George Washington Werewolf (5 page)

Of course the men had been admonished to not come within ten yards of this place, but Aaron Burr was used to doing what he pleased. In the woods he found the path used by the Baron himself, lit by the last of the waxing gibbous moon, as tomorrow night the moon would be full. The only sounds were his footsteps in the snow, as the camp sounds were muffled by the thick trees. But then he was startled by a loud “Hoot!” Instantly his pistol was drawn and pointed at a barn owl on a nearby branch, scrutinizing him with its strange black eyes in the middle of that round white face.

“Bang!” Burr said as he watched the bird fly away, and he returned the weapon to its holster.

Another hundred feet and he could see the hut up ahead through the trees. It was well constructed but as he got closer he noticed that there were no windows. When he reached the door, instead of knocking he looked downward at a strip of light coming from inside. And although Colonel Burr was a confident man bordering on arrogant he couldn’t deny the uneasy feeling he had now as he stood before that door. In fact, at one point he thought about turning around, going back to camp, but then he took a breath and brought his knuckles to the wooden door… No answer.

“Inspector General?” he called out, his breath rising in clouds that quickly disappeared.

Another knock with no response, and then he reached over, opened the door, and strode inside. There was a lantern shining out from a small table. As he looked around he saw that there was no one there. But the thing that stood out was what occupied most of the space. The room was almost entirely taken up by a huge iron cage that sat in its center. There was just enough room left on the edges for a few chairs, a table, an armoire (which Burr figured was from Europe because of its elaborate design), and a simple cot on a wooden frame. But his eyes kept coming back to the cage. He walked over and tried to move its bars but it was solid, strong. If someone were put inside there they wouldn’t get out. But why was it here in the first place? Burr wondered.

At that moment he heard the unmistakable sound of a flintlock being cocked.

“What are you doing here?” came an odd, rather high-pitched voice.

“May I turn around?” Colonel Burr asked.

“But very slowly. My pistol is aimed at your head,” came the voice, “and I am an excellent shot.”

When Aaron Burr turned around he saw Otto the dwarf, Von Steuben’s weird aide-de-camp. And he wasn’t lying, as he held what looked like a beautiful French dueling pistol.

“Is that
French?
” Burr motioned to the flintlock held in the dwarf’s small but pudgy hand.

“Italian…
Bolognese
.”

“Ah,
Bolognese!
” Burr exclaimed. “Fernandez? Of Madrid?”

“Of course. 1727. You know your firearms, Colonel.”

“May I
see
it?”

“Um, some other time,” the dwarf said. “What are you
doing
here, Colonel Burr?”

“I was sent by General Washington… a matter of some urgency. Is the Inspector General anywhere to be found?” And Burr’s eyes kept wandering back to the cage.

“He is not, I’m afraid. I will however tell him that you called. And please, for your own safety, from now on you must contact me in camp and I will relay your message.”

“Very well,” said Burr.

“And I repeat, for your own safety.”

Colonel Burr nodded. “May I go?” he asked.

“Of course,” said the dwarf, as he stepped out of the way, although his gun was still ready to fire.

Burr took several steps, then stopped and turned to the little man.

“Might I inquire as to the purpose of that…
cage?
” he asked.

“No, you may not. Good night Colonel Burr. Be careful in the woods. I hear there are wild animals about… even wolves.”

“Thank you, I will,” Burr replied.

The moment he was outside the door slammed behind him. And there on the dead branch of a pin oak was the barn owl again, looking him right in the eye. Since he was a little boy he had heard that owls were bad luck. He brought out his pistol, this time to shoot it for real. But when he looked back at the tree the bird was gone.

Captain Ballistar Braxton of His Majesty’s 25th Dragoons had grown bored with Philadelphia. He was determined to distinguish himself beyond the rank of Captain. Yet this was proving to be impossible since General Howe’s army spent its time in winter quarters chasing one party after the next. Most of the men, from the Privates to the Generals, were anything but idle that winter. There was entertainment and distraction galore, of every conceivable kind.

Tonight the opulent mansion of the Loyalist Wavely Makepeace Groves was the place to be if you were a British officer. The men in full dress uniforms, the women in their most alluring ball gowns, the string quartet playing the livelier numbers of Haydn, Vivaldi, and Corelli, the supply of wine, champagne, and whiskey inexhaustible. Yet Captain Braxton stood apart, observing it all with a kind of detached contempt until his friend Roland Montague walked over, obviously drunk, but blending in well with everyone else.

“Captain Braxton…”

“Captain Montague…”

“You’re not drinking…”

“No, but I see you’ve done
my
share as well as your own.”

“Yes, have you noticed what a fat pig Howe has become since last September?”

They both looked over at the General, a glass of wine in one hand, a turkey leg in the other.

“He must have gained a hundred pounds!”

“That’s our Commander-in-chief you’re talking about,” smiled Braxton.

“I don’t think he’ll be able to fit on his horse come May!” laughed Montague. “Oh, look at
that
one!”

They turned to observe one of Philadelphia’s young belles, and her rather ample bosom exploding from her gown.

“Can you imagine
her
with Howe? My stomach is turning…”

“And there’s Tarleton… what an ass!”

“But the ladies love him…”

“Apparently the ladies of Philadelphia have questionable taste.”

