Washington had many nicknames: the Fox, Father of the Country, the American Fabius. But in certain circles, darker circles, he had different names: Big Timber, Loup Garou, the Wolf, the Rebel. Rebel's Bite was his bite. The bite that initiated ostensibly willing soldiers into his Army of Wolves. You could always tell his unit. Even when they were men, boys really, smooth-cheeked, un-clawed. By the scar it left, like a brand on cattle, just above the clavicle.
I say "ostensibly willing," because Washington was nothing if not charming. And he could convince the majority of his men of almost anything. Indeed, he had persuaded many of them to re-enlist, when they wanted nothing more than to head home. Had talked them out of their wives and beds in favor of six more months of cold and feet wrapped in rags.
The Continental Canis (aka The Army of Wolves). Referenced arcanely as the "CC" in all correspondence. This is how Washington really won the war. Crossing the freezing Delaware, sure. A daring surprise attack on British-aligned Hessian mercenaries on Christmas evening, yes. But cargo boats? Bah. Leutze painted a lie. A lie the New York Evening Mirror called “the grandest, most majestic, and most effective painting ever exhibited in America." Though the truth was no less majestic. Six dozen wolves - white, black, red - swimming the icy river. Their wide, webbed paws treading the water. Then, splayed, running lightly on top of the deep snow. To Trenton. But what ensued. The carnage. The slaughter. The snow painted with blood. Was not the stuff of majesty. Or art.
