The Backward Pawn

“A pawn is a powerful piece if it can reach its potential.” My father said as the trail of cigarette smoke waffled around us. “Once it completes the struggle of getting to the opponent’s back row, it can become anything it wants to be. Never underestimate the potential of a pawn.”

I stare at the board and let my hand reach for a piece to push forward. My father matches the move, plunking his piece on the board with the confidence of a general. His motion is quick, decisive, authoritative. The chess pieces yield to his will, obey his commands, move as he dictates. I realize that he is playing the board just as he attacks life. Every decision is a carefully reasoned, calculated display of coordinated movements. There is no fear in his eyes as he plays his game.

I make another move. My father counters again, releasing the bishop to control the center and a moment later the queen. I sense that I am about to be consumed with a hard lesson of life. I can feel it.

My father puffs on his cigarette again and blows out the smoke as the fire-stick dangles from his lips. He speaks a warning. “Be careful. Make the right choice.”

I nod. Make my move, and He slides the queen forward. Checkmate. I look up, my eyes watering, from the humiliation of it all. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and smashes it into a nearby ashtray as if he is punishing it. “Grow up, son. Chess is about the choices we make. If you are so focused on the attack, you will forget to protect the things closest to you. Learn this lesson, and you will be better than you are.”

I want to be like him, but I know that I am not. I am seven years old.

My eyes blink and struggle to focus on the surroundings. In the dim light, I discover that I am seated in an old colonial home, with hard wooden floors, high ceilings, and limited furnishings. A roaring fire blazes in a large hearth near us, but it scarcely keeps us warm from the cold winter wind leaking through the doors and windows. Through the frost-covered glass, I can see the snow blowing almost horizontally, whipped to a frenzy by the arctic winds from the north. I glimpse the figure of a sentry shivering in the night, his heavy coat wrapped tightly around him.

I realize that the backward pawn has opened a portal through time and space. Again.

The man seated in front of me wears a grayish-blue coat with a red lapel and he is growing impatient. The gold braids on his shoulders suggest that he is a man who commands others. He grabs his cup and sips his drink with reckless abandon, I wonder if he is sober enough to play the game of chess at all.

“Doctor, it is your move.” The commander barks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Patience Colonel. Patience.” Another voice emerges from the edge of the fireplace, and as he steps from the shadows, I see a distinguished gentleman dressed in colonial attire. He is round, his belly protruding from short legs. It appears he has not denied himself any of the pleasures of life. “I have always thought that chess was a game of thought. You must give the good doctor a moment to reflect on his move.”

“As you wish, Mr. Potts.” My opponent nods towards me. His English is broken, but I have no trouble understanding it. He fills each word with a heavy Slavic or Prussian accent.

Potts. I know that name. It takes a second, but soon enough I realize that I am sitting in the home of Stacy Potts, a wealthy businessman from Trenton who was a Loyalist to the British cause. I suspect that the time is circa 1776.

“I am sorry. But Mr. Potts, could you tell me what day it is?” I asked.

“My dear, Doctor.” Our host laughed. “Surely, you do not mean to tell me you have forgotten one of the most significant days on the calendar. It is the evening of December 24th, in the year of our Lord, 17 hundred and 76.”

Washington is about to cross the Potomac.

I close my eyes. The man on the other side of the board is none other than Colonel Johann Rall, the commander of about 1200 Hessian troops stationed at Trenton, New Jersey.

I open my eyes, focus on the board in front of me, and make a move. My knight is pinned, and the Queen exposed. I retreat the queen leaving him to make a play on the horse.

“Exactly, as I expected,” Rall exclaims with glee rubbing his hands together. “Doctor, I thought you might give me a better game this evening.”

“I apologize, Colonel. I fear that I am distracted a bit. It seems unfair of us to enjoy the comforts of our host’s wonderful home, enjoying the pleasantries of this warmth and wine, while our men are shivering in the cold. I am preoccupied and concerned for their welfare.”

