Chapter 37: Fall of the Innocent
28th June, 1777
White Plains, New York
"Colonel Heyward, thank you for coming. I heard you had a kindness for the boy, so do I. I hoped you would be able to talk to him, but things are far worse now than ever I wrote for you."
"Sergeant...Waymouth, right?"
"Cornet now sir, if you please." Waymouth frowned at the man's puzzled look, but straightened and turned to von Zahringen. "Thank you."
"Not at all. After your kindness last year I am in your debt." The Badenite bowed. "And truly, being a liaison officer is rather dull. Ride around, take notes, offer suggestions if I see something completely out of line. It felt good to actually have a mission again. I should not say this, but Baron von Steuben positively threw a loaf of bread at my head for commenting that he may want to..."
"Maybe you should start at the beginning, Cor... sir," interrupted Heyward, who knew the European could go on for hours given half a chance.
"Of course. Well, he was changed when he arrived here - wilder, less happy, somewhat aggressive. However it didn't reach a fever pitch until May...."
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10th May, 1777
"Sergeant Preston!?"
"Sir!" John stood with his back to the fort wall, cornered by five of his own squad. He unclenched his fists and straightened, while his oppressors turned sulkily.
"What is happening this time!?"
"He cut our beer ration in half, your honor!" protested a private.
"And he drunk as a lord hisself!" added another.
"You cannot beat your officers, gentlemen," Waymouth answered firmly. "It is a hangable offense."
Either they didn't hear him, or felt there were enough ameliorating circumstances for the first private continued. "Then when the boys and I ask him to reconsider, he makes reference to my mum!"
"That's not true!" protested Preston, very hot now and indeed swaying from a few drinks.
"Yessir! You called me a son of a bitch which only reasons that you think my mum was a...."
"Thank you, Private." The cornet stepped into the fray. "Whatever's happened up to now is forgotten, and that's my word on it. I'll also look into this question about your rations."
"Thank ye, your honor!" The private glared one more time, nodded to his boys and left.
"Forgotten my ass," Preston grumbled.
"Son, we really need to talk....."
"What are you blaming me for?" He balled his fists again.
"I've always found that when men are one step from mutiny, it's their leader who's ______ up," Waymouth retorted coldly. "No, I don't want any of your mouth. If I decide I care about your opinion, I'll tell you what it is."
"Look here, old man..."
The first fist drove Preston to his knees, the second lay him on his side. He grunted and curled up to protect his vitals.
"That's Cornet old man, Sir," Waymouth folded his arms. "Taunting your men when they cannot honorably knock you down for it is not a sign of courage, son."
"So you think I'm a coward! I know you do, ever since Fort Carleton."
"No, I think you're burning to put your prick in this girl, and..."
That's about when Preston roared and tackled him. The ensuing battle lasted all of five seconds.
"Now son, as I was saying..."
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"I'm very sorry to hear this," Heyward answered, shocked. "I'll talk to him at once."
"I'm afraid it gets worse, sir."
"Worse!?"
"Yes, sir. The medical tent is this way." Waymouth led the way across a muddy field. Tom glanced to Dieter von Zahringen, who abruptly lowered his gaze. What do they know that I don't...?
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14th May, 1777
"Sergeant Preston!"
"Cornet, sir!" John stopped where he was in mid-camp and straightened. This was unfair! For the past three days Waymouth had ridden him hard, questioning every single order, even every single trip to the bushes even. The lieutenant had made Preston his personal pet project, much to the amusement of Preston's squad. What little authority he possessed evaporated whenever the man was within thirty yards. How could he get the man off his back?
This time however, his former sergeant wasn't alone. Waymouth and the regiment's surgeon walked across the fields toward him. The cornet looked troubled today, uncertain, unhappy. "Walk with us, son."
"Sir." The three paced away from the camp.
"Sergeant....John...."
"What did I do this time?"
"Eh? Nothing." Waymouth turned fully to face him. "John, our scouts near Lake Champlain found Miss Rafferty. There's no doubt, they found papers in her name."
"What?" All doubt vanished, John's face rose like a newborn son. "That...that's wonderful!"
"Son..."
"I'll leave imme.... I mean, may I have a horse? I'll just bring her to White Plains or New York, out of the way." Preston laughed and shook Waymouth's hand.
"John...."
"No, stay. You wouldn't know unless the scouts came back, right? I'll buy them a drink. I'll buy them a mountain of drinks! Where is she, back at camp?"
"She's dead, son."
