Chapter Text
Rest would not come easy. Backed up against the base of a tree, secured tight by thick ropes, Ben could only shimmy a hair at a time to relieve the jabbing pain from the knots in the tree. Rogers had drifted off, propped up against the log by the campfire. This should be the opportune time to escape--but nothing was that simple.
Rogers was a light sleeper. As soon as the snores would rise from his beast like body, Ben would wriggle and try to loosen his bonds. The first time it happened, the toe of Ben’s boot scuffed the ground a little too roughly, and Rogers was up. The second time, it was a twig snap from some animal lurking just beyond their halo of light. The third and fourth time was the scrap of bark as he tried to find a more comfortable position.
When Ben’s eyelids did start to heavy, it was all he could do to lean forward towards the fire, trying to bask in any warmth that the icy wind hadn't whipped away. His hurt shoulder throbbed mercilessly, but he feared he would freeze if he leaned back into the bark. Finally, the comforting warmth of sleep took him, drifting ever so carefully into a deep, exhaustive slumber.
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The little red thread trembled in the snow, packed deep into a bootprint that pointed deep into the forest. George carefully stepped in, treading over roots and underbrush to follow the steps. The lantern was held close to the snow, with George almost on his knees to see the tracks in the darkness. Afraid to leave his horse reigned, he stepped slowly beside it, the whole ordeal becoming more of a crawl than a walk.
Twilight had dissipated, leaving only the inky black cover of night. It swallowed George whole, and threatened to snuff out the little candle stub quivering inside the lantern. The flame flickered dangerously, illuminating the tiny scraps of red scattered through the snow.’Benjamin had to have gone this way’
He tugged the reins to his mare, urging the horse forward into the darkness, yet it did not wish to hurry its cautious pace.
“Easy, easy…” He whispered, much more for himself than for his horse. Out here he was exposed; moon cast shadows stretched like hoards of men, their spindly fingers grasping at his boots. Wide eyes of hidden creatures caught his light, glinting so quickly that George had to double take to be sure they were not demons. It was all strange and twisted, covered in a thick crusty blanket of white that crunched horribly loud. He began to fear that if Rogers had hunkered down for the night, he would hear him approaching...and react violently.
A loud SNAP broke out in front of him. George’s horse spooked, rearing onto her hind legs in terror. His heart leapt into his throat, eyes frantically searching the darkness for assailants as he assisted his horse.
“EASY!”
The horse bucked, one hoof narrowly missing George’s head. He grasped the reins, trying to tug the horse close enough to soothe her with a gentle hand. She seemed to not want to head any further. George was pulled back several feet as she shuffled backwards, nearly tripping over some iced over rocks. The twig snapped again, and George reached for the knife in his belt. Whatever was out there, it was coming closer.
His horse had stopped retreating, but remained uneasy, bumping her nose into George’s shoulder as if to alert him of her discomfort. George stroked the top of her nose, shushing her, while keeping an eye on the spot the last twig had snapped. The bushes trembled, more noise as footsteps approached.
George opted instead to withdraw his pistol. It sounded like more than one man, two at least. He could fire off a shot, subdue the other while he was still in shock. His fingers trembled as the aimed the gun into the darkness. The full weight of his decisions finally reached his shoulders. This was so foolish. Him coming out here alone. Alexander was right. He could be killed, he could be captured. In his rage he had played right into Arnold’s hands.
He was vulnerable.
There was no knowing who was about to emerge from the underbrush. It could be civilians, red coats, his own men, God it could be Benjamin. The doubts began to race in his mind as the countless scenarios played out.
It's two civilians, one shot is fired and he’s slain an innocent person.
It's two red coats, one shot is fired and he somehow subdues the second man...or is killed or captured in the process.
It's two continental soldiers, one shot is fired and he kills his own man. He's outed, with no way to explain his bizarre behavior.
It's Rogers, doubling back, one shot is fired and he hits the man.
One shot is fired and he hits Benjamin.
His horse whinnying would have given him away. The men encroaching on his territory would be prepared for a rider. Would they expect General Washington? Would they rejoice at the opportunity to take him out?
The noise of footsteps crescendos, leaving George with a knot in his throat. It takes all his might to steady his nerves, steady his hand.
