George Washington Werewolf (7 page)

“Colonel Burr…”

“Well sir, like the Major said, the rain washed away all the tracks and left just a muddy mess.”

“Hmm,” Washington sighed. “Well, have some men take care of the bodies.”

“Right away, sir.”

At this Baron Von Steuben rode up on his dappled mare.

“Colonel Burr… General Washington…”

And as Von Steuben raised his arm in salute, for a moment he winced.

“Something
wrong
, Baron?” Washington asked.

“My arm is a little stiff, General. From sleeping on the cold mattress.” He looked over at the bodies. “A terrible thing, this. I heard it was a pack of wolves.”

“That’s what we believe,” said Colonel Burr.

Von Steuben nodded and then looked at General Washington, hoping to divine
his
thoughts.

“I think I’ll pay a visit to that sentry who was here,” the General said, and then to Burr, “What was his name?”

“Um, I have it right here, sir…” Aaron Burr brought out a pad on which he had scribbled the name. “Private Malcolm Turner, sir.”

“Private Malcolm Turner…” George Washington said as he turned from the two officers and rode off towards the infirmary.

“General Washington!” Dr. Benjamin Rush exclaimed.

George Washington looked around at all the sick and dying soldiers, the ravages of this winter of deprivation, and he felt indescribably sad.

“So many men…” he let out a sigh.

“Frostbite… pneumonia… high fever… malnutrition…”

“Hmm…”

“So General, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ben, you have a Private Turner here, is that correct?”

“Yes General.”

“Can he speak?”

“Well, I’ll let you see for yourself.” And he led Washington to Turner’s cot.

“Private Turner…” Washington began.

“
Maaal
…”

“What?”

“He’s quite ill, General,” said Dr. Rush. “He’s been in and out of consciousness.”

“Private Turner, can you
hear
me?”

At that moment, Mal Turner opened his eyes and saw General George Washington standing above his bed.

“General Wa… Sir!”

“Easy, soldier…” Washington glanced at the doctor and then looked back at Private Turner. “Can you tell me what happened last night?”

“Last night, sir?”

“The attack…”

“You mean the wolf sir?”

“The wolf?”

“That killed Captain Braxton.”

“Captain
Braxton?
” Washington looked to Dr. Rush.

“That’s the first he’s mentioned a Captain Braxton, General.”

“Private Turner, are you sure it was just
one
wolf?”

“One wolf, sir?”

“That killed Captain Braxton…”

“Von Steuben…”

At this, Washington felt his heart skip a beat.

“What did you say?”

“Under the direct orders of the Inspector General… we have four Hessian soldiers as our prisoners…”

“As I said, he’s been more or less delirious, sir,” said the doctor.

“DAMN ALL… OFFICERS AND… GENTLEMEN!”

Washington smiled to himself, as he leaned over the bed.

“Private, can you tell me anything
more
about Captain Braxton?”

“Captain who?”

“From last night…”

“You look quite terrible… Frightful, in fact…”

“
Private?
”

“Private, you are
relieved
…” Mal Turner said, and then he said it again, “Private, you are
re-leeeved
…”

“He has a high fever, General. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“So I gather. So if he becomes coherent let me know immediately, all right Doctor?”

“Yes, General. I will”

“Private, you are
RELEEEVED!
” the General heard again as he left the infirmary.

When Washington returned to the camp proper he found Colonel Burr and had him check all the rosters for a Captain Braxton. Burr later reported that there was no officer by that name in the Continental Army.

Aaron Burr did not like to
not
know things. At Princeton he had been first in his class, and he had always seemed to grasp things before anyone else. But now with the bizarre events of the past few days he was at a loss as to what was going on. The only thing he knew for sure was that it most likely had nothing to do with the British, but rather something that his academic and military training had left him ill equipped to face.

Burr decided to return to the scene of the slaughter to see if he had missed a crucial piece of evidence. Upon arrival, two enlisted men came up to him with a third man, his hands bound in hemp behind his back.

“Colonel Burr, sir, we’ve brought back a traitorous deserter for General Washington to dispose of.”

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Private David Metz, sir, and this is Private Ophie Kier…”

“Not
your
names, idiots! I mean the
deserter’s
…”

“You heard the Colonel!
Speak
, traitor!” Private Metz shouted, with an added punch to the ribs for good measure.

“Private Jonathan James, sir.”

“Well, Private James, I’m in an exceedingly bad mood. So what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing sir. I just… I just wanted to go home.”

“Ha! Do you think
I
don’t want to go home as well?”

The deserter was silent.

“Shall we bring him to General Washington?” Private Metz asked.

“
What?
No, sirrah! The General has
enough
on his mind without being bothered by you imbeciles!”

“So what shall we do with him, sir?”

Burr thought for a moment.

“Hold him up…” he said.

“Sir?”

“Hold him up straight,” he said again.

“You heard him!” said Private Metz to Private Kier.

And when he was propped up between the two, Colonel Burr drew his pistol from its holster, cocked the hammer, and fired, sending pieces of the deserter’s bloody brain through the air. And for a moment the two privates stood there with mouths agape, as they still held onto the soldier’s lifeless body.

