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“To beat the Germans, cut off their cabbage supply. They’ll be gone in a fortnight.” – P.D.
Washington was still asleep when Zippy and I were ushered into his headquarters by a groggy guard. When we reached the door to the general’s bedroom, the guard whispered to me, “Are you going to wake him up?”
I replied, “No, are you?”
“I can’t—doctor’s orders. I’m allergic to his....” The guard opened his mouth and pointed inside. “I’ve got to stay at least twenty feet away from him, or I’ll break out in hives.”
“His breath can’t be all that bad. Zippy, go wake up General Washington.” I opened the door and pushed Zippy toward the general’s bed. She dug her hooves into the rug, upsetting a table and a large lamp. We all glanced over at Washington’s bed to see if he’d been woken up by the loud noise, but he was still fast asleep, snoring loudly. Before we could decide what to do next, the rug burst into flame. The lamp oil must’ve seeped out when it shattered and been ignited by the still-burning wick.
The guard excused himself with a humble, “I was never here.” Poor guy must’ve had memory problems.
Zippy and I spent much of our free time testing our emergency preparedness, so we lost no time, smothering the fire with every item we could find. I pulled the drapes from the windows and threw them onto the smoldering rug. To my surprise, that didn’t help things and, in fact, made the fire much worse. As I threw various flame-resistant-looking clothes from the dressers onto the blaze to dampen its growth, Zippy began knocking the legs off of pieces of furniture, causing them to fall onto the fire. No lice.
When I’d emptied the last of the wardrobe’s contents onto the fire, I glanced over at my mule daughter and found her attempting to knock the footboard legs out from under the bed where Washington still lay asleep.
“No, Zippy, you’ll send our country’s finest military mind to his doom!” My mini mule either didn’t hear me, or she wasn’t overly concerned with the consequences of her actions. She continued to kick at the legs, weakening them with every stroke of her hooves. When the fire began to draw too close to her for comfort, Zippy skittered back to my side.
Several guards burst into the room. One of them bellowed, “What’s going on in here?”
I was at a loss for words until I made up something. “A dragon! You just missed it. It was big and nasty—but not beyond taming.”
“Bring the buckets!” The guard bellowed to his companions. They ran from the room. The man turned to me. “Wake up the general! We’ve got to get him to safety.”
I slung Zippy over my shoulder and tiptoed around the massive inferno now blazing in the center of the room. Smoke spewed from the fire, making it increasingly difficult to move about. I stumbled and slumped against the wall. My breathing grew shallow as I tried to inhale the smoke-clogged air. I tugged on Zippy’s tail and choked, “Zippy, you’ll have to do it. Go wake up the general. I don’t care what you have to do, but wake him up.”
My mule daughter licked my cheek, hopped off my shoulder, and trotted over to Washington’s bed. Her close proximity to the ground made her a perfect fit for the job. Zippy was able to move around the room almost unphased by the smoke.
“You idiots! Why would I want empty buckets? Fill them with water first!” I could just make out the guard screaming at his men over the roaring flames.
By that point, Zippy had hit a height-related obstacle. She was too short to leap onto the four-poster bed where Washington still lay sleeping. After a few running jumps didn’t get her up onto the mattress, my mule turned tail and ran under the bed.
Through tears, I croaked, “Zippy, no! You’ve got to help the general. He’d probably do the same thing for you!”
Then I saw Washington’s limp body bounce a bit on the bed. It happened again—higher that time. At first, I was puzzled why Washington was hopping around on his bed in that strange fashion. Then I realized Zippy must’ve been kicking his mattress from below. The third bounce sent Washington flying. His body flipped and struck the headboard before sliding down next to the bed. Zippy skittered from her place of concealment, bit down on the collar of Washington’s shirt, and dragged him over to where I lay.
Before I could tell Zippy how proud I was of her, I heard a splash—then another. A loud hissing noise filled the room. I shielded my daughter and what I could of Washington’s body with my own, while holding one of Zippy’s hooves. I managed to choke out, “Whatever happens, Zippy....” That was all I could get out.
The temperature fell rapidly inside the room, and the light from the flames dimmed. I grew sleepy, but before I lost consciousness, I felt a few hands pulling me—not very gently, I’ll add—to safety.
*******
Zippy’s feeble wheezing woke me up late that afternoon. My lids fluttered open, and I saw my mule daughter staring intently at me from where she stood on my chest. I found that I’d been removed from the gutted farmhouse bedroom and placed on a cot in another room in the home. I looked around and saw that Gen. Washington was asleep on a cot next to me.
