CHAPTER FOUR
The sun peeking through the late afternoon clouds gave the illusion of warmth as Captain Victor Sutton stepped outside his quarters into a quiet, subdued Trenton. Hessian soldiers ducked in and out of buildings, their green blazers and tall headgear oddly out of place in a colonial town that seemed dipped in mud and snow. A few children played their way home making Sutton think for a moment of his nephews in England. Christmas was a few days away now. Hope that his brother’s family had received his gifts held strong in the career captain’s heart. He’d purchased his commission six years ago, following in his older brother’s footsteps, before the colonial uprising that brought him to a faraway land. Truth be told, he had not minded the colonies making their case for independence and the like until his brother died at the disastrous Bunker Hill. After Roger’s death, Sutton wanted nothing more than to return home until his previous regimental nemesis, Bannister Tarleton, managed to capture General Charles Lee not two weeks before. The subsequent elevation of Tarleton to hero status burned in Sutton’s stomach.
Lee had been General George Washington’s second-in-command and was more feared than the rebel commanding general by both General James Grant and Lord General William Howe. Lee’s capture sent a ripple of hope through the British army. They might not end this insufferable war before Christmas, but they could certainly be home for Easter. The rebels, under sufficient control from His Majesty King George III, could have this cold, untamed land and all the trouble that came with it.
Unfortunately, those troubles were still Sutton’s as a part of His Majesty’s army at war. Months of boorish behavior by the Hessians against the colonists, regardless of their affiliation, dwindled support for the British army dangerously. As winter set in, with the Hessians in their posts along the Delaware to watch for Washington, Sutton found himself called to speak with Lord Cornwallis personally. The older man looked down his nose at Sutton and told him in no uncertain terms that reporting on the conduct of the Hessian garrison at Trenton was his personal responsibility. There would be no more transgressions against any colonists that went unreported. Cornwallis had said specifically that anything Sutton could do to stifle the ravenous appetites of Von Donop’s men would be rewarded. Smelling a promotion, Sutton accepted the task and rode out with his company of dragoons to spend the winter amongst the Hessians and plan a way to make major before the next Christmas came along. Finding Washington’s rabble and leading the British army to extinguish the colonial rebellion would certainly do that and make the world forget Bannister Tarleton.
Sutton’s reverie had been interrupted by a tremendous clap of thunder, enough to propel him away from the fire and into his uniform for a last check of the stables and the situation. The skies were barely clouded and there was nothing to suggest anything bombastic in the atmosphere.
Washington?
He shook off the thought. More likely, the explosion was the result of Hessian incompetence with either their munitions or the rebels gallivanting around the countryside in complete disregard for Lord General Howe’s orders. For a long moment, he strained to hear the distant sounds of early battle, but there was nothing in the chilly breeze to suggest action. Washington and his ragtag army were in no condition for action if the British spies were to be believed. The old man would sit across the Delaware and try to reconstitute what he could and leave the harassment of the Hessian garrison to others.
Around him, the Hessians went about their business as normal, though there was a clearly disguised panic on some faces. The last several nights passed sleeplessly for the Hessian infantrymen after countless alarms and maneuvers. Whatever the cause, the explosion or thunder hadn’t raised any concern in the sleepy town of Trenton.
Maybe the explosion destroyed the band? Sutton snorted at the thought and decided it was time to move off the stoop.
He stepped down from the doorway of the flat-fronted home of the widow Christensen and her son, Ian. Their quarters gave him proximity to the stables and his dragoons, but he had chosen them as much as for the pretty, dark-haired woman of the house. Unfortunately, he’d learned early that she wanted nothing to do with him beyond the minimum required by her duties as his hostess. Her discomfort was not unexpected; no colonist appreciated having soldiers billeted in their homes. Yet they did their duty in quartering and feeding him. Among the loyal colonists, Sutton was something of a celebrity being the only British officer in a town filled with Hessians and their card-playing drunkard of a commander.
Colonel Johann Rall seemed like a competent commander to the passing, noncritical eye. Sutton doubted the man would have lasted more than a week as a British regular officer, no matter how wealthy he was. More annoying than Rall’s evening ritual of card playing and disgusting German wine was his obsession with parades and his damnable band. From the sound, they were somewhere in the orchards east of town again, marching through the naked trees and blaring their instruments in some German processional that Sutton never wished to hear again. Shaking his head, Sutton strode across the frozen mud of King Street and caught sight of a single Hessian officer at the edge of town, some two hundred yards distant. From the man’s fidgeting and nervous staring into the rapidly growing darkness north of town, Sutton knew it was Lieutenant Sturm and that one of his patrols had again failed to return on time.
