14 November, 1776, midday
Bright winter sun glares on New Jersey. Across Fort Lee, the Continental Army relishes one final day of relative warmth. Off-duty soldiers hang their coats, horses nicker and prance about their muddy paddocks, and flocks of sparrows inundate the brush with their garbled squeaking.
James Hiller stifles an oath as he walks across the frostmelt-dampened field from the officers' stables to the far end of camp, his body smothered under a heavy greatcoat. He'd left his lighter coat with Henri when the boy was sent back from New York to Philadelphia. That had been nearly a month ago, when it was clear the British advance across Manhattan would persist – as would the Pennsylvania Gazette's young correspondents – and it was determined Henri was yet too small for the continued danger. For weeks afterward the woolen greatcoat was James' stalwart ally against a bitter autumn and an early winter.
But today's weather savors of false spring, or of summer's vengeful spirit back for one last haunting. In the cheerful sunlight of early afternoon, his woolen vestments turn traitor. James lets out a huff and opens his coat with hopes the billowing fabric will air out his torso, even with a waistcoat snug to his frame. He fears he'll be reduced to carrying the heavy coat before long.
Still, as he hears content gurgling from cowbirds that attend to the camp's livestock, loping whistles from a distant cardinal, and the audacious trill of wrens, he thinks he should be happy for the beautiful day. Should cherish whatever peace was left of the year before one more retreat tips the Cause – and all the men behind it – to complete ruin. And, by degrees, he takes whatever quiet he can get. Yet even disregarding the grief of hot wool, the day had started out contrary.
Earlier in the small morning hours, having raced from the cliffside and back under covers, it took longer than he would have liked to banish entirely-too-agreeable thoughts of Sarah from his mind. When he'd finally relaxed enough to fall asleep, it was a deathly slumber, as if his body had tallied the lost hours during this long tenure in New York and determined to make up for them in one fell swoop.
But such rest would prove a mixed blessing. The morning was high when he'd awoken to bright, empty quarters, having been roused by the loud bicker of crows holding some argument nearby. Shortly thereafter, queasy hunger overwhelmed his senses and he groaned aloud. It was small comfort that one of his roommates – all of them rather young Virginia men, scarce older than he – had the decency to close the tent and give him some solitude. James thinks it was Private Hughes; the man is downright kind compared to the others.
When James had dressed and left, it was with confidence he'd not be met with any of those soldiers, only to find most of them – including Hughes – lounging off-duty near the tent.
"Morn'n to ya, Sleepin' Beauty!"
"Had you a foine rest, princess?"
"He bett'r've, bloody rousin' at noontide."
Such were the greetings he'd tried to ignore as the sun shone in his eyes, forcing his brows together in a tense squint. The thought of lost time pulled at his empty stomach.
"Y'all leave off badgerin' the lad fer once," he heard Hughes comment. One of the men, a rather barrel-chested, thick-knuckled fellow by the name of Barton, did not take kindly to the admonition.
"Fixin' t'play backgamm'n with'm, too, Hughes?" he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. Hughes fixed him with a seething glare, but the other men snickered; and so Barton smirked his pride.
At his stomach's rumblings, one of the men offered James a misshapen hunk of camp bread, with a dazzling grin and assurances that "us boys mean ya no harm!" In retrospect, James thinks he should have expected mischief from the start, but at the time his hunger – paired with a sinking feeling when he recalled he'd polished off the last of his foodstuffs – overcame better instincts. He hadn't even noticed that the bread was split in two when he brought it to his mouth.
The dense mass of cornmeal was cold, and charred, and dry, but rather more alarming was a sickening crunch and an earthy, fishy taste that coated his tongue. He yanked the food from his mouth; the ground spun as he looked down to see the lower half of a grasshopper shoved between the layers of bread.
James had completely seized up, deaf to the men's jeer. Into his mind flooded some time-worn recollection of a crust poking through cold rubbish in an alleyway – an echo of starvation's wild vertigo – a lurch forward – a muddy crunch – wildly scrabbling legs and antennae from some six-legged monstrosity – its sharp, brown shell dribbling from his tongue – tears salting the crust as he scraped off the heinous, twitching remains and went in for another bite –
Cold sweat flushed his brow while his knees buckled underneath him. But before his stomach could upturn its contents, rage swept the nausea from his body. He wound the full force of his ire into his arm and threw the bread like a lance to the ground, where it bounced to the rising delight of a captive audience.
Storming away, he'd barely noticed Hughes in pursuit until the Private was nearly upon him. James didn't acknowledge the man, but the kind soldier tried to mollify him regardless. With rapid-fire tongue he condemned the rancorous display of his fellows, offered his own ration of half-eaten bread.
"I needn't your charity," James bristled. Regret for the venom was immediate when he saw the hurt in Hughes' eye.
"Well – I weren't – " the soldier stammered, " – 'tis fair, but – at least wash the taste from y'mouth, journ'list!" He lifted up his canteen, emblazoned with a jocular LIBERTY or DEATH. This, at least, James obliged, much to rid himself of the noxious aftertaste as it was to assuage the other man's anxiety.
In spite of lingering nausea from the misadventure, he set to procuring the day's victuals, though it was with some alarm he found them meager and much reduced. There hadn't even been any kind of protein provided – merely a ration of dried peas and cornmeal. He would have asked after the reasoning, but a haggard look in the commissary's eyes told him enough.
