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“Look what they’ve done to you...” she mourned. The candlelight washed over her features, reflecting in her dark eyes and illuminating a brow decorated with worry. He tensed as her hands fluttered over his right foot, poised to change the bandages. Anna paused, sensing his distress, but continued when he gave her a tight nod of consent. It wasn’t the pain so much that had him wanting to crawl away. And even though her touch warmed everything he was made of, his frostbitten foot remained as cold as the air it had long been exposed to.
She paid no mind to his discomfort or his embarrassment when the wound was finally revealed, but she could not seem to help gracing it with a disdainful look. He hoped it was meant for the cause of the loss, and not for the ugliness of the disfigurement itself.
“Thank you,” he managed, watching her from a state of half-consciousness. Upon his retrieval and return to Whitehall, Major Hewlett had been bathed, hastily groomed, and fed just enough to gather the strength he’d needed to take up residence in his own bed. Aside from staving off infection and regaining his physical health, he felt a weariness down in his soul that he knew would take much longer to recover from. Under even the heaviest of blankets, winter pervaded within him.
Her ministrations complete, Anna gently rolled the bedclothes back up. He could feel her eyes on him, big and sad and too tired for her age, and he willed himself to meet them, if only for a short time. They sat in silence, and he began to fall into the pillows, slowly sinking away from her.
She said, so seriously that it made his heart ache, “I’m so glad you’re home.” He sighed, she and the last of the candlelight slipping from his view. “Edmund...”
The vision dissolved before Major Hewlett’s eyes, the sounds of conflict and gunfire and the unforgiving chill of January returning to assault his senses. He’d meant to put more distance between himself and the rebel camp, but in his weakened state it felt like an impossible task. Finding one last ounce of adrenaline, he set his jaw and crashed as quietly as he could through the woods, in the opposite direction of certain death.
Simcoe would be on his feet soon, if he weren’t already. The blow Hewlett delivered may have killed a lesser man, but the rogue captain could not be felled so easily. His unnatural resilience was fed by his thoroughly cruel and heinous nature, coupled with a resistance to misfortune that made him damn near immortal. But as bleak as the outlook seemed, Hewlett knew that Simcoe had at least one weakness. He knew it well, for it was one they shared.
Stopping to catch his breath, Hewlett reassured his grip on the dagger. The blue coat he wore hung heavily on his back while the cold ravaged his foot and his stomach grew taut with hunger and fear. This was not how he’d imagined dying, on the occasion that he’d actually had to imagine such a thing. If Simcoe got his way, Hewlett would be unrecognizable by the time he was found. He shuddered and then decided to look up, to the heavens.
It was a clear night, and through the gaps in the bare branches, he could see a few stars. The constellations he’d taught himself to recognize were broken up by the trees, but he found the brightest star and hastily calculated his position despite his fatigue. If he continued to head south, he would reach the Sound. West and he would possibly be able to cross into New York without any trouble. Having no idea how deep into Connecticut territory he actually was, Hewlett felt a pang of dread. Should he be caught before reaching either destination, his fate would be sealed. But if you stay here, you are most certainly dead, he thought.
Willing himself from the rest point, he moved as swiftly as he could along an unseen path. He settled on the fact that they would expect him to attempt an escape to Setauket by any means. Traveling west would put him at greater risk, but he had to try and throw them off his trail. Hewlett listened carefully for any other signs of movement as he went. The shouting as well as the glow of campfire had long faded. The Queen’s Rangers may have been after him but as far as he could tell, Robert Rogers had not been among their company. This was a win for him, albeit small, and he grew a little more optimistic given the notion.
Eventually he came to a stream, though it was burdened by ice and appeared uninviting. Instead, Hewlett decided to take a knee on the bank, again turning to the sky for guidance. The view was much less obstructed now, and just as he had back in his cell, he began to point out the constellations that he could spot. He traced their paths with sullen eyes as they twinkled back at him all the same. His head swam in his stillness, and it was tempting to sleep right then and there. Andromeda reached out with a shimmering hand, beckoning for a savior.
Hewlett followed her indication and spotted something through the snow that did not match his surroundings. He approached cautiously, brandishing the blade in defense, but the creature did not move. He allowed himself to relax, and as he looked upon the ox, he felt sympathy for its demise. Exhaustion and hypothermia had taken it right as it reached the water’s edge. A fresh dusting of powder signaled its death had been recent. Quickly he became aware that a loose animal meant there may be someone looking for it, so he camouflaged the carcass the best he could and did something he hoped to never have to do again.
Reluctantly, the knife intended for Simcoe became a tool to carve out a shelter. The initial stench was daunting but the warmth it provided had Hewlett nearly clamoring inside. An instinct to survive for the long haul kicked in almost immediately, and in place of sleep he merely listened. The remainder of the night was unbearably quiet, and long, but no one came. Knowing Simcoe, the hunt was not called off, but rather diverted along a different route. It mattered little. They would meet again, and soon.
While he lay quite literally within the belly of the beast, Hewlett felt a surge of anger course through him. Indeed, he would be unrecognizable upon his return to Setauket, though not as a corpse, but as a man thoroughly and finally affected by the war. The color of the coat over his shoulders no longer bore any significance when it came to the true enemy in his line of sight. He would bargain with the rebels, sleep among them if he had to, whatever it took to gain the upper hand. He had no horse to ride in on, no wings to carry him there, and no spear to wield, but he would find a way. His life meant nothing if hers and others could be spared from senseless terror.
As long as he drew breath, before the God he prayed to and the stars he trusted, Major Edmund Hewlett vowed to see its end and slay the monster once and for all.