Through the street, most of the Hessian soldiers avoided his eyes. The colonists smiled openly and bowed or nodded as he walked through. Most of them saw him and his dragoons as a vestige of the monarchy on the continent. They lavished respect openly and while he kept his face still, he relished it. The town itself stood mostly deserted. Fearful colonists, both those favoring His Majesty’s rule and those opposed to it, fled to other parts of the countryside when Washington’s army approached. Sutton believed that they were forecasting the inevitable future. Washington would eventually be brought to face the full might of the British army and would fail spectacularly.
Sutton walked carefully at the edge of the street, away from the deep troughs of mud tracked by supply wagons and the contrary flow of horses. Passing what he considered to be barely livable homes, Sutton occasionally caught the scent of dinner from the inhabited houses. Candles were lit in lanterns outside the tavern doors as he passed. By appearances, it was quiet there for a change and Sutton chastised himself for not going to the stables and finishing the day’s tasks. But, he relished the chance to put junior officers in their place on a regular basis.
He stepped lightly in the mud, drawing behind Sturm without so much as a sound. “Lieutenant? Have you lost something?”
The younger man with the harsh, pockmarked face turned. His eyes wide, Sturm turned and nervously fingered the scar on his left cheek. For some, a scarred face gave their countenance an air of seriousness, dignity, and even respect. In Sturm’s face, it accentuated his bluster and incompetence.
“Sir,” Sturm blurted in heavily accented English and looked down the Princeton Road in the gathering darkness. “Waiting for my last patrol to check in, that’s all.”
Gray hair fell out of Sturm’s helmet over his ears, belying the man’s age. Sutton wondered if he’d been ranked higher and been demoted before wiping the thought away. The man was lucky not to be a private.
“Who is it this time, Lieutenant? Essen? Or maybe Gutros?” Sutton smiled only with his mouth. “Which one of your miscreants is wandering the countryside doing things I’ll have to explain to Lord Cornwallis? How many of them are still unaccounted for, sir?”
Sturm swallowed. “Three men, Captain Sutton. With Essen leading.”
Sutton allowed his grin to show teeth. “And where did you send him this time?”
“North, sir.”
Sutton nodded. “And the noise a few moments ago? What might that have been?”
Sturm looked at the clouds. “Thunder, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Sutton said. “Are you certain it’s not Washington?”
Sturm shook his head. “I sent four patrols north, sir. All of them reported no sightings of the rebels. They scoured the countryside from the river to the Princeton Road. There was nothing of consequence.”
“You haven’t answered my question about the noise. It upset the townspeople, I’m certain.” Sutton smiled. He’d seen nothing of the sort, but an inkling of fear was a powerful ally. “Artillery? A close attack?”
Sturm squinted and shook his head. “One blast, not artillery. Maybe something exploded. No attack based on my reports, sir.”
“And yet you’re missing a patrol, Lieutenant.”
Sturm looked down the Princeton Road for a long moment before turning back to Sutton and nodding. “I am, sir.”
“Where was Essen supposed to search?”
“Along the Scotch Road, sir.”
“That would be where the thunder came from, no?”
Sturm shrugged. “Seemed to come from everywhere at once, Captain Sutton.”
“Quite,” Sutton said. The more he thought of it, the more the blast seemed to not have a particular direction of origin. It had seemed to be rather on top of them in the town. “Was it something else? Munitions? A magazine detonating?”
Sturm shook his head. “Colonel Rall did not say. He ordered the garrison to full alert but said nothing regarding the noise or the missing patrol, sir.”
“Well, why don’t you let me know when you find them?” Sutton leaned in. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what they’ve done in the morning when they don’t return. You can send out more patrols to find out where they’ve drunken themselves into unconsciousness and done Lord knows what else. Then, we’ll see just how lost your men and your command are, won’t we, Lieutenant?”