Not wanting to risk what mischief would await his food back at the tent, he stowed the dry goods into his haversack and made for the walls of Fort Lee. But, veering off a little westward, he decided instead to slip into the stable set up for the officer's horses. There, perhaps, he would find peace enough to plan his day, maybe even write.
And, at first, he'd been lucky enough to find the shelter mostly deserted, save for one or two sleepy ponies that couldn't be bothered to nicker at him. Set down atop a dwindling pile of clean straw, shoved into the far corner of the stable, he pulled out notebook and pencil and tried, for a time, to write of conditions at Fort Lee.
The straw pricked his thighs and itched his backside. Usually by now he would have planned the day with Sarah, prepared and eaten a morning meal with her, shared in some pithy observations of the camp, or even just spent time quietly jotting notes within spitting distance of the other. Something soft and sleepy flooded him when he thought of her curling red locks, slipping from under her cap like fire, of the bold flash of intelligence in her eye. Of her content sigh she sometimes breathed when they were alone together. It was enough to drive him mad.
And, without her presence, everything feels off-kilter, loose, disorderly. The observation soured his gut. How long had he managed to get by without her in his life, after all? Indignant with himself for the weakness, he renewed his drive to write, only to find his mind still indifferent to the task. It floundered incessantly, rebelliously, wanting only to think of a certain journalist's soft lips on his, until he was forced to hum and tap his pencil just to keep from the yawning pit of hopelessness that always followed the fantasy.
Eventually it had to be conceded that the effort to write this way would be fruitless. When he resolved to abandon solitude in favor of pursuing an interview with last night's reinforcements, it could not have been done at a more auspicious time. Havoc blundered its way into the stables as two flustered farriers were drawing in a recalcitrant bay stallion for reshoeing, filling the air with oaths while the creature snorted and stamped indignance at being torn from his comrades and the grass.
And now, appetite ruined to spite hunger, overheated in wool, trying to reason himself out of loneliness, James plods through the meadow towards the milling reinforcements. Patchwork rows of fresh tents crowd the perimeter, while woodsmoke sinks between the quick shelters. A cramped, makeshift paddock of rough-hewn timber pens in the newly-arrived officer's horses, rolling undignified in the dust and dirt.
As the journalist approaches, he watches the men in closer scrutiny. Under the mud and wear, their coats – those who have them, at least – are a bright, jolly blue offset against a field of white facings, breeches, waistcoats. James finds them a refreshing contrast to the browns of the Virgnia regiment he's billeted with. As he passes by the first tents, the soldiers fix him with distant interest. At first he pays this no mind, only for strange misgivings when he draws close. Some of the faces seem familiar. Why do they seem familiar?
And then his heart plummets as he marks them as Sixth Connecticut – or, rather, Tenth Continentals. And where the Tenth Continentals are –
"Hullo! Is that James Hiller? Aye, 'tis! Fancy that!"
James stops in his tracks at the sound of a familiar, reedy voice at his back.
"Corp'ral Lacklin," he says, polite as can muster, turning round to face the soldier. "What unexpected fortune."
Before him, a gaunt, short-statured infantryman stands in a dusty uniform, toothy grin beaming from his face, gray eyes sparkling. Corporal Lacklin had been a near-constant presence during James' time with the Continental Army on Long Island. His penchant for meandering tales had kept James and their other tentmates awake through from landing to evacuation – when nerves hadn't done the trick, of course.
And, by dint of belonging to the same unit, wherever Lacklin is, Private Wolf-Hutchinson cannot be far away.
Ud-ney Wolf-Hutchinson.
"'Tis Sargeant now, m'boy!" Lacklin laughs good-naturedly, making a point to gesture at the flourish of a green cockade on his hat. "Some darin' at Kip's Bay impress'd the officers into reck'nin' it migh'y foine work, promotin' yours truly to ord'rin' men about. Havin' a merry go of it, too! Ord'rin' men about. Bloody paperwork's a damn'd donkey's cock in my arse, though, y'know. 'N Lord only knows how much of it they'll have me piss about with, now they've gone n' divided Tenth for a spell. Sent half of us hither under cloak o' night, y'know! By the by, crossin' the Hudson at such ungodly hours – "
Some folk, when given an inch, will take a mile; Lacklin, if given a breath, will monologue himself breathless. James had learned quickly on Long Island to ration his attention with Lacklin, lest he exhaust himself. This reunion is much the same, though it does little to distract from the day's sourness. James moves along, keeping his eyes peeled for a certain Private and knowing that the Sargeant is sure to follow.
The Sargeant who has now embarked on a tirade against what Congress considers acceptable saltpork.
Perhaps 'tis a turn o' fortune, James thinks, in a sarcastic attempt to cheer himself. I needn't search long for an interviewee. In spite of himself, his lips pull in a subtle grin.
Lacklin's free-flowing speech is interrupted, finally, when he poses the journalist a question. "What bus'ness brings you hither, lad? Have you int'rest now to make fer a so'dier? Make a foine so'dier, you would," he adds, giving the journalist a once-over and crossing his arms in thought. "Fancy you in dragoon's threads! Perfect frame fer it. Broad shouder, long o' limb. Month's trainin' is all a lad like you wants fer, y'know… Aye… All he wants fer… And you'd be catchin' eyes from ev'ry lady you see! Lord, but those damn'd dragoons make the ladies swoon. Had I the silver fer to keep a foine pony! What is it with ladies and ponies, eh? Philadelphy's got itself a pony comp'ny, y'know. Say, I reck'n I knows a man in the Philadelphy Light Horse!"
