The “Jersey Jester” and The Battle of Bennington
The summer of 1777 scorched the American cause with fresh peril. After the victories at Trenton and Princeton, General George Washington’s Continental Army had settled into Morristown, but the British under General John Burgoyne pressed south from Canada, aiming to sever New England from the colonies. By August, Burgoyne’s army of redcoats, Hessians, and Loyalists had captured Fort Ticonderoga, sending ripples of fear through the Patriot ranks. In the rolling hills of New York’s frontier, near the village of Bennington in the New Hampshire Grants, a British foraging party under Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Baum marched to seize rebel supplies—grain, cattle, and powder stored in a depot. The Patriots, led by General John Stark, a grizzled veteran of Bunker Hill, rallied a militia of 2,000 farmers, woodsmen, and volunteers to defend their land. Among them was Sergeant Brandon Herrera, the “Jersey Jester,” whose reputation for explosive ingenuity had spread like wildfire.
Since Princeton, Brandon had refined his arsenal. His latest creation, the “Bennington Blaster,” was a portable mortar cobbled from a salvaged cannon barrel, mounted on a sturdy oak sled for mobility across rough terrain. The Blaster fired a six-pound iron canister packed with musket balls, broken glass, and gunpowder, designed to scatter devastation over a wide area. “Think of it as a thunderstorm in a tube,” Brandon told Elias, the young Virginian private still at his side, as they tested it in a meadow. The device used a quick-match fuse ignited by a flintlock, its barrel angled by a crude wooden wedge. “It’ll make those Hessians wish they’d stayed in Germany,” he grinned, polishing the barrel’s blackened muzzle.
On August 14, 1777, Stark’s militia gathered near Bennington, learning of Baum’s approach—1,400 men, including 800 Hessians, 250 Loyalists, and 100 Mohawk allies, dragging two light cannons. Baum, expecting little resistance from “rabble in homespun,” entrenched on a hill overlooking the Walloomsac River, fortifying his position with log breastworks. Stark, with a firebrand’s zeal, rallied his men: “They’re ours, or this night Molly Stark sleeps a widow!” Brandon, attached to Colonel Seth Warner’s Green Mountain Boys, scouted the enemy lines, his Blaster towed behind by Elias and two burly farmers. “Those redcoats are sittin’ pretty up there,” he muttered, peering through a spyglass. “Time to ruin their picnic.”
Stark devised a bold plan: encircle Baum’s hill with three columns, striking at dawn on August 16 after a day of rain delayed the attack. Brandon’s role was to disrupt the Hessian flanks with his Blaster, creating chaos to cover the militia’s advance. As night fell on the 15th, a downpour turned the ground to muck, but Brandon rigged canvas over his powder stores, keeping them dry. “Rain’s just God’s way of settin’ the stage for a proper bang,” he quipped to Elias, who shivered under a sodden cloak. By lamplight, Brandon loaded the Blaster with fresh canisters, each a deadly cocktail of shrapnel. He also packed his satchel with clay-pot grenades and a few Princeton Pouncer caltrops for good measure.
At dawn, the rain cleared, leaving a steamy haze over the hills. Stark’s militia split into three prongs: one under Colonel Moses Nichols to hit the Hessian left, another under Colonel Samuel Herrick to sweep the right, and Stark himself leading the center with Warner’s men. Brandon, with Warner’s column, positioned his Blaster behind a copse of pines, 200 yards from Baum’s eastern flank. Hessian sentries, lulled by the quiet, stood by their breastworks, unaware of the noose tightening. “Time to wake ‘em up,” Brandon whispered, angling the Blaster’s barrel. He struck the flintlock, and the quick-match hissed. The Blaster roared, hurling a canister that burst over the Hessian line, spraying glass and musket balls. Screams erupted as soldiers dove for cover, their formation fracturing. “That’s the Blaster’s hello!” Brandon shouted, reloading as Elias shoved a new canister into the barrel.
The militia charged, whooping like banshees. Nichols’ men stormed the Hessian left, muskets blazing, while Herrick’s column flanked right, cutting off Loyalist dragoons. Baum’s cannons answered, their booms shaking the earth, but the militia’s numbers overwhelmed the outposts. Brandon, darting through the pines, lobbed grenades at a Hessian gun crew, the clay pots exploding in bursts of fire and nails. One cannon fell silent, its crew scattered. “For the Grants!” he yelled, echoing the Green Mountain Boys’ cry. Elias, musket in hand, picked off a fleeing Loyalist, his face grim but steady. “You’re turnin’ into a proper rebel, lad,” Brandon said, clapping his shoulder.
