(Historical —
Some events were tweaked to explain England's presence in Trenton. This story will focus more on the angst, but the battle of Trenton was vital to the war. Had it failed the revolutionaries efforts likely would have collapsed.
This is a story of bitter, wrecked, and ruined friendships. Of once closed friends now turned to bitter enemies. This is maybe a three or four shot at most.)
One Morning In Trenton in 1776
England sat alone in his room, drinking Black Strap Rum, sure nothing would ever lift his mood. Not even in the worst of the Seven Years' War with France had he been so downcast. It was Christmas Night and he would rather it wasn't.
The extra sweet flavor of the molasses, only reminded him of that traitor America who had loved it as well for the very same reason. Oh, how America had grown to hate tea, yet he adored rum and molasses. Americas puts molasses in everything these days, even their tea!
Prat, England wanted to say, along with git, tosser, wanker, oh and traitor.
Downstairs the Hessians and British troops loudly celebrated in the inn, singing drunk songs in both English and German. They had urged England to join, but he had refused, knowing his sour mood would only dampen the fun.
He could see his thin, haggard face reflected in the frosted glass panes. Heavy bags were under his eyes. The wound in his soul was still fresh and he was still bitter.
Outside, the snow fell in sheets, hiding the view of the Delaware river. It clumped on the bottom of the window. There were troubling rumors of a planned assault by George Washington on Trenton. Rumors that the Hessian fool, Colonel Johann Rall, had dismissed as overblown.
England now understood why Cornwallis hated the prick so much. The man listened to no reason — there were no long-distant outposts or patrols up, no walls or fortifications and most of the men were getting pissed out of their minds. If there was an attack, they would be vulnerable.
However, if the other rumors were true, George Washington's forces were falling apart. They might not even be able to manage an attack on Trenton at this point.
Still, England felt on edge.
He took another shot from his crystal glass and set it down, leaning over the desk. He picked up the thick paper of a letter, holding it up to the glowing glass lantern's light.
On the top of the quilted bedding lay England Land Pattern Musket or "Brown Bess" as most called it. It had a flintlock and smoothbore musket. It was worn and it had been his close companion lately in these treasonous colonies.
Beside it was a carved box and inside was a caliber ball that would fit perfectly in, a ball with a very special purpose.
He sighed, his eyes drifting to the silver pocket watch ticking at the edge of the table. Its lid was open and on the underside was carved:
To my dear colony, love Engwand.
A joke of sorts. One not funny now.
England's gripped tightened on the letter, that familiar bitter rage bubbling up. It wasn't fair. That should have been America's Christmas present today. England had commissioned it months ago, having the best watchmaker in London work on it.
Now… now…
How could America do this! Half his citizens were Loyalists! But no, their opinions clearly didn't matter. The git had gone and joined the traitors. No, he was a traitor now.
It had been like a dagger to the heart that rainy day when, to England's shock, America had walked out along with the traitors, dressed as one of them, and declared his allegiance. England had been so angry he had lost it and charged blindly. He had wanted to stab America through the heart with a bayonet, but couldn't at that moment.
It had been too overwhelming.
This should have been their Christmas together where they sat snuggled together in front of a fire, toasting the end of the rebellion and the defeat of the Revolutionaries.
Now it had all gone to pot.
You used to be so big, America had said that day as England fell to his knees in the mud.
"And you used to be so cute," England muttered, pouring another drink and then gulping it down. It burned as it went down his throat and his eyes watered up — from the alcohol of course.
He wanted to strangle the git for doing something so stupid. So hurtful. This was how he repaid England's generosity, by throwing a temper tantrum over a few taxes.
Even worse, England suspected that America had been planning his betrayal long before and only stayed close to England in order to smuggle information to his precious George Washington. What a fool England had made of himself before his own military leaders when he insisted America could be trusted. That America was on the side of the Loyalists. Ha!
