Work Text:
Ben watched silently as Sarah left the room. He leaned against the wall and pressed a hand to his side. Pain had flared as the fear and adrenaline from Gamble's visit receded. The scuffle with Sarah—as well as the night's activities—had irritated the wound, but Gamble's ongoing search for him and Sarah's newfound contempt made it imperative that he leave. He hoped he was as fit for travel as he'd told Sarah earlier. The trek back to camp would likely be grueling—he with a wound and no horse. Still, “Needs must,” he thought as he set the musket by hearth and moved to gather his things.
He hadn't much. His boots, which Sarah had cleaned while he slept, sat next to the bed. She hadn't said anything about the clothes; he wore still the shirt she had dressed him in along with a set of her husband's breeches. They would see him back to camp. He'd shucked his stockings last night. They and his coat, still with blood stains, lay nearby. He sat to pull on both stockings and boots, wincing as the motion pulled Sarah's stitches and then pulled on his coat. He brushed quickly at his hair, which had pulled from his braid and hung around his face, gathering it behind his ears. He had no hat. He left the Reverend's cross where it lay on the floor. Clearly, he was not a man of God. He longed to take the musket with him, but he could not steal Sarah's—Mrs. Livingston's—only means of self defense. With that last thought, he pulled open the door and set off. The morning was cool in the early light.
***
He stopped to rest hours later. The sun was high and the morning's coolness had waned some. He'd been walking for hours without respite. Fear of Gamble overtaking him had fueled his feet, but now weariness and fatigue hampered his stride. He'd not heard nor seen any sign of Gamble or the men that had been with him and hoped this meant they were not nearby. Miles were left till he'd make it to camp. His wound weeped blood, and his bandage and shirt sported a small stain. “Nothing for it,” he thought. He kept to the river as he retraced his route, dipping his hands into it to drink before pressing on.
**
Hours later in the dark, he spied the glow of the camp's fires and moved cautiously toward the firelight. The evening's sentries would be about, and, not in uniform, he'd be challenged. He wanted to end this day and mission without further wounds. He'd barely gone a dozen steps before a voice called out “Halt! Identify yourself!”
“Major Tallmadge,” Ben replied. The man, or boy really, stepped from where he was positioned near a large tree and examined him. He recognized Ben, but he did not lower his musket, which was leveled at Ben's chest. “Are you alone, sir?” he asked, looking behind him. Ben admired his diligence.
“I am,” Ben replied. The boy—a private Walker, if Ben recalled correctly—lowered his musket. “Good to see you, sir. Lieutenant Brewster's been lookin' fo ya'. He's been by twice to ask if we'd seen ya'. He asked the sentries earlier, too.”
“He would,” thought Ben. “Thank you. I'll be sure to find him,” Ben replied. Walker saluted and returned to his post by the tree. Ben moved slowly into the firelight pressing his hand to his hip. The wound continued to weep but had not openly bled, for which he was thankful. His return trek had sapped what little strength the days of rest had yielded him. His store of adrenaline, which had kept him moving, was exhausted. He knew that he was likely to be bedridden tomorrow.
As he moved toward the tents, he felt eyes on him. Glancing around, he realized some of the soldiers were gawking at his return, and he supposed he was a sight for gawking—no uniform, unhorsed, unkempt, and the stain, to say nothing of his hand grasping his side, giving away the wound. His stride spoke of pain. “How I must look,” he thought, and he realized that Caleb was likely to find him before he could seek him out. Already he heard murmurings from the men and saw several sprint off to report his return—to Washington or Caleb, or both, he knew not. He decided he couldn't be bothered with the thought at the moment. He needed rest and tending. His report to Washington—about the Reverend and his absence could wait for the morrow. He knew the news of his wound would prevent a summons tonight.
**
Caleb did indeed find him. He came running with fear on his face. No doubt one of those scurrying off had told him of the stain on Ben's shirt. He skidded to a stop in front of him and took him by the elbows, scanning him up and down. Ben watched at his gaze caught and focused on his side.
“Christ on a pony! Ben! What happened to you?!” Caleb exclaimed, pulling Ben's left arm over his shoulder and wrapping his right arm around his waist, careful of the wound. Ben felt relief overtake him—that he had returned to camp at last and had found someone who gave a damn about him. Gamble would have gladly seen him shot, and Sarah, for all that they had shared, likely felt the same. The relief caused him to slump onto Caleb who took his weight with fresh concern on his face. Caleb started walking, leading him toward the field hospital.
“No, Caleb. My tent. Please,” Ben pleaded when he realized where they were headed.
“But, you're bleeding!”
“It's been stitched. It's only weeping. I can change the dressing in my tent.”
Caleb eyed him as they made their way slowly through camp, assessing him. Ben leaned against Caleb, but his feet were mostly steady.