‘Oh, please.” Rall shook his head, as he moves his piece forward. “Our men are the finest Hessian troops ever assembled. Fierce. Well-trained. Just their presence strikes fear into the hearts of the colonists. I can assure you that they are used to soldiering in the worst of conditions. I dare say that most of them were raised in the brutal winters of the homeland. They will be fine.”

“Still.” I stammer.

Mr. Potts notices that my glass is nearly empty and brings over a dark bottle of wine. “You are full of compassion for your fellow man, Doctor. A worthy sentiment at Christmas. This is what makes you the healer that you are.”

“Thank you, sir.” I raise the glass to aid him in pouring in the dim light. “I do not believe I have had the chance to thank you for the hospitality you have shown us this evening.”

“It is our honor to welcome you and the men under Colonel Rall’s command.” Potts smiles, as he turns to refill the glass for the Colonel. Then he raises his glass, “To the king.”

We raise our glasses and echo the toast. Rall takes another sip and sets the glass aside to concentrate on the task at hand, beating me.

“I suspect that your time is short, Doctor.” Potts surveys the board. “I am not nearly as accomplished a player as our leader here, but I feel it is just a matter of time before the board is lost.”

I smile. “Things are not always as they appear,” I said. “I am mounting a surprise attack, that I suspect will catch even the good colonel unawares.”

Colonel Johann Rall laughs. “We shall see.” I smile wider at the irony of the moment because I know that within the day, Rall will be a dead man.

My father stares at me, waiting for me to move a piece. “The middle game is a contest of position and sacrifice,” He explains. “A strategy must be formulated and then put into practice. If you can keep your opponent’s focus on the central squares, watch your pawn structure and execute the plan, you will win.”

I ask him about a queen's sacrifice. It has been a year since our mother passed and we have not talked about it. The illness that ravaged her body, forced him to leave his career, and take a job at the university so that he could be at home in the evenings to care for my younger brother and me.

“In many ways, the Queen’s sacrifice is the most devastating. I would not suggest it.” He sighs deeply, thinking about the loss. “It is not insurmountable, however. If you have your rooks, they can do a good job of providing structure for the King. If they stay close, the game can still be won. This is what you and your brother are to me.”

His eyes begin to water. I realize that we are not talking about Chess. I am twelve years old.

“Doctor.” Colonel Rall snaps his fingers impertinently. “Where do you go? Your mind is a million miles away at times. I dare say, I have no desire to be ignored.”

“I am sorry.” I close my eyes. “Perhaps the wine is affecting my ability to focus. I apologize if my thoughtful play is causing you any consternation, sir.”

“It is not that.” Rall nods. “You are the only one in the company who can give me a decent game at all. I have played a couple of the junior officers, but they are novices at best. Their play is so predictable that it gives me no pleasure in beating them. I am never exasperated playing against the faculties that you possess. I enjoy our time together.”

I look at the board. The pawn structure is intact, except for the backward pawn supporting a knight. He will likely attack the square directly in front of it, allowing him a stronghold on my side of the board. I am about to move the knight to take away the advantage when I see it. A Queen sacrifice that will expose him. It will be a costly, risky move, but if I am right, he will never see it coming.

There is a knock at the door.

“Come.” Rall barks, staring at the board. The door opens and a blast of cold air wafts in. The wind is still howling outside. I can hear it over the crackle of the logs on the fire.

A sentry walks in, followed by a young black man dressed in raggedy clothes. A colonial, more than likely a servant of some sort. Perhaps a slave from one of the other well-to-do families.

.“For God sakes,” Potts exclaims. “Shut the door, you imbecile. You will force the death upon us.”

The Sentry salutes and speaks, as he secures the door. The tall silver-colored pointed hat stands up like a dunce cap on his head. “This is Torrence Elias Lewis. Leftenant Gustan has sent a dispatch.”

