On the Trail of Washington's army:
(James Hiller POV)
James Hiller was not accustomed to the rigors of army life. He wasn't a soldier, after all, though he'd shared enough hardships with them to feel the strain. His journey with General Halbert and Colonel Knox during the legendary haul of cannons from Ticonderoga had been arduous, but this, this relentless march with Washington's army, was something else entirely. Every day was a race against exhaustion, a desperate struggle to keep up with soldiers who seemed to thrive on sheer willpower alone.
Trailing a half mile behind the army was his unfortunate reality. Sarah and Henri, his steadfast companions, were in the same boat, though their spirits rarely flagged as he did. Sarah, ever pragmatic, reminded him often that they had a duty to write, not just for their Gazette but to sell their stories for whatever meager sum could keep them fed and equipped. Henri, meanwhile, seemed to take to army life with an ease James envied, mingling with the soldiers, sharing their jokes, their mishaps, and occasionally their rations.
The pace of the march was relentless. James often arrived at camp hours after the soldiers had settled in, his legs heavy, his mind weary. And yet, he wrote anyting, from rumors, to interviews, to jsut dispatches for the people of the american continent. By candlelight, on scraps of paper scavenged from who knew where, he scratched out every observation he could muster. His words, he knew, carried weight, not just for the Gazette but for history.
The truths James uncovered were often bitter ones, the kind that twisted in his gut and filled his thoughts with dread long into the night. New York City had fallen. Not in a glorious clash of arms but with an almost surgical precision, the British army—well-trained, well-equipped, and led with ruthless efficiency—had seized the city from Washington's grasp before a single meaningful shot could be fired. It was a blow not just to the fledgling cause of independence but to the fragile morale of its supporters.
The Loyalists, those steadfast Tories loyal to the Crown, had wasted no time in making their allegiance clear. They flocked from Washington's dwindling influence, not merely fleeing his army but rushing eagerly into the waiting arms of the British forces under Field Marshal Conway. Yes, Field Marshal Conway, a point Sarah never failed to emphasize when James mistakenly referred to him as a mere general. "If you're going to write history," she had chided with a wry smile, "at least get the man's title right."
And then there was Washington himself. To James, the General seemed locked in a strategy of constant retreat, perpetually marching his weary army to find positions that could be defended, then abandoning them as the British advanced. It was a game of cat and mouse, but with stakes so high that every movement carried the weight of an entire revolution. James couldn't help but feel the frustration of it all. It seemed to him that Washington was doing nothing but running, refusing to stand and fight, and instead focusing on one singular, maddening goal: survival.
It wasn't that Washington lacked a plan. The man was clearly determined, meticulously choosing each defensive position to maximize its potential for holding back the enemy. But the strategy grated on James, who longed to see the kind of bold actions that might inspire the people—and sell papers. And yet, as he watched the army march and dig, drill and prepare, James began to understand what Washington was doing. This wasn't cowardice; it was pragmatism. Washington wasn't just protecting the lives of his soldiers. He was preserving the revolution itself. For if the Continental Army was destroyed, the dream of independence would die with it.
Still, James wanted more. He needed more. It wasn't enough to simply record the movements of an army or the dry facts of a campaign. He felt a duty, not just to his readers but to himself, to dig deeper, to uncover the stories that would truly bring this struggle to life. Who were these soldiers that marched alongside him, these men who endured endless miles, bitter cold, and gnawing hunger? What kept them going when all seemed lost? What did Washington see in the future that gave him such unshakable resolve?
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Joseph Plumb Martin was only a private, but at James's age, he felt like a kindred spirit. The two had become inseparable, though not by design; it seemed Joseph was the only one in his regiment willing to engage James in conversation. Despite his youth and rank, Joseph carried himself with an air of quiet wisdom that intrigued the writer.
The young private had run away from his grandparents' home in Connecticut, seeking adventure and purpose in the life of a soldier. Though new to the hardships of war, he had adapted to the soldiering life as well as any recruit in Washington's army. What set him apart, however, was his insight, more thoughtful and nuanced than that of many seasoned officers James had spoken to. It wasn't arrogance, but rather a curious ability to piece things together, as though he could see patterns where others saw only chaos.
"That's General Washington's entire plan, according to the Colonel," Joseph said one evening as James jotted down notes by the flickering light of a campfire. The boy's voice was calm but carried the weight of conviction. "Washington has two great advantages: the countryside and time. The British may have their regulars, their uniforms, and their cannons, but they don't understand this land like we do. The General keeps us moving, using the countryside to outmaneuver them, striking when they're off balance, and disappearing before they can pin us down. That's how we held them off after Bunker Hill."
Joseph's words were measured, his tone almost analytical, but James could sense an undercurrent of pride. "But the British are learning," he added, leaning forward. "They're not fools. They're trying to outflank us, to trap us. But we've got something they don't: the farmers. We pay for what we take, fair and square. The British take everything they want by force, and they're making enemies with every step. That's their weakness."
James paused his scribbling to ask a question that had been nagging at him. "Why are you fighting, Joseph, when General Washington seems to be doing nothing but retreating?"
Joseph's response was immediate and tinged with a smile, as though the answer was obvious. "Because why fight needlessly when you can fight with purpose and win? That's the General's way. He's not afraid to step back, to wait for the right moment. He doesn't throw us into battle just to prove a point. He wants us ready, trained, not just boys with muskets, but real soldiers."
James raised an eyebrow. "And what if he's wrong? What if all this waiting, all this training, doesn't lead to anything?"
Joseph's smile didn't falter. "He hasn't given us any reason to doubt him yet. When he's wrong, he owns up to it, learns from it, and makes sure it doesn't happen again. That's why I trust him. He's not perfect, but he's got a way of making you believe we can do this."
James finished jotting down the young man's words, nodding in quiet appreciation. "Thanks, Joseph. I think your perspective will help people understand what it's really like out here."
"No, thank you," Joseph replied earnestly. "People don't listen to me much. They think because I'm young, I've got nothing to say that matters. But I stay quiet, I watch, and I think about what I'm being told and what we're doing. It helps me see things clearer. And what I see…" He glanced at the fire, his face reflecting its soft glow. "What I see makes me believe we'll be alright."
James watched him for a moment, his pen resting on the page. And smiled.
He did too.
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