"I am here to write, Sargeant," James explains patiently, making a show of his notebook and pencil. "Lest you've forgot, I'm a journ'list. In fact, would you be amenable to an interview?" James asks the question in a friendly, downright encouraging manner, but Lacklin's brows are puzzled together.
"Command's allowin' fer that? After Hale?"
Whatever James thought Lacklin might say, he hadn't expected a reminder of the ill-fated intelligence officer. Startled, James gives the Sargeant a curious look.
"What has Nathaniel Hale to do with news reporting?" he asks at length.
"Well – I thought – what with that good Lieuten'nt gettin' caught n' hang'd and all – well, wouldn't want them lobsterbacks to learn anythin' of import, y'know? And a civilian knowin' things –"
Suddenly, the Sargeant seizes up in salute, eyes locked forward and heels snapped together. James turns around to see Lieutenant Harrison – the Commander-in-Chief's soft-spoken secretary – approaching, hands rested behind his back.
"At ease soldier," he says with a quick nod to the Sargeant, who relaxes the salute, though neither his spine nor heels follow suit. "How d'ye do, Mister Hiller?"
For a brief moment, James considers being straightforward with Harrison. Ever since they'd been introduced to one another weeks ago in the encampment at North Castle, James had found the officer a surprisingly keen listener and patient comrade. But with Sargeant Lacklin nearby, he thinks better on it and merely exchanges pleasantries, after which the Lieutenant bobs a curt nod.
"Right then," he says, voice bright with intent. "Washington has sent me in request of your presence, Mister Hiller." A wry smile peeks into his lips when James narrows his eyes.
"T'what end, sir?" he asks cautiously, sparing Sargeant Lacklin a mollifying look when he hears the soldier gape in surprise. "I've been chas'd from all manner of the Gen'ral's doings since Long Island."
But Harrison simply smiles and, turning round, beckons James to follow.
"An end to benefit our Cause and your Gazette, lad!"
Cutting across the rows of tents and muddy fields towards Fort Lee, it doesn't take long for James to gather the import of what's to come, even if Harrison is tight-lipped. Especially since Harrison is tight-lipped. Anticipation mounts in his chest like static as they march past the ramparts and through the wide earth-and-timber gate.
Inside, the fort is abuzz with activity. From the tall magazine a group of soldiers in hunting shirts lug canisters of grapeshot and roll along barrels reeking of gunpowder. Artillery officers tour the parapets, inspecting the batteries of heavy cannon perched there. From within the cover of a wagon, hitched to a pair of stout horses on dinnerplate hooves, two women unload hogsheads of what James assumes are provisions. At the far end, a unit of mounted dragoons hold their steeds steady as they sidle to-and-fro in nervous energy, a harried staff officer barking some displeasure at their presence. In short, Fort Lee is the very image of nervous energy given direction.
The British close in on us, then.
The thought twinges deep in James' belly along a surge of adrenaline. He can't think of any other cause for such mobilization. Above the open heart of Fort Lee, a flock of crows pass and chatter excitedly. He bites back some foreboding as it prickles his fingertips, trying very hard not to think of omens, or recall such coal-black wings descending on bodies not yet cold. This isn't the time for cowardice.
"State yer bus'ness, lad."
A sentry's gruff command pulls James back to the moment. Harrison has brought him to a small cabin nearby the barracks, and from the number of spontoon-bearing guards on duty, it doesn't take long for James to piece together that it must be Washington's office. The vigilant sentry eyes the journalist with a hard gaze, which does nothing to alleviate the tension, but when Harrison cuts in with quiet authority, he relents and lets them through.
Despite sun leaking in through small windows, the wan light from a few sparse tapers, and a weak hearth's ember, the interior of the timber-and-earth office is murky with shadow. It takes a few moments for James' eyes to adjust as the heavy door shuts tight behind them, muffling the busy world beyond. The stale air is heavy with the scent of bare lumber, woodsmoke, ink, and soil. As his vision sharpens, the full interior registers and he takes in his surroundings.
The single-roomed cabin, though snug, is spartan. Wooden chairs surround a single, broad table, upon which the white mass of a great map is sprawled. To the south end, a wash stand houses a chipped pitcher and basin without mirror. A black kettle sits alongside iron pokers near the fading fireplace, and lone end table, empty but for inkwell and pen, occupies the other end of the room.
None of the scarcity is out of place when James considers the state of the Continental Army as a whole. Compared to the field offices he's chanced to enter before – Washington's quarters excepted – a study, dry, fully-enclosed space seems a luxury. What does it matter, anyway, to have sumptuous surroundings without the substance?
And, in this dark war room on this bright winter's day, the substance of some of the Army's top minds, mustered in one place, is enough to make James' heart stutter with anticipation. Gathered round the great table, eschewing the rough-made chairs to stand at attention, Israel Putnam, Nathanael Greene, and Joseph Reed flank the Commander in Chief.
For a fleeting moment, General Washington's face is stoic, grave; when his eyes meet the journalist's, it melts into distant warmth. With a half-smile, he steps forward, just as Lieutenant Harrison announces himself and James. After saluting, the secretary moves to gather some loose paper from the great table.
"Your swiftness is much appreciated, Harrison," Washington's deep voice thrums as he nods swiftly to his secretary, who softly proffers his thanks before shuffling to the empty end table. The General moves his gaze onto the young journalist, who stands alone, nervous, held together by an awkward tension between feigned confidence and real timidity.