“Tent it is, Tallboy. But you're going to tell me what happened to you, and you're going to let me look at that wound. From your cot. You're whiter than the General's wig.” Ben felt his exhaustion, the culmination of the past few days, and his steps stuttered. Caleb said nothing but tightened his hold on his waist. “Thank you, Caleb.”
**
Caleb deposited Ben on his cot and moved to help him with his coat and shirt. Ben tried not to wince as he did so. Caleb dropped both over Ben's chair and reached for the bandage wrapped around his middle, unwinding it carefully.
“Lay it on me, Tallboy. How'd you end up horseless and gut shot?” Caleb asked.
Ben sighed. He'd hoped to avoid too many questions on his return, but stumbling into camp in the middle of the night made that difficult, especially with Caleb. He imagined the scuttlebut in camp was firing fast over his return. He'd have to report to Washington about the mission in the morning, but, Caleb, who looked at him with worry, and who was gently tending the wound, he felt he couldn't beg off. The stitches had mostly held, and it looked to be healing. Blood weeped only from a few pulled stitches. Ben considered his answer to Caleb's questions while Caleb wiped blood from his side.
“I killed the Reverand.” Ben said. “I let my anger get the better of me and shot him in the chest.” He sighed. “I was supposed to make it look like an accident. It was stupid of me.” Caleb listened but said nothing. “I dragged him to the river, and Gamble surprised me. He was his contact.”
“Gamble!” Caleb breathed out. “Damn that man! He did this to you?” Caleb asked as he nodded toward the wound.
“Yes. Knocked me out and meant to take me to John Andre. I woke up slung over my own horse. Though, he didn't tether her. I bolted her, but he shot me before I could make it into the saddle.” Ben stopped there remembering the shot and subsequent fall. The fall had knocked the wind from his lungs; he'd wondered if it was the end those few seconds he'd lain breathless. Providence prevailed. Gamble hadn't managed to finish him off then. Caleb looked angry but remained quiet.
“Fell off and she kept running. I managed to evade him and eventually stumbled to a cabin. It turned out to be a homestead. I passed out before I could make it there. The wife found me and tended me. I haven't been well enough to travel before this morning.” Ben concluded his recounting. Caleb didn't need to know he'd hoped to bring Sarah with him on his return. Or about his activities with Mrs. Livingston. The spymaster could keep his own secrets.
“You don't look like you're well enough to travel now!” Caleb countered. Ben couldn't argue. “I couldn't stay away any longer. Washington needs to know about Gamble and about the Reverend,” Ben said. “I made it back only a little worse for wear” he joked, smiling slightly, trying to ease the tension. Caleb looked at him with a sour expression.
“This is the second time you've been shot, Tallboy. Take more care. The Ring won't make it without you. And Washington relies on you. Not to mention your friends.” Caleb finished. Ben glanced at him. He looked sincere. “I'll try, Caleb.” Ben said.
Caleb didn't look satisfied but said nothing. “I'm gonna go get some binding and a new bandage. Stay here.” He looked at him to gauge his reaction, but Ben only nodded, the thought of moving more this day wholly unappealing.
Caleb disappeared through the tent flaps, and a cold breeze blew in on his way out. Ben shivered in only his breeches, hoping against any lingering fever. He slumped over his knees as much as he could while he waited Caleb's return. He returned a few minutes later with binding and bandage. As he placed the cloth over the wound Caleb murmured, “I saw Billy Lee on my way back. Told him to tell Washington you're back but with a wound. Told him you'd report tomorrow, but not early.”
“Thank you, Caleb,” Ben replied. “Don't mention it, Tallboy” Caleb returned quietly. He tied off the bandage, tucked the binding's ends into the other fabric and knelt to help Ben with his boots, setting them off to the side, just as they'd been this morning at Sarah's. “You want something to eat? It's late, but I can find something for ya'.” Ben shook his head. “No, Caleb. I'm alright.” He felt his fatigue as he said it. Caleb looked at him, sizing up the truth of his statement. “Alright, Benny. Do you want me to stay with you?”
“No, Caleb. I'll see you in the morning” Ben replied.
Caleb stood to leave, grasping his shoulder on the way. “I'm glad you're back, Benny. I was worried.” He'd pushed through the tent flaps before Ben could reply. The flaps fluttered a little; Caleb hadn't tied them on his way out. Ben decided he didn't care enough to get up and do it himself. He pulled his blanket from the foot of the cot, lay back, and prayed for sleep. The wound throbbed, but he'd managed to sleep at Sarah's. He hoped he'd manage it here.
He lay pondering Caleb's words—that he'd been worried. He worried for Caleb each time he left to collect information or on a mission. He worried for Abe and Anna, risking their lives under the noses of Tories and redcoats. Worry was part and parcel of war. It would not help him now, and, after only a few minutes, he felt himself begin to drift. Sleep came soon after, dreamless in his exhaustion.
**