George Washington Werewolf (6 page)

“Oh well…” said Fitzsimmons.

“So you’re
married?
” said Mary.

“That’s okay, whenever I think of my wife I want to make love…”

“Ahh, that’s so sweet and romantic,” said Sally.

“To other
women
,” Fitzsimmons smiled.

And he grabbed Sally by the arm and spirited her to a nearby corner where he began to mount her against the wall, as his friends back at the table toasted his good fortune.

“So you’re really going to meet
George Washington?
” Mary said, wide-eyed.

“As God is my witness,” said John Wiley. “There’s this Captain of the Dragoons…”

“I
love
the Dragoons!” Mary gushed. “Their uniforms are so smart, so handsome! Is he coming tonight? This
Captain of the Dragoons?
”

“Colleen, more beer!” Private Wiley said.

A few minutes later Private Fitzsimmons reappeared at the table and demanded more beer.

“So how
was
he?” Mary asked in a whisper.

“Talk about
Minute Men
…” Sally Tompkins laughed.

“Do you think we should
help
him?” said Wiley. “Denkins, I mean…”

“Nah, he’ll be fine,” said Fitzsimmons.

“But maybe we should get back soon… I mean we have to be assembled at dawn.”

“Maybe you’re right. One more round!” Fitzsimmons bellowed.

“All right... So
Mary
, what do you say we go try out that corner?” Private Wiley pointed to the spot where Sally and Fitzsimmons had just cavorted.

“If you wish, my Lord,” she replied. And Wiley swept her out of her seat and started undoing his belt buckle.

By now the fight had subsided, and Private Denkins stumbled over and sat down, a black eye and a bloody lip the price he paid for coming to the
Bunch of Grapes
this evening.

“Allow me to introduce you to Private Miles Danfield Denkins…” Private Fitzsimmons announced.

“So, another one of your
heroes?
” Sally Tompkins smiled.

Private Mal Turner had been feeling poorly ever since he got the letter from his fiancée breaking off the engagement and telling him that she was in love with someone else. At first he thought he was just heartsick. But today he knew it was something more as he stood there in the middle of the night in the middle of this downpour, burning up with fever. It had been raining since he started his guard duty at eleven, on the far side of the camp near Mt. Misery. He had tried to get somebody to cover his shift so he could go to bed. But who in their right mind would want to stand out in a pouring-down rain? Besides, what was the point? It was well known that the British were all happy, warm, and drunk as could be in Philadelphia, eighteen miles away.

For the past few hours, Mal hadn’t seen or heard a soul. Everyone was asleep in their huts which, leaky roofs notwithstanding, were paradise compared to this. The spring thaw was here as the ground had softened and turned to mud. The rain seemed to come down in sheets right into Private Turner’s face, no matter
where
he positioned himself. And he even thought he had fallen asleep for a while standing up, as he was genuinely surprised when he looked at his watch and saw that it was two in the morning. There was no telling
how
he would ever make it to six o’clock when his shift was over.

The rain showed no sign of letting up as he wiped his runny nose and then reached for his flask, taking a long sip of whiskey. And this was the real thing, from the Kentucky frontier—not that almost undrinkable poisonous mash that the soldiers made. His friend Solomon Bundy had given it to him as a get-well gesture after Lenore broke his heart. And as Mal finished his drink he looked at the flask. He’d better go easy if this were to last him the night. He glanced at the sky. The night was gray as a woolen blanket, the full moon completely obscured by clouds, as a cold drop of rain hit him like a steel pellet right in the eye.

“Damn all officers and gentlemen!” he said to himself, followed by a flurry of sneezes. “Only four more hours!” he laughed, with the black humor of all soldiers who are stationed in such miserable places as this.

And then from out of the rain and cold emerged a group of figures that looked like a band of Rebels. What was left of their ragged uniforms was soaked to the bone. Their boots or bare feet were caked with mud. And Mal looked over in bemused silence. At first he thought he was dreaming, thinking that he’d fallen back asleep. They were even sorrier looking than
he
was. And then one, in the remnants of a Captain’s uniform, spoke through the rain.

“Captain Braxton with a detachment of Continental Soldiers under the direct orders of the Inspector General… We have four Hessian soldiers as our prisoners.”

In response Private Mal Turner sneezed.

“Private, is it not customary for a subordinate to salute a superior officer?”

“Yes sir, of course, sir!” Mal said as he offered a salute. “My apologies, Captain, sir. I thought you were a dream.”

“A dream? No, we are most real, Private. And now the matter of our prisoners…” He motioned to the even more haggard-looking Hessians.

“Yes sir, forgive me…”

“Private, you look… unwell,” Captain Braxton said, as an idea took shape.

“I… excuse me sir, but I’ve been sick. I believe I have a fever, sir.”

“Yes, you look quite terrible. Frightful, in fact. Go and get some sleep, Private.
Fitzsimmons, stand guard here!
And the rest of you, we’ll take these prisoners to the brig. Private, you are relieved…”

“Yes sir, Captain sir!”

And Malcolm Turner was in the middle of one of the most joyous salutes of his military career when from out of nowhere came a huge dark shape, hard to distinguish in the driving rain. It struck like a rabid, wild animal at the middle of Braxton’s squad of men, and it was so fast that it seemed to strike everywhere at once and move in a blur. Shots were fired in every direction, but in seconds men were crying out in agony as several fell dead in the mud, the cold rain following them down.

