Saving Washington by Chris Formant

Author:Chris Formant
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Permuted Press
Published: 2018-12-05T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-NINE

Evening, Saturday, July 20, 1776

Morristown, New Jersey

Ben rubbed his eyes as he paced back and forth across the dirt road, his musket at the ready for any sign of redcoats. It was his turn on watch, and he had to force himself to stay awake and ensure that all of his senses were on total alert. The skirmish with the Tory force back in Delaware and images of his fallen dead comrades filled him with trepidation.

Compared to the grandeur of Philadelphia, Morristown was nothing special to him. But the New Jersey town nestled in the woods did have one advantage the capital city did not: an easily defended, strategic location where an army could guard all sides of its encampment with ease.

Ben listened intently through the sounds of the outdoors—mosquitoes, crickets, frogs—for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed serene until he heard the rustling of something through the tall brush about ten yards off the road. He licked his lips and squatted behind a tree for cover and to get a good angle at whoever appeared. The noises drew closer; he could see something move. Ben cocked his musket in nervous anticipation.

He held his breath and nearly squeezed the trigger when a fawn skipped out into the clearing and pranced through some trees to the other side of the road. Ben exhaled and lowered the weapon with a grateful sigh.

His moment of relaxation was premature: He heard oncoming footsteps—this time, unquestionably from a human—and once again raised his musket. A shadowy figure appeared at the edge of the southern road to his left.

Hold on, Ben steadied himself. What did they tell us? “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Crouching down low, he took several cautious steps toward the figure. Along the way, he convinced himself that it was probably a local drunk or a woman for hire whom he’d have to shoo back to town.

“Who goes there?” Ben demanded, cradling the weapon as he neared the figure silhouetted in the moonlight.

“At ease, soldier, I’m a patriot commander,” the man barked. “Return to your duties. I…have a…rendezvous with someone.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders that no one—absolutely no one—is to pass,” Ben responded in a forceful tone. “Please raise your arms and show yourself.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the man agreed. “But I am only able to raise one arm, as I am leading my horse.”

The man did as instructed, moving forward into visual range and the moon’s illumination. As he neared, Ben could make out the etched features of Colonel Sharpe—the leathery, lean commander of another contingent with a reputation for being short-tempered. He held the reins of an oversized gray horse.

Ben lowered his rifle; the last thing he needed was an argument with a superior, especially one as irascible as Sharpe.

“Thank you, Colonel, you may lower your arm,” Ben said, his hands still on his weapon.

“Ah, good. You know who I am. May I get along now? You have done your duty.”

“With all due respect, Colonel, my orders are to stop anyone from loitering past sundown while the regiment is encamped.

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