He read the leader again, feeling his eyes would burn through it soon. It had come from King George III along with the box. It described that the bullet was made from the metal of the Lance of Longinus. England knew what that metal could do: kill an immortal.
The King's orders were clear, kill America if he must. End the revolution by any means, even if it meant destroying the nation's spirit, an arcane and bitter practice.
England took another shot.
No, no, he told himself. It wouldn't come to this.
The revolution was falling apart. He had only stopped in Trenton because of the foul weather and rumors that Washington and his forces were in the area.
When they were defeated, he would take America back and they would have a long, long talk until America understood that what he did was wrong.
But if the git wouldn't listen to reason… England's gaze slid to the box.
Well, unlike the git, England was loyal to King and country.
The Durham boat held seven including America who helped row. Other boats littered the surface of the Delaware River along with chunks of ice. The overcast hid them all, but also made this journey bitter, especially for the humans, most of whom were not sufficiently covered.
Sometimes boats got stuck and a couple men had fallen in. The heavy artillery and horses were being crossed by ferry. America was cold as well, nations could feel it, but not die or get frostbite like the mortals.
So he gave away his boots and clothed his feet in rags like many of the other had because there weren't enough boots to go around. Each man had a set number of bullets. And few had thick enough coats.
Washington was head on a different boat, somewhere America couldn't see him right now. He knew he was anxious. They were still under cover of dark, but they were late. They had missed the midnight deadline.
America could see the humans' breathes coming out in puff. Most were young and, even though it was too dim to see it, most had fear in their eyes.
His musket lay in his lap. While he could not kill humans — an instinct of nations — with a few exceptions, he could have a powerful affect on morale and energize their spirit. He could rally them and lower the morale of the enemy.
That was one of the power of nations.
He could not dwell forever on the bitter hatred he had seen in England's eyes that rainy day. That look of hurt and betrayal. He hoped he would not see England again; he was not ready to face the pain he had inflicted on him.
But if it came to pass, America had his musket. England would not die, but he could not let him rally his troops. He had not doubt England would shoot him this time.
The man held grudges. He had seen that many times.
It hurt to think that they would never be brothers again, not even friends. He felt sick inside at the thought. He stared up as he rowed, wishing for a part in the clouds, just long enough to see the stars.
When he was a boy he would lay for hours on the tall grass with England who taught him the constellations.
"Oh, can that big, round, shiny one be my star?" a young Alfred had asked, arms folded behind his head, a piece of grass hanging out the corner of his mouth.
"You mean the moon? That's not a star," Arthur said.
"But it's perfect for me. Then I'll be mooning you always."
England only gave an exasperated sigh.
After a long pause, Alfred asked, "Can you always be my big brother?" He snuggled closer to England's side, relishing the warmth. England's hand idly combed through his hair and he felt sleepy.
"Of course, poppet. Nothing will ever tear us apart."
If there was ever an era were they could be friends again, it would probably be centuries off. Things had passed the point of no return. When they left, America had seen Washington's letter where the general wrote: Victory or death?
A couple of the men murmured and America looked up, grinning for the first time in what felt like a while. A miracle had happened, a Christmas gift of the heavens. The clouds had opened wide enough for a glimpse of the North Star, England's chosen star, and America basked in that brief light, feeling a flutter in his chest.
Tucked away in an inside coat pocket was a toy wooden soldier — one from a set that England gave him once — a good luck charm now. A reminder from happier days that kept him grounded on what he had sacrificed for this cause.
Although unsure what present he would have given England if they had celebrated this Christmas together, America was sure it would have been amazing. His always were, even if England never admitted it.
In a voice too low to be heard, moments before the clouds swallowed that patch of sky once more, America said, "Merry Christmas, England."
The attack would start before dawn, if all went well, on December 26th, 1776. And it felt like the world held its breath. Like something big was coming. He only prayed it wasn't defeat and that England was nowhere nearby.
Historical Note —
The Battle of Trenton occurred on the morning of December 26th, 1776.
Rum and molasses were very popular among the colonies at that time.
TBC...