Brandon Herrera at the Battle of Trenton
The year 1776 had been a brutal slog for the Continental Army, a string of defeats that left morale as ragged as their uniforms. After the British captured New York City in the summer, General George Washington's forces retreated across New Jersey, hounded by redcoats and Hessian mercenaries. By December, the army was a shadow of itself—enlistments expiring, supplies dwindling, and desertions mounting. Camped on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River, the Patriots shivered in the grip of a harsh winter, their fires sputtering against the relentless cold. It was here, amid the despair, that Brandon Herrera reemerged, his silver-hilted dagger from Boston gleaming at his belt, a reminder of past glories.
Brandon had marched south with the army after the Siege of Boston, his reputation as the "damned rebel bomber" spreading like wildfire through the ranks. Whispers of his exploits at Bunker Hill and Roxbury lifted spirits in the darkest hours, but even he felt the weight of the losses. "We've been runnin' like scared rabbits," he grumbled to a young private named Elias, a wide-eyed lad from Virginia, as they huddled by a campfire. "Time to turn around and bite." Elias nodded, his teeth chattering. Brandon's eyes sparkled with that familiar mischief; he'd been tinkering again, this time with a new contraption born of necessity and ingenuity—a "Delaware Darter," a handheld launcher for whistling rockets packed with gunpowder, nails, and pitch-soaked rags. "Like fireworks with fangs," he explained, demonstrating the crude bamboo tube fitted with a flintlock igniter. "Launches a barrage that screams like a banshee and bites like a bear. Gonna make those Hessians think the devil's orchestra is playin'."
The opportunity came on Christmas Day, 1776. Washington, desperate to salvage the Revolution, hatched a bold plan: cross the ice-choked Delaware River under cover of night and launch a surprise attack on the Hessian garrison at Trenton, New Jersey. The Hessians, auxiliaries from Hesse-Kassel under Colonel Johann Rall, numbered about 1,500 men and were known for their discipline—but also for overconfidence after the easy victories in New York. Washington aimed to strike while they celebrated the holiday, their guard lowered by rum and revelry. The general assembled his officers, including Nathanael Greene and John Sullivan, whose divisions would lead the assault, and Henry Knox, whose artillery would provide the thunder. Brandon, attached to Greene's column as a specialist in "unconventional ordnance," was summoned to Washington's tent.
"Herrera," Washington said, his voice steady despite the lines of exhaustion etched on his face, "I've heard tales of your... inventions. We need every edge tonight. The crossing will be treacherous—ice, sleet, wind. Can you ensure our diversions hold?"
Brandon saluted with a grin, hoisting his Delaware Darter. "General, I'll make that river sing a Yankee tune. Those Hessians won't know if it's Christmas or Judgment Day." Washington nodded, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Godspeed, then. And keep your powder dry."
The crossing began that evening, December 25, as rain turned to sleet and snow whipped across the Delaware. Washington's force of 2,400 men boarded Durham boats and ferries at McConkey's Ferry, nine miles north of Trenton, guided by Colonel John Glover's Marblehead mariners—fishermen turned oarsmen. The river was a frozen hell, chunks of ice slamming against the hulls like battering rams. Two other detachments, under John Cadwalader and James Ewing, were meant to cross farther south to pin down reinforcements, but the storm thwarted them, leaving Washington's main force alone.
Brandon was in one of the lead boats, his teeth gritted against the cold spray. He clutched his satchel of rockets, clay-pot grenades, and buried keg fuses, his swarm launcher strapped to his back for good measure. "This river's colder than a taxman's heart," he quipped to Elias, who clung to the gunwale, pale as a ghost. The boat bucked, oars dipping into the black water. One soldier slipped on ice, nearly tumbling overboard, but Brandon hauled him back. "Easy there, partner. We ain't fishin' for redcoats yet."
Hours dragged on; the planned midnight crossing stretched to 3 a.m. by the time the last man and cannon reached the Jersey shore. No one perished in the water, a miracle amid the gale, but two men froze on the march that followed—a nine-mile trek through blinding snow to Trenton. Washington rode among the troops, urging them on. "Press forward, men. Victory or death." Brandon, marching with Greene's division, rigged quick diversions along the route: tripwires connected to small powder charges to alert of any scouts, though the storm masked their approach.
