-= 90 =-
20 May, 1781
Greenville, East Florida
He shook his cup at the passing traders, listening to the hollow rattle and clink of three pennies within; his 'investment.' In the fourteen months since fleeing to the Florida swamps he'd learned that people who otherwise might be willing to help hated to be the first to give, so he always kept what was left of yesterday's take in his cup to encourage more donations. Theoretically he could still work, but with everyone who could afford to run long gone..no jobs to be had. Anyway, no one wanted to deal with a mute ... and if they ever figured out who he really was, they'd hang him.
Which, Jasen Exeter reflected bitterly, would at least end this nonsense.
Still, he wasn't quite ready to die yet so the former general, now hunted by two countries (or three if you counted the Cherokee,) begged for a penny here or there. Sometimes he could get a shilling from someone, or hire himself out as a cheap thug for this or that smuggler. Exeter learned that when you don't have a roof and there's a big question mark in front of your next meal, you have to do anything to survive. Anything.
"Rrrrrrrrrr?" He stabbed his cup like a weapon at a trader with little more money than he who shook his head and kept walking. They all did that now. The American war and pirates off the coast destroyed any trade southeast Florida might have held. Some even followed the rumors of a 'colonial' cavalry force charging south eagerly. At least then they could either try to go home or set up a shop in an American city: Savannah or Charleston perhaps.
Exeter could not forgive them their desperate straits though, not when it could mean a day without eating. He couldn't forgive the Americans who bested him, or the English who forgot about his leadership the minute he was checked. He had little memory of his family, and that overlaid with bitterness at having them stolen. He hated life, but couldn't bear to leave it, which in the end meant he hated himself too.
Damn them all.
A few blocks away the church bell - a shrine really - began ringing. Slowly the Union Jack slipped from its pole, to be replaced by a tattered, beaten and not entirely accurate version of the Stars and Stripes.
The colonials are coming, whispered the handful of traders and laborers.
Jasen Exeter didn't know whether to be pleased or scared.
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Preston's Ride:
Whoever put trading posts this far south in the middle of a bleeding swamp had a sick sense of humor, of this John Preston was sure. The temperature was in the nineties (mid thirties Celsius) EVERY day with the ever present stink of salt and decaying wood in the air. Of the four hundred men he rode south with a month ago, over thirty had taken ill after passing the aptly named Mosquito Island. Then there was the tainted river...half a regiment immobilized by the runs.
Hopefully Major Engels was having better luck with his 'special' orders from John to find this Stewart fellow and stick his head on a pike.
Preston paused outside of the next post on his list: Greenville. Like the others they'd raised the American flag ahead of his arrival. They were afraid of what he'd do, and though he wouldn't admit it the sense of power pleased him. True to his instructions (if not his will), he didn't abuse or kill anyone nor let any of his men do so. Those who wanted to go north could do so. Those who wanted to stay... well, that was their problem.
No force on Earth, no matter how idealistic, could make his men pay for what they wanted though. John didn't care: Tom may have forgotten who the true enemy was, but he hadn't!
"All hail the liberators," Preston muttered as they rode into what passed for the post square - one church, one administrator's building by the single rotting dock, and a small handful of homes and farms scratching out meagre livings. Total population, perhaps twenty.
"Alright Captain," he panted in the unbearable heat. "You know the drill. Round everyone up." Far easier to explain the American position once then five or ten times. "Send some men to look for traitors." Their collaquialism for
'gather everything of value so we can split it fairly.'Then he wanted to find a place to rest. Preston's stomach still hadn't recovered, and the bouts of pain followed by relief left him exhausted.
Five minutes later Captain Hutchins ran back. "Colonel, you're not going to believe this!"
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Preston followed him across the town, a walk that took all of two minutes and stared at the dirty, unshaven, sunburnt figure in torn clothing held limply between two soldiers. "What's this?"
"Don't you recognize him, sir?"
John leaned forward, until he could smell the man's rancid breath. His eyes widened. "Exeter?"
"Yes, sir!" Hutchins grinned. "A rare prize!"
"Indeed." Preston leaned forward. "Do you remember me, General? I remember you." He pointed at his scarred and pockmarked face, the result of cannister shot at point blank range. "I remember you quite well."
Exeter looked in the colonel's eye sullenly. He didn't remember Preston: He'd killed so many Americans...
Hutchins' grin broadened. "Bind him men, we'll take him with us."
"...No," John answered finally, drawing back. "No. Don't."
"Sir?"
"If we take him back there are rules we have to abide by. We have to feed him, treat him well and bring him back for trial. He'd probably lose that trial, but a good lawyer can still make a right mess." Not to mention a 'fair' trial could embarass quite a few people in South Carolina, like Edward Rutledge.
Exeter growled incoherently at his analysis.
"On the other hand, if we leave you here," he turned, "a beggar in a ruined trading outpost." John smiled coldly. "Scraping and bowing for a copper until the end of your miserable life? Yes, I think that redresses the men you butchered much better than a trial. Don't you?"
Jasen surged forward, breaking the soldiers' grip. Preston replied with a roundhouse that sent the sick and weakened general sprawling. He followed up by kicking the man's ribs.
"That's for my first command," he whispered softly.
Hutchins held up three pennies. "We found this on him, Colonel."
"Keep it. Call it partial compensation." He nodded to his men. "Leave him. After all, General Heyward wanted us to be merciful." He smiled cynically, then shook his head. "No...wait! There's a brook a quarter mile here. Throw him in." Preston leaned forward to stare in the gasping general's hate filled eyes. "He could use a bath."
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After crawling out of the brook Exeter spent the entire night staring into it. No money, no prospect of more, no real chance of food. Only God knew what might be edible in this swamp, and God abandoned him long ago. His life was over.
Once under the half moon he tried to drown himself, but couldn't override his instinct and surfaced gasping. Yet again a failure.
Dawn came, and still the former general, the terror of the Southern campaign sat wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. He heard a soft step behind him, but didn't turn.
If you've come to finish it, I would be grateful, he thought.
"No, General. It is not time to die. Not yet."
Exeter whirled and stared at a man dressed in black from neck to foot, yet strangely not sweating. He leaned on a cane for support and studied him intently. How did a stranger find him?
"I have come to make you an offer, General. My current servant has failed me, and I require your services. In exchange I will give you what you want more than anything."
"Rrrrrrrrrrrr?" Exeter laughed cynically, ending in a coughing gasp..
"No, General. I cannot restore your voice. I said I would give you what you want more than anything." The figure in black smiled coldly as realization dawned on Jasen's face..
"Yes. I will give you revenge."
