The Traitor's Stain (wattys 2019)

Chapter Forty-Five: Norwalk, Connecticut

Ben waited for Caleb that night. He waited. And waited. And waited. Caleb wasn't exactly a punctual person to begin with, so at first, he didn't think much of it. He went about his business, the minutia of being spymaster. He read reports, made plans, attended meetings. And he tried to keep his concern for his friend in the back of his mind. He knew that he was probably fine, that he was just running into some problems getting back off of Long Island. It wouldn't be the first time.

Night began to fall. And that was when he truly began to worry.

"Why are you so worried about him?" Alexander asked as Ben paced the tent, trying to decide what he was going to do. "I don't know that Caleb has ever seen a clock, let alone, knows how to read one. Besides: it's past dark. He might be holed up somewhere until tomorrow morning."

It was logical enough. Traveling during the night was dangerous, especially in winter and when traveling over enemy lines: the smart thing for him to do would be to find a warm, safe place to spend the night before making his way back to the camp.

On any other day, Ben would've accepted that, been able to sleep soundly, knowing that his friend was probably just fine. Not that night, though. His gut told him that there was something really, seriously wrong.

"I don't know," Ben said. "My gut just tells me that he's gotten himself into some serious trouble."

"He tends to do that," Alexander said.

Ben gave him a look.

"What?" Alexander asked with a shrug. "Are you trying to tell me that he doesn't?"

"Worse than normal," Ben said. "He wasn't going that far; he should be back by now."

"Give him another hour," Alexander said. "If he's not back by then, send in the cavalry. If he is, we'll know that he just took his own, sweet time."

Not seconds after he said that, a soldier came into the tent and saluted. Unannounced.

"Sorry for the intrusion, sir," he said, saluting. "Caleb Brewster is back. He says he needs to speak to you right away."

"See? I told you he was fine," Alexander said.

Ben ignored him. "Why didn't he come himself?"

"Because he's at the surgeon's-"

Ben didn't let him finish that sentence: he stood up and bolted past, running out of the tent and heading for the surgeon's tent.

He thought he heard Alexander calling after him, but he wasn't paying attention: he was too busy thinking of a dozen worst-case scenarios. His gut had been right: Caleb had managed to find some trouble. And apparently, that trouble had hurt him. Badly. He had to get to Caleb and find out what happened. Now!

The surgeon's tent wasn't far from Ben's, but it felt like an eternity before he managed to reach the tent. When he barged in, he saw that Caleb was sitting on the edge of a cot, the camp surgeon attending to a massive cut on his forehead.

God, he looked awful. Beyond that bleeding cut, he also had a black, swollen eye, dried blood in the corner of his mouth, and bruises all over. His knuckles looked swollen, too, crusted blood covering his hands. He'd certainly been in a fight, but it looked like he would be alright.

Good: Ben was going to kill him, himself.

"What the hell did you do?!" Ben demanded.

"Nice to see you, too," Caleb said as the surgeon worked on stitching up his forehead. "And why do you assume that I did something?"