Chapter One

Christmas Night, 1776

Hessian Encampment, Trenton, New Jersey

Plumes of their frozen breath grew in length and girth as the exhausted beasts strained against the heavy weight and deepening snow. Their ignored requests for food and rest intensified the memory of a dry stable, fresh hay, and feedbag full of oats. Still, obedient animals they obeyed the stranger urging them through the darkness.

The driver’s ability to remove himself from the unpleasantness was not unlike the animals he burdened. He too was preoccupied with a different time and far away place. The horse’s agitated whinnies jarred him to the present.

“It won’t be long now, my friends,” he said, more to himself then his beleaguered team.

The words spoken in a language foreign to them gave little comfort.

The man was Major Johan Conrad Mueller. He thought about home more tonight than at any time since he had arrived in America. Maybe the snow reminded him of his Black Forest youth; maybe it was the prospect of returning to the Fatherland wealthy. He gave the reins another unnecessary slap.

Mueller was a man of meager means. Smart enough to desire what money and power could do but lacking the fortitude to obtain either?the right way that is. Being a professional soldier all of his adult life kept him fed but did nothing to increase his wherewithal. That was about to change. Those dogs owe me, he thought.

“Those dogs” were the German government agents who sold his services to the British?the British, who bought his services, and the Americans, who had caused all this trouble in the first place. The thought of one-upping the offending parties helped him tolerate the brutal nor’easter gripping the Mid-Atlantic region.

Mueller was a hulk of a man by eighteenth century standards, six feet tall, two hundred and twenty pounds. His powerful shoulders and arms betrayed the appearance of a man over forty. Other than his bushy eyebrows, a thick dark mustache that extended past the corners of his mouth was the only hair to be found anywhere on his oversized head. His appearance alone was intimidating.

He was relegated to a strange country to fight in a war he could not care less about and kill people he had no grudge against. This had the adverse effect of exaggerating his already irascible nature. As a youth he cajoled his way through adolescence. As an adult he had bluffed his way to his present rank in the German military. All his life he had been an expert at rationalizing his bad behavior and this time was no exception. It was more than justified in his eyes.

The snowstorm slowed his already overweight wagon and reduced visibility, adding to his irritability. He had hoped to arrive long before this. The major had had no problem intimidating the sentries guarding the Hessians garrisoned at Trenton.

“I’m on military business. You don’t need to know where I got the wagon or what’s in it,” he had told them. “Now get out of my way or I’ll have you all flogged.” When the big German barked an order it mattered little whether he was an officer or the lowly company cook. More than his rank, the man was obeyed.

Mueller was reluctant to go into Trenton with his booty but he needed a helper. The risk was he could be spotted by another officer, or worse yet Colonel Rall himself. It was a chance he had to take. He had been absent for two days already and he wanted to be finished with his business and make the return trip to Trenton before daybreak. He could do it if he had help. Even he wouldn’t pull one of the sentries off their post, so he proceeded into town.

“You there. Come here,” the major bellowed through the darkness at the first man he saw.

The man quick-stepped over the snow toward the commanding voice. “Sir?”

Private Rudolph Hoppe, at just under six feet, was taller than all his unit comrades, except Mueller. He had black wavy hair and eyes so dark you had to be standing close to see they were a deep brown, not black. He was good-natured, intelligent, and the man to beat at arm wrestling. More important to his present situation, he was a good soldier, well liked by the officers and men. Hoppe didn’t like fighting someone else’s war any better than most of his fellow soldiers, but he was here and he was going to do his duty without complaint.

He had gone outside the commandeered house to relieve himself of some of the night’s rum and beer when Major Mueller startled him. Hoppe, like many of his comrades, had had too much to drink as they celebrated all of Christmas Day and well into the night. Now, aside from the snow-muffled chatter of the sentries, the camp was crypt-quiet in the early morning hours as the men slept it off. His bare feet in the snow and Mueller’s booming voice had a sobering effect on him.

“Oh . . . Hoppe, it’s you,” a surprised Mueller said.

“Yes, sir.”

Mueller hesitated for a moment, and then continued, “I need you to help me with an important mission. It will take us the rest of the night, and above all it must remain our secret. Can you do that?” Mueller said as he stroked the snow and ice from his bulky mustache.

“Yes, sir, I can.”

“Well then get dressed, man, and tell no one of this . . . hurry.”

While Hoppe dressed, Mueller untied his horse from the back of the wagon and turned it loose. I’ll tend to you later. He slapped the animal’s rump toward the temporary stable set up in one of the town’s barns.

