Brandon Herrera at The Battle of Princeton
The triumph at Trenton had breathed new life into the Continental Army, but victory's glow faded quickly in the biting January cold of 1777. General George Washington's men, buoyed by captured Hessian supplies and fresh enlistments, recrossed the Delaware to occupy Trenton once more, their campfires dotting the New Jersey landscape like defiant stars. Yet the British lion stirred; Lord Cornwallis, furious at the Hessian humiliation, marched south from New York with 8,000 redcoats, intent on crushing the rebels. By January 2, Cornwallis's forces loomed on Trenton's northern edge, probing the American lines with artillery fire that shattered the frozen Assunpink Creek bridges. Washington, outnumbered and trapped against the river, convened his officers in a tense council. "We cannot hold here," he declared, his breath clouding the lamplit room. "We'll slip away under night's cover and strike at Princeton—cut their supply lines and vanish like ghosts."
Among the gathered leaders—Nathanael Greene, John Sullivan, and the burly Henry Knox—stood Brandon Herrera, newly promoted sergeant, the captured Hessian saber at his hip clashing with his silver-hilted dagger. His "Delaware Darter" had become legend, whispered around campfires as the "whistling devil" that turned Hessian cheers to screams. But Brandon, ever the tinkerer, had already moved on. In the days since Trenton, he'd scavenged British powder and Hessian nails to craft his latest brainchild: the "Princeton Pouncer." "It's a spring-loaded trap launcher," he'd explained to Elias, the young Virginian private who'd become his shadow. The device was a wooden box on wheels, no bigger than a bread crate, fitted with coiled iron springs from a wrecked wagon and packed with caltrops—spiked iron stars—and grapeshot bundles. Triggered by a tripwire or flintlock pull, it hurled its deadly payload in a wide arc, like a mechanical porcupine spitting quills. "For ambushes," Brandon grinned, his eyes alight. "Those redcoats march in pretty lines; this'll make 'em dance the jig of death."
As dusk fell on January 2, Washington's plan unfolded. To deceive Cornwallis, the army left 400 men to stoke campfires and dig mock trenches, their shovels clanging like busy beavers. The main force—5,000 strong—slipped away at midnight, muffled wheels and shod hooves creeping along Quaker Road toward Princeton, 12 miles north. The march was grueling: frozen ruts turned ankles, and a thaw turned the path to mud that sucked at boots like greedy hands. Brandon, assigned to Greene's vanguard, rolled his Pouncer ahead, Elias pushing from behind. "This mud's thicker than British tea," Brandon muttered, wiping sweat despite the chill. A scout reported British patrols nearby; Brandon set a quick diversion—a buried powder keg fused to a slow-burn cord. When a redcoat detachment neared, the blast echoed like thunder, scattering them and masking the army's movement.
Dawn broke on January 3, gray and foggy, as the Americans neared Princeton. Washington split his forces: Sullivan's division veered south to cut off retreat routes, while Greene's pressed toward the town, where Lieutenant Colonel Charles Mawhood commanded a British rear guard of 1,200 men—infantry, dragoons, and artillery—en route to reinforce Cornwallis. Unaware of the rebel approach, Mawhood's column marched along Stony Brook Road, fifes piping and drums beating a jaunty rhythm. Brandon, scouting with a handful of riflemen, spotted them first through the mist. "Redcoats on parade," he whispered, signaling back. General Hugh Mercer, leading the advance brigade, ordered a charge across an open field, his men fixing bayonets with grim resolve.
The clash erupted like a powder keg. Mercer's 350 Continentals and militia slammed into Mawhood's 17th Regiment, muskets cracking in the frosty air. Bayonets crossed in a frenzy; Mercer himself fell wounded, stabbed repeatedly as he refused quarter. Brandon, from a nearby orchard, saw the line waver. "Not today, you lobsterbacks!" he yelled, wheeling his Pouncer into position. He yanked the flintlock trigger, and the springs uncoiled with a metallic twang. Caltrops and grapeshot sprayed outward, peppering the British flank. Spikes embedded in boots and horseflesh, eliciting howls; one dragoon tumbled from his saddle, his mount rearing in panic. "That's for Mercer!" Brandon shouted, reloading with fresh bundles as Elias covered him with musket fire.
Mawhood rallied his men, wheeling artillery to bear. Cannon boomed, grapeshot tearing through American ranks, forcing a retreat toward the orchard. Militia fled in disorder, but Continentals held, buying time. Washington, galloping to the front with reinforcements, rallied the troops personally. "Parade with me, boys! It's a fine fox chase!" he cried, his sword flashing as he led a countercharge. Brandon, dodging through apple trees stripped bare by winter, lobbed clay-pot grenades—holdovers from Trenton—into the British guns. One exploded amid the artillery crew, shattering a wheel and silencing the piece. "Boom goes the king's thunder!" he quipped, his voice cutting through the din.
Sullivan's division, meanwhile, swept into Princeton from the south, overrunning Nassau Hall where British holdouts barricaded themselves. Students from the College of New Jersey cheered as American cannon battered the doors; legend held Alexander Hamilton himself fired a shot that decapitated a portrait of King George II inside. Brandon linked up with Greene's push, his Pouncer proving invaluable in the street fighting. As redcoats formed a square on King Street, he set the device behind a fence, tripwire taut across the road. When the British advanced, the wire snapped, unleashing a hail of spikes that broke their formation. "Pounce on that, you royal pests!" Brandon laughed, charging forward with his saber drawn.
The battle raged for less than an hour, but it was fierce—house-to-house skirmishes, volleys echoing off stone walls, snow churned to bloody slush. Mawhood's forces crumbled under the pincer attack; he ordered a bayonet charge to break through, but Washington's cavalry harried their flanks. Brandon spotted a British officer rallying troops near a barn. Priming his Delaware Darter—still slung across his back—he launched a rocket that screamed overhead, bursting with nails and fire. The officer fell, clutching his leg; his men scattered. Elias, firing beside him, took a graze to the arm but pressed on. "You're a madman, Herrera," the lad gasped. Brandon clapped his shoulder. "Mad for freedom, Elias. Now let's finish this."
By 10 a.m., it was over. Mawhood fled with remnants toward New Brunswick, leaving 200 dead or wounded and 300 captured. American losses were lighter—40 killed, including Mercer, and 100 wounded—but the victory was profound. Princeton's stores fell into rebel hands: flour, rum, blankets, and ammunition that would sustain the army. Morale, already lifted by Trenton, soared to new heights; enlistments surged, and the British, stunned by the twin blows, retreated to winter quarters.
In the aftermath, as smoke cleared over the fields, Washington addressed his exhausted troops amid captured colors. "You've turned the tide, men. The world will know Americans fight like lions." He paused, eyeing Brandon, whose Pouncer sat mud-splattered but intact. "Sergeant Herrera, your contraptions have again proven invaluable. For your ingenuity and bravery, I award you this British officer's pistol—as a token of the empire's crumbling grip."
Brandon accepted with a bow, holstering the ornate flintlock. "Much obliged, General. Just keepin' the redcoats on their toes." As laughter rippled through the ranks, he added, "Guess they learned: cross a Yankee twice, and you'll get pounced!"
The army marched north to Morristown for winter quarters, evading Cornwallis's belated pursuit. Brandon faded into the column, tinkering with ideas for his next gadget—a "Morristown Mauler," perhaps. The Revolution burned brighter, legends of the "Jersey Jester" spreading far. But whispers of British reinforcements loomed, and Valley Forge waited in the shadows. For now, though, freedom's fire kindled on.
