George Washington Werewolf (2 page)

“Uneventful… That’s
good
!” Margaret said.

“Well, except for…” he glanced over his shoulder at the dwarf.

“What? Who’s
that
?”

“
Le nain
? I’ll tell you later,” Vincent said. “But first we’ll go out and celebrate my return!”

“Oui monsieur,” his wife smiled.

And as they walked away Vincent turned once and stared at the dwarf, then looked up the gangplank to the ship as he expected someone else, someone he had heard about for twenty-three days at sea but had never seen.

The
Ram’s Head Tavern’s
wooden sign was relatively new. It was formerly the
King George III
, but Isaac Samuel Mayhew was a staunch supporter of the cause, meaning the Colonials, meaning what would become known as the American Revolution, and he took down the old sign on July 4th, 1776 and immediately put up a new one—
The Ball & Musket
. But last September after General Howe and his army of Redcoats 15,000 strong occupied Philadelphia, he chose the innocuous sounding
Ram’s Head Tavern
, so he could cater to Rebel and Tory alike and not alienate the people who were suddenly in charge. But privately he would say he kept God and Country but got rid of the King (referring to the Loyalist motto of
God, King, and Country
). But if hard-pressed, he would confess further that he had replaced England with the Thirteen Colonies, this new country called America.

When his son-in-law Vincent Bertin walked into the tavern that night with his bride of two years, Isaac Mayhew greeted him as if he were the returning hero.

“A round of drinks on the house!” he proclaimed in his resonant baritone.

And for the next several hours Vincent and his wife Margaret sat at a wooden table soaked with beer, surrounded by friends and family toasting his return, toasting George Washington, toasting the Continental Army.

“May the army stay together long enough for victory!” said one Langley McSwain.

“May the British go back to where they came from!” said Robinson Gwinnett.

“May the army stay together long enough so it
outlasts the British
!” said Isaac Mayhew, who was convinced that this was the only way the Rebels could ever win.

“Damn all Redcoats!” said another, and the tankards were raised again.

And from the other side of the tavern came sweet Loyalist voices together in song from a handful of Tories and Redcoats, and a Captain of the 25th Dragoons…

“
God save our gracious King
…”

And from Vincent’s table came the boos and jeers, but then Isaac Mayhew stood tall, and holding a tankard in both hands he toasted in both directions (since people bought more beer when they were singing then when they were fighting). And his good-natured (albeit self-interested) gesture had a calming effect, and the two parties even raised their tankards to each other like one enemy ceremoniously regarding another.

“So you were going to tell me about that strange little man,” Vincent Bertin’s wife said.

“You mean
Otto
, the
dwarf
?”

“Yes, Otto the dwarf,” she smiled.

“He came on board supposedly with some General or something…”

“A General?”

“From Europe. Poland I think. But I never
saw
him. He had his own cabin and the dwarf was his aide-de-camp. But we only ever saw the dwarf.”

“That
is
odd.”

“But what’s even
stranger
is that Otto had us put this iron cage together in the hold.”

“An iron cage? What was
in
it?”

“That’s just it! Nothing!”

“Nothing?”

“
Rien!
”

“So… what was it for?”

“Ha! Nobody knows! At least none of
us
knew. I’m sure that
Otto
knew, but the word was that if you
crossed
him you’d be sorry. That the General would…”

“What?”

“Well, that you’d disappear if you got in his way. And when you’re in the middle of the North Atlantic that’s very easy to do.”

“You mean, disappear?”

Vincent Bertin nodded.

“So nobody ever
saw
him?”

“My! You
are
curious!”

“I mend people’s clothing, dear, and take care of the children, while you sail off into the world!”

“Fair enough,” he nodded.

“So this mysterious Polish General...”

“I never saw him.”

“And the cage was
empty
?”

“As far as I know,” he smiled at his wife’s enthusiasm. “And when we came into port, that…
homoncule
made us disassemble it and the other deckhands carried it out and I kept looking to see if I could see the General, but… but then I saw
you
and…”

“And
I
was all you could think of!” Margaret smiled.

“Yes!
Exactement
!” he gave her a kiss. “I’m so glad to be home.”

“I’m glad as well,” said Isaac Mayhew as he walked over and smiled at his son-in-law. “I’m glad you returned safely. Tell me Vincent, do you think your countrymen the French will join our cause?”

“Well, I wrote Lafayette asking him,” Vincent smiled, “but I have yet to receive his reply.”

Isaac Mayhew laughed and then raised his tankard again.

“To my son-in-law,” he said, “able seaman Vincent Bertin!”

“To Vincent Bertin!” said the others.

“To France! To Lafayette!” and then, “
Vive la France
!”

And then from the other side, “To General Howe!” and “To His Majesty, King George the Third!”

And by now everyone was too drunk to fight for King or Country (not to mention God), their arguments barely intelligible as the ale flowed until well after midnight. Vincent drained the last of his beer and then looked at his wife through the pewter tankard’s glass bottom.

“
Tu est si belle
,” he said.

“What is that?”

“You are so beautiful,” he smiled.

“Through your ‘beer glasses’,” she smiled.

“No,
always
!”

“Hmm…”

“So we should probably go back home.”

“Why, are you
sleepy
?”

“No,” and Vincent leaned over. “
Je veux faire l’amour avec toi
…”

“Hmm?”

