1x1 with good grief!!!

[panzram]

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a TURN one on one between good grief!!!
& panzram. please do not post on this
thread unless you are either one of us,
thank you.

[panzram]

res. for john andre

[a. seemanni]

BENJAMIN TALLMADGE
──────────────────────────────

and i never will prove false ─────────────────────
Brookhaven was first graced with the presence of Benjamin Tallmadge February 25, 1754, on a day that was absolutely pouring down rain. He was always one for adventure but parted with his most trusted friends when he was accepted to Yale University, waving goodbye to the hazy town and those he loved within it. He was visiting home when war broke out, and without hesitation followed his friends into the revolution on the side of their young nation.
──────────────── till the stars fall from the sky, my dear

[a. seemanni]

The tent at the far end of the camp, pitched away from the rest, was the only one still lit an an hour like this. Benjamin Tallmadge was the Dragoon that Never Slept, but his men always made sure that the title never got back to him - it was a term of endearment, an admiration of the tireless hours Ben had sunk into making sure they were ready. Into, at the very least, trying to make sure they were fed and had ammunition at the end of the day. If congress wasn’t going to help then to hell with congress, he was sure he could trade continental dollars for pounds at some black market or another, and something could be done. The men under his command deserved more, but it was all he could give them. No matter, they all said, they’d work with what they got, but Ben knew hunger weighed them down regardless of the lightness of their souls. Winter was getting longer and need only grows in wars like this one, but running out of everything was no major obstacle. They’d survived on much less - they’d melted a wedding band to make bullets. Rosaries, extraneous anything - he swore at the thought. Soon, they’d run out of candles, and that was nothing new either.

Ben had been distracted by the blue coat folded neatly across the back of a chair, wondering how they’d let things get this bad, when the tent flap was thrown roughly open and his chin jerked up. Caleb, in all of his glory, 5 feet and seven inches of fire, was grinning at him through the opening. It was a welcome sight, followed by the excited. “You’ve got to see this, benny boy!” that made the dragoon’s heart leap into his throat. ‘Benny boy’ never meant anything other than progress, when he looked like that. It meant that Caleb, ever resourceful, had found something. Ben didn’t think to reach for the coat as he snuffed the candle, rushing out into the brisk winter air. He tensed at that - the coat would have been wise - and shook, just minutely. They were off toward the bar that laid on the edge of the property, just within the flying camp’s reach. Ben’s breath moved in billows, pouring from his mouth like smoke from cannonfire. Between the slats of the boards that made up the structure, there as firelight. Someone, clearly, was inside.

Unthinking, the dragoon went in without his coat like a fool. Surely, Caleb was bringing him to his men, and they’d all laugh at his lack of preparedness. Oh, well. He began to announce himself, giving first his callsign so they’d know who was coming in, but then realized this was nothing ordinary. There was only one man in the straw, bound to one of the barn’s many support beams in what looked like a less-than-comfortable position. Quickly, the light left his bright, blue eyes, and he gave Caleb an odd look. What was this? Who had the man brought him? It was a british officer, that much made clear by his red coat. “[A lobsterback,” he mused, face very serious despite his smug tone. A burlap sack covered the officer’s head, and, deliberately slowly, it was lifted by Caleb’s unforgiving fingers. It had looked like he’d snagged hair, for a second.

Ben’s eyes went wide, and it took conscious effort for his jaw not to fall slack. There was shock and something that might have been austere in any other context, but one would could absolutely color him impressed. “Caleb Brewster, you’re mad.” He knelt, just close enough that he could crane his head and examine the man’s face. He looked cold, but that was no surprise - everyone did, but at least he had a coat to live in while he was there. Ben had begun to shake, just barely perceptible, and felt rather envious of the man in front of him; John Andre, a living myth. A legend of the King’s men, in the flesh and there to be seen and questioned as Ben felt appropriate, probably. Caleb had brought him one of the most important men in the King’s army and Ben couldn’t be happier, but he also knew what would happen if anyone knew the man was there; Ben didn’t like putting men to death. Ben wouldn’t put men to death, if he could help it. Offhandedly, he mused that Andre was rather too pretty to be killed just yet. Breaking eye contact, he found his own roving to Caleb. Caleb, who might not understand the magnitude of what he had just done. Caleb, who looked so very, very proud of himself and really ought to be. “What is this?”

Caleb frowned, and Ben reminded himself that he’d not have time to worry about having upset his best friend. “Found him crossing the Crone’s Bridge,” the whaler supplied, eyebrows raised. Ben stood and shook his head, starting to pace. What in the world was he going to do?

