Chapter Text
The bobbing was making him nauseous. Every step felt like a stone thrown into his gut, sloshing and churning until the bile rose and scorched his throat. Could he feel most of his body, Ben would be extremely uncomfortable, but the lack of blood just made everything cold. He felt like a corpse; a deer poached and slung across Rogers’ shoulders, off to be skinned or stuffed. What a nice prize that would be for Arnold.
The memory of their campsite was still vivid in his mind. The blood, so stark and visceral against the pale snow. The way it smelled. The sickly unease of knowing George would find it. Find the little faux grave stuffed with scraps of God only knows what. His boots would be soaked through with blood and slush, leaving pink track marks across the forest floor. He'd be panicked, alone...if he even bothered to come at all.
Maybe he was still in camp, and some foot soldier was trekking through the muck. The thought brought some warmth to him. As much as Ben longed to see George clear the underbrush, arms ready to scoop him up and hold him tight, he wished he wouldn't. It was dangerous and foolish. A whole war lost, lives sacrificed, because George foolishly went after Ben. It was just the type of humiliating end to the war Arnold wanted. What all those awful, menacing letters had been hinting at.
Ben was jostled from his thoughts as Rogers stumbled over a tree root. Is body pitched, taking Ben with him, but they did not topple. With a great groan Rogers bent his knees and hoisted the bulk of Ben’s shifting body back into his shoulder. Their procession began once more, a little more cautious than before. Rogers was getting tired. For the past hour Ben could hear the rise of his breath as it came forth in more hacking, shuddered draws. Though he had passed out a few times on his shoulder, Ben could tell they were moving slower too. Just yesterday it could take them a mere two hours to shift their landscape, leaving landmarks in their wake. Today, the large mountain skirting the left horizon hasn't moved at all, and by the sun in the sky they've been moving for four hours.
They pitched again, this time too hard to recover. Ben hit the ground first, his body thrown off Rogers’ shoulders so quickly he had to second guess whether the man flung him intentionally. There was a thud as the man’s knees collided with the forest floor, the snow sinking around him. “Oh that's enough o’ that fer now, pup.” He panted, hands reaching for a flask in his pocket. “One hundred pounds soaking wet and ya carry like a fat stag. I ought to hack off yer legs to make it easier.”
He took a long swig from his flask, amber liquid dribbling into his beard and down his shirt. Ben felt his stomach lurch again, the smell of whiskey and body odor overwhelming. He could see darkness creeping at the corners of his vision, threatening to black out his world once more, but he resisted. Nails digging into his palms, Ben chased the feeling from him. He needed to stay awake. They were stopped, and now they were most vulnerable.
Limbs still heavy and numb, Ben figured he had at least one good dash of energy left in him. He had to use it wisely. If he could not overpower Rogers, he needed to put distance between them, and that took more energy than he could spare right now. Just breathing was hard against the cold winter wind. Ben took in a few lungfuls as he was propped up against the base of a tree.
“Don't know why yer so out of breath. I didn't see you trudging up them hills. Then again, last time you did you left some unsavory souvenirs.” Rogers said as he spit onto a cloth, wiping some dried blood from his knife. Ben grimaced,blood and tattered cloth still an image seated behind his eyes. “If ye had just cooperated we could have had a good breakfast. Some rabbit or what have you. But No...no you wanted to get rough. And now I have to carry yer sorry arse.”
Ben lowered his gaze to the ground, trying his hardest to quell the desire to jump up and throttle the man. His wrists gave the bonds an experimental tug, flexing hard against the rough weave of the rope. It was a pitiful display. Rogers scoffed, searching through his pack. “You won't be going anywhere in your state, lad. Don't break those delicate wings of yours just yet. Arnold needs something to amuse himself, eh?”
And then the jeering stopped. Rogers’ head tilted upward, still as a deer, listening intently. Ben closed his eyes, tilting his own head to try and pinpoint what Rogers had found. It was far, and soft, but it's rhythmic thumping was telltale. Horse hooves. A rider was coming.
