Chapter Text
Gamble’s gunshot hits Ben’s side like a burst of flame.
Hold on, he tells himself. Hold onto the horse. Hold. On.
His body doesn’t listen.
He goes sliding off the horse a short distance from Gamble’s campfire, hitting the ground with a hard, resounding thud.
Get up. Get. Up.
His body listens this time. Half-way, at least.
He gets up from the ground, his hand going instinctively toward his wound.
Run. Run now. You’ve been shot before. You can make it. Run.
He hasn’t been shot like this.
He makes his legs work, somehow. He gets going, but he can’t go fast, not like the day he escaped from Robert Rogers and the Queen’s Rangers. Blood bubbles out of the wound, spilling down his side in hot, sticky streams.
Not fast enough. Not fast enough.
His side throbs with pain, making him shake. He trips and hits the ground again.
Focus, Ben. Focus.
He gets up again, feeling as if he might retch. He swallows back the urge, but as soon as he gets his feet under him again a rough, unforgiving hand seizes him by the collar of his coat, yanking him back.
“Thought you could get away from me did you, Tallmadge?” Gamble asks, a dark laugh on his breath. “I admit, the trick with the horse was clever.”
Ben’s head throbs from where Gamble smacked him with the pistol, his vision blurring.
“I’m an officer,” Ben says, his words coming out slow and thick and slurred. “Protocol…”
“It’s as I said before, major.” Gambles holds his collar tighter, nearly choking him. “You aren’t in uniform. The rules are off the table. As soon as I find my horse—or someone’s horse—I’m taking you to Major André. I’m sure that will put me back in his good graces.”
Images races through Ben’s head.
Abe standing in the streets of Setauket.
Tell Washington it’s Culper. I won’t sign the letters as anyone else.
Anna hugging him that day in Abe’s cellar, laughing after he snuck up on her.
Anna Strong!
Caleb lingering in the doorway on his way to retrieve Samuel—they didn’t know he was dead, yet—his smile bright and wide, a piece of it always reserved for Ben and Ben alone.
What are brothers for, right?
That’s the last thing Ben sees before his consciousness fades, leaving him in darkness.
The loud, echoing knock makes John André jump from his bed.
At least, it would if he were the sort of man prone to jumping.
He sits up fast, lighting a candle so he doesn’t fumble in the night, though the light from the city outside his window keeps the room less dark than he’d like. The knock resounds through the house again and André hears Abigail’s footsteps rushing toward the front door. He throws on his dressing gown and picks up his candle, curious as to who the visitor might be.
It wasn’t that he was surprised at being woken up in the middle of the night; in war anything was possible, but he hadn’t been expecting any news.
Was it a message from General Clinton?
His heart stops when he’s halfway down the stairs.
Was it Peggy? Had she tossed Arnold and their plan off and come to him again?
He doesn’t think he could send her away if so, Benedict Arnold and her family be damned. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts and reaching up for the braid that was no longer there, his parting gift to Peggy.
God, he misses her.
He reaches the landing just as Abigail opens the door, Cicero shadowing her and looking anxious. Gamble’s form appears in the darkness, flanked by two men carrying…someone.
“Major André sir.” Gamble removes his hat, an odd, pleased gleam in his eyes. “I’ve brought you something.”
“You were supposed to bring me the intelligence from Reverend Wakefield about the rebel camp,” André chides, stepping forward. “Or do you have some excuse? Please don’t tell me that’s him you’ve knocked unconscious? I’ve already told you I don’t approve of your more…violent methods, and we need him.”
“Wakefield is dead sir,” Gamble says, an out of place grin on his face, and André can’t tell what he’s getting at. “Killed by this man I’ve brought with me here.” He gestures at the unconscious man his comrades carry, and for the first time André realizes the man is bleeding.
He also looks quite young.
André shakes his head, sleep still tugging at him. “What? Who the devil is this that you’re bringing to my house in the dead of night?”
Gamble’s grin widens, stretching his old fencing scar. “Major Benjamin Tallmadge, sir. Otherwise known as the rebel head of intelligence.”
André’s gaze darts between the unconscious, bleeding young man and Gamble, lost for words. “What?”
“Found him out in the woods in New Jersey sir,” Gamble tells him. “He’d shot Reverend Wakefield and dumped him in a pond. He was out of his uniform. The rebels must have figured out Wakefield was a spy.”
The lad’s dark gold hair falls over his rapidly paling face, and André feels a seed of doubt in his chest.
