Unmasked

by Kevin J. Anderson

  These concerns tugged at me and dismayed me. If the British came, what would happen to these commoners, particularly my fellow Coloreds? Would they be mistreated? Or merely ignored, having played no part in the rebellion?

  British rule I knew. It was less harsh than the slave masters’. Yet the British tolerated and profited from the slavery that their southern colonists perpetuated. I did not see change coming from the British.

  “All men are created equal.” The words gave me hope, but that glimmering flame was too thin, too malnourished to provide much heat. Yet it was all that I knew. Enough spark that I hungered for more.

  I needed to know much more. And yet the ones best able to speak of it were not here. And perhaps would not speak to me even then.

  I needed to talk to the one I could, General Washington, the sole leader who remained. But Washington was a Virginian, and I knew he owned slaves. I did not know if he would meet with me.

  This is when I decided on the mask. In my cloak and my gloves, all that betrayed my race was my visage. A mask would remedy that situation.

  A mask also meant I could reveal my powers more openly. When I slept, I could be chained. The less the man with the powers and the man asleep resembled one another, the safer I would be.

  It took some time, cloistered with a Colored dressmaker, to arrive at a suitable design. White cotton served as the base, with thin white muslin over the eyes. I could see, as through a mist. The dressmaker stitched in patterns of red and blue in swirls and stars to disguise the shape of my jaw, and the line of my cheek. When I looked in the small ladies’ hand mirror she provided, I laughed.

  “I look more like a flag than a man!”

  She just smiled, for wasn’t that the point?

  Meantime, I spent what gold I had for the clothes of a gentleman. I knew Washington would not deign to spend time with a ragged farmer regardless of his race.

  That night, I took flight again, mask safely in my pocket. I rose high on the breeze above the East River, flying towards Washington’s army at Brooklyn Heights, just across the river. I’d heard the British pressed them tight.

  It took little time to find the cook fires and lamps and torches of Washington’s army, as well as the British army they faced. Two lines of light faced each other. The British had twice the number. Washington’s army was pinned against the sea.

  I swooped low across the water. Small boats ferried men and supplies between the isle of Manhattan and Brooklyn Heights. Small boats that would be easy to capsize with a small breeze or a swelling of the waves. Small boats that would be easy to destroy with a single shot from a cannon. They fought their way through the choppy waters, men bent against their oars.

  I decided they must be Americans. I left them to their tasks.

  Further south, in the open bay, dark shadows against the water caught my eye. I had the winds carry me down until I could see more clearly. Ships. Large ones, with small lights along their decks. I dived lower to see more, but cries went up from the closest. I flew away fast, with the hope that they’d not known what they’d seen.

  I pondered the ships as I flew back toward Washington’s camp. I guessed they were British, come to cut off the transport across the river. If they did so, it would complicate my ability to meet with the General. That was a complication I did not wish to have.

  I called up a wind from the north, low against the water. I raised it up, above the small boats of the Americans, to the height of the larger ships’ sails. I strengthened it, until I was sure it would keep those ships at bay.

  Then I searched for a suitable place in which to land and approach the General.

  I found a rocky spot along the shore, far enough from the little boats to be hidden, but close enough that I could quickly follow those disembarking toward Washington’s camp. Even better, the few sentries I saw were watching either those arriving or the water beyond. I dropped, feet first, my arms at my side, with a pillow of air to cushion me in the last yard. Even with that, I almost stumbled as I stepped from the air to the rock. I had not counted on it being wet and slippery. I sank into a crouch and looked around.

  No alarm. No challenges. I let out my breath. Then I put on my mask.

  I chose to walk rather than creep toward the line of men carrying supplies from the shore up the slope. Better to misdirect any that intercepted me than draw suspicion for my bearing. To my good fortune, I arrived at the informal caravan route during a lull. Two men wrested several boxes while a third held aloft a torch. He tried to drag a wooden trunk across the uneven ground as he did.

  “Let me help,” I said, hurrying forward. I ducked my head, letting the cowl of my cape cast shadows across my face.

  “Huh? What?”

  The men were too surprised to react before I’d lifted the handle of the trunk.

  “Where’d you come from?” the torchbearer asked.

  “My boat’s down there,” I gestured the way I’d come. “I’m already unloaded. I thought you could use a hand.”

  The torchbearer grunted and then shifted his grip so we could carry the heavy trunk between us. The weight yanked at my shoulder and the handle cut into my gloved hand, but I merely tightened my grip. I kept my head down as we trudged along the path.

  After a hundred yards, two hundred yards, three hundred yards, the ache in my arm grew and grew. The torchbearer jerked on his handle from time to time as he tried to bear the weight more with his shoulder. The light flickered ahead.

  Finally, we set the trunk down to catch our breath. I leaned over, my hands on my knees and considered what I might do. A wind would not lift the trunk, being too close to the ground. I could not thicken the air either, as it would remain still while we and the trunk moved on. Lost in my thoughts, I stood up too straight.

  “Hey,” the torchbearer said, “what’s with the mask?” His eyes narrowed as he stared at me.

