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Back in Morristown, not long after his uncle had been killed by Simcoe in Setauket, a bereaved Caleb had ushered Ben into his tent. He’d said that they had to talk. But Ben couldn’t remember the topic, because their conversation hadn’t lasted long. Caleb had begun to cry halfway through.
Ben remembered feeling terribly anxious and more than a little embarrassed, as if he were trespassing on some private moment. But Caleb hadn’t wanted him to leave; he had taken Ben’s hand and held it so tightly that Ben thought his bones might snap.
How odd those fat tears had looked—dripping down Caleb’s face like droplets of rain before they disappeared into his beard. Caleb hardly cried; as a boy, he’d been far more stoic than Ben, who wept at the drop of a hat—quite literally. Once, little Caleb had knocked Ben’s best cap into the mud and Ben had wailed for over an hour.
Now, Ben had no desire to see Caleb at all. Perhaps he simply couldn’t bear the thought of Caleb seeing him. Regardless, when he heard that the riders from Baltimore had returned to Valley Forge, Ben shut the flap of his tent against the excited chatter of his fellow officers.
He wondered vaguely how Caleb would take the news of Sackett’s death. They hadn’t been particularly close, but Caleb had found the old man’s eccentricity amusing. Ben was also convinced that Sackett, in turn, had started to warm to Caleb.
He stumbled toward his cot and crawled into it, noting how the muscles in his back protested, and how a sharp pain blossomed at the base of his skull and shot down his neck. He unbraided his hair, but that didn’t seem to help. He then recalled bending over Sackett’s body, watching as the spymaster’s blood soaked clean through his cuffs.
Ben pressed his face into his pillow and closed his eyes against the dull ache that persisted in every aspect of his being. He waited and listened, picking up his head at every footstep or voice outside of his tent. Nobody ever called on him, however, and after some hours the noises grew distant.
Ben awoke in a heavy, unsettling darkness. His breath caught in his chest for a moment until he realized that he must have slept into the night. He couldn’t understand how he had fallen asleep so easily, until he remembered that he hadn’t rested in over a day.
He sat up, and immediately his head swam and his stomach turned. He thought that he could see little mites dancing in front of his eyes, and somewhere behind the silence there was a quiet, steady ringing.
It unnerved him, and he decided that he couldn’t stand to be inside any longer. He drank some of the stale water at his bedside before feeling his way toward the flap of the tent.
Outside, he saw that it was not night at all, but early morning. Toward the east, the sky was a brilliant sort of blue, and the stars were little more than pale freckles on its face.
He lingered a few minutes in the cold and began to shiver. That wouldn’t do either. He went inside, sat at the end of his cot, put his elbows on his knees, and waited.
He awoke on his back.
By the time Ben ventured outside once more, the entire camp was basking in hard, clear sunlight. Ben sniffed and crossed his arms under his cloak. Everything had a bright sort of quality to it—as if he were waking up from a very long, dark sleep. He saw new shapes in the same old sights; the tents, the trees, and the clouds were all uncanny. He peered anxiously at his own hands. There was something off about them too.
“Ben?”
Caleb stood a few tents away, gazing at him with a curious expression.
“Oh,” was all Ben could think to say. “Welcome back.”
Caleb meandered forward, hands stuffed into his pockets. He looked relatively unchanged, like a relic from an earlier time. “Good to see you,” he said gently, reaching for Ben’s shoulder.
“Don’t.” Ben winced under the touch and added, “I’m tired.”
Caleb frowned. “How are you holdin’ up?"
Ben knew that Caleb could see right through him. He always did.
“Poorly,” Ben admitted. “I felt a bit...weak this morning. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t eaten. It doesn’t matter, I’ll be fine,” he continued, unsettled by the concern written on Caleb’s face. “I just need a good breakfast.”
“I’m sorry, Ben, I truly am.”
Ben was unsure what to make of that. “Why are you sorry? I practically put him in his grave...”
He exhaled sharply as Caleb grabbed him by the arm—hard enough to bruise, he thought. Without a word, he led Ben—who was far too exhausted to protest—into his tent.
“You did nothing of the sort. You got to the bottom of it, which is more than anyone else can say.”
“I was far too late,” Ben reminded him tersely.
Caleb shook him a little, which made Ben feel queasy. He pulled his arm free, but Caleb continued to stare him down. “Andre’s smart. He outdid us. That’s it. I’m sorry that Sackett had to die for it,” Caleb paused to take a breath, “but you did nothing wrong. Nothing.”