"And a fine day to Philadelphia's most promising apprentice, Mister James Hiller! It does me good, to see you again, and in fine spirits, I hope." Washington's half-smile still holds genuine warmth and it encourages the young journalist.
"Aye – yes, sir," James replies, stumbling a little. "Always honor'd to be in your presence, Gen'ral. Sir."
"Lad, the honor is mine. Your dedication to your craft is an inspiration to the Cause. Now, in that vein – " Washington gestures James to follow him to the empty end table, now occupied by some leaves of paper and Harrison at its flank. The proceeding savors of consequence; James hopes his face does not betray the well of curiosity filling up within him.
"The Continental Army has decided," the General continues, deep voice gaining the weight of command, "that it will be a fine business should the next days' deeds be especially published in the Pennsylvania Gazette, and so you are granted the privilege to observe this, our deliberation. And, should the Army be amenable, future ones in kind. It is an unheard privilege for a civilian, but one we hope in turn shall bear good fruit for our cause.
"In return, you, James Hiller, swear a solemn oath that not a word of what you hear today, or indeed future meetings alike, is to be uttered to any soul, until whatever time we see fit. You will commit your notes to memory, and not set to pen any details, or any outline, until the coming days have elapsed. You will submit any such story on the Continental Army to the review of one trusted by the Continental Army. Only upon such approval as theirs will it be set to print, under pain of the law. Your mentor, Dr. Benjamin Franklin, and by extension the Gazette's master printer, Moses, are included in this collective of trusted individuals. Do you understand?"
The Commander in Chief leans to the side and taps the paper placed between them. James, feeling his chest quicken, glances down to scrutinize the document, only to see the same details in neat handwriting. It wasn't on particularly large or ostentatious stock, with no intricacy or flourish to adorn it. Sharp folds intersect the penmanship, as if it had been furtively carried round for months. Folded up in a hand or pocket, a passing glance might deem the note innocuous as a laundry order. At the very bottom, dated to many months ago, James catches Dr. Franklin's straightforward signature, acting as legal guardian to grant the young man permission to do however he choose.
This is a binding contract.
A strange dread ices his veins. His heart hammers at his ribs. He glances up; Behind them, circled round the great table, the officers stand at ease. James recognizes Israel Putnam's ever-present wince, Nathanael Greene's intense stare, Joseph Reed's flashing eye. James swallows as he makes eye contact with each of them, then flicks his gaze back to the contract before him.
The information to which he'd now be privileged is just the sort of opportunity that has occupied his daydreams ever since he became an apprentice. It would grant the people an important glimpse into the progress of the Cause. Not to mention the coverage could catapult the Gazette head-over-shoulders of their competition and into the annals of history. Well – more so than it already is.
So why, then, in the face of such clear inducement, does he feel perched at the ledge of the Palisades, one false step from a long plummet to his undoing? The back of his neck itches and he resists the urge to rub it smooth.
What would Dr. Franklin do? What would Moses do? What would Sarah do?
But then, What would a man of action do?
If the time to act is not now, James Hiller, then when?
"Well, lad?"
Washington's steady voice cuts into his thoughts. The journalist looks up at the Commander in Chief and tries to keep his features stoic.
"Yes, sir." His voice feels scratchy; he clears his throat. "I understand, and do so swear."
And then, despite futtering belly, despite quivering fingers, he picks up the pen, fills it with ink, he signs his name.
Years ago, when he'd first managed his way into an apprenticeship at the Gazette and out of the street, he'd signed his first contract with an embarrassment of lines. Pitying himself over the undignified sight, he'd diligently set to practicing his signature in private. At first the letters of his name were loose, uncertain, plain. He experimented with tightening, then drawing out the lines, with flourishes and embellishment. When he was eventually satisfied with it, he felt the first inklings of something like pride.
A gulf of time had gone by since he'd truly needed the practice, and when the fine muscles of his wrist recall the sharp slope of the J and the swirling crossbar of the H, he finds the motions stale. Still, as he sets down the pen and gives his contract one last glance, his signature is neat. Bold. For now, it is enough. He has only just begun, after all.
And then, as Lieutenant Harrison wordlessly gathers up the final contract and Washington hums in approval, James feels the ice in his veins melt away. The room seems brighter, warmer. His heart claws up his throat from the weight of what's occurred, and the pang long settled there turns from one of foreboding to one of giddiness.
The people need to know what transpires in their Cause, in their struggle for liberty; posterity needs to know the truth of what happens now. He shall finally come into his role, his service for the Cause. Maybe now the specter of neglected duty won't gnaw at him when he looks upon the tired, the sick, the hungry men of the Continental Army, prodding him to take up arms and harden his heart despite all its protest and misgiving.
"Excellent! Now to the business," Washington's steely voice short his musings. As the journalist takes his place just off to the side of the conference table, he nods a short greeting to each of the men there. Greene and Reed are ambivalent; Putnam's demeanor softens as he gives the journalist a nod back. But Washington's pleasant air has morphed into something grave. After taking his place, the Commander-in-Chief leans forward, bracing a hand on the great map before him.
"Let us have it, men."
And then like racehorses to the opening shot, shuddering at the release of tension long charged, the men set into debate.