That a Hessian patrol, again, was missing was not something to report to Cornwallis, but it was not something to be ignored. Later, after a meal and a glass of brandy, perhaps, he’d summon Sturm and demand an answer. There would be none, of course, and come morning he’d order his dragoons to mount their horses and scour the countryside. Finding Hessians intoxicated beyond comprehension in various states of disrobing had become the norm despite the orders to behave and not further incite the populace. Sutton’s own reports went unanswered or acknowledged as the generals in Princeton and New York settled into their winter revelry, leaving him alone in the cold of his solitary duty.
Of course, riding the countryside had certain advantages. Away from the headquarters, Sutton thrived. His men would do anything he asked them to with ruthless efficiency. This gave him free time. Since the widow Christensen was uninterested in any sort of relationship beyond quartering him, Sutton looked elsewhere for a potential confidante and someone to share a warm winter’s bed. In Trenton itself, the choices were scant, but the countryside around the small town provided at least one suitable candidate. The gunsmith’s daughter, Emily, had potential. Her father’s work was adequate, but the scenery made every trip worth the time on horseback in the brutal cold.
The explosion had been in that general direction. For a moment, he considered fetching his horse from the stable and riding out. A swell of breeze stopped the thought in its tracks. With the sun almost down, that warm fire was more attractive than a smile from the gunsmith’s daughter. Still, there were appearances to keep.
Of course, the townspeople’s smiles were largely to be believed. Lord Howe told Sutton, the first and only time they’d met in person, that Trenton was the kind of town that the rebels loathed and loved at the same time. Its inhabitants true to the Crown when the mood suited them, or as long as money flowed into the town. An army needed goods and services, even the deplorable Hessians. At least Lord Howe, and more likely his brother Admiral Lord Howe, proved able to stop their pillaging across the countryside. There was nothing worse than loyalist towns and villages being picked apart and torn asunder by awful men deigned to be allies.
Sutton frowned as he stepped across the muddy street toward the stables. His men, dutiful to the last, milled inside the stables at the completion of their duties. Tack cleaned and hung to dry, the men brushed and cleaned their horses quietly and without the superfluous commentary that every Hessian seemed to enjoy. The damnable mercenaries never stopped talking. Sutton stepped into the stables and nodded at the young sergeant at arms.
“Carry on, Mister Jenkins.”
“Sir!” Jenkins said with a nod and a slight smile. “All mounts are ready for the evening. An extra serving of oats for the holder for Christmas, with your permission.”
Sutton smiled. Oh yes, Christmas. How quaint, he thought. “After tomorrow’s patrols and inspections, we’ll see about those oats. Won’t we?”
“Indeed, sir.” Jenkins nodded and stepped away. “I was about to release the men. The officers have departed for the mess.”
Sutton nodded. “If you feel the men have completed their work for the day, to the standards His Majesty would accept, then by all means release them.”
Jenkins looked around the stable for a long, hesitating moment. “Perhaps a bit more, sir.”
Sutton turned away from the stable and walked back through the doorway and into the muddy streets. The cold seeped through his boots, and with a tug of his waistcoat, he marched down the thoroughfare of Queen Street in the late-evening sun.
“Hauptmann Sutton!” a heavily accented voice called from his right, up a side street. “Colonel Rall is expecting you for dinner. Promptly at six. You will not be late again, will you?”
The laughter in the deep voice made Sutton smile. At least one of the Hessians had an appropriate sense of duty and honor. One without the brass bells and drums of Rall’s awful band. “Major Hesse, sir, I would not miss a moment of required amusement for the world.”
“I almost believe you.” Hesse grinned. They shook hands briefly. Hesse was taller, thicker, and a bit rotund. His ginger beard and bright eyes were always full of mirth. Sutton wondered why the man was a professional soldier and not an entertainer of sorts. Given his protruding stomach, he obviously went where the money was good and the challenge nil. “There will be much card playing and maybe a little food.”
“As usual, Herr Oberst?” Sutton chuckled and almost allowed himself a genuine smile. “I shall not be late. A change of accoutrement, perhaps, and I will be there.”
Hesse’s eyes twinkled. “From the widow Christensen? A change, indeed.”
The large man laughed and Sutton wanted to join him, but there was nothing to laugh about. The woman of his house, her husband long dead in the service of the Crown, barely looked at him when they were together. Selena Christensen and her son wanted nothing to do with him. Perhaps they would before the horrid winter was over. His friends and colleagues enjoyed the parties and warmth of Boston while he and a measly company of dragoons were to spend the winter in the company of wretched men under a charlatan of a commander.