“Gamble are you damn well sure?” he asks. “He’s….well I didn’t realize Tallmadge was this young. You didn’t mention it when you came back from the rebel camp.”
“Oh it’s him sir,” Gamble answers. “I got plenty a good look at him when I was there. I couldn’t mistake him.”
André feels his sense returning to him, fully waking up now at this news and looking more closely at the injured Tallmadge, pressing two fingers against his temples. “Gamble did you shoot him?”
“Had to sir,” Gamble protests. “He tried to get away from me. He’ll need tending to before you can talk to him. I found a doctor on the road to get the bullet out so I could travel with him, but it needs sewing up again.”
André shakes his head, realizing the urgency of the situation. “Bring him inside, take him upstairs, now, Cicero can show you the way to one of the guest rooms upstairs.” He offers a smile to the boy, who looks unsure.
He turns to Abigail, seeing the worry in her eyes, and it takes him a moment to realize.
Setauket. Tallmadge was from Setauket, he’d gleaned that information when he finally had the name in his possession. Abigail must have known him, at least somewhat.
André puts his hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “I need you to run for the doctor, please Abigail. I need someone to tend to Major Tallmadge so I can question him when he wakes up.”
Abigail nods, still looking uncomfortable.
“Did you know him?” André asks. “In Setauket?”
Abigail nods. “He was friends with my former mistress, growing up.” She clams up then, but André presses further, feeling guilty for pressuring her.
“What do you know about him?”
“Only a bit sir,” Abigail replies. “On a personal level I mean. He was the reverend’s son. He went to Yale and then ran off to join the army eventually, with his brother. I don’t know anything else after that. I didn’t talk with him much, but he seemed a sweet boy, when I did.”
André’s not certain if Abigail added that last bit as some kind of plea for him to go easy on Tallmadge, but the words sit heavy in his chest, as if Abigail senses his temptation to employ more than his usual tactics to make Tallmadge talk.
If he could get information out of Tallmadge. If he could find out who Culper was…
If he could turn Tallmadge, if he could make the rebel spymaster his agent then perhaps…
Perhaps he wouldn’t need Benedict Arnold at all. Then Peggy could come back to him and he wouldn’t be without her, worrying with each passing day that she was going to marry that bastard Arnold, he wouldn’t be tempted by Philomena’s glances in the tavern, he wouldn’t be lonely, he wouldn’t be…so many things he is now.
If he could turn Tallmadge and have a plant right at Washington’s side he could feed the rebels false intelligence and receive good intelligence in return. He could receive the sort of accolades Judge Shippen would desire. He could change so much, with just one man.
He could end the war.
Townsend tries not to hover too much when he sees John André come into the tavern looking harried.
John André never looks harried—melancholy, but never harried—which must mean something was happening.
Something important.
There was a desperate gleam in the man's eyes when Townsend poured him a glass of Madeira, and André only barely spared him a smile as General Clinton came in. Townsend goes over to a nearby table, taking his time cleaning it off and listening closely to Clinton and André's whispers.
“We can't hang him if he didn't have any papers on him, not right away, at least,” Clinton's saying, not paying Townsend any mind at all. “But since he was in plain clothes in neutral territory I can use that as my excuse to delay sending word to Washington. I could say we were trying to verify who he was for certain. It would be an excuse to keep him longer or refuse to hand him over, if Washington proposed an exchange. Besides that, he was caught killing one of ours outside the confines of battle. An assassination, essentially. Of a reverend, no less, so if he doesn’t give us what we wish and we determine his…intentions were insincere, we could make a case for execution, eventually. Washington will have to know soon in any case, but I can give you a few days before we have to send word. Gamble did do his job well this time, didn’t he? Impressive after that…bloody business with Sackett. Good intelligence. Bad from in killing the man.”
Townsend runs the rag over the table a few more times than needed. Who were they talking about?
“Tallmadge is young,” André answers, lowering his voice even further. “Smart, I grant. Very smart. We still don't know who the Culper from those letters Gamble stole is, or if he has any other spies. He must, if he was smart enough to find someone like that. There must be others.”
Townsend forces himself to keep cleaning, moving over to another nearby table so they don't suspect.
Keep calm, Robert. Keep. Calm.
They had Tallmadge. Woodhull never said the name of the spymaster, but that Brewster fellow had when he showed up in a redcoat uniform, teaching him how the invisible ink worked and giving him the code book.
711, John Bolton, Brewster said, clear affection in his voice. That’s Major Benjamin Tallmadge. He’s in charge.
