Kitchi squats low to the ground for what feels like the ten thousandth time. A patch of moss seems to have caught the man's attention. Caleb peers at the fuzzy little plot of green. His toe bounces a mile a minute. It looks like an ordinary piece of moss to him. Finally, the Native stands.
"Well?" Caleb asks.
Kitchi shrugs, holding up his hands.
"So, what? The whole track is ass backwards?"
Kitchi nods.
Caleb shakes his head. "Well that's just great."
It doesn't make a lick of sense. Life Guard Hickey swore Ben entered the wood line to the west of the Ford Mansion, so they'd started the track there. Kitchi found evidence of a trail but instead of heading west, it'd looped around the mansion and ended here, in the wood line to the east of the mansion. More confounding still, Kitchi insists they've been tracking backwards this whole time. Caleb frowns. Why would Hickey tell them the opposite?
He scans the area. The forest offers nothing. Any secrets her foliage might possess have been tucked away in the folds of the dense fog. "Bloody fog," Caleb mutters, turning back to Kitchi. A cool breeze nips at the nape of his neck and he flips his collar up against the chill. The wind shifts and a fraction of the fog moves east, revealing the silhouette of a small structure several yards ahead. Caleb squints at the building. It's small, but large enough to harbor a person or two.
He clasps Kitchi on the shoulder and gestures towards it. Kitchi nods and together they creep towards the tiny structure. With his pistol drawn, Caleb does his best to keep his footsteps light. Seconds later they're standing before a dilapidated woodshed and a spark of hope rises in Caleb's chest.
Perhaps the track wasn't a dead end after all.
Caleb presses against the wall of the shed left of the door. He thrusts his head towards the rear of the shed and Kitchi circles around back. A moment later he joins Caleb at the front, positioning to the right of the entrance with his knife drawn. Caleb holds up three fingers, then two, then one. Kitchi nods and together they burst into the shed.
Except for a few spiders and a lone chipmunk, the structure is empty. Caleb holsters his weapon and exhales sharply. "Damnit!" He kicks a rusty tint bucket. It bounces off the nearest wall before falling to the ground with a resounding clamor. Caleb kicks it again and again until it no longer holds its round shape. Chest heaving and fists clenched, Caleb gives the deformed bucket one final kick. It soars through the entrance with grace and speed before landing in a clump of ferns.
Kitchi brushes past him, exiting the shed. Hands resting on his hips, his dark eyes scan every rock, tree, and crevice, as if Caleb's little outburst never happened. Caleb turns away, wishing he could be that calm. You carry the Brewster temper boy; his father would say but Caleb knows better. The fire burning inside of him is not his ancestors. It is his own, fueled by the constant fear of becoming a lesser man, too weak and frail to defend the ones he loves.
Caleb shakes his head. The whole situation is a bit ironic. Here he was stronger than ever and still unable to protect his very best friend. The wind whistles through the trees and carries his thoughts drift back in time to a stormy night and a one room schoolhouse in Wethersfield, Connecticut, where Ben once taught.
A fire burns bright in the hearth but it doesn't compare to the one burning in Ben. Caleb tilts his chair back on two legs, listening to the floorboards creak and groan as Ben paces across them for the umpteenth time. He's on a rampage about freedom and liberty.
"This is my chance," Ben says, "to make history instead of teaching it." Caleb wishes he'd lower his voice. Talk like that is dangerous these days. "I swear, if I sit on this fence line any longer, I will be impaled by it," Ben continues.
Caleb smirks, that was a tad dramatic. He shoots Ben his best charismatic smile, hoping it will ease his friends' hostilities so they can grab the ale they've been discussing, maybe even get a bit friendly with the locals. He's never been with a Connecticut girl before and can envision her now; porcelain skin, a robust-
"I saw it for myself, Caleb. The bloodshed on Bunker Hill. American blood on American soil. It was…awful." The last word slips out no louder than a whisper and hangs in the air between them.
Caleb takes a hard look at his oldest friend. Ben's eyes shimmer with a certain resolve Caleb's never seen before, and he knows; Ben is going to join the Revolution, with or without him. He sighs, and returns all four legs of his chair to the floor "Okay," he says.
Ben's brows knit together. "Okay what?"
"I'm joining too."
Ben gapes at him. "Caleb, no. I wasn't suggesting-"
"You go I go, that's all there is to it," Caleb replies, looking Ben dead in the eye so he knows he's serious. It works. Ben doesn't try to fight him. Caleb pushes the chair back and stands. His footsteps echo as he makes his way over to where Ben stands. Smiling, Caleb clasps Ben on the shoulders with both hands. "Now, how 'bout that ale?"
They raise holy hell that night. Well Caleb does, but Ben doesn't try to stop him. Not that he'd listen anyway. In a little Connecticut Tavern, they both drink their fill of the best ale Caleb has ever tasted; dry with a hint of sweetness the townies accredit to their heirloom apples. They laugh and sing the night away until the bartender kicks them out.