[panzram]

indentationhe’d jumped him, and stupidly, foolishly, he hadn’t payed much attention as he should have. he’d put up quite a fight, kicking and biting and snapping until he was forced to his knees, his hands bound painfully behind his back and the burlap sack roughly shoved upon him before brewster dragged him to the camp, where he’d been bound to the support beam of a barn. there was straw underneath him, crackling whenever he’d shifted, and the smell of the barn was musky - not the best conditions for prisoners, especially for one of major john andre’s ranking. and he knew that after whoever would question him, trying to pull information from him that they could use was done, he probably would die. though that was the way wars worked, he knew, especially since he wore the red coat and being a well-known british officer.

indentationit seemed like ages before he could hear two sets of feet belonging to two desperate people - he recognized the footfalls of his capturer, and his lip curled. the other, however, he didn’t. his legs, bent uncomfortably beneath him, were becoming stiff to the point of pain, and he shifted uncomfortably. he heard a voice, distinct, and a word he recognized - lobsterback. often, that was what the british soldiers and officers were often called due to their red coats, and it was of no surprise to the major he would be called so. deliberately slowly, the burlap sack was tugged from his head, and he almost growled when the fingers snagged his hair, for a moment. he blinked rapidly as it was finally pulled off, his eyes adjusting to the barn, having only been able to see cloth before.

indentationhe was met with the sight of caleb brewster, rugged and who’d he fought violently with on the bridge, and none other than benjamin tallmadge. the major straightened, chin raised, and lip with a slight curl. ”how frightening, i'm shivering in my skin - if it isn’t benjamin tallmadge.” his voice was cool, regal despite his position.

[a. seemanni]

Ben gave the british Major a look that said it didn’t behoove him, in this particular circumstance, to be mocking anyone. He raked a hand through his hair with the look of a caged animal and stepped unintentionally nimbly across the straw, really trying to warm himself up more than think. This sort of thing would mean a court martial if it got out that he’d just had Andre and let him go; what a lead that would be, too, and surely they’d be lauded. The whole of the continental army might run them off into no man’s land to be executed by the next passing redcoat. They definitely couldn’t show their faces again in Setauket, and Brookhaven wouldn’t welcome him home. If the Major’s reaction were anything, he’d be recognized the second he stepped into Tory land. Caleb might find them somewhere discreet, but Ben wasn’t much for hiding. Neither of them were. The dragoon and his right hand were a fighting type, men of action, who believed in something and fought harder for it than they had ever fought for anything. It couldn’t be dismantled by Andre.

Ben stopped after a moment, biting his index finger discreetly as he covered the lower half of his face with the rest of his hand. It was a tick that told those close to him he was thinking like his life depended on it. His eyes roved their captive once again, taking in his state. He was definitely roughed up, dirt staining his breeches and hair a mess. His clothes were askew and one of the epaulettes of his jacket ripped clean off. In this way, Caleb had impressed him. The whaler was much physically stronger than him, and to have bested Andre on his own certainly wasn’t easy, but to have gone so far as to start ripping things off in attempt to subdue him meant that Brewster had had to work for it. Solid, barrel chested Caleb Brewster had found a challenge in besting John Andre. That was a funny thought. The laugh in his throat was stifled by incisors clamping down on skin once again.

As he’d been thinking, Caleb had begun to stalk the barn, getting bored. The whaler had come up on Andre again, starting to make little, snarky remarks, little questions and quips. He’d been stroking his own ego, glad that he had brought down a redcoat no matter who it was, and it pulled Ben out of his rumination. Well and truly, he didn’t know what to do about this other than the way another officer would have handled it. He paused. “Go and get my coat,” he told Caleb from behind his hand, and the danger in his eyes was a dismissal that the lieutenant didn’t take lightly. He was out of the barn on silent feet, and Ben turned on his heel to face the Major now that they were alone.

