A vague notion that something wasn't right registers on Ben's subconscious, drawing him from sleep. Blue eyes blink open to a world of darkness. He blinks again, brows furrowing. Propping on elbows he looks about, his sleep-laden mind working in overdrive to piece together a fuzzy set of clues. It is night. He is in his tent. He is alone. His head is pounding, what was it the doctor had called it? A tumor, that's right. Tired hands rub sleep from his eyes. What time is it anyway? Reaching for his pocket watch, a single thought freezes him in place.
Caleb.
His body springs into motion. Blankets are thrown back, trousers yanked on, a shirt tucked into place. Pulling his vest over aching shoulders it feels as if eternity is passing as he wrestles with each stubborn button. His eyes come to rest on his cravat; he abandons it, grabbing ahold of his uniform coat instead. Shrugging an arm into each of the sleeves, he winces, battered body protesting against its new confinement. Last come his boots, looking around he spies them in the far corner of the tent. Hastily bending down his hands wrap around the leather as tiny black dots explode in his vision. He stumbles back; sitting the instant the back of his legs strike the mattress.
Fighting against a wave of nausea he waits for the moment to pass, knee bouncing, fists clenched. His vision fades in, fades back out, and fades in again before clearing. With trembling hands he pulls on leather riding boots and stands. Careful not to turn too fast he secures his belt around his waist, feeling a sense of comfort as pistol and sword fall into place. Grabbing his gold helmet from the desk he tucks it beneath his arm, heaves canvas flaps back. A quick visual sweep of camp and he dashes off in the direction of his childhood friend's tent.
…
A fire crackles in the hearth, dancing for two old friends. Behind them a blackened sky rumbles with threats of rain. The pair doesn't notice, lost in their discussion of the latest predicament between Bradford and Tallmadge.
"He's young," Nathaniel Sackett says, shrugging.
"Too young, I fear sometimes," Washington replies.
Peering over wire frames, the aide-de-camp grins. "Oh come now, you weren't much older when you started a war."
Washington's mind travels back to a bitter cold March, feeling the familiar prick of adrenaline even now as he recalls the bullets that had whistled past, shattering the ominous silence of an American wilderness night. The events would go on to ignite a war that would stretch on for seven years, spreading like wildfire from the banks America to the shores of Europe, Africa, and India. The year was 1754 and he had just turned twenty-two.
"Admit it George, the boy reminds you of you," Nathaniel's voice breaks his thoughts, drawing him back to present day.
"Perhaps," he says, gray eyes wistful.
Nathaniel hides a knowing smirk behind a well-placed coffee cup. "So, what are your intentions for Bradford?"
Eyes fixed on the flames, he sighs. "My intentions are to to do nothing."
Sackett's eyes widened. "Nothing?" the single word comes out in a hiss.
Washington turns. His friend studying him, intelligent eyes blazing.
"If I punish Bradford it will seem as though I am siding with Tallmadge, who was acting-"
"In your defense!" Sackett cries out, slamming down the coffee cup.
"Precisely."
Sackett's lips set into a thin line of disapproval.
"If I punish Bradford than I must punish Tallmadge too."
"No-"
"If I do not it will seem as though I only punish those who speak out against me and I fear the consequences that will have in regards to receiving complete and honest input from my staff."
"That man very nearly killed your head of intelligence!"
"I'm aware, Mr. Sackett," he advises, gritting his teeth.
"Yet you'll do nothing."
Washington sits back in his chair, jaw clenching as he stares into the fire. Nathaniel does the same.
Silence fills the room; tension electrifying the air between them.
"I will not compromise the integrity of my staff by dictating over a matter of opinion, no matter how right or how wrong that opinion may be." Washington says finally, voice small. "Don't you see? If I do, I am no better than a king."
Nathaniel sits very still, taking in Washington's words. He knows his friend is right. It appears his soft spot for the major has gotten the best of him, and he hopes the general won't hold it against him. Thinking back on the trembling body covered in scrapes and bruises, the ashen face that winced in pain with every poke and prod of the doctor, he didn't see how he could. Bradford and his posse of imbeciles had taken things far beyond a typical scrap. His greatest fear was that the treacherous man wasn't yet finished.
…
Caleb sits beneath his makeshift shelter shivering uncontrollably. The once distant storm now sits directly over top, bringing with it a severe drop in temperature. Thick clouds blot out the moon; the darkness so thick he can't very well see two inches past his bloody nose. Knowing it was only a matter of time until the rain came pouring down left him longing for a warm fire- or fiery woman. In spite of present circumstances his face breaks into a wide grin as thoughts of Caitlin fill his mind. Leaning back, he surrenders to his fate.
…
Caleb's tent is black; Ben pulls back its flaps anyway. The interior matches its outward appearance, offering no signs of return. He frowns. Collapsing on to a makeshift cot, he replays his friend's parting words. Caleb promised he would be back with news for him to deliver to Washington in the morning. Pinching his brow, his eyes squeeze shut; did that mean this days' morning or the next? Before he could reach a valid conclusion tent flaps rip open causing him to jump.
"It's about time. Where have you be-" his face visibly falls. "Kitchi?"
Without a word the native man lunges, wrapping both hands tightly around his wrist he begins pulling him to his feet.
Ben's body recoils at the sudden jarring. "Stop!" he hisses, panting against the pain.
Kitchi releases his grip and stands, shifting his weight from side to side.
Ben pulls himself to his feet, tugging vest and coat into place. "Kitchi, what's wrong?"
Brown eyes stare back at him, a silent plea.
"Caleb?"
Kitchi nods fervently.
Ben's brows draw together. "Where is he?"
Backing towards the entrance Kitchi turns, gesturing for Ben to follow.
…
"He's gone sir."
Washington flicks his eyes from the thick stack of papers he's holding to the face his servant. "Gone?"
Billy nods solemnly. "His uniform is missing, pistol and sword too."
Washington blinks, long legs unfolding beneath a borrowed writing desk, chair scrapping across wooden floorboards as he rises. Crossing the room in one fell swoop he removes his cape from its rack, exiting the room. Stepping into the night steel gray eyes survey the camp. Fires absent of men smolder outside darkened tents. Overhead a crack of lightning illuminates the night sky. Clenching his fists he descends upon the stairs crossing into a sea of tents. His black cape follows, twisting in the wind. Reaching Nathaniel Sackett's cart he brushes past shelves riddled with papers and books before bounding up set of rickety wooden steps and tosses canvas curtains back.
"Oh!" Sackett gasps, rising to his feet.
"Have you seen Major Tallmadge?"
Scrambling to right a toppled over bottle of ink, Sackett frowns. "Last I knew he was in his tent."
"He seems to have left."
Rolling his eyes, Sackett blots at an ocean of ink spilling across his page. "That man's stubborn streak is at least mile wide." Holding the paper to the light, his eyes squint, inspecting the damage. "Have you checked Lieutenant Brewster's tent?"
"And the livery. Both Brewster and Tallmadge's horses are missing."
"Oh dear," Sacket exclaims, tossing the ruined document aside. The candle flickers, casting severe shadows across the tent. He watches an array of emotions play out on Washington's face and sits back down, preparing for a long night.
***Thank you everyone reading/following my little fiction and for your ongoing patience. I fear this story may be coming to a close, and really want to do it justice! I also apologize for the strange ending; it seems my German shepherd wished to add his own input and I failed to catch it before I published. Again thank-you, for the comments, the reads, and continued encouragement (Thira13) it means so very much to me!***