It never occurred to Ben to believe a word of what Caleb was saying. “I could’ve pushed Washington to see—”
“To see what? How?”
“I don’t—I don’t know, but I didn’t even try...Look, will you stop?” Ben hissed. His hands were shaking and he felt as if his legs were ready to give out at any moment. “This is why I didn’t want to see you; you never leave me be!"
“Do you want to feel sorry for yourself?” Caleb said icily. “Is that it? Jesus, Ben, you act as if you took the knife to him yourself. You’re not the only one who misses him, you know!”
“Leave me alone,” Ben spat. His voice, which he had hardly used during the past two days, was beginning to crack.
"Ben." Caleb’s tone had changed. He suddenly seemed very unsure of himself, and even a little contrite. “You know I didn’t mean that.” There was a little waver in his voice.
But Ben wouldn’t have it. He made a noise of disgust at the back of his throat and waved dismissively.
“Benny...”
“Get out.” The words flew out of his mouth before he could think them through. But they did the job.
Caleb nodded slowly, chewing on his lower lip. Before he left, he pulled a small package from his coat pocket and placed it on Ben’s desk.
Ben collapsed into his cot and gazed at the light peeking through the fibers of his canvas ceiling. The ringing in his ears was so loud that he thought it might never go away.
When he finally mustered the will to stand, he examined Caleb’s package and found that it was a generous portion of stale cake. He chose not to eat it.
The day passed in a haze. Nobody fetched him to report to Washington, nor did they come to ask for his opinion or his orders. However, somebody—he neglected to ask who—did send an enlisted man to deliver him a lukewarm bowl of stew for an early supper. He ate about half of it before he began to feel sick. Perhaps it was poisoned, he thought. Perhaps he was next in line to die.
Ben didn’t see Caleb again until later that night. When he showed up at Ben’s tent entirely uninvited, Ben had almost pretended to be asleep. But Caleb wouldn’t let Ben’s silence keep him from coming in. After all, he had returned with a bottle of madeira and an apology at the ready, and when Caleb put his mind to something there was no stopping him.
Caleb sat heavily at the edge of Ben’s cot, and the wood creaked under their combined weight.
“Benny?” He laid a warm hand on Ben’s arm.
Ben merely looked at him. Caleb’s face moved in and out of focus.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” Caleb pushed, giving Ben’s arm a little squeeze. “I was upset.”
Ben nodded. He could understand that, certainly. He had, since that morning, realized that Caleb was likely feeling Sackett’s loss in his own way. After all, the two had been growing on each other.
He struggled to sit up, but shrugged off Caleb’s attempt to help him.
“I understand,” he began. “I was being stupid.”
“No, not stupid...”
“I think you must have liked him a little. Didn’t you?” Ben asked. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to hear.
“Of course I did,” Caleb assured him.
“I wasn’t sure,” Ben continued. “He was an odd little man, after all. I'm surprised that I liked him.”
“He was a good man."
“Oh, yes, he was. Even if he was too suspicious. Well, except...” Ben trailed off. “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming. Well, maybe he did, at the end. I don’t know.”
To Ben’s surprise, he noticed that Caleb’s eyes looked a little glassy. They sat in silence for a moment, during which Caleb sniffled noisily.
“Are you crying?” Ben asked. That was stupid, he thought after a beat. Why draw attention to it?
Caleb, however, cracked a small smile. “Do you have any idea how many times I asked you the same question when we were young?”
Ben shook his head.
“You cried a lot.”
“Over stupid things, I’m sure. I don’t know why I can’t now.”
“You’re exhausted, Ben,” Caleb told him. “Why don’t you sleep first, and then you can think about that in the morning?”
Ben closed his eyes. Although he couldn’t see, he was sure that Caleb was staring at him with concern.
“What would I do if I lost you?” Ben wondered aloud. But the thought was too painful to entertain.
Caleb snorted. “You won’t,” he concluded. “Hey, you don’t mind if I drink this here, do you? Those other boys aren’t any fun.”
“And I am?” Ben managed to arch an eyebrow.
“You’re better company asleep than they are drunk.”
Ben dropped his head onto his pillow. “You can stay. If you’d like.”
“And you can sleep. I’ll be here if you need me. Workin’ on this.”
“Save me some, then.”
“Nah.”
As Ben drifted in and out of consciousness, he heard Caleb humming some old, nameless tune that he’d hummed a thousand times before. For whatever reason, Ben could never seem to remember the melody. But he always knew it when he heard it again, and sometimes—during a warm, pleasant dream—he'd wonder how he'd ever forgotten it.