The sleet and snow have stopped. The road has frozen hard beneath our feet. In the brisk chill of dawns light we finally can see where we can place our feet. We also see the bloody fooprints of those without shoes. Our drummers march at the head of our column, with their drumheads covered against the weather. Once in line of battle, then they will uncover. Until then a silent approach offers us the best chance of surprise.

Our pace has been slow. Too slow. All chance of a surprise night assault has gone. We are six miles from Trenton. If the Hessians send out patrols and discover us in line of march, they will make ready for us. If we are forced back, as we have been so many times before, then there is no way for most of us to make it back across the Delaware. The passwords of “victory or death” now seem prescient. If we don’t win this fight, we will be trapped on the wrong side of the river.

Six miles to Trenton. Normally, we could march that in three hours. We pick up the pace, and hope to make it in two.