Chapter Text
His face was still searing from the unbridled rage slapped across his cheeks as Alex and Gilbert smuggled him to Monsieur Evans’ Manor. As predicted, the man was humbled by George’s presence, and permitted him a room set with a roaring fire. Before the flames, George peeled off the added layers of wool Gilbert has swaddled him in. His shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat; at this rate he really would catch fever before heading to save Ben.
Waiting for nightfall was torturous. Alex slipped reports to him, brought food to him, but inevitably kept his distance. George surmised he was still upset about his leaving, or upset that he let Ben get taken. Gilbert was much more accommodating. He scoured the grounds around Monsieur Evans’ estate, acquired a fast horse and plain clothes, and spent the dwindling hours talking to him. George was thankful for that. The silence would have killed him, or compelled him to leave without proper rations.
As dusk crept along the wooded horizon, George sank back into the hot tub that had been set out for him. Gilbert had coaxed him in, mumbling something about “They believe you to be ill. Soak your tension before you ride.” The heat of the tub was not enough to thaw the cold fear in his gut. It churned mercilessly, pushing George’s will to the limit. He scanned his mind for routes, for likely scenarios, for...unfortunate news. As smart as waiting had been, he also feared it had shaved away precious time; Ben could already be dead.
The room was deathly silent. Gilbert’s conversation had teetered off when the tub arrived, with Alex soon after-- still sour. Had they not been so close, George might have felt a tinge of embarrassment. Yet the full weight of their situation was sinking in, and George didn't mind the company while he soaked.
And then came a sob.
Small, stifled, but there. George cocked his head towards the sound; Alex. Alex, with his face in his hands, sobbing quietly--palms upturned to catch his sorrows. And then another round of sniffling, this time from Gilbert, his pale cheeks already wet with tears.
“My dear boys…”
His words triggered something in them, and the cries crescendoed woefully. It broke George’s heart. Arnold’s intended mission seemed to be working. His tiny family was fractured. George removed a hand from the warmth of the bath, out stretching it towards the grieving pair.
“Do not waste tears on this, little ones. Benjamin will be home in three days time.”
Alex had scrambled across the room to take George’s hand, kneeling next to the tub to press it against his cheek. “And you? What will become of us if you do not return home?” George fought back tears. He had planned for this. He’d give Alexander a place in the field, men to command. He’d ensure they got their final desires, despite his selfish need to keep them close in life. But those words seemed...unsavory. Alex was not asking for command, or further instructions. He was asking for comfort. It had not occurred to him that these two were grieving the loss of Benjamin, as well as what may be their last night with him.
“I will return.”
Gilbert passed silently over to the tub, kneeling next to Alex. George offered his other hand to him as well, running a thumb over his tear stained cheek. They were so tiny compared to his palm, cradling their head against it like babes. His throat tightened, and tears hanging from his lashes.
“I’m so sorry.”
His voice wavered painfully. He had failed these two. He had failed Benjamin. He could have very well lost this war. There was no way he could hide that. Gilbert rubbed his cheek into George’s hand.
“I’m afraid...it's time to depart.”
It felt like an execution. He was dressed somberly, in dark greys and blacks. His mare was tied to a fence post, and Alex handed him an assortment of items in a brown satchel.
“Two pistols, and their charges. You can't bring your sword, but here’s a hunting knife. Never, ever let it leave your side. I searched camp. There are two sets of prints that lead in a northeasterly direction from the back of your tent. Head down Beckett Road, then onto the back roads.”
George listened patiently, fiddling with a small enclosed lantern and candle stubs. He estimated another hour of visible light before he would need to ignite anything.
“Sir?”
George felt a hand tug at his cloak, preventing him from mounting. He removed his foot from the stirrups, and faced Alex. The boy looked terrified, as did Gilbert, who had fallen silent.
That’s right, this wasn't a usual farewell.
“Alexander. You are one of the brightest young men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You will do well, with or without me.” George turned to Gilbert, his slight frame quaking.
“Gilbert. You cannot fathom the undying respect and admiration I have for you. Keep that flame in your heart, son.”
And with that George mounted, unable to keep up the charade going without falling to pieces. He swallowed the surge of grief, and pushed his tenderness aside. “Three days time.” He clipped, digging his heel in to start his mare. “Set out fresh clothes for Benjamin.”
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Night was falling fast, and Ben had laid a neat trail of red for the majority of the day. The method was simple; a thread would be dropped in front of his staggering feet, then--under the guise of fatigue-- he would quickly double step on the thread. Once, to pack it into the ice, safe from the wind. Twice, to ensure the thread was not stuck to the wet sole of his boot. It had served him well this far, and in the waning light of dusk, Ben felt he best add a triple step to his process.
Rogers lumbered on ahead, yanking his lead at will. Ben smirked. Though Rogers thought this cruel, and degrading, he was playing into Ben’s plan perfectly. No one would question a man’s staggering steps whilst he’s chained and dragged like a hellhound.
“Keep up, boy. Dark is near. Wouldn't want the wolves to get ye.”
Ben pulled a few more threads, stomping them into the crust of snow. His heart skipped a beat as Roger’s turned unexpectedly, glowering. “Camp needs to be set soon. Can I trust you ‘round a fire? Or shall I burn those delicate hands for safe measure.”
Ben pulled a look of horror, though he felt nothing from the threat. His hour of exposure had been quite enough to convince Rogers he had been broken in. That the stubbornness was snuffed out by embarrassment and brutal cold. He planned on letting him keep that idea. Ben swallowed thickly, curling his shoulders forward ever so slightly to shrink himself.
“N-no, sir. I’ll be good.”
