Cherokee Country
August 1784
Black walked through the crowd of soldiers knotted around the makeshift podium on a wood stage. Some asked questions, others offered nervous smiles. Their commander seemed different somehow: Confident. Determined. Very, very angry.
The little attache pushed his way through. "Right this way, sir!" He pointed at the podium. "Does it meet with your approval?"
"No," Black growled. "I see the American banner. Where is Carolina's?"
"The black cross and eagle, sir?"
"Just so. Bring one immediately."
"Which we can't, sir," quavered the child.
Black slapped the boy down. The knot of soldiers around them disintegrated, deciding as one to be elsewhere. "Bring one,
NOW!"
"I said I can't," he cried, shielding his face and head.
"Explain!"
"General Heyward ordered them destroyed, sir! Don't you remember? Said we was an American army and should use that flag. We don't have no more!"
Black straightened. "Just so." He stepped past the weeping child. "Let's begin." He mounted the podium and waited as commanders wrestled their troops into something resembling order. Someone picked up his attache, who stared wide eyed with a red imprint on his face. Nervous talk, nervous faces.
"Gentlemen."
Chatter and speculation continued. A few men shared a joke, one nudging another.
"MEN!"
Conversation died away. Black glared at his charges.
"
Governor Moultrie has ordered us home!"
Cheers, a yowl of pure joy rushing from the back ranks to the podium and back again. Several thrust rifles into the air as a sign of triumph. One actually fired.
"Yes, yes!" Black said. "Very good. We can go home. But have you considered what this means? I will tell you. It means...
we've lost!"
Cheers and smiles gave way to puzzled frowns.
"Yes! Lost! Look around you: Does this look like the last Indian stronghold? No! We had this war as good as won, and this
governor, this man who hadn't fought in years says what? 'So sorry, we'll just leave?' Even now the Cherokee sit, gloating at the piece of paper that God damned fool signed!"
His voice rose to a thunder. "What it means, men, is that the last two years away from home. All that suffering, all those hot, blood and sweat soaked days meant nothing. Worrying about your family. Worrying that some God damned savage will shoot you from a tree. Every honor and pride you can take from this campaign: All of it is nothing! He would have us forget the whole thing. We're an embarassment to Moultrie, just like we were an embarassment to that God damned traitor Heyward!"
Frowns turned to angry muttering. Black waited several seconds, waiting for their indignation to grow.
"Or does any man here really believe a Carolinan cannot take an Indian in a fair fight, any time, anywhere?"
They growled. One colonel stepped forward: "Let's attack now, before they find out!"
"NO!" Black bellowed, breaking through their anger. "No. If we attack, having received orders to the contrary, Moultrie will brand us renegades and what reply can we make? None! No, we must obey Charleston even if it
is run by a fool!"
Then he leaned forward, as if conveying a great secret. "Or is he a fool?" he asked. "Let me tell you what poor Mister Rutledge said before he died..."
-----------
New York
Congressman Phillip Waymouth stepped into the carriage, glowered at his cohabitants, sat back and folded his arms.
Andre's brow lifted as he moved aside. "What news?"
"Jay is not here. He is already on the road to Philadelphia." Waymouth rested his elbow on the sill and glared. "New York would have been damn useful." He shook his head. "Driver! Let's go!"
Heyward lifted his head. "We are waiting for Captain Harding."
"Eh? Where'd the boy run off to?"
"He said the Army was holding something for him since the Vermont campaign," Andre replied. "Wouldn't say what - damn mysterious, but he seemed happy."
"Maybe he found himself a girl," Waymouth smirked. "I'd begun to wonder 'bout him."
"Wonder what?" Heyward asked.
"Why, whether or not he's...you know. Singular."
Heyward looked puzzled. Andre chuckled.
Before they could widen his understanding of the world, they heard a deep, loud neigh. Tom glanced out the window and whistled.
Wesley rode up, riding a huge pale horse. It skipped heavily when he pulled on the reins and snapped at the carriage.
"What in hell is that thing, Harding?" Waymouth called.
"It's...or rather it was General Stark's horse! The Army said in justice I could have him! Ain't he prime? The general called him 'Death!'"
"I can see why." Andre shrank back as Death saw fit to test the carriage for edibility. "Is he safe?"
"'Ey now!" the coachman cried. "Careful there!" He slapped the horse's nose with his crop.
Death glared and bared his teeth.
"He's," Harding jerked on the reins. The horse's neck tendons bulged as it pondered the coachman. He jerked harder. "He's fine! Oh, and I have a gift for you!" He looked down at his saddlebag. "Just reach in there will you?"
Tom lunged over, reached in and felt something soft and warm. "What is...?" He seized and lifted.
The orange tabby regarded him contemptously.
"What is this?" Waymouth demanded.
"She was starving, had no one to care for her so I brought her along!"
Heyward continued to regard the cat, holding her by her scruff, turning this way and that. The cat had enough of this and began to claw the air. She didn't
look like she was starving. "You're a regular Doctor Doolittle," he muttered.
"Aye, sir!" Harding preened, then paused. "Was he Army, sir?"
"You should send it back," Tom said, offering the cat. Something about her felt...wrong. "Her people must be missing her."
"She hasn't got anyone," Harding repeated firmly.
Tom thought he heard a woman's voice, a gentle whisper:
If you don't let go of m... her scruff right now, she is likely to claw your face off. He dropped the cat as if shocked. She landed on her feet (naturally) and curled up on the floor as if the humans didn't exist.
"Good! That's settled!" Harding grined and nudged Death. "Onward!"