Mr. Lewis held out his hand, containing the letter with an official seal on it. “I was told to deliver it directly to you, sir.”

Rall held out his hand, never taking his eyes off the chessboard. The courier placed the letter into his outstretched hand. “Thank you. Heinrich, see that this gentleman gets paid for his services.”

“Yes, sir.” The sentry ushers the colonist out and shuts the door behind him.

Rall is just about to open the dispatch when I make my move. My queen slides over the board and stops in a square, baiting my opponent to capture it. It is exposed.

“Now, why would you move your most valuable piece there?” Rall waves the dispatch in front of me. “I suspect you are up to no good, doctor.”

Quietly, he slips the dispatch into the pocket of the coat. History is safe for the moment.

Yet, Mr. Potts notices sees the error and comments. “You are not even interested in what the Leftenant has to report, Colonel?”

“I am not.” Rall shakes his head. “At the moment, I am consumed in figuring out why the doctor would sacrifice the most important piece on the board.”

“I see.” Potts smiles. “The Doctor is trying to confound you.”

I laugh, distracting my opponent. “Well, sir. Shall we see if you can respond to such a bold and daring move?”

“I shall.” Colonel Rall turns to our host who is warming his hands by the fire. “For your information, I have no interest in the dispatch at all and I will tell you the reason. It is because Leftenant Gustan is a brown-nosed bootlicker who does not know his right from his left. His reports are filled with nonsense and they rarely contain any useful information at all.”

Rall reaches toward a piece and then pulls his hand back. I fear that his hand is reaching for the pocket of the coat. But instead, he takes the Queen just as I had hoped, with the aggression of a charging, angry bull.

Rall speaks. “Right now, Washington’s troops are suffering in the cold on the other side of the Potomac, starving from a lack of food, supplies, and ammunition. They have neither the strength nor the fortitude to make such an audacious crossing.”

Potts raised his glass as if he knew what was coming.

“Besides it is Christmas eve. I hear that the army has barely any men left, most of them deserting to their homes to spend Christmas with their families.”

I speak. “Colonel. It is your move.”

We play on. The hour is growing late. Potts puts another couple of logs on the fire and excuses himself to his chambers. “Gentlemen, I wish you a good night. May the better player win.”

My father is lying in the hospital bed hooked to wires. The ventilator pumps in and out in a rhythmic up and down, forcing air into his lungs. The stroke has immobilized him, paralyzed his functions, and made him the shell of who I have known him to be. My little brother had called me at the office to tell me the news. You should come, he says. I am twenty-seven years old.

My brother walks into the room, carrying a cup of coffee. “Sorry, I went out to smoke a cig. Didn’t realize you were here.”

I hug him hard.

“What are the doctor’s saying?” I whisper. “What happened? I thought he was making progress?”

My brother shakes his head. “I don’t know exactly. I visited him yesterday, and he was going through his PT. The nurses wheeled him back in, put him into bed, and less than an hour later the alarms are going off. Code Blue. He must have had another stroke or something.”

My brother sips his coffee to gain some strength for what he was about to tell me.

“They have said that he will not regain any function, but will need to be transferred to a facility if they can wean him off the vent. At this point, they do not think that he is strong enough to breathe on his own. They are suggesting that we consider pulling the plug and take our chances with fate.”

I cannot do it. The endgame in chess can be a long process.

Rall and I play into the night. Calculated and exact, every point and counterpoint. His focus is on destroying the little pawn structure I have built to protect my King, that he does not see the advancing rook and knight closing in on his position.

“Perhaps we should continue this in the morning?” I suggest.

“No, Doctor.” Rall shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. “I am close to finishing the end game. I need only a few more moves.”

“As you wish.” I nod, suspecting that the attack of Washington’s force is only a few hours away. According to the history books, Washington will lead the attack from the north, in three columns, bombarding the farm with artillery before leading the center column into the heart of Trenton.