This was very, very bad. This could compromise the entire ring, not to mention that Tallmadge's life was in danger. This had implications for the war, as a whole.
This could have implications for you, a voice whispers inside his head. If he suspects you…
He thinks of what his father would tell him to do, knowing the answer before he thinks too hard on it.
His father would tell him to hear what he could and get the information sent on.
He told himself he would do this.
What would Woodhull say?
Woodhull wouldn’t hesitate.
Are you listening to Abraham Woodhull?
Apparently so.
“But he may break easier because of that,” André continues. “He's still green. He’s talented in the field—he got the best of Robert Rogers, which is more than plenty can say—but this is a different game. If we could not only get information out of him...”
Townsend sees that almost mad gleam in André's eyes again, feeling unsettled. There had been murmurs in the tavern that André wasn’t himself lately, but Townsend hadn’t known him before, so he wasn’t sure what the difference was, only that it seemed to owe itself to the absence of a woman André loved. He’d seen André sketching in the tavern before, sitting alone until someone approached him. Townsend caught a quick glance of what he was sketching one day, seeing the outlines of a woman with a very complicated hairstyle before André clapped the book shut.
“If I could turn him...” André continues. “…if I could make him our agent we wouldn't need Arnold at all. We could turn the tide of this war. We could end it.”
General Clinton smiles, looking indulgent. “Ambitious, John. I admit to the cleverness of it. Tallmadge is usually at Washington’s side they say, and if we could plant fake intelligence, all the better.” He pauses, surveying André as if he’s thinking something and not saying it aloud. “You said he was shot?”
Townsend moves calmly away from the table, but not out of earshot.
He needs to go. Now. He has to go to Setauket and tell Woodhull. This couldn’t wait for a signal in the Gazette, especially not if the British were delaying the report of Tallmadge’s capture. If the Brewster fellow could sneak into York City to try and break Woodhull out of prison, Townsend doubts he’ll have any trouble sneaking into John André’s house.
Rivington comes out then, talking to some of the officers but within earshot of the conversation.
André nods. “He’ll live. He’s a bit feverish but nothing deadly, he’s just been unconscious. I had a surgeon tend to him and I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon. Extra sentries outside the house wouldn’t be amiss. I’ll keep him there. I don’t think the jail will do, for this.”
Townsend makes himself busy cleaning the bar, looking up again when André calls out to him.
“A bit more madeira if you don’t mind, Mr. Townsend.” André smiles when Townsend brings a fresh bottle.
Townsend can’t help but feel keenly that there are good men on both sides of the war—even if one side was wrong—and that as little as he knows about Tallmadge personally, two of them were about to go up against one another, spymaster versus spymaster.
“You can keep the bottle if you like, major,” Townsend says, nodding at General Clinton. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to Mr. Rivington for the rest of the afternoon, as I’ve taken leave.”
That at least, was true. He had been planning to visit his father. But he had to go somewhere else, now.
“Where are you off to?” André asks, and Townsend feels his more rational voices screaming at him.
He’s caught you.
No he hasn’t.
He might.
You have to do this Robert. It’s what’s right.
“Just a visit with my father in Oyster Bay,” Townsend answers, doing his best to keep his voice and his hand steady as if nothing was the matter at all. “I don’t like to leave him alone too long.”
Rivington hears him, approaching with his usual overloud voice. “Off to see your father then Robbie?”
Townsend does his best not to narrow his eyes at the name. “I am, if there’s nothing else?”
“No, nothing nothing.” Rivington claps Townsend on the shoulder, looking at André. “This man here is such a Papa’s boy, it seems.”
André nods, smiling again with only half the usual energy.
A few minutes later Townsend walks out of the tavern.
He almost never runs.
Today, he takes flight.
Abe blinks several times when he thinks he sees Robert Townsend riding up to his farm.
Well, what was left of his farm, anyway.
He blinks again.
No, that really was Robert Townsend.
Abe clutches the letter from Anna in his hand, having been already half-poised to rush to the sound to stop her from leaving when he saw Townsend riding up.
Hewlett nearly marrying Anna and Robert Townsend showing up in Setauket were two unexpected things that a few weeks ago he never would have considered at all, let alone have happen in one day.
“What are you doing here?” Abe hisses as Townsend gets down from his horse with more urgency than he’s ever seen Townsend do anything. “How did you find my farm?”
Townsend eyes the remains and the partially built new structure with skepticism as if to say is this a farm, really?
“Someone in town pointed me the right way. I said I was an old friend of yours from King’s College,” Townsend says. “But you need to listen to me Woodhull, right now.”
