by J. F. Holmes
Narrowing my eyes and pointing with my sword tip, I declared, “I don’t know what that is, but it’s claimed two of my men, and several from both of you. It’s time to finish this. Gentlemen, if you will follow me.” I turned and started firmly into the green-lit gloom.
As I advanced, the green light grew brighter, and I began to notice that the air was thick and it was hard to draw breath. It smelled of death and rotten things, mixed with the cloying, sickly-sweet smell of burned flesh. I coughed and paused to draw my scarf over my lower face. Satisfied that I could breathe, albeit with difficulty, I continued my advance. Taking several more steps, I could now see clearly. I turned a last corner and saw him. The man in black stood in front of a pile of something that looked…like human bodies. I stared, transfixed in horror, noticing that the pile of body parts contained heads, and they were moaning. Their eyes were opening and closing, and their jaws working. There were other parts, too, hands and feet, arms and legs, all moving slightly as if trying to escape. In horror, I jerked my eyes back to the man, who stood and smiled at me. The smile was cold and contained a deep darkness that, even if I were to live a thousand years, I’d not want to see again.
After a moment the thing spoke, its words liquid and flowing together. It felt like it was insinuating itself into my mind, and I was powerless to do anything, “Captain…we meet again.” I could feel my sword start to sag, and my willpower starting to drain. I took a step forward, although I didn’t wish to. “Yes…come closer…my old friend…” The hypnotic voice slithered into my ears and into my mind, and I found myself obeying again.
In my left ear I heard a voice as if from a thousand miles away, “Captain Tillerson! Sir!” Another voice shouted, “What are you doing, sir!” I took another step, transfixed, my sword tip dragging on the ground.
A third voice that sounded familiar, speaking in a loud voice. “Bugger this.” There was a clicking, then the same voice again, “I’ll see ye in hell, ye unholy bastard.” There was a click, a brilliant flash, and then the body of the man in black twisted, and a large hole appeared on his left chest. I jerked as if shaken awake and snapped my head to the left. Sergeant Armistead stood beside me, lowering a smoking pistol and reaching for another from his waistcoat.
Regaining my wits, I reached to my waist and pulled my own pistol, thrusting it at the man in black’s face. As I did, I saw a momentary look of terror on the creature’s face. I pulled the trigger. Another flash, and the ball tore into the man’s jaw, dropping him to the floor near the pile of flesh.
I could hear Armistead bellowing behind me, “Get him, lads!” The Marines surged past me with their weaponry in hand and surrounded the man in black, beating, stabbing, and hacking. After a few moments of savage strikes, the men began to step back, their chests heaving. Shoving a man aside, I looked at their handiwork. The man in black lay on the ground, a bloody mess. His head was stove in, a bloody unrecognizable ruin, one of his arms was severed, and his fine black garments were sticky with a dark, thick blood. The mountain of flesh quivered and moaned, and I looked up. Swallowing my horror, I realized the mountain was a large chair…no, a throne, comprised of living flesh. The moaning and screaming was getting louder, and the sourceless green light was starting to flicker.
Gasping to catch my breath, I glanced around. Nearby, I saw some of the kegs of powder. One was tipped on its side, the powder bags within spilling out. A shout drew my attention to the man on the floor again. As we watched in horror, the severed arm slowly started to pull itself toward the bruised and battered body. The crushed skull also began to push out, slowly reforming itself.
I could hear Lieutenant Turley shouting in my ear over the now deafening screams of the flesh-covered throne, “Sir, we have to get out of here!”
I nodded and gestured to the door. The light was now flashing, and the screaming overwhelmed our hearing. The Marines were moving past, heading for the exit. I could see the men flickering past me in snapshots of green light as the flashes illuminated them. I could see a burly figure in the flashes doing something; it was Sergeant Armistead. He had leaned over the now twitching body of the man in black on the floor and was shaking something over it, then turned and started to run. He grabbed my arm and bodily hauled me along. The walls flickered past as the green light flashes came faster and faster. A few seconds of sprinting later, and suddenly the door was ahead of us. From the dark to our rear came a blood-curdling, floor-shaking roar. Several shrieks like those of the dead men came from the dark to our sides. Armistead’s grip on my arm grew tighter, and we flew toward the entrance and burst into the daylight.
Staggering, I tried to get my bearings, when someone shouted, “Marines! DOWN!!” I promptly threw myself onto my face in the freezing cold muck. I had never been so grateful for the disgusting, manure-filled frozen slush of a city street in my entire life. I lifted my head and saw the magnificent and terrible sight of three ranks of the Coldstream Guards formed up in a firing line.
The Scottish captain sang out, “First rank…FIRE!” There was a roar of musketry, a blast of white smoke, and the zipping of musket balls over my head. From behind us there was a chorus of terrible shrieking. The barrel-chested captain drew another breath. “Second rank…FIRE!” There was another roar of muskets and the zip of shot. I rolled onto my back and saw a dozen of the black-eyed creatures that looked like men at the door stagger as the musket balls rocked their bodies. As they staggered back, there was another bone-shaking roar from deep inside the building.