The Colonel plays a piece. Knight attacks pawn. Check.

I move my King to a safer place. He moves again. Pawn forward. I move my rook to the row to capture his exposed pawn before it can move to my back row. Rall mutters under his breath.

He tries to recover, but cannot. His movement of the pawn has sealed his fate. My rook takes his pawn, opening the file. I have mate in five.

Rall cannot believe it. Like a child caught with his hand in the jar of cookies, he is beside himself for his stupidity and it angers him. He wants to recover, looks for a way out of his mistake, but cannot find any avenue. He helplessly moves his knight to make one last stand, but the position of my pieces is too great. I have the higher ground. My knight moves into position closing on him. There is no way he can halt the advance of the rook and lone pawn to his back row.

The Colonel plays the endgame out. My last pawn transforms into a queen diagonally supporting the knight while pinning the king behind two of his pawns. Rall flips over his King and reaches out his hand.

“Masterful.” The German shakes his head. “A brilliant endgame, indeed.”

“Well, then it is late, I am going to retire,” I said. “I suspect I will see you in the morning, sir.”

Rall is studying the board as intently as he can. “Good night, Doctor.” I suspect he will be up the rest of the evening trying to figure where his mistake was made. Reviewing the game. So obsessed with the board game that he forgets about the matters of life and death.

I button my overcoat and step outside into the crisp, winter night. The wind is still brisk, but not nearly as biting as before. One of the sentries meets me at the door, salutes, and smartly steps forward. “I have been assigned to as your guard, Doctor. Orders of the Colonel. He wants all the officers to have sentries posted, lest the rebels send someone in to dispatch them in the middle of the night. Standing orders since we arrived at New York.”

I nod. “Lead the way, then.”

The soldier salutes and turns on his heel. As we walk down the frozen road towards the encampment, I glance up to see an old barn owl staring down from the branches. I pause for a moment to watch it. A silent sentinel stalking its prey in the night. The owl turns its head slightly as if to wonder who I am, what I am doing here at this moment in time. Quietly, the owl blinks its eyes, straightens its head, and resumes the vigil of the night. If I had not paused, I would have missed it completely. I wonder if the wise owl knows what the morning will bring.

The sentry has noticed that I have stopped walking. He quickly trudges back through the snow to see me looking up in the trees. “Doctor, is everything all right? Is something wrong?”

I shake my head. We continue our pace towards my tent. I walk in, and can scarcely remember my head hitting the pillow or sliding under the covers.

Hours later, I awaken to the blast of a cannonball ripping through the trees and exploding near the compound. About twenty yards away. The attack has begun. I put on my boots, as I hear the screams of sleeping men being awoken to pieces of shrapnel piercing their bodies. I grab my coat, and race to the entrance of the tent. As I step out into the morning sunlight, I shrink as the ground shakes under the impact of another shell, closer than before. I cover my face, turning my body from the blast. A couple of high-pitched whistles are menacingly loud and close, as my eyes lift to see a couple of lit cannonballs racing overhead, exploding into a red oak tree behind me. The mix of gunpowder and burnt straw fills my nostrils.

Colonel Rall has come running out of the house and is standing on the front steps, completely exposed, attempting to bark commands at every soldier running by. Desperately he tries to form the troops into rows to face the oncoming threat. From the steps, he sees me. Points at the main house. Tells me to set the field hospital inside. Use the main house as a triage for the wounded, and to prepare for the onslaught. I obey, racing to move past him and up the steps when I feel his hand at my back, forcing me down. I fall to my knees, near the entrance, just as a volley of musket fire catches him in the shoulder. The wood just above my head splinters and I realize that the Colonel‘s actions have just saved my life.

Rall stumbles off the steps and falls, his shoulder pouring out blood down the front of his coat. His arm is dangling awkwardly, and I reach down to help him up. He shakes his head and pushes me away. Rising. He gives a defiant battle cry in German and yells for one of his sergeants to get a commander whose name I do not recognize. We exchange nods, and I race into the house.