“Can it wait until I get back from the dead drop?” Abe asks. “I have….urgent business there.”
“Woodhull.” Townsend sounds urgent and almost afraid now, looking as if he doesn’t want to impart whatever news he possesses. He touches Abe’s shoulder lightly, and it’s this more than anything, that makes Abe worry. “I need you to listen.”
Abe tilts his head, some of his agitation fading as worry takes its place. “What, Townsend? What is it?”
“Tallmadge has been captured,” Townsend says without any more hesitation. “And sent to the house of John André.”
Anna’s letter slips from Abe’s hand, landing on the grass below.
This could end the ring, but more importantly, more devastatingly, this could end Ben.
Memories of their shared childhood rush through Abe’s mind, full of laughter and good-natured arguments and late nights laying in the Brewster apple orchard under the stars. They screech to a halt and he sees Ben that day in the Patriot jail, believing in Abe when Abe didn’t believe in himself.
I remember who you are, even if you’ve forgotten.
“We’ve got to get to Frog’s Point,” Abe tells Townsend, seizing him by the wrist. “Now. We’ve got to go now. Caleb and Anna will be there and we need to catch them before they leave. Caleb is…Caleb is the only one who can get Ben out of there.”
God, Caleb.
Caleb would be worried sick when he heard this. Caleb would want to take down the whole world to get Ben back.
Abe leaps onto his horse and Townsend onto his, racing toward the dead drop point where Anna said she was meant to meet Caleb in her letter. The wind screams in Abe’s ears as they ride along.
Hewlett knew he was a spy.
Anna was leaving Setauket.
John André had Ben.
Hewlett, at least, might no longer be a danger.
André capturing Ben certainly was.
They reach Frog’s Point just as Caleb’s about to push off in his boat.
“Caleb!” Abe shouts, jumping off his horse as Townsend dismounts in a more dignified manner behind him. “Caleb, please wait!”
Anna remains with her back to him in the boat, but Caleb pauses, looking at Anna and back at Abe before raising his eyebrows in disapproval in a magnificent impression of Ben.
Something about it makes Abe’s heart beat harder.
“Look here now Woody,” Caleb calls out into the cool night air. “I’m taking Annie to camp. That’s the end of it so don’t argue with me.” Confusion mars Caleb’s face when he spots Townsend. “Townsend? What the devil are you doing here?”
“Caleb.” Abe doesn’t want to tell them him but he has to, and Anna turns around at the clear sound of desperation in his voice. “Both of you please just…please get out of the boat, I need to tell you something.”
“If Hewlett’s turned you in we’ll just get Mary and Thomas and get right out of here with you too Abe,” Caleb tells him, the irritation fading instantly from his face and morphing into worry. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll keep you safe.”
Abe shakes his head, ruffling his hat back and forth on his head, anxious. “That’s not it.”
“Abe, what?” Anna asks. “If this is some kind of stall tactic, I…” she looks over at Townsend, seeming to understand that it can’t be, because otherwise Townsend wouldn’t be here. Neither of them seem to consider the news Abe has to impart.
“John André has Ben.” Abe forces the words out, watching Anna’s eyes widen in shock.
A pause. A silence. Anxiety coats the air and Abe looks at his friends for a response.
“What?” Caleb says, sounding more snappish than Abe’s ever heard him, as if he thinks Abe might be playing some sort of game to hide the real news.
Caleb scrambles out of the boat now, seizing Abe’s collar with more force than Abe expects. They’d always wrestled with each other—whether in jest or in anger—but this is different, this is Caleb grabbing desperately at Abe’s collar to convince himself what he just heard isn’t true.
“I said Major John André has Ben,” Abe emphasizes.
Caleb breathes hard, looking half-undone. “This ain’t no joke, Woody, and that’s not funny. What’s really going on?”
“He’s telling the truth.” Townsend steps up, looking very much as if he feels he’s stepping on a private family moment. “That’s why I’m here. I heard it from André himself while he was talking to General Clinton.”
Caleb lets go of Abe, staring at them before looking around the dark woods as if searching for a different story among the trees.
As if searching for Ben.
Then he swings his fist at a tree, the bark spattering as he shakes his hand, sucking in a breath.
“Shite!” he shouts, his voice echoing into the air. “Shite,” he continues more softly.
“Caleb,” Anna says, the only one daring enough to touch his shoulder. “Caleb, don’t hurt yourself.”
Caleb doesn’t shrug away from Anna’s touch, but turns his head, focusing in on Townsend. “Who took him? Do you know?”