One shot is fired
“Oh!” George cries, catching the hind legs of the assailant fleeing. The white tail turned upward, legs knobby and weak. It turned out of the light and back into the thicke of the forest. A deer. Just a deer. His hand falls slack to his side, aching at the release of tension. His pistol grip might as well be fused to his palm, for the engraved handle imprints deep into his leather glove. His horse sighs, and neighs softly, no longer uneased. His face feels cold; tears. When did he start crying?
George set the lantern down, deciding here was a good a place as any to end the night. He's sleep light, and continue at daybreak.
Maybe, this time, with less of a hair trigger.
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Morning was a kick in the teeth. Ben wished that was figurative.
The boot collided with his face, re-splitting the already swollen lower lip, and filling his mouth with blood. His head spun as he tried to make sense of this sudden assault.
“You think I’m stupid, boy?!” Rogers hissed, hands on his hips like a scorned parent. Ben tried to mask the defiance on his face, replacing it with a shy and complacent expression.
A second kick in the teeth.
“I ain't some barmaid you can bat yer baby blues at, Tallmadge. I know what you've been doin’.” He crouched down, foul breath heaving in great white clouds in front of Ben’s face. Pinched between his fingers, red threads.
“Leavin’ a trail o’ breadcrumbs for yer sweetheart? Plannin’ on tailing it back to Georgie’s bed anytime soon?” He mocked. Ben stared at his feet, at a loss for words due to the overwhelming amount of blood in his mouth.
The ropes securing him to the tree slackened, but his freedom was brief. Rogers lifted him to his feet, wrenching his already badly hurt shoulder with enough force to bring tears.
“Stop!”
It was the first act of defiance he had tried since refusing to strip. It was greeted with a hard shove, sending Ben slamming into the tree trunk. The rough bark bit into the skin of his cheek, leaving its mark as he fell to the ground. The knife was out again, and Ben raised his hands instinctively to defend himself.
“STOP THIS”
He knew his cries went unnoticed as Rogers pinned a knee to his chest. The blade was pressed close, under Ben’s nose.
“You’re going to want to stop the squirming of you want to see York City alive.” He turned towards Ben’s leg, the knife shearing open a patch of fabric at the thigh. Ben struggled against the weight crushing his chest.
“What are you doing to me?!”
Rogers’ tone never changed. It was amused, carefree, enjoying every minute of this nightmare. The tip of the blade pressed against his bare skin, drawing forth a droplet of blood.
“Since you've been so kind as to leave a neat little trail, it's my job to erase it.” He turned to look Ben in the eye, his one good eye locked in an unnerving stare. “I'm bleeding you out, boy.”
Panic overtook him, and Ben thrashed underneath Rogers. The knife was removed from his flesh, and poised once again under his nose.
“You want to bleed out like a stuck pig, keep that shite up. I've seen many a man go under the blade. Skilled doctors with steady hands couldn't save Christ himself if he jerked the right way. Some parts can't be un-knicked.”
Rogers lay out three tin cups beside his thigh. “So if you need to scream, do it. Use those college smarts. Don't. Move.”
He was enjoying this. Ben watched him smile, teeth bared with unadulterated excitement as he took in Ben’s terror. This was payback. This was the transgression he needed to give Ben his comeuppance. Rogers relished the wide eyes, the trembling body beneath his massive knee. If Arnold hadn't paid him, this would be payment enough.
Ben watched in horror as Rogers pressed the knife to his thigh, the first tin cup poised underneath the blade. His heart was pounding. It was excruciatingly slow. Time wasn't real anymore. Ben was stuck in these few moments of gut wrenching anticipation at the hands of this sadist. His hand clutched the root of the tree, fingernails working at the bark to leave something, anything, that would outlive whatever torture he was about to endure. He carved for strength, a sigil beneath his broken nails.
The knife went in.
Ben screamed, louder than he thought was possible.
Then blackness.
When he came to, it was to the sensation of weightlessness. Bobbing up and down as if carried. Cracking open his eyes, Ben confirmed this was true. His hands and feet were secured, thigh throbbing as he bounced up and down over Rogers’ shoulder.
And then he saw it. What those tin cups were for. Their campsite was painted red.
The snow was stained deep crimson in deep gouges. It looked as if a man had been dragged, beaten, and opened up. The shreds of his old uniform fluttered in the wind, stained as badly at the ground. The red scarf he used to signal for help swung from a low tree branch. It was twisted into a crude noose, frayed ends dripping the last of his blood onto the snow below, where the earth had been raised and repacked into a mound.
And now there was only one set of prints leaving camp.