Hoppe would have been his last choice for a helper but it was too late now. Not because Hoppe was deficient in any way; on the contrary. Mueller liked the soldier’s enthusiasm and obedience. And he knew what the outcome of tonight’s business would be, and it bothered him a little. Maybe I can trust Hoppe to keep his mouth shut. Maybe I won’t have to kill him.

When Hoppe returned he jumped on the wagon, excited to be included in a secret mission. He nestled his musket under his armpit and across his knee and then sat on his hands to keep them warm. Mueller drove the team. The major knew the horses should have been rested or replaced but there was no time. The pair continued west-northwest until they reached the Delaware River. In the snowy darkness and the bone-chilling cold, they followed the river upstream.

The only light came from a lantern hung on a pole attached to the side of the wagon. The lantern light in the pitch-black woods cast eerie tree shadows on the accumulating snow. As if alive the shadows lunged, froze, and lingered motionless for an instant, then lunged again keeping time with the irregular pendulum motion of the swaying lantern. Hoppe tried not letting the major see him looking over his shoulder at the three long, wooden boxes in the back of the wagon, and the eerie tree shadows. He could tell by the way the small farm wagon lugged that the boxes must be heavy.

“Major, what is our mission, if I may ask?”

Mueller ignored the question at first, and then thought better of not answering. “Do you see those boxes back there?” he asked, motioning with his head.

“Yessir.”

“We must hide them. There are rumors General Washington is on the move with his entire army. Those boxes must not fall into the hands of the Americans . . . and nobody can know where we hide them. I know I can trust you, Hoppe, you’re a good soldier.”

The Major could feign charm when he had to and he was pleased with his short-notice lie. In part he had unwittingly stumbled onto the truth. General George Washington’s army of Continentals was indeed out and about tonight.

Mueller had marked the spot where they would have to go on foot. His thinking at the time was that a good hiding place could prove useful militarily at some point. He had no way of knowing then that his fortunes would take a dramatic turn for the better and he would have use of the hiding place himself. He had piled stones in a rough pyramid shape about two feet high along the narrow road. It wasn’t far from there to the river and the nearby cave he hoped he could find again.

The cave was small, but large enough for its intended purpose. It was a sinkhole beside a large rock outcropping about seven feet high and fifteen feet in diameter. The narrow entrance fell in at an angle to a small cavern and would not take much to conceal. He had made the discovery while he reconnoitered the area after the Hessians set up camp in Trenton a couple miles to the southeast.

“Watch for the stone pile, Hoppe. We should be getting close. It should look like a pointed mound of snow by now.”

There had not been much conversation on the trip partly due to the miserable weather, but mostly because Mueller was not a trivial man. He had no use for mindless drivel. Hoppe was far too intimidated by the major to engage him in idle chitchat, but he also felt uncomfortable not saying anything at all.

“The Colonel was around camp asking about you, Major.”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well what kind of questions was he asking, man?” Mueller growled.

“He was wondering where you were, that’s all.”

“Why would he ask you?”

“He didn’t. He asked the officers. It’s just that the men talk. That’s how I knew.” After a pause Hoppe asked, "Major, is our mission so secret that even the colonel doesn’t know about it?”

Mueller ignored the poignant question. So much for Hoppe’s shot at casual pleasantries.

Mueller had already made up a lie to cover his two-day absence. He would tell the colonel that a Tory spy had told him that he could put him in touch with an American deserter who had information on General Washington’s plans. He would say the Tory was in a hurry, so there was no time to get the colonel’s permission. He’d claim the Tory’s informant was gone when he got into Pennsylvania and the return trip had taken longer than expected. Perfect.

The truth was he traveled east, not west, and encountered two men and the small wagon almost a day’s ride from Trenton while he was foraging for food and looking for mischief. How clever those Americans think they are. Trying to move something this valuable through enemy-held territory in a farm wagon. Eliminating the two civilians had presented no problem. It was a contradiction, of course. Mueller didn’t like killing the Americans who had done him or Germany no harm, but didn’t mind killing for personal gain. But that was Mueller.

A little looting by the occupying Hessian army was tolerated, even expected. Most officers turned their heads, especially if it was a fellow officer doing the looting. This was far more than a little looting. He knew he should have turned over a find of this magnitude to the colonel, but Mueller had no trouble convincing himself his actions were justified; they owe me . . . the dogs owe me. It was on his return trip to camp that he formulated his plan. Now only to find the cave.

“There, Major! Is that it?”