“Alas, I know that my boots will be dried and readied for the morning. As for the rest, I cannot report success.”
Hesse nodded. “Much can be said for choosing the right house to laager for the winter, my friend. I’m afraid you’ve chosen poorly.”
Sutton laughed. “We’ll see, Herr Oberst. By your leave, sir? I will see you at the commander’s this evening.”
Hesse’s smile faded. “Of course, Captain. Good evening.”
“Guten nachte.”
The sun fully set along the western horizon, the evening chill touched his face with icy fingers. He swore silently against the cold and stomped across the muddy street to his quarters. Halfway there, he looked up to see Selena Christensen looking at him from partially behind the open door of her home. The look in her eyes was one of apprehension and uncertainty. For the briefest of moments, she held his gaze before ducking back into the meager house and closing the door in front of her.
* * *
Darkness fell around them as the wagon plodded deeper into the woods. Mason rode alongside Daniels, the gunsmith quietly scanning the road and the tight forest ahead. Booker and Martinez sat a few feet away, each taking a side of the wagon and providing security. Looking over his shoulder, Mason tried not to look at the naked forms of Porter and Kennedy jumbled with the equally naked Hessian soldiers. A pool of blood, black in the fading night, stood out against the worn and bleached floor of the wagon. There was no delineating whose was whose. Daniels’ gruff whisper, barely audible above the screeching and knocking of the wagon, jostled his thoughts away.
“Now, Mason. You were going to tell me where you’re from before your friends arrived.”
Mason looked at the older man. There was a trace of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were anything but friendly. With a nod, Mason tapped his right shoulder, showing the reversed American flag. “We’re Americans, like you.”
Daniels stared at the patch. “Not the same one Washington’s army flies.”
“No, it’s not,” Mason said. “More stars.”
“More states.”
Mason didn’t know if it was a question or a statement until Daniels spoke again.
“There can’t be more states,” Daniels said. “And you act like a citizen, not even a freedman.”
Here we go, Mason thought. “I told you before, sir, I’m not a freedman. I grew up in Pennsylvania. My parents are lawyers in New York, but not your New York.”
“I gathered that from your coin.”
Mason shrugged. “Look, Mister Daniels, we’re not from your time.”
“The future.” Daniels shook his head. “Can’t say I believe you, Mason.”
There wasn’t a good way to say it, and Mason considered not saying a thing. The idea that he could let it go and find a way to get his squad out of the farmhouse and out of the march of history surfaced again, but he didn’t take it. “We were on a field exercise at Fort Dix, just northwest of Trenton. There was a big clap of thunder and we found ourselves just over the hill from your house. The year was 2008 in our time, Mister Daniels. Not 1776.”
“That’s more than the two hundred years on your coin.” Daniels’ voice, still a whisper, echoed off the nearby trees. After a moment of silence, he shook his head. “I read that right, didn’t I? It said bicentennial. And your flag with more stars? That means we win?”
Mason nodded but said no more. There was nothing wrong with giving the man some hope.
“There’s no way we win this war, Mason,” Daniels chuckled. “Washington is ready to surrender, we hear. The army is in disarray and the Congress”—he laughed, a harsh staccato burst—“they’d fled south to Virginia. It’s a matter of time before the British roll them up like a winter blanket.”
Mason bit his lip as the wagon rolled through a darker section of forest. Daniels tensed in his seat. In the tight bend of the road, Mason felt as if he heard every single sound the wagon made. He turned and met Booker’s wide eyes. Mason took his first two fingers, made a “V” and pointed them at his own eyes and then into the woods. His intent was clear—eyes out there. Booker spun back to the woods and stared into the darkness. Mason decided to do the same.
“The hole is just at the end of these trees,” Daniels whispered.
Great place for an ambush, Mason thought as the wagon agonizingly passed through the dark spot and into the last bit of twilight. The hole was a sinkhole as wide as the length of a basketball court. Over time, it had devoured part of the tree line and the half-eaten trees looked like ragged teeth on one side of the hole. The bottom was dark and appeared only partially frozen. Mason barely suppressed a shiver at the evil sight. Daniels worked the wagon around to the side of the hole that received the most sun, where the liquid water was, and stopped.