“A man named Gamble,” Townsend answers, looking even more solemn than usual. “And they said Tallmadge had…killed a reverend?”
“Of course it was Gamble, that bastard,” Caleb mutters “If Washington had damn well listened we could have kept Gamble in custody.”
“Ben killed a reverend?” Abe asks, flabbergasted. He couldn’t judge anyone, but Ben’s father was a minister and Abe can only imagine what that might feel like for him.
It also didn’t make sense.
“The reverend was a spy,” Caleb explains, removing his hat and running his hands over his face as if he might cry, breathing in and out furiously. “I’ll kill Gamble I swear to god, I’ll kill….”
“Caleb.” Anna repeats his name, putting her hands on both his shoulders now. “Don’t focus on who you’re going to kill, right now. We need to get to camp so we can figure out how to get Ben back. Washington has to know.”
Abe watches Caleb meet Anna’s eyes, seeing him relent and return her slight smile. Abe’s almost jealous of the easiness between them, but everything with Anna was at least half his own fault, anyway.
“I’m no help to you right now,” Abe says. “But….” he looks up at Anna and Caleb, wishing desperately he could go with them. “Please let me know when you get Ben back.”
Caleb does smile at him now. “I will, Woody. Don’t you worry. And you did help, by bringing Townsend here.” Caleb nods at Townsend, who gives him a friendly nod of the head.
Abe’s surprised when Caleb pulls him into a hasty bear hug. After a beat Abe returns the gesture, only realizing how much he needed one when he got it.
“I knew you were the person who could get him back.” Abe hears the tears in his own voice, the effects of the war tearing away his defenses.
André had Ben.
Ben, who started the ring in the first place.
Ben was his family.
Ben could have been a teacher. Ben could have been safe. But Ben was too brave for that. He could never stand back and let things happen around him without taking part.
“I’ll get him back.” Caleb pulls away, looking determined. “I don’t care what it takes.”
Abe feels Anna’s hand brush his shoulder and he returns the gesture, because no matter what’s happened between them this is their family in danger. It’s been their family since Abe remembers having memories. Abe recalls that day in the barn when Ben and Caleb came to Setauket.
I’m not a soldier in your army major.
Even then Ben hadn’t pushed Abe away, only stood there and told him softly about Samuel’s death on the Jersey.
Truth be told, Abe’s always looked up to Ben even if Ben would blush and tell him not to, and he doesn’t know what to do knowing Ben is in this kind of danger.
“Now my good sir,” Caleb says, directing his words at Townsend, but Abe knows he’s feigning calm. “Tell me everything you heard, you right sneaky bastard.”
Ben dreams of the seashore and Setauket and Abe and Anna and Caleb and Samuel.
He stands in the water, his long hair dripping down onto his shoulders, childish laughter bursting into the air. He’s watching Anna flick water at Abe in amusement, though before he knows it someone’s tackling him gregariously into the water, creating a loud, dramatic splash.
“Caleb!” he exclaims, a laugh cutting into the seriousness. “Stop that!”
“What?” Caleb grins, helping him up. “Afraid you’ll get wet? You’re already wet, Benny boy.”
Samuel runs past them, kicking up a wave of water that feels nice on the hot, humid summer day. Samuel winks as he passes by, his dark gold hair the same shade as Ben’s gleaming in the sunlight, his green eyes looking merry. He runs up to them, slinging an arm around Ben’s shoulders, and Ben find the usual comfort in his older brother’s touch.
“What’s that verse from Psalms Father likes?” Samuel asks.
“Father likes many verses from Psalms,” Ben points out. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Ah!” Samuel exclaims, clearly remembering. “I remember. It’s ‘O LORD God of hosts, who is mighty as you are, O LORD, with your faithfulness all around you? You rule the raging of the sea; when its waves rise, you still them.’ That’s quite a good one I think. Though I hope the sea doesn’t rage while we’re here.” Samuel glances over at Anna and Abe, who are still splashing each other. “Think I’ll go over there and help Abe out a bit, Anna’s too spirited to let him win that fight. They’ll get married one day, you know, I can already tell..” Samuel raises one eyebrow, looking at Ben fondly. “Just like I’ll be a reverend and you’ll be a teacher, you bookish boy.” He grins at Caleb, who nods in agreement. “And Caleb here will be a feared pirate!”
Caleb whoops, shaking his fist in the air. Ben laughs until his sides are sore, happiness overtaking every inch of him.
Then, something strange starts happening.
