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Caleb’s never been afraid of the things he should be.
They were eleven, him and Ben and Abe, and there was a snake’s nest near the edge of the Woodhull property.
They’d been playing swords with old sticks, and Abe had nearly stuck his foot into the hole.
They’d gone quiet, and it had slithered out, all shining scales and poison. Caleb had picked it up.
Abe had screamed. Then run.
Ben stayed still and just watched him.
He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t scrambled back or flinched. He’d looked Caleb right in the eye. And then he’d reached over and twisted until the snake’s neck broke.
He’d dropped in the hole and walked away.
Caleb had followed.
He’d been wrong, that day, about what was deadly. It should have been a lesson.
But he never learned, not really, and never lost the habit of misplaced fear.
Storms at sea, wild horses, British muskets, or Ben Tallmadge.
He’d never turned away when he should have.
Maybe that’s why Ben lets him stay.
The night General Scott’s body is found, or what’s left of it, Ben rouses the camp and sets guards. He gently prods Washington into remembering that Rogers employs stealthy native men, gets Sackett to send missives.
He’s an exemplary officer.
And when it’s close to dawn, he slips into Caleb’s tent and looks him right in the eye.
Caleb just nods, and holds his breath when Ben’s fingers graze, feather light, over his neck.
His pulse quickens, but he’s still not afraid.
Not then, and not on the night Bradford disappears. Or Lee.
It goes further, on those nights.
It doesn’t surprise him. He can’t ever claim he’s had a sense of what’s good for him.
There’s a comfort to that.