-= 99 =-
9 January, 1782
North of Mobile, British West Florida
It had taken several weeks to procure the parts, then several weeks more to learn the basic gunsmithing needed to put them together. No way could he trust any of these local fools to such advanced work, but it was finally ready. Henry Stewart carefully sighted along the barrel of his rifle and aimed at a branch several hundred feet away. He fired. The lock slammed home and sparked, smelling for a split second of smoke before igniting the powder, which in turn propelled the rounded cylindrical bullet violently. The branch shattered and Stewart smiled.
Rifles were nothing new, of course, dating to the early fifteenth century, but custom bullets and a second spiral groove in the barrel improved his accuracy, while being able to load bullet and powder from breeches near the front of the stock tripled his speed. That bastard Heyward kept a constant picket to protect his cowardly hide. Even that wouldn't save him now, not when Stewart had a true sniper's rifle available.
"And Papa said that year in the factories was a waste," Stewart chuckled, scratching his tangled beard. He pulled back the lock and stared down the barrel to make sure it was clear. Satisfied he put the gun down and stared around the campsite that had been home for the last few weeks. It smelled of human and animal defecations along with the rotting body of a bird, an early 'test' of his rifle, that Stewart didn't see fit to remove. His 'forge' was completely unworthy of the title, consisting of a large rock and some stolen tools, but it answered.
He was reflecting on the sheer pleasure of watching Heyward's head explode like a ripe grapefruit, and the probability he could finally go home, when Stewart heard a limb snap somewhere to his right. The Brit glared around wildly and slowly retrieved his rifle. Bullet. Powder. Lock both chambers.
"Good afternoon. Herr Stewart, I presume?"
He whirled, gun raised at the stranger.
Dieter von Zahringen sighed loudly and raised his hands. "That is unwise, my friend."
"Who the $&#@ are you?" Stewart screamed. An American! He didn't look like an American. He sure as hell didn't talk like one. In fact, he sounded sorta German. "Did
he send you!?"
"Who would that be?" von Zahringen circled slowly, hands still raised.
"Don't be coy with me! I know Black sent you! Tell him I'm almost done, damn it! Tell him I'll take care of Heyward today!" Stewart retreated from the Badener's advance, rifle still pointed at his chest.
"And Herr Black wants General Heyward dead? Why?"
"You know why!"
"I do not."
"Because..." Something clicked inside Stewart's mind. "You're not with Black!"
"I am not." von Zahringen shrugged apologetically. "Now, please put the gun down."
Stewart screamed again and raised the weapon. The German pointed over his shoulder. Whirling, he saw three Indians stalking towards him.
"Alive!" von Zahringen called in pitiful Cherokee. One of the natives grinned, white teeth brilliant on his bronze face. Stewart fired, but it was a panicked hopeless shot before they were on him. Something hard struck Stewart's skull and he slumped.
"Bind him, then guard him."
I think General Heyward wants to talk with you, my friend.
-----------------------
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The first thing Edward Rutledge realized, having walked into Independence Hall, was that Congress' former servant, Thomson, now sat in the president's chair. "So much for gentlemen only," he murmured to his brother.
John Rutledge was several years older, a lawyer like his brother. He didn't understand his brother's comment and instead said, "It's been chaos since the New Jersey delegate arrived."
"Oh? Where is old Witherspoon?"
"Dead. Bandits on the road. We almost lost New Hampshire also."
Edward's eyes fell on a woman taking a seat towards the back of the chamber, well dressed, thin and straight backed with blond hair. He grinned. "At least the help is prettier than last time! Stearns finally took my advice and put a waitress inside, eh?"
"Actually she's the..."
"I'll take a beer," he told her. She glared at him.
"Rutledge!" With the war dying down, John Adams of Massachusetts had also returned to Congress. He stepped across the room and shook the Carolinan's hand firmly. "You're still alive!" He didn't sound entirely pleased.
"As are you." Edward Rutledge
knew he wasn't happy.
"Yes. Business going well in Charleston?"
"Quite. How is Boston?"
"Booming! The jewel of America gets brighter!"
Rutledge smiled coldly. "Yes, Charleston is."
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope I'm not interrupting?" Neither Adams nor Rutledge turned to the newcomer. Their handshake intensified and both started to turn red. "Gentlemen?"
Adams flickered an annoyed glance then relaxed, but not before his eyes widened as the Carolinan's fist closed like a vice around his hand. "Rutledge, may I present Jonathan Andrews of New Hampshire? Mister Andrews, Edward Rutledge."
"I'm very pleased to meet you," Andrews' handshake was far more friendly.
"I understand you are a very lucky man, sir."