“Quickly,” he hissed. The three cadets vaulted out of the wagon, set their muskets aside, and dragged the first Hessian out of the wagon by the naked corpse’s limp arms and legs. Martinez and Booker swung the body between them and grunted through a count to three before throwing it into the sinkhole. A splash greeted them as they worked to get Kennedy’s body into the hole and then the last two Hessians. Mason looked into the wagon, at Porter, and hesitated. Something needed to be said. It didn’t seem right to just throw such a person, naked, into a sinkhole.
“Come on, Mason,” Martinez said.
Booker grunted as he worked a grip on Porter’s ankles. “He’d do the same for you.”
Mason nodded and they tossed Porter like they’d done for the others. There was another splash and Mason looked down into the hole, unsure that the bodies wouldn’t be found come morning.
Daniels appeared at his side. “The ice has been thinning for a few days. The pond will freeze again tonight. If the weather holds for a few days, it will be solid enough to last the winter. We can come out and check it tomorrow or the day after, but there’s nothing to worry about.”
Mason wasn’t so sure. He looked at Martinez and Booker. “You guys okay?”
Booker shook his head. “No, and you ain’t either.”
“No, I’m not,” Mason conceded. They were all lost in time, with blood on their hands, and surrounded by an enemy bent on destroying their country before it even took its first breaths. Outside of whatever had thrown them two hundred years into the past, fault for their predicament was his. Had he navigated the STX lane correctly, they would be in their own time and taking a bus home. The thought of a warm, comfortable bus ride seemed to drive the rapidly chilling air in between the layers of his ACUs.
Daniels shuffled around them and climbed into the wagon. “Let’s get home. There are patrols about.”
They climbed aboard, resuming their posts and security, and trundled north and back, finally, to the east. Riding in silence, eyes and ears focused into the night, made the trip much longer than it had seemed. Mason’s stomach gurgled. Daniels stopped to light a small lantern that did little more than light the horse’s ass in front of them, but it was enough that the gunsmith could navigate. Before long, the familiar cabin came into view. Light peeked through the closed shutters just enough to light their way. Daniels moved the wagon into the barn before they dismounted and walked back to the cabin. They’d not said a word for more than half an hour.
Daniels turned to Mason. “Two hundred years?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we win.” It was a statement with a measure of finality. Mason liked hearing it. “In the morning, we’ll need to clean the wagon and figure out what to do with you and your friends. You can stay here for tonight.”
Mason nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mason,” the gunsmith said with a frown. “There’s quite a bit you and your friends don’t know. We have a great deal to talk about.”
* * *
Captain Jeff Branson stopped dead and blinked against the blowing snow. Ahead, the wide dirt road ended abruptly. Trees crossed the road in a stand no more than thirty meters wide. Through the empty winter branches, he could see the trail on the other side. He walked to the end of the road and looked down. The road ended with a clear edge, as if the whole road had been sliced out and the stand of trees deposited in its place. There was a faint tinge of ozone in the air and a faint smell of smoke. The whole area appeared nearly barren, missing the six inches of fresh snow that had collected in the last hour. He glanced back to the last vestiges of footprints in the snow before they crossed the line into the strange tree line.
Fuck, it’s like they disappeared.
“Panther 3, Panther 6. SITREP. Now.”
Branson rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and brought the handheld radio to his face with the other. “Boss, there’s no trace of them. I followed their footprints and there’s a big barren area up here. You need to get up here.”
“What’s your grid?” the battalion commander, a career light infantryman, growled into the radio.
Branson looked at his handheld Garmin global positioning unit. While the power was on, the unit reported no satellites in view, which he knew was impossible. “I can’t give you a grid, sir. My GPS is fried. I’m on the tank trail adjacent to lane four near the assembly area.”
“Roger. I’m on my way. Get on the radio and notify range control that we’ve had an incident and request assistance. As soon as I get the rest of the cadets rounded up, I’ll be there.”
“Roger, Panther 6.” Branson grabbed the handset for the AN/PRC-77 radio. The ancient UHF system, like the cadet’s field gear, had been standard issue during the Vietnam War. Supply lines hadn’t quite caught up to the training command, though it was promised that state-of-the-art radios were coming. Branson readied to push the transmit button and paused. He looked over the ragged trees and saw that the ones on his side of the line were singed cleanly off. There was nothing on the ground where the limbs should have fallen. The footprints off to the south rapidly disappeared.
Branson looked at the black radio handset and shook his head. “What the fuck do I tell them?”