A few minutes later, Washington stirred and sat upright on his cot. He screamed, “Fire! Save my maps!” Washington leaped to his feet and began running about, grabbing armfuls of maps and a bag of his favorite sugar candies—that explains his dental difficulties.
A guard ran into the room. His uniform was charred, and his hair was missing. “General, the fire was put out hours ago. Your maps are safe.” He took hold of Washington’s arm and led him back to his cot, tucking him in. “You need your rest, sir.” The guard left the room, and Washington again fell into a deep sleep.
Around dinnertime, Washington got up, dressed in his uniform, and began preparing the materials necessary to cross the Delaware that night. Zippy and I sat and watched as history unraveled before us. Couriers and guards filtered through the room, dispatching the general’s orders. When my mule daughter started to wheeze again, Washington cast a glace our way as though he hadn’t noticed us sitting there the whole time. “What is your report?”
I jumped to my feet. “General, they have many men, but while musically gifted and bilingual, I believe their penchant for consuming large amounts of adult beverages shall deny them victory.”
“How many cannons?”
I couldn’t recall an exact number, so I erred on the side of caution. “Gobs of them, sir.”
“Is that your full report? Is there more I should know?” Admittedly, I should’ve fessed up to blowing the entire operation by blabbing crucial secrets, but the fire had pushed my spying failures from my mind for the present.
When he’d received a full report from the guards about the extent of the fire, Washington recognized Zippy’s heroism in saving his life by allowing her to ride in his boat across the Delaware. I think he viewed her as a sort of good luck charm. As Zippy’s guardian, I got to ride in Washington’s boat too. It wasn’t until we boarded that boat and prepared to cross the Delaware late that night that I remembered bungling the whole operation. I scanned the trees on the far side of the river which, I figured, must have been obscuring thousands of German soldiers waiting to ambush us.
To date, Zippy and I have never been featured in an artistic depiction of the river crossing. As in most of the paintings, during the crossing, Washington stood in the front of the boat, his face frozen in a stoic stare. When I say his face was frozen, I really mean it—the night air was frigid. My mini mule and I were seated next to Washington’s horse who shared my desire to be somewhere else. During most of the short passage, I did my best to keep Zippy preoccupied, so she didn’t kick a hole in the boat. It wasn’t easy. Kicking holes in watercraft has always been one of Zippy’s favorite hobbies.
Crossing the river didn’t take long. The current splashed against the boats. Horses whinnied. Icicles formed on the soldiers, and a few people froze to death. When we’d ditched our boats along the shore, the army marched toward the main German encampment at Trenton. My legs began to tremble. I put on a show of composure, but I was genuinely concerned that I might’ve brought the revolution to an end.
Several hours of marching passed as the moon glowed softly overhead. In the distance, we began to spot the glow of dying campfires. We pressed on until we were about one hundred feet from the fires. Washington held up his hand for us to halt. By this point, my stomach was cramping so badly, I was unable to walk upright and had to roll instead. Washington raised his hand again, and our cannons began to fire into the German camp. The soldiers pushed on toward the town, attempting to rout our confused and surprised enemy.
Unable to fight, I rolled further into the forest and sat behind a tree next to Zippy, watching the battle unfold. The German commanding officer attempted to rally his troops by singing a few popular tunes, but try as he might, they didn’t join him. He followed in the choreographed footsteps of his German officer predecessors and went out singing, a sauerkraut sandwich in-hand.
Early reports from the battle indicated that the Germans had been soundly defeated. The pain in my stomach began to ebb. I saw some passing colonial soldiers leading trains of prisoners, and I asked, “How goes the battle?”
“Easiest fight I’ve been in yet. It’s not hard when they’re drunk.” His statement seemed accurate. Rather than leading trains of prisoners, I should’ve said dragging trains of prisoners. Their faces were almost as green as their jackets. A few waved at me when they passed.
“Crazy Germans, I’ve never seen you before in my life.” I shouted to anyone in earshot. I didn’t want to break the Germans’ spirits twice in one day, so I waved back.
A thought struck me like a backhanded slap after a misconstrued joke. My loose lips had saved the revolution. I rose, for the pain had left my stomach. I, Pritchie Daviess, had helped. Nay, more than that! I had architected this victory at Trenton. My cheery outlook and poor understanding of when to keep my mouth shut had saved scores of American lives. That was the day—December 26, 1776—I assumed my seldom-remembered place in American history.