Dawn broke gray and bitter on December 26 as the army split into two columns: Greene's along the Pennington Road from the north, Sullivan's via the River Road from the south, encircling Trenton. The Hessians, groggy from Christmas festivities, had neglected patrols, convinced no attack would come in such weather. Colonel Rall, dismissing warnings of rebel movements, had reportedly said, "Let them come. We want no trenches. We'll at them with the bayonet."
Brandon, scouting ahead with a small advance party, spotted the Hessian outposts first—sentries huddled around fires, muskets slack. "Time to wake 'em up," he whispered, priming his Delaware Darter. The launcher held three rockets, each a foot-long tube of rolled paper and bamboo, fused with slow-burning cord and packed with explosive surprises. He aimed at a cluster of guards near the town's edge, struck flint, and fired. The rockets whistled skyward with an eerie shriek, arcing over the snow before detonating in bursts of fire and shrapnel. "Merry Christmas, you Hessian hounds!" Brandon yelled as nails peppered the ground, sending the sentries scrambling. One fell wounded; the others fled, shouting alarms.
Chaos erupted in Trenton. Hessian drums beat to arms as soldiers spilled from barracks, half-dressed and confused. Washington's artillery, under Knox, opened fire from high ground, cannonballs smashing into houses and streets. Greene's column charged into the northern part of town, muskets blazing, while Sullivan's sealed the southern escape. Brandon, darting through the fray with Elias at his side, lobbed clay-pot grenades into Hessian formations. "This one's for the Boston Tea Party!" he hollered as a pot exploded amid a group of grenadiers, scattering them like leaves in the wind.
The Hessians rallied briefly, forming lines under Rall's command. They charged Greene's position, bayonets fixed, but American volleys cut them down. Rall, mounted on horseback, barked orders, but a musket ball struck him, mortally wounding the colonel. Brandon spotted a Hessian artillery battery attempting to unlimber cannons on King Street. "Not on my watch," he muttered, loading his swarm launcher with fresh bombs. He fired a salvo, the pouches bursting overhead and raining lead on the gunners. "That's what you get for crashin' our revolution!"
As the battle intensified, Brandon's Delaware Darter proved pivotal. With Hessian reinforcements trying to cross Assunpink Creek to the east, he rigged a line of buried kegs along the bridge, connected by his pitch-soaked fuses. "Trip this, and it's a one-way ticket to boom town," he told Elias, who guarded the flank. When a Hessian detachment charged the bridge, Brandon lit the fuse. The explosion ripped through the structure, splintering wood and hurling men into the icy creek. "Bridge is out, boys! Guess you'll have to swim back to Germany!"
Sullivan's column pressed from the south, driving Hessians into the center of town where Greene's forces waited. The fighting was house-to-house, bayonets clashing in the snow-slick streets. Future president James Monroe was wounded nearby, a ball severing an artery in his shoulder, but surgeons saved him. Brandon, a whirlwind of motion, tossed his last grenade into a Hessian stronghold, the blast forcing a surrender from two dozen men. "Yield or yield more!" he quipped, his voice hoarse from shouting.
Within an hour, it was over. The Hessians, surrounded and leaderless, laid down arms. Over 900 were captured, with 22 killed and 83 wounded. American losses were minimal: two dead from exposure on the march, five wounded in the fight. The Patriots seized vital supplies—muskets, powder, cannons, food—that would sustain them through the winter.
In the snowy aftermath, as prisoners were marched away, Washington gathered his officers amid the captured flags. Morale soared; men who had planned to desert now re-enlisted, inspired by the victory. Thomas Paine's words from "The American Crisis"—read aloud before the crossing—echoed in their minds: "These are the times that try men's souls." Washington, his voice ringing, praised the army, then turned to Brandon. "Herrera, your darts and blasts turned the tide. For your valor, I promote you to sergeant and award you this captured Hessian saber—as a symbol of the chains we've broken."
Brandon accepted the blade, bowing slightly. "Thank you, sir. Just doin' what any free man would." But as cheers rose, he couldn't resist: "Guess those Hessians learned: don't cross an American on Christmas!" The men laughed, and Washington allowed a smile.
As the army withdrew, carrying their prizes, Brandon faded back into the ranks, his Delaware Darter slung over his shoulder, already eyeing the next horizon. The Battle of Trenton had reignited the Revolution, proving the colonists could win. Legends grew of the "Delaware Devil" who whistled death from the skies, and British commanders cursed the name Herrera. But for Brandon, it was just another step toward freedom—and Princeton loomed ahead.