The seawater starts turning red.
Bright, blood red.
“What’s happening?” Ben asks, but no one answers him.
The red water starts dragging Samuel out to sea, and Ben dives in deeper, swimming after him, his legs and arms going as fast as they can, but he can’t move any further, he can’t go anywhere.
“Samuel!” Ben cries out, hearing his own higher-pitched twelve-year-old voice. “Wait!”
“He’s gone Ben,” Caleb whispers. “He’s gone.”
“He’s not gone!” Ben shouts as Samuel sinks beneath the tide of red. “Samuel!”
The red water doesn’t answer back, and when Ben looks at his hands he sees red drops flowing down the crevices of his skin, thick and warm and sticky.
Samuel! Ben hears himself saying Samuel’s name as he eases out of the dream. He doesn't open his eyes yet, his head pounding with a distant pain.
Why did his head hurt?
His stomach sinks, and then he remembers.
Gamble. Gamble struck him in the head with a pistol.
Wakefield. He'd shot Wakefield. Gamble found him in the woods, putting his body in the pond.
The sharp pain in his side reminds him that Gamble also shot him.
He'd tried to get away. That's right. On the horse.
And had taken him to...
Ben's eyes fly open, and he's met with the face of....
Of....
He doesn't know this face, but then he remembers.
As soon as I find my horse—or someone's horse—I'm taking you to Major André.
The man in front of him leans forward in his chair, putting down what looks like a teacup. “Major John André at your service, Major Tallmadge.”
Ben fails the first time he tries sitting up, biting his lip against a whimper of pain. He tries again a second time, grasping the headboard of the bed, his hand flying to his side when it answers back with a throb of sharp agony. Sweat beads at his forehead even as he shivers.
A fever. That must be why the sharp, vivid dream that left his hands shaking.
“You've been shot, I'm sorry to say,” André says, his eyes glittering with interest. “The bullet's been taken out and the wound sewn up, but you've been running a bit of a fever. I would have liked to make your acquaintance under better circumstances. I have been eager to meet you.”
Ben still doesn't answer, feeling his face and noticing at least a day or two's worth of stubble. He feels his side, wincing when he touches his ribs. There must be a bruise from where he fell off the horse. A nasty one, if the soreness is any indication.
Think, Ben. Think. Keep calm.
“You've been out for….” He pauses, as if deciding something. “A while.” André gestures at the teapot on the small table in the corner of the room. “Tea?”
“No thank you.” Ben hears how hoarse his voice sounds, and he is thirsty. “Where am I?”
“In my home in York City,” André answers, pouring the tea anyway. “Come now, drink. My housemaid Abigail has been getting some broth in you, but that won't do. There's no need for you to be weak on your feet.”
Ben looks at him skeptically, fresh rage over Sackett rushing through him even in his exhaustion, hot and overpowering.
André smiles, and Ben isn’t sure how to take it. “It’s not drugged, I promise,” André tells him. “Please major, drink.”
Ben nods, accepting the tea when André brings it over, drinking it because he’s already weak from his injuries and he doesn’t want to make that any worse, because he does feel shaky.
Ben sips the tea carefully, testing for any strange taste and remembering Gamble’s words about vanishing him when André was done. There’s nothing odd in the tea and Ben supposes André wouldn’t vanish him here when they hadn’t even spoken.
Whatever vanishing him meant.
“What’s to be done with me?” Ben asks, stony and walled off. He wouldn’t give up anything to this man if he could help it. Risking his own life was one thing, risking his friends’ lives was something else entirely, and he would go down before he willingly told André anything that would put them at risk.
“You’re to stay here, for now,” André replies, sitting back down in his chair. “I’ll question you tomorrow perhaps, if you’re better and more of a right mind.”
André surveys Ben as if he’s a looking at a chessboard or an equation, trying to ascertain his next move, or perhaps determine what exactly Ben was worth to him.
“With respect sir.” Ben puts the teacup down on the table next to the bed, doing his best to contain his temper. “You should now that I won’t tell you anything.”
“Hmmm,” André responds vaguely. “We’re just going to talk, major. We’ll see what arises from the conversation.”
“Am I to be tried as a spy?” Ben presses. “Does General Washington know I’m in captivity?”
“General Washington will know when he needs to know.” André attempts a smile again, but it falls flat this time, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Ben winces when his wound gives a sharp tug on his consciousness, forcing himself to focus. “Protocol…”
Gamble’s words in the woods cut him off, resounding in his head.
