Chapter Text
The tea had gone cold, but Arnold didn't pay it any mind. Sitting hunched over a writing desk in a dusty old inn, he carefully picked his memories of his night with Rogers; their plan had to be dismantled. He could intercept Rogers, and brave the woods. He could wait by the river crossing where Rogers said he knew a few bargemen who took dirty coin. Either way it would entail him confronting the beastly man and explaining his financial situation...in front of Benjamin, no less. He took a swig from his cup, expression souring at the cold bitter taste.
Benjamin Tallmadge.
The name evoked strong emotion for him. It seemed not so long ago that the young man had offered him his own seat beside Washington; standing and bowing as if he were a king. Now there was a man who understood greatness when he saw it. A promising, upstanding individual who Arnold felt embodied the same qualities he prided himself on. Fighting for the cause. The right cause, no matter the price tag slapped upon it. Insubordination, indecency. These were just words to mask the embarrassment of men who could not admit they were wrong . And Benjamin knew that.
Why else would he have visited him in that hospital tent, and withstood the stinking rot of his leg? That doe eyed, prim young man who looked at him with awe and wonder. God, it was splendid. For a time, Arnold was quite taken with the boy. Anybody could see he was handsome, all blue eyes and soft blonde hair, pink pouted lips always pressed together in quiet contemplation. His lashes would flutter as you paid him compliment, and he would shift ever so awkwardly as he confessed his gratitude. He was humble, intelligent, too good for this place.
He should have seen the cracks sooner. That admirably kind spirit was malleable. In the right hands, one could mold him into a weapon. The same temper that flickered Ben’s rebellious nature could be used against anyone, so long as they captured his heart. The boy serves solely on what is righteous and good--fueled by love of his fellow men. Or man. Oh yes, Arnold should have seen that one coming from a mile away. He was not the only one with his eyes on Benjamin.
George Washington , the great fiend. With him it was all stick and no carrot. Years of service dismissed, and insult after insult laid upon Arnold even as he battled to stand. The one time he did speak out to Washington,fueled by anger and horrendous pain, he was coldly shut out by the man. A man he was supposed to protect. A friend he thought would support him in his need, not slap some false title to his name. Despite this, Arnold still felt compelled to prove his worth; and still, Washington took from him. He took Benjamin.
The awe Ben paid him was nothing compared to the respect he paid Washington. The boy practically threw himself at his feet when they were together. It pained him to watch. It disgusted him. Head of Intelligence...the boy was made a spy. Washington had corrupted his honor, and stripped him of being even a soldier.
It was no surprise when Arnold passed Washington’s work tent one night to hear the sounds of passion from behind the flaps. He shouldn't have waited to see who it was. He knew the rumors; that Washington was too preoccupied with the comely young men at camp to sire a son at home. He saw the gentle way he handled some of them, hands pressed flat to the small of their back, and dark hungry eyes. But, oh, how he wished he had turned and gone back to his tent--if only to spare his poor soul from seeing Ben stumble out, panting and mussed, lips swollen from some service Washington had demanded of him. The poor boy.
Arnold tried his hardest to push the memory aside, but it pushed to the forefront of his mind like a battering ram. No sooner had Washington stuck his sticky hands all over Benjamin did he have him doing his bidding. Arnold was shirked as Ben disappeared for three days, despite being summoned. He was being ignored , and now it was being done by men below his station.
Any pity he felt for him melted into hot rage as Benjamin took Washington’s side time and time again. His plight fell on deaf ears. Those wide, trusting eyes no longer gazed at him in wonder, but with disdain. And by the end of it, when he had fled, Ben took the shot. That bullet was their last exchange. Arnold had written countless letters, sailing them through back channels for Benjamin in an attempt to get him to see reason. Washington was toxic . He took the best men and warped them, turned them into husks and discarded them. For Arnold it was too late, but Ben could have a better life.
None of his letters were returned.
He packed his bag quickly, anger fueling him just enough to make it to the tree line of the woods before feeling the throb in his leg. By all accounts he should have taken his horse, but as ungainly as he was, a horse would draw even more attention. He needed to stay out of Rogers’ sight until he had a better grasp on the situation. He needed to shield himself from any men Washington might have sent to retrieve Benjamin.
The trek was merciless. Ice and rocks slowed him considerably. Lack of a more profound sense of direction tripped him up further still. This would work. He was sure of it. This path should intercept Rogers’. If Ben had put up a fight, which he definitely would , then Rogers would have been forced to camp early. Or drag him. Arnold shuddered at the thought. He shouldn't have asked Rogers. The man lived for bloodshed. He was driven to him only because he thought a bargain could be had, swapping personal vendetta for coin.
Midday came, and Arnold was forced to rest in the crook of some scraggly rocks, his leg and aching mess. The lunch he had packed barely stayed down, and his clothes stuck to him uncomfortably from sweating through the pain. He was just in the middle of surveying the terrain from his seat when a noise sounded, only 100 feet or so from him.
Someone was here.
He slumped down, veiling himself with snow covered pine branches. Through the gaps Arnold tracked the source of the sound as it made its way closer. Horse hooves. A ranger? No...too slow… The underbrush shivered, and a man stepped out, face cast to the ground and searching the snow. He led his horse gently by the reigns behind him, crawling at an unbelievably slow pace. Arnold’s breath caught in his chest as the man straightened up, his gait a telltale sign of his true identity.
Washington.
It couldn't be. There was no way in hell that man would leave camp without a guard. It was reckless, it was foolish. It was something he’d been chewed out for before. How hypocritical. He risked the entire war just to putter around in the woods looking for Benjamin. At least when Arnold disobeyed, he knew how to defend himself. Washington was a lost babe out here. Alone and stranded with only a tired old horse. There was nothing keeping Arnold from taking him out right now…
“Benjamin?”
Arnold froze, one hand ghosting over his pistol as Washington called out for Ben. His voice was cracked, frantic. Whatever he was tracking on the ground had spooked him. Without another word, Washington dashed forward into the brush, all but abandoning his horse. Arnold rose quietly, much too intrigued to flee. Was Benjamin here? If so, that meant he could steal him away when Rogers confronted Washington. He tread lightly, following close behind Washington.
A cry rose up from the trees. It’s sheer terror paralyzing Arnold for a brief second before he ducked behind a tree for cover. The cries continued, crescendoing with the sounds of a man struggling.
“Benjamin! No!”
Snow being pummeled and earth being moved.
“Dear God, please…”
Sobbing, gasping, and the sound he recognized as Washington’s heavy fist hitting something.
“God dammit, no!”
The outburst lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity. All too sudden, Washington burst back from the spot hidden in the bushes, blood all over his hands and jacket. He mounted his horse, picking up speed and racing out. Only when the sound of hooves has dulled did Arnold dare to slip out of his hiding place. Curious, he passed over to the spot that had instilled such terror in a man he thought to be made of steel. His eyes widened with terror.
Blood
Deep and red, staining the snow and the trees. Pieces of uniform fluttering in the breeze, and scratch marks on the ground. A mound of earth covered in pink snow had been disturbed, as if a makeshift grave. Washington had ripped it open to investigate; no dead body, but pieces of blue cloth had been stuffed inside.His chest tightened, the sight of it all seeping in. Dread and regret churned in his stomach.
He may have made a huge mistake.