-= 113 =-
20 November, 1782
Georgia/East Florida border
Dieter von Zahringen strode quickly across the Indian camp followed by two of his followers. Their numbers had deteriorated after the initial crisis passed from two hundred to just over eighty. Eighty Cherokee against a surprising proportion of Georgia's population.
Chesmu's massacre near Brunswick hadn't discouraged the Georgian patriots (or raiders), but rather served to polarize those who'd so far stayed out of colonial politics. Now von Zahringen could hardly find a man or woman who didn't have strong feelings for or against the British occupation. Finding anyone sympathetic to Indians was rare indeed. Logic and common sense both suggested retreating to Cherokee Country until the matter blew itself over, but these raiders continued to leave evidence that Indians orchestrated their attacks on lone farms and outposts. Clearly they hoped to provoke the British into doing something rash. So far their commander in Savannah had shown remarkable restraint...
But it cannot last, von Zahringen thought grimly. He'd seen enough fighting in the last four years to last the rest of his lifetime, and he didn't look forward to a British invasion of Cherokee territory.
"You!" he called to one of the Indians resting by the fire in their language. "Where is Chesmu?"
This Indian looked up and grimaced. The camp was split roughly 60/40 against von Zahringen. Chesmu's supporters didn't want any kind of peace or reconciliation with the white skinned bastards from across the sea. They certainly saw no reason to take orders from one of them, especially when he couldn't be bothered to learn basic pronunciation.
"I said, where is Chesmu?"
The Indian very deliberately took out a piece of wood and began carving with his long steel knife. Two others by the fire smiled indulgently.
Von Zahringen growled, drew his own knife and pointed. "I was appointed leader of this band by Bear Claw himself. To defy me is to defy the will of your chief and your people. I will ask one more time before you pay the traitor's price. Where. Is. Chesmu?"
One of the others eyed the Badener and his two followers uneasily. "He is with the prisoner."
"Mother of God!" Von Zahringen paced to the tent where they kept the raider they'd taken alive yesterday. He strode past the guard without a word and parted the flap. Chesmu stood over a broken mass, stripped to the waist and with blood on his knuckles. He was a big man, nearly six feet tall with a powerful build and long black hair framing his dark face. He grinned sadistically at his target, a blond haired man pale from lack of care, feebly trying to protect his face. "Leave him be, Chesmu!"
The brave didn't turn. "I am questioning him. Go."
"How do you plan to question him? You do not even speak his language."
This simple logic seemed to stump Chesmu, who after a blank moment kicked the raider solidly in the ribs.
"Chesmu!"
The Indian glared. "You will be too soft on him."
"I will get the information I want. It is not your concern."
Chesmu's eyes bore into von Zahringen. "I will be outside. Waiting."
"Do that," the Badener answered shortly. After the brave pushed past him, he glanced at his followers. "Watch him."
Alone at last with his prisoner, von Zahringen knelt next to him. The beating was serious, almost certainly fatal, but there might be a little time for some mercy and a few answers. He took out his water canteen, holding it to the prisoner's lips who gulped greedily, choked and groaned.
"What's your name?" the German asked softly, switching to English.
"Jacob, y'honor. Please..," he gasped, trying to breathe.
"The Indian won't be back, and you can rest here until you feel better. However, I need some information."
Jacob's eyes lit up at the possibility of rest and release. He nodded fractionally. "Anything."
An hour later Dieter von Zahringen knew that a man dressed in black was behind organizing the Georgia uprising and framing the Cherokee, that he was on the move, and Jacob would die of his injuries.
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3 December, 1782
Charleston, South Carolina
The reason stereotypes work so well, Thomas Heyward reasoned as he stared out the window at the gathering dusk,
is that they're so often true. It didn't matter what century nor economic status, women would take their time getting ready to go anywhere. It seemed as natural a law as gravity.
He glanced at the clock in Whiting's parlor, a ponderous wooden thing fully seven feet high with a brass pendulum slowly, ominously counting out the seconds. Heyward frowned, drew his pocket watch, frowned again. "One of us is slow," he told the clock. He'd check his against the church later and make adjustments.