  My heart raced, but my tongue was as quick. “Warmth,” I said. “Against the night air and the rain.”

  “It’s not cold,” he said.

  “Cold enough,” I said. With a quick blink of my will, I sent the heat from the air up to the sky.

  He shivered, and then stared at me in surprise.

  “Let’s get to the sentry,” one of the other men said.

  The torchbearer gave me another hard look and then grunted again. He reached for the trunk handle and we were on our way.

  Far too many steps later, we reached two soldiers with rifles at their sides. Dirt splattered the uniforms. Fatigue filled their faces. With relief, we lowered the trunk to the ground. The other men stood straighter, so I did, too, though I kept my head bowed.

  “Cannonballs and ammunition,” the torchbearer said. “Also bread and apples.” He nodded toward the other men. Then he bent and unlatched the trunk.

  By God, we had been carrying cannonballs. The sentries gave them a cursory look, followed by a check of the boxes of the others. They started to wave us through, when the torchbearer held up his hand.

  “He’s not with us,” he said as he pointed to me. “He helped, yeah, but he didn’t come across the river with us. And he’s wearing a mask.”

  That got their attention. The further one raised his rifle, though not quite to his shoulder. The nearer one’s hand dropped to the pistol at his waist.

  I held out my hands, gloved palms wide, showing them empty.

  “I’m American,” I said. “I wish to see General Washington.”

  “What for?” snapped the closer sentry.

  “That is between myself and the General,” I demurred.

  His face hardened and he drew his pistol but did not raise it.

  “I am unarmed,” I said, “and no threat. I just wish to speak with him.”

  “Get your commander,” the torchbearer said to the sentry. Then he gave the trunk a pointed look. “We need to deliver these.”

  “Take the others,” the sentry said. His pistol was now chest high and pointed in my general direction. “Come back
with more men for the box.”

  The torchbearer grumbled, but gestured for the other men to follow. They shifted their boxes between them and trudged up the path. Meanwhile, both sentries now had their guns trained on me.

  I must admit, I felt a chill in my blood. Bullets are near impossible to move with wind. At this range, they could not miss. So I stood as still as I could. My hands out. My head slightly bowed.

  “Think we should search him?” the far sentry asked.

  “Let’s wait for the lieutenant,” the closer one said.

  So we stood there. Two guns at my chest. Sweat beading on my brow. My heart pumping hard, pumping fast. Would they kill me when they found I was Colored? Lock me in chains? Or just send me away?

  Or maybe they’d let me through. But I doubted that. They shifted their weight back and forth on their feet and their breath was uneasy. The faces hung on the edge of panic. I divined that the battle was not going well.

  There was yet a chance that a wiser head would prevail. I cooled the air by my skin and it wicked the sweat away. Then we waited.

  More than several dozen heartbeats later, a ragged soldier wearing a three-cornered hat and a weary look came up behind the two sentries. The rear one looked over at him and nodded. He stopped behind the first one and put his hands on his hips.

  “And what do we have here, private?” he asked.

  “He wants to see the General, sir,” the closer sentry replied, “but he’s wearing a mask.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the officer said. He stepped forward and reached out his hand.

  I zapped him with a little spark of lightning. Not much—just more than what one might build up running wool socks across the right carpet. Not enough to damage, but enough to sting.

  He jumped back, as did the sentries. The rear one swore. The nearer one’s pistol hand began to shake. All stared at me with undisguised terror.

  “I would like to see General Washington, officer,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked. His voice shook at first, but he set his jaw and narrowed his eyes as he regained control. “So you can assassinate him?”

  I sighed. I’d anticipated that possible reaction.

  “So I can possibly help,” I said. “There are things I wish to know that he is best suited to answer. If his answers are satisfactory …” I gave a vague wave and let their imaginations work.

  “How would you help?”

  “Many ways,” I said. “For now—” I gestured toward the heavens. “I will command the rain. That should slow the fighting. It will rain until I return mid-morning. If he wants my help, he will see me then.”

  The officer growled something just as the first fat raindrop splatted on his shoulder. Then another, then another. Then the drops turned into a downpour.

  The three soldiers stared at me. The rear sentry was the first to run. After a short moment, I was alone.

  I could’ve followed them into camp, but it seemed like a poor choice. Those three might believe, but too many would not. Instead, I called up the wind and returned to my hovel of a room at the inn.

  I let the rain pour while I rested. The evening had taken much out of me. My mind was tired from the constant concentration, my body sore from the exertion. I slept late, almost too late. But I awoke, refreshed and clear in my intent.

  So on the morning of August the twenty-ninth, I set out to the battlefield of Brooklyn Heights. I considered flying directly to the sentry’s station, but decided no. They certainly would’ve stationed more men there, and if any panicked, the results could be ill-favored. Instead, I let the gloom of the rain conceal me until I’d touched earth in the same locale as before.

  I strode slowly. I trained the rain to divert from my head and shoulders, though it took too much effort to avoid the splash on my cloak further down. I also pushed away the mist that built up in front of my mask.