To my left I could hear Armistead snapping, “Lantern. Lantern! Now!” I looked over at him just as he took the iron chimney off one of our lanterns and carefully touched it to the ground. The bright sparks of burning gunpowder began to spit, and then moved away from us in a rapid line, following the trail of powder on the ground toward the door. I could see the empty, discarded powder bag on the ground nearby. The sergeant had left a trail of powder behind us as we fled.
The creatures had struggled to their feet and were screaming again. The Coldstream officer took a breath and bellowed, “Third rank…FIRE!” Again the roar of muskets came. The bright spot of burning powder disappeared into the black of the tunnel.
I paused a moment in shock, then I realized what was about to happen. I leapt to my feet and screamed, “Get back! The powder! THE POWDER!” I sprinted down the street, my head down and arms pumping. I could hear the ranks breaking behind me as the soldiers joined me and the Marines in our flight. Spying a watering trough, I dove behind it and covered my head. A few seconds later there was a peculiar feeling. It was not unlike the time my brother Benjamin had hit me in the head with a tree branch. I was spinning, then I tumbled, and ended up upside down in something soft and very cold, with my ears ringing. After a moment I struggled to roll over and spit out a mouthful of snow. Hearing another tooth-rattling explosion, I turned to see what was happening. The warehouse was engulfed in flames, with fire shooting out of the roof. The explosions of the powder barrels were throwing objects skyward, and there was ash and various bits of blasted and scorched equipment raining down. I could distantly hear the ringing of bells as the fire brigades were summoned.
Dazed, I sat up and looked around me. In the streets nearby were dozens of men. The red of the Coldstream Guards, the dark green of the Marines, mixed with civilian clothes here and there, all sitting up and looking stunned.
Suddenly there was another roar from the inferno, and then a green streak shot skyward from the fireball, arcing up toward the Delaware riverfront and out of sight.
I yelled, my words incomprehensible even to myself, and pointed. Nearby, a man caked in mud who vaguely resembled Lieutenant Turley yelled something back. Seeing the faint green smoke trail disappear, I collapsed back into the mud, exhausted. After a moment, the tremendous ringing in my ears had faded and, hearing someone move next to me, I raised my head. Standing above me I saw Lieutenant Pitcairn, his once pristine scarlet coat covered in mud and soot. He sat down, dazed. After a moment, he
spoke, his words thick and slurred, “Did we get it?”
Closing my eyes, I replied wearily, “I don’t think so, but I think we taught it a hard lesson.”
“Shit,” the young man observed. I couldn’t help but laugh. After a moment, he asked, “What do we do now?” I struggled to a sitting position and watched the Philadelphia Fire Brigade starting to form a bucket chain to prevent the roaring flames from spreading.
I responded honestly, “I have no idea. I do think I need to talk to General Howe, though.” After a moment, I added, “Washington, too, if Howe doesn’t throw us in jail for blowing up his warehouse.” The young lieutenant didn’t respond, merely watched the scene unfolding in front of us in silence.
Chapter Five
“Under a Scarlet Flag”
My dearest Abigail,
My time in Philadelphia is drawing to a close. I am to be assigned to a particular unit with a particular task that I am not at liberty to discuss. We will no longer take part in the active fighting, which I know will be of great relief to you. While I regret that I am no longer able to join my countrymen on the field of battle, what I am doing is of great importance. Indeed, the safety and security of our fledgling nation depends upon it. I have enclosed some lace and some spices that I acquired from a young gentleman here in Philadelphia by the name of John André. He is a good man, even if he wears scarlet. He has invited us to dine with him after the war, regardless of the outcome. He is a fine fellow, and much admired here in the city.
I am due to depart with my men from Philadelphia within the day. We will be returning to Valley Forge and rejoining the Army, at least temporarily. I pray that you will forgive my words of the last letter. When I wrote, I was most distressed about the events I had witnessed. Someday, perhaps I shall tell you of them.
In the meantime, I intend to ask Gen. Washington for a month’s leave to come home and see you and the boys before starting off on my next task, which may take me away for many months…
With an icy look, Lord General Howe began to speak in a hard, unforgiving tone, “One hundred thousand sovereigns. That’s the total value of what was in that warehouse, Captain. Cannon. Spare rigging. Powder. Field tentage. Thirteen hundred brand new muskets, all of it destined for the Northern Force.” He glared at me, his anger palpable. “I do hope you are aware that I shall ask General Washington and your precious ‘Continental Congress’ to assist us in recouping the cost.” He held the glare for a moment before sighing, then shaking his head and continuing, “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it, and if I didn’t have multiple eyewitness reports from loyal men, I’d have you hung as a saboteur.” He looked at me with his piercing eyes and continued, “That being said, General Washington and I have been in communication. He suggests that, for the duration of the war, we work together to seek out and neutralize these unholy threats to our civilization.” He looked down at his desk, picked up a piece of paper, and scowled at it.
After a moment of silence, I asked, “Am I to be tried?”
