Chapter 13: And Then there was Silence
26th October, 1775
Near Onondaga Lake, Quebec province
(Canadian occupied New York)
John Preston ran as he never had before, vaulting a fallen tree trunk and skittering down a hill, his only company the rattling and crinkling of crushed autumn leaves, his breath coming in deep gasps, the pounding of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears. They were chasing him. They had to be, with sharp bayonets ready to spear him in the back and end it. He'd seen Red go down. Wesley was no fighter: He must have fallen earlier. It was a rout, no - it was a massacre. Everyone was dead. They had to be. Which meant the redcoats had nothing better to than finish it.
After an interminable period John realized he hadn't been stabbed yet and couldn't hear any pursuit. Quickly he glanced behind him. No one anywhere near him. I escaped? Yes, I escaped! I...!
Blinding pain lanced through his skull as he tripped on a root and careened into a tree. Preston felt a distant pang of regret, then fell into a dreamless silence.
It was after midnight when he awoke and for a moment John wondered if he'd gone blind or was dreaming. The air was cool on his cheeks, and questing fingers found the rough bark of his assailant. Somewhere an animal cried out and there, through the canopy he could see one or two stars.
Preston carefully touched the bump on his head. Sticky. He frowned and took off his knapspack, blindly questing for flint and steel and lighting his candle. He squinted against the sudden light. No bandages, but John figured if he was thinking clearly it couldn't be too bad. He dripped some water onto a leaf, and used that to gently clean the cut. He had no appetite, which was just as well since pretty much any treatment of his hard bread, salt tack or dried beans required more of the precious water.
All this, as well as taking inventory took some time, which was good as it kept his mind off more pressing matters. He still had his cartridge pouch - next to useless without a musket. A spare knife, food and water of course, some clothes, a blanket, flint, tinder and a candle. Not much. Enough to get back.
Get back….to where? John knew the penalty for abandoning a fight as well as the next man - hung from the nearest tree with the Rogue's March playing. Of course, they'd only know that if someone else survived the battle; little chance of that. The Black Baron really wasn't that bright, he was prone to make assumptions if they fit in with his worldview on social order. That could work against him too, though. If the Baron decided that a 'commoner' would run, then…
He could keep running, make his way back to South Carolina. John had the money there, had friends … but again no. They'd find him, and the only difference would be he'd hang from a gallows instead of a tree.
Somewhere else then. There were whole stretches of New Hampshire unsettled, or even slip back into Canada. Yes, that was a fine idea. He'd need food and water, but he knew how to hunt …. assuming he could get another musket. It was entirely possible to just vanish, wait a few years until everyone had forgotten all about him, and then…maybe.
What to do? Well, there was another option. Preston could see if they were alive. That would mean crossing the British again, but if he knew they were dead … or better brought back proof, then that might stay von Steuben's hand. What if they were alive, though? That was obvious. He couldn't return to the Army in case they escaped or were exchanged. The British though…he didn't want to fight them again. Didn't ever want to see a red uniform again. Wait, they probably hadn't seen his face … all they knew was he wore grey. John pulled out his spare clothes and stared at them closely. No one said he had to actually fight them this time….just get close, have a look around. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Christ, he thought. What am I thinking? I can't go there! Nor could he go to Canada… New Hampshire, though. Massachusetts? They had whalers and other ships there, right? There maybe?
He dumped out the contents of his knapsack to repack it, and heard a faint click. In the dim candlelight he saw his own dice land on the grass. Snake eyes.
I have no choice….
------------------------------------------------------------
Sergeant Waymouth landed unceremoniously on the chair, glaring at the fort commander with his head cocked to regard him with his one good eye - the other had swollen shut. He couldn't feel his face, every nerve was focused on his flayed back where they'd beaten him. He hadn't talked though, and did little more now than grimace at his captor.
Captain Reginald McArthur didn't look up. He was in his thirties, with auburn hair combed straight back almost like a mane. McArthur might have been handsome once, but an ugly scar - a gift from the Battle of White Plains - marred his face. It didn't do much for his opinion of Americans either, nor their place in the natural order. He glanced through a provisions list on his desk idily, not reading the words, simply savoring the discomfort and hate radiating from his guest.