“What a way to fight a war, eh Braxton old man? Parties every night. We’ll all be too drunk and fat come the spring. And meanwhile ol’ Washington is just twenty miles away, starving and freezing his ass off. We should just ride up there and attack!” said Montague. “At least it’ll give us something to do.”

Braxton nodded his head in silence.

“Oooh! Look at
that
one!” Montague exclaimed. “You could
drown
in those!”

“So would you like to?” Braxton asked.

“What? Drown in those tits?”

“No, ride up to Valley Forge… attack Washington…”

“What? I was
joking!
I’m drunk, can’t you tell?”

“Because I’m doing that
exact
thing tomorrow night,” Braxton said in a voice so low as to be a whisper.

“
What?
What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been planning this for
weeks
…” Braxton moved closer and spoke softly into Montague’s ear. “I’ve put together a squad of men. We’ll be dressed in rags like the Rebels, and we’ll appear at Valley Forge with four Hessian prisoners…”

“
What?
You want to
attack
Valley Forge?”

“
Ssssh!
” Braxton glanced around to see if anyone was eavesdropping, but the drunken revelers were oblivious. “We inform the pickets that we’re a scouting party sent out under the explicit orders of Von Steuben…”

“Von Steuben?”

“He’s their Inspector General now.”

“I heard he’s crazy! That he uses the severed head of a Russian Cossack as a paper weight…”

“This way their guards won’t
dare
question our story, and we’ll definitely
look
the part. And then we’ll march right into camp with impunity, go up to George Washington’s tent and
kidnap
him!”

“
Kidnap
him? Have you lost your
mind?
”

“And then the Rebels will sue for peace and a week from now this war will be over! And we’ll be
heroes
, you and I! The toast of London when we return!”

“Are you sure you’re not drunk?” Montague asked.

“Sober as a bishop. So do you… do you want
in?
”

“Do I want
in?
Ha! You’re
crazy!
” Montague laughed.

“We leave tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“At
dawn
?” he shook his head but then a smile came to his face. “Ahh,
I
get it. That’s really
funny
, Braxton. You had me going there for a while.”

At this a lovely young lady in a handsome blue gown with gold filigree walked slowly by and gave Captain Montague the eye.

“Well, I’m afraid duty calls, old man. Kidnap Washington! That’s a riot!” And then he turned his attention to the passing brunette. “Good evening mademoiselle,” he said. “Captain Montague at your service…”

The
Bunch of Grapes Tavern
had always been just another place to drink, no better or worse than the hundred or so other bars in Philadelphia, but after the Occupation it had become the rowdiest and most explicitly bawdy place in town. Its owner, Sebastian Younger Cowles had always been loyal to the crown and a bit of a brawler in his day. And it was perhaps for these reasons that the
Grapes
was packed each night with the most unsavory types: Redcoat enlisted men, lowlife Tories, and Loyalist sympathizers in the form of thieves, pickpockets, convicts, rogues, and politicians, as well as every manner of young lady of loose character and even looser garments. And tonight was no exception as Private Mandalay Fitzsimmons sat with his friends, as the beer flowed freely and the words flowed freer still.

“So you’re saying by next week the war will be
over?
” said Sally Tompkins, who had found her calling during the British Occupation as a prostitute of much renown.

“Yes!” Fitzsimmons boasted. “And I will be toasted in this selfsame bar as a hero of England!”

“Is that so?”

“And me too!” said his friend Private John Wiley, who punctuated his comment by thrusting his entire face into the exposed bosom of Mary, the prostitute who sat immediately to his right.

“So the
both
of you are to be heroes then?” Sally smiled.

“That’s right!” said Wiley as he came up for air. “We’re going to introduce ourselves to General Washington himself! You know that Valley Forge is only twenty miles away…”

“I thought it was
eighteen
…” said Mary.

“You know soldiers,” Sally smiled, “always saying things are
longer
than they really are.”

The girls all laughed and the soldiers shook their heads and returned to their glasses of beer.

“So if you know so much why don’t you come
with
us?” said Fitzsimmons.

“That’s an idea,” said Sally. “But I’d have to be in command.”

“Of course! Just like my wife,” he smiled.

“You’re
married?
”

“Well, back in
England
…”

“That doesn’t count!” said John Wiley.

“This is
Philadelphia
,” said Private Fitzsimmons, “and what happens in Philadelphia...” He turned to Colleen, one of the barmaids. “More beer, darlin’!”

And the girl walked over and poured a tankard of ale all over her exposed breasts, and Mandalay Fitzsimmons cheerfully obliged by planting his face in her cleavage and lapping up the spilled brew.

“Mandalay, I have some beer for you as well!” said Sally Tompkins as she poured beer on
her
chest.

“What kind of name is
Mandalay?
” Mary asked.

“What?” Fitzsimmons turned around after finishing with Colleen.

At times you couldn’t hear yourself think at the
Bunch of Grapes
, with all the racket of several hundred drunken roisterers shouting, laughing, singing, fighting, all done uproariously.

“I said what kind of name is
Mandalay?
”

“It’s
my
name!” Fitzsimmons smiled. “Look, here comes another hero…” he motioned to the man who just walked in.

But before he could get to their table another man intercepted him.

“Denkins! I
thought
that was you!” said the other man, who followed this with a roundhouse haymaker that sent the prospective hero reeling against a table of revelers who took this as a personal affront. Within seconds, fists were flying and ten or so drunken soldiers were trying to beat each other up.