Mueller pulled up the team and jumped from the wagon. He brushed the snow off the mound of rocks to make certain. This is it.

Pointing to the rock pile Mueller said, “Turn the wagon around and back it to here.”

With that done he ordered, “We must move fast now, Hoppe, it’ll be light soon. Grab that end of the box as I pull it off.”

The wooden boxes were about three feet long, a foot wide, and just short of a foot deep. They had a heavy rope handle at either end. The lid opened by two hinges and was held shut with two latches on the front. Two of the boxes had a padlock in between the two latches. The third did not, the result of Mueller’s pistol ball. When Hoppe’s end of the first box neared the end of the wagon, he grabbed the rope handle. As the box slid free of the wagon the full weight nearly jarred his arm from its socket,

“Too heavy for you, madam?” the major asked.

“No sir!”

Not at all happy about being called “madam” by a man he respected, and even less happy about the implication, Hoppe doubled his effort. Mueller held his rope handle with one hand; Hoppe needed two. The major may be able to beat me at arm wrestling.

Mueller was walking so fast it was all Hoppe could do to keep up. He tripped and stumbled through the snow and underbrush but managed to hold on. He had to. He couldn’t risk another verbal assault on his manhood.

“Put it down gently,” the major said, much to Hoppe’s relief.

Hoppe looked around and saw he was close to the Delaware River. He could make out large chunks of ice as they flowed downstream. Not far from shore he could see what appeared to be the northern point of a small island.

“Pay attention, Hoppe. Get down the hole feet-first and I’ll slide the box down to you. You pull and I’ll push. When you get it down all the way put your back to the wall and push it back as far as you can with your feet,” the major instructed.

Hoppe stared at the officer an instant too long.

“Well go on, man,” Mueller prodded.

The passageway was just large enough for Hoppe to get through. It was about seven feet long and angled down forty-five degrees. The height and breadth of the cavern was a strong four feet, the depth about seven feet. He could feel the space enlarge when his feet neared the cavern floor.

“I can’t see a thing, Major.”

“Just do as you’re told,” Mueller yelled down the hole.

The second trip was as grueling as the first, but went without incident. Hoppe was tired now and his hands were wet and cold. When he grabbed the rope handle on the third box?the one without the pad lock?the sudden jarring weight pulled the slippery rope from his grip. With the full weight now on him, the box pulled from Mueller’s hand as well and it fell sideways, striking hard on a rock. The lid tore loose from one of the hinges, partially revealing the boxes’ contents. Hoppe couldn’t believe his eyes. The major ’s reaction was rage that subsided to a resigned passiveness. There was no question now what must be done and he didn’t bother rebuking Hoppe.

“Sorry, Major.”

“Just get that hammer under the seat and fix this as best you can. Hurry!”

When the third box was in the cavern Hoppe scrambled to the surface. His mind was racing. What is going on here? This should have been given to the colonel. He had always trusted the major, but now something felt wrong.

“Help me move these rocks over the entrance. Mind to hide it well,” Mueller said.

The two had covered the entrance with rocks until it blended in with the rest of the outcropping. When Mueller saw the entrance was hidden he jockeyed for position.

Hoppe piled what he hoped would be the last rock in place. Satisfied with his work he turned toward Mueller just in time to see the major’s huge fist on its way to his face. The blow caught him square on the cheekbone. He stumbled backward and fell on the rocks over the cavern entrance. Blood flowed from his torn cheek, his ears were ringing, his vision was blurred, his thinking confused. The snow on the back of his neck prevented him from losing consciousness and he could make out Mueller’s blurry image standing over him with a knife in his hand. He thought he heard the major say, “I always liked you, Hoppe, but I have to,” or something like it. Just then something else struck Hoppe’s face like sand in a windstorm. A split second later he heard the report of a musket. The musket ball missed its mark and struck the large rock beside the cavern entrance, gouging out a long groove and throwing the debris into his face. An instant later, a second shot. This one did not miss its mark and sent more debris into Hoppe’s face. This time it was wet and warm and he knew immediately what it was. The ball tore through Major Mueller’s head and he was dead before his bulk hit the snow. The Americans! Hoppe’s mind screamed.

Hoppe was operating on adrenaline now. He scrambled the fifty feet back to the wagon, half stooping and half on his hands and knees. He no longer felt any pain. He didn’t know how he got on the wagon, but the horses, already jumpy from the musket fire, sensed it was time to get out of there, now. As he pulled away he could hear balls of lead fly past him like vengeful bees. Driving the team as hard as they would go he headed back to Trenton. I must warn my comrades!