Midnight Riders

by Pete Clark

CHAPTER TEN:

  O Bitter Victory

  July, 1777. The Cockeyed Lobster: A tavern.

  The British had been busy chasing Washington’s army all around. A number of battles had taken place and it seemed clear that the Brits were winning the war. There had been a significant increase in money for the Continental Army, although where this money had come from Prescott did not know. Still, it was crucial to keep the war machine running. The newest British war plan seemed to focus on the old divide and conquer technique. A massive army led by General Burgoyne, known as “Gentleman Johnny,” was attempting to split the New England colonies from the southern colonies. Among Burgoyne’s officers was the well-respected and talented, as well as werewolf-hating, Simon Fraser. The thinking perhaps was that the brain trust seemed to focus in the North. Such a splitting would make communication and the sharing of resources and support very difficult. In fact, if this severing were accomplished, it would be a major strike against the patriots, whose cause was already looking a bit bleak. They had been hoping for some support from the French, but the French did not want to commit until the patriots could prove that they actually had a chance to win this war. It was largely believed that they could not. The Americans had not won a single major battle between large forces. All American victories were either small or not true battles. Until they could prove that they could defeat a large British army in a major campaign, no support would be coming.

  Burgoyne marched toward Saratoga, a key geographic point as it would be a major holding from which to cut the colonies in half. To combat this looming threat, Washington had dispensed some of his very best military minds - General Horatio Gates, Daniel Morgan, and Benedict Arnold among them - to coordinate the possible battle. Such a collection of tactical skill had not been assembled before in a single American army and one could argue it has not been assembled since. Sadly, the overall leader of the force, Gates, was not among the skilled.

  Yet, while the armies marched, Prescott sat across from Hannah Dare, or Hannah Windstorm for those keeping track at home. He and everyone else had taken to calling her simply Hannah, as her last name was confusing; this also helped to maintain her secrecy. They were in the Cockeyed Lobster, yet another tavern, and there was a mixture of planning and small talk. The planning was on hold as Boone and Dawes had gone out for no apparent reason. They said they would be back soon, but for now, it was only Prescott and Hannah.

  Prescott found Hannah to be very alluring. She had bright features and a powerful figure. She found a way to be graceful, even while eating stew. Prescott was a grim and confident man, but his skills with the ladies were somewhat in question. He was to test the sharpness of his tools now.

  “So do you like, uh, stew?” How many women would quake at such a line? Prescott felt as if he had not chosen the best opening.

  “Yes,” came her passionate response.

  Undaunted, the brave Prescott pressed on. “I think that you are really graceful when you are in battle.” Aha, that was not so bad, he thought.

  “Thank you. You seem fairly tough yourself.”

  She had reflected his own compliment back to him. He had only foggy memories of his early teen years, but he felt that, at some point back then, he had heard that this was good. He dared go even further. He would try to gauge her emotions.

  “Do you feel different now that you are a, uh, sort of half-vampire?” He wondered briefly if his statement was somehow racist, but she did not seem bothered.

  “A little,” she said. “The sun has been starting to hurt me. I think that soon I will not be able to be out in the daylight. Other than that, it is fine. I feel even stronger than before and I don’t appear to need blood to survive. I can still gather sustenance from this stew.” She spooned a dribbling scoop into her mouth.

  So many words, Prescott thought. She is opening up to me. For a moment, he thought that perhaps he was being a little bitch. He was a famed monster hunter; why was he so goofy about talking to a girl? Meh, he decreed to himself, I will do as I like. Fuck society and its expectations. Fuck society right in its ass.

  “Where do you think you will go, now that your maze-house has been compromised? Sorry about that by the way.” Prescott attempted a smile. He flinched; he may have pulled a small muscle in his mouth. He had not tried to smile in so long that the muscles for doing so must have atrophied. Instead of a smile, he twitched wildly. This seemed like a step back in his quest for intimacy.

  “I have been staying in various barns and such that are unlocked. I don’t need much rest and I don’t own anything I can’t carry, so having a place to stay is not that important to me.”

  Oh, but she was a rogue vixen. The romantic visions of them traveling the countryside with no responsibilities made his blood rush. It was a moment before he realized that he was staring stupidly silent at her. At least now he had managed to crank out a smile.

  “Are you okay?” She asked between bites. She expressed concern. Things were going well.

  “Yes, fine.” Prescott cleared his throat; it was time to make his move. “You could stay with me if you wanted.”

  There. It was out. He had bitten the bullet, taken the risk, and it was out there. There was no pulling it back. He had to hear the response and let his heart swell or shatter with the reply. There was a certain sense of freedom and accomplishment that he felt knowing he could not take his daring comment back.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  Cursed fate. Was she toying with him? Did she pretend not to hear because she did not want to answer? Or was fate ever the cruel harlot, simply forcing him to repeat his risk? He bravely opted for choice three. Men could say that Prescott was cruel, that he lacked manners and tact, that he was unrefined, and that he danced like shit. But no truthful man could ever call Samuel Prescott a coward.

  “You could stay with me if you wanted,” he said again, clear and proud. Now he could only wait.

  She put down her spoon and looked at him. She appeared to be sizing him up with her emerald eyes. They searched into his soul, or so he thought. Was she looking to see if he was a true man of great worth? Was he her soul mate? Could they spend an eternity side by side? Were these the questions that raged through Hannah’s mind as she took a moment to consider his request? Prescott would never know, for she let her lips open to speak.

  She tilted her head and looked at the monster hunter. “Would you like to procreate?”

  Prescott accidentally let his mouth drop open as he said, “Wah?” He hoped this momentary loss of composure did not make her change her mind. Her choice of words was odd but the message clear. He had only to respond in the manner of a true poet. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  “Good. I must maintain the line in the event that things do not go according to plan. You seem strong and dedicated. Your seed should serve the task well.”

  Such compliments made Prescott’s heart swell with pride. She took his hand and, with a curt “come on,” she pulled him out behind the Cockeyed Lobster. It was there that they would create a memory that none would ever forget. They would also create another descendant of Roanoke, which in the next few weeks, Prescott would be shocked to learn, would be born way, way faster than a normal baby.

  After their eleven minutes of unbridled bliss, they returned to the table and experienced a rather awkward several moments as they waited for Dawes and Boone to return. Eventually, they did, with Revere and Franklin in tow. The relationship between Prescott and Hannah would not be revealed.

  As usual, Franklin was quick to take over the meeting. “Listen up; we have strong intelligence that suggests the vertex will appear at the next major battle.”

  “What intelligence?” Prescott asked.

  “We have a team of scientists who have been evaluating the ebb and flow of the rippers and when they seem to spike. Our data suggests the vertex will appear then. It is better to be forewarned than forearmed. One shot planned is better than a dozen fired. The squeaky monkey gets the banana.”
/>   “Those need work,” said Dawes.

  “I know. But the information is still solid.”

  “We just need to figure out where the next major battle will be.”

  “Given the way the armies are converging, I expect it will be somewhere in New York,” said Prescott.

  “Yes,” piped up Revere. “So we need to get the descendant-”

  “Hannah,” Prescott said.

  “Yes. We need to get Hannah to New York so that we can take care of the vertex when and if it appears.”

  “Great. So, do we have a plan, or is it just another instance of run around between gunfire and monsters and try to get Hannah’s blood into the vertex?” Dawes asked.

  “It’s pretty much the thing you just said,” Revere added.

  “There will be an army of patriots there, you know,” said Franklin.

  “Yeah,” Prescott said. “But they’re going to be busy with the Redcoats. It’s a little frustrating that it keeps coming down to the few of us to stop this issue that is a problem for everyone. In case you didn’t notice, we also happen to be down two friends recently.”

  “I noticed,” said Franklin sincerely. “We all did.”

  “It’s going to be difficult between the vertex, the rippers, de Lavoir, and the Redcoats. Actually, this is going to be nearly impossible,” Dawes said.

  “Don’t underestimate our forces; we have many proud and talented officers and soldiers.”

  “It would take a miracle of epic proportions for us to beat the Redcoats in a full-blown open battle,” Boone said.

  “Did you say a miracle?” Hannah asked.

  “Yes, he did. Why?” Prescott wondered.

  “It’s part of the prophecy that a man must perform a miracle and, in so doing, become a hero. Sure, he must later make himself the villain. But still, a miracle must happen.” She smiled for the first time.

  Boone turned to Dawes. “Don’t say it.” But there was no stopping him.

  “Deus ex machina.”

  ****

  As it turned out, and as you must know by now, the Continental and British armies converged on Saratoga. Gates led the Americans and Burgoyne the Brits. However, it was the sub-commanders of these two armies who were not only superior military men, but also the ones who would decide this epic battle.

  Morgan had once again been put in charge of his special rifleman unit. Some 500 men and, of course, one woman: Nancy Hart, pretending to be a man. They liked the terrain on which the battle was likely to be fought. A number of fields there were, sure, but there were also trees everywhere. For a pack of snipers, things could not be laid out much better. Burgoyne and his army had met with a number of difficulties on their path to Saratoga. They had issues with supply lines as Burgoyne had a large amount of non-essentials being transported. Most notably, his champagne and his mistress. This huge chain of supply wagons had slowed them down. Deciding that he did not want to have any more issues, he had sent 1000 men in search of horses. These men had all been captured or killed at the Battle of Bennington. This meant that Burgoyne had fewer resources than expected. He decided to make an executive decision that would prove costly. Instead of maintaining a series of fortifications between himself and Clinton’s main northern British army, he decided to break the lines of supply and communication so that he would have more troops for the coming battle with Gates. Oops, said the historian with 20/20 hindsight. Gates, to the contrary, had been reinforced per Washington by a number of units including, as previously stated, Morgan’s rifle unit and the man now widely respected for his military prowess: Benedict Arnold. Arnold still had issues with pride, as he believed himself superior in military aplomb to most of his superiors. The fact that he was right did not ease the tensions.

  Gates moved his army into position near Saratoga. He wisely chose a high ground location that gave him a fine view of the surrounding areas. This ground was known as Bemis Heights.

  Burgoyne settled in some four miles south. And so, the two forces were aligned for battle.

  In the Continental command tent, several commanders were discussing the upcoming plans for battle. Among them were Gates, Arnold, Morgan, a high ranking and solid military man named Benjamin Lincoln, and a sharp and energetic warrior named Seth Warner. Arnold, being Arnold, was not dissuaded by the fact that he was not in charge. He put forth his opinions with great vigor.

  “Our left flank, where the forest is thick, is crucial to the cause of victory. As such, we need to move heavy numbers to the Heights there. I am confident that the Redcoats will attempt to take the ground there.”

  “I think it would be a mistake to commit forces too early,” said Gates. “We will monitor their movements and react.”

  “That is a foolish method,” Arnold, who was not known for diplomacy, continued. “We can dig in, prepare, and surprise them. If we are reactionary, they will do that very thing to us.”

  “I have heard your reasons and I have come to a decision. We will be patient. This is not a time for rash judgment,” said Gates.

  “Or cowardice,” countered Arnold.

  “There will be none of that talk unless you want me to relieve you of command entirely,” Gates threatened.

  Arnold glared but remained silent. Correcting Gates’ mistakes would be difficult but not nearly as difficult as it would be if he had no authority. “Perhaps we can compromise. What if you permit a skirmishing party to scout the area to see if they are, in fact, advancing there?”

  Gates did not want to give in to Arnold, whom he had quickly begun to dislike. However, he also did not want to be stubborn for the sake of spite. Arnold’s new request was a logical one. “Very well; we shall send a unit to scout.”

  “We volunteer,” said Morgan. “My riflemen can move easily through the dense woods of the Heights. We know how to move quick and quiet and we certainly can shoot.”

  Gates acquiesced. “Very well, Morgan. Move your men. But only engage if you have the advantage.”

  Morgan was quick to gather his men (and woman) and move them into position.

  Across the lines, Burgoyne had indeed realized the importance of the Heights and had appointed his boldest field officer, Simon Fraser, to lead a large contingent in the hopes of flanking the Americans. Unfortunately, moving a large force through dense wilderness was cumbersome and slow; they were behind schedule.

  “Send out a scouting unit,” said Fraser. “We need to be sure they aren’t about to ambush our tangled asses.” He perused the woods with a wary glance. “I had better not see any goddamn werewolves out here.” It was then that he caught some movement in the woods. He drew his sidearm and his sword. Something small waddled out from the bush. “Is that a gnome?”

  Actually, it was 11 gnomes. Short awkward creatures with little tolerance for vice, but a decent command of magic. One approached a Redcoat who was smoking a pipe. The gnome muttered some kind of spell and the soldier’s head, quite simply, melted. Fraser was not about to stand for that. If there was one thing that angered him more than werewolves, it was small little woodland bastards who melted his soldiers’ heads. “Shoot the little shits,” he commanded.

  The resulting gunfire not only obliterated the slow and fairly stupid gnomes, but also announced Fraser’s position to Morgan’s men, who were only a mile off. Announcing one’s position to 500 snipers is generally considered poor strategy. Luckily, Fraser’s scouting party was between Morgan and himself.

  The scouting party was greeted by intense sniper fire that caused them to immediately retreat. Morgan, not realizing how close they were to Fraser’s massive column, pursued with great vigor. They nearly ran right up the backs of Fraser and his army. There was a sharp exchange and the riflemen were able to withdraw amid the smoke of the musket fire. They withdrew to the trees, where the snipers promptly began to unleash a deadly assault upon Fraser’s officers. So accurate was the attack that Fraser was forced to withdraw before he and all of his officers were killed.

  Fraser backed ou
t of range and reformed his lines, moved up his artillery, and prepared to blow Morgan off the map. Morgan’s men (and woman) held their position at length. He also sent messengers to inform Gates and Arnold of the situation and to request large reinforcements as the major battle appeared destined to begin here. Fraser organized his soldiers to begin an aggressive surge. He thought that strong artillery and musket fire could suppress the snipers and give them a chance to crush the much smaller force with a concentrated bayonet charge. He readied the charge.

  That was when the howling started.

  ****

  Prescott had become a father. He was not sure how, as it had been a very short time since his moment with Hannah behind the Cockeyed Lobster. But, when it came to magical blood, anything was possible. Prescott may or may not have made a good father. Still, he had a mission to do, so he left the baby with some family friends of William Dawes. They had no idea of the baby’s origins and it was safest to keep it that way. Hannah, for her part, was not a traditional mother. She said goodbye to her child and was ready to do her duty. She seemed none the worse for having recently given birth. Although she had told them that her destiny likely involved her death, she was still willing, and one may even say excited, to head off to Saratoga where they believed the collision would occur.

  They were traveling on horseback with a covered wagon carrying supplies. Prescott thought it would be a good idea to have the wagon, as it would prove useful for when the new mother needed rest. As he soon discovered, though, she never needed rest. It still was useful because Revere napped a lot. Also with them were, as expected, Boone and Dawes. Marchand was a bit of a surprise, but it seemed that the Frenchman really wanted to see this story to its conclusion.

  The journey was not a long one and, as they set their camp just a few days before they were to arrive, they received a letter from Morgan. The letter arrived by dumb luck. A mail carrier had left Saratoga and happened upon them, stopping to chat. There was a battle already that they had missed, but not to worry, the messenger said; all signs pointed to a bigger battle on the horizon.