You’re out of your uniform…
From what he knew of Major André’s reputation, Ben didn’t think he had to fear physical repercussions as he would with someone like Simcoe. At least, he didn’t think so. It was the mental games he feared more than anything else. Of what he might accidentally give away when he was in pain or exhausted. Of what André might read into from a look or word or the lack of an answer.
The he remembers Gamble’s words again.
He’ll have me vanish you…
He remembers Sackett’s awful, sudden, violent death, committed by a man who worked for André and yet André himself wasn’t known for violence of the physical sort.
Which was true? Who was this man, really?
“You were found in plainclothes, Major Tallmadge,” André says, frowning slightly now. “I’m afraid we’ll be operating…a bit outside those protocols for now.”
Ben swallows, staring André down. “You didn’t answer my first question.”
“Ah.” André raises his eyebrows, taking another sip of his tea and prolonging the answer. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to leave you in limbo there. We won’t be trying you as a spy. At least, not yet. We’ll see how things progress.”
Not yet.
Ben feels black creeping in around the edges of his vision like a threat. He needs to maintain control. He needs to notice things. He needs to…
Stay awake. Stay. Awake.
“I should let you rest, major.” André rises from his chair, giving Ben another once over and looking something like impressed, but Ben doesn’t like the light of intrigue in his eyes. “I’ll see you again soon.”
André exits the room without another word, no doubt leaving Ben wondering on purpose. Ben couldn’t deny the man’s talent for the business they found themselves in, and he finds it strange to find such a kinship and such a strong antipathy for one person. A person who likely understood well the burdens of the job and the person was responsible for the death of Sackett all at once, not to mention the one who likely sent Robert Rogers after Ben’s dragoon unit on the information of Charles Lee. A person who represented a very personal danger to him now.
The door opens again and the woman who must be Abigail enters, shutting it tight behind her. He hasn’t seen her in years but it couldn’t be anyone else, and he has to stop himself for thanking her out loud for all the work she’s done for them, unsure of what can and cannot be heard inside the walls of this house.
He coughs, shivering against what must be another wave of oncoming fever. “Abigail.” He greets her, hoping his weak smile will imply his gratitude.
“Major Tallmadge,” she replies, busying herself with laying down a pitcher of water. She gestures at him to lay back, dabbing at his head with a damp cloth, and he’s so exhausted he can’t protest. “You should sleep.”
Ben’s eyes grow heavy, Abigail’s presence the only soothing thing in this foreign, dangerous situation, and he doesn’t even know her very well. It’s not really the danger he fears; he’s around that all the time. It’s how vulnerable this situation makes him. How vulnerable it makes the ring and everything they’ve worked for.
“Thank you for looking after me,” Ben answers, keeping his eyes closed, feeling consciousness slowly leaving him.
He feels Abigail lean closer, whispering in his ear. “I’m sure your friends will do their best to come for you, when they find out.” Her words are so soft they’re barely audible. They also speak to Ben’s greatest fear.
That in trying to save him, something will happen to his friends. To Abe or to Anna.
To Caleb.
But how would they even know, if Washington didn’t? Caleb and the dragoons would certainly notice if he was too long gone from camp, but how would they know where he was until word was sent?
Ben both yearns to see Caleb breaking through the door and dreads it simultaneously.
He couldn’t bear it something happened to one of his friends because of him.
If he’d only gotten a little bit further away on that horse.
He remembers the night before Sackett’s death when he was frustrated with the situation about Gamble—who he thought was called Sutherland, then—and Shanks, while also worrying over the letter from King George making it safely back to France with the French secret intelligence officer.
What if it’s the bloody-back who’s lying? Caleb said, sparking an idea in Ben’s mind. Caleb, who always managed to help him sort out his brain when it was tied up in impossible, tangled knots, sometimes of his own making.
Wait, Ben said before Caleb could go to lead the decoy to Baltimore. Every time Caleb left, Ben worried he might not return. Caleb was exceptional with his particular skillset, but it didn’t mean Ben didn’t worry. Riding into battle was different, because Ben could still see his friend then. Battle wasn’t predictable, but it was familiar. When Caleb rode off into the night and Ben couldn’t follow, he always felt just a little bit helpless.
They’d embraced after that, giving Ben a brief feeling of safety in a most unsafe moment, with the worst yet to come of André’s schemes.
Caleb had a knack for making him feel centered even on the bad days, and he tries to remember that now as he sits in the house of the enemy.
He can do this.
He can do this.
His world goes black again.