His reconciliation with Anne had proceeded slowly, sometimes painfully, but steadily. Nothing too forward, not even a chaste kiss, but the town gossips noted they went nearly everywhere together and even developed a particularity for each other's company. For the most part they were happy, though not a few young women were vexed at Mrs. Whiting's fortune. Poor thing, she hadn't aged well. What was she anyway? Thirty-five? Forty? Was that a wisp of grey in her red hair? And no one wore dresses in
that style anymore. Poor General Heyward would die of boredom.
Tom knew the greater part of what they said and didn't care. He enjoyed her company, and she gave him a tenuous connection to the strange people he'd had to interact with every day for the past ten years.
"General Heyward? Do you approve?" Anne descended the stairs, dressed in - for her at least - a low cut pink gown that clung to her sides and hips. She had untied her usual bun, leaving her long hair loose but still neat across her shoulders. She smiled at his surprise and speculative gaze, pleased to decisively shatter any gossip of his imminent demise. Whiting spun slowly as he stared, but her smile faded when he didn't respond. "General?" She flicked her gloves under his chin, barely connecting.
His eyes jerked to hers. "You're beautiful."
Better. "You're too kind by half," she purred, lightly taking his arm..
"Hardly." Perhaps the wait had been worth it after all. "Are you ready for the concert?"
"I am! I could hardly miss a European performance: Frenchmen I believe?"
"Breton," Tom nodded. "I understand if you listen closely you can find traces of Gallic in the way they interpert different music."
"Really? And what does Gallic sound like?"
"I wouldn't know." He'd heard a few Welsh and Scottish songs growing up, but he doubted it was the same thing. At least he hoped not, he'd hate to see French fiddle players making a run on 'Men of Harlech.' "And afterwards I thought we'd look in on the Prestons."
She stiffened. "Why for God's sake? I had understood your kindness for the boy had cooled."
"It has," Tom replied grimly. A few days after reconciling with Anne he'd come to them to try and mediate their ongoing problem, but John had been actively hostile to the idea that anything was amiss in the first place. He'd then gone so far as to raise ugly hints about Heyward's sudden interest in Cassie's welfare, and Tom stormed out before it could escalate into a fight.
"Then why open yourself to that kind of provocation? You know the quote about sleeping dogs?"
"Aye. It's just," Tom frowned, trying to put his thoughts into words. "Have you ever had a feeling or a hunch that you knew to be true, even when there was no possible evidence to support it?"
Anne nodded. "Sometimes."
"I fear something terrible is about to happen."
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Edward Rutledge had no interest in Breton fiddle players. He'd probably look in towards the end, just to see and be seen, but as near as he could tell this was a minor performance by a minor troupe. There were far more useful ways to spend his evening. His wife, Henrietta, had gone of course and that was just as well. He loved her dearly, but sometimes when they were alone she'd start asking about his plans, which he found quite irritating. He didn't fear betrayal, but talking these things out took time and made him impatient. Plus, he had the illusionist's quirk of enjoying surprises.
Rutledge unfolded a letter from John Preston, an offer not very far from a demand to help with any 'strengthening' of the garrisons planned for spring. Edward sighed. He hadn't expected his plans to prepare defenses on the Cherokee border to stay secret, but he disliked having it talked about publically. Especially by someone who couldn't help him. He'd had high hopes for John Preston, but that was before General Heyward finally accepted his role as a valuable chess piece, and before Preston effectively took himself out of the game. No one wanted a mad dog as a pawn who might turn on you at any moment. Strangely, Henrietta had drifted closer to Mrs. Preston in recent weeks, perhaps sympathizing with the rumors of an arranged marriage... Rutledge shrugged, crumpled Preston's letter and drew a piece of paper close.
