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At first, Ben thought he was imagining things. Benedict Arnold’s dark, intense stare at dinner in the officers’ mess was the same way he looked at everyone, not Ben alone. Clearly the stress of running intelligence for Washington and the long, cold patrols with the Dragoons was wearing on Ben, making him as paranoid and suspicious as Nathaniel Sackett.
Ben’s visits to Arnold’s tent often left him unsettled. He disliked the way Arnold’s bright, fevered gaze swept him from head to toe every time he entered. He reminded himself that Arnold was badly wounded and recently stripped of his field command, surely he was not in complete possession of his faculties.
When Arnold asked Ben to help him stand and limp a few steps around his tent, Ben obliged, mostly because he couldn’t refuse a direct order. Arnold was heavy, several inches taller than Ben, and clung to him as though Ben alone could restore him to his former self. Ben flinched when Arnold grabbed his right shoulder to pull himself out of bed. The old wound there had healed cleanly, but the cold and damp of winter made it ache and Arnold’s tight grip hurt.
Ben tried to ignore the way Arnold yanked him right up against him, his forehead hot and sticky against Ben’s. Ben could feel Arnold’s breath on his cheek. It seemed indecorous for his superior officer to manhandle him this way, and Ben leaned back, trying to put some space between them without causing Arnold to lose his balance. Arnold pulled him closer with a hand on his hip as he straightened, leaning his weight on his injured leg with a groan. Ben jumped as hard fingers dug into his backside. Arnold’s arm slid around his waist, his grip tight enough to bruise.
Ben helped him limp a few steps until his bad leg collapsed, nearly dumping him back into his sickbed. It threw Ben off-balance and he dropped to his knees, still gripping Arnold’s forearms as he sank onto his bed. Realizing the awkwardness of his position, Ben tried to stand. Arnold’s hands tightened on his forearms, digging into his wrists and keeping him still, kneeling between his legs. Ben looked up, panic threading through him. He was at a disadvantage, unarmed and with no leverage to defend himself should Arnold refuse to let him go. Arnold was flushed and sweating from his little walk, his mouth set in an unhappy line. He didn’t seem to notice that he still held on to Ben.
“Thank you, Major,” Arnold said after a few long moments while he caught his breath. He released Ben’s wrists, and Ben rose and took two quick steps back, hoping Arnold didn’t notice the urgency in his movements.
“Of course, sir. Did you need anything else?” Ben asked. He repressed the urge to rub at his wrists where they ached from Arnold’s hard grip.
“No,” Arnold replied darkly as he massaged his wounded leg . “That will be all for today, Major.”
Ben pretended he didn’t feel Arnold’s eyes on him as he hurried out of the tent.
“Something ain’t right with the man,” Caleb said, drinking deeply from Ben’s bottle of madeira. “Maybe he cracked his head when his horse got shot out from under him. Or maybe the wound-fever cooked his brains.”
Ben stretched his legs in front of the fire, feeling warm for the first time in days. He felt half-frozen and ached from spending long hours in the saddle on patrol. He didn’t want to think about Arnold right now. He pulled his cloak around him more tightly and tried to forget about Arnold’s bruising grip on his hips and wrists as he’d helped him hobble around his tent.
“He’s just a bit down on his luck,” Ben said. “He’s a man of action who’s been badly injured. It would be the same for you or me.” Ben’s words sounded hollow even to him, but the last thing he needed was the wrong person overhearing him speaking ill of the hero of Saratoga.
“Don’t think so, Benny. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, like a starving man eyes up his supper. Who put those bruises on your wrists, hm? I know it wasn’t one of the lovely ladies working here in the camp.” Caleb gave him a knowing look. Ben flushed, glad it was dark enough that Caleb couldn’t see. He snagged his bottle from Caleb’s hand and drank, only to find it mostly empty. Caleb grinned and slapped his shoulder.
“Get some sleep, Tall-boy, you look done in.”
Ben made his way back to his hut, looking forward to throwing himself into his cot and sleeping for a few hours before his patrol resumed. He was nearly there when someone grabbed him and pinned him by the shoulders against the rough wall of his hut. Ben recognized the tall, gaunt shadow immediately and forced himself to remain still.
“General Arnold?” he asked. Arnold leaned close and Ben could smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. He was so drunk he could barely stand, leaning on Ben to support himself. His nose nearly brushed Ben’s.
“Tallmadge,” Arnold breathed.
“I must ask that you let me go,” Ben said, sounding much calmer than he felt. His heart was pounding as he struggled to think of a way to escape without getting himself court martialed for assaulting his superior officer.
Arnold leaned even closer, pressing Ben against the wall with his full weight.
“Sir, what is the meaning of-”
“You think you’re so smart, Tallmadge, you think Washington loves you, trusts you with his little game of spies. You’ve accomplished so little, and yet he denies me my right to lead.” Arnold’s voice dripped poison and Ben struggled to follow his drunken tirade. He pushed hard against Arnold’s chest but Arnold stood fast, fortified by liquor and rage.
“I have no quarrel with you, sir,” Ben said, unsure of what Arnold wanted from him. Arnold stepped back, raising a hand to cup Ben’s cheek, his touch unexpectedly gentle. Ben recoiled and his head thumped hard against the wall behind him.
“He’s sending me to Philadelphia,” Arnold said, as though talking to himself. “He’s taking me out of the field. Why do I serve if not to fight? He insults me, he thinks me an invalid.” Ben could feel his tension, clear in his agitated tone.
Ben slid his free hand to the hilt of his sword, hoping he would not have to use it.
“Respectfully, sir, you are drunk,” Ben said quietly, attempting to defuse Arnold’s temper. Arnold’s thumb stroked his cheekbone and Ben’s stomach clenched.
“Yes,” Arnold agreed. “I am ashamed,” he said, dropping his hand to Ben’s shoulder. “Forgive me, Major,” he continued as he smoothed down the fringe of Ben’s epaulette.
“Of course, sir,” Ben said, hoping Arnold would let go of him now that he was calmer.
“I leave for Philadelphia tomorrow,” Arnold said. “I have appreciated your assistance and your company, Major.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said. He hardly returned Arnold’s sentiments.
“Best of luck to you, Major,” Arnold said. He removed his hand from Ben’s shoulder.
“And you, sir.”
Arnold stepped back, and Ben listened as his uneven steps crunched away into the darkness. Ben released his grip on his sword and sagged against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart.
A hand closed over his shoulder and Ben was halfway through a right hook when the moonlight caught Caleb’s face. Ben checked his punch and Caleb grinned at him.
“Jumpy, Tallmadge?” he asked. Ben glared at him. He noticed the pistol in Caleb’s hand, cocked and ready to fire.
“Caleb, what-”
“Don’t worry about it, Tall-boy,” Caleb said, returning his gun to half-cock. Ben stared at the gun as Caleb tucked it back into his belt.
“So,” Caleb said, handing Ben his flask. “I hear Arnold’s been reassigned to Philadelphia.”