Rogers lunged forward, grabbing Ben by his collar. “Don't you say a goddamn word, boy.” He growled. He took his blade, cutting free the bindings on his ankles before pressing the blade to his neck. “You're going to kick those legs up and walk . And then you're gonna stay put.” He said, dragging Ben around the surrounding trees. Rogers surveyed them, taking Ben around each one as he stumbled and tripped over the roots. Finally they reached one Rogers approved of. It was a large gnarled tree, with long winding branches. Ben watched as Rogers parted the underbrush with one meaty hand. There, behind the bristly needles of the shrubs, was a hole. A hollowed out tree trunk, with an entrance no higher than a man’s thigh. To a person on foot, it was hardly noticeable until you stood before the tree. To a rider it would be invisible.
“Get in.” Rogers said. Ben began to sink to his knees when he felt a strip of cloth slip ‘round his face, gagging his mouth. “No ideas, boy. You sit here until I deal with our guest.” The hole was a tight squeeze, the bark jagged and splintered. It tore at his jacket, and dug into his sides as he shimmied in. It smelled musty, like wood chips and frost, mixed with the soil he had upturned in his efforts. With a few twists and turns he was able to sit cross legged inside the tree, facing Rogers just beyond the curtain of pine needles. “Try not to wet yerself if things get a little dicey. I won't be carrying no piss bag.”
Ben's heart thudded in his chest as Rogers disappeared into the snowy beyond. This was it, the moment alone he needed to make an escape. But the conditions weren't right. A strange new rider approached, meaning there were now two souls he needed to flee from. If it was a red coat, he'd never outrun the horse. If it was a continental, Rogers would shoot them both before he mounted. Ben didn't want to waste time dreading over the possibility of it being a civilian.
The space was tight, and Ben found himself readjusting every minute or so. Shifting his weight to the left, a sharp pain pierced his leg, biting into him. He let out a small cry into the gag, but fumbled to investigate the cause of the pain. Whatever it was, it was smooth, and sharp. It felt like stone under his numb fingers, but it came to a perfect point. A few more minutes of awkward shimmying and Ben managed to pick it up between his palms. An arrowhead. Without hesitation, he raised his palms to his lips, taking the arrowhead between his teeth. He rubbed the ropes against the stone, feeling it fray against his wrists. He wouldn't remove them entirely, just weaken them to their last thread. Then, when Rogers least expects it, he will break the bonds and run for his life. There was nothing that could hinder this plan. Nothing except…
The hooves of the rider stopped just outside his hiding spot. He was pinned to his spot. No matter how carefully he could crawl, the horse would spook. The rider would notice and take aim. Rogers would see the commotion and take action. If he wasn't shot, he’d be trampled. Ben held his breath, arrowhead still poised in his teeth as it cut into the rope.
“Robert Rogers, how did I know it would be you.”
No,it couldn't be.
“Where is he, Rogers?”
It's not him.
“Ol Georgie himself, my my I must say I’m impressed.” Ben put his face in his hands, dropping the weapon from his teeth. The fool came! He was right outside his hole, not five feet away and Ben couldn't do a thing. His heart pounded in his ears as George’s horse edged forward.
“Where is he , Rogers?” George repeated, with a biting edge that made the hair on Ben’s neck stand up. There was silence, some shuffling where Ben could only assume Rogers was ignoring George. The feet in the stirrups shifted impatiently.
“I don't know in the slightest.” Rogers said, exasperated.
“You don’t know? You leave a god awful mess, a false grave, and my soldier’s colors in the wind. But you don't know where he is?” Ben felt tears well in his eyes. I’m right here, I’m right here.
Rogers clicked his tongue, tutting George like a mother reprimanding a child. “Now, now, we both know he's not just a soldier. No General would ride out like you did for some Major who got himself snatched. We both know what purpose he serves you. Wake up a little lonely, did we?” Ben heard the sound of a pistol flint clicking.
“I will not humor this. Where is Benjamin.”
“ Major Tallmadge has run off. But I see you two were on a cozy first name basis. Tell me, did he call you George, or do you like it when they call you General--”
“Do you really expect me to believe that a man who has lost that much blood could outrun you? In this weather and terrain without decent supplies?” George clipped, his voice wavering. Rogers let out a great huff, clearing his throat.