“
Make love to me
,” he whispered.

“Monsieur! I’m
shocked
!” But she gave him a wanton smile.

Moments later they left the
Ram’s Head Tavern
, arm in arm. And as they walked along the darkened street Margaret slipped on a patch of ice, and Vincent caught her in his arms before she fell.

“Oops!”

“Thank you, my gallant gentleman.”

“You are most welcome. Hic!
Je suis saoul
…”

“What?”

“I’m drunk,” Vincent said.

“But not
too
drunk I hope…”

“Watch your step,” he cautioned his wife.

And as they walked along the sidewalk they saw the moon overhead, hanging large and full in the sky directly above the steeple of the Dutch Reformed Church.

“Look at the moon!” Margaret said. “It’s so big! Like we could go up to the steeple top and touch it. Do you want to?”

“What?”

“Come on! Let’s go and touch the moon!”

“I thought
I
was the one who was drunk,” Vincent laughed.

And he watched his wife rush off towards the church, her eyes fixed on the moon. And as he hurried after her there was an otherworldly sound that echoed through the streets; something disconcerting and unusual for Philadelphia, like the howl of a wolf. But there was something pained and agonized about it as well, like the scream of the damned. And this was what Vincent Bertin thought of as his wife walked past an alleyway between buildings two blocks from their home.

“Margaret!” he called out. “Margaret!”

And as she turned around, a shape came from the shadows. It latched onto Margaret Bertin and like that, his wife disappeared into the alleyway.

“
Margaret!
” he cried out.

He ran through the icy street to the alley. And as he turned to see what had happened he saw something barely visible beneath a shard of moonlight making its way down the darkened corridor of brick.

“Margaret, is that
you
?” he asked. “Margaret?
Mon Dieu!
What happened? Where
are
you?” And as he stepped forward, his feet unsteady on the frozen water dripping from the roofs, he saw clouds of breath rising from a dark shape ahead, he heard what sounded like teeth crunching bone.

“
Margaret?
” he said again…

The next day the Philadelphia papers all ran the same story: Maniac on the loose. Two people found dead, their bodies unrecognizable, mutilated beyond description. Their souls commended to God’s hands.

Snow had fallen during the night—not very much, just an inch or two, but enough to give everything a sense of newness like a fresh coat of paint. But the reality beneath the snow was of something quite different. Hardship. Deprivation. Disease. Starvation. These were the words George Washington used in his communiqués to the Continental Congress, in exile at York after fleeing Philadelphia last fall. He entreated them, he exhorted them, he begged and pleaded for supplies, for clothing, for food. He even used his own money, because as it was now, Valley Forge for the Rebels had become the low point of the war.

The Continental Army went into winter quarters in early December when Valley Forge itself was just frozen ground, a densely wooded ridge sloping upwards from the Schuylkill River to the foot of a modest hill named Mount Joy. And the irony of that name was not lost on the 10,000 or so troops as winter set in and the icy rains came. After fortifying the ridge with entrenchments, artillery was placed on the high ground and the camp itself was secured. And then the enlisted men went about the business of chopping down trees to build the over one thousand huts that they would live in by the New Year. And now by late February as the winter dragged on, General George Washington was giving in to despair. Almost 2000 soldiers had died since December of disease and exposure as the Army had marched into Valley Forge in rags two months earlier, many soldiers barefoot, their uniforms in tatters, and
still
no supplies had arrived. And it was not unusual to hear General Washington pacing in his tent, railing against God and the heavens but mostly against the Continental Congress after receiving another letter informing him of yet another delay, demanding even more sacrifice. And then there was the constant hunger. Many men had starved and their horses had been slaughtered for food, which was a welcome change from the usual diet of a tasteless flour and water concoction called “fire cake”. And because of all this, officers resigned and enlisted men deserted. The penalty for desertion was one hundred lashes but still the men ran off—to be with their wives and families, to be rid of the war—but on this day, after more bad news from York, General Washington himself ordered that a chronic deserter recently returned to camp be hung by the neck in full view of his troops, as an example and a warning.

The man was Private Josiah Cobb Whitlock of New Haven, Connecticut and this was the seventh time he had deserted and been brought back. And as the men assembled in the new-fallen snow before the makeshift gallows, General Washington and his senior officers sat on their mounts as Colonel Aaron Burr brought out the prisoner.

“We are gathered here today to mete out justice,” said Colonel Burr. “We are fighting this war for our freedom and for the freedom of our country, and this man has repeatedly dishonored this noble cause. Do you have anything to say?” he asked the prisoner.

All eyes were on Private Whitlock. Stripped of his uniform in the rags of a prisoner, he stood barefoot in the snow.

“God save King George,” he said. And Aaron Burr stepped forward and slapped him across the face. He then looked to General Washington.

“You may proceed,” Washington said, his expression impassive, fixed like a stone showing only his unshakeable resolve to see this through and to inspire his men to do the same.

“Then may God have mercy on your worthless soul.”

Colonel Burr motioned to Captain Tyler to lead the prisoner up the scaffold, to put the rope around his neck, and then he nodded his head. Moments later the body was dangling in the air as snow flurries descended and stuck to the body like quicklime. Nothing more was said. The men were dismissed. A half hour later the body of Private Whitlock was taken down and buried in a shallow grave outside camp at the foot of Mt. Misery, the hill opposite Mt. Joy.