His index finger still bore the impressions of his teeth, his own snarl barely hidden in his owlish face, but the dragoon seemed otherwise nonplussed. His chin was angled down, eyes fixed on the Major before him, and for a second it almost seemed he could do it, but the shaking now seemed to be from his own composure instead of the cold. Ben knew how to interrogate. Ben knew the end of an interrogation meant a hanging. He’d try to avoid that. “Major Andre,” the shorter man started, “I apologize for the conditions at the moment, but I would hope it satisfies you to know we aren’t doing much better ourselves.” He shifted his weight to the other foot, voice surprisingly level. “This’ll have to do for now, though I’m sure if you’d prefer there is some sort of chair in the camp.” Actually, he wouldn’t count on it. Fires needed fuel. Then again, they could strap him to a hay bale and call it even. Maybe. “Between you and me,” Ben frowned, “I would prefer this not end with you at the end of a rope. This war’s brought … too many casualties, with not enough results. Snakes in the garden. I’m sure you disagree, but I’m not in any position to care about that, now.[”

[panzram]

he wasn’t defeated. major john andre was never defeated even with the fact that he may very well end up dead afterward. despite the burn of the rope wound around his wrists bounding him to a barn post, his eyes watched benjamin tallmadge warily, but there was defiance in the set of his jaw and the upward tilt of his chin. he may be disarranged after his struggle with caleb brewster - and a low growl threatened to escape his lips at the thought - stained with dirt, a smear of dirt across one cheek from where brewster had pressed it into the ground, but he was still one of the best british intelligence majors, and in that fact alone he held much pride. he wasn’t about to be bested by benjamin tallmadge and his men, whom were struggling, whilst andre and the british were well-supplied with whatever they may need. nor did he have any intention to give up information, which was surely why brewster dragged him here instead of killing him while he had the chance.

and then brewster, whom had somehow, somehow beaten him in a way even andre was unsure of, was cocky enough to approach him once more, his snide questions and remarks building a growl in the major’s chest. he let a soft snarl escape past his lips, which were curled as he held brewster’s gaze with his own, unflinching - the only noise he would allow to show his hatred for the other. he wanted to lunge, tearing free of the rope which bound him to the post, and rip brewster apart with his fingers as he could with careful, well-placed words, for andre was both a master with words as he was with his hands, of which were strong, capable, and scarred from over the years. he held brewster’s gaze evenly with his own, lips pressed firmly together - he wouldn’t give the whaler the satisfaction of mocking him in response, as he had done with benjamin tallmadge.

but then benjamin tallmadge, who had at least enough authority in this situation, andre supposed, dismissed him from behind his hand, and his eyes shifted to him once more. he had much too handsome of a face and stature, and a certain air about him that made andre want to lean forward on his stiff knees if only to be a little closer to him. there was . . . something about him andre couldn’t quite put his finger on. though andre himself considered it a betrayal to his men to be thinking such thoughts and to want such a thing as to be closer to his enemy, and if his men knew, they would say the same. for he was loyal to the british crown and loyal until his final breath. so the loyal, british officer side of him fought violently against the other which threatened to put benjamin tallmadge’s name into his mind with fondness. the only thing which unsettled him was the fact that he didn’t know which side was winning.

tallmadge’s words made andre’s brows raise, in puzzlement and confusion as well as shock. his head tilted slightly and he was curious despite himself. “do you dislike killing people, boy?” he asks, though he knows well that tallmadge is no longer a boy, but a man, his equal no matter if the word put a bitter tang in andre’s mouth. and his words are not unkind, merely curious.

[a. seemanni]

“I’ll answer you with a question; are we not the same man, on different sides of a war? Why would I enjoy killing someone?” The questions were almost grudging, like maybe the man had put a little too much thought into it, but when that thought was applied they really were, in a way, one in the same. Men putting aside their lives in a dutiful service to country. Ben could respect that, as much as he didn’t want to. He resonated with it, which he hated more than anything. He didn’t want to relate to the man in front of him, but it had to be said. “[I think if it were the other way around I would be without a prayer, but I don’t pretend to know that for certain.” He frowned, looking over his shoulder as clouds billowed from his lips. The fire did little to make him any warmer than the wind. As soon as the noise he’d thought was coming closer retreated, he turned back to the Major.

Still, Ben wondered what it was that Caleb had been so interested in. There were the obvious things - a high-ranking officer ought to know something about the movements of his army and what all it had and what all it lacked - but this was someone worth bringing to Washington. What made Andre special? What made him worth hiding? Ben Started to pace again, probably maddening to watch, but didn’t chew on his hand. Enough of that and he’d need bandages that they just didn’t have. Soon enough he’d walk through his boots, and they were already running on nothing. The dragoon, freer with his words than most, shook his head as he turned on his heel, taking a few steps the other direction before switching indecisively. Clearly, what to really do was eating at him. He wasn’t ready for something like this, and Caleb would be another 15 minutes. Caleb was always better with people than him. “Why were you traveling alone in patriot territory?”

It was a general question, not accusing or prodding, clearly laced with a hint of disapproval. It was a bit too stupid a decision for someone of his caliber to just fly under the radar - even Ben was usually with Caleb, and if not him then General Scott or Sackett. Moving through alone was suicide. “And if you'll pardon my asking, what made you think it was a good idea?” In Ben’s opinion, it wasn’t. Going into enemy territory alone where one would be easily recognized by all who met him, regardless of their loyalty, was idiocy. If he’d been found by anyone else, he’d be a dead man. He ran the risk of it now, even, just a lower one while the dragoon had him hidden here. It wasn’t comfortable, but he found himself thinking it was at least as safe a place as any. Why would he be worried about the Major’s safety, about the obvious discomfort of being on one’s knees for however long he had been? Usually, prisoners just had to deal. He found himself once again asking what made him special. Why he cared.

[panzram]

truthfully, andre didn’t have a purpose for crossing into patriot territory, acting on a feeling more than anything. longing, really, tugging him in a direction - and tallmadge’s direction, nonetheless, but he wouldn’t admit that, not now. not while he was here, wrists stinging sharply with rope burn, disheveled from his scuffle with brewster, and knowing that death was close to him, even at benjamin’s reluctance to kill him. “i can’t tell you.” he says instead of admitting why, exactly, caleb brewster found him crossing crone’s bridge. to do so would be embarrassing. to admit that he was caught because of nothing other than a strong, desperate feeling which lead him into patriot territory - which led him to tallmadge - would damage andre’s pride and make others think him mad.

“but, of course i knew it wasn’t a good idea. that much i can tell you. even more so now that i ended up like this.” he huffs, his eyes casting downward to glare at the straw beneath him. he hadn’t much of any idea of what he would’ve done if he got to benjamin without caleb attacking him - perhaps he would’ve stood frozen, spluttering and desperately searching for the right words to explain himself before tallmadge had called for backup. perhaps andre would have been arrested either way but he knew it would have been worth it, at least for him. benjamin didn’t want to kill him, andre knew, but he’d have to come to terms with the fact that brewster would pressure him into doing so anyways.

“there are things even i can not explain.” he says after a moment, before he falls silent. that’s all he would say, for now. he knew it wasn’t a suitable explanation, but he thought it best that tallmadge not know of the reason as to which he had come if he’s taking his last breaths very, very soon, which he expected as a british-loyal major as tallmadge’s prisoner. but perhaps he would tell him, eventually. andre didn’t know what would happen, because with benjamin tallmadge so many things could happen. so he stays there, legs stiff and wrists stinging with a sharp pain, head bowed.

[a. seemanni]

Ben nodded. As he turned on his heel again, he tried not to think of what he knew Caleb’s verdict would be. Caleb would want him hanged, but Tallmadge just didn’t agree. It made them no better than the people they were trying to liberate themselves from, and even if Andre were one of them, how could they preach liberty if they were cutting men down for fighting to maintain their own? This Major would just be a special weight in his conscience - it took courage to admit that a question wouldn’t be answered not because he was under obligation, but because he simply did not know. Nobody wanted to not know in a game where strategy was key and one must be a step ahead. Variables were abhorrent, in war, and to admit them could be … difficult. It was a risky admission. Ben wondered what made the british Major so willing to say as much.

Vague answers could be expected. Should be expected. Of course, in the inverse Ben would die before he gave information away that easily. All of the men had been warned that torture was a viable option to those in service of the Crown, and made ready for it should it become their fate. Ben still had a scar below his knee from the experience. The Continentals didn’t torture prisoners, or, if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. Simcoe had been an anomaly, a weird happening that Ben had only let slide because it was something personal. Because it was well-deserved, and even then, he wouldn’t call it torture. It was too small to be torture, more like roughing up. Ben didn’t think he’d let Caleb go so far on anyone else. Little snipes, cocky taunts and snarky, hateful questions could be abided, the whaler was just like that, but when he was driven to violence for an answer the dragoon was rather likely to excuse him from the room as he had just now, requesting his coat to get the man out of his path.

After a few minutes of silence, Tallmadge stopped pacing. Diligence danced in the man’s eyes as the barn received a good scan, but for what it was unclear. He sighed. “Do you mean that you don’t know why you did it, or that you will not tell me what your purpose was?” He walked a circle around Andre, mid whirring. “If you knew it was a poor idea, why did you do it? You don’t strike me as the impulsive type. I hope you’ll forgive my assumptions, but this would have been a lethal lapse of judgement if Caleb hadn't come to find me, and you seem rather intelligent.”