“What in God’s name?” Braxton cried out, as he brought out his pistol and fired.

“What the
HELL?
” yelled Private John Wiley as what looked like a large wolf leapt through the air and tore out his throat.

By now the men were fleeing in all directions, their guns thrown in the air as the beast cut them down one after the next, the last being Private Mandalay Fitzsimmons, leaving Captain Ballistar Braxton standing in the rain as he tossed his pistol to the ground and drew his sword. And the beast stood there, its eyes red as cinders as it gazed upon him, as the rain beat down against its hairy back.

“Come on,
hellhound!
” Braxton said, making ready with his blade.

And when the creature charged he struck it in the shoulder. But before he could turn around, the monster had taken his other arm in its mouth and snapped it right off as if it were timber. And Captain Braxton staggered for a moment, watching the blood spurt from the end of his missing limb. And when he turned his head, the beast came crashing into his chest. Braxton landed in the mud with the beast on top of him. And he watched in a kind of awestruck horror as it ripped out his heart.

And through it all, Private Mal Turner had slumped to the soggy ground overcome by his illness, to witness the whole gruesome spectacle with eyes half-closed, delirious with fever. And when the blood-soaked creature came over to him it looked at this man and perhaps sensed his disease, as it sniffed once and then turned away and ran off into the forest.

Martha Washington woke from a fitful sleep to what she thought was the growl of a wild animal. She turned in bed looking for her husband but then she realized that this was Mount Vernon; that he was still in Pennsylvania at Valley Forge. The full moon shone through the window. And as she turned her head back to the room she was shocked to see a small boy standing on top of the bed at her feet.

“Mommy,” the boy said, “there’s something in my room.”

Speechless, she took in a breath, her heart pounding beneath her nightgown.

“Mommy,” the boy said again, “I’m scared.”

But Martha was childless, yet she tried to speak to this child, to offer words of comfort, when suddenly his face changed. His eyes went black and fangs appeared as he opened his mouth. Martha gasped as she heard him growl, right before he lunged across the bed.

When she awoke in a cold sweat she could barely catch her breath, her mouth bone dry, her hands before her throat as if to fend off a wild beast.

That morning the camp was rife with speculation as to what had happened in the early morning hours, by the woods near Mount Misery.
Men slaughtered. A British raiding party? An attack by rabid wolves?
And the most outlandish so far:
ghosts from beyond the grave come to exact vengeance!
The soldier’s life is a superstitious one to begin with, but today no one did anything without first saying a prayer. Even General Washington was puzzled as to what actually had taken place.

“So men were killed, is that correct Colonel Burr?”

“Yes General, we believe so.”

“You
believe
so?”

“Well, the bodies were so badly mangled. But they were
men’s
bodies. Of that we’re sure.”

For a moment Washington stood nonplused.

“So, in your opinion, Colonel, what could have caused such an act of brutality?”

“They’re saying wolves, General. A pack of rabid wolves.”

“Who is saying that, Colonel?”

“Well, the men, sir. The fact is that no one has ever seen anything like this.”

“And the… the unlucky souls… were they British soldiers?”

“No. They appear, from what evidence remains, to be Rebels, sir. Continental soldiers with several men who appear to have been Hessians.”

“
Hessians?
”

“Yes. It appears that a detachment of men arrived in the early morning hours with several Hessians... Hessian prisoners that they had captured when… when the incident occurred, General.”

“Do you know who ordered this detachment?”

“No sir, I do not.”

Burr was silent for a moment before he spoke again.

“There was a witness, sir.”

“A
survivor?
”

“Yes. But he has been uncommunicative.”

“Uncommunicative?”

“He’s in the infirmary, sir.”

“Was he wounded?”

“No, oddly he was spared. But he’s sick with fever. Delusional, sir.”

“Did he… did he say
anything?
”

“He said it was a wolf, sir.”

“A wolf? A single wolf?”

“That’s what he said, sir. But as I said, he was delirious.”

“Hmm…” Washington let out a breath. “Well, take me to the spot, Colonel.”

“As you wish, General.”

Ten minutes later they stood in the mud before the scene of slaughter.

“This is Major Seth Grahame-Smith,” Colonel Burr explained. “He was the first to… to arrive here, to see…”

“Major…”

“General…”

“So Major, your thoughts…” said General Washington.

“Sir, I… I never saw anything like it in my
life
, General. I don’t know who could even
imagine
such a thing!”

“My question, Major, was designed to ascertain if you had any knowledge of the parties responsible for… for
this
…” He looked down at the mutilated bodies.

“Yes sir. I mean, no sir,” said Major Grahame-Smith. “Thank God for the rain though!”

“Major?”

“The rain, sir… it washed away the blood. What a gruesome mess it was!”

“Thank you Major, you are dismissed.”

“Yes sir, General.”

And now Washington turned to Aaron Burr.

“They do appear to be our soldiers, don’t they?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you say there was a
witness?
”

“Yes sir. A sentry was placed right there, sir.” Burr motioned with his hand. “And the… the victims appear to have come from the woods, over there.”

There was a pause.

“Whatever it was that attacked them…”