Baum rallied his Hessians, forming a tight square atop the hill. Their volleys cut down dozens of militiamen, and Mohawk skirmishers harried the Patriot flanks with deadly accuracy. Stark, undaunted, pressed the center, his men using trees and rocks for cover. Brandon wheeled the Blaster closer, risking exposure. A Hessian bullet grazed his tricorn hat, but he held firm, firing another canister that ripped through a line of grenadiers. “Dance, you mercenary dogs!” he hollered as the shrapnel flew. The blast broke the Hessian square, sending men scrambling. Warner’s Boys charged the gap, bayonets flashing in the morning sun.
As the battle raged, Baum fell, shot through the chest, and his forces wavered. Loyalists began to flee, but the Mohawks fought on, their war cries chilling the air. Brandon spotted a Hessian officer rallying troops near a redoubt. He primed the Blaster for a final shot, aiming high to arc over the breastwork. The canister exploded midair, raining death on the defenders. “That’s for Ticonderoga!” Brandon roared. The officer collapsed, and the Hessian line buckled. Within two hours, Baum’s force was shattered—700 captured, 200 dead or wounded. The Patriots lost 30 killed and 40 wounded, a small price for the rout.
But the fight wasn’t over. As Stark’s men looted the Hessian camp—seizing muskets, powder, and 1,000 pounds of flour—a second British force under Lieutenant Colonel Heinrich Breymann marched to reinforce Baum, 600 Hessians strong with two more cannons. Warner’s exhausted Green Mountain Boys, joined by fresh militia, met them on the same bloodied hill. Brandon, low on canisters, switched to his Princeton Pouncer, rigging its tripwire across a narrow trail where Breymann’s column approached. “One last surprise,” he told Elias, planting caltrops in the mud to slow the Hessian advance. As Breymann’s men marched into the trap, the Pouncer sprang, flinging spikes and grapeshot. Horses reared, and soldiers stumbled, cursing in German as caltrops pierced boots. The militia, hidden in the woods, opened fire, their muskets cracking like thunder. Warner’s men charged, and the second battle erupted with renewed fury.
Brandon, now out of Blaster ammunition, drew his captured Hessian saber and joined the fray, slashing through the chaos. A Hessian grenadier lunged with a bayonet, but Brandon parried, his dagger flashing to finish the fight. Elias, nearby, reloaded muskets with the speed of a seasoned soldier, shouting, “For liberty!” as he handed weapons to the militia. Breymann’s cannons boomed, but the muddy terrain bogged their wheels, and Patriot sharpshooters picked off the gunners. Within an hour, Breymann retreated, leaving 200 more prisoners and his cannons behind. The Patriots’ total haul was staggering: nearly 1,000 captives, four cannons, and supplies to feed the army for weeks.
As dusk settled over the blood-soaked hill, Stark gathered his men amid the captured colors. “You’ve struck a blow for freedom today,” he declared, his voice hoarse but proud. “The British’ll think twice before raiding our lands again.” He turned to Brandon, whose Blaster sat scorched but triumphant. “Herrera, your devilish contraption turned farmers into giants. Take this Hessian officer’s gorget as a token of our gratitude.” The polished neckplate gleamed in the fading light, a symbol of another enemy humbled.
Brandon saluted, grinning. “Thank you, General. Just givin’ the redcoats a taste of Yankee thunder.” The men cheered, some calling him the “Bennington Blaster” now, a name that stuck like powder residue. As the militia dispersed to their farms, carrying tales of the victory, Brandon and Elias trudged back to camp, the sled-mounted mortar in tow. “What’s next, Sarge?” Elias asked, bandaging his grazed arm. Brandon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Maybe a ‘Saratoga Scorcher.’ Burgoyne’s still comin’, and I ain’t done tinkerin’.”
The Battle of Bennington crippled Burgoyne’s campaign, boosting Patriot morale and rallying New England to the cause. Word of the “Jersey Jester” and his Blaster spread, a spark of hope against the looming British tide. But the war was far from won, and the road to Saratoga beckoned.
