Chapter Text
Demar’s Tavern was a foul place. Crammed between two crooked brothels,reeking of piss and spilt wine, it served only as a reminder that men will stoop abominably low to fulfill their dark desires.
Arnold held a handkerchief across his face, drawing in the light trace of sandalwood to combat the rampant smell of vomit. He stuck out like a sore thumb; tall, rigid, clad in glaring red. It was best he made his deal early, and retreat before some vagrant or drunken rebel recognized him.
The crowd parted like a lazy drunken wave, some men tumbling to the ground like surf crashing over the rocks. Arnold made his way through relatively unscathed, save for what looked like a molasses stain on his boot. Holed up in the corner was the large, beastly man he required. The sight of him turned his stomach.
“Mr. Robert Rogers, I presume?”
Rogers looked up at him, his slashed eye staying unnervingly still. He still had a pint of ale to his lips, and Arnold bit back the desire to vomit as he watched most of it slip past his beard and onto the front of his shirt. His sip ended with a resounding “Ah”.
“Aye, that’s me. I don't need tellin’ who you are, neither. Not unless you want a red shirt to go with that coat.” A trickle of fear went down Arnold’s spine, and he scanned the room before taking his seat.
“So!” Rogers exclaimed, waving over a tavern wench for another ale. “What brings Glory Almighty to humble ol’ Demar’s, hm? If it's Queens Rangers you need, I’m afraid you're out of luck--but not out of service.”
Arnold swallowed his pride, and leaned close across the table. “I’m in need of a man who can take back what’s rightfully mine.”
Rogers laughed heartily, taking a new stein of ale from the wench, and sending her off with a crass slap on the backside. “You don't have anythin’, boy, rightful or otherwise. You're a yellow bellied turn coat.”
Arnold clenched his teeth, contemplating throttling the man right here, but he needed this foul beast. He couldn't do this alone.
“I have money--”
“Oh, yes, how could we all forget. I s’pose you’ll be payin’ in copies of your court martial--my apologies-- pardoned court martial.”
Arnold slammed a small purse on the table, sending ale spilling over the top of Rogers’ rattled stein. The man let out an ungodly grunt, sopping up the mess with his sleeve.
“I have payment. I'm sure you’d respect a man who puts his own personal fortune down, no matter the colors he wears. We’re the same, you and I”
Rogers scoffed. “ ‘Fraid not. Oh it's true, the coin is temptin’. Lots o’ wine and quim can be had from a purse like that. But you and I? A deal with me is binding. You pay, I go. Simple as that. You, you great lout, are a coward with an askin’ price. Ol Georgie couldn't pay up, and you tipped like a tree---oh the sound that made”
Arnold snatched the purse off the table, and braced his bad leg to storm out of that wretched piss hole. “Fine. I only came to you because of your prior history, but I can ask elsewhere. Plenty of hired men can take down Benjamin Tallmadge.”
“Tallmadge?”
Rogers’ face lit up, a wide grin cracking his scraggly features. He was enjoying this.
“I've got plenty of time for Benjamin Tallmadge”
Arnold settled back into his chair, proud that Rogers took an interest in his cause. “You and a Tallmadge are quite the adversaries. Killed one of your rangers a few years back, eh?” The look on Rogers’ face told Arnold he had hit a nerve.
“Aye. Slippery runt opened one of my men’s throats. Couldn't die like a soldier. Damn him and the bitch who whelped him.”
Arnold grinned smugly. “My thoughts exactly. You can be a soldier, and fight honorably, or you could stoop…” Rogers paused, glaring at him over the brim of the stein. “He’s a spy, Rogers.”
It seemed Arnold pushed all the right buttons. Rogers straightened up in his chair, the flimsy thing creaking beneath him ominously.
“£500. That's my price.”
“£500?! It's one boy, not a battalion. You’ll do it for £100.”
Rogers snickered. “One boy, aye. One boy in the thicke of Continental forces, with beady eyes on us here in York City. You came to me, Arnold. That's the price you pay per head.”
Arnold gritted his teeth. “I need him alive.” As much as he wished to have Tallmadge’s body dumped on his doorstep, he had business to attend to. Wars to win. Figureheads to crush beneath his heel.
“That won't be easy. Pretty as he may be, Tallmadge is a hellion. Drag him to the gates, he draws blood-- buckets o’ it. Then, quick as a whip, he’s back to the shadows.”
“Except I know where to turn on the light. You’d need not do more than to burn the wick at Washington’s bedside to find him.”
Arnold regretted those words.
“£700.”
“£600!”
“£700, and Georgie has his Molly snatched with none the wiser. Not a hair on his auburn head scathed.”
A hiss escaped Arnold’s lips. He gave himself away. He should have pointed the man towards camp, and let Rogers figure out their filthy affair for himself. This was burning a hole in his pocket. Still, there was not a man more feared than Rogers. If anyone could stroll leisurely into Washington’s own tent…
“Deal.” He spat bitterly. “Make it so.”
Rogers held out a meaty hand, silently asking for the purse Arnold brought. He slapped it into his palm, huffing audibly. Rogers clicked his tongue.
“Don't kick yourself over this, lad. You're not the only bloody back to make a crooked deal at the Demar’s. Many o’ man’s fate has been decided next to wrenching drunkards. As for Major Tallmadge, his will be decided by yerself. Alive, as per our gentleman’s agreement. Though, be forewarned-- alive doesn't mean in one piece.”
Arnold sneered, the idea of Ben arriving considerably less pretty stirring up venomous pleasure. “Cripple him if you must. Just bring him here, and watch Washington crumble.”
Another hearty round of laughter escaped Rogers, who raised his empty stein in camaraderie. “Then let’s rejoice. To the end of this war, to Georgie’s empty bed, and young Tallmadge’s free rolling head.”
“Cheers”