Their horses' hooves strike the cobblestone streets of New York City two days later. Ben, being a man of Yale and Caleb, a former whaleboat captain, they both accept Lieutenant commissions. Ben takes an assignment under Colonel John Chester, and Caleb is assigned to artillery. They make their way to their respective camps in silence. "Well- looks like this is me," Caleb says, when they reach the artillery camp.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of Ben's mouth. He examines the ground between them.
"Listen, Benny. I've been thinking…What's the sense in making history if you're not there to see it?"
Ben frowns. "Are you having second thoughts?"
"Gawd no," Caleb replies. "It's just... well...be careful is all I'm saying."
Ben looks up and nods. "You be careful too."
Caleb smiles, and pulls Ben in for a final hug. "To making history."
"And seeing it through," Ben whispers.
"Ya promise?"
"I promise." Ben replies as they break apart.
A loud clang returns Caleb to his senses. Turning, he finds the battered bucket lying at his feet and Kitchi standing halfway down a deer path. Kitchi waves his arms at him excitedly. Caleb glances up at the dark skies and stuffs his hands into his pockets. We don't have time to be chasing down dead ends. He looks back over at Kitchi. Then again, Kitchi's never wrong. Maybe things were taking longer to sort out with the track being backwards and all.
Kitchi waves at him again, more insistent this time and against his better judgement Caleb makes his way over to him. Kitchi motions to the ground and Caleb peers down at it. It looks as if someone has swept the path. Caleb's brows knit together as he frowns. Maybe Kitchi was on to something.
They scamper down the winding deer path. It twists and turns, leading deeper and deeper into No Man's Land, and comes to an end at a small clearing. Half a dozen paths lead away from the tiny patch of grass and Caleb swallows hard. His heart feels as if it's about to explode. Choose the wrong path and Ben dies.
He turns to Kitchi. "Which one?"
Kitchi moves in a delicate circle, fingers plucking at fallen leaves, brushing at dirt patches, and examining blades of grass. When he stands, he looks perplexed. Caleb's heart sinks. He grabs Kitchi by the shoulders and pulls him in. "Listen you, I thought you were crazy when you started tracking East, but I trusted you and all you found was a bloody empty woodshed and now this, another dead end." Kitchi squirms and Caleb pulls him in closer. "You can't be wrong Kitchi, you hear me? You can't."
Kitchi nods and Caleb releases him. The Native turns back to the clearing. His eyes dart between two paths, one leading north and the other east. Kitchi hesitates before pointing north. Caleb pushes Kitchi aside and stares down the path as the sky erupts with claps of thunder and fat raindrops. His boots slip on mud and wet leaves, but he refuses to slow his pace.
The path narrows as it cuts through a grove of honey locust trees. Saplings overcrowd the path and Caleb soon finds his duster entangled in their thorny branches. He yanks his coat, desperate to break free from their grasp. The young trees refuse to surrender and Caleb is forced to remove his coat. Taking a knee, he examines the tangled mess. This can't be right. Anyone with half a brain would steer clear of this shite.
A twig snaps, drawing his attention away from his coat and saplings. Caleb crouches lower. Another twig snaps and he hit the forest floor. A few yards back, Kitchi freezes. Caleb motions for him to get low. Stepping off the path, Kitchi conceals himself in the underbrush. A third twig snaps and a shape emerges from the fog. Caleb squints and it takes a familiar form. "Ben!"
Caleb rushes towards his friend. Blood and vomit stain Ben's tattered nightshirt. A fresh laceration on his left temple still oozes. Caleb's eyes drift to Ben's wrists and the thick rope wrapped around them. His breeches bear similar stains, along with mud and dirt. The skin around his ankles is bright red and bleeding. "What the fu-"
Ben crumples and Caleb almost doesn't catch him before he faceplants. Ben twists away striking at the air between them. "Hey-hey, it's me," Caleb whispers, trying to calm him, but Ben only fights harder. "Tallboy, stop!" Caleb pleads.
Ben goes still. He blinks up at Caleb. "C-ale-b-bo-y?"
"Yeah, Benny-it's me."
Ben's eyelids flutter. He opens them wide and extends a hand towards Caleb. "B... Ford."
Caleb catches Ben's hand. He holds it tight. "Don't worry, we're gonna get you back to Ford Mansion."
"No-" A shiver racks through Ben's body. "Br... fo…for...d."
Caleb leans in. "What was that?"
Ben groans, mumbles something about Ford and goes limp. Kitchi sidles up to them. He lays Caleb's duster on the ground next to Ben and points to it. Caleb clasps him on the shoulder. "Right, we can use it as a makeshift stretcher. Good idea Kitchi."
Caleb hooks his arms under Ben's armpits and Kitchi grabs his feet. As they lay Ben on the heavy coat his abdomen makes a sickening clicking noise. Pushing the tattered nightshirt aside Caleb finds a fresh bruise stretching across the length of Ben's torso. Anger flares in the pit of Caleb's stomach. It's about the size of a boot. He palpitates the bruise and a twinge of nausea courses through him. Two, maybe three ribs are shattered. Grabbing the shoulders of his coat he motions for Kitchi to take the opposite end. "Come on, we gotta get him home."