"My dear Mister Madison," he began, then paused, scratching Lucy's ears. The English Setter panted, enjoying the attention before sprawling insolently on her side and staring up adoringly. Edward smiled and turned back to his letter. For months now Rutledge had worked to seal the rift between Carolina and Virginia politics and had been somewhat successful. His plan to split Virginia into two had never gone public, and anyway could be dismissed as idle speculation. Rutledge's current plan, which the Virginians were at least willing to listen to, was to throw settlers into the Western Territory and so sponsor a completely new state south of the Ohio River dominated by Southern politics and thought. Pennsylvania and the north was blocked from a similar expedition by the Shawnee Indian Reserve which showed even Indians could be useful now and then. "Aveering to your letter of 16 November, allow me to assure you that..."
The front chime rang, but Rutledge ignored it as he wrote steadily of his respect and, dare he say, affection for his Virginian brothers who'd performed so nobly in the last war. He looked up as the door to his study opened.
"Can I help you, sir?" Rutledge asked, rising. Where was his servant? The man in front of him was dressed in a black tunic and breeches, leaning on a cane for support. He carefully removed his hat and bowed.
"Edward Rutledge?"
"I am. Who are you, sir?" Where in hell was that slave?
"Forgive me for startling you," the black appareled man assured him. "The door was open, and I'd like to do business."
His dog leapt on all fours and
growled.
"Lucy! Stop that!" The dog refused, crouching and showing her fangs. The stranger recoiled. Rutledge reached down, grabbing the dog's collar as the setter attempted to charge. The lawyer pushed and pulled her through a side door by brute force, slamming it behind him. He stood, panting for a moment before turning. "Please forgive me, sir. She never acts that way around strangers. I don't know what could have affected her so."
"It is of no consequence," Black replied smoothly. He sat down easily, crossing his legs with his cane across his lap. "I have business with the State of South Carolina, and I understand you are the man to speak to."
"You are...very kind to say so." Something about the stranger's dark, glittering eyes made Rutledge nervous but he'd never backed down from a deal in his life. "Would you like a drink?" He rang his bell.
"No, thank you."
"As I said, you are very kind." To his left he could hear Lucy frantically trying to get in, scratching at the door. "But there are...other men that must be consulted. The governor, the state assembly, even Congress, and..."
"And the man who controls them, controls South Carolina," Black replied. "It is also well known that where you go, North Carolina follows. Your influence on Georgia, Virginia, and Maryland is also well known. You will prove very useful to me."
This was too much. Rutledge didn't know what was happening, but he smelled danger. This stranger was far too direct for his taste, and Lucy acted like she was going mad. "Quite," he rang the bell again for emphasis. "Quite. I was about to attend a concert in town, so if you'd like to make an appointment at my office..."
"You won't be going to tonight's concert, Edward." Black rose and smiled.
"JAMES!" Rutledge fumbled through his drawer for his pistol. "I need you!"
Black's cane lashed out, striking the lawyer's wrist. "You won't need that either, Edward." Then his voice rose. "Jasen! You can come in now!"
The door to Rutledge's study exploded inward, struck by a barely conceivable force. Jasen Exeter stormed in, over seven feet tall and some three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He looked barely human, his eyes bloodshot red. Exeter almost casually dumped James on the ground, his neck lolling at an unnatural angle.
"General?" Rutledge gasped. "What the devil happened to you?"
"The devil had nothing to do with it, Edward, though I don't expect you to understand the distinction. You will, though. You will."
Rutledge screamed.
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The side door opened and Lucy ran in, looking around alertly. The metallic tang of blood was thick in the air. The stranger with the horrible smell was nowhere to be seen, though there was the black skinned man who was always nice to her. Why wasn't he moving? Was the blood smell his?
"Hello, Lucy." She turned at the familiar voice and ran to Rutledge happily. Then she smelled it: the stranger's horrible smell now came from
him. She tried to leap back, but not before her master kicked her fully in the ribs. One splintered and she fell on her side, pain exploding across her side. It was hard to breathe. And what was wrong with him? Why was he angry?
Lucy struggled to rise, but the stranger who looked like her master kicked her again. She begged and pleaded, her whines and howls filling the night but he didn't stop until silence once more reigned in the Rutledge household.
Then he laughed.