The shift is remarkable. Schooling his features, James tries not to let it disorient him as he attends to details, trying to commit as much to memory as is possible. Putnam speaks readily in short, gruff terms – of Fort Washington, James notes with curiosity – but between Greene and Reed the man can seem to get a word in edgewise. The other two officers bicker at full tilt, prone to feeding off each other's rhetoric.
There's a sense that the arguments are nothing new to the men in council. It's as if they've been at debate long before they had a journalist to bear it witness. In fact, James rather feels as though he's been thrust in-medias-res, like his presence today is more afterthought than considered. He smothers a prodding impulse to ask why the Army is so absorbed in Fort Washington, anyway, when it was Fort Lee that had been on everyone's tongue the past few weeks.
General Washington stands ever as he is amidst the chaos: quiet and still. While his men debate, he pores over the intricate map with a surveyor's eye. Unable to stave off curiosity, James cocks his head a little as he, too, concentrates on the map.
Unlike many of the plans James has seen used by the Army before, this one is rendered in painstaking detail. Perhaps it belonged to Washington himself. It illustrates the mouth of the Hudson River – with Manhattan, Staten Island, Long Island, and all the bays and sounds therein, parts of mainland New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. Pins and place-markers signify the menagerie of regiments embroiled in the struggle, from the Americans to the British to Hesse-Kassel. Holding his breath, James rakes his gaze along the result of the past months' carnage, reduced to placeholders and red lines and scribbled-over notes. There is something bitter in seeing just how much of New York had fallen to Howe. It plucks strangely at his stomach when he notes how far north the British line is poised, how abundant the red seems; he tries to ignore it.
Greene's voice reaches a lilting pitch, and James manages to switch his attention back to the argument at hand.
"As Putnam so eloquently put it, Fort Washington is most vital to our defenses here; vital to the entire Cause! Else whate'er have we stay'd for, sir? Whye'er does Magaw continually rout the British and Hessians for? 'Tis surely not for us to run from the enemy once again! Our men simply cannot abide another retreat, and in that regard we cannot fail them!"
"And where'er are there manufactories enough to replace our guns should they be lost, sir?" Reed snaps back. "Where'er will we find men enough to replace those garrison'd thither? Surely you see, General Washington, sir, that Percy and Knyphausen have been testing us for weakness. Magaw has parried jab and feint, true – but what will become of Fort Washington when the full force of the Howes and their Hessians deals the next blow? What then?"
"What then indeed, ye of little faith!" Greene's voice is deep with bitterness. "Our men are tested and prov'n, General Washington, sir. They will make their stand and taste victory, for once."
As James listens, understanding snaps soundlessly into place. It lends sense to all the day's misgivings, to the unnerving swell of red on the fine map. James swallows against the lump tightening his throat.
General Howe and his Hessian mercenaries are to strike Fort Washington, not Fort Lee.
This council is about whether or not Fort Washington should be abandoned – giving up Manhattan to the British – or defended to the last charred splinter.
Sarah.
James Hiller reels against the ring of hot iron rending timber and earth in his memory, the tang of saltpeter and blood in billowing smoke; His chest aches as he tries not to think of Sarah Phillips and fails.
While the officers continue their debate, spinning again and again on the same overwrought points like a millstone to corn, James finds himself analyzing Washington's great map with renewed vigor. Against the backdrop of a joint British and Hessian attack, the sheer volume of American cannon he finds nestled along the northern heights lends some comfort. Sarah Phillips would be protected by the great walls of Manhattan's stoutest fort, flanked by the Continental Army's finest soldiers and covered by the roar of Fort Washington's artillery. Redoubts and batteries crisscross the eastern slope to the shore of the Haarlem River. Tracking northward, the border with Connecticut is saturated by marsh and thicket. It should prove an obstacle course to try even the stoutest grenadier. Back in the northwest, a label reads FRST H; The symbols for a small battery and fortifications ensconce it. Absently, silently, James mouths out the letters.
FRST H… FRST H… ferst heh… Forest Hill?
The name is familiar; he thinks Colonel Greene may have brought it up at some point in the debate. Pins for the First Pennsylvania Artillery as well as a unity of Rawling's Rifle are nestled snug between the battery and the breastworks, with a smaller pin labeled BGE close by. At first, nothing strikes him as noteworthy. But as he mouths the letters of each pin to himself, his attention catches.
BGE. BGE… bge… bidge… bigege… begegge… bagg-
His eyes dart southward. He traces the pentagon of Fort Washington, searches the eastern redoubts. He cannot find another pin with that label.
Something deep within him unravels from a single thread.
What –
"…Mister Hiller?"
The Commander in Chief's voice cuts short his thoughts. James starts and looks up from Fort Washington's outline. Set off by the tent's shadows, the map's bright paper ghosts his vision; he tries to blink it away. The officers are staring, expecting. Expecting what?
"Beg pardon? Sir," he croaks, voice weak.
"Has the Pennsylvania Gazette questions, Mister Hiller." There's an encouraging half-smile on the General's face.
"Ah – well –" as James looks across the map, his eyes lock to the letters BGE once more.
Baggage.
"What of the camp followers, sir?"
The war room is silent. Something akin to confusion flickers along the general's features before they revert to serenity, and James can't help the suspicion he's said something wrong.
General Putnam clears his throat and speaks up, breaking the awkward tension.
"Aye, sir! What becomes of the camp followers?"
Leaning forward, the Commander in Chief regards the map with a sheepdog's stare, as if he could command the very paper into action.