“Would you like to write a letter to Nathaniel Tallmadge and tell him his only remaining child was killed in British captivity because you were waiting for them to show their manners?”
“LIEUTENANT BREWSTER!”
All things considered, Caleb thinks, this wasn't the most auspicious way for Anna to meet George Washington for the first time. Anna leaves one hand on his shoulder, and it's the only thing keeping him anchored or sane or chained to reality at all.
André has Ben.
Caleb could scarcely bear it when Abe said those words aloud. He stood and listened to all the details Townsend could give him, feeling enraged and numb all at once.
He has to get Ben back. He has to get him back fast. That's the only thing that matters. Damn the ring. Damn the whole bloody war.
Ben was what mattered.
Ben himself surely wouldn't agree, but that didn't matter. Caleb was used to talking Ben Tallmadge out of his own head.
“Sir,” Caleb continues, lowering his voice. “All due respect, but I don't care how we found out. I care that we get Ben back, yeah? You're asking me to wait to hear from the British themselves when you said you were angry they hadn't notified you and don’t plan to for a while. You want to trust them? They found him in plainclothes. I can't risk that. He’s also been shot, and they’re the ones tending to him? I don’t trust a single thing about it.”
Washington sighs, rubbing his temples. His Virginia drawl is threaded through with irritation, which can’t be a good sign for Caleb’s case. “There are protocols, lieutenant. New York is a fortress and I won’t have you storming in recklessly, do you hear me? Get yourself under control. Acting rashly won’t help the situation.”
Caleb grasps the edge of the table, his Irish accent thicker in his urgency. “Ben was out there in those woods and out of his uniform because you requested he take care of Wakefield. And the man who captured Ben is free because you didn’t believe him when he told you Gamble was bad news. You…”
“Lieutenant Brewster that’s enough!” Washington cuts Caleb off, looking a bit bereft now. “Major Tallmadge….” He stops again. Caleb knows he’s sensitive to comments that he gets too many of his soldiers killed, but he doesn’t care about that right now, he cares about getting Ben back, Washington’s feeling and rules be damned.
“…Benjamin is a valued member of this army,” Washington continues. “And I will do everything in my power to return him here. I want him safe back in camp as much as you do.”
Caleb blinks, feeling Anna press his shoulder again. “All due respect,” he repeats. “But you don't, sir.”
Washington sighs, and Caleb takes the opportunity to keep talking. “I snuck into New York harbor in one of Sackett’s inventions to rescue Culper from jail. I got in and I got out, and I’m still here. This won’t be different.”
Washington stares at him, almost looking impressed but swallowing back the urge. “You did what?”
Caleb throws his hands up in the air. “Look. Either I resign now, and you lose me, and I go do this, or you keep me in your army and our spy ring, and I go do this. It’s your choice, sir. I’m doing it either way.”
Washington sighs again, but Caleb senses him relenting.
“All right. But I don’t want to know what you are doing and how you are doing it, just ask whoever you need for what you need.” Washington looks over at Anna, more warmth in his expression. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances Mrs. Strong. I do very much appreciate your work for us. You are welcome in camp, but if you go with Lieutenant Brewster I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“Thank you sir,” Anna replies, still looking a bit awestruck. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to help the cause. But I…well I trust Lieutenant Brewster with my safety. And Be…Major Tallmadge would do the same for me, were I in his place.”
Washington nods, seemingly knowing that his arguments won’t work, but he does call out once more as they two of them make for the exit.
“Lieutenant Brewster.”
Caleb turns around, feeling annoyed until he sees the concern on Washington’s face, betraying the feelings of worry about Ben’s condition he won’t express.
“If this goes ill and it affects any exchange the British might have offered to give Major Tallmadge back to us,” Washington continues, going stone faced again. “There will be little I can do even if I would of course want to. I caution you to remember that.”
Caleb nods and steps out of the tent, Anna following behind. It’s night and most of the men are around the fires or minding their own business, and Caleb’s grateful for it because he starts shaking just slightly once he’s outside. He’d hoped pure rage would take over every other feeling, but his heart wasn’t letting that happen.
“We’ll get him back,” Anna whispers, and Caleb’s grateful things collided so that she could be here now.
“Damn right we will Annie.” Caleb clenches his fist. “Right now we need to tend to the plan.”
Anna quirks one eyebrow, almost smiling. “And what’s that, dare I ask?”
“I’m going to be a farmer.” Caleb grins. “And you’re going to be my wife. But first I’ll need a few of Ben’s dragoons. I can trust them. Then I need to go to Sackett’s old tent.”