Andrews lowered his gaze. "Yes. Alas for poor Witherspoon. I tried to help him, but..."
"Don't worry about it," Adams answered gruffly. "You did the best you could."
The two Rutledges approached the South Carolina table. Nearby Lyman Hall of Georgia stood and strode over. He hadn't aged well, Edward saw. Hall had never been a thin man, and years as an effective exile had stolen his strength. "Sir, I am deeply in your debt for coming. You do not know what this means!"
"Eh?"
"That's why I sent for you, Ned. There's some danger of...."
"Will Congress please come to order?" Arthur Thomson stood. "Please?" He had never been elected and simply filled the void left by the last president's death, so had no real authority. Sometimes this caused problems. "Gentlemen!" He beat his desk industriously with his gavel. "Now that we are all gathered, it is time to discuss the English proposal for peace."
What!? "Mister....Mister Thomson," Edward stood. "This is the first I'm hearing about an offer. Could someone present a summary?"
"Of course." He indicated a boy of maybe fifteen who sat on the edge of his seat, as if ready to sprint across the city on a second's notice. "Please show Mister Rutledge the map we've prepared. Miss? Would you go over the finer points of the treaty for those who haven't heard it before?"
"It would be my pleasure." The blond haired woman rose and smiled coldly in Rutledge's direction. As she talked of the necessity for brotherhood and an honorable peace, he unrolled the boy's map and paled.
British proposal:
------------------------------------
North of Mobile, British West Florida
Stewart awoke to a scene from hell. It was after dark. The campsite,
his campsite was on fire and orange tinted smoke sliced through the sky blotting out the stars. The damn Indians had tied him to a tree, no doubt in preparation for whatever pagan sacrifice they practiced. No sign of his gun. He had a knife in his boot, but no way to get to it.
Somewhere he heard a scream, then the butcher's thunk of steel on meat. Oddly the screaming didn't stop, but rose to an agonized shriek as he smelled burning flesh. It cut off suddenly, then for several moments nothing but the angry crackle of burning trees, flaming spires in the night.
Stewart struggled to no avail. Now that his senses were returning he could see Indian bodies, most with their heads twisted until their necks splintered under the strain. All wore shocked, pained expressions. From ahead a dark shape was approaching, a HUGE dark shape.
"Do not move." Black's voice, very close to the assassin's ear. A quick slice and his ropes came free.
"Oh Thank God, Thank God!" Stewart could have wept. He surged to his feet, but his legs wouldn't bear his weight and he sagged.
"Yes. Thank God." 'Mister' Black answered neutrally. He leaned on his ebony cane for support and turned to his hulking companion. "Anyone else left?"
It growled inhumanly and Stewart instinctively backed against the tree. Black seemed to understand however, for he nodded. "Good. Now. Seize him."
Faster than the Englishman would have thought possible, the hulking shape rushed forward. He lifted Stewart
by his throat against the tree. Stewart gagged, kicked at the wood. He clawed at the shape's hand, but couldn't gouge his skin.
"No, Jasen." Black watched the confrontation emotionlessly. "Don't kill him."
"General Exeter?" Stewart gasped once he was down. "My God man, what did he
do to you?" The former general had never been a small man. Now he was positively HUGE, an eighteen stone (300 lb, 136 kg) brick wall with sunken eyes that flickered in the firelight.
"Nothing he didn't want." Black's tone never changed. "You failed me, Henry."
"I did not! I mean...give me one more chance!..."
"It is too late for chances, Henry."
"I know who was sent back to stop me! I can kill him tomorrow! With your help I can kill him now!"
"It is too late, Henry. You have failed. This country has survived. Jasen?"
Exeter lifted the assassin like he was a puppet, propelling him against the tree with lethal force. Stewart groaned and sagged. A sharp stabbing pain told him the back of one of his ribs had buckled. "Please," he begged.
"Don't cry, Henry. You will be with your family very soon."
Forbidden hope flared in Stewart's eyes. "You're sending me home?"
"No...but you will be with them very soon." At his uncomprehending stare Black chuckled. "They're dead, Henry. Your wife in particular took some time, though not as long as it'll take you I think. I've decided to use you to send a message to these Americans for me. Jasen? As we discussed earlier."
Exeter growled something that must have been obeisance, for Black nodded. "Good bye, Henry." He lifted his chin and watched as Exeter grabbed him.
"No, please! What are you doing!? Let me g...Oh my God, Oh my...!" Several thumps, then steel on steel and a horrible, inhuman shriek followed by another, then another.
"If I can not destroy this country," Black told them pleasantly, "then I will crush its soul."