"Fort Washington's baggage train is encamp'd about Forest Hill," Washington begins, slow and methodical. "Should retreat be the order, they are to ford Spuyten Duyvil, and from there fly north to Peekskill. They should take only what is necessary, leaving rubbish for Howe's men."
Washington slowly moves the pin north from Forest Hill, along the coast of the Hudson, to a small diamond marked PSKL, demonstrating the intended march. For a moment, he stands fixed to the pin as he plants it. The officers do not seem perturbed by the calm as he asks, monotone, "and is that all, Mr. Hiller?"
Why send them so far from the rest of the Army? And how should they be retriev'd? How am I to retrieve my colleague? Why is Sarah not in Fort Washington where she's safest? Were we not told different? What are you thinking? Sir?
James swallows his nervous barrage of questions and tries to think of some less pointed. Of some that don't concern Sarah. He runs a tongue across his teeth. The debate he'd just witnessed was straightforward enough. Most any question a layperson might think to ask had already been answered.
Sarah is not safe.
He rubs a hand along his tight neck. The Commander-in-Chief expects something from him, yes? Something penetrating and considered. Intelligent. Insightful for the readers at home. After all, the Pennsylvania Gazette isn't lauded for the advertisements, is it?
Sarah is not safe.
Washington sits, patiently waiting. The eyes of the war room are fixed on James. His bile rises; his heart aches. All he can think of is how urgently he must bring his best friend back.
Sarah is not safe.
"Aye – yes, sir." James says at length, conceding defeat with himself. He manages a weak smile and taps his temple. "'Tis all in here."
The officers remain quiet as Washington's gaze surveys the journalist. James casts his own eyes everywhere but on the Commander-in-Chief. He can feel the man's penetrating look all the same, can feel himself turn transparent under the scrutiny. Can a veteran surveyor auger what lies in the heart of a man?
Sarah is not safe.
Stop thinking of her, Hiller! For once in your miserable life, don't think of her!
But how can I not?
The steely timbre in Washington's voice gathers James back unto him.
"Well, Mister Hiller, should the Gazette think of any, bring it to the attention of my secretary."
The Commander-In-Chief's words are as steady, as serene as ever, but James can hear something akin to disappointment in its tone – a disappointment which compounds when, shortly thereafter, the war room is given up to the day's indecision and its tacticians adjourn, turning out to their postings. Reed is especially fleet-footed in leaving. Putnam grumbles about the rudeness, Greene stalks out quietly, but Harrison takes his time to offer Washington something akin to an apologetic look. As James slips past the threshold, he casts one last backwards glance to catch Washington collapse into a chair, his features cold with exhaustion.
Early afternoon has aged incandescently, and James must squint against the sun's continued glare as he walks from headquarters. Lieutenant Harrison does not lag far behind and falls abreast after a few paces. For a moment, both are quiet, their meander aimless. And then –
"Howe is to strike Fort Washington."
James' voice feels distant as he speaks, as if hearing his words from miles away and not from his own tongue. Harrison offers him a questioning look, brows knit together.
"Aye," the Lieutenant confirms. "Our intelligence assures that much, and more."
The great map of Manhattan and its constellation of pins focus in James' memory. He runs over the cannon and troops along the northern heights again and again, unable to tear himself away. Against his will, he thinks of the Forest Hill battery.
Despite all the advantages of that position – atop a great hill, surrounded by treacherous swamp and a sharp drop to the Hudson, walled in with earthworks and obstacles – it is still only a small outpost, with a battery of two mere cannon, all to protect the Continental Army's baggage. The women and children. Wives, sisters, aunts. Daughters and sons. Colleagues.
Sarah.
"The southern reach is much fortified," James thinks aloud, pace quickening with his heart. "It stands to reason the northern heights might feel the first blow."
"It stands to reason." Harrison speaks gingerly, deliberately, watchfully, as if picking his way past a loaded cannon. For some reason it makes the journalist's hackles twitch.
"The camp followers are there. At Forest Hill." James runs his tongue across his teeth.
"Aye."
"Sar – Miss Phillips is with the camp followers."
The Lieutenant stops in his tracks to fix his young friend with a steady gaze. Anticipation prickles under the journalist's skin. The faint report of musketfire from infantry drills bounces along camp before Harrison speaks up.
"No use belab'ring the point. Your friend – the lass who wish'd to see action? She's to see it."
A pause settles between the men, long and heavy, just as an ache hollows out the young journalist's entire chest. Harsh-throated commands from drill sergeants rise from a distant field. James works his jaw, then bobs a clipped nod as he makes his decision.
"Right. I shall be off for m'colleague, then. Bring 'er hither. Mustn't stay on Manhatt'n. Is the ferry a-runnin'?"
"Word reach'd Colonel Magaw before it came to Fort Lee, lad. And recall, 'tis not yet known if there should be a battle. Fear not for the lass, she's to evacuate when order'd for."
"But Washington has yet to decide how to proceed!" James vents, making a sweeping gesture to emphasize his point. He shifts his hat, rakes a hand along an itchy patch on his scalp, lets out a frustrated tsk as tension seeps into every tendon. Visions of cannon-foundered walls force themselves in his fancy. In a distant paddock, a horse whinnies. One final volley from infantry drills ripples the meadow. Camp smoke lingers in the grass.
Not for the first time that hour, exhaustion lines Harrison's face as he watches the young man fidget and huff.
"Aye. So we suffer for it," the Lieutenant murmurs.