“And would you believe that a drowned rat from Long Island, who's been shot up God knows how many times, somehow managed to get it past me? You're no prize watchdog yerself, George. Remind me who died the last time you were supposed to watch--”
“I SAID ENOUGH”
George’s voice echoed back in the tense silence that followed. Ben found himself curling up. He had never heard him yell that loudly before. Never at him or his soldiers. This was deep. A well of untapped rage George had so carefully filled in. Rogers was the first to break the silence.
“You're not going to shoot me, George. So let's put the pistol down, aye?”
“And what makes you think I won't shoot? You came into my tent , you killed a guard and abducted my Head of Intelligence.”
“Aye, all of those are true. But you forget, we’re far from Continental territory. This here is under His Majesty’s jurisdiction. You fire that pistol, people come running. And we’re not far, neither. Why just across that river there is a town that I know keeps men on both banks. Risk it if you must, but can you imagine? General George Washington, Commander of the Continental Army captured in some little river town, alone. They’ll be dragging you behind a horse all the way to York City.”
Ben watched as the horse backed up. “I'm sure I cannot trust you to tell me which way he went. You don't get paid without him. So do I assume the hunt is on?”
Rogers grunted. “I suppose. But my orders were dead or alive. So if I were you, I’d get a move on. I’ll be giving him another bleeding. From the neck this time.”
There was no more conversation. The horse moved, George taking it in a wide circle around the tree, never fully turning his back on Rogers. Ben felt his heart sink as the sound of hooves grew further and further away. The feeling that he should have said something, done something, nagged at him as Rogers approached the tree trunk.
Two meaty hands reached in and grabbed him by his legs, dragging him out of the tree. The bark scraped his hands and face, sending snow and dead leaves cascading down into his hair. “Let's go, boy.” Ben was tugged to his feet, his mind spinning as his eyes adjusted to the daylight. His gaze fixed on the bobbing figure of George on his horse, back turned and almost over a rise, where he would disappear. Likely forever. Ben felt Rogers’ hands tank at his coat, but his feet remained anchored to the ground. The horse was almost gone, and he refused to move just yet. Rogers pulled again, this time coming close to Ben’s elbow. This was it. This was it.
Ben drove his elbow into the soft center of Rogers’ stomach, feeling the air rush out of him as he sunk deeper. In an instant, he flexed his wrists, wedging his arms apart with his torso--one yank and the ropes were snapped. As Rogers staggered, head between his knees, Ben pulled the gag free from his mouth and took as big a breath as he could manage.
“GEORGE"
The horse stopped, turning back to glance down the rise and Ben held up his arms as high as he could. Let him see me, please God let him see me!
“BENJAMIN!”
Something collided with Ben’s side, striking him across the ribs and taking him to the ground. Ben heard the thunder of hooves as he writhed on the forest floor.
“You little cu--” Rogers swore, cut off as Ben hurled a rock at his face. It struck him above his ruined eye, a red stain blossoming across his brow. Yet it was still hard to get to his feet, his gashed thigh still sore and weak. Rogers looked over him once more, knife in hand. He slashed once, catching Ben’s upturned palms. The blade sliced through almost painlessly, only the sting of cold steel registering. Ben watched as the knife was raised again, wet with blood as it caught the light.
And then the knife fell, knocked from Rogers’ grasp as George’s horse swiftly cut behind him. George’s foot left the stirrup to drive its boot into the side of Rogers’ head, sending the man toppling to the ground. The horse sped on a few yards before turning, and Ben struggled to find his balance. Every nerve was on fire, his head pounding and vision blurring. He could hear George call for him, though it muffled and distorted. He saw Rogers laying face down in the snow, blood still sleeping from his head. The world spun and Ben could have sworn there were more people here. Eyes in the trees. Arnold. Only for a brief second before George scooped him up in his arms and hoisted him onto horseback. The look on his face was ghastly. Ben figured he probably looked much worse.
“Arnold…” Ben murmured, leaning back onto George’s chest as the horse started off. George wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close.
“I know. I know Arnold was behind this.”
Ben’s head lolled back, darkness creeping up on him again. He was slipping back into that dreadful suspension. “Arnold, I….”
“It's ok, Benjamin. I have you. I have you.”
I thought I saw Arnold.