Finally McArthur looked up, taking his letter opener - made to resemble a stylized sword - and idily cleaned his nails. "Your name?" he asked mildly. Getting no response, he shrugged. "It makes no difference. What does matter is your allegiance. You're an American soldier."
Waymouth glared, then shook his head vehemently.
"Are you certain?" the captain asked politely. He nodded to the sergeant's guard and jerked his head over his shoulder. "Show him the courtyard."
The soldier clamped his beefy fist around the sergeant's shoulder, making him writhe silently. He lifted the prisoner effortlessly and propelled him to the window. Down below, in the dirt-covered and barren courtyard, stood a newly built gallows, and with his neck in the noose was…
"Let him go!" Waymouth roared, struggling against the guard.
McArthur sighed and stood, moving to stare out the window himself and eyeing the bound prisoner. "If you aren't Americans, sir, then you must be English rebels risen up against your lawful liege. Always better to nip these little troubles in the bud, hm? Of course, if you were Americans then you'd be prisoners of war - an entirely different stripe. Then you'd be covered by the articles of war and we could be far more civil. Alas for such technicalities."
"Damn you."
"Perhaps, but not today, my friend." He nodded to the executioner.
"WAIT!"
The captain raised his hand to the men below and turned. "Was there something you wanted to add?"
Sergeant Waymouth stared at the young man below, read the fear there, and lowered his eyes. "We're Americans," he said softly.
"Army?"
"Yes."
"Just so." McArthur nodded again and closed his fast. The executioner pulled his lever.
"What are you….? BASTARD!" Waymouth lunged, charged the captain. Then strong arms were on him, grappling him, bearing him to the ground, digging into his back until he screamed then knelt there, sobbing. "We're Americans, damn you!"
"Yes." McArthur sniffed and straightened the rumples in his jacket. "However, we've never received a declaration of war. That makes you renegades." This seemed to please him, as he emphasized the point. "Renegades of a renegade people. How droll. Now, sir, if you cooperate I might be convinced the political embarassment of your confession outweighs my desire for…justice. Consider on it."
26th October, 1775
Near Onondaga Lake, Quebec province
(Canadian occupied New York)
John Preston ran as he never had before, vaulting a fallen tree trunk and skittering down a hill, his only company the rattling and crinkling of crushed autumn leaves, his breath coming in deep gasps, the pounding of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears. They were chasing him. They had to be, with sharp bayonets ready to spear him in the back and end it. He'd seen Red go down. Wesley was no fighter: He must have fallen earlier. It was a rout, no - it was a massacre. Everyone was dead. They had to be. Which meant the redcoats had nothing better to than finish it.
After an interminable period John realized he hadn't been stabbed yet and couldn't hear any pursuit. Quickly he glanced behind him. No one anywhere near him. I escaped? Yes, I escaped! I...!
Blinding pain lanced through his skull as he tripped on a root and careened into a tree. Preston felt a distant pang of regret, then fell into a dreamless silence.
It was after midnight when he awoke and for a moment John wondered if he'd gone blind or was dreaming. The air was cool on his cheeks, and questing fingers found the rough bark of his assailant. Somewhere an animal cried out and there, through the canopy he could see one or two stars.
Preston carefully touched the bump on his head. Sticky. He frowned and took off his knapspack, blindly questing for flint and steel and lighting his candle. He squinted against the sudden light. No bandages, but John figured if he was thinking clearly it couldn't be too bad. He dripped some water onto a leaf, and used that to gently clean the cut. He had no appetite, which was just as well since pretty much any treatment of his hard bread, salt tack or dried beans required more of the precious water.
All this, as well as taking inventory took some time, which was good as it kept his mind off more pressing matters. He still had his cartridge pouch - next to useless without a musket. A spare knife, food and water of course, some clothes, a blanket, flint, tinder and a candle. Not much. Enough to get back.
Get back….to where? John knew the penalty for abandoning a fight as well as the next man - hung from the nearest tree with the Rogue's March playing. Of course, they'd only know that if someone else survived the battle; little chance of that. The Black Baron really wasn't that bright, he was prone to make assumptions if they fit in with his worldview on social order. That could work against him too, though. If the Baron decided that a 'commoner' would run, then…
He could keep running, make his way back to South Carolina. John had the money there, had friends … but again no. They'd find him, and the only difference would be he'd hang from a gallows instead of a tree.