“Get rid of that traitor,” Colonel Burr said, “and don’t bother me again.”

The moon was due to rise at seven pm, but this information was irrelevant to General George Washington as he sat on his gray stallion called Nelson, looking out at the camp. He had been troubled all day with what happened the night before, the butchered troops. And now it was still unknown as to who they were and who (or what) was responsible. And as he surveyed the camp he saw Otto, Van Steuben’s dog-hating dwarf, walking briskly towards his small private hut, where he stayed when he wasn’t attending to the Baron. Washington remembered what that private had said, about Van Steuben. And although he was obviously raving with fever, there was still something about it that bothered the General. And he wheeled his horse around and moved at a trot towards the woods, which led to Van Steuben’s quarters.

Colonel Aaron Burr had been troubled as well, but for different reasons. He kept thinking of that cage in the Baron’s hut, and that little bastard dwarf who threatened to blow his head off. Burr waited until the dwarf went back to camp before he made his way through the forest. The path was a swath cut through the trees made by the enlisted men several months before, and it now served as a direct route to the Baron’s hut. When Burr arrived he saw the owl again, perched ominously on a branch, its strange face with an expression both quizzical and deeply disturbing. Aaron Burr was convinced that if he ever were to go to Hell that
this
would be the creature that would greet him upon arrival. He reached for his pistol but then he noticed that tonight there was a padlock on the door outside. He sighed to himself as he had only one bullet in his pistol and he wasn’t in the mood to reload. So he turned and aimed his weapon at the lock on the door. The report of his flintlock echoed through the woods as the owl took wing. Burr removed the shattered padlock and put his hand to the doorknob when a sharp voice pierced the air.

“Colonel Burr, what are you
doing?
”

It was General Washington astride his horse, his saber at his side.

“General Washington! I… You
startled
me, sir!”

“Yes, but I asked you what you were doing.”

“I was… I was checking on the Inspector General, sir, I… I heard a gunshot.”

Washington looked down at the padlock on the ground and then at Burr’s sidearm as the young Colonel remained silent.

“Get back to camp, Colonel Burr… at once.”

“Yes General.”

Washington waited until Burr and his horse had disappeared from view before he dismounted. Walking over he picked up the padlock. It was destroyed from where it had been struck by the bullet, and then the General turned to the hut. Quietly he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Otto, is that you?” came a voice from the darkness. “I heard a gunshot...”

The only light shone in through the open door, and what Washington saw made him catch his breath. Before him was a huge cage taking up almost the entire room and in it was Baron Von Steuben, standing naked in the shadows.

“Baron! What
happened?
Who
did
this to you?”

“General, you must leave here immediately. There’s not much time…”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Washington rushed to the cage and found that it was locked.

“Who
did
this to you? Was it your
dwarf?
”

“You must leave here at once, General! Before it’s too late!

“Where’s the key, Baron?” Washington shook the door, but the cage was strong.

“General, you must…”

“Baron, where is the key?”

“You must go at
once!
” implored Von Steuben. “Otherwise…”

Washington stood there, unable to understand. Stepping closer he looked at the Baron’s face. It was gripped by some kind of inner torment, his features transformed into a look of such sadness as if his very soul had been lost.

“Baron, I have to get you out of here. Stand back!” Washington brought out his pistol and aimed it at the lock.

“NO! PLEASE!” Von Steuben’s voice strained. “GET OUT
NOW!
”

And then the Baron saw the familiar change in the light shining through the open door. The moon had begun to rise.

“It’s too late…” Von Steuben said.

And George Washington looked into his eyes, was moved by a kind of inner agony that overcame them, and he stood before the cage transfixed.

The only sound was the fire, the flames gently consuming the logs with the occasional pop as a spark shot out, but to the boy sitting before the hearth these were cannonballs bursting in air. Young Friedrich sat before a great army. Painted metal soldiers in Prussian battle dress, with shouldered muskets and a phalanx of cannon aimed at the Swedish troops. The Great Northern War which lasted for twenty-one years was being fought here tonight on the rough wooden floor, eight year-old Freddy von Steuben in command as General of all Prussian forces. And in the chair across the room sat his father, Wilhelm Augustin, with his pipe, his face aglow in candlelight as he watched his only son. His wife Elizabeth had died in childbirth eight years before, and since then he would be the first to admit that he indulged his only child. It was far too late, well past Freddy’s bedtime. Yet it was so peaceful sitting there before the fire on this long winter’s night, watching his son fight for Prussian independence. And the thing that his father marveled at was that it was all done in silence. The soldiers maneuvered across the field, the cannon were fired, the men fell to the ground in death, but it all took place within young Friedrich’s mind where the cannon, the gunshots, and the screams of the wounded were deafening.

Wilhelm Augustin took a puff from his pipe as he watched his son execute a left oblique, which put the Swedish regiment in enfilade. And he smiled as young Freddy brought his cannon to bear. If his son had been in command the Great Northern War might not have lasted twenty-one years, he smiled to himself. And then he noticed the fire. More logs were needed if they were to stay warm through the night, and there was only one left in the pile.