Rogers paused, then laughed heartily. “I’ll hand it to you,lad. I can see why Georgie broke you in. You’ll bend anyway the wind blows, with the right persuasion.” Ben closed his eyes, trying not to let that defiant anger bubble to the surface. He needed to be complacent. Completely broken.
As luck would have it, a few tears came to his aid, sticking to his lashes in fat wet globs. Rogers let out an exaggerated sigh. “I've no patience for blubbering. Keep it quiet or I’ll take those baby blues from you. A pair like that must woo tavern wenches left and right, though its wasted on you, boy”
A sharp yank on Ben’s ligature sent him hurtling forward, falling face first into the ice. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He spit it out, watching it spray across the ground in front of him. The lip was split.
“Look what you’ve done now, you gangly shit.” He spat, wrenching the lead up, twisting Ben’s wrists up over his head. A strangled cry ripped through his throat, his left arm pulled to the point of breaking. The pain was blinding.
“The faster you're on your feet, the quicker the pullin’ stops. Hurry now, shoulders only go so far.”
The ordeal to regain footing was brutal. The snow beneath Ben had softened from his heat, ever so slightly, so that the toe of his boot would shoot out from under him as he applied pressure. His chin collided with the ground as his legs flew in different directions. Rogers laughed, twisting his arm ever upward.
“You can do it, lad! Get those stumps movin’!” He jeered.
Cold bit into his knees, the numbing sensation spreading to his toes. Panic gripped him. ‘Just get up! Get up!’ But his feet were rendered useless. Only the sounds of staggered breathing and crying escaped him as he flailed pathetically on the forest floor-- his suspended arms turning him into a tangled marionette.
His puppet master had grown tired of his performance. Rogers gripped the ligatures at his wrist, and with one great hand heaved Ben to his feet. The tears on Ben’s face were real this time. They stung his cheeks as the wind blew hard across him.
“It's a sorry fact that someone such as yourself became a major. If it were up to me, I’d shoot you dead upon enlisting. Save us all the trouble.”
Rogers turned, heading off between the long stretching shadows of bare trees. Ben glanced down, the patch of earth beneath him a sprawling mess. Blood, mud, slush, cross hatched with finger rakes and boot trenches. An awful, gut wrenching sight. His bindings began to pull, and Ben was led away from the scene.
He pulled a few more threads, triple stepping them into the snow. The trail moves forward.
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The wine had soured, much to Arnold’s dismay. His lips had barely accepted the red liquid when the sharp scent of vinegar flooded his senses. He spat it into his napkin ruefully.
“Swill!”
A more even man would have set the wine aside, but Arnold was no such man. He hurtled the crystalline glass across the long oak table, splattering crimson and shattered glass over the ivory cloth.
“ABIGAIL!”
The woman crept from around the corner, head bowed solemnly. “Yes, sir. Was it not to your liking?”
Arnold’s initial burst of anger had subsided, the shattering glass quelling some of his frustration. Yet the bitter taste in his mouth remain. It disgusted him.
“When Major Andre resided here, did you put spoiled food on this table?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why do you insist on setting out turned wine?”
He felt slighted, irrefutably so. His status as a turncoat did not escape him. His fellow officers whispered behind their hands. His house and servants belonged to the man whose death ensured his payment. Even seedy characters such as Rogers refused to deal with him without the proper price. This sour wine was a message. A sign of the unwelcome and dissatisfaction towards him. And he would not tolerate it.
“Abigail, I am sorry that Major Andre suffered so. I am sorry if you thought that was the end of your servitude, but the fact remains-- I am an officer in His Majesty’s royal Army. I am to be treated with respect. I should not have to ask this in my own home.”
Abigail nodded, her face blank and controlled. It irked him, not being able to see her thoughts on her face. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. “I apologize, sir. I will double check all of the casks to ensure this won't happen again. There's also a letter for you. I’ll leave it in the study, for you to read at your leisure.”
Arnold rose from the table, nose crinkling at the sight of the mess. “I’ll take it now. And clear this mess.”
“Yes sir.”
The letter had come from the army’s treasurer, to whom he had written about an advance of £600 for a specialty mission. He tore it open, eager for good news.
To a Sir Benedict Arnold,
Arnold sneered at the absence of his rank.
His Majesty’s Royal Army cannot fund your conquest. You have provided little to no information on the task. Your argument that the absence of details is due to the sensitive nature of your mission does not give us adequate reason to support you. Any and all sensitive issues that require funding must be backed by several letters from correspondents with higher standing. We are sorry to inconvenience you---
Arnold crushed the paper in his fists. “Cheap bastards!”
They had squandered precious time, and his limited coin. The £100 deposit he had given Rogers at Demar's was the little he could afford to part with. He had hoped the army would value his input, and let him carry on as he saw fit. After all, that's why he turned. His value was unmatched. By God, he was delivering them George’s precious bed warmer on a silver platter. Take Benjamin Tallmadge to York City, and soon George would be banging at the gates with his breeches undone.
The letter was tossed angrily into the fire. He was seething. The price Rogers had demanded was too steep. He could barely scrimp another £100, let alone 6. There was only one thing left to be done.
“Abigail!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell the men to prepare my horse. I have some business to attend to.”
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Darkness is an awe inspiring thing. It creeps slowly as the day grows long, then swallows the world all at once. Deep in the woods, darkness is the absence of people. The presence of wild things. It's the crunch of your own boots mingled with the rustling of trees, or of some phantom tracing your steps. It's a hand on the grip of your knife, poised in terror. It's knowing no one can hear you scream, except the ones who most want it.
And it's here, in darkness, that a little candle stick lights a small patch of ground. Flickering in and out of existence like hope, illuminating the traces of something trembling in the wind.
Red thread.