At these words, something white-hot spills in the journalist's veins as he struggles – and fails – to muzzle the agitation any longer.
"So you suffer fer't!" He snorts, jabbing a finger at the Lieutenant, hearing how his tongue unravels with the acrimony. "I am no' the bloody Aermy, 'n naether's Sarah. No! I must needs be off. I shall be off!"
James huffs, searing with embarrassment at the outburst and his vowels gone feral, unable to look the watchful Lieutenant in the eye. He snaps about to leave, but a tight, vicelike grip clamps down on his arm, yanking him still. His muscles stutter against a reflex to struggle and strike out; he glues his eye to the horizon just as cold sweat washes over his body.
"Miss Phillips will evacuate with the baggage train when order'd for, lad." Harrison's voice takes on command as stony as his grip. "Meanwhile, you will hold fast about Fort Lee 'till the danger is pass'd."
There is a pause as the Lieutenant's command sinks in. At the first sign of his loosening grip, James retrieves himself with a yank. The young journalist stares at his hands, shaking faintly, and thinks of the contract, of his signature upon it. Realization sours his stomach as he replies, straining to recover proper dialect, "Am I to un'erstand, Lieutenant Harris'n, 'tis forbidd'n me to cross the river and retrieve a valued colleague? Forbidd'n me – like some misbehaevin' whelp?"
"Gen'ral Washington himself forbids it, lad. What you know is much too dear to leave Fort Lee."
Understanding clicks into place once again, spinning up James' mind like an oiled flywheel.
"I wish'd to know," he begins, voice clipped.
"Aye…"
"Gen'ral Washington knew I wish'd to know - knew I'd put m'name to anythin' afore me, should it priv'lege the Gazette. Like a goddamn'd ape, I am."
Harrison's eyes soften. He lays a hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"Gen'ral Washington knows wars are won as much with ink as with blood," he says in a gentle tone. "And I cannot doubt his wisdom. The man has uncommon regard for your work in the Pennsylvania Gazette. I daresay he thinks your contributions of high order. You are wanted here, lad, to ply your talents for the Cause. 'Tis an honor for someone of your youth, still apprentic'd no less!"
Oh, bugg'r yer bloody fuckin' honor, Lieutenant!
James manages to keep the second outburst contained, but his pulse spikes all the same.
You hold me snare'd! And Sarah ! –
He shrugs off the Lieutenant's contact; Drawing a breath through his teeth, doing everything he can to keep from shouting, to bring his words to heel, his voice shakes as he speaks.
"Miss Phillips is ev'ry ounce the journ'list I am. Her alias has shared bylines with me; 'tis just as likely Washington regards her work so uncommonly! Does the Cause, then, not want for her talent as well?"
A pregnant pause answers his question. Harrison eyes the journalist with a shadow in his face as he says, "I've no doubt of your companion's accomplishments. But – and do correct any fault in my understanding – the lass writes for tories, Mister Hiller. Does the Cause want for tory sympathies? I think not."
Sarah Phillips is no tory!
The reaction is a fury in James' mind as his tongue pushes against his teeth. Before he can voice the malcontent – and before he has time to wonder at this realization – Harrison speaks up once more.
"Lad – I've a cousin over yonder, who took upon herself to follow a brother into the Army. I know well your anxiety. I do! But I must content myself with faith they will both be sound. D'you see? It can kill a man, you know, this worry over what he cannot control."
Something about the tone of his voice, the way it halts, catches James' attention; he watches Harrison stare hollowly into the horizon, rubbing a cheek. Under the weight of a sigh, the man's shoulders sag and he stands that much shorter. The sight of the disheartened Lieutenant is enough to cool the boil in James' veins.
But is not Lieutenant Harrison correct? Is she not a tory?
The question curdles to rot in his gut. He recalls Sarah Phillips, ember curls loosed from her cap like tongues of flame, riding along to warn the colonists of Lexington that the Regulars were advancing for their munitions. Sarah Phillips, lying through her teeth to British officers just to keep a couple rebels she barely knew from punishment. Sarah Phillips, delivering goods to the people of occupied Boston, shocked and appalled at loyalist interference with the post, flirting with Continental soldiers. Sarah Phillips is loyal to her king, perhaps, but –
"Sarah Phillips is no tory," James mutters, nearly a whisper. "And she would resent the accusation, as I do."
Either the words, or his tone, or both seem to startle the Lieutenant, if the expression he flashes at James is anything to go by. But before the man can speak, the glimpse of a harried man in plainclothes catches both of them and, in unison, they turn their attention thither. Against his hip flaps a post-laden bag, and he holds down his hat as he paces across the field.
"Beggin' pard'n, sirs," he pants as he approaches, exasperated. "Does it ask too much o' this here Fort that one o' you be James Hiller?" Harrison and James look at each other, taken aback. The courier scoffs, throwing up his hands.
"Been sent all o'er this bloody camp – no offense, sirs –" he nods and gives an awkward salute to the Lieutenant, who cocks an eyebrow – "on a right fool's err'nd, and I've more'n half a mind to swear that carroty camp girl n' the entire – I mean entire! – Virginny line was about orchestratin' some prank on America's post! Should be a felony, I says! N' another thing – !"
"I am James Hiller," the journalist cuts off the rest of the diatribe. The courier levels him with an exasperated glare.
"You best be!"
"Hand o' God," James lifts up his palms in a mock-oath, "my name is James Hiller."