"I hope they treated her well. I'm sure she's a bit scared with everything that's happening, and some of our scouts," he laughed, "they're scary buggers."
"PRESTON! She's dead. They found her body."
"She's...??"
"We don't know who did it. The area up there is a warzone, British and American partisans. Almost every village north of Albany's been hit at least once - if not directly, then intercepted supplies, travelers on the road. Upstate New York's turned bitter, John, and....Miss Rafferty was caught in the middle."
"No...." John closed his eyes.
"I asked the scouts to wait in case you wanted to talk to them..."
"No...."
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"Other than being a little crestfallen he didn't really react," Waymouth told them as they stopped outside the tent. " I was thinking he took it quite well, all things considered. The surgeon was very concerned. I wish I'd listened. No, just a moment, sir. Let me make sure he can receive you."
"Wait, why wouldn't he be able to? Hey!" The cornet disappeared into the medical tent as von Zahringen coughed.
"So what happened next?" Tom turned on the Badenite and folded his arms.
"It's really not my place to comment."
"You're not commenting, you're giving me the facts. Now, talk."
"Very well. I didn't know the backstory you just heard, but I happened to arrive three days later..."
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17th May, 1777
"I happen to think a sweep against an enemy's flank is a splendid idea," Captain Wallace retorted firmly, his cup of tea poised about half way between saucer and lips.
"I believe it has potential, sir." Dieter von Zahringen coughed politely. "Do not misunderstand me, I believe it has great...potential. My concern is the quality of your men. General Pulaski's proposal calls for precision - almost to the second - timing. If your troops were veterans of a European war, where they could have learned under a greater general, or shall I say more experienced, instead of colonial militia then perhaps..."
"My Americans fight well enough, I thank you." Wallace replied coldly, "and let us not forget Europe hasn't served as a great teacher of warfare for every nation."
The German's eyes narrowed. "And that means?"
"That means that .... what is that noise?"
"Captain!" His clerk ran in. "Oh, beg pardon sir, I wasn't aware you were still speaking with Mister..."
"Well, it's too late now. What the devil is the hullaboo?" Wallace was in a foul humor and stood, reaching for his jacket despite the day's heat.
"It's a... Well, it's a sergeant, sir. He seems to have run mad!"
von Zahringen ran out with the others. John stood in the middle of the courtyard, outside the captain's tent, pointing a pistol at the surrounding crowd. "I'll kill them all!" he screamed at no one in particular.
"What in hell is going on here!" retorted Wallace, stepping into the circle.
"I'll kill them!" Preston repeated, pointing his pistol.
"Where is the surgeon? Where is his cornet!?"
"On his way, sir. And...I believe that's Waymouth over there." He pointed at a man in his forties slowly advancing.
John followed the clerk's movement and turned on his cornet. "Get back! I mean it!"
"Son...."
"Don't son me, I'm not your son! Do you hear me!? I'm not your....!!!!" His words were cut off as the crowd surged in from behind. John whirled, fired...nothing happened, the pistol wasn't loaded. And then he was down in a flurry of blows.
"He has run mad!" Wallace surged into the melee, dispersing it. "Someone tie him! Yes, manacles are better. There's a hospital in New York, we'll ship him with the next..."
"If you please, Captain." Waymouth stood, gasping. "He was merely drunk."
"Drunk! The man raves in my camp, points a pistol at his superiors, and...."
"The pistol wasn't loaded, sir, and I don't think there was intent to do more than make a scene. Drunk and perhaps a touch of stress, sir. I can see to him."
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"And so I thought," Waymouth added, rejoining them. "I was trying to save the boy's career. Once you're labeled insane, there you are...and that's if you ever get out of the asylum, which I doubt. I've heard stories about those places." He shuddered, suddenly not looking like a battle-hardened veteran but a scared child. "Evil..." He blinked rapidly. "He was in the stockade though, that wasn't avoidable. I figured it was just the news about this girl that shook him up."
"I'll talk to him," Heyward repeated, stepping towards the tent.
"Not....quite yet, Colonel. The surgeon is giving him a dose of laudanum now. Helps with the pain as well as the nerves you know."
"Laudanum?" The name sounded familiar from his own injuries. A powerful pain-killer, not unlike morphine in his own era.
"Yes sir, the alcoholic tincture of opium. A wonder drug, the surgeons say."
"OPIUM? You're feeding him opium!?"
von Zahringen touched his arm. "You've used it yourself, sir. Do you not remember? It's quite common. If anything it's rather generous of the surgeon, I doubt he has much in stock."
"Opium's addictive!"