Rall races around the corner of the building, ordering his men to keep firing as to cover a retreat toward the town, trying to use the buildings of Trenton for cover. He grabs another officer by the lapel, pulls him inches from his lips, and swears in his face, ordering his commander to gather enough men to launch a counter-attack on the northwest flank. Within ten minutes I see a group of German Hessians gather, and form ranks across the field. I hear the bugle and fife playing, with Colonel Rall leading the column, his sword drawn and raised to the heavens. I watch in horror as the opening line falls, the barrage of American musket and long rifle fire cutting the legs out from under them.

I realize this is a feeble effort at best.

After this, my mind is consumed with stopping the bleeding and the severing of limbs with a hacksaw. I try to sterilize the instruments, keeping them clean, but there is too much carnage. So many wounded. Cot after cot. Moaning and wailing from the pain reverberating off the walls. The stench of blood and vomit filled the air. I have drafted Margaret, the wife of Stacy Potts, and several of the daughters to assist in keeping the water flowing and the bandages at the ready. We are bandaging up the men as best as we can. A local Quaker parishioner is praying with the dying.

The whole battle lasts a little over an hour.

I turn from the body of a young soldier on the dining table who has just passed. He could not be more than twenty. I look up to see Colonel Rall being carried in by stretcher. One of the men calls me over. “He is asking for you, sir.” One of the infantrymen tells me.

I stop what I am doing for a moment, stepping into a pool of his blood as I look down. A wound from his side is oozing life, and I grab some of the gauzes and torn sheets from the edge of the table to stuff into the wound. I suspect it is the wound of a bayonet.

Rall winces as I apply the bandages. The wound will need to be sewn shut. Needle. Thread. I begin to try and close the wound, but it is too deep. I am too late.

He sees me and offers a slight smile. “Doctor, it is not unlike our game, is it?”

Moments later, an officer comes into the room and reports. All commanders killed. Nearly twenty lives were lost and significantly more wounded. Most of the main force has been captured, although a few of the men have attempted to escape across the small creek south of the town. The warehouse in town with all of the provisions, gunpowder, and essentials is now in enemy hands, under the control of the colonial militia. Finally, the sentry reports that the home of the Potts family has been surrounded, completely cut off.

“Get me up, Doctor,” Colonel Rall instructs and I pull him carefully from the cot. He stands, but cannot balance on his own. Colonel Rall reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls the dispatch. The white paper is soaked by the stains of blood from his hands. “I assume you know what this says, Doctor.”

I nod. History would record it as a warning of Washington’s impending attack.

Colonel Rall raises his eyes to the young soldier and asks whether General Washington has called for immediate surrender.

He has.

The soldier indicates that the General is outside of the home at that very moment. Through the window, I spy the Father of my country, sitting atop of white-gray horse near the red oak. He leans over to whisper something to an aide. He is a man with proud features.

We hobble toward the doorway. Rall pauses for a moment to straighten his uniform, regain some dignity about himself. His wounds are mortal. I can hear the rasp of his blood being sucked into the lungs with every small step we take. He will die later on this evening.

I shift the weight of his body to get a better grip on his red-stained sleeve. As we step into the morning sunlight, I am gone.

My father is resting in the casket, his face filled with an air of finality. The visitation is over, family and friends have come and gone, their pious platitudes lingering in my ears. They have the best of intentions, but even the most caring sentiments ring hollow in my head. There is a wooden chessboard sitting on a memorial table under his photo.

I see him sitting in front of me. The board before us.

“Again.” I hear him say, as he takes a pawn from each side, hides them behind his back, and then presents two closed fists. I pick one. Black. It means that I will be playing at a disadvantage for a while.

“The thing about chess is that even if you win or lose, there is always another game to be played.” My father beams.

I smile, knowing that he is right. One day soon, the backward pawn will rise again.