Somewhere else then. There were whole stretches of New Hampshire unsettled, or even slip back into Canada. Yes, that was a fine idea. He'd need food and water, but he knew how to hunt …. assuming he could get another musket. It was entirely possible to just vanish, wait a few years until everyone had forgotten all about him, and then…maybe.
What to do? Well, there was another option. Preston could see if they were alive. That would mean crossing the British again, but if he knew they were dead … or better brought back proof, then that might stay von Steuben's hand. What if they were alive, though? That was obvious. He couldn't return to the Army in case they escaped or were exchanged. The British though…he didn't want to fight them again. Didn't ever want to see a red uniform again. Wait, they probably hadn't seen his face … all they knew was he wore grey. John pulled out his spare clothes and stared at them closely. No one said he had to actually fight them this time….just get close, have a look around. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Christ, he thought. What am I thinking? I can't go there! Nor could he go to Canada… New Hampshire, though. Massachusetts? They had whalers and other ships there, right? There maybe?
He dumped out the contents of his knapsack to repack it, and heard a faint click. In the dim candlelight he saw his own dice land on the grass. Snake eyes.
I have no choice….
------------------------------------------------------------
Sergeant Waymouth landed unceremoniously on the chair, glaring at the fort commander with his head cocked to regard him with his one good eye - the other had swollen shut. He couldn't feel his face, every nerve was focused on his flayed back where they'd beaten him. He hadn't talked though, and did little more now than grimace at his captor.
Captain Reginald McArthur didn't look up. He was in his thirties, with auburn hair combed straight back almost like a mane. McArthur might have been handsome once, but an ugly scar - a gift from the Battle of White Plains - marred his face. It didn't do much for his opinion of Americans either, nor their place in the natural order. He glanced through a provisions list on his desk idily, not reading the words, simply savoring the discomfort and hate radiating from his guest.
Finally McArthur looked up, taking his letter opener - made to resemble a stylized sword - and idily cleaned his nails. "Your name?" he asked mildly. Getting no response, he shrugged. "It makes no difference. What does matter is your allegiance. You're an American soldier."
Waymouth glared, then shook his head vehemently.
"Are you certain?" the captain asked politely. He nodded to the sergeant's guard and jerked his head over his shoulder. "Show him the courtyard."
The soldier clamped his beefy fist around the sergeant's shoulder, making him writhe silently. He lifted the prisoner effortlessly and propelled him to the window. Down below, in the dirt-covered and barren courtyard, stood a newly built gallows, and with his neck in the noose was…
"Let him go!" Waymouth roared, struggling against the guard.
McArthur sighed and stood, moving to stare out the window himself and eyeing the bound prisoner. "If you aren't Americans, sir, then you must be English rebels risen up against your lawful liege. Always better to nip these little troubles in the bud, hm? Of course, if you were Americans then you'd be prisoners of war - an entirely different stripe. Then you'd be covered by the articles of war and we could be far more civil. Alas for such technicalities."
"Damn you."
"Perhaps, but not today, my friend." He nodded to the executioner.
"WAIT!"
The captain raised his hand to the men below and turned. "Was there something you wanted to add?"
Sergeant Waymouth stared at the young man below, read the fear there, and lowered his eyes. "We're Americans," he said softly.
"Army?"
"Yes."
"Just so." McArthur nodded again and closed his fast. The executioner pulled his lever.
"What are you….? BASTARD!" Waymouth lunged, charged the captain. Then strong arms were on him, grappling him, bearing him to the ground, digging into his back until he screamed then knelt there, sobbing. "We're Americans, damn you!"
"Yes." McArthur sniffed and straightened the rumples in his jacket. "However, we've never received a declaration of war. That makes you renegades." This seemed to please him, as he emphasized the point. "Renegades of a renegade people. How droll. Now, sir, if you cooperate I might be convinced the political embarassment of your confession outweighs my desire for…justice. Consider on it."
