Chapter Text
All hope of preserving order vanished as Ben’s shattered squadron fled across the river in retreat.The skirmish had turned into a rout, with the American infantry outflanked and forced back across the river by the British light dragoons. Ben found himself collecting his errant troops as the British dragoons closed down on them. His throat felt raw from shouting orders. He charged toward the river, clearing the way with pistol and saber. A British trooper drew up next to him, slashing out with his own sword. Ben parried the strike, knocking the rider’s sword away. Ben’s saber opened him up shoulder to hip and the man fell, tumbling from his mount.
The river, though neither particularly wide nor deep, slowed down the retreat as men and horses slipped in the mud on the steep banks. Ben’s horse shied at the fast-moving water, and Ben urged the beast on, cold water soaking his boots. Pistol balls whizzed by his ear, and Ben turned to see several men in green charging down the riverbank, their horses struggling in the churned-up mud. These were not dragoons, but Queen’s Rangers.
Ben drew his carbine and fired, dropping the horse of the rider nearest to him. The man jumped from his injured horse into the river and Ben dug his heels into his own mount’s flanks. He was nearly to the opposite bank when he was grabbed from behind, the unhorsed rider having regained his footing and jumped him.
The ranger looped an arm around his throat, trying to pull him from the saddle. Ben struggled to free himself, but found the grip around his neck impossible to break. Too late, he saw the glint of a pistol butt in the morning sun. The blow struck him in the temple, beneath the edge of his helmet. His vision blinked out for a moment and his attacker threw his weight sharply to the left, sending them both into the river. Ben landed hard on the rocky river bottom, the impact driving the breath from him. Reflexively, he inhaled a lungful of river water as the ranger’s weight crushed him down.
The ranger dragged him back up to the surface by the collar. Ben gasped for air, choking on water. Stunned and desperate for a clean breath, Ben had no time to duck the man’s meaty fist, and everything went dark.
“Christ, he looks awful. You sure he’s alive?”
“Dead men don’t puke that much. Besides, if he was dead, he wouldn’t still be bleeding like that, would he?”
“Guess not. Rogers’ll skin us if we bring him a dead man.”
Voices, accented and sounding very far away, pulled Ben back to consciousness. His head was throbbing, and when he cracked an eye to see where he was, he encountered late-afternoon daylight filtered through a blindfold. He was laying on something hard and Ben recognized the familiar motion of a hay wagon. The wagon jolted violently under him as it ran over a deep rut in the road, and Ben thought he might be sick as the movement sent a spike of pain through his head.
His hands were numb, and when he flexed his fingers he found that his wrists had been bound tightly behind him. A heavy boot caught him on the hip and Ben tried not to flinch, not wanting let his captors know he was awake.
“See? He twitched,” the first voice said. “Not dead.”
Yet, Ben thought grimly.
Ben tried to concentrate on his surroundings and discover some clue as to where he was, but the blow to his head and the sway of the wagon made him dizzy. He tested the ropes binding his hands and found the knots hopelessly tight, cutting painfully into his wrists. He shivered, chilled by his damp uniform. The weight of his sword was missing from his hip, and he remembered dropping his pistol when he’d been unhorsed at the river crossing.
Ice settled in Ben’s stomach when he realized that Rogers had captured an additional prize: the dispatches Ben had been carrying in his saddlebags when he’d been unhorsed. He had no doubt that his captured horse would be thoroughly searched and Abe’s letters discovered. Unencrypted, the correspondence would expose his entire chain of agents. Panic closed around Ben’s chest. He cursed himself for his own sloppiness, carrying sensitive intelligence to an advance post. His mistake would now not only cost him his own life, but potentially the lives of his friends as well. He could only hope that the British would not work out the true identities of the spies mentioned in his letters.
Ben swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the present situation instead of agonizing over the possible outcomes of his capture. He wondered where he was being taken; he guessed British headquarters. The men guarding him had mentioned Robert Rogers. Perhaps it was finally time for them to square up their accounts.
The cart hit another bump and Ben’s head smacked the planks, sending him back into oblivion.
Ben was woken by a hard kick to his ribs. The pain of the blow brought him back to full consciousness in time to pull his knees up to catch the second kick on his shins instead of his belly. His blindfold was gone, and Ben saw that he’d been brought to a small clearing in the woods, well off the main road. He heard the low murmur of conversation nearby, but couldn’t make out the words.
“Get him up,” someone ordered from behind him, and one of the rangers hauled him to his feet. Ben squeezed his eyes shut as the sudden movement made his head swim, and swallowed down hard on a wave of nausea.
When he opened his eyes, Robert Rogers filled his vision. He looked exactly as Ben remembered him from that day in the New Jersey forest: clad in a filthy green jacket, cold gray eyes unblinking as he looked over Ben.
“Go back to camp,” Rogers ordered his rangers. “The Major and I have a private matter to settle.” The rangers’ boots crunched back to the road, leaving Ben alone with Rogers. It had begun to rain, fat drops rattling on dry leaves.
“Major Tallmadge,” Rogers said, circling him. “You’re a hard man to track down.” He drew a pistol from his belt and checked the priming.
“Perhaps it’s your scouts who are lacking,” Ben said, meeting Rogers’ gaze. Rogers rounded on Ben and kicked his knees out from under him with a vicious swipe, dropping him to the ground. Cold mud soaked into the knees of his breeches.
“You deserve to hang, boy,” Rogers said. “But I’m a fair man, and I owe you a bullet.” The barrel of Rogers’ pistol touched his nape and Ben shivered. It would be a fitting death for a spy, he thought. The woods around them were dark, silent save for the downpour, and Ben was acutely aware of how alone he was.
The gun shifted against Ben’s neck as Rogers pulled back the hammer. Ben squared his shoulders and pulled himself up straight. He thought of Caleb, of his friends in Setauket. He hoped they were safe.
The gunshot shattered the silence of the woods, but didn’t come from behind as Ben expected.
Rogers howled, falling to his knees and clutching at his thigh. Red streaked his breeches. His pistol fell to the dirt next to Ben. Twigs snapped under heavy boots and the second shot dropped Rogers to the ground. He didn’t move, blood spreading across the breast of his jacket. In the dark, Ben couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. Ben struggled to his feet and scrambled for cover, crouching down in the thorny underbrush beside a nearby tree.
“Show yourself!” Ben shouted, wishing he could retrieve the pistol Rogers had dropped. An enemy of Rogers was not necessarily a friend of Ben’s.
“You first,” a familiar voice commanded. Stunned, Ben slid from his hiding place to see Caleb Brewster, holding two pistols and looking down at Rogers’ unmoving bulk.