"It can be overused, my friend, but I assure you in limited doses it's quite safe." The Badenite paused. "While we wait, we might as well finish. I left the next day, deciding your intervention may be prove useful."
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22nd May, 1777
"Son, you need to forget about her." Waymouth carefully moved a draught. He was an indifferent player, but that of course had nothing to do with it.
"I can't," John answered. He looked around the cramped room they kept him imprisoned in. Most of the people there had been drunk or mouthed off to their sergeants, they were long gone to be replaced by others, and others. Why wouldn't they let him go? He was fine....really. "Every time I close my eyes I see her face, and I think of what we had....what we could have had...."
"Don't!"
"What!?"
"Could've's but can'ts Preston, they're death to a man's soul! You can't think about it!" Another draught. Yes, this game would be over soon. He frowned at the board.
"I can't help it!"
"Of course you can. Son, you need to buck up. We're all very sorry she's gone but you need to get on with it now. "
"You don't understand." John sighed and captured the piece.
"Yeah? You keep saying that. I'm twice your age son, I probably understand better than you."
Preston looked up sharply, but bit off his retort and sighed again. "No," he answered in a dead voice.
"I lost a..." Cornet Waymouth stopped and immediately clamped over the wound. "I understand," he amended sharply. "And I know if a man dwells on it, he dies. You might as well have turned that pistol on yourself and saved everyone the trouble."
"I might."
"Yeah, and be damned to hell for eternity. Don't be foolish. You only have one move, son. No, don't look at the board look at me. You need to hitch your breeches, stand up and keep going. That's the only way to keep going, to make it have meant something."
"I want them dead," John answered softly.
"Who? We don't even know who killed her."
"All of them."
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"Typical, I thought." Waymouth sighed. "You know when a man's been beat his first instinct is to lash out."
Tom lowered his gaze, thought of Jessie. Nodded.
"I actually figured it was a good sign, I mean he had to let it out sometime right?"
Why was the man looking for affirmation? Why did he look so anxious, even guilty? Heyward studied him attentively. "I suppose .... I mean, yes, that's true."
"Well, he escaped. Convinced the guard he was sick. God that is overused, but it keeps working." The cornet snorted. "Guard went for the surgeon and forgot to relock his door. John went over the wall, stole a horse and went north."
"North? Oh, to find the killers?"
"I'd like to say so." Waymouth broke off. "Well, I figured where he was going, so a couple of men and I brought him back. Captain Wallace wasn't quite interested in the soft touch, though I convinced him to spare the boy's life."
Heyward nodded gravely, the penalty for desertion was quite clear. Finally he walked in to the tent. It was empty, except for the surgeon who nodded gravely at the trio, and his single patient. It was cramped in here, and within the flap the place smelt of blood, fear and despair. Preston lay on his stomach, his back looked like he'd been in a particularly vicious sword fight. What wasn't covered with red slashes was swelling or blistering. Heyward turned aside, suddenly happy he hadn't eaten as his stomach heaved silently beneath the broadcloth. "How many?" he whispered.
"One hundred," Waymouth answered gravely. "And lucky it wasn't more, frankly."
The surgeon stepped forward and shook his hand. "It is good to see you, Colonel, though I think all will be well once he's recovered. His humors were troubled of course, but a severe thrashing often restores a man's faculties from depression. Doctor Edward Whiting at Bethelem Asylum in London, you may know it as Bedlam, says...."
"Leave us," he ordered thickly.
"Sir, I..."
"Go! All of you!" This surgeon flushed dark red, but obeyed. Tom pulled up a stool and touched the back of John's neck gently. It was soaked with sweat. "I never should have sent you here," he whispered.
Preston opened his eyes, though they remained unfocused from the drug. "They sent for you," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"She's dead,"
"I know.....the cor...coronet told me."
"I have to kill them. I have to avenge her...."
"You have to..." Heyward stopped, bit off the retort. Leaned closer. "We'll serve them out together, if you like. Later, when you've rested." This was a lie, there simply was no way to trace the killers. The best they could hope for was General Kosciusko getting lucky in the next war and happening to get the right men while rampaging through New York.
It seemed to answer though, as some more of the anxiety faded. "Very well."
"You should come with me," Tom told him. "We're short some horsemen. New officers, fresh start...."
"No!" John gasped as he shifted, and a jet of pain shot through the laudanum. "They'll think I ran away."
"No, I'll tell them you need to go home. Rest, recover. They'll believe me."
"I have to prove I can do this," Preston answered softly. "I can't let them break me."
Tom sighed. "We'll see."