The courier continues to stare the journalist down, narrowing his eyes, until a few moments' scrutiny satisfies his caution. "Aye. Well, then, James Hiller, if that be you, Sarah Phillips would have you know all is well with 'er."
As if to mock the journalist he was in Washington's headquarters, a hundred questions crowd each other in his mind – does she know? Is she still with the baggage train? Are they to evacuate? - but the courier has already turned round to leave. James gives chase, briefly forgetting himself.
"Was that all, sir?" he shouts before the man gets far. The courier rolls his eyes.
"Aye! 'Tis all the lady wish'd to say! If I was you, lad, I'd save m'breath to cool m'porridge, rather'n ruminate o'er some camp girl. E'en if she be a pretty redhead."
James feels his heart skip at the comment.
"She's a journalist, not a camp follower," he manages to croak out, but the courier has already turned once more and waves in a dismissive gesture.
For a moment, a light breeze swirls the acrid woodsmoke that's settled heavy across camp, and James can see all the way to the trees and the boundless sky. A troop of light dragoons ride out for scouting duties, the rumble of forty trotting hooves echoing in their wake. Nearby, one of Fort Lee's own camp women – the first he's seen this side of the Hudson – settles down on the ground with a generous basket of sun-bleached linens, pulling a pipe from her fichu and fixing her hair. She's promptly joined by a knobby-elbowed teenage girl, who takes up the basket on command.
The woman's eyes glint hard and dark from her face, reddened by some previous exertion, and she chews the stem of the pipe as she watches the girl walk away. A small grin steals into her cheeks. She leans back to let out a series of smoke rings; when she turns and locks eyes with James, the smile widens.
James quickly averts his gaze and drags a palm along the tension held in his neck, only to be startled when Lieutenant Harrison falls into place beside him. He puts a steadying hand on James' shoulder.
"Count your blessings, lad," he says, before turning to walk back through the field to Washington's headquarters. "Today, your Miss Sarah Phillips is sound."
A flock of crows lift themselves up from the field, cawing and wheeling about on dusky wings, only to descend on the commissary. James waits until Harrison is out of earshot to speak his mind.
"Aye. Today."
Historical Notes
I've said this before and I will say it again: Washington and his people would have known much earlier than here that Ft. Washington was the target. I re-watched the episode for some details and realized I'd messed up some of the timing - Sarah was sent to Ft. Washington in canon way earlier than I thought. Oh, well, its canon-divergence AU for this fic!
I did a bunch of digging to resolve why Udney is wearing a blue-faced-white continental uniform in the episode "New York, New York," because I have bugbears like that. I think he's militia in canon, but for this I've made him a regular soldier. Most of the Continental army before the uniform regulations of 1779 preferred a brown-faced red uniform, or brown hunting shirts, or blue-faced-red. In reality, they'd wear whatever they could - sometimes even stolen British uniforms, although this was discouraged for VERY OBVIOUS reasons. Connecticut, like Virginia, chose brown uniforms (although Virgnny loved itself some hunting shirts, like damn.) That being said, there was actually one CT regiment I found pre-'76 restructure that wore the blue-faced-white uniform you see in the show, and from what I understand that was Sixth Connecticut. I think they even pulled recruits from Milford? If anyone knows better about all this, let me know so I'm not circulating misinformation!
By the time of autumn 1776, the Continental Army had reorganized itself and Sixth Connecticut became the Tenth Continentals. It would not have been unheard of for soldiers to hold on to old uniforms because of supply issues.
The Tenth Continentals were stationed at Peekskill after Kip's Bay and White Plains. For plot purposes, I have a contingent sent to Fort Lee/Washington area for reinforcement while the leadership remains waffling over what to do.
In the epside, the first Army meeting we see James in, Israel Putnam is there, and they are in a field tent. For this story, I moved it to a permanent office in Fort Lee, and kept Israel Putnam. I'm pretty sure he was there at Fort Lee at this time - he was still top brass and his cousin Rufus Putnam had overseen the construction of fortifications at Fort Washington.
There had been some skirmishes at Fort Washington in the period leading up to the battle. There seems to be some consensus that Magaw's successes here contributed to his underestimating the British and overestimating his own forces.
Apologies if I've gotten any of the officers' ranks incorrect or any of the fort terminology incorrect.
While its generally incorrect to call ALL the German mercenaries fighting in the American Revolution Hessians, the units at the Battle of Fort Washington were from Hesse-Kassel and therefore bona-fide Hessians.
Its probably super contrived here for the Continental Army to entrust highly classified information to a 17/18-year-old, especially considering the age of majority was 21 at the time and not 18, but it felt like a logical way to explain why James is always in these meetings - and everyone being tight-lipped with him after Nathan Hale's capture made some sense, too.
Yes, that's Private Hughes, everyone's favorite Mulleted Virginiaman from the Crossing the Delaware episode.
"Backgammon player" is attested by Francis Grose's Classical Dictionary Of The Vulgar Tongue at least from the 1790s in London slang. It means a gay man.
Grapeshot is a kind of artillery ordinance which is smaller balls, either held together with a rope or in a canister. Its buckshot, but for a cannon!
Prepared and seasoned, grasshoppers taste like land-shrimp. They're not bad! I don't know what they taste like raw. That's not a history note but I felt it deserved to be here.
As always, drop me a line if you liked, love y'all! Y'all are the grasshopper in my camp bread, the constellation of pins on my well-made map of Manhattan Island and Environs, the bold signature to my binding contract.