With a sour look, Lord Howe replied, “On the contrary. You’re to be promoted to major and placed in command of a provisional unit. It will be a special detachment of men, selected from each side, to hunt down and eradicate these unholy threats.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. When I had been summoned before Lord Howe, I had feared the worst. After a moment of considering his statement, I replied, “May I make a suggestion? Make the teams of Marines, both Royal and Continental. They’re a hardy sort of man; rough, but reliable in battle. Less prone to panic than regiments of the line, and comfortable in close quarters combat.” I hesitated, then added, “I’d offer my frontiersmen, but it seems I’m the last left from my brigade.” Lord Howe’s icy look softened at this. After a brief pause, I added, “I’d also request that young Captain André to be part of the team. He is an exceedingly bright young man. I see a lot of potential in him.” I fell silent.
General Howe looked up from the paper at this statement and regarded me for a moment, then spoke thoughtfully, “A good suggestion, Captain, given the nature of this force.” He set the paper down and added, “As for Captain André, I agree as to his potential, but request denied. I have other plans for him. Lieutenant Pitcairn will be available for you, though.”
He put the pen back in the inkwell and stood. He turned and took several steps to the window, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding the busy street below and the docks in the distance. He was quiet for a moment, then said in a thoughtful tone, “We’ll need something to identify this new unit. It will need to be distinctive. Something that will be readily recognizable, by officers on both sides, through the chaos of battle.”
He turned back to where I sat and regarded me for a moment, then declared, “I believe I have just the thing.” He motioned to the young soldier sitting quietly at the desk near the door. “Orderly, go to my private study. On the wall is the flag my brother brought back from the Orient. Go get it.” The young man snapped to attention, then hurriedly scurried out the door.
The general regarded me again for a moment, then said in a hard voice, “It must be understood, Captain, that any misuse of this emblem as a tool of subterfuge will be considered a grievous offense to the Crown.”
I nodded courteously and replied, “Of course, sir. I will make it clear to General Washington.”
With a dark look at me, the general replied, “I’m not concerned about Washington. As misguided as he is in his politics, he is a man of honor.” His dark look continued and he added, “I was referring to you.”
Tilting my head, I replied, “General, I must protest. I have acquitted myself with nothing but the most honorable of actions, both in our dealings here in Philadelphia, and on the field of battle.”
With a frown, the regal officer replied, “You have, but I know your reputation from the Wars against the French. You have a reputation for trickery.”
With a wry smile I replied, “Against the French, sir, that is the only way to fight. Treachery, at least, is a language they understand.”
With a grunt, he nodded. “On that, at least, we agree. Nonetheless, no trickery with this heraldry, or you will assuredly hang by the neck until you are dead.”
“I would expect nothing less, sir. You have my word of honor, as an officer and a gentleman, that this symbol will be respected and used only in times of utmost need.”
There came a rapping at the door. With an icy look at me, the general spoke loudly, “Enter!”
The young soldier, his face red from exertion, entered the room with a folded piece of red cloth in his arms. He moved toward the large table at the side of the room. As he did, General Howe gestured for him to spread it out.
Curious, I stood and moved closer to the table for a better view. As the orderly spread it out on the table, the beauty of the flag struck me. Comprised of a fine material that appeared to be silk, it was a deep scarlet in color. In the middle of the field of scarlet was a hand-stitched dragon that appeared to be of Chinese origin. The thread shone as brightly as true gold, and the scarlet was the purest color I had ever seen.
Seeing my awed expression, General Howe stated, “I received this from my brother Thomas upon his return from his first trip to the Orient.” He gestured at the dragon in the middle. “He got it from a deposed Chinese warlord, who claimed to be the descendant of a clan of demon fighters since the early ages of China.” With a dry note in his voice, he added, “At the time I received this flag, it seemed a fanciful story, made up by savages. Now it seems strangely appropriate, and somehow fitting, that this flag fly once again in pursuit of the unnatural.”
Staring at the scarlet and gold emblem, I replied slowly, “Indeed it does, sir…indeed it does.”
****
Three days later I arrived at the tavern that served as General Washington’s headquarters. Presenting myself inside, I reflected on the events of the past week. So lost in thought was I that the orderly had to touch my
shoulder to gain my attention. I stood and said to the man, “My apologies, Private.”
“If you’ll follow me, sir.” The young man quickly showed me to the same room where I’d met the general before. Stepping inside, I came to attention, saluted, and reported, “Sir. Captain Sean Tillerson of the Fourth Pennsylvania Rifles.”
The general, sitting behind his desk, rose as I entered. Another man sitting in front of the general’s desk also rose. A tall man myself, I was startled to see how massive the man was, broad of shoulder and belly, and with a pleasant face. A third man stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
General Washington extended a hand, indicating I should sit, and said, “Major Tillerson, this is Colonel Knox, one of our leading artillerists. Colonel, this is the Pennsylvania man I was speaking of earlier.” Washington gestured to the man standing by the window. He had a youthful, honest face, and wore the uniform of a dragoon. Washington added, “This is Major Benjamin Tallmadge. He’s my chief of Intelligence.” The young man nodded in a courteous manner.
Colonel Knox reached for my hand, enveloped it in his massive grip, shook it with a crushing strength, and said politely, “The general was telling me all about how your men held the line at Germantown, sir. Very well done.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” I took my seat and added, “We took fearsome losses, I’m afraid.”