  As I’d expected, a full squad was posted at the sentry station, along with the officer I’d spoken to the night before and another, of higher rank. They stood in a line, firearms at their side but not raised. They looked like drowned boys in their soaked clothes. My chest tightened. Perhaps the rain had been too harsh and too unthinking. Alas, I could not change the past.

  They saw me and a small cry went up. The soldiers tensed. One started to raise his rifle, but the new officer waved him to lower it. The others stood still, hard, their eyes locked upon me.

  I paused six feet from the new officer. I once again held my hands out, showing they were empty.

  “Welcome, Sorcerer,” the officer said.

  “Call me Samuel,” I replied.

  “They say you claim that you caused the rain.”

  “Until now.” I let out a low breath and made it stop.

  A frightened murmur ran through the gathered men. Some turned white. To his credit, the officer did not.

  “I wish to speak with General Washington,” I said. “I will not harm you, or any American.” I did not add, unless attacked, which I hope they understood.

  “If you wished us harm, we could not stop you,” the officer said.

  “No.” They did not need to know how false that was.

  “We will take you to the General,” he said. He gestured toward the center of camp and fell in beside me as we walked. The soldiers formed a shell around us.

  To my surprise, I felt calm. The soldiers would not likely harm me, even as they feared me. Or, at least, they would require greater provocation than I had given so far. The clouds and the recent rain dampened all but the growing hope I had for answers. And grow it did.

  The soldiers escorted me to a large canvas field tent, easily the size of my barn. Water pooled in its folds and mud smeared its lower sides. In the mid-morning gloom, it looked more like a capsized sailboat than a general’s headquarters. Two guards stood at attention by its open flaps.

  The officer preceded me in, and the guards pulled the flaps closed behind me. Oil lamps lit the tent and I noted tables and chairs around the space. But my attention was immediately arrested by the man in front of me, who could be none other than General Washington.

  He stood taller than I expected, with a high forehead and long nose. His shoulders sagged at first, but he pulled himself up straight when he saw me. His piercing eyes studied me intently.

  “Sir,” the officer who’d led me in said, “this is Samuel. The one who made it rain.”

  I raised an eyebrow. That was shockingly polite. Then I bowed, enough to convey respect. Not enough for subservience.

  “You wished to speak with me,” General Washington said.

  “I do.” I glanced around. Besides Washington and the officer, two other aides hovered in the background. One had a quill and paper and appeared to be taking notes.

  “My time is short,” Washington said, “so please forgive me for dispatching with the pleasantries. I understand you might be of assistance to our cause.”

  “If it is just,” I said, “then yes.”

  “Our cause is indeed most just,” he said. “We fight for liberty. So how might you help? We do not need more rain.”

  “Are you advancing or retreating?” I asked.

  He tensed. After a quick glance at his officer, he continued, “We must retreat,” he said. “Their numbers are too great, and should the wind shift and their ships take the river, we will be trapped and destroyed.”

  “The wind will not change until I command it,” I said. “But if you wish to escape … perhaps a great fog?”

  An excited murmur ran through the aides. When Washington shot them a glare, one said, “Apologies, sir.”

  Washington turned back to me. “Yes. I believe a great fog would serve well.”

  “With ease,” I said with a nod. “But—”

  He stared at me and waited.

  “You say your cause is just,” I said, “but is it just for all?”

  He cocked his head. “I do not understand.”

  “Your Declaration of Independence says ‘all me
n are created equal.’ Is that true? All men?”

  “Yes,” he said. “What are you playing at?”

  I sucked in my breath. This was the moment of truth. The moment of greatest danger. I could barely stifle my tremors. If they were to shoot me, now would be the time.

  I slowly reached up and removed my mask.

  Washington gasped, his eyes wide.

  “All men?” I said. “Even men like me? Even the Colored that you yourself hold as slaves?”

  Now was the moment—would they shoot me as an abomination?

  The General turned to his aides. “Wait outside.” He gestured at the officer. “You as well.”

  “But, sir!” the officer objected.

  “He will not harm me,” Washington said. “If that was his intention, he would have already done so.”

  The soldiers, their eyes constantly darting to me, hurried to the exit. Washington waited until the tent flaps had stopped swinging. Then he stepped close and pitched his voice low.

  “Our cause is just,” he said, “and we are in it to the end.”

  “That did not answer my question.”

  He stepped back with a sigh. He regarded me and then he turned away, as if lost in thought.

  “You ask to change the world,” he said.

  “I do,” I said. I stood silently, waiting.

  “And if we cannot?” he asked.

  “It is the striving that matters,” I said. “You seek freedom from the King. I seek freedom for my brethren. If I told you your cause was hopeless, would you strive for it any less?”

  He stood, looking ahead, quiet. I could hear the men outside, talking low by the tent flap. I decided discretion might be prudent and re-affixed my mask.

  “I cannot promise anything,” he said at last. “There are men who will support your cause and men that will oppose it. It is not something we can take up until we are a nation of our own.”

  I noted that he did not state to which camp he belonged.

  “But there are men who believe it,” I pressed. “Men who truly believe that all men are equal. Including the Colored.”

  “Yes.” He turned back to me. His face was fixed, hard. He’d masked his own emotions.