thinking that his bellicose brother would be lucky if he could avoid a noose or a lead ball. Gerrit neared the ferry in about 30 minutes and saw, from a distance, a group of armed men milling about. He hesitated but they clearly were not Hessian or British….Torries? He could always lie.
As he got closer in the failing light, he was challenged by two men that he had not seen earlier. One of them he recognized as a ferryman that worked with Andries. “It’s Gerrit,” he said, “I’m looking for Andries.” The Ferryman spoke to the other man and they lowered their weapons.
The river was dark now and choked with ice. The wind was picking up and Gerrit could see activity on the opposite bank in the gathering gloom of this Christmas Day.
“I said, I’m trying to find Andries….he was arrested by a Hessian scouting party. Do you have any news?”
The men looked at each other and then at the circle of men Gerrit had first seen. “We ambushed the Hessians” the ferryman said. “They got here, saw the boats, and killed Andries. We opened fire and killed them all….had to, they would have alerted everyone.”
“Andries!” Gerrit called as he ran toward his brother. But it was too late. He had been executed and lay in the mud on River Road surrounded by three Hessians who had been killed in the first volley. Others were scattered around the landing and up the road north of the ferry.
The ferryman Gerrit recognized was named Jacob. He came and kneeled beside Gerrit in the dark. “I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do. Andries was going to help us get the Continentals across this very night and was the first to lose his life” He paused….”you saw the movement on the other side, right? The first boats are going to be here soon. We need to move these bodies before they land. There’s nothing you can do for your brother now but once we put him in a safe place, you can finish the job he was going to do.”
Gerrit looked into Jacobs eyes in disbelief. “My brother is dead,” he shouted.
Others were moving the Hessians out of the road and Gerrit helped carry his brother’s body to a safe spot. They covered his face with a sash worn by one of the Hessians. Gerrit sat there in the faint light of the lanterns at the landing. He could hear stamping of hooves of the horses on the barges and the creaking wood as cannons rolled off onto the shore. The wind was picking up and the occasional snowflake rested on Andries coat. Gerrit’s cold tears dried on his face as he pictured himself explaining this to Polly and the girls.
The first soldiers off the boats were setting up a perimeter around the landing and moved off into the darkness to secure the site. Once a good number of Continentals had assembled on the bank of the river, there was a distinct change in the tone of the soldiers as one particular boat landed. Gerrit could see from the numerous lanterns that this was someone important. A tall man with gray hair and wearing the blue and buff uniform of an officer stepped from the ferry barge leading a fine horse. Though Gerrit had never seen Washington, he knew this must be the man. He issued quiet commands and mounted his horse.
Gerrit patted his brother’s body and knew the time had come to choose a side. He stood up and walked toward the boats.
Epilogue
Washington had to act in late December 1776. He wrote: “….Christmas Day at night, one hour before day is the time fixed for our attempt on Trenton….our numbers, sorry am I to say, being less than I had any conception of; but necessity, dire necessity will, nay must, justify my attack.”
Two thousand four hundred soldiers crossed the icy Delaware and marched about ten miles to Trenton intent on attacking the 1500 Hessians before daybreak. They arrived at 8am with the sun already risen but managed to defeat the Hessians and mortally wound Col Rall in the fray. The continentals captured needed supplies, won an important victory and insured that the fledgling army would not disband.
Washington had several small units on the New Jersey side of the river to harass the British in the days before the attack. They were to gather intelligence, keep the enemy guessing about the location of the army, and try to lure British or Hessian units away from Trenton. This strategy actually worked. With the prospect of capturing what was thought to be a large body of continentals, the British sent more than 2,000 troops on a wild goose chase to Mount Holly New Jersey where the commander, Colonel Donop was wounded. Donop, convinced by a trusted “Tory” spy (who was actually a plant working for Washington) that no attack was imminent, was reluctant to leave Mount Holly even though it had become clear that the “large force” of continentals he pursued was much smaller than thought. Donop was also swayed by the presence in that town of a pretty young widow whom he admired and who was tending to his wound. Some speculate that this young widow was Betsy Ross but there is no proof of this. When the attack occurred on December 26, Donop was too far away to play any role.
The deception at Mount Holly was an important part of the overall strategy of the Battle of Trenton. Hessian diarist Captain Johann Ewald later wrote of the diversion and subsequent events:
“This great misfortune, which surely caused the utter loss of thirteen splendid provinces of the Crown of England, was due partly to the extension of the cordon (garrisons), partly to the fault of Col. Donop, who was led by the nose to Mount Holly….and detained there by love…thus the fate of entire kingdoms often depends upon a few blockheads and irresolute men.”
The moral of this story: be glad that clear thinkers and resolute men crossed an icy river on Christmas Day to gain liberty from a tyrant. Be a clear thinker and a resolute citizen to insure that liberty is not lost.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
The Nature of Consciousness
The nature of consciousness? What if it is a component, a building block of the universe as much as hydrogen or uranium and it drives the creation of life in some as yet undetermined way?
Julian couldn’t define or describe exactly what he sought but it wasn’t anything physical, not a thing you could hold in your hand, no – it was something spiritual but not that either, at least not in the usual way. Years after first recognizing this vague yearning, he slowly came to realize his search was leading to the simplest answer of all…oblivion. He wanted release from the very consciousness that was his constant tormentor. In short, he wished never to have existed or to have had a single thought. It was then that he began to consider consciousness as a fundamental particle of the universe – like the Higgs boson….or maybe it was more like a virus that could be eradicated if only the means for inoculation existed. He had visions of Edward Jenner loading a revolver with bullets labeled “ego,” “pride,” “self-awareness,” “meaning,” and “reality.” Then closing the cylinder, with a click, Jenner leaned closer to Julian and looking him right in the eye, he said, “there are six rounds in there. Save the last one for yourself; don’t let them take you alive.”
Julian smiled at this fantastic vision….none of it made sense. Weren’t all six meant for him? He shifted a little uncomfortably when he realized that Jenner hadn’t told him what was written on the sixth bullet – and even though it was Julians own fantasy, he had no idea.
Puzzling over the omission, he said out loud to no one, “I have no clue.”
Visions had always intrigued Julian, but you couldn’t lump a ridiculous little episode like this Jenner thing with the real deal. Take for instance the vision of Pascal. This experience so profoundly affected Pascal that he wrote it all down and sewed the story into the lining of his coat so it would be always with him.
Julian had felt a certain kinship with Pascal upon first reading Penses 393: “When I see man’s blindness and misery, when I survey the whole silent universe, and man without light, left to himself and, as it were, lost in this corner of the universe, not knowing who has put him there, what he has come to do or what will happen to him when he dies, and incapable of any sort of knowledge, then I am seized with terror.” – Blaise Pascal
Julian was intimately acquainted with terror himself. He was first introduced to it upon arriving at Fire Base Bastogne in 1968. He decided later that there were different flavors of terror and he had become the